there's a humbling comfort in knowing you're being anchored to this world by the same gravity as your loved ones thousands of miles away, to know you're making wishes on stars your ancestors used as maps
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I painted a woman,
With flowers growing from her neck, Flora her language, Her thoughts become petals, Giving and collecting love, Swiftly as pollen caught in the wind, Roots cut deeply, Not in soil but her simple being, Growing where she's planted, Yet helping shape the ground she walks, Knowing no boundaries, Growing unruly and where she pleases, I paint and get lost in her, And wonder if this is a self portrait, I hope so. I feel most at home,
When I'm trading words, In books and poems, And thoughtful conversations, With the sun on my face, And dirt below my feet, When I'm stripped of expectations, And exposed to the unexpected. I feel most at home, With the wind to my back, Whispering secrets in my ear, Reliant on nothing but, The invisible tug, Of the next impending adventure. I don't need a map, I just need to listen. I come from a band of Mothers,
Some whom I know without doubt, Others whom I never met, Yet they paved paths on which I now walk. I come from a band of Mothers, Who have offered me perspective, Their wisdom, their joy, and their pain, They lent me a part of themselves. I come from a band of Mothers, Who introduced me to travel, And laughter creases around my eyes, Who taught me to love the sun and the moon, And things both seen and unseen. I come from a band of Mothers, Who knew me before I knew myself, And handed me the tools to become her. I am who I am because of a Brave, wise, And inconceivably powerful, Band of Mothers. I closed the shutters to the window of my soul, hung a sign on the door that read "be back soon." I wandered far and wide, exploring and sightseeing until everything felt like a wild dream. But somewhere along the way, I lost my way back home. I waded through the sorrows of the world, entrenched in heartbreak and absorbed amongst too many narratives. The unattainable dance of perfectionism tempted me; fleeting ideals consumed me. Spread too thin and painfully invested in the woes of the world, I lost the ability to define myself. I spun in circles until I backtracked. Listened carefully, called home by the breadcrumbs of myself I had left behind. I found wildflowers growing where my footsteps had carried me, reaping the beauty I had helped sow, seeds of laughter and kindness shared with strangers I met along my way. Tears poured forth from the wells of my eyes as I cried in gratitude; realizing that even upon being lost, Light guides those who let it. I pushed further, and bit by bit I felt the warmth of the familiar, like a faint flush of the cheeks. Flowers still in hand, sharing the same wish to be rooted once again, and I finally understand what I've been missing for so long. For the first time in a long time, I felt whole. I opened the door and stepped back into my soul, dusted off my heart and pinned it back to my sleeve. Returning home has never felt so right, like spring cleaning with the windows open, fresh air sweeping through the house as music fills each and every room.
An inner dialogue I've been entertaining for awhile now:
What is it like to return to a place that breaks your heart & mends it daily? What is it like to re-enter a culture that asks for vulnerability & committed community? What is it like to reconnect with good friends, realizing the phenomenon of time's ability to fly by & stand still? What is it like to have memories pour fourth at every street corner and street vendor? These are the questions I find myself pondering in moments of silence. I inhale and smile, already knowing the answers. For once it's simple and refreshing; it's like coming home to myself. Tears gather in the corner of my eyes, As old photographs call forth distant memories, Fresh pain and renewed missing. A symptom of past travels, An unexpected complication. Because when your feet find rest, Your heart and your mind dwell elsewhere, Amongst winding mountain back roads, Late night campfire giggles, Lost in a sea of hugs you wish to return. Mending your heart only long enough to break it again, Soothing wounds you forgot you had, And when the wind settles, Emptied sails slow your pace, Dazed, you stare out at the island of nostalgia,
Flicking your compass, Imploring it to lead you again, For like a virgin walkway, Adventure lays at your feet, Fresh snow begging for your footprint. The Earth had a headache, Or was it a heartache? It sought out the advice of the Moon, “My humans are at war with themselves again.” The Moon hung low on the horizon, A knowing and infinite silence commenced, A weighted pain, shared amongst sacred friends. The Moon spoke, “I’ve been listening to their squabbles, Their nervous conversation, Their hateful banter, Their confused brains neglecting each other’s hearts, I hear them cry at night.” Another heavy silence passed. “May I ask you something, Mother Earth?” “Yes, Moon, anything. What is it?” “Why do they have so many names for you? God, Greater Power, Jesus, Abba, Shiva, Lord, Parvati, Doesn’t it get confusing?” The Earth smiled, for she knew word choice was not always human's strength. Still the Moon knew the Earth, In a heart wrenchingly different way, Than that of the Sun, For the Moon knew the deepest secrets of humankind, Spoken only within the safe shadows of the night sky. “Curious isn’t it?” asked the Moon, The Earth waited, “Everything they long for is already instilled within them, And rests beneath their feet.” A simple yet revolutionary idea, That when humanity becomes frightened, It is easier to believe in something mysterious, Than lean into the chaos surrounding them, Yet the answers resided within them,
For they themselves were the mystery that greatly needed tending. Bees have it easy. Find a flower, make the honey tend to the queen. Living a life designed for them. Where do you belong? Heart in sync with the rhythm of the earth, Humming the tune of the wind, Given the gift of admiration, Watching the bees as they dip and dive. Unknowing in the best way, Hundreds of thousands of seconds, Untapped potential, Possibilities as sweet as honey. Chin up,
Heart open, Clear eyes wide, The world yearns for your touch. To all my friends who know the pain of loving more than one place: You probably know,
The pulse of a fortunate heartache. A timeworn companion, A physical symptom of risking your comfort For seeking the unknown out of shear curiosity, For exposing your heart and ideas, Offering them up to strangers & unpredictable experiences Soft vulnerability sculpts you into someone new. So when your flight returns home, Your bags are not the only things packed with souvenirs, For you’ve collected memories, Eclectic ideas, reexamined values, and a new worldview Jammed into the recesses of your expanded horizons A fortunate heartache, but an ache nonetheless, Eased by securing the next plane ticket. The promise of growth and steadiness within a tangle of roots planted across cultures. |
Alexandra RoseTravel enthusiast. Lover of Yellowstone, coffee, and a good book. Passionately curious. Hopeful wanderer. Archives
May 2018
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