Home is where the heart is, they say.
but this heart is a wanderer
always and never at home.
Thin white roots stretch their delicate fingers behind me
each time I go
a spiders web of belonging wrapping up this world
in its soft cocoon.
I am often leaving but never letting go.
This heart first found its home
in a sleepy village
where neighbours know your news before you do.
It stays there now
barefooted and wild haired
playing forty-forty in the lanes
growing strong and independent.
That independent heart
and those bare feet
picked themselves up
in search of the next adventure.
This one, she was born with wings,
my mum will say, wistfully.
Now a wanderer
Those white roots hold me still to a dusty southern land
eating fresh corn and sugar cane
hailing minibus taxis
daring proud teenagers to love
They stretch north again to icy beaches
and purple hills
with coffee carried in cold hands along cobbled streets
watching red robes dancing on the stone pier.
Tendrils stretch west to a land loud and bright
to warm days and warmer hugs
learning to love sushi
These roots they spin their way across this mainland here
weaving tighter around the city of kriek and frites
looking into the eyes of the displaced
finding love with another immigrant heart.
Now stretched thin and translucent
they begin to weave themselves around this
What does it take to be rooted with this heart a nomad, a wanderer?
How do I trust these four walls
name them home
weave new tendrils
It comes naturally
this work of building
Over my shoulder a thick weave
roots me to a dozen different lands
and up ahead
on the horizon
a city shining in the sunlight
still far off
but it will come.
And so I look down at this land
city, street, flat, desk.
It begins here.
Home begins here.
In the meeting, the kissing, the knowing, the serving, the working, the decorating, the laughing, the feeding, the talking, the praying, the advising, the visiting, the befriending, the risking, the celebrating, the planning, the dreaming.
And in the loving.
Home is in the loving.