There are people who seem able to sleep anywhere. Me? I seem challenged in that regard pretty much everywhere. Home wins out, but then again, it has more practice. :) Thanks, Suzanne.
I don’t know how, specifically- your writing feels like warmth melting through me. Like a stick of butter in a warm sun. And the photo is a lovely escape. Thank you.
Funny, isn't it, how escape and escapade are so clearly from the same root and evidently tied to Medieval Latin and meaning something along the lines of "get out of your cloak." Definitely makes us aware of what we might be missing! Always appreciate your presence here, Barry. Thank you.
I am, despite ideas that I could somehow be otherwise, such a home-based soul. I do need new pillows, though. The only reason there are three is that they are compensating for their various states of dysfunction. Ha! Thanks for your comment, Rita.
Crazy? Not in my world! And you might not have reason to know this, Linda, but "weaving" (in the sense of bringing people into connection) is something I am drawn toward, so my heart thanks you deeply for that word choice. Thank you for being here!
A beautifully poetic piece, Elizabeth. East west, home's best.
I love going away to stay somewhere else... not O/S but on our island or on the mainland.
We pick GORGEOUS airbn'b's and ooh and aah about the styling, the location, about the treats left for us.
I hop into some freshly made bed with white Egyptian sheets and in seconds, think of all the other bodies that have laid there. Sweated, passed wind, made love, dribbled on the pillows - and I just want to get back to my own bed and pillows. At least I know my own and my familys' excrescences - it's enough.
Oh, Prue. This made me laugh! We have to compartmentalize that line of thinking to get any sleep at all, right? Not sure I've ever had reason to read or use the word excrescences, but it has now been added to my lexicon. Thanks for that gem! And for the smile.
I am a homebody at heart. When I travel, I end up packing ways to recreate as much of it as I can. My own tea and cream. My own meals (evidenced in this story). My own pillow. Sometimes, as with this trip, I convince myself I can live without something for a night, and though that turns out to be true, I'm always so glad to have it back again upon my return.
More than once, after leaving in a taxi to the airport (BWI, IAD, or DCA. You know what I'm talking about.) for a three or four week trip, mostly to places i didn't want to travel to. i shed a few tears, mostly inside my heart. i always wondered if those trips were worth the time away from my family. I still hope they were worth it.
And after those weeks in places where i saw and experienced things i couldn't or wouldn't talk about, the flight home was always full of double-edged emotions. My mind was still thinking about what I was leaving, but would not leave me. My heart was with my loved ones and eager to be home at last. Sometimes I felt as if I was returning to earth from space, crushed by the G-forces and the the fiery heat of rentry friction. It always took time to readjust. Daddy was home, but sometimes still not with us.
One’s own bed is always the best. Home sweet home.
There are people who seem able to sleep anywhere. Me? I seem challenged in that regard pretty much everywhere. Home wins out, but then again, it has more practice. :) Thanks, Suzanne.
I don’t know how, specifically- your writing feels like warmth melting through me. Like a stick of butter in a warm sun. And the photo is a lovely escape. Thank you.
Sweet words, Ruth, and not just because I absolutely love butter! Thank you so much for reading.
Escapes always remind me of home..... Beautifully written... Softly moving..
Funny, isn't it, how escape and escapade are so clearly from the same root and evidently tied to Medieval Latin and meaning something along the lines of "get out of your cloak." Definitely makes us aware of what we might be missing! Always appreciate your presence here, Barry. Thank you.
There is nothing quite like a ridiculous trio of pillows to welcome us home. Really enjoyed this quiet meditation, this ode to home.
I am, despite ideas that I could somehow be otherwise, such a home-based soul. I do need new pillows, though. The only reason there are three is that they are compensating for their various states of dysfunction. Ha! Thanks for your comment, Rita.
A beautiful last line. I hope the homecoming was easy, and welcome, and the wilted flowers were beautiful in their familiar space.
A seamless trip home, and more flowers to gather in the garden! Thank you, Amy.
Oh... My friend. What a weaver of words you are. Call me crazy.. but words.. and in this instance, your words.. are really touching my soul/heart ❤️🙏
Crazy? Not in my world! And you might not have reason to know this, Linda, but "weaving" (in the sense of bringing people into connection) is something I am drawn toward, so my heart thanks you deeply for that word choice. Thank you for being here!
A beautifully poetic piece, Elizabeth. East west, home's best.
I love going away to stay somewhere else... not O/S but on our island or on the mainland.
We pick GORGEOUS airbn'b's and ooh and aah about the styling, the location, about the treats left for us.
I hop into some freshly made bed with white Egyptian sheets and in seconds, think of all the other bodies that have laid there. Sweated, passed wind, made love, dribbled on the pillows - and I just want to get back to my own bed and pillows. At least I know my own and my familys' excrescences - it's enough.
Oh, Prue. This made me laugh! We have to compartmentalize that line of thinking to get any sleep at all, right? Not sure I've ever had reason to read or use the word excrescences, but it has now been added to my lexicon. Thanks for that gem! And for the smile.
Elizabeth, your writing is absolutely beautiful. x
Ah, Rebecca -- that is a lovely comment and compliment. Thank you. Hope you are well.
You are singing my song. Home is where we want to be when we are somewhere else.
“Here he lies* where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
*in his own bed
I am a homebody at heart. When I travel, I end up packing ways to recreate as much of it as I can. My own tea and cream. My own meals (evidenced in this story). My own pillow. Sometimes, as with this trip, I convince myself I can live without something for a night, and though that turns out to be true, I'm always so glad to have it back again upon my return.
More than once, after leaving in a taxi to the airport (BWI, IAD, or DCA. You know what I'm talking about.) for a three or four week trip, mostly to places i didn't want to travel to. i shed a few tears, mostly inside my heart. i always wondered if those trips were worth the time away from my family. I still hope they were worth it.
And after those weeks in places where i saw and experienced things i couldn't or wouldn't talk about, the flight home was always full of double-edged emotions. My mind was still thinking about what I was leaving, but would not leave me. My heart was with my loved ones and eager to be home at last. Sometimes I felt as if I was returning to earth from space, crushed by the G-forces and the the fiery heat of rentry friction. It always took time to readjust. Daddy was home, but sometimes still not with us.