What do we remember of the womb, the world of mother-child, when we were one? Do we remember gentle waves, rocking on a seabed of safety, embraced by its self-contained shores? Do our cells forever feel the pull of oceans?—longing to find once more the lost liminal—floating free, water and earth overlapping in an intertidal dance?
Is shelter the same as home?
If we carry our belonging on our back like snails. If we build temporary abodes like caterpillars, waiting for transformation, a future entirely reconfigured, a momentary ephemeral flight.
Is there an either/or, or is it always both/and? The leaving, the long road back, the journey the same but different, a vast and endless circle, each step verged, again and again.
I stand impermanently on a threshold of sand, looking for solidity, a resting place. Where is the first mother, starborne, moonshadowed? What existed before the beginning, the original dreaming?
of return—how to
Sometimes I feel like I keep recomposing the same poem over and over. This meditation on shelter, for earthweal, is just the most current version of my repetitive state of mind.