The Journey Home

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What is this yearning,

To come back to myself,

As though it is possible

To depart, though,

My deepest experience

Tells me I’ve left

So many times before?

Does a tree ever wonder

About returning home,

As it stands, year after year,

Nothing but strength

And the truth of its own

Enduring, patient existence,

As the seasons come and go,

As the leaves lose

Their life’s blood, fall,

Nourish the ground

And the tree feels no shame

At being naked, forced

To face another unimaginable

Winter, the specter of fire,

The wrath of sick insects,

The glowering face of Time.

The tree doesn’t seek renewal,

Does not carve a path

It might one day take

To find the core of its being.

Even the flower,

Which curls back into itself

Each purple twilight,

Is not traveling home,

But is answering the call,

Every time, to be this version

Of itself, the only one possible,

This moment of moments,

Pure and true and now.

And so it should be,

Not a journey of miles

Foraging for insights

As a squirrel does for food,

To come back and get found,

No, the only journey to take

Has already been made,

Or we would not be here,

And ours is the job of discovery.

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