It's nice to go travelling, but as we all know, there's no place like Nome.
Hah, gotcha. *smile*
I'm not a traveller by any means. I dislike to be far from my home, much like Nero Wolfe, only I'm not nearly his 1/7th of a ton. There are times, though, even in my life when a change of pace and scenery and air and everything around me can help jar me out of patterns and ways that have settled on my shoulders like dust on the furniture -- unnoticed until the chest of drawers collapses under the weight of sloughed off skin and dirt and cat dander.
Hmmmm...not quite what I intended there.
Home again, home again, jiggety jig. It was nice to be gone, but it's good to be home.
I spent a week in a stranger's rather palatial house. I walked up and down her stairs seven or eight times a day. I walked out across purest white sand in her 'backyard,' down to the salt-smelling water several times a day. I woke and slept at my body's behest on the sheets and pillows she picked out, and I napped under her ceiling fan when I felt the urge on me. I fished, I collected shells, and I availed myself of a beautiful brass telescope that the homeowner had as part of her decor. I looked at people, I talked to people, and I ignored people. I kissed fish on the mouth (not too many of them) and I helped sculpt most of three fourths of a Pleisosaur out of sand and my sister in law. I even walked down the beach the last night and drew Picasso-esque pictures in the sand with part of a shell, right up next to the surf, so that the surf would erase them, and erasing them carry them back to her bossom, where they would live forever.
Toward the end, as you can tell from my prior posts and from how closely I play my cards to my chest that I was ready to come home after a week. I was very surprised I lasted that long. Nothing was the same there, no familiar point of reference. Surprisingly, instead of feeling like an oyster on a mountainside I dealt with it rather well. I set my own schedules of rising and beach walking and fishing and almost-swimming and touring the sights. And I dreamed such rich, dark, disturbing dreams as I have not dreamt in a very long time, and I let go of all that dust, let go for just a time the overcoat that I wear that is my life.
And on the last day I bid goodbye to the water, and the sand, and the brass telescope and I turned my face happily toward home.
When I was walking on the familiar ground, when I was feeling the old, familiar oppressive heat, when I smelled the familiar smells and heard the familiar sounds of home I saw it with a different eye for just a moment. I saw it all with the eyes of a stranger, and it was peculiar and unsettling. But then I showered the road off in my own shower, crawled into my own bed under my own sheets, smelled the old familiar smells of my own skin and my old dreams, and I felt the cats settling on me here and there like small, mobile heating units, and I knew that I was home, in my familiar rut.
Which was not as comfortable as it used to be, but it still welcomed me, and I was glad to return to it.