I woke up this morning in the pitch black with no idea where I was. I reached for Patrick and he wasn’t there, but that told nothing – I often find emptiness beside me, and it isn’t because of anything dramatic or sad. I just travel. A lot. I only realize by the firmness of the mattress that I am home in Texas, in my second home and my second bed, my eldest daughter and her family on the other side of this big house and my youngest and her brood a mile and a half up the road, both of my beautiful girls tucked neatly into their own safe and happy and rather grown lives.

Sometimes, and almost without fail at this time of year, I long to stay home. I want to pull all of my babies and their babies to me, hug them tightly and bake them chocolate chip cookies. I want to crush into the safe embrace of my husband after an evening of pause on the porch and find familiar comfort in the scent of a fine cigar on his flannel and really good whiskey on his breath. I want home.

I am a kept woman. I am kept by these people, by the endless draw to them, by the countless times they have held me close after my journeys, with love in their hearts pulled me into hugs and said, ‘Welcome home.” I am kept safe. I am kept in a state of always, every day, knowing that I am loved. I am kept treasured and valued and propped up when I am exhausted and weak, tired and overwhelmed. I am kept whole even as pieces of me are scattered all around these United States and beyond.

How fortunate to have had such a life, to have been welcomed home over and again by such gracious and lovely humans. At this time of year, I always long for more of it; I feel the truth of temporary life, and I want to soak it all in, absorb it, become it. I ache to be the stay-at-home mom that some of my dearest friends and loved ones have become. The mother and nana reliably present with the aroma of those freshly baked cookies always in the air, flowers in the yard that never die from thirst and neglect. I long for a big goofy dog that follows me everywhere and looks at me with sad eyes when I am leaving to only go to the grocery store. I pine for after dinner walks with my sweet Patrick, to entertain on weekends, to know where everything is in the kitchen, to have a workout routine and a steady bedtime. To wake up knowing where I am, every day.

Here is the point in the meandering where I get real, though, with you and myself: If I wasn’t living this life in this exact way, I would only recreate it. I would do this all over again because to my bones I know that I was meant to wander. It was written in the stars bolted to the sky, the ones I tried to name and memorize as a little girl in the backseat of my dad’s car, squished four across with my siblings after Tuesday night bible study. I always longed for this. I desperately wanted to know what existed beyond what I already knew, and I’m so lucky I get to live a life of finding out.

I’m so fortunate to be so loved that I am not only allowed, but encouraged to fly.

And so, with the darkness outside of my window here in Texas turning to light, I will carry gratitude into this day, and I will live it to the fullest, knowing that I am home — but also knowing that the next adventure awaits. It’s a good life. xo