Coming Home (Slowly)

I’ve been home from Portland for three days, but part of me is still in the air — somewhere over Denver, I think. My body has arrived, but my mind is lagging behind, jet-lagged in spirit.

It always happens after travel. The world expands, the colors intensify, the pace quickens. Then suddenly I’m back in my quiet Pennsylvania kitchen, surrounded by familiar things that feel strangely unfamiliar — the light too still, the silence too deep.

It takes a while to re-enter your life after being gone. The airports and highways pull our attention outward; they stretch it thin. You’re constantly scanning for gates, rental cars, the right turn, the next conversation. Even when you get home, that outward gaze doesn’t know how to stop.

Lately I’ve been thinking about Brianna Wiest’s phrase “the sanctity of mind.” She writes about preserving it — grounding yourself, drawing boundaries around what gets to occupy your attention. Travel makes me realize how porous I can be, how easily my focus scatters to anything that flashes or calls.

So this week, I’m reclaiming myself in small, unassuming ways. I’m petting the dogs, taking hot baths, and drinking my AG1 before coffee. I’m walking the yard before sunrise and gazing up at the morning sky. These tiny rituals are my way of delineating my attention — of saying, this belongs to me again.

Maybe that’s what coming home really means: gathering your pieces from all the places you’ve been and inviting them, gently, to settle back into one body.