I am back in Arizona. I have a second chance to come home.
This setting, this place called home, I now am slowly beginning to realize is apt to change over time, having tread some ground. Also with the gracious help from Barbara Kingsolver's beautifully written book titled; The Poisonwood Bible.
I began reading it at an exceptionally dawdling pace. I spent long, hot days in the sun running a chainsaw and craved that hour of down time I had to spend that would come after work and before dinner to simply sit. And even after that, the craving lingered for the set of sleeping-bags and blankets that I had waiting for me every night in my tent. To simply lie down and listen to the world. The river, the coyotes, the wind, the stillness. I didn't make much time for the book.
However, here I am sitting in a motel room in Phoenix (there and back again) with 10 pages left after spending a full 6 1/2 hours straight of flight time without putting the book down. It is doing an impeccable job of opening my mind to this revelation.
Home. Home for me is the soil. The dirt in my back yard and the dirt in Gettysburg, and the red sand from the Four Corners. Home for me is the autonomous wind that brushes by and through, the sound of loons in Algonquin, Canada, the laughter, the secrets. Home is you, and myself. Together and alone. Home is the thoughts in my head, and the feelings I could never fully express. Home is Sisson Rd. Home is the open road. Home is the jungle, and every other huge and minuscule part of the earth that I cannot fathom. Home is despair, and noticing change. It is strength that comes from experience, and the thickness of my skin. The Colorado River at the bottom of the Grand Canyon is a home I have yet to inhabit... but I know that the desire itself is accommodating. Strangers are home. Animals and children and old folks are home. Home is wherever I'm with you. Home is wherever I am. Home is where the heart is.
" 'You have nothing to lose but your chains.' But I don't happen to agree. If chained is where you have been, your arms will always bear marks of the shackles. What you have to lose is your story, your own slant. You'll look at the scars on your arms and see mere ugliness, or you'll take great care to look away from them and see nothing. Either way, you have no words for the story of where you came from."
Know where you've been, what has made you who you are and who you're becoming. Every step has altered you, therefore every part of every thing can be your home.
My soul is my sanctuary.
This setting, this place called home, I now am slowly beginning to realize is apt to change over time, having tread some ground. Also with the gracious help from Barbara Kingsolver's beautifully written book titled; The Poisonwood Bible.
I began reading it at an exceptionally dawdling pace. I spent long, hot days in the sun running a chainsaw and craved that hour of down time I had to spend that would come after work and before dinner to simply sit. And even after that, the craving lingered for the set of sleeping-bags and blankets that I had waiting for me every night in my tent. To simply lie down and listen to the world. The river, the coyotes, the wind, the stillness. I didn't make much time for the book.
However, here I am sitting in a motel room in Phoenix (there and back again) with 10 pages left after spending a full 6 1/2 hours straight of flight time without putting the book down. It is doing an impeccable job of opening my mind to this revelation.
Home. Home for me is the soil. The dirt in my back yard and the dirt in Gettysburg, and the red sand from the Four Corners. Home for me is the autonomous wind that brushes by and through, the sound of loons in Algonquin, Canada, the laughter, the secrets. Home is you, and myself. Together and alone. Home is the thoughts in my head, and the feelings I could never fully express. Home is Sisson Rd. Home is the open road. Home is the jungle, and every other huge and minuscule part of the earth that I cannot fathom. Home is despair, and noticing change. It is strength that comes from experience, and the thickness of my skin. The Colorado River at the bottom of the Grand Canyon is a home I have yet to inhabit... but I know that the desire itself is accommodating. Strangers are home. Animals and children and old folks are home. Home is wherever I'm with you. Home is wherever I am. Home is where the heart is.
" 'You have nothing to lose but your chains.' But I don't happen to agree. If chained is where you have been, your arms will always bear marks of the shackles. What you have to lose is your story, your own slant. You'll look at the scars on your arms and see mere ugliness, or you'll take great care to look away from them and see nothing. Either way, you have no words for the story of where you came from."
Know where you've been, what has made you who you are and who you're becoming. Every step has altered you, therefore every part of every thing can be your home.
My soul is my sanctuary.
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