home.

"The journey itself is my home." — Basho

 A couple of nights before the flight West last week, Mr. D picked me up from work numero dos in Georgetown.
It was midnight and my feet were killing me,
but before I knew it our car had taken a quick detour.
We parked outside the gates of Arlington Cemetery and headed on foot toward the bridge.
Down the grassy hill. Across the faintly lit parkway

and right down to the bank of the Potomac River.

I would not have traded that night for anything.

This was our view. 

And it was one of those etheral moments, where I have never been more sure of where I was standing,

my feet hidden in the grassy ledge, the line of ducks out for a midnight swim along the silent river

and a panoramic scene sprawled out before us like so many history books and postcards paint.

The magnitude of where we were standing weighed so heavily on me.

And yet.

It all glistened so clearly in the palm of my hand. 

The moment you start the biggest game of your life, knowing it will be full of hard climbs, 

tears and the thrill of a runners high. And you run at it full force and

full of joy because there is absolutely no where else you would rather be...
[having really nothing to do with your geographical location at all]