In the kitchen, things are rather predictable.

The knife cuts the lemon the same way today as it did yesterday.

The tofu sizzles in the pan the same way it sizzles at home.

The strawberries have no moods, the plums' oxygen level seems to remain stable throughout the day.

Lately, I have been spending quite a bit of time in the kitchen.

My mom is 83 today.

A year ago today, I was about to leave my home for six months. The backpack I had borrowed from my daughter felt like a strange and cumbersome turtle shell, and I was looking forward to a quick stop at REI where someone would hopefully show me a few tricks on how to wear that thing more comfortably.

I knew my first stop: Italy for a Retreat. I knew my last stop: Mexico for two Retreats. In between? mostly a row of question marks.

My home was taken care of. My cat had a temporary human. I had a plan for my bills to get paid. And a huge backpack. And a bunch of question marks.

Before walking out of my bedroom, I left myself a note on the freshly made bed that would await me: Welcome home. And a little heart. I was not sure who would be reading that note. Me, most likely. But who would I be? And what if I did not make it back and someone else read that note?

A year later, with my insides rearranged a bit, my heart both slightly tougher and much more vulnerable, having walked the Greek streets that my ancestors walked, with a pretty good Italian accent and a sense of worship for olive oil, I don't want to go anywhere. I want to stay home and ... be. I want to sink into a routine and smell the fall air. I want to be home, a calmer home than the home of the big swirl of summer.

And yet. I know that there is another backpack waiting for me in my future. A much smaller one because I have learned how little I really need. There are people peppered all over the world and in Greece in particular that I will want to go hug.

Eventually.

Life and its invitations are so darn sweet.