Advertisements
RSS Feed

Tag Archives: Home

Returning

via Returning

Bela takes wonderful photos in this post and writes a heart-felt poem about returning to special places where we belong.

In poems about belonging and returning there are strains of deep feeling. Home is as much about those feelings as it is about geographic location.

After over 40 years in the same house, Kathy and I felt it was time to do something different. We mulled our options: sell and move, major renovations, and finally settled on tearing the house down and rebuilding where we have lived and raised a family. It will be different, but many of the feelings will still be there.

We have driven and cruised parts of the west coast and Bela’s pictures capture the magificent coastline, lush forests, rivers with mountains towering above, and the ocean.

100_4352

Another place that is home for us is the farm where Kathy grew up. This was a picture she took of a deer just as curious about her as she was of it.

Home is about relationships with people and things that evoke memories of belonging in a particular place and how, each time we return, those memories are vivid in our very being there..

Advertisements

Home

Bruce Weigl wrote this lovely poem. When we practice, the Sabbath we find our way home. We re-discover roots we often leave behind in the busyness of our day-to-day lives.

There is a paradox in this leaving of roots. They remain attached as we can detach from them. We can ignore the roots, but the are always there. We cannot shake loose from them. They follow us and eventually we stop the shaking. We let the roots feed and nurture us the way they can.

In Sabbath practice, we listen to the music that translates the world into dirt fields that always call us. We rejoice in the dirt fields of our youth and find our spirit in those dirt fields. The roots helped make us who we are. We can never escape from those roots or plow them under.

I didn’t know I was grateful

           for such late-autumn

                       bent-up cornfields

yellow in the after-harvest

             sun before the

                       cold plow turns it all over

into never.

           I didn’t know

                        I would enter this music

that translates the world

             back into dirt fields

                         that have always called to me

as if I were a thing

             come from the dirt,

                         like a tuber,

or like a needful boy. End

             Lonely days, I believe. End the exiled

                           and unraveling strangeness.

%d bloggers like this: