We’ve taken five mini-vacations so far this year. Nothing big. But still, there’s packing, traveling, sleeping, socializing, abundant eating and drinking, dancing, sleeping, traveling, and unpacking. A few weeks will pass and then we do it all over again. Most of our travels this year have taken us to visit family in Mexico. So, for me, the trip looks something like this: pack, travel, sleep, socialize, listen, translate in my head, talk, listen, translate in my head... Even though I’m quite comfortable speaking Spanish, I’m not a native speaker. It still takes my brain a day or two to switch gears and once again be able to easily process this foreign language.
Finally, in our ninth year of marriage, I now refer to my husband’s relatives in Mexico as our relatives. I’m part of the group. I understand the social customs. I know everyone and everyone knows me. I even get the jokes–-most of the time. Well–-some of the time. Actually, my husband still has to translate most of the jokes, but at least I generally have a rough idea of what the jokes are about. Over time, I have become comfortable in this setting. But still, there is no place like home.
While our trips have been fantastic, our travels have reminded me of how special home is. Home: where I can relax and be myself; where I speak and act naturally; where I am loved and can feel comfortable to love in return. Home is the place where my faults are overlooked and my mistakes forgiven. For years, my self-imposed perfectionism kept me from feeling at home even in the most familiar of settings. It was difficult to relax, or act natural, or feel truly loved. These days, when I’m with my family, the most wonderful thought occurs to me: Honey, I’m home.