On Coming Home

It's no secret that I l-o-v-e to travel.

And maybe as much as I love the actual travel part, I am obsessed with the anticipation part. The planning. The hunting for places and things and prices and treasures to settle the itinerary just tightly or loosely enough. It is 110% organic free-range delicious.

I had barely settled back in from my Panama trip when I became determined to plan my next jaunts, especially with grad school coming up this spring and thus the impending restriction on my willy nilly wanderings.

My friend said, "You have this NEED to travel." And I do. I love the sandwich. The space between the high of one adventure and the promise of the next.

But maybe my favorite part of all? I love home.

And by that I mean California, but I also mean my parents' house in Arizona. Because both homes feel really, really good inside. I love those lazy Arizona nights watching TV and laughing with my family, trying to convince the cat to warm up to me, seeing old friends and being cocooned in warm air, purple and sage cactus landscapes, the best sunsets in the world and streets whose names I'll never need to look up or get lost on.

In California, I love being settled into my room and my space. My big new-ish queen bed (I'm such an adult!) with my gray sheets and pillows and the sheer white curtains with the white christmas lights strung behind them, and the walls carefully strewn with arts and prints and bedazzlings. The space is cozy and perfect and mine.

I treasure being in my routine.

In my office all day, with my coworkers. With my friends at social gatherings. Checking my mailbox and driving my car and watering my plants (may most of them rest in peace though, so let's never talk about it again ever nope).

So yes, I love my adventures and my travels and discovering new things, new ideas, new people, new worlds. It opens my eyes and cracks me open and wears me out in all the right ways.

But always, one of the best parts is the arrivals curb and a little gold house key dug out of a suitcase pocket and sleepy eyes and frazzled airplane hair and clothes on their 3rd or 4th wearing, with a hot shower and fresh sweatpants and my own little space on the other side of the front door, with the days and weeks ahead of me promising me nothing but more of the beautiful same.

Home, home, home. Mine, mine, mine. It fills me to the brim and spills me over.