Travel is life.

I have a tattoo on my left wrist to prove it!

I’ve always felt more at home in countries that require a passport than my own hometown. Since about mid-April I’ve not allowed myself to think of far off places. I put my suitcase up and packed *all things travel* out of site.

I didn’t want to see them.

I didn’t want to be reminded of the time before now.

Instead I focused on filling my house with lovely things. Framed art, faux fur rugs and blankets. I’ve crafted, cooked, took online classes, picnicked, watched shooting stars, canned tomatoes, hiked state parks (or at least wandered around a bit), supported local, tried out every porch at every restaurant in Lincoln.

I feel I settled in nicely into local Nebraska life. I’m not happy, but I’m not sad. I’m stuck somewhere in between.

And then today I received a cookbook from London. It was filled with recipes like Yorkshire pudding and fish and chips. The pages were filled with Union Jacks and red phone booths. Stories of local pubs lined the margins.

Of all the wonderful gifts I received *this* was the one I couldn’t put down. Each page filled me with this funny feeling.

The feeling of hope.

This year there’s been an abundance of loss for everyone. People have lost jobs, businesses, partners, parents, dreams, and everything in between.

For many, myself included, hope has been absent.

But today it returned.

On January 1st the world will look just as it does today. The pandemic will still be here. Masks will still be required. The mail will still be delayed. And we will still lose things that matter tremendously to us.

However, it is my Christmas wish for everyone that one thing will look different. You’ll have hope, as fragile as it may be.