The Unexpected Thankfulness of Feeling Human Again
I’ll be honest with you: My triumphant return from France was not the glamorous homecoming I had imagined. No graceful glide back into routine. No cinematic jet-setter moment where I lift my suitcase off the carousel and wink at life like we’re old pals.
Instead?
I came home and immediately launched into a two-week performance piece titled The Great American Couch Collapse. My days blurred together in a haze of soup, hot tea, tissues, and desperate negotiations with the universe for just one nostril—one!—to function properly. The living room sofa became my emotional support furniture. And any creative idea that dared tiptoe into my congested brain was gently shown the exit with a firm but courteous, “Not today, friend. Try again later.”
Somehow, today, I felt it. A tiny shift. A clearing of the mental windshield. And it struck me that the thing I’m most grateful for this Thanksgiving isn’t the trip or the memories or the miles—it’s the astonishing, unglamorous blessing of simply feeling human again. Coming back to myself hasn’t been about grinding forward. If anything, it’s been about drifting until I found the right current.
So I shut down the notifications. Ignored the to-do list (which did not appreciate being ignored). And went back to the things that have always steadied me: picking up my guitar, wandering back to the piano keys, and letting myself read quietly in the early morning light.
These aren’t just hobbies. They’re homing beacons. Each one gently tugged me back toward the person I recognize. And the more I played and read, the clearer it became: the spark I needed wasn’t some new, future goal. It was a memory. It lived somewhere much older, much deeper—tucked away in a warm, perfectly preserved moment that still glows.
The Geography of Wonder: Cuba, IL, 1960s
Every time I sit with music or stillness, I get transported straight back to Cuba, Illinois, in the early '60s—my original landscape of wonder.
There, the air smelled fresh and clean, promising snow. Fall wasn’t merely a season; it was a display, a kind of fireworks show from nature. Winter crept in with a hush that felt sacred. Those weekends at Grandma’s house—good grief, the unconditional love in those walls could’ve powered a town.
That’s where the spark lives.
It’s in the hush of the first snowfall—the Christmas lights glowing on the town Square. The thrill of walking into Santa Land at the old True Value hardware store, staring at everything like it was magic because, in that moment, it truly was.
That childhood innocence still charges my batteries better than any self-help book ever could.
We’re constantly told to grind, hustle, and stay forward-looking. But sometimes, to move ahead, we have to turn inward. And backward. And softer. If you’re depleted, overwhelmed, or bone-tired, I hope you can find your own Cuba, IL—the place, the music, the ritual that reminds you of who you are at your most hopeful and unburdened.
Because getting back “On the Fly” isn’t about doing more; it’s about seeing the magic again. It’s about remembering the tiny miracles that lift us in the first place.
Today, I’m profoundly grateful for a healing body, a clearer mind, and the memories that help me greet a complicated world with something like optimism. I'm thankful that the lights on the Cuba, IL, Square still shine brightly enough to illuminate the path forward.
Here’s to renewed energy, a beautiful holiday season, and carrying those childhood sparks—that essential wonder—wherever life takes us next.
I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask questions. Happy Thanksgiving!
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