Coming home

Coming home is not this walking
through the door of your house
after the long journey
from mountains filled with wonder,
is not even this sitting here again
on the chair that carries the memory
and shape of your body,
but is the subtle whisper
of that tiniest plant in the forrest
connecting my skin to yours
in the invisible web of life
that shapes the memory
of all things.

Wherever you are on your journey
of homecoming,
however weary and tired
from all the luggage you carry,
still heavy and unpacked,
know that any breath you take
shelters the possibility of a thousand doors
opening your heart to that whisper.
Once you hear it, you will come to know
that we are already home.

A labour of love

You were born into majesty
an heir of land and sky,
blessed by the sun,
rocked by the moon,
sheltered by the earth
you thrived.
This castle was your cradle,
your playground,
your sanctuary.
Here, you've learned to stand your ground
and speak your name
and wonder at the beauty of your own hands
crafting things into being.

It was a labour of love.

As you grew up,
you castle grew smaller
and smaller.
The people came in.
Trespassers:
wanderers, crusaders,
rogues and beggars,
hunters and soldiers,
priests and teachers
disguised as kings and queens,
all claiming a piece of your land,
the earth beneath your feet,
the waters from your well,
the fire from your belly,
the feathers from your wings.
You paid the price
so they would see you
and call out 'Your Majesty'.
But soon the well dried
and the fire died,
the air grew thinner,
the earth turned to quicksand.
Your castle came crumbling down.
And you were alone.

It was a labour of love.

Then, it began.
From your grief,
a crack in the wall
and the light came in.
All the pain,
al the hunger,
all the fear,
exposed.
A tear here, a spark there,
a feather here, a stepping stone there,
Dissolving the defence
to rebuild your castle
from the ground up.
Your undefended heart,
taking the exquisite risk
of becoming vulnerable.

It was a labour of love.

Years have passed
and you grew older.
It seems like your labour has just begun.
Your castle is still fragile.
The floors squeak,
the walls creak and moan
bearing the scars of ancient wars,
the ghosts of all life still unlived
haunting the dark corridors.
Yet as the crows herald your homecoming
the front doors are wide open.
People still come in.
They carve their names on your trees
in fear of being forsaken.
Sometimes they flood your rooms
with their tears of neglect.
Sometimes they leave
without saying goodbye.
Still, most of the times,
they come together
in humbleness
to seek refuge and redemption
to heal and be healed
to pay their respects
and offer their gifts,
to bless the heart of your heart,
to honour the cradle of life.
You welcome them
as you welcome yourself
home.
It is still a work in progress.

It is the labour of love.

*dedicated to Steven, lord of Hayton Castle and his labour of love, with humbleness and gratitude for the shelter of his heart