I suspected I was not myself. 

And thorns had dug so deep I believed they were my flesh. The pain of every movement considered commonplace.

Somehow I fell into the fire. Stumbling backwards, reckless, off balance and frantically turning my head, I felt a push and gentle guidance but confused it for a nasty spill.

And howl: what is this hell? And how have I not noticed? And was the overall ordeal mostly just an anxious ignoring of this overwhelming yoke? 

My skin was first to go: tear it off in one stentorian wrench.Then lighten up my eyes: strong hands softly covering as they warm, calm, glow. Wrest the barbs that deaf my ears: suddenly a song ensues. And make sure while You carefully repair me that I’m deep inside the cave.

* *

There’s a dew-drenched field I’m longing for.

It sits in a valley by a small lake sweet as honeysuckle, still as a mirror, reflecting cumulous clouds and stoic snow-capped ranges long trekked by distant relatives all fresh from the fire, who fall deep inside the silent seeing that runs like electricity through every humming cell.

I want to build my cabin there and walk the road they carved, close as every breath.

* *

This is the record of what I’ve seen so far. Please share this room with me. I can only try my best to let the mystery speak, with as little obstruction, this song of finding home.