What is Home?

What is Home,
if You are Home,
and he, too, is home to You?

Can it be
that Home's a place
where he and I meet,
in You?

Help us, Lord;
Help us each
to find our Home in You.


* * *

In the house of wishes

Tucked in behind the trees,
dappled with autumnal shadows,
a quiet invitation
to a future yet unknown,
a beckoning of hope,
the gift of longing
for a life as yet unlived,
for gentleness and peace
already mine
but wearing a different guise;
an integration promised
of past and future dreams
whose shapes,
though unremembered,
color visions of what might be.
Come,
dream with me, my love;
come join me in the house of wishes,
come draw with me
a picture of
the life we've yet to live.


* * *

The blessing of being

Before we learn
the Man Behind the Curtain
isn't really there, but here,
the world seems black and white,
full of witches and tornadoes
set to catch us unaware.

And though the table's set for us
and good food has been served,
we only see
the blank gray emptiness within.

Staring blindly out,
fork poised in expectation,
we miss the richness
that is here,
that is now,
that is being;
that is the blessing
of being here now.


* * *

Reeled slowly into oneness

Sometimes,
when we expect it least,
you send us sights,
or sounds;
scents, tastes,
or just a gentle touch
that fills our souls;
simple pleasures
catch us unaware
and draw our eyes and hearts
back home to you.
As surely as a lure
entices a fish
these moments capture me,
and I am hooked again.
And you,
watching from above
reel us slowly into oneness
so you and I may sip together
at this delicious fount
of love.


* * *

What if this heart

What if this heart
that lies at the center of being
were left untended;
given no air to breathe,
no blood to pump,
no love to share?
Would the holes
through which all love and life
were born to flow
begin to calcify,
and then,
no longer flexible,
be gradually eaten away,
still beautiful
but hard and empty as a stone?

Help me remember to breathe;
remind me,
in the breathing,
to bring my focus back where it belongs:
to You.


* * *

Wounded

Unable to fly myself, I shout at you;
Anguished by my own tormented lacerations
I call you names.
Handicapped by my own fears
I sneer at your fearless wrestling
with the challenges
I am too weak to face,
demanding perfection
I cannot find in myself,
rushing you
so you'll be certain to fail.
Where is the grace
in this angry, wounded bird;
this mother,
whom I find so hard to love?


* * *

Echoes of love

Having filled my eyes
with color from its truest Source --
the richest blues,
the brightest, warmest orange --
I find the colors linger there
at the edges of my vision:
a haunting invitation to seek more;
a willingness to find,
to see
those same colors
echoing across the ground before me.
In much the same way love,
once experienced,
has its own way
of echoing
across the landscape of friends
coloring each, enriching each
so that which once was commonplace
now glows
with a hitherto unexpected fire
of blessing.


* * *