Points of reference in decline.
Lighthouse beacons receding.
Navigating shoals, charts outdated.
Looking for a wake to follow through choppy waters.
Circling back to find a marker, an anchor to what was.
Looking to reestablish routes, known directions.
Finding few, and those fading from view.
An occasional, familiar interlude darts past.
Tasked, with what, unknown.
Frequent untended emotions.
Hoping to distill the what, the how.
We are being propelled into a different realm.
Solidity replaced by a buoyant fluidity (still, we are held).
Shifting sense of movement through time.
How to inhabit this space, inhabit myself in this space.
Glimpses of what might be, could be.
Seeking to learn to ease into dis-ease.
And the time for being, the time for doing.
Hints of subtle knowing.
Coming home is not a destination.
Not a surroundings, or a piece of earth to place my feet.
It is a sense, it is felt, it is on the way.
An acknowledgement wafting gently in the breeze.