3. This Foreign Place
What are you learning about yourself in this different land, with all its deprivations?
Prompt:
Write a travel journal entry from your home, could be your living room, could be your bed. Write as though you've just arrived in a new place (because, in many ways, you have) and what you're observing about the place and how you feel in it. Write what you see, hear, and touch, as though it's all brand new. What are you learning about yourself in this different land, with all its deprivations? If you'd like to turn this into a visual entry, draw a map complete with notes about this foreign land's customs, rituals, and routines.
Adrianna Whitehouse
Location: Florida
About: I moved back home to FL and I’ve been missing TN like crazy, but this prompt helped me see my bedroom and my home in a new light. It helped me appreciate all the little things and not take the my family and these quiet times for granted.
Age: 21
Alejandra Redondo
Location: Mexico City, Mexico
About: I was inspired by mi living room and the ways it feels different, paying attention to details that tell something about this particular moment, and I think in some way, we all can relate.
Age: 30
Bienvenida (o no tanto) a esta tierra no tan extraña. Pasabas deprisa y te sentabas de vez en cuando, el rincón favorito lo sigue siendo, al lado de las orquídeas, donde entra el sol por la mañana, el lugar ideal para tomar café, para escribir como ahora. Él ya era parte del ritual, no como el tapete, que ahora está incluido en cada rutina de ejercicio mañanera, destinado a amortiguar los golpeteos de los saltos o a recibir el segundo tapete de yoga, que protege de su propio polvo, de la posible mugre de los zapatos. Ahora “tapete” se ha vuelto vital, porque es donde sucede el movimiento que mantiene a flote, donde crear un poco de alegría. Donde mi madre y yo hicimos una rutina de yoga de la cual se quejó. Es el lugar despejado, donde también bailamos al otro día, cada quien a su ritmo, como un desahogo personal, dando saltos que invocaran la alegría.
En la noche cuando reina el silencio, me siento a llorar en el mismo rincón, es el momento de permitirme recordar que en medio de este desorden, lo mío tampoco termina de pasar, que el hueco ahí sigue. Las lágrimas que ruedan al mismo tapete van a parar.
Hay un lugar del sillón que prefiero para sentarme y hacer cuentas, para armar nuevos planes de cómo diversificar, para pensar cómo y de qué seguir trabajando. Es como si tuviera los sillones divididos para la inspiración/rituales y desahogo personal; para planes estructurados que requieren calculadora; para depositar las chamarras que salen a la calle, pero se pueden volver a usar; para sentarme con la ropa no tan limpia, cuando necesito un respiro después de salir a la compra, y a un lado los zapatos esperando el siguiente paseo, como en continua vigilia de unos Reyes que no van a llegar.
Pero la parte favorita, es que por ahí entra el sol y se va percibiendo el cambio del día por la ventana, por la que también entra el aire y el sonido de los pájaros, y los ruidos de otros vecinos que también están en una sala nueva, donde todo es igual, pero diferente. Ahí en la sala, con la ventana donde se cuelan las jacarandas y hay un pequeño contacto con el exterior, ese lugar peligroso que hasta hace unos días era amigo y noble, donde sucedían las cosas que ahora trasladamos acá.
Allison Howells
Location: Austin, Texas
About: I've grown up in Austin, Texas nearly all my life and I'm so glad that I did! A popular saying here is "Keep Austin Weird" and well, we take it pretty seriously. This weird city holds such a special place in my heart, and it felt fitting to write a poem dedicated to the wonderful city that raised me.
Age: 20
Allison Souter
Location: St. Charles, IL
About: I love to travel and know what it is like to explore a new place for the first time. Switching that perspective to my home, a place that is SO familiar, was a whimsical exercise. I found myself looking at these spaces in a way that gave them more color. In that moment, I didn't take them for granted, but enjoyed assigning them characters, like in a story.
Age: 55
Alyssa Swart
About: This is a travel journal entry from my home which describes the space and how I feel in it, as well as a bit of my routine.
