Today, we’re flying home on a jet plane across the Atlantic. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I was ready to go home, but leaving here is always bittersweet. Among the things I’ll miss are beautiful ocean views everywhere I look and a sense that things are today exactly as they were two hundred years ago.
I’ll miss walking out and picking whatever herbs I need. Dill, lavender, oregano, mint and chamomile (which Parker is picking below) grow wild all over the mountain and it’s just a matter of knowing where to look.
I’ll miss the knowledge that I had my parents strong and whole for another year. I’m all too aware that mortality and vitality are precious things.
I’ll miss staying on the balcony long after the sunset, not wanting to miss the last vestiges of color as the day gives way to night.
I’ll miss the goats and sheep that roam in herds and the shepherds that follow them. The sound of the bells around their necks is as part of the landscape as the chirping of the birds and the rustling leaves.
But I know that God willing, there will always be next year. The next 11 months will pass by in a blur of classes, research and family, but when I’m standing on the deck of the ferry boat next May, it will be as if I’d never left. That’s the magic of this place.