search instagram arrow-down

Recent Posts




Beach Beauty California Change Edinburgh Europe Family Flights Food Friendship Gratitude Hawaii Holidays Home Life Love Maryland motherhood Moving Nature New Orleans New York Paris People Random thoughts Seasons Texas Travel Uncategorized Work
Follow The Wandering Introvert on

Follow The Wandering Introvert on

Years ago, I fell in love with the windows of Paris. There is something in their unmistakeable ironwork that captures my heart and makes it sing.

They remind me of the feeling I have when I see a redwood tree: soberly yet dancingly, intoxicated.

When I’m here – as I am lucky enough to be right at this moment, sitting at an outdoor café table – I feel settled in a way that I can’t fully explain.

Like there’s something familiar in each of these rooms; something that belongs to me. I look at these windows and think about the time, nearly 20 years ago, when a voice inside me said clearly that I was at home when I was in Northern California.

So when I write about how happy I am to be here, I want to write another sentence too, about how happy I am to be home. But that doesn’t make sense.

Does it? Is it possible to be at home in a place I’ve never lived, where I have no roots and do not speak the language?

Such, I suppose, is the mystery of my France, a mystery I’m thrilled to have in the world.

Leave a Reply
Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: