Starting Anew By Coming Home: Stokesville Strade

Home is a powerful thing. For many it is one place that exists throughout time as the bastion of their childhood. For others, it is something more fluid, something that develops as they do. I, for one, subscribe to the former.

Glorious early spring day in the valley. In a months time the rolling hills will be a vibrant green, the the roads supplying a nice ribbon of contrast. Now, the land remains in its slumber but its rippling beauty still shines through.

For me, home is something that exists in a purely daily context, depending on where I place my head. I chalk it up to my family’s nomadic habit; Arizona to California; California to Idaho; Idaho to Virginia; Virginia to Arkansas. Home was never a building, a bedroom, or a state; Home was a place where I could feel the love of my family; home was a place where I could appreciate those around me; home was a place that I enjoyed being.

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