The Odyssey; Book XV, 88
The coffee pot is brewing. The kids are noisily mucking about in the family room, playing some game, or working some sort of mischief.
And I'm back in my sunlit yellow kitchen, blasting Ingrid and Some Nights from el Macbook as I prepare the pumpkin chocolate chip muffins for baking.
Home is feeling particularly hobbit-y today, and I couldn't be happier about it. The last night at the rancho before we left, it was dark and stormy. A perfectly cliché, spine-tingle-y Dark and Stormy Night. Whenever I hear the phrase it was a dark and stormy night, from now on, I'll immediately think of the July thunderstorm that raged outside as I sat on the sunporch, watching nature's fireworks flash in the night.
But this morning, everything is golden, bright, and delightfully familiar. I went on a run this morning, back in my familiar neighborhood route. Running by each familiar landmark, pond and tree felt like greeting an old friend.
Sidenote: the squirrels, surprisingly, run away from you if you run towards them. And they're not the size of small dogs. Bizarre.
Today, I can tell, is going to be one of those comfortable days. One of those days which feels all cozy and quiet and the world moves more slowly. That's what home in its essence ought to be. Elves, dwarves and men may know how to adventure better than hobbits, but the halflings certainly mastered the art of being home-y. (I've seen the trailer for The Hobbit about five times now and started re-reading the Fellowship. I'm looking at the world through a Tolkien-tinted lens.)
So. We've gone there and back again. Yet again. That's what going between home and college is often like: an endless series of there-and-back-agains. There's that one verse in Paul (Corinthians maybe?) about the journey of a Christian being journey of transformation from glory into a greater degree of glory. That's traveling between Notre Dame and home is: a journey from one home to another.
There's nothing as sweet as sinking into my own bed in my own purple room late at night; leaving travel and adventure to another day. The road goes ever on and on, but
I at last with weary feet, will turn towards the lighted inn, my evening-rest and sleep to meet.