Searching for home.
Upturning stones,
disentangling dry roots
entrenched in unstable soil.
Where is the place to rest this dream-filled head?
Even wildflowers need a well-tended bed.
Even the phoenix has a soft nest,
when she is not busy dissolving
into the flame of her becoming.
These beings intrinsically reside within a belonging
that comes from knowing
that they are indivisible from that which makes them.
Humans are the only creatures that claim to own bits of Earth,
and the only ones to believe in the existence of homelessness
on this garden planet.
This glowing orb that is all home.
I don’t need to own,
to claim,
none of this precious dirt need to be mine.
But I want to be claimed
by a living temple of wood and stone,
a soft nest of clay and earthbone.
I feel the ache of ancestors ripped from all that was known
forced to flee, to roam.
This greed to own
born of the fear of freedom
and addiction to others’ resources
displacing everyone.
Interfering with our innate connection to our fountain,
our taproot, our true source.
I cry the tears of a thousand people
who have buried dreams and children on the side of the road.
I want to go home,
but it’s a place long lost
and not yet found again,
not yet emerged
from the ashes of a history
of aggressive agriculture and possessive war.
We don’t need to own, to claim,
no place need belong to us.
But we need to belong to place.
Some place with space
for our seeking roots and tender hearts.
I don’t want land to belong to me,
I simply want to belong to Her,
and thus, to get Her, to gather, together.