Age: 31
I love it here so much. This space enables a way of living that brings me closer to the imagined best version of myself, the aspirational cipher. The “one-day-soon Alyssa” is the “I’ll-do-it-now Alyssa” that does not need the constant cajoling to lumber off the couch. I meditate every day. I am finally the breed of doggy mom I always wanted to be, what she deserves. We are extremely connected at this point; she rises to follow me when I get a drink of water from the kitchen. When I move to the table, she follows and spins in a circle to claim a comfortable, nearby spot. In this bed, she sleeps against the side of my torso or hip, no longer using my ankles as a headrest.
Oh, and these windows! They are large, expansive. Peering out of them feels like you’re swallowing the outside world. At night, I can see clouds passing over the moon. Around 8, if I strategically peek my head outside of the window, I can see the sun set over the Hudson. Views of the river arrive at different angles, yet I have a clear optic path to Lady Liberty, evoking all that she signifies, and all the ideals I strive to internalize and live.
This studio is magnificent. Restorative. The furniture crisply contrasts with a white couch and black shelving, adorned by sea green blankets and sapphire-hued paintings. It requires a thorough cleaning - someone is obviously in the midst of that process, making it warmly lived in. It’s a reminder that its inhabitant is flawed and busy and trying her best, like the rest of us. Despite the occasional flowering of dog fur on the carpet, this apartment is a getaway, just when I needed to get away.
When you leave the apartment, there is a clear view of the Hudson and a walking path right along the river. Many runners and bike riders take advantage of the view as well. Nothing is as soothing as watching the waves wrinkle up and smooth out. Nothing. The path leads to an esplanade and an empty, glass, obscenely high-end shopping mall which now looks more like an art installation. The path continues, narrowing again, and leading to a grassy area; ideal for family picnics or sunbathing.
It is peaceful and quiet, save for the joyful interruption of a child playing soccer outside. It is an oasis from Manhattan within Manhattan.
My days. I sleep very late as it’s quiet, and I’ve always bent towards being a nocturnal creature. I write for forty-five minutes and then get ready for my day. I make a breakfast for royalty – usually eggs and mango, a bowl of yogurt, or eggs with avocado and steamed carrots. And, of course, a giant mug of coffee, so my mind can snap into focus. I watch a little news. Walk Chloe. I try and meditate with flurries of thoughts prodding through my gentle counting, but here, I know it’s all part of the process. I work, grateful for the stimulation and collaboration. At night, I work out, for the mentals. Then, I’ll make a stellar dinner, usually veggie-centric. I either walk or have a dance party, some expression of joy or comfort bursting forth. Then, I walk Chloe and play with her again, and my heart swells.
Nearby restaurants are closed. The neighborhood movie theater is closed. One would think I would need more entertainment, more activity, but that all feels like a distraction now. In fact, I dread the return to “normal;” leaving the cocoon when everything I will ever truly need is surrounding me. I would rather watch Chloe’s tummy move in and out while she sleeps than go to a theatre, but I can never seem to make that considered choice. I am grateful that there is no choice to make. I want to be in this space, this time, indefinitely, when all expectations beyond survival have diminished. When we are allowed and encouraged to take care of ourselves. When we can actually feel the friction of being alive.
I belong here, inside the undimmed intensity of this city, amongst its frantic yet empathetic inhabitants, pacing amongst the belongings that indicate a past, sidling up to the sunlight on the narrow ledge, rocking in a chair that cradles me as I furrowedly read. In these confines, I feel free.
Ann Kim
Location: San Francisco, CA
About: I am a debut author. The inspiration for these journal entries was the loneliness of life and the small comforts of home.
Age: 55
Welcome to the Hotel San Francisco
Dear Diary,
Well, it’s my third week at the Hotel San Francisco, and it’s everything I hoped it would be. The bed is dreamy soft, pure white sheets and fluffy down comforter. The bath has all my favorite products: spicy ginger-scented shampoo, that yummy banana conditioner that leaves my hair so soft and shiny, even the artisanal small-batch perfume I picked up that one time at the Paris airport. Can you believe it? I mean, what are the chances?
Every morning, I’m treated to chai tea and the most amazing chef-curated breakfasts. The first day, it was made-to-order omelets. The second, cinnamon-spice coffeecake. It’s a different taste sensation every day. I don’t mind that I need to cook it myself. It’s like that time we went to Tuscany and learned to make our own pasta from that feisty old nonna. It’s part of the whole “San Francisco foodie” scene, am I right?
