I am home.
A short sentence for a large thing. I peal the layers back like an onion and breath. Not that I didn’t enjoy my trip to Boston, because I did. But there is no place like home when you like the place you live.
(I’ll talk more about my Boston trip in the days to come.)
We got home at 10:30 last night and fell into bed. Not that we don’t stay up for the 11:00 news sometimes. But we were just dog tired from the trip itself.
The dogs themselves were glad I finally came home. Lady Short is not doing as well as she had been before I left. Her days are numbered. Lady Long is still miffed I left at all.
There is a mountain of laundry and housework to get to. The grass needs cutting. The car is only half unpacked. But I don’t care because I’m home.
I really did like staying at my daughters place. Places to go, people to see, things to do. She lived on a fairly quite street in a fairly nice, midline neighborhood.
City living… I could do it. Trains, buses, taxis, walking, cars. Movement, but steady. Rhythmic, yet chaos. Going up, coming down. Spreading out, pulling in. Fast. The dance of move along, nothing to see. I could do that living in the city. But I don’t want to.
Country living… It has it’s limits. Car, walk, car, walk, car. Movement of nature. Rhythmic, yet growing. Still but fluid. Life and death, bearing fruit. Seasonal and shrinking. Slow. The luxury of sitting and smelling the roses. I’d rather be here. This is where I feel at home.