Since the beginning of June, I have been away from home.
I’ve visited friends in the Pacific Northwest and explored new ground in Denver. I’ve been to festivals and concerts and conferences, parks and bars and coffee shops, rivers and lakes and cities.
I like to think that I know myself quite well, but my life is also a process of re-acquainting myself with what I do and don’t already know, every day.
Here in the third quarter of 2017, I am repeating patterns from two years ago, when I lived in a different country on a different continent.
Content with the quiet, orderly solitude of my apartment in the north of Italy, I traveled. And I mean, I TRAVELED. To Munich and Rome, to Florence and Madrid, I let my love for alimentary adventuring carry me away.
And then, during the week, I came home.
It’s all a balance, one that I am continuing to understand and negotiate. The mix of the new, the stimulating, the unknown, with the old, the grounding, the familiar.
As we enter October, I don’t want to be away. At least, not quite so much. I’m content with the quiet, orderly solitude of my bungalow in the North of California.
I’ve begun to re-frame my living environment in a new, more aesthetic, exploratory way. Since my days laying out pages for the high school newsletter, I’ve known I have an eye for both the big and small pictures – the lines and spaces, but also the feeling and vision.
I’m shedding a few layers and growing into new ones, tinkering and creating new sources of inspiration and love for myself, full of color and warmth and comfort.
If I didn’t go away, I wouldn’t want to go home. If I didn’t come home, I wouldn’t want to go away. I’ve always been that way.
For now, I am home.