Did I mention that this place is super-exclusive? In my time here, I’ve run into only one other guest: a reclusive twenty-something who comes out of his bedroom around noon and grabs a bit of whatever I cooked that morning. I think he might be an indie rocker or reality star or something. He claims to be “a college student trying to avoid his crazy-ass mother,” but I’m not fooled for one minute. Paparazzi alert! Us Weekly, you’re welcome.
But I’ve saved the best for last. There’s this guy – the innkeeper and handyman and custodial staff and dishwasher all rolled into one – who I keep running into all the time. He’s got that “cranky but sweet and borderline pathological” quality to him, tall and lanky, short salt and pepper hair. Very Hugh Laurie as House (the early seasons). Whenever I leave my mug on the hardwood coffee table, or forget to check the toaster when it’s burning, or leave my underthings scattered on the floor (oops!), he’s always around, picking up after me. There’s a frisson that can’t be denied.
Some Yelpers have been scathing in their reviews of the Hotel San Francisco. They say the place is past its prime. The food is mediocre. The innkeeper is a jerk. I don’t know what they’re talking about. To me, the Hotel San Francisco is pure bliss.
Five stars.
Anonymous
I usually live on a shelf near the front door with two other masks. It is April 2020 - a strange, sad time for the whole world because the Corona Covid-19 virus is on the attack. Thousands are dying daily.
Because this virus spreads quickly through mucous membranes - nose, mouth and eyes - many people are wearing face masks when they venture out of isolation.
Today my owner has chosen to wear me. I am white and quite sturdy. I fit snugly over her nose, mouth and chin.
So off we go to the post office where my owner plans to pay for postage to send Easter eggs to family members. She goes up to the counter where a lady starts weighing the separate bags and totalling the cost.
I become aware that my owner is alerted by the sound of the voice of a man who is being served at the adjacent counter. She turns away from this man. Does she recognise him, I wonder, and not want him to see her?
The man finishes his business and leaves the post office without noticing my owner. I feel her breathing slow. There is relief.
When home I am taken off and put back on the shelf. Later I hear my owner laughingly tell a friend by phone that the mask (ME!!!) had saved her from having to speak to a former lover.
Back on the shelf with my friends, a pretty yellow and green floral mask and a lovely blue one, I felt rather proud that I had been doubly useful. Not only had I helped to protect my owner from germs, I had also assisted her by providing a barrier from being recognised by someone she did not wish to converse with.
My two mask friends snapped their elastics in applause. It had been a good day.
Anonymous
Elizabeth Moore
Location: Upper West Side of Manhattan
Age: 27
We sit inside the warm, dry walls of our hexagon-shaped living room, contained by a thunderstorm and a deadly virus.
I’ve cocooned my entire body in a light brown fleece blanket. My hands clutch tightly to the corners beneath my chin, and my toes, chilly from the cold spring day, peek out from beneath this makeshift cloak. Although spring is upon us, it’s a 45 degree day and our radiator heats only one fifth of the living room. I breathe in the stale scent of muffins that my roommate Allison baked this morning, the tang of Greek yogurt from the empty container next to my computer, and the hot richness of my afternoon coffee
The living room of my Upper West Side apartment is completely silent save the gentle tapping of my keyboard, the soft whir of the radiator, and the steady rain pelting outside. The only other inhabitants of this tiny enclosure are my two roommates, watching shows on their laptops with earbuds in. Though we can’t go to coffee shops or libraries, we’re solitary in each other’s presence. It’s less lonely that way.
My other roommate Adyson and I sit on the south end of the living room, perched at our skinny side table--a tall, rickety piece of dark-wood furniture that functions as our kitchen table, our coffee table, our desk, our counter space, and our mail drop. Like the rest of our apartment, space on this table is limited. A cluster of dried lavender and eucalyptus sit in a vase between our computers. I try, unsuccessfully, to find a spot for my coffee mug among our candlesticks, the plate of muffins, and the huge apple-scented candle that takes up every inch of remaining table space.
Stretching across the middle of the room is our gray Ikea sectional. Allison is sprawled onto the chaise watching a Netflix show on her laptop as she sews a pocket onto a pair of Adyson’s shorts. We’ve become a pioneer family, filling our days with baking (Allison), reading, coloring (me), sewing (Allison), going to “town” for “provisions” (trekking to Trader Joe’s to wait in line for groceries), and organizing our rooms and kitchen.
