Prague offers lots of personal time. I appreciate this. Specifically it offers a lot of time in transit– walking, on the tram, on the metro, on the bus. Which means there’s lots of time for the iPod, if you’re into that sort of thing. And I am.

I have been amazed how life-giving it is to listen to music going from point A to point B. More than having it on in the background– I mean having the earphones in, not doing anything else but walking, listening hard, hearing things you never heard before. I get so lost in it I’m sure I look like an idiot.

I wondered why this was such a big deal, why it lifts my mood so much. Then it occurred to me: Music is home.

Home’s a complicated word for us right now. A heavy word, even. But when His Band And The Street Choir comes on, I’m home: on the back porch at Cross Creek in Athens. When I hear Live at the Georgia Theatre, I’m driving back home to Charlotte after seeing that show with Taylor. When Ray LaMontagne sings “Let It Be Me,” I’m holding Foard, at 2 weeks old, in the middle of the night at our house in Plaza Midwood. And of course there’s the Black Crowes and the Wood Brothers.  Friends old and new.

Is this an escape? Sure. It’s not our real home– but then neither is Prague, or Charlotte, or Athens. And this pilgrim is thankful for whatever I can get.