We’ve just returned from a wonderful vacation in Germany. Our noses are still filled with the scent of woodruff, spruce, and hay, and the taste of ripe mirabelle plums and sweet blackberries lingers on our tongues. Our eyes are still drunk on all that green—on the meadows and fields that rushed past the train window as we traveled. Visits to bustling, lively cities overflowing with things to do still stir our souls. Scorching asphalt.
Every year, that subtle sense of anticipation wells up inside me: What will it feel like to return to my adopted home? Until the moment arrives when the plane touches down on the runway and the increasingly rare clapping rouses the last of the sleepyheads. Moist, salty air greets us as we step off the plane. I take a deep, satisfying breath and hear my daughter say, “Wind, how I’ve missed you!”
With our hair blowing in the wind, our feet now touch this home we’ve freely chosen—carried by a deep sense of gratitude. Yes, this is exactly where I want to be.
