Meanwhile, the wafts from his old home pleaded, whispered, conjured, and finally claimed him imperiously.
–Mole, The Wind in the Willows

After ten days on the road, I am home!
Last night, I returned from a road trip with my two young adult children and a very anxious chihuahua. It’s a relief to be back, like sliding my feet into well-worn slippers. I get to sleep in my own bed! I’m now recharging.
It was a long, rainy trek, 900 miles up the coast to Seattle, from the San Francisco Bay Area where we live. Being together with our immediate family was wonderful, but it made me wonder how many road trips I have left in me. I began to relate to pioneers crossing the country in covered wagons, braving the elements and living off of hardtack and whatever creatures they could capture on the way. Except that the floor of our vehicle is littered with takeout containers, empty trail mix bags, and Dutch Bros cups.

Returning to our house on January 5 felt like my new years’ day.

I don’t do new years resolutions anymore. They seem arbitrary coming at the beginning of the year, and I’m bad at keeping them.  But this morning, I’m looking around my comfy home, thinking about what I want to do differently this year.
My house—and car—could be cleaner. Duh.
I think about purging, and I look at the bookshelf.

My TBR books stack is giving me sad looks, like the cast-off toys on the Island of Misfit Toys from the Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer movie. All of these were recommended to me or lent to me by family and friends, people who know me. Just know that the photo above isn’t showing ALL of the TBR books!

Most have sat on that shelf for a few years now. While I’ve eagerly picked up new books, swayed by the latest reviews or buzz, these recommended books have remained, patiently waiting for me.

When I was twelve, my Uncle Pete, a deep thinker and an artistic man, sent me a copy of Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows, illustrated by Tasha Tudor. For years, I admired the beautiful illustrations but dismissed it as a children’s book. I mean, c’mon, talking animals? I was definitely not a child anymore.
After I had my first child, I went back to read it and realized the beauty and universality of the story. It’s not a children’s book at all. And one of the most beautiful themes in it is the deep yearning within us for home. I’ve returned to this book again and again, and when I can’t sleep, I sometimes listen to it on audiobook.

So I decided. Before I get pulled into another buying frenzy, I am going to read my TBR stack.
I’m in my comfy spot, nursing a cold, so I will curl up with these books, recommended by people who know me and get me.
People who are also kind of my home.

Wish me luck! I will report back.
When I’m done with them, the tough part will be remembering who I borrowed them from.

Happy new year, all!