Someday, I will not always be such a wanderer...
Someday, I believe this obvious symptom of immaturity,
will get worn off from all these rough edges around.
Maybe from someone else's stability,
from someone's commitment,
from someone's proving me wrong.
Or maybe just my own surrender.
Perhaps from a house that I'll dwell in until I know all the creaks in the floorboards,
and heights are measured on a wall,
with fingerprint stains on banisters.
Or a career I will invest in and work until I'm an old pro,
having lost my youth and cutting wit,
but never my skill.
I dream of the day I rest my lack of knowledge at the altar of faith.
I don't quite love my logic,
the ego that reasons,
tries to find explanations for the things my heart believes,
or hopes for,
I like to think that so long as I desire more faith,
that it will come.
And when it doesn't, if it doesn't,
I want to trust, hope that the measure I have,
is the measure I need.
That I'm not lacking anything, ever,
even if the lacking feels gaping.
I don't want to wander to fill. If I wander, I hope it's only for the joy, not for the emptiness.
No need to figure out more than I have measured.
And still I try, and feel like I'm floating on the waves in the sea,
slowly moving, wondering if the sea is carrying me back to shore,
or farther out.
I suppose I won't know til I get there.
If I get there.
Someday, I will not always be such a wanderer.
This pilgrim soul will rest.
I wonder if I'll be given the gift of a family-surrounded deathbed. And will I then say,
to Home, I go.
To rest, to cease. To be for good
where only love grows
and my wandering soul finds it's
not so much about where we've wandered,
so long as our wandering always led us here.