On the east wall, behind the couch, is the piano that Allison and I purchased together a few months ago. Occasionally, one of us will play Debussy or “Dawn” from Pride and Prejudice or a song we’ve invented ourselves. A tall lamp shines in the corner next to the instrument and an iron mail organizer hangs on the wall where we keep our sheet music.
To the left of the piano, directly above Allison, the north wall contains two floating shelves that Allison found on the side of the road. They’re littered with plants and gold candle stands and books and a letter board that says “Will You Be My Quaran-tine?” I can’t help but think this wall exudes sentiments of, “I don’t know wtf is going on but I insist on looking elegant until someone figures it out.”
Next to these shelves, in the northwest corner of the room, is our blue wingback armchair with the crooked leg. This chair is home to at least three blankets at all times and sits directly in front of the radiator—the ideal destination for maximum coziness. Behind the chair is our only window, draped with sheer white curtains and providing views of brick walls, pigeons, a metal AC unit, and our loud female neighbors who screech Beyonce-themed karaoke at least once a week. A sea of cables, chargers, power strips, and pillows surrounds the chair on all sides, and directly above the chair floats a lamp with a knotted, macrame shade handmade by the ever-crafty Allison. This lamp anchors the entire room, giving off a soft light that somehow makes me emotional. A beacon of safety and stillness amidst the churning waters of fear and uncertainty.
Above it all is our sheetrock ceiling with the dinosaur-shaped water stain—remnants of the disastrous plumbing leak from the tenants above us.
Underneath it all is our wooden floor that scuffs and creaks with history. It’s home to a gray and white shag rug, our shoes that we kick off every time we come in the door, piles of clothing donations stuffed into Trader Joe’s bags, stray slippers, phone chargers, and the napkin I meant to pick up last night.
But what makes this tiny space a home is us—the inhabitants—travelers stuck at an extended rest stop, waiting until it’s safe to move on. So we wait. We sew. We read. We tell stories. We cook slowly. We climb onto the fire escape. We hunker our mole-selves down into hibernation, making a long-term nest. Even though we won’t be here forever, it sure feels like it.
A month ago, we were roommates: three individuals leading individual existences, coming and going without much thought for the other lives that intersected in this space. But now we are a household—a makeshift family. We live collectively, sharing time, space, plans, wine, and banana bread.
This living room, which was previously a busy crossroads for three independent New Yorkers, is now our only destination. And maybe that’s all homes are. Spaces where we can let down our anchors and collectively return to the center. Places that remain until it’s time to move on. So this living room on the Upper West Side is home for now, just like all the homes that came before it—a spare room on the Upper East Side, a dorm room at Oxford University, a garage apartment in Texas, a garden house in Mississippi, a lime green bedroom in Louisiana—temporary dwellings for expiring bodies and everlasting spirits to make their nest until it’s time to go to home forever.
Eryn Ricker
Location: Defiance, MO
About: After my return from France, I was sentenced to 14 days in isolation. This is my story.
Age: 39
I woke to the sound of the night guards being ushered from the cell. The warden comes in with my breakfast. He places it on the nightstand next to his side of the bed that we use to share. "How are you feeling?" he asks while slowly backing toward the door. "Better." I reply as he closes it behind him.
Four days ago I was placed in solitary confinement. My fever spiked in the middle of the night and the warden sought refuge in another part of the compound. He still has three other inmates to tend too. They are not to be trusted alone.
As I eat my breakfast I stare around the cell and wonder what I will do with my last day in confinement. I am looking forward to spending time with the other inmates; even the warden. I know that they have missed me. Each visiting my window several times a day to keep me apprised of the compound gossip. I am the only female inmate which is challenging at times but also ensures that I am in constant need. I honestly enjoy this for the most part.
The warden has assumed my daily chores and is executing them without complaint. The inmates have begun online training that will be put to use when their 18 year sentence has been served. My days have been filled with naps and reading. Eating carbs and drinking electrolytes. At first this felt like a respite but I quickly become bored.
Solitary confinement is not for the faint of heart, especially for an extrovert. Our warden is lax about cellphone usage so I am able to FaceTime the other inmates and text friends. Catch up on emails and scroll social media. But there are long hours within the day that drag and if you let them, they can pull you under. The urge for connection can be strong. I remind myself that it's only one more day as I drift off into another slumber.
