Finding Home

The rhythmic sound of my tires thumping over the interstate,
The glow of light from cars passing by, street lamps and signs,
My favorite songs turned up on the radio,
The windows down enough to let the fresh air circulate around me,
All that's missing is the smell of coffee in a steel thermos
to transport me back to my childhood...
The roads are long and the miles seem endless,
But, I'm going home and I can't wait to get there!

Only, when I do reach home at the end of the day,
Hoping for sanctuary, for peace to calm my anxious heart,
hoping to refuel for the next day, and the next,
I find instead, discontent and am distracted
by things undone and unfulfilling:
They wear me down, and I lose sight of the hope for home.

Clutter, unending dust, the no longer wanted, no longer useful,
Outgrown or worn out clothing,
Leftover dishes,
Plants dying, the dirty dog water bowl,
The long, long list of things needing care.
The fear, the guilt, the shame over all of these things.

Then an equally long list of adjectives of
how I see myself,
how I treat myself,
how I fail to care for myself.
how I fail at all I'm supposed to be:
The steward here, the keeper, the care-giver.

For home to be a restorative breath of fresh air,
For it to be my secret garden, my sanctuary, my place of rest,
My story needs to be re-written, this current version edited-
but edited by patience and with grace
rather than by wielding a red pen over paper.

I need to look to the life-giver, the peace-bringer, before I look all around me,
and listen to him tell me the story of who I am and who I am to him,
instead of believing and remaining trapped inside my own self-written fiction.

This is the story of who I am, but thankfully, mercifully,
not the story of who I have always been,
nor who I will always be.