We arrived.
I set my roots down gently and looked around, feeling dazed, happy and tired. Home always seems like a process of establishing a little tension between root and crown, between my toes and the top of my head after the slack and softening nature of packing and travel. It makes sense that I head out to a high place as soon as I can whenever we return home, so I can sink myself down deep while I reach for the sky; twine my toes around sand and stone while my arms rake the stars and moon into a cosmic heap. Eventually I find the lovely, wobbly rigidity, like what the trees have, that allows me to stand tall against the weight of the wind here. I’m a wisp. It can be so easy to get carried off if I don’t have myself tethered well.
This is all to say, it’s good to be home.