In fifty-seven years
as a refugee,
I have never really
unpacked, not once.
Every place
is just a place.
People arrive
and disappear.
Home, hearth
and household
do not adhere
to me.
This morning
rain drips
from the trees;
birdsong
fills the air;
in the mist
across the road
from my cloud cabin
three deer graze.
A good place,
but not home.
I belong nowhere;
I will not stay here;
I know that.
I am the shade
of a Long Hunter,
always passing through,
never settling,
or a Hungry Ghost,
observing, remarking,
but never involved.
I am not
a determined king
and no Ithaca
awaits me,
no rooted bed
or loyal hound.
Yesterday
I followed a path
through the woods
that went nowhere,
simply ended.
Perfection,
of a kind,
existing for itself,
no reason
or destination,
just a way.
But it is my path,
and I will follow it.
- mce
I was looking for home when I stumbled upon alcohol and opiates. Turns out that was hell. Home, albeit slightly elusive and consistently short of my fantastic expectations, is found in the moments of true rest and contentment that grace my life from time to time. These times of reprieve most always follow periods of extreme restlessness and gnawing discontentment and never come often enough. Hmm. Home is an inside job.
ReplyDeletejoy
I have given up my eternally disappointing quest for home. Inside job or outside job, it is obviously not my job. There is nothing you can do in life but what my Zen Drill Sergeant told me so long ago: soldier on.
ReplyDeleteMike
Or, as a very wise woman once said: just show up for life.
ReplyDelete:)
Mike