On Thursday I made the trek back from the frozen heartland, weaving and dodging delays, rerouted flights, and United trying to bribe me into giving up my seat. All of this on 2 hours of fitful sleep.
Whenever I travel away from home, there comes a tipping point when I am “done.” My emotional state shifts away from the excitement and stimulation of whatever I came to do. It is replaced by a wistful yearning for my own bed, my kitchen, my garden, my people. That tipping point came at about 9:00pm on Wednesday night, when that familiar eager restlessness filled my heart and body. Time to go home.

Morning could not come soon enough. When it finally did, it found me scrambling around, half-awake, trying to reach for stray shoes and a chapstick that had been kicked under the bed. My retreat house bed needed stripping, and all the linens had to be placed in a pillowcase outside the door to my room. Too much had to happen in the fifteen minutes, and I knew I would forget something.  I stumbled down to the lobby, where I crunched carefully through snow, gasping against stingingly frozen air, and climbed into the waiting van.  At 5:00am the very kind Paul Hasser drove me to the St Louis airport. Hours later, I was riding in the California sunshine with the windows rolled down, gliding toward the East Bay with Brian.

My husband has a wonderful way of welcoming me home, and I am always relieved and filled with joy when I see him pulling up to the curb at the airport after I have been away. I am grateful for a safe journey home, mostly because of him.

My only regret is that I could not linger an extra day with my composerly women colleagues. They are convening today in St Louis without me. I know my voice and presence are needed, but my day job had other plans.

In the coming days, I plan to reflect on my experiences at the 2019 Annual Liturgical Composers Forum. It was wonderful, and I am still taking it apart and turning it over in my head. There is a lot there.