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I woke up at 4:30 in the morning today. It's to be expected really. I've never been one to handle jetlag very well. The house emitted that kind of peaceful quiet that only happens in the very early hours. It felt nice to pad down the stairs, make myself a bowl of cereal in the dark, and then head back up to curl under crisp white sheets and finish my nth re-read of "My Beautiful Enemy." (Sherry Thomas, you're a genius.)

Every inch of this house feels like its mine. It's a wonderful feeling. Sure, it's messy right now with unfolded clothes and a pile of dirty ones heaped over luggage. And yes, it may stay that way for a few days, but the living/dining area is just as I like it. All the lights in the house are off, and the only source of illumination is an old Tocca candle--and the sun, rising, peeking through our blinds. The Head and the Heart is playing on my iPad, there's a steaming cup of tea next to me, and a generously jammy piece of toast.

Adventure is fun, eye-opening, and necessary--an inevitable means to growth--but oh how there is something to be said about home as well. I have a to-do list a mile long, all of these changes and DIY projects in my head, but it is already everything I need. A great thing to wake up to in the morning, regardless of the hour.

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