Home

A poem that explores what and who is home?

Sometimes I find myself working something out through the writing of a poem. Can you guess what I was working out?

Home

When you said, I arrived home, it oddly felt confining,
as if some invisible strap bound me,
or a fence had quietly been built around the horizon.

I have long dreamed of getting a small trailer
and traveling about with my dogs,
meeting up with friends,
but mostly strangers.

I would stop in places
where loneliness and homesickness gather
like people in an oncologist's waiting room.
I would share a poem,
or a question,
maybe a book and a sandwich.

And I would listen to their stories
(and they would ask about mine),
each one
keeping that ember inside us alive.

What is it about ongoing relationships
that get all the attention—
the books,
the lectures,
How to Save This Marriage?

Can't I belong
to this moment,
with and without you?

Can we come home to strangers?

To the temporary friend,
the kind or unkind waitress,
the man pushing his old dog in a carriage,
the neighbor who visits as I garden,
the kids who play up and down the street—
calling me Grandma,
and sometimes by my name—
the young woman who helps with the yard.

These shared moments
are home.

Coming home.

Not a destination,
or a particular tribe,
but a heart that keeps opening,
to each other
and beyond.

But I am told to stay put.

Work it out.

Come to an understanding.

Invest in a home.

Save the marriage.

While nothing lasts in this life,
or is meant to.

I am reminded of the Jesus Saves signs
along rural roads,
and how I would like to place another beside them
that simply reads:

Buddha Recycles.

Like an osprey,
migrating separately,
wintering in another country,
and possibly reuniting
to a familiar nesting place with friends and strangers,

Zugunruhe rises up in me
like a compass remembering its true home.

It cannot be shaken.
I want to take flight.
to land
among unknown family.

Perhaps home
has never been a place at all,
but the brief warmth
of being recognized
before we each
continue on.

✍️ Writing Prompt
Are you working through something? Write a poem as one way of entering into it.

🪷 Active Contemplation
What—or where—do you consider home? Is it a place, a person, a community, a memory, your own body, or something else entirely? Your breath?

🌿 Contemplative Action
Today, greet a stranger as if they were already an old friend. Offer your full attention, a smile, a question, or a few moments of genuine presence.