Love is such a nostalgic condition, a candle in a familiar window I suppose… filled with this, passion and angst to be home in safe and familiar currents. Love, a condition where we find peace in the blurring of what it really is about - “home” that casts hues into our hearts, reflects light in our eyes, and catches rain from low mountain clouds stirred by the winds. Your city which you ponder, tolls like the sinuous course of life – your allegory is apparent; the air pressed in our lungs by a soaring heart when our city falls away beneath the belly of a jet, and that acquiescing exhale as our home grounds pull us sweetly down in the benevolent current of gravity. We run hither and yon, finding love everywhere, stuffing it in to our hearts and proudly poising as if we have finished a secret stew of sensationally felt ingredients. Yet I find it quaint that our hearts are eminently nourished through the very soils that sustain our ancestry and from which we sprung…home, the plains of the heart within, where it is said, love grows wild like grains from seeds planted very long ago. And it’s even more than where and what we love, but THAT we love that gives home, itself, meaning…perhaps even home has a home. This week I have been spending time “at home” (painful, tiring, itchy – as my brother and I remodel his house and care for our father…). Home leaves you quenched within - like thirst for water; and I believe as we are within, is how we are loved; especially by all those who know the direction - home.
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