Homeward Bound . . .

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After paddling for what seemed like an eternity, my little green boat finally pulled into a port on the coast of France, la belle France, early yesterday morning, and I breathed a hearty "home, sweet home". . . After three weeks of travelling it was good to be back.
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There is something fine about coming home, real honestly good; for home is indeed where the heart is. Though I admit strange pangs of emotion were haunting me as the shores of that other country, the place of my birth (and youthful mirth) slid out of sight in the night, fading into the black distance, punctuated by the crying gulls. We exiles sometimes feel acutely the spaces between two realms, the distances and differences that separate them, the knowledge that the place one leaves behind can never be seen in the same light again, ever. But such is the price of our choice to travel, our choice to change profoundly, to throw every minute aspect of one's life into question, to continue to question in ways one never would have otherwise.
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Home again. Home also to a comfortable chair in front of this familiar machine, this lantern which with a little coaxing and coercing will continue once again to shine with magical lights, like the phosphorescent seaweeds which gleamed in the moonlight out on the waves we hastened over all the past night of sailing on a small green boat . . . going home.
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