Wednesday, April 22, 2015

a confession.

i used to write prolifically.  here, in the poetry journal, in my head in the car, in the shower--no matter. there was this constant stream of inner dialogue that seemed to have its own built in subwoofer--loud and heavy.  the beat of the words drove the way i structured my days, the way i thought about people and places.

then, a while back, i got a little lost, a little tempest in a tea-pot-ee and more than a little out of sorts with myself and generally with everyone who loved me and who i loved. and either out of spite or out of fear of what that inner thumping would say, i stopped writing. the reality is that i had this epic and glorious picture in my head of what 35 would look like. it involved big cities, jet setting to pristine beaches, warm open air cafes, the swirl of foreign tongues, and additional pages in my passport filled with work visas and travel adventures.

while i have some of that still, i begrudged the rest of it. so much so that i left my precious words alone for four whole years.  enter my own personal denial of all things.

until a while back, when someone jarred me loose out off my high horse.  when i metaphorically picked myself up again, i got a little indignant, then repentant, then humble, because here's the thing:  i travel a lot. i get to sit with my best friends on pristine beaches. i spent a week this past fall posted up on a cafe porch in latin america, falling in love again with spanish. i make deliberate, real, quality time for the people i love without hesitation or concern.  this weekend, i will be in san francisco smothering my girl's baby with kisses. end of next month in portland at my goddaughter's christening.  my passport--it's full of stamps and visas.  so what the fuck have i been i so out of sorts about?

and now four years later i finally understand.  this feeling, this emptiness, this dull constant ache in the back of my chest, i suspect it's homesickness. unfortunately, i am not quite sure WHERE home is (if that needs clarifying you probably shouldn't be reading my blog) so much as I know WHO home is and it is missing you that makes being so far away up here hard.

home isn't a single person to me. it never has been and as much as i love my husband, that is not what i ask of him.  home is the feeling of my soul reconnecting with those who see me for who i am without condition or expectation of anything other than truth.  home is the purity of those moments, the purity of my love for those people. and home with them happens regardless of physical location, temperature or language.