Coming Home

We returned from our trip to Poland yesterday afternoon and after a long night’s sleep, my primary desire was a beach walk. Taking my nineteen month old granddaughter would be even better. A spur of the moment call to my son-in-law granted me access to the joy of Cambrie’s smile and happy “Yay! Beach!” accented with much clapping of her tiny hands. Off we went to enjoy the glory of the day.

I thrilled at being back and reveled in my local beach, even though just days ago, I was admiring Poland’s many beautiful attributes. Jagged mountains point towards heaven; many of the wooden houses, dated back too many years for me to count, are intricately carved and set above patterned symmetrical rock foundations; and the handcrafted wool, lace and wood souvenirs would impress your great grandmother with their old world charm. Castles and cathedrals dot the countryside while sheep graze peacefully on many a green hill. Horse drawn carts of wood or hay mingle with traffic on highways large and small alike.

Nonetheless, in spite of all the beauty, the air remained thick with smoke from the heating with coal and the burning of leaves and debris, and my lungs longed for a crisp clear breath of ocean air. Thus, my mission to fill myself to overflowing with pristine smokeless air.

We neared the ocean and the sun glistened on the slight waves tingling me with delight. Deep breaths of clean salt breezes refreshed my body and soul. Tears welled up out of the gladness of being home. I’m so thankful we live where we do and I get to walk at the beach any time I want.

There’s something about coming home after the unfamiliarity of experiencing a new place that grabs me every time. Even though the excitement and interest is high during a trip, the relief of coming home to familiar surroundings–my own bed and home; my neighborhood and local haunts; and the hum of the local highway beckons me with a soothing comfort. It’s sooo good to be home.


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