I've got Bon Jovi lyrics running through my head. The music of the eponymous rock band, which first gained popularity in the mid-eighties, can still be found on both the Billboard charts and the radio dial. Despite--or perhaps because of--this continued popularity, this group's music also serves as a background track for television commercials, most recently for New Jersey tourism. It's in this context that the tune has burrowed into my brain and, as I sit on the tarmac waiting to return to Washington after a week-long visit to Chicago, I can't stop humming this pop-song-turned-jingle: "Who says you can't go home?"

This summer, I took a vacation in my hometown. Unlike the usual family visit, my most recent trip wasn't built around a holiday or a life-cycle event. In addition to expected gatherings of family and old friends, I saw the sights (a host of rectangular buildings designed by Mies van der Rohe) and ate the foods (deep-dish pizza, chocolate-covered cheesecake on a stick) that I remember from my childhood in the Windy City.

I also tried a few new things. I strolled through a nature conservatory in a neighborhood that had been off limits when I was young, ironically located across the street from my grandmother's high school. I took a riverboat cruise and strolled down neighborhood streets long since changed by ethnic migration to, and through, the city.

My parents and sister were excited to show me the spot where three McMansions have sprouted up in the place where just one rambler stood. I was shown town homes gracing the land once occupied by grocery stores and fast-food joints in spots where mom-and-pop drug stores had doled out penny candy.

I enjoyed the conservatory, full of exotic plants and whimsical mosaic sculptures; I enjoyed the sights and smells and tastes brought by members of different cultures to the once homogeneous neighborhood of my youth.

But I didn't enjoy all of the changes. Huge homes with seven bedrooms and two-story foyers are out of place on a street lined with small 1930s bungalows. And I worry that as my parents age there will no longer be a store in walking distance.

Still, there is much to be said for looking back. I felt the comfort of the familiar. I found things that had once gone unnoticed.

Our culture is one that sends us hurtling forward at nearly all times. We are often on the lookout for that which is new and improved. That which is bigger and better. That which purports to make our lives easier, or perhaps more fulfilling.

As we enter August in Washington, I am hoping that I don't have to invite you to slow down. I would, however, like to invite you to look back. We are nearing the season of reflection; soon it will be Elul, the month of introspection that precedes the High Holy Days.

At this season, we often look for our flaws or instances in which we've missed the mark. We try to off-load unnecessary baggage, hurt or anger that is weighing us down. After finding such wonderful things on my recent trip to Chicago, this year I'll also be searching my past for things that I left behind unnecessarily, things that could be dusted off, repurposed or revisited, things from which I might learn or gain comfort. I invite you to do the same.

"Who says you can't go home?"