Going Home




It is where I grew up no large home,
The might and mystery is gone
Fading into a past that never was.
Looking for my past in places
It used to reside, fond memory
I went home to find it not there
Though I looked with memories eye,
Reminiscing of soft dreamy days
I went to say goodbye
To pasts perfection
Finding it already gone;
If ever it was what I remembered
No longer.
Reality is not the dream faded memory.

I left this morning to visit my past, not totally eager, but wanting. Would the strong painful pull of memory still reach through my heart and clasp my soul. Would it be unbearable, as in the past? More? Less? Though only twenty minutes from where I now reside, I had not been home in three or more years. The last quick fly by had been too painful, resulting in sorrow and joy's loss.

Setting off with camera, a full thermos of coffee, I stepped out to greet the early morning.



Though chilly it was not cold, frost lay on the ground, but no snow. Leaving town I was not eager, but there was not the expected trepidation. The sun shone brightly, chasing the dark shadows into the minds background. Aware of them, but not fearing, I drove aware of beauty all around.


Stopping at the river, wondering if it yet flowed, was the ice gone, was there water within its banks, I was forced to marvel anew at natures simple beauty. I took many photos, holding on to the best. Not much further down the road I saw again the encroaching blight, an environmental cancer. Feeding off the land, parasitic, necessity.

I continued on my way, stopping occasionally to look at remembered sites, changed, no longer emotionally charged. I stopped to stare for a bit at unfolding vista. Atop a hill, memory spoke of dreams, plans, ideas formed and lost. Now but a hill, scenic, but too large for my camera to catch, the vista remains in memory alone.

Approaching home, expected feelings not felt. I stop to stare at a field once laid bare, now bordered by encroaching trees.

And thought how this would sadden my father. He knew the effort required to free a small patch of land from wilderness' clasp. Years of labor, dreams, hope, fading back into the past. Yet it was a knowledge only, no emotion attached. But home was just beyond the trees, would this have the expected pull?



Home. Once. But as I stop and look, no more. Now it but an old house lost to nature, unlived in, empty, memory haunted no more.

This is not the home I grew up in, not the home I lived in. That home yet resides in my mind, and resembles this place only in physical site, not memory's match.

I visited some of my old haunts, finding everything different, but still there. Where had all the magic gone? I look at the twin crowned single tree of memory, and wonder.

Beneath this tree
I spoke with Merlin, Gandalf,
Elves wise and ancient
Came to visit, while in forest near
Dragons snuffled and snorted
Keeping shyer beings away
In the tree above did angels sing
Below in dream filled bough sheltered bower
Hidden hopes were set free.

But not all magic gone, for the spirits of past dreams still haunt the beavers small pond. Drought shrunken and dry, it still exits fear haunted.

I have seen what I had to see. Memory locked within does not match reality. Beauty yet resides here, but not the strong soul pull that once was present. I leave what is and hang on to what was.

Here and there among the newness hide remembered sites.



Yet none has the imagined remembered pull of the past. Now only another empty house, another abandoned dream filled car. I return to my current abode, knowing I will not see home until I find my hearts rest. M.Lingrell2001



The Dream
Poem
The Walk