my path in the woods comforts
just by stretching out before me -
a softly waiting lover
beckoning me forward,
to the place where things
get better.
here among the trees i am stable
because they are strong
i am golden
because they are green.
the sunken earth gives way,
cradling each step,
holding the print and
keeping the secret of my footfall,
the secret of my tears.
the kinds of birds
my grandmother sometimes sends
fly across my path,
a distant reminder that somewhere,
i am loved.
and the woods make me worthy,
the leaves steal my sobs,
the dirt absorbs my aching pain.
beneath the boughs,
beside the river
i have hope.
i survived the night
the world crashed in around me
crumpled and crying
on my four poster bed.
i felt the weight of it all
surround my body,
as my hands grabbed at the
iron bars,
cold and rough beneath my palms.
displaced by the human condition,
spaced too far from
the compass point,
trudging these bumpy trails -
downtrodden and trodden down,
i thought i’d had enough.
but i survived that night,
picked up the shards
lying underneath,
i pieced myself together
with the scraps of the world.
and though my eyes were dark
they saw the rising sun.
i’m getting to that point in moving where the lighting feels funny and voices echo uncomfortably around the spaces. my apartment is transitioning from being mine to being another’s. i feel the energy shift, the warmth of home draining away, dripping into boxes of things to be opened in the next place i’ll call home. the same things in different places – but its never quite the same.
good or bad, every home i’ve had has been an entity unto itself. there was my first apartment, the top floor of an old, creepy, crumbling house, across the street from george washington’s headquarters. there was my apartment in the basement of a building, with that distinct ’something is illegal here’ feel. i lived for two year’s in a friend’s house, a place he had rebuilt before moving in. my favorite residence was the hippie hut, the first floor of a two family house on a busy suburban street in new jersey.
the timeline of my life is marked by the places i’ve lived. each place had it’s own spirit, it’s own breath. the walls that have known me have seen my secrets, have felt the bang of my fists and heard my moans of pleasure. the places i’ve lives have become part of me, intricately woven in to the events and emotions in my life. a song, a scent, a certain breeze can bring these memories flooding back, and i dance through all my kitchens in a single thought.
the idea of home settles thickly in my head. i know i have wandered too much, rolling around to avoid the moss. but i also know that, while the walls are fleeting, the photos on the walls are forever. i hold my memories tight and keep the pictures clear. the truth is, home is wherever i land, and every place i’ve ever been.
