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"...Vagabonding is like a pilgrimage without a specific destination or goal- not a quest for answers so much as a celebration of the questions, an embrace of the ambiguous, and an openness to anything that comes your way."

I think a lot about story, about beginnings and endings, and what we choose to do with the space between, our big chunky middle.  A middle that's a gift and a privilege, heaven forbid we forget.  How do we discern the difference between knowing when to invest and immerse, and knowing when to let go?  How do we ascribe weight and value to things and people, how do we choose our priorities in a world and a culture that demands our full attention in a million places at once?  

I’ve had quite a ride.  I’ve explored places of dreams and places of nightmares.  I’ve been confronted with what I believe, how I live, and who I am.  I’ve encountered communities founded and thriving on the power of hope, and suffering under the weight of despair.  I've met incredible people from all over the world, people I'm so freaking grateful to know and call friends.  Men, women, and children fixed so very tenderly in my heart, even as minutes and miles further divide us.  I've tested my claim, staked my life on profound beliefs in the power of courage and the kindness of strangers.  And though precariously rattled and cracked, these tenets of my faith remain deeply rooted to their foundation, my core.

With neither tangible reason nor agenda, I knew last year it was time to go, time to strike out on this grand adventure.  With a heart full of joy, an arsenal of stories, and far more questions than answers, I now know that it’s time to go home.  Because more than learning to greet in another language, I want to learn the babble of my toddler nephews, want to hear my niece whistle s through the gaping holes in her smile.  More than encountering another wildly strange foreign critter, I want to curl up with my muppety dog, and explain to her where I've been all this time.  I'll put away my beat up Kindle, and lose myself in the closest library I can find.  Instead of eating boiled eggs and rice for every meal, I'll experiment in the kitchens of my respective family members, pushing myself to master Thai cuisine and Spanish tapas.  More than befriending yet another fantastic human, I want to share space and timezone with my beloved friends.  I want to break bread with their new lovers and squeeze their fatty fat new babies.  I want to cheerlead for a few dearest to me, clawing their way up from the rockiest of bottoms.  I want to be present, fully present, here and now, with the people I love most in the world.

I don't have a plan.  I don't know how long I'll be here, or where I'll go next.  Surprisingly though, I'm at peace.  Because if I've learned anything this year, it's that life is full of surprises, full of things I can't imagine, and certainly won't presume to contrive.  I don't have a home or a car, I don't have possessions or an income.  But I have a brain of ideas, a spirit of adventure, and a heart of thanks.   So for the last time, at least for these next few weeks or months, I'll be on my way.  I'm going home.