It's official. I really want to move. I practically need to move.

I need the mountains. I need a smaller town. I need a landscape to connect with.

For whatever reason, and I'm not defending it, Richmond doesn't do it for me. It lacks an ocean. It lacks a mountain. And the James River, well, it's just not my type. When I drive west of here and hit that first moment when you see the Blue Ridge rising up in front of you, my overwhelming feeling is, "Ahh, I am home!" It happens on Route 17 as you head through western Stafford and into Fauquier. It happens on Route 460 a bit past Lynchburg. It happens on Route 29 just north of Charlottesville. Even when I lived in some of these places, every time I would see that first real glimpse of the stacks of blue, one one top of another, my breath would catch.

I should be content where I am. I have friends here. I know the lay of the land, where things are, where to go. We have amenities. We have proximity to the kinds of places I dream of actually living--we're just about two hours from them wherever you head. And yet I still miss what I don't have.

This weekend, I drove up to Front Royal for a training session and it was honestly all I could do to turn the car around to take it home. I promise myself, solemnly, that I am going to get back to mountains some day.