I
this is home
where I breathe deep,
speak softly, think clearly
where the obstacle of electric lights,
and the distraction of the things
we use to distract ourselves
are made obsolete.
when we speak, we listen
when we see, we look
when we hear, we understand.
where god is not far off int he sky
the divine is here
in your eyes
in the rush of water
in the history of the age-old trees.
where we can laugh without competition
find truth without restraint
and play without inhibition.
this is our home.
yours and mine.
of the sycamore and the locusts
of the orb weavers and lady-beetles
of the treacherous mosquitoes
and the pleasing lichen.
welcome home.
II
this is not home.
we do not belong here.
we cannot breathe too deep.
we speak loudly, over planes, buses, yelling, pleading.
our thinking is clouded,
overwhelmed by stimuli too great to hear ourselves.
the obstacle of electric lights.
the distraction of the things we use to distract
are more obvious than life itself.
when we speak,
there is no space between head, mouth, and heart.
when we see
it is informed by each experience, word, conversation, laugh, look.
when we hear, it is everything yet nothing.
where god is different to each person, and
sometimes hard to find beneath this rubble.
the divine is here, though,
in the slow, soft-spoken conversation in dim light after hours,
in the generations upon generations in the back closets of this old house,
in the grief-filled yet joyful stories of the soul that have lived ages beyond us.
where I laugh carefully, knowing the world beyond the laughter.
dig deeply for truth beyond the facade of lies.
and play, when we lay aside the hurt,
lay aside the grime, but never forget
this is not home, no.
but it's where we are and where we will be.
where we are face to face with our screw-ups, and misguided decisions
where we move on or sit still, never without a deep breath
with a gentle confidence
and with stories of years past holding our hands.
