Being is Like Arriving Home
by Michelle Katz
May I remember myself
by the trickling stream,
carving its way through the canyon.
May I remember myself by the way
I shake hands with the river,
rushing thru the land wildly.
May I remember myself
by the way the trees and I lean in toward each other
to smell a familiar sweet scent.
May I remember myself by
the etched out lines of cracked rock walls.
May I remember myself by
the grains of sand and fallen trees.
May I remember myself by the way
the canyon and I embrace,
by the way the earth rises to meet my feet.
Out here, the question,
Who am I?
Is not asked, but lived.
A simple knowing.
Alive in being.
Do not loose identity
in times of chaos or stress,
only know more of the Self.
The essence remains
when all that is eroded is
Blown into the wind.
I feel the call to dwell
in the caves of wild places
To truly remember who I am.
To feel the wind and stream
erode what no longer serves,
To feel the sun
warm my precious body,
melt my weary heart.
How did my soul find residence
in a slot canyon?
Narrowed and well worked.
When I know it to be as expansive
as the alpine desert?
Fallen oak leaves framing the wash
Offering a familiar comfort.
Between these tall walls,
what I have neglected for far too long,
Seems to be coming alive again.
Tingling and sparking,
Warming and flush,
Emerging and blinking eyes open.
Swaddled in the arms of the canyon
The world is small and big all at once.
Safe and wild,
Dead and alive.
Emerging to meet the expanse,
while chickadees, magpie and crow sing out,
the grasslands, rolling hills and mountains recognize me.
No one knows what really happens in here,
Even for those who live it.
The nuance remains
mysterious, yet simple.
If we can quiet our minds to the rest,
The heart beats like a drum for which we dance.
The soul bursts with joy like a light trail across the night sky.
Being is like arriving home.
The celebration is truly all that matters.