Our first European vacation with my family from the States is right around the corner and, as excited as I am, there's a little corner of blueness because my baby sister won't be joining us. I always think I can power through this whole international thing and that, after living here for almost two decades (schluck), I'd be numb to missing out on events in the States or a missing sibling or two at a family event over here. But, I'm not and it is just as hard as the first time. Growing up, I always associated "home" with our house in Houston, but my folks moved out almost a decade ago and our beautiful home on Ravenhurst Lane is housing someone else's childhood memories now. It's weird this whole growing up and moving out thing; it's weird when you realize that you're too big to cuddle up on laps, that you're the one in the driver's seat raising kids of your own. Sometimes I wish I could travel back in time and live within those walls on Ravenhurst Lane, within that family, for a spell, watching movies in the darkened living room, eating popcorn that my dad made in the old, beat-up pot with the uneven bottom, drinking mom's iced-tea, wondering which flavor of Blue Bell to have for dessert and which movie to watch next. By allowing heimweh (homesickness) to tip-toe into my everyday everynowandthen, I am reminded to stop, hug, listen, observe, and remember; I am reminded how precious the day-to-day is.
In celebration of stopping to smell the budding flowers of life.