Coming Home

A Sensory Meditation on the Process of Return

There is a tempest at my back. Its furor pushes me forward into the murky grey night.

The sun is a hostage holed up in a cloud saturated sky.

I can’t distinguish firmament from sea. I keep my gaze fixed on the horizon hoping my eyes will draw out the blinking beam of the lighthouse tower but she stays veiled.

You are my only hope now.

The thunder roll echoes across the water and I hastily adjust my sails. The swells are as large as mountains now. Their cascading peaks gush over my sides.

If I am to survive this storm I must find you.

I bank at the inlet, struggling to stay on my feet as I approach the pier.

I cannot see you.

I am threadbare, weather worn, and dripping in ocean brine.

The marina is empty as I approach, the waves slosh and sigh as they surge against the dock.

I am an open wound aching for shelter.

Another roll of thunder rings through the port.

I turn my back to the water and you begin to take shape.