echoes of home

I awakened this morning to the sounds of home. I’d cracked open the window sometime in the night, so that I could reorient myself,  reground and reroot myself to this place. Opening the car door, stepping out of the car last evening, the soundscape of this place welcomed me back….the crickets and tree frogs, the lingering katydids. This morning brings a solitary bird song, the scramble of squirrels, the scolding of crows in the distance, the underlying hum of traffic below, a neighbor’s dog barking.

I awoke feeling sated, like the morning after an evening of full-bodied, passionate sex, my bone-deep remembrance bringing a smile to my lips. This remembrance, of course, was of a different full-bodied immersion, a different kind of love-making, a union of bodies – my own with the water, the earth, the wind and the rain, the sunlight and palette of Algonquin.

How to begin again.

Rise with the sun as I did there, pay attention like this, write like this, hear my own voice. Yes, hear myself into being. I feel like myself for the first time in such a long time. It has been so very, very long since I made love like this.

I’ve had the thought that perhaps I can begin again writing to my great-great-granddaughters. Call forth these unknown, future daughters of my spirit and soul, of my body!. Speak to them on these pages. Explain and express, who I am, why I go, what the earth means to me… show them this place where I come home to myself most fully.  If I can be honest with them on these pages, speak of my longings and fears, my questions and unhappiness, my goodness and shadows, my deep joys and dark sorrows, perhaps I will come up out of hiding at last.

The mobile I created from feathers and sticks and stones hangs in my field of vision. I gathered these pieces of earth on a walk earlier this summer at Presque Isle State Park, in Erie, PA. Back home, I crafted the mobile by instinct, not ‘thinking, just following’, my hands and my heart leading. From this vantage point, I see the balance in the piece… anchor and flight, groundedness and freedom, spirit and flesh, each keeping the other in balance. The feathers lend movement/lightness to the stone, the stones lend their weight, keep the feathers from floating or falling, from drifting away.

If I craft these words using the same instinct, not forcing, but following. Not thinking, but listening, perhaps these words, read one day by my future self, will also reveal to me their secrets.

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M.C. Reardon

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