Coming home from London would be tough no matter where you live, but where I live is actually not so bad.
Hiked up to the top of a cliff and had a beautiful view of the town down below. And those glorious windmills. Who says they ruin the scenery?!?
Coming home from being away is like discovering your own place all over again. The cherry trees are overloaded with blossoms. The church sign next door says, “Christians are like pianos. They need frequent tuning.” The farmer’s market is selling asparagus. My bike has flat tires and I’m itching to fill them up and take it out, out, away, ride far away and into new territory.
I’m pet-sitting my friend’s kitten and it makes the house feel cozy, busier, more occupied. One kitten is racing around with a sweater looped around his neck like a cape, frantically trying to get out of it. The other kitten has her head firmly lodged in a canvas bag, tail twitching: “If I can’t see you, you can’t see me!”
Coming home from traveling gives me book cravings. I want to curl up and read Dickens and Virginia Woolf and Jeanette Winterson, Peter Pan and Winnie-the-Pooh and Robin Hood. I want to write and paste photos in my travel journal and write some more. I want what I write to be read someday. I want to write things that people want to curl up and read or re-read when they come home from traveling.
A man walks down the street,
It’s a street in a strange world.
Maybe it’s the Third World.
Maybe it’s his first time around.
He doesn’t speak the language,
He holds no currency.
He is a foreign man,
He is surrounded by the sound, the sound…
Cattle in the marketplace.
Scatterlings and orphanages.
He looks around, around,
He sees angels in the architecture,
Spinning in infinity.
He says, “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!”
–Paul Simon, “You Can Call Me Al”