Picket

In the last two years I've held six jobs.
Been in 28 states.
Traveled to El Salvador to drill water wells.
Consumed at least 2,000 cups of coffee. 
Written a children's book and two novels.
Driven seven different cars for at least a day -- plus a few extras for just a ways.
Lived in six houses -- in five different towns and three different states.
Hung out with six horses, six dogs, five cats, two fish, and one bird.
Made many new friends.
Said goodbye more often than I'd like.
Worn the same Teva sandals I've worn for nine years.

Don't overlook that last point. One pair of sandals. Nine years. Other than God, my family, my friends, and this crazy wanderlust of a spirit God gave me, I sometimes feel like those Tevas are about the only constant in my life.

Please understand I am not complaining. I actually feel very, very, very blessed to live the life I'm living. (Just a hint: Any time a journalist uses the word, "Very," she is very serious. Adverbs are evil; they are only to be used in extreme cases of expression.)

And please also understand I'm writing this post in a somewhat sleep-deprived state. I know I'll probably read it tomorrow after a good night's shut-eye and feel like I totally exaggerated. But at this very moment, I gotta say what I gotta say.

And that is...

Sometimes I just want that white picket fence. And a welcome mat on which to wipe my muddy, adventure-worn sandals.