Time slows down.

You have no schedule, no place to be, no pressing plans.  Just as you like it.  You can let your imagination unfold as you tend your writing--those beautiful words and phrases you've been itching to polish during the week as other demands took you away from pen and paper.  You can lose yourself in a good book--or two--and simply nourish your soul as you devour one story after another, filling up on words and tea in the comfort of your sanctuary. 

Then there is the yoga.  You get to let your body breathe and stretch into its fullest self, no longer confined by high heels or restrictive clothing (or, let's be honest, any clothing, if you so choose).  It is in caramelizing apples for Saturday pancakes or making pasta from scratch for your Sunday dinner.  That is the joy of being at home. 

It is in disappearing from the outside world for two whole days and two whole nights. You retreat into your own world of dreams and stories that often feel more real to you than your waking world.  You tend that inner landscape as you are safely sheltered in your sanctuary relishing the solitude that makes your healing and rejuvenation possible.  Between crocheting on your couch and retiring to your patio to read, you decide that heaven, truly blissful, divine heaven, is in a weekend at home.