I keep wanting to go Home. I say it to myself constantly, no matter where I am, and I am not referring to any home I’ve ever known…except perhaps some home from another life, that I don’t really remember.
I was speaking of this to a dear friend, J., who confirmed that more and more people are awakening to this feeling. I would love to hear others’ stories of this.
As for me, I once wrote poems to try to settle my wistful heart. I think, perhaps, I once lived in Mongolia. Or perhaps I still live there, and always lived there, in another universe.
(There is only freedom.)
M. arose from Enlightenment,
deciding, at the last moment, to veer
She became a Buddha of imperfection,
as isness once broke her,
a long time ago,
and headed for Mongolia
in a yellow skirt, choosing, as
everyone did – at every moment – not
to put down her longing.
The train lurched beneath her.
Her pale legs swung out, shuffle-swaying
up and down the aisles –
but she wasn’t walking so much as warping
space, pulling time;
and now leaning out the window, she let her thoughts
stream loose from her skull, wind-swimming behind her,
and she armed each wish
before it tore away, into air, into freedom,
to change the present, the past, and the future.
The train was laid up at break-of-gauge.
She had the Universe – she had
a paperback, a travel mug,
a teaspoon, a brush.
She had the wait of the wheel-changing,
and someone to speak to:
M., she said to another self in another place,
where trains ran swiftly,
smoothly – another self who had a camera,
a phone, a letter, a pen – she said,
M., between the millions of us
we have it all.
It made no difference that she couldn’t
touch these things,
yet she’d miss Mongolia
the moment she saw it,
and be glad.