You Can’t Always Get What You Want

Fifteen days, ten states, and 3,170 miles later, my first morning back home almost felt as if I’d never left. Familiar and comforting and reassuring, Home Sweet Home.

My daughter informs me homeostasis is the term that describes how the brain seeks comfort, avoids pain, and resists change.

So why in the world do I want to travel?

First day back home, I awoke to 38 degrees, plunging into Fall, cold and wet. I settled into my morning routine: coffee, reading, a visit with my younger daughter and granddaughter Charlotte.

I like to begin the day in first gear, not overdrive.

So why would I ever leave home?

“When I was at home, I was in a better place.”

Shakespeare, As You Like It

“He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace

in his home.” Goethe

“There’s no place like home.” Dorothy, The Wizard of Oz

Fall could be the best time of the year to travel if not for the thousands, tens of thousands of semi-trucks everywhere my husband and I went. Alas, I can report that these massive vehicles have taken over Interstates.

Astonishing. Terrifying. Nerve-bending.

Why did I leave home?

With most of the trip in the rearview mirror, my daughter called. She said, “You’ve wanted to scratch this itch for a long time.”

She’s right. A trip planned before COVID struck accentuated the lost opportunities (and people) gone since the pandemic.

Time does not extend instant replays. Good intentions never count.

On the Road Again

Listening to Willie Nelson as I write reinforces that impulse to travel.

“Goin’ places that I’ve never been
Seein’ things that I may never see again
And I can’t wait to get on the road again.”

It’s so easy to map out a plan when miles between places you or I expect to travel is measured in inches and pinheads mark the size of cities.

Admitting to myself that not every aspect of any trip will turn out as I imagine, I’m reminded that it’s safer to stay home, where my imagination can control whatever happens. Yeah, right.

Miles to go before I sleep

After a day spent touring the Biltmore House in Asheville, NC, an 8,000 acre estate, a chateau with 250 rooms, the the only lodging we could book that night was in an economy motel in eastern Tennessee.

Dodgy room spelled not relief, rather it screamed not updated since the early 1970’s.

I worried about bed bugs. Not that I know anything about bed bugs, but I could imagine this could be a good place to colonize.

I sent a text with picture to “our four” grown kids and my youngest son wrote back,

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” adding a skull emoji!

“I KNOW” was my reply.

My husband said, “Dang that Jordan.”

“I already had that thought. I just didn’t say it out loud.”

When we crawled into the oversize king bed after finding something to eat at the LOVES next door, I started to itch. James blamed my overactive imagination. He blames lots of things on my imagination.

“JUST LET ME ITCH!” I said, meaning, Don’t try to talk me off the ledge.

Then we both started laughing. Hysterically, as if this situation was actually funny.

He admitted the next morning that he too had started to itch.

Itch: an uneasy or restless desire or longing

“Home again, home again, jiggity-jig” and not a single bed bug bite.

Back to my daughter’s comment about scratching an itch I’ve had for more than two years, “Just let me itch” bears repeating. I have scratched that itch and if I itch again, just let me itch.

One of my seminary professors said that he learned from The Lord of the Rings, “You can choose to have an adventure, but you cannot choose what it will cost you.”

Now that I’m home, I’m calculating blessings, not miles––people and places I still can recall.

While I didn’t get exactly what I wanted, I got a whole lot of what I needed.