I’m wishing I was here.
At least for now.
As long as I can remember I’ve been on a quest for home. Only to realize that I have a wondering, exploring soul. A conundrum if there ever was one.
Up here, in the trees, it’s the stillness of silence that I hear first and last each day. The brilliance of the rising sun or the soft colors of sunset. The white noise of my neighborhood. Sometimes, the patter of rain. Always birdsong.
I’m reminded that early morning runs in this place and countless others, are how I connect to home. The pace, the repetitive slap, slap of shoes on pavement, dirt, asphalt. The joy of watching a city, place come alive, open, begin the day has always, always been a balm to my soul.
The draw of the quiet solitude of the open road, whirring of wheels, creak of the saddle, wind in my face. The hills and valleys, mountains yet to be ridden. The donning of a wet suit to swim open waters – rivers, oceans and lakes.
They are all the opening or closing of a day, life. They remind me that home can be in the actions we do. In the thoughts we have. For self. For others.
It’s in these first and last moments I remind myself that home is my soul. Always present. Always joyful. Always right where it’s suppose to be.