There is a beam in my house that talks. In the bedroom, above the window by the garden side. It talks in small, incomprehensible chirps, like morse code from another dimension, or someone small and toothless, speaking in another language. It is, of course bats (could be birds too, but it ain't). A small nest of bats somewhere between the roof and the nonexistent insulation.
At certain times of the day, going up there to grab another layer, or to look for a lost book, or pencil, I hear this noise, a rustle, whisper, a cheery whimper, and suddenly remember, that we don't live here alone.
When I go outside to pee at night, I hear a loud rustle in the tall grass, where the deer sleep. There is something breathing in the dark. Two shooting stars cross the sky.
In the morning, there's a cat on my pillow, and a rat in the rattrap.
It's been a weird, wild summer. A weird, wild year actually. And now, it's weird and wild to be here again; to sleep under this familiar roof, to feel burnt grass underfoot in the backyard. My garden a little sadder, but still the same, my clothes hanging in the closet, my things waiting patiently in the drawers.
In the last six months, I've thoroughly given up my right to claim that I'm a homebody, because my body has been in transit, in motion across continents for almost three months of them.
My normal routines, the comforts of home: endless cups of tea, my books, my plants, my medicines, our walks, watching birds, seeing friends, have flown out the window in place of untold newness.
I've given up on dramatic declarations of staying home for the rest of the year. It's probably not going to happen, is it?
Being on the road has it's own comforts, so long as you're willing to let go of things that don't matter. This, of course, is easier at some times than others. There's not better guide to living in the moment then traveling. Putting one foot in front of the other until you get there. Sitting patiently at endless waiting rooms, because you have not say in when you'll get where you're going. It could get addictive if you're not careful. Leaving your problems behind, even if you acquire a different set on the road.
You don't forget about home, but it becomes a slightly abstract place. Until you come back to it, that is. And then, you never want to leave again.
Because, you realize, that same motion exists everywhere, as long as you go out, onto the water, down the path. Or watch shooting stars from your backyard...
It's good to be home.