Welcome Home, Little Girl.

I'm bursting. There's so much that's been happening. But let me first say:

It's nice to be home.

Granted, the outrageous humidity level in Atlanta makes me feel like I'm swimming. During the drive home from the airport, with the windows down and the radio blasting and my two brothers cracking jokes, I could feel my skin and hair absorbing the moisture like thirsty camels. Forget altitude adjustment. When I get back to Colorado, it's going to take me 3 weeks to get my hair straight again. When I start exclaiming that I feel like I'm drowning every time I take a breath, my brothers look at me and say, "What? This? This is nothing."

And then we pulled in the driveway. Mom and Dad were sitting on the porch listening to the Yanni:Voices CD I burned for them. (side note: Nathan Pacheco, yes, I will marry you.)

Home.

You know that feeling when every cell in your body seems to exhale, unexpectedly, at the same time? That's the feeling I had. And then I smelled the jasmine growing on the deck,

and the big magnolia out back,

and mom brought out chips and guacamole from my favorite Atlanta mexican restaurant (side note: Willy, of Willy's California Style Burrito Bar, yes, I will marry you), and heard the thump thump thump of my puppy's tail against the wicker furniture.

Home.

You know one of my favorite things about being home? Books.

I amass books. I devour them, and then keep them, stacking them or lining them up or squirreling them away. And do you know why? Because my mother does the same thing. As I walked around the house, greeting it after months of being away, I realized that they are everywhere. Everywhere. Absorbed into the decor of the living room,

standing in as a support system for the painting in the den,

challenging the Tower of Babel in the front hall.

I even found my Gardner's: Art through the Ages textbook,

which was not, as I had thought, tucked away in my closet, but had rather been unearthed and put to use.

It seems my mother, like myself, likes to have books around. They remind us what we've read, what we've learned, what we promised ourselves we'd learn more of. They inspire us to keep an open mind, and (particularly the books in our room-scattered-library) show us beautiful things.

My heart beats a little faster when I see a gorgeous coffee table book, filled with pictures of castles, or fashionistas, or movie stars, or art, or shoes. (side note: Manolo Blahnik, yes, I will marry you.)

And as with many other personal idiosyncrasies (including this unruly hair), I blame my mother.

photos: LCTurner Gloriosity - Atlanta, 2010