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Two weeks ago, for a brief time, I came home. To three-fourths of my homes, in fact. In New York, my dad kindly let me fall asleep on the couch at 6pm before dinner, and woke me up so that I wouldn't miss his homemade apple pie. In Austin, the first time, Caroline had a birthday, and we danced for a night into the day. In Savannah, my mom took me to lunch and then to yoga class, even though she just had shoulder surgery and had to wait for an hour in the lobby reading books on her iPhone, which was enough to remind me that I'm too selfish to have kids anytime soon if you've got to be in for 30 years of this mothering business. In Austin, the second time, we looked at art, drank a bunch of beer, and touched noses with a curious llama. It sure was nice to be everywhere.

Then I wrote this in my journal:

Today, strangely enough, I woke up wondering where I was. For a brief moment, uncertainty. But, as it happens, in an instant the scene filled in around me. Clues. The earth-toned sheets and bedspread. The window to my right, covered in blankets and tapestries like in an overgrown dorm room. A way to save money, or to express a defiant lack of commitment to the space. A jolt of confusion at a sound. Why is my alarm going off? Is it mine, for sure? It is. Oh. Flight check-in. A reminder that in 24 hours I'll be leaving again. International. A roundabout flight, or three. Enough to show that all airports have Starbucks' and people going places. Anyway, we're all checked in. A lump on my chest. The packing, not yet started. Imagining those who have planned ahead and laid out everything a week in advance. Oh well. They were probably not also traveling last week and the week before. December. Here she comes. And we've been going, moving since October. 3 months, maybe, of total movement. It's not so much, considering. Am I growing? Am I changing? Or is this resisting? Escaping? Removing myself from the hurry of the world so while it changes I remain the same.

And here's a good old-fashioned Texan sunset: