Sometimes I cry when we’re driving home
because I know there is a safe home for us,
one that feels enduring in the way some places write memories into you,
that also drop into the soil
and never leave.
I know the sacred makes itself known most easily
through changing seasons,
the threshold days and nights that bless us with wonder
but also still hurt,
asking casings to break open and become husks,
asking the vulnerable, late born sprouts to die in the first frost,
seeing the too early rains that come after winter,
flooding shallow burrows
washing away the final treasures of Autumn’s larder stores.
I stand in threshold days holding my family,
savoring the joy of surviving another season
but still fearing that we’re too fragile
as a new world is born around us.
I cry when I think of the home we have together,
our burrow, our nest, our tiny village of souls tucked against the Cascades.
When I cry I feel you in my heart,
nestled there tenderly
in kindness
and peace.
I will journey into the new day
carrying our home within me.
