when you are a wayward woman


Home is the going there and the having been.

It is empty rooms that hold no possibilities, only their own souls. It is light on the memory of trees. And windows that may or may not open, and new songs to be learned by walking over the creaking floorboards.

Home is realising, the day before you go, that you love the view after all.




It is carrying a dusky hill, a tiring road, a tree that blossoms like clockwork every October, a habit of the wind, in your heart - so the tables have turned, and instead of living in place, it now lives in you.

It is all the disappointments of a new neighbourhood, and the gentle understanding that, over the months to come, you will ease into what you are seeing, and slowly, deeply, certainly, fall in love.

Home is one afternoon spent cycling through the wetlands of a faraway town, and breathing sea air, storm wind, sunshine, that you know will always thereafter layer your mind.

It is your bones moving like a door would move in the house of your childhood.

It is the smell of an island forest.

Home is seeing nothing but his elbow through a crowd and knowing it's him.

Home is the inward breath of the world, its roads and horizons, drawing you through to the other side, where magic exists.




11 comments:

  1. I have to believe we carry Home within ourselves as we prepare to move house - yet again!
    I KNOW we are but Pilgrims in this world, but oh, for some stability... somewhere to really root... to really connect to a place...

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    1. so you're not a wayward woman, then? :-) I'm sorry you haven't found the stability you desire.

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    2. I think I was... I certainly used to love being unfettered :) But as I age, as the world seems evermore uncertain, I want a fixed place, a place to drive deep roots... Somewhere to which our wandering kids can Come Home.

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  3. Home is defined in so many ways. I think of home as an overlarge comforter, that trails behind us, encompasses us, is us.
    Lovely thoughtful post.

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  4. beautiful!
    yes, all those things are home.

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  5. Home, to me, was always where my parents were, and where I had been brought up. Now, Home is where I feel happiest at a particular moment in time.

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  6. I think it is the most important thing in the world to me. Home. The softest place to land, the place to return to after being in the busy chaotic world. The place where you drop everything and let go. I am most definitely a home body. But aren't we all in some way or another?

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  7. I myself am not a homebody, as I was hoping to express in this post, but I do understand most women are. :-)

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