Homesickness, and the cure

My favorite part of my most recent business trip came when I walked out of the Uber and into the arms of my loving (and lovely) wife.

Breathe, Jake. You're home.

I don't much like traveling. I like being in new places. But I dread going to new places. After a night or two of travel, I miss the comforts of home:

My bed.

My possessions.

My family.

And, yes, even my dogs who tried to kill me in their Crooked Canine Conspiracy (great name for a noise rock band, don't you think?) nearly six months ago. (The truth is I tripped over my dog and sprained my shoulder when I fell in an awkward position. My shoulder is still healing from the betrayal, as is my heart.)

Transitioning to middle age has at times been tough for me.

Age is far more than just a number. It's also a gateway to shifts in perspective and priority, both of which I accepted 34,000 feet in the air on yesterday's flight home, somewhere between Omaha and Dallas-Fort Worth, when I had the following epiphany:

My individual legacy is mostly done. My legacy now goes through my family.

For nearly 40 years, I tried my damnedest to be self-sufficient whenever, wherever, and however possible.

Why?

Because anything earned or given to you can be taken away. Also, the people closest to you are often the first in line to let you down. (This constant theme is one reason there will always be demand for mental health professionals.)

So what's the easy solution?

Keep it all at arm's length, of course.

Ask the waiter for a seat with a view of the nearest exit.

Keep one foot out the door.

That strategy worked great.

Until it didn't.

I've reached a stage of life in which I'm undeniably nothing on my own. I suppose it's always been this way, but I've only just now noticed and accepted it, thanks to the wisdom that accompanies life experience and appropriate reflection.

Life would be so much simpler without a family. I could work a simpler job that doesn't challenge me yet still pays enough for a studio apartment. And all my free time would be truly mine.

I don't judge or fault anyone who lives this way. But, as I age, I find it easier to see through bullshit, including my own. Especially my own.

While the solo life is ideal for some, it's not for me. I'm too needy in too many ways I've denied for too long. And, though it drives me crazy at times, there's a part of me that needs to feel needed. And, if nothing else, I need the kinds of hugs you get only from the people you can't imagine living without.

What a fitting revelation as we find ourselves on the downward slope to American Thanksgiving.

It's good to be home.

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