Settling In

 

The Rhythms of Re-engagement

The morning ritual of Starbucks and email felt like dipping my toe back into the stream of normal life. There's something oddly comforting about processing the accumulated digital debris of a month away—each message a small thread connecting me back to the world I'd temporarily left behind. The familiar hum of the coffee shop, the glow of the laptop screen, the methodical clicking through inbox items: these are the mundane ceremonies of re-entry.

Back home, the photos demanded their own kind of attention. Hours of images waiting to be sorted, processed, catalogued—each one a small time machine back to stone circles and steam engines, canal locks and china clay pits. The computer became a portal, flickering between present-moment domesticity and the industrial landscapes still vivid in memory.

Then the house itself reminded me it had its own stories to tell. The GFI circuit threw a small tantrum, refusing to reset until I'd unplugged everything connected to it—a domestic mystery worthy of any engineering puzzle I'd encountered abroad. Bathroom outlets, shower lights, the electrical pathways threading invisibly through walls built decades ago by someone else's logic. The fact that I'd already bought a replacement GFI outlet spoke to that peculiar optimism of homeowners: always ready to fix what might be broken, even when the problem solves itself. The house settled back into electrical harmony, keeping its secrets about which wire truly connects to what.

Unpacking became an archaeological process in reverse—instead of uncovering the past, I was carefully storing it away. Each item returning to its designated place, the suitcases gradually deflating, the physical evidence of travel being absorbed back into the familiar geography of home.

Lunch at Tacovore with John and Donna provided the social equivalent of unpacking—stories shared, experiences distributed among friends who could appreciate both the adventure and the return. There's a particular satisfaction in good conversation over good food with people who understand your rhythms, who can receive the gift of your travels without requiring elaborate explanation.

The afternoon brought the peculiar comedy of modern healthcare logistics. My annual wellness visit request disappeared into the medical system's black box—no response, as if the request had been swallowed by some bureaucratic equivalent of a GFI circuit. The colonoscopy scheduling proved even more surreal: completely booked for two months, then mysteriously unavailable for scheduling beyond that. Healthcare as puzzle box, requiring the same kind of creative problem-solving I'd used to navigate British rail schedules and museum opening hours.

The garden called for attention with the same quiet insistence as the photos and emails. Watering, fertilizing, planting companion seeds—small acts of faith in future growth. After weeks of documenting monuments to past industry, here was my own modest attempt at cultivation. The plants accepted their care with the silent gratitude of growing things, indifferent to my travels but responsive to my presence.

Evening brought Steve to Suds for the essential ritual of beer, pizza, and England stories. There's something magical about having a friend who genuinely wants to hear about your adventures—not just the highlights reel, but the texture of the experience, the small discoveries, the way travel changes how you see familiar things. Steve's engagement made the stories feel real again, transformed them from private memory into shared narrative.

The drive home became an impromptu house tour. Steve's genuine impression at my new view—created by the absence of those old trees—felt like a small validation. Sometimes loss creates its own kind of beauty, opens up possibilities we couldn't have imagined before. His appreciation helped me see my changed landscape through fresh eyes, the way good friends do.

Hogan's Heroes again, that reliable comfort of familiar comedy. After a day of re-engaging with practical life—circuits and schedules, plants and photos—the simple pleasure of predictable entertainment felt exactly right. Some rituals anchor us not because they're profound, but because they're reliably, reassuringly ordinary.

The house settled around me for another night, its electrical mysteries resolved for now, its rooms gradually re-inhabited by someone who'd traveled far and returned changed, ready for whatever small adventures tomorrow's settling-in might bring.