Once again I wake to the sound of the night guards. They are reporting to their final day of duty. The warden follows behind placing my dinner on his former nightstand. He kisses my forehead and smiles as there is still no sign of fever. "See you soon" he says, while closing the door for the last time. The older night guard comes over to the bed nudging my leg with his cold nose. He is exhausted from his day of scaring off would be intruders with his bark. I scratch behind his ears and tell him to lay down.
I finish my dinner and dress for bed. As I turn off the light I text the other inmates, "See you on the other side. Love you, Mom"
Heather Viviano
Location: Seattle, WA
About: A travel journal entry based on the prompt. The daffodils on my duvet inspired me to travel back to happy times at my childhood home, where we had daffodils in our backyard. I compared those happy times to the early, scary days when COVID-19 cases were first on the rise.
Age: 51
I woke up in a field of daffodils, but the daffodils are different here. The field feels like a flat sheet of cotton and there is no fragrance.
At least that's what I thought at first--that is until I discovered this place is magical. It took me awhile to figure it out, but now I've got the hang of it and I really like this place! If I stare at the flowers long enough, everything becomes 3 dimensional and I can transport myself to daffodils from another place and time.
This morning I visited daffodils from the 1970's on Bloomington Street. Bumblebees happily bounced and buzzed from those cheery flowers to the nearby bluebells, getting their fill of nectar.
And WOW!! I was spritely and young and got to sit side by side in the fresh cut grass with my friend, our feet bare, toes wriggling between the blades. And what fun--we could share a bag of M&M's, sticky handfuls, colors melting onto our fingers, and we didn't have a care. No one gets sick here! The tangy sweet fragrance of the flowers filled our olfactory senses and made us think of newness and possibility and life.
I wanted to stay lying down in my magical field of daffodils all day long. I didn't want to venture out to that other foreign land--the scary one. But I had an appointment to keep, a grown-up one. I don't like that place where big new white tents have been set up to accommodate all of the patients. I don't like that place where ambulances come and go with greater frequency. That place where you can't touch. That place where you wear a mask, wear gloves, feel frightened. No, I don't like that place at all. That place where you can't share a sticky bag of M&M's or wriggle your toes side by side. That place is just no fun.
I want to go back to my magical field of daffodils. I wonder where they will take me tomorrow.
Jenna Valente
Location: Somerville, Massachusetts
About: This is a poem I wrote on day 23 of lockdown. My partner and I do our best to write a poem every day (we actually now have two printed books out of the creative exercise!). This is a snapshot of my experience that I wrote while watching a storm from his living room window.
Age: 30
this is not my home,
yet, here I sit,
in a multipurpose room
in a multi-family home
on a cot titled ‘Day Bed’
next to its overstuffed grandfather,
looking green with envy.
weathering Mother’s tantrum,
a storm of sobbing bellows,
tearing the budding blossoms
off of the latent trees.
strange times are these
in the concrete jungle,
the sickened city.
perched on the sill,
like a house cat, kidnapped,
wondering what comes next
after this scene, quarantine.
Katie Wesolek
Location: Nashville, TN
About: I was inspired to write this story after reading the prompt in bed, where I had woken up to my cat pawing at the sheets and complaining about her lack of breakfast. It was clear that she was the cruise director on this quarantine journey that no one asked for.
Age: 25
We've traveled all night on Memory Foam Airlines, a budget carrier with no cabin service. To their credit, there is plenty of leg room, and the pilot was kind enough to let us sleep, saving the announcements for our sunrise landing.
As soon as we deplaned, our luggage was transferred and we boarded a shuttle to the cruise ship. The ship captain greeted us as we boarded, and it struck us as an odd coincidence that the captain looked identical to the pilot.
We were shuffled into the ship's dining hall, which is also the ship's kitchen, and also the grand ballroom. There, the cruise director laid out our itinerary. This is where it starts to get weird, because I swear the cruise director, the captain, and the pilot are one and the same.
