Going home.


There's a restlessness that stirs. A longing for a life slower than the current pace my feet have chosen. A yearning to dig my toes into the sand, as I watch as my children run free into the calm waters surrounding the Island that harbors my fathers youth. 
The perfectly aged sun kissed hands of those older and wiser than I, the throwing of nets and the catching of fish, full bellies, wild rooster crows, and open doors, the epitome of the community I search for resides just beyond the horizon.

With every mile that flys past the window, stress falls from my shoulders and I sigh in sweet relief. It's ok to be slow there, it's ok to adopt a snails pace, stopping where you please, truly living in the moment. It's ok for children to just BE children there, experiencing all that life has to offer at their own pace. There's no one forcing them to adapt to a world that caters to single adults. Time is what it's meant to be there, a slow melodic ticking, faded deep into the background.


A part of me is already there waiting, buried in the warm sand with the crabs. Part of me is dancing on the rays of sun cresting over the mountain peaks that whisper my Grandfathers name.
I'm almost there, I'm almost home.