The Coming Home
Are you a tourist or a traveler? Is it a trip or a quest? A journey or a destination?
These days, I’m a tourist more than a journeyer. I did my journey early in life. I was on a quest for years before coming home to myself. Coming home to my heritage. Coming home to my genetics.
That sounds kind of sad, but I don’t mean for it to. A year or so ago, maybe two, I was playing around with some video software and did a digital story about my house. I often don’t know what I think, until I start writing. The montage needed a script and so I wrote one. In the course of writing, I discovered I had reached my destination. The journey was over.
Now when I leave home, I’m a tourist. I’m not looking for a place to live or find happiness or fulfillment. I’m simply out seeing the sights. Kirk Judd wrote:
I thinks
one reason
I be leavin'
alla time
is 'cause
the comin' home
feel
so good
–Kirk Judd
The comin’ home. Yes.
Continue readingIf Only
If only what was said could be taken back, I could sleep at night. Completely taken back as if the words were never uttered, never broke the barrier between thought and vocalization. If only.
If only what was done could be undone, I could move forward. Completely undone as if the deed never provoked an outcome, a clean slate. If only.
If only the thought could be lost before it sullied my heart. Forgotten before it was acknowledged, never to leave its stain of discord on my psyche. If only.
If only, I could be a vehicle for harmony and peace. Never to sow sadness or anger or criticism. To be a nurturing soul to all I encounter. If only.
If only, I could get to the core me, I would be perfect. Radiating love and hope, a person of perfection in this imperfect world. If only.
If only, I could return to the beginning. Without scar or wound. Prejudice and temper, ego unfettered. If only.
If only I could return to that state of grace of the newborn – one of wonder, content, suckling only love. If only.
A Perfect Breakfast
Livia had been up for hours already. She’d done a load of clothes, unloaded the dishwasher, and had been in the garden cutting daffodils to set in a vase on the kitchen table. Looking out the window at the sunrise it occurred to her she should be hungry.
Mornings without Greg were difficult and she was aware she filled them with activity to keep from thinking. But the sunrise caught her attention and she allowed herself to remember.
Sunday. Today was Sunday. Greg would be in the kitchen separating eggs, slicing chives, and grating gruyere. Opening the refrigerator to get the heavy cream, he would burst into song. Probably an aria she wasn’t familiar with. His love of opera confounded her.
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W. Va. Fur and Root 