It has become harder and harder to escape myself. My mind, endlessly churning. My anxieties, sprouting like weeds between the cracks, blooming bigger as the years wear on, fertilized by horrors in headlines.

The world is beautiful, and the world is terrible.

Sometimes it helps to be reminded of the former.

Sometimes it helps to literally rise above it all. Being suspended in the air — suspended, existing between here and there, then and now — has always brought comfort to me. The sky is everywhere and nowhere all at once. It makes everything seem so small.

And smallness can feel like an antidote when all the bigness of life has become a disease.

On our first night of vacation, we slept for 12 hours straight.

We woke to sun streaming in through the windows, and the hum of the surf kissing the shoreline over and over and over. Flowers falling over themselves to grace the grounds and the buildings. Fresh juice, island vibes, and the day stretching out before us as unencumbered as the stray cats sauntering around.

At night, the tree frogs shrilled like birds. Or alarms. It was a strange noise. But you get used to it.

You can get used to anything, I suppose.

The world is terrible, and the world is beautiful.

I’m back home now, and glad to be. I needed the break, but I also missed my kids, my house, my regular life. It’s a good one.

Getaways aren’t meant to last forever. But sometimes it helps to escape for a bit.