The Urge to Home

Lately, every thing is a lesser version of itself. Books pile on the ottoman, desk, bed and the floor. After a few sentences, words become washed up sea shells – beautiful remnants of something once alive. Food does its job without fanfare. Spring stutter-steps, allowing winter to to have its way a little longer. Tasks about the house begin to lose that feeling of serving. Perception is everything, no?

Tell me what you know as opposed to what you perceive.

Shared purpose. Now it is so much less about getting something that is missing.

A series of naps around the clock fills in the sleeplessness. Today the sun rises in a way that I can feel it and whispers the promise of outdoor work if I want it. In the eastern light the neighbor's bird feeder swings hard after a squirrel dismounts with great fanfare. The feeder reflects flashes of light back and forth to a cadence similar to lovemaking at first, gently slowing to a diminished finish. I don't think about sex much anymore. I think about healing, the disappearance of heaven and hell, the shortening of fear's shadow, and unchanging holiness. I think of each new, untarnished moment and revel in the gift of timelessness. I used to feel lonely thinking about such things, but I want to be done with such ego support.

Bundled up in wintergear on the back deck, I talked to Mom on the phone about how quarantine is going for her and Dad. In my long pauses given to allow her rangy descants, two black-capped chickadees alighted on the back of the empty chair next to me. I've not been this close before, my love. How they twittered to each and towards me! Eventually I had to speak but the thought did cross my mind to hang up the phone and let Mom think that the forest got in the way of reception, again. The chickadees flew away but their gift remained. You, the one witness who I have wholly released. He, who cannot be denied.

Frost covers the roof in a fresh coat of razzle-dazzle. The trees cast long, morning shadows stretching westward and birds are busy collecting nest materials. One determined robin is working hard to pull a gangly, dead vine over the privacy fence. The weight of the vine won't allow for proper flight and it is caught in the notches of the fence. From here it looks like a strange winged fish caught on the line, flapping and fighting for freedom. How strong the urge to home.

Today it will be warm enough to work in the yard. Excitement almost holds me back from writing and reading and my usual morning balance tricks. Maybe the azalea and tulips and hyacinth will bloom today; maybe the rest of the daffodils! Though my body aches even before the work, the joy of dirt and growing things will lead me on – to what, is the real question.