The kids and I had a great time visiting friends and family in the US the past two weeks. We got a chance to do many things that aren’t possible here—picking wild blueberries; riding roller coasters; seeing deer, wolves and eagles; hearing whippoorwills pour their hearts out into the dark. We visited some of my favourite people in the whole world.
But as Dorothy so succinctly put it, there’s no place like home.
Returning home, the house feels small, the garden shabby. The car looks decrepit and filthy. Wind blows in through the windows and cracks in the floor.
But returning home, the wind also feels fresher. The fire is cosy. I know where everything belongs in the kitchen. The things around me are familiar and comforting.
At home I have responsibilities. Things to do. I am needed.
Though I didn’t feel uncomfortable away from home, now that I am back, I can feel the tension draining away. I feel like I am on vacation, moving through my daily chores with pleasure.
So, like Dorothy, I am glad to be home, regardless of how small and shabby that home might be.
There’s no place like home.