On Returning Home

Travel, even under the best circumstances, can be challenging. But when plans change unexpectedly and the need to return home arises sooner than anticipated, the journey can feel daunting. Yet, what could have been a series of hurdles became a gentle unfolding of tiny miracles—moments of kindness and generosity that reminded me how deeply interconnected we all are.

It began with friends at Orquevaux, who offered rides to the train station and helped ease the first leg of my journey. Their warmth and care in those early hours set the tone for the rest of my journey home. I made my train connection between Chaumont and Paris smoothly and without incident because of them. My kind friend Reda, the concierge (see my initial post about my first few days in France), refunded my hotel rooms that I was unable to use due to my early departure (with management’s approval). Once I arrived at a different hotel near the airport for a brief stopover in Paris, the staff greeted me with an open-hearted kindness that made all the difference. They helped with my luggage, provided clear directions, and ensured I had a delicious dinner to refuel. They even surprised me with a birthday card (Personalized! Handwritten!), a small gesture that felt monumental in the moment.

Navigating the Paris airport—a place known for its vastness and complexity—was made easier by the kindness of strangers. One Delta staff member, who happened to assist me during check-in, reappeared serendipitously to help me on board my flight, guiding me with the kind of care that felt more like providence than coincidence.

On the nine-hour flight home, I found myself seated next to strangers who turned out to be unexpectedly generous and kind. Their conversation and camaraderie made the long journey feel lighter and more bearable. The transitions—customs, baggage claims, security—were smooth, and at every turn, someone seemed to appear just when I needed a little help. One particularly kind customs officer back in the States greeted me with warmth that felt like a gentle welcome home.

And then, of course, there was my sister. She made sure I didn’t have to navigate the last leg of my journey alone, getting me all the way home with the kind of quiet, steadfast love that she is so famous for.

These tiny miracles reminded me of something I had nearly forgotten in the flurry of travel and the exhaustion of life’s complexities: we are never truly alone. Strangers can become helpers, and kindness can show up in the most unexpected places. It doesn’t take much—a smile, an extra moment of attention, a thoughtful gesture—but it makes all the difference.

• • •

I’ve been home since Monday night, December 16th, and my days in France already feel like a beautiful dream—as if I briefly stepped through a door into another world. Part of me aches to be back, even knowing the inevitable complications of international travel. The crisp mornings, winding lanes, stone bridges, and the weight of history linger vividly in my mind, interwoven with the rhythms of my days at Orquevaux. My time there wasn’t just a pause from life as I knew it; it was a deep immersion into the creative life I had been quietly forgetting how to embrace.

Leaving Orquevaux has left a void I wasn’t entirely prepared for. The breathtaking landscape, the gentle daily rhythms, and the creative breakthroughs were remarkable. But more than anything, it’s the people—the friends, fellow residents, staff, and leadership—that I miss most.

There’s something extraordinary about being in a space where everyone is fully immersed in their craft, where conversations flow effortlessly from art to life, from struggles to dreams. Writers sat in circles with me, courageously sharing raw, unedited work; visual artists revealed new ways of seeing the world; musicians infused the air with something sacred. Together, we wove a tapestry of connection, growing tighter and more profound with each passing day.

The staff and leadership were integral to this magic. Their warmth and attentiveness created a foundation where creativity flourishes. More than hosts, they became part of the experience, offering thoughtful gestures, encouragement, and the quiet reassurance that we could simply be ourselves.

I turned forty-four in France. I wrote poems and essays in front of a floor-to-ceiling window with coffee at my side. I wandered through woods and villages, gazing at rivers and ruins, breathing in landscapes so alive they felt sentient. I shared laughter over family-style dinners, bared my soul in free-writing circles, and let go of old struggles under moonlight. Somewhere in those quiet, sacred moments, I remembered how much I need this life of words and wonder.

What France Taught Me

1. To Trust the Gift of Time
   For years, my life has been dictated by schedules, to-do lists, and the constant demands of caretaking and obligation. I think most of us can acknowledge the pull and necessity of a must-do reality. But France gave me time—time to think, time to wander, time to create. I was allowed to witness time as a mirror, reflecting everything you’ve tucked away in the busyness of living. It shows you the beautiful things you’ve saved for later and the messy questions you’ve tried to ignore. Both are gifts. Both are worth sitting with.

2. To Lean into Joyful Intention
   Choosing my phrase for the year, Joyful Intention, felt less like a resolution and more like a reclamation. I want to happen to things—not the other way around. I want to show up for my life, to make space for joy even when it feels easier to retreat. France reminded me that joy isn’t about chasing fleeting happiness but about living with a deep sense of presence and purpose.

3. That Creativity is a Discipline
   In Orquevaux, I was reminded that creativity isn’t always a lightning bolt of inspiration—it’s a practice. It’s sitting down, day after day, to do the work. It’s stumbling over mental debris, finding hidden treasures, and patiently coaxing words, ideas, and art into being. Creativity thrives not on perfection but on consistency and courage.

4. That Home is Everywhere—and Nowhere
   I found a sense of home in France: in the laughter of new friends, in the quiet hum of creativity, and in the pastoral beauty of Orquevaux. And yet, I was also homesick. I realized that home is never a single place but a collection of feelings, connections, and longings. We carry it with us wherever we go, even as we remain pilgrims in our own stories.

5. That Letting Go is a Creative Act
   Standing on a bridge at midnight, releasing years of heartaches and struggles into the river, I learned that letting go is as much a part of creativity as holding on. It creates space for new growth, new dreams, and new possibilities. It is an act of hope.

Coming Home

Coming home is its own kind of journey. I’ve returned to the same spaces and routines, but I am not the same. I’m grateful for that. I told my sister on the drive home from the airport, “I don’t think I’m afraid of very many things anymore. I’ve faced a lot of them, walked through them, and found myself waiting with a smile and a tiny round of applause on the other side.”

The challenge now is how to carry what I learned with me—to weave the rhythms of Orquevaux into my daily life. How do I protect the quiet mornings of writing, the long walks that clear my mind, the deep conversations that inspire me? How do I live with joyful intention in a world that so often pulls us toward distraction and busyness?

I don’t have all the answers, but I know this: I will continue to write, not just because I want to, but because I must. Words are the way I make sense of the world, the way I connect with myself and others. I will hold onto the lessons of France—the trust, the discipline, the joy—and let them guide me as I navigate the life I’ve returned to.

Looking Ahead

Yes, I want to go back. To France, to Orquevaux, to the surrpunding villages, the winding lanes and the rivers, and the quiet spaces that feel like home. But more than that, I want to return to the creative life I found there. I want to keep leaning into the questions, the vulnerability, and the beauty of making something out of nothing. I want to keep happening to things.

This isn’t an ending. It’s a beginning—a new chapter, a new year, a new way of showing up for myself and the world. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that creativity, like life, is a practice. And like anything worth doing, it’s messy and magnificent all at once.

Here’s to what’s next. To writing and dreaming, to walking and wondering. To showing up. To joy. To intention. To living with the knowledge that the world is vast and full of stories—and we are all called to tell ours.