Homecoming

I'm flying over Texas. Some 400 miles ago I flew over Austin, where both my sisters live. I imagined what they might be doing as I viewed their city from 40,000 feet. Mundane morning rituals - Jenn climbing out of the hybrid, liberating a thermos containing vital last sips of warmish English breakfast tea from its cup holder, juggling keys, lunch and reading materials while shutting the door with a hip, Em sitting in exercise gear at her home office, crafting a supportive note to a client (the fifth such note of the morning) all superfluous emails wooshed into the trash, cat nuzzling her ankles and balking verbally if her hand momentarily lapses in its caresses.


Now we are flying over West Texas. West Texas: just the name of it conjures up images of tumbleweeds and Wild West saloons. I've lived there, and it IS all that and more with its cowpoke summer camps and oil derricks galore. But this morning it is a vast expanse of chrystalline white on murky brown. I am reminded is a favorite line in James Harriot's short story "Moses the Kitten" where he describes the Yorkshire Dales as "looking their coldest not when blanketed in white snow, but as now, when the first sprinklings streaked the bare flanks of the fells in bars of black and white like the ribs of a crouching beast."


I'm going home. We are going home. Not to the only home we've ever known, but to the only home we've ever created as a conscious decision to create happiness in our lives. Two years ago this past December we boldly moved to California, choosing a spot that offers small-town amenities, access to horses, beach and year round sunshine. It does not disappoint. No stoplights. A quaint Fourth of July parade through a four block village. Orchards. Fresh air and lots of outdoorsy fun in that sunshine.


I've missed my babies while I've been away. I miss Paige's gentle morning hug and sympatico eye contact throughout the day, the warm delicious buttered toast feel of Graham's cheek and arms as I wake him for school and he arches his back in an accordian-like stretch, Evelyn's pixie bounce and belting pop-music warbles as she does her own thing her own way, with flair, always. The dogs. The sunrise over black mountain out my bedroom windows. The frost on the golf course. The crush of eucalyptus mulch under my shoes on the bridle paths. The chickens. My kitchen and all the mess I create there, even!


To paraphrase Lyn Yutang, the best part of traveling is coming home.