Love and Hot Water
After nine months of travel, I’ve returned home to wet, chilly Portland, Oregon.
Right now, I’m sitting in my boyfriend’s apartment, listening to the rain, and to the tiny barking dog that moved in sometime during the time I was gone.
Being back isn’t exactly easy. My brain insists that it’s time for me to “get my shit together”—whatever that means—and apparently I still have to file my 2016 taxes like everyone else in this country. The weather forecast is soggy and grim and I’m having a hard time resisting the urge to stay in bed and drink wine all day.
But one thing is for sure. I am so loved here, and incredibly lucky to have a place to call home. A place that’s filled with people who want to see me, hug me, talk to me and welcome me back. I’m so loved that I have a warm, comfortable place to stay, and a boyfriend who treats me like I’m the most important human on the planet.
Every time I turn on the faucet that’s marked with an “H,” hot water comes out. Every time.
So, I guess that’s two sure things. And in this moment, they’re all I need.