I didn't do it intentionally. Honest!
Things like Christmas, family vacation, pre-planned blogposts, and a sore arm had gotten in the way. All of the sudden it had been... well, way too long.
It hadn't felt like it had been a long time otherwise I would have taken care of it long before I flopped down on a king size log bed with a purple pen and my Writer's Notebook.
Yup, I was rusty. It hurt. And I silently cursed myself for smacking my forearm on whatever I was clumsy enough to crash into.
But I loved it.
It felt so good to be back, to be doing something I loved. It was a deep breath of rich air. It was calming and refreshing.
I pushed through the pain of the pen's movement across the page. I slowly shook the dust from the dictionary stored in my corner of my brain. I smiled as I saw the influence of other writers and as the piece took a different direction than I anticipated.
It was good. It was home.
Home is watching my fingers bleed purple ink.
Home is the opening chords of a familiar song.
Home is digging into the Word when you've gotten busy, lazy, and unintentional.
Home is freedom and fresh air. Comfort, love, and uncontainable joy.
Home is sleeping between your own sheets after a long vacation. Home is hugs waiting for you at the door and milk in the fridge.
While the physical location of home is changing once again, the emotional feeling of home follows me wherever I go.
For this I am grateful.
I am also grateful for grace. For hobbies, no, for ways of life, that return after having been abandoned.