American Sky
I’m home finally. I’ve had a week to unpack, clean-up and catch up and now it’s my first Monday morning in my kitchen, writing and getting back to the thing I was craving: my rhythm.
Travelers are neophiles. They’re obsessed with newness and new activity. They’re addicted to the endorphin burst brought on by new places and adventures. The studies scientists have done, where they show rats in a maze, looking for chocolate, show high levels of brain activity. But I think when you return to something you know and love, there is also a spark of brain activity – a boost of endorphin. I had that feeling as I rode my bike through Humboldt Park yesterday. Walking into the Clipper yesterday evening, my favorite local bar, filled me with a feeling of well-being and comfort. Watching the trees blow outside my window in that familiar Chicago wind reminds me of all the times before I’ve sat here, eating, drinking, or writing.
So, it’s good to be home. And now what next? I thought I would write more while I was on the road, but there was too much newness to distract me. Hemingway said he could never write about a place while he was there. Now that I am here, I am thinking about London, Scotland, my brief stay in Heidelberg – those moments on the tube, the sound of suitcase wheels on cobblestone, the lurch of the double-decker bus. It’s all a part of me, and now somehow I’ll find a way to integrate it into these mornings on the page.
Waiting for my suitcase.
