I believe that there’s no place like home.
I’ll tell you anytime in detail, whether you ask me or not, about how much i love to travel - about how i love to see other parts of the country and the world, to experience new places and people and things, how i appreciate being in a different culture surrounded by a different language or way of speaking or looking at the world, how i enjoy discovering the ways that we are all similar and the ways that we’re different. How i love the beach and the woods and the mountains and big cities and little cities and driving through vast expanses of rolling hills and flat prairies and flying over the middle of the country where i can see the patchwork of farmland down below. How i like to check out the grocery store wherever i go. How I don’t mind living out of a suitcase because i like having just the essentials with me, without any of the noise.
And yet. There is nothing nothing nothing like coming home. Nothing like cooking eggs in my own pan with my own spatula and eating them out of my own bowl. Smelling the smells that i didn’t even realize were there, but they are and once i smell them i remember.
Just as much as i love to explore, i love to return to this soft landing place where the cushions and the quilts and the forks and spoons fit in my hand like a glove, where the mail is addressed to me, even the bills, where that dress that wasn’t essential is hanging in my closet and i think i’ll take it with me next time i go.
There’s no place like home.