On Friday evening, the plane thudded down to earth in Boston...

On Friday evening, the plane thudded down to earth in Boston after about twenty-five hours of travel from India. It thudded down to earth, I saw the familiar skyline rising and falling against the sky, and small tears of relief welled up in my eyes.

I was in India for twenty-seven days, at a writers’ residency about an hour outside Bangalore called Sangam House. (Writer pals, apply. I cannot speak highly enough of the experience, and would be happy to talk to any of you about it.) About midway through my time there, on a regular afternoon, I was overcome with the sense that I would not make it home. I knew it in every cell of my body. It was a truth and there was nothing to do about it except be cautious about how I talked about post-India plans. (Don’t make appointments; don’t schedule times to see friends; be vague about when you’ll get back.) How convincing the fear centers of our brains can be. This knowledge – the sadness, regret, and fear it brought – bubbled up acutely now and then, and otherwise buzzed at a low-level frequency. I worked and laughed and got to know six other people from all over the earth and I felt lucky and I felt scared.

I took the fear literally. You will not make it home, my brain had me know, but it was code for some other mystery, some other change or metaphor that I’ve not yet been able to figure out. I made it home. I made it home and I can still feel in my body what not making it home felt like. I can still hear it in my head. I made it home and it’s winter here and almost Christmas and the air is cold and the days are short and I’m wishing all of you safe travels and warm hearths over this bright-lit and festive stretch.