The Way Home

The journey home. Every where I turn, I read it isn’t the place. It isn’t the place.

I yearn for the familiar. I’ve yet to learn the way.”You cannot travel on the path before you have become the path itself.” “Every day is a journey and the journey itself is home.” First one foot then another. Sometimes there are markers, sometimes not. What a comfort to have in sight two white blazes, one then the next, then another. Not to lose sight. knowing you are on the the path, not lost. At times the trail runs close to a cliff. One misstep, a tumble,  a turned ankle.

How much weight can you carry on your back? Let loose of all that has meaning and keep nothing other than what you need. Every scrap of useless paper, every memory. Bury an amythest in each corner of your rented yard before you take one step.  You need long unkept hair, a prayer shawl over your shoulders, good wool socks.  Deep lines at the corner of your eyes are like current running through wires lighting the night. Spring far away. No color left in leaves. A leaf floating upwards, above the overhang. When can I sing the song, when will I know the words buried so many years ago? 

 

ewm