I love traveling. Since I have been living out of a suitcase most of the time for the past few months, that’s probably a good thing. Where some people find routine and familiarity most conducive to creativity, I find it stifling. My husband will tell you that I seldom come back the same way I went. I know that good habits free us from the tyranny of having to waste brain-time on detail, and I really am trying to put my keys, shoes and purse in the same place every time, but for me creative ideas first flutter by in my peripheral vision. If I don’t turn my eyes from routine, I could miss them.
Still and all, having said that, there is something about the familiarity of home that is freeing as well. Where else can you sing with full voice in the shower or sit until noon in a ratty bathrobe? There is a certain comfort in being able to step over a newspaper on the floor for three days without worrying about what anybody thinks. Even the job list on the fridge, the one that lists things that never bore a check mark and won’t now because now the season has changed, posts a sort of poetic pleasure.
Clean the fireplace,
Mend grey sweater,
Sand the sidewalk,
Buy new gloves
Tonight, driving home after a picnic with dear folk I haven’t seen in months, the clouds that broke out in sporadic showers all around us finally snagged on the Rockies on their way east. The mountains are beautiful even when they are playing hide-and-seek in the clouds, because I know what they look like. These are my mountains. This is my home.