Should I have bought trip insurance for this? I never buy the trip insurance. I mean, what's the worst that could happen, right? But this trip itinerary doesn't even have an end date. The travel agent, who...oh...my god, was also the pilot, the captain, and the cruise director...was really vague about the timeline, among other things. First we'd be back by mid-April, then April 30th, and now it's just we'll see.
When I asked about packing, the travel agent was no help at all. What do I bring, I asked. I've never been on an intra-apartmental cruise of indeterminate length before! She handed me a sheaf of printed-out news articles from dubious websites that listed items like dried beans, rubbing alcohol, and toilet paper.
I have to bring my own toilet paper? What about the amenities? The excursions? You're making this sound more like an underground bunker than the trip of a lifetime!
The travel agent/cruise director/ship captain/pilot just yawned, licked her paws, and was suddenly very interested in batting a pipe-cleaner mouse across the floor.
Nivita Arora
Location: India
About: I love pausing in time for a moment to take stock of my surroundings - and this journal prompt was a perfect incentive to do so. It's almost a meditative experience, to sink into the present moment so deeply, and observe and absorb the things unnoticed. I find that I end up learning just as much about myself, too!
Age: 23
a modest ceiling fan, chasing itself to nowhere
today’s unread newspaper, waiting patiently for its next helpless victim
lights off, allowing, welcoming the outside in
the room listens carefully
pregnant with secret wisdom
a million stories woven into one
past, yet ever present
to think that even this loved and ever-loving home
is just another hotel room
brings me a bit more sadness than i care to admit
i think the pillows feel sad too
even the ceramic snail sleeping on the table
knows
that these spotless floors can purify the most soiled mind
and the couch untouched since its master left it behind
left us behind
with a garden his wife cares for the way she loved him
and, like the magician that she is,
she now appears before me, as if summoned,
from heaven itself.
Samantha Updegrave
Location: Berkeley, California
About: I'm a non-fiction writer with a day job as an urban planner and the all-the-time work of parenting. I love drawing even though I'm not good at it. I love Lynda Barry's advice about making a frame so it creates a "live area" and a "place where something can happen." Day three was my 3rd week of working from the one-bedroom home my son & I were living in at the time, and the frame seemed fit for a map.
Age: 42
Sarah Davidson
Location: Arlington, VA
About: In the spring of 2020, I was an idealistic first year preschool teacher, entirely in love with my profession, school, and class of curious minds. COVID-19 closed school districts across the country, and I was struggling to bring the magic of the classroom to the cold, seemingly inaccessible digital space. This journal entry is an amalgamation of heartbreak, loss, persistence, and hope in the face of a new world of education.
Age: 24
This foreign place is strange to me
Blurry pictures on a too-bright screen
Garbled voices in my ears
Carried over low-speed Wifi and telephone lines
“A new normal”
Books, dice, tiny toys and number lines
Packed with gloved hands into old boxes and shopping bags
Moving quickly, minutes to spare
Now sit
Piled in a corner next to a desk
Where I, too, sit
All day
In one spot.
Staring, listening, waiting.
Gathering dust.
Casting blind fishing lines
Hoping to connect
To the little faces and voices on the other end
Our home was different
Vibrant, chaotic, colorful, loud, crowded
Well-loved books sit on their low shelf, face out
An invitation for tiny hands to grab ahold of new worlds;
Words, pictures, connections.
Burning questions pulling at pages and ripping at seams,
Then lovingly mended with Scotch tape.
Toys in clear boxes sit waiting
Carefully labelled with pictures and words
Growing minds and hands find power in knowing
Match
Sort
Play
Create
Constant. Consistent. Theirs.
Tiny hands grab for my own
(or my arm or leg or face)
Eyes search,
Arms reach out,
Legs come running.
Minds ask questions
Make comments.
Observe.
Ask to understand, to be understood.
With or without words
In the universal language of our home.
Questions are constant.
Laughter spreads like wildfire.
Music rings
(we sing off key, with loud voices and silly dance moves)
Sprinkled with giggles exchanged between friends
Made up words and silly faces
Loud, quiet, just right for us.
Emotions feel big in small bodies
But are safe to feel in our home
We can find them, name them, tell them apart
The monster isn’t as scary when you see it’s face.
Angry and sad can happen at the same time.
Disappointment and frustration
Are hard to say
but easy to feel.
And happiness can be found again,
It just might take some time and a little help.
Pictures tell us what comes