A grueling 18 hours later, I was home. In my cold house that smelled faintly of cat poo (thanks Arlo).
The flight was terrible. I flew from Cancun to Dallas, which, as I discovered too late, is actually the wrong direction. I flew west to go east. Brilliant. The plane was delayed, putting me in a total panic, since we had to go through customs in Dallas before catching the connection. I made it, but I almost knocked down several elderly couples on the gangway in order to make it happen.
I had a window seat, wedged in next to two rather space consuming businessmen (well, one businessman, one businessboy). But the seat was over the wing, so it was tough to see much without craning my neck backward. What was easy to see though, was the moon-rise, somewhere over Arkansas. I'd watched the moon wax from crescent to almost full over the length of my trip and it seemed right somehow, that I was coming home when the moon was full. Perhaps I picked up a bit too much ancient Mayan astrology while in Mexico.
The full moon was beautiful from where I was sitting, 36,000 feet above everybody else. And so was the ground below. As we flew over small towns, large towns, farms and rivers, the moonlight would shimmer off anything remotely shiny for a second or two, like a beam from a searchlight. I watched the moon reflect and shimmer for way longer than I would have thought possible without mind altering drugs and wondered why I had never noticed it before. Maybe I hadn't been in a plane on a full moon night. Maybe I never bothered to look. Or maybe I didn't care to be bothered to look. But after 10 days of vacationing from my life, I was relaxed and happy enough to truly appreciate the beauty in that simple thing.