Home. . . where the heart is

I love to travel. I really do. I love the journey. I love the destination. I often, however, dread the trip home and those few hours thereafter when you are in a mad dash to try to get things back in order. All of that rushing around, all of the unpacking, all of the sorting of laundry, flipping through of mail, downloading of photos. . . it's all designed to get you to that point when you can exhale, sit down and realize that you are home. . . safe and sound.

Last night I did loads of laundry, sorted through suitcases and bags full of stuff, and tried to find our way through all that needed to be done. And today I made more progress, squeezing in a trip to visit with Cynical's family in celebration of Mother's Day. Our afternoon was filled with errands, making of other Mother's Day plans and scoping yet another house. The late afternoon was sucked up by more laundry, more house work and mowing (the latter was Cynical's chore). And there is more to be done, all of the things neglected in our absence, all of the things piling up, all of the obligations on our list.

I just now got my chance to exhale. I am just now letting go of the "list" and taking a moment to relax, to remember our wonderful trip and to absorb it all. Home is where the heart is, but I am already wondering where we're going next. For now, I'll just breathe as we once again aproach normal.

The irises bloomed in our yard while we were gone, a wonderful welcome home.