Between Two Worlds

It is 5:41 on a Tuesday morning.

In less than two hours, a shuttle will arrive to take me to the airport. After spending the past month in San Miguel de Allende, it's time to head back to Cleveland for a while.

Whenever I spend a month here, I always arrive with grand plans.

This time I was going to spend 30 minutes every day learning Spanish. I was going to walk the three blocks to the outdoor gym every morning. I was going to make myself go into town at least three times a week so I'd be more social instead of happily hiding away in my little house overlooking the city.

How'd I do?

Spanish? Nope.

Outdoor gym? Nope.

Social butterfly? Definitely not.

And here's the funny part...

I don't really care.

Instead, I spent most of the month tucked away in the house, writing, building websites, solving problems, creating new projects, and crossing an astonishing number of things off my business to-do list. I was productive in a way I hadn't expected, just not in the way I'd planned.

Maybe that's one of the lessons travel keeps teaching me. Sometimes the trip you need isn't the one you imagined before you packed your suitcase.

Then, because the universe enjoys a little comic timing, my Apple HomePod decided to stage a revolt around 9:30 last night.

Suddenly none of my voice-controlled devices would respond. "Hey Siri, good morning" has become a lonely sentence spoken into the void.

I rebooted the router.

I reset the HomePod.

I muttered a few words that Siri definitely shouldn't learn.

Nothing.

At this point, I'm beginning to suspect my house simply doesn't want me to leave. It has spent the past month slowly becoming smarter, more comfortable, and more mine. Perhaps this is its last-ditch effort to convince me to unpack my suitcase and stay.

Sorry, house. Cleveland is expecting me.

That got me thinking about something else.

Last year my friend Russ gave me a little grief because I didn't plant flowers on my front porch.

For years, I had beautiful containers overflowing with blooms. Every spring I'd wander through the nursery, spend a small fortune on flowers, and then spend the summer watering, trimming, fertilizing, and fussing over them.

This will now be the third year I haven't planted a thing.

It isn't about the money. It's about where I choose to invest my time.

Those flowers were beautiful, but mostly for the people who happened to stop by for a few minutes.

These days, I'd rather invest in experiences I'll remember, friendships that last, businesses that grow, and places that feed my soul.

Sure, it would be lovely to have a perfectly landscaped porch for the four weeks I'll be home.

But the truth?

I probably wouldn't sit out there enough to enjoy it.

So here I am, caught between two worlds.

The rooster has started crowing.

The swallows are darting through the morning sky.

The first birds are beginning their daily concert.

My devices are charging for the long trip home, and my suitcase waits patiently by the door.

In a few hours, I'll trade cobblestone streets for Cleveland pavement, mountain breezes for Lake Erie air, and one life for another.

The beautiful thing is that neither one feels temporary anymore.

They both feel like home.

I think that's really what this piece is about. On the surface it's about a broken HomePod, skipped Spanish lessons, and flowers you didn't plant. Underneath, it's about recognizing that life has seasons—and that as we get older, we become much more intentional about where we spend our time, energy, and attention. Those choices don't always look productive to other people, but they often feel exactly right to us.