Back to one's front door. A refreshing site, seeing friends, seeing the familiar yellow garage door, the black bamboo grove, the mountain laurel arch mirroring the brick arch before the door, the sound of the fountain, all wonderful when seen with the eyes of the grateful returning traveler.
The memories of Caddo Lake dappled with sunlight and shade, springtime plums and cherries in Seattle, the blues of the bays of Kailua, the perfectly nuanced Imperial palace and gardens of Kyoto, the colors of spices and carpets and lamps and mosaics in Istanbul, the mountains and lakes of the Alps, the slightly askew timbers of Colmar, the spring green of the beech forests of Germany, the seafood pasta of a tiny pizzeria in the port of Genova, the Norman chapel of Palermo, the canals (and mussels with frites) of Brugges, the million bicycles crossing the waterways of Amsterdam, and Gaelic in the airport of Dubin, and yet so much more of this world than one can ever know.
Home again, having felt deeply of the grace of the privilege of having lived one more year to know that every step and every breath and every kindness experienced is a gift of God.
