What is it about the land of western Minnesota? It is so flat and expansive, painfully authentic, and heartbreakingly beautiful. A long time ago, it wrapped itself deep into my soul and refused to let go.

I lived in Santa Barbara, California, for the previous twenty-six years. I graduated from college there, established myself professionally, married, and built a life, but it was never really my home.

For centuries man has contemplated the meaning of home. The most time-endured story is that of Odysseus, in Homer’s epic poem, which dates back to the eighth century BC. For twenty years Odysseus tried to return home. Penelope, his wife, passed the time by weaving during the day and unpicking her work by night. For those of us who are journeying back home, we often forget that there are others who bide their time and wait patiently in the unknown.

During my years away, I traveled to stunning places in the world: I was once in a small plane that tried to land in the jungle of Costa Rica. As the plane began to descend, the pilot realized that there were children and cows on the runway. We nearly flew into a mountain trying to avoid them. From the air, the French Polynesian islands are so exotic they are hard to visually assimilate. The Emerald Isle, commonly known as Ireland, is truly a jewel. But I can say that Minnesota is the only place in the world that has caused me to choke back my sobs while flying over the land. Maybe I am sentimental because of my Norwegian ancestors, who arrived to Minnesota in the mid-1800s. Or perhaps it is the farmland itself, one crop bordering another, carefully sewn together by cultural heritage.

I fell in love with Ortonville a year and a half ago, after my family and I rented a lake house. Ortonville became a beacon of light as my twenty year marriage dissolved. When my marriage was formally over, I decided it was time to click my heels three times and come home. I moved to Ortonville last June. The word quickly spread that a new artist had arrived. There was a stream of visitors to my door, some with cookies, others with flowers, and all with genuinely smiling faces. The hospitality was very… Minnesota.

In Santa Barbara it is perpetually spring and summer, and flowers bloom year-round. Obviously, it is very different here. My beloved hummingbirds have been replaced by eagles. The cawing of the crows is now the honking of Canada geese. The stunning beauty of the yellow hooded oriole is now the red cardinal and his apricot-colored mate. In the early morning, sometimes a snow rabbit is in the yard eating fallen birdseed. By their tracks, I can tell that deer have been just outside my bedroom window, and that squirrels are coming up to the house to peer in. There is a poetic quality to winter that I find beautiful; perhaps it is the still silence.

I am loving small-town life: when I go to the post office, I have to ring a bell for service. There are never any parking challenges. Whatever shop I go into, I am on a first-name basis with the counter help. People understand who I am by the house I live in. When I meet someone new, they tilt their head and look at me, “Oh, you’re the one. You’re the one who bought Dolores’s house.” There is a bit of intrigue. After all, how many people would leave Santa Barbara and relocate to rural Minnesota and be happy as a pig in heaven?

So now, I stand with my arms open wide, looking toward heaven and twirling, counting my lucky stars and blessings, because, really, there is no place like home.

Cover story of the Star Tribune, Opinion Exchange, January 5, 2011