Homely Ground: Searching for What We Lost

There was a time when love felt like home, solid beneath our feet, a room where the world could not reach us.

Now I wander its empty halls, looking for the familiar: your cup, your voice, the place beside me where certainty used to sleep.

The soul may remember what the heart tries to forget, but memory is not a house we can live in forever.

The storm came. What we planted changed. I search your eyes for the ground we shared and find distance where roots once met.

I loved you with a certainty that felt eternal. It mattered, even if it did not last.

Home cannot be placed entirely inside another person. Nor is it hidden in some perfect union of masculine and feminine. It is made slowly: in the body, in friendship, in rooms where truth is welcome, in the ground we choose to tend.

I sometimes call that ground divine, not because it waits untouched within me, but because returning to myself can feel like prayer.

The home we lost was real. So is the life beyond it.

I gather what remains, open a window, and begin again with one honest room.