Missing home

I want to feel so connected to a piece of land that I know it's contours in my heart. I want that for home. I want to feel it shift along with the wind and bend under its own breath and open to my touch. I want to know the way what water knows it, the way ants and snakes and the sky see it and touch it.

I want home. I want to place that knows my blood without receiving it but when it does drinks it, as if in communion. The holy space of place.

I want my feet to kiss the ground in the way a lover would my lips. I want us, this ground and I, to create a family; dropping roots, deep into ground and growing into sky, spreading shelter for others like the cottonwoods that dance along the rivers I love.

I know that place. I’ve been there. It knows *my* contours as if it has breathed me in every day of all my existences and waited for me to come back home. It called me, opened to me and pulled my feet into it’s steadfast patience the moment I touched its ground. It is the only place I’ve been where I don’t have vertigo at cliff’s edge. The hum there is of safety, of solidity. No wind or word can knock me off course there, it’s steady as she goes, holding.

Waiting. Still.

Oh, how I miss home.