July 7, 2021


            Delycia and I have a small home beside a river in a small town, but I wish I could more often feel like I’m home no matter where I happen to be. Home is our white stone house in Mystic, but home should also be the sidewalk I’m walking on, or the store where I’m browsing among beets and cabbages, or the forest in which I’m walking on a warm July day. Home, as we say, is where the heart is, and shouldn’t my heart be wherever I happen to be, whether at the beach beneath the soft ceiling of a summer sky, or in  a grocery store with shoppers whose thoughts and feelings are lit-up like lamps. Shouldn’t I feel just as ‘at home’ holding the door for a friend miles from our house as doing the dishes in our kitchen, and shouldn’t speaking to the clerk at a store be, in a way, as pleasant as passing words back and forth at home? I live in little Mystic, but I also live in the limitless universe, so perhaps my real home is as vast as galaxies. It could be there are countless doors in my real home, all leading to moments that could be called miracles, all opening to places as comfortable and kindly as our living room on Riverbend Drive.  


A bird and a blossom 
making friends, 
a rooster helping morning 
make its entrance, 
a lawn mower making music 
across a lawn:
it's a joyful time in July,
when even an airplane passing over 
can make music 
in a happy heart. 

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