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This is the audio version of my weekly newsletter, Experiential Hospitality, where I share stories and insights to help you craft unforgettable spaces and experiences through design & hospitality.
Blue hour, two hours in a
metal tube with a wife and two
little people after 17 days.
Abroad is almost up.
We are about to touch down the sunset.
Swirls blood orange through my window,
but as we bank hard, it comes through.
Helen's side landing is coinciding
with my favorite time of day, that
short window just after sunset.
When the sky is deep blue, above
fiery red at the horizon, and
lights begin to twinkle, boy
are, there are a lot of lights.
DFW is big, but you don't realize
how big until you fly over.
Lucas sits on my lap face
glued to the little pane of
glass where the world flies by.
His little bloodstone boots match mine.
I smile at that.
Ezra stands teetering on
mommy's lap across the aisle,
peering out his own window.
The rest of the plane has gone quiet
like it gets just before landing.
Just the were of the engines muscling
us through the air as we get ever
closer to runway three five L.
It's a picture to close the
shutter on as time flies by.
Home is calling, but I don't want to rush.
This moment feels right, a
temporary pause where you just
sit back and take it all in.
Not too reflective about the past,
nor too anxious about what comes next.
The boys are behaving a
minor miracle in itself.
Time slows even As the runway
approaches lower and lower,
we get blue Hour is upon us.
Lights twinkling from the tiny but
ever larger cars on the highway below.
It reminds me of the rug I had
as a boy with roads and cities
we drove our trucks across.
I loved that rug.
I love that world.
Maybe that's why I love
building little worlds so much.
Today I want to get one
of those rugs for Lucas.
The boys are silent,
transfixed, and now thud.
The wheels kiss the Texas pavement.
I am ready to deboard and kiss the ground
myself, but the plane is sleepy and the
mellow taxi keeps the dream playing.
We pass the long D terminal,
and I spot the lounge.
I've hung out in countless times
before waiting for a connection.
It's warm yellow light oozes out
into the cool blueness, and inside
are dozens of travelers reading
newspapers, eating supper, watching
the world go by, watching us go by.
The engines were softly and the plane
gently inches toward its resting place.
We turn 90 degrees, moving slowly,
slowly, and then stop the lights,
brighten, and the bell chimes.
Down the long aisle.
Passengers arise, stretch,
and open overhead bends.
The dream is over.
We're home only half an hour later,
we have a comically intense child.
Disaster meltdown, bad part of town,
unplanned restroom, stop hazards on, and
two very unhappy humans on our hands.
Helen and I both trying
to do 10 jobs at once.
I smile again.
Life speeds up and slows down
lands and takes off again.
You have to learn to roll with
it and savor the tiny important
moments where time seems to stop.
Right now, I have more on my
plate projects, responsibilities,
ideas, possibilities, decisions
to make than perhaps ever before.
I'll share more with you soon.
But I'm writing this to help me
remember today, tomorrow, and one
day far in the future to be present.
30 of our dear friends came out
Saturday morning to prune and mulch our
200 fruit trees, the ones we planted
a few days before Lucas was born.
He, and they turned three this week.
It was a stunningly beautiful day.
Not just the sunshine and perfect
temperature, but the friendship,
the learning, the laughing.
Helen and her friends cooked us a
wonderful breakfast and we enjoyed
it all together in the Pergola
garden at the heart of the orchard.
We're doing it again this Saturday.
I smile at that too.
If you're around, we'd love to
have you join us regardless.
Just a little reminder.
Be present.