Heading Home, Again

“You do not have to be good. You do not have to crawl on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only need to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. … the world calls to you, like the wild geese, harsh and exciting – over and over – announcing your place in the family of things.” – Mary Oliver

Heading home is what they call it when we go back to where we lived, before. But, for me, the places of my past feel more nightmarish than homelike. I didn’t choose to live in Minnesota, didn’t choose the slushy gray snow and biting prairie winds.

Going to the place that nearly broke me, or maybe did in some ways, was not a homecoming.

Spending time with my sister is home in ways that nothing else is. And I realize that, for her, the place is home. She has chosen it and built a life there. I hoped to see it through her eyes, to find beauty and joyfulness in that space.

There were moments of that kind of expansion, that kind of joy. Like my massage-healing-energy work session with Rachel at The Future. The place was magical, her room a liquid oasis of air and ether, glowing with elemental energy.

But then I returned to the home in which I spent six miserably formative years – only briefly, for a quick visit with my dad – and that flood of cold dread closed around my chest like a vice. I thought I had broken that hold years ago, but the nightmares poured into my mind and body with sickening ease.

We drove past my best friend’s childhood home, the place I’d run to with tears streaming down my face – even though that house had its own demons, it was a solace from my own.

We drove past the bowling alley parking lot where I lost my virginity in a drunken nonconsensual car encounter.

The house smelled like smoke and I swear it was in my hair and clothes immediately, like a thundercloud of misery from which I could not hide.


I was in control. I drove myself and my child, I kept my boundaries up high, I did the benevolent “right thing” for a man whose days are wasting away in a cold basement – let him feel our light for as long as I could bear.

You do not have to be good. But I chose to be, and then I got up off of my knees and went to The Future and healed my body and soul. The water of the room cleared away the smoke, washed me clean of nightmares – and the ether of spirit took its place.

And now we are in the air, my little golden haired orb-child, my Starseed, my home embodied. Above the clouds we are flying, and something about the cold crisp too-bright winter sky this high up makes me feel like everything is home.

It’s harsh, and it’s exciting, and it’s calling to me “come home, take your place, the Family is waiting.”

What is it that I love? This. This freedom.

My place is in the sky, among the stars, in the too-bright light. And, though it travels with me, there are some places only freedom can go …. and I belong there as often and as joyfully as possible.

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