After four weeks away we returned home, just in time for October.
As we pulled into the embrace of these hills, though we were still an hour from home, Sage gave a long exhale and softly said, "Home." I found myself driving more and more slowly the further into these hills we traveled, drinking in the beauty and comfort that comes with returning after being gone for so long.
We were home.
And that's how it feels every time. No matter if we've been gone for a day, a week, or a month. A long exhale escapes our lips when we roll back into these hills. Because these hills are home.
Perhaps it's true that coming home is one of the sweetest parts of travel. The opportunity to return with fresh eyes and abundant gratitude for what you had all along. Our house – thought still unfinished, still cluttered, still plain – was a near paradise, holding all of the familiar comforts we had missed while we were away. And just moments after unloading the car everyone scattered to opposite ends of the farm – to the workshop, the tree house, the orchard, the creek, to check in on what they missed most.
Oh, yes. We're home.
And it feels so right.