Homesick

I knew her well.

The little girl dressed as Maria,
twirling round and round beneath the soft sun of the backyard,
dreamily singing with all her heart,

“The hills are alive with the sound of music...”

And then from the bedroom window came the shout,

“Turn off that music!”

And suddenly, standing in the mountain meadow in Bavaria,
the dream fractured.

I laughed and said,

“It was me singing.”

But something inside the little girl fractured too.

The song stopped.

The music grew quiet.

Years passed.

But I always knew something was there.

That feeling.

The feeling of twirling in spacious possibilities.

For years, I sensed something just beyond my reach.

Like a light at the end of a foggy tunnel.

If I squinted from my soul,
I could almost reach it.

And then it would fade,
and I would return to my life.

My life of producing.

As most of you know by now,
I stopped producing.

And I became curious.

Where was that light?

Where was the feeling of twirling?

How do I get there?

At the beginning of this year,
after my predawn walks with puppy-boy Kenji,
I would return home,
make my beautiful tea,
and settle in with my journal and The Vein of Gold.

Month after month,
through gentle work,
the fog began to clear.

My life became quieter.

More peaceful.

Filled with discernment and fulfillment.

But something was still missing.

I had the costume.

I had the backyard.

I had the song.

But I was still missing the twirling.

And then, just this week, I found it.

Or perhaps,
it found me.

The missing piece was my art.

Not the art itself.

But the freedom within it.

I had held it tightly.

Protectively.

Lovingly.

It had carried identity,
meaning,
purpose,
even salvation at times.

And while it created beauty,
I had lost the joy of simply creating.

I realized I was homesick.

Not for childhood.

Not for another time.

But for a place within myself
that I had not inhabited for a very long time.

Longing for the girl who sang with all her being.

Longing for the freedom to twirl.

Longing for home.

I had the costume.

I had the backyard.

I had the song.

But I had closed the door to the twirling.

And then something softened.

I stopped directing.

I stopped hurrying.

I stopped asking art to carry what only life could carry.

And I discovered I could create in companionship with the Divine.

Not directed.

Not proving.

Simply creating together.

And in that discovery,
I found my twirling.

I found the freedom.

I found the joy.

I found the little girl again.

The hills are alive.

And at long last,

I came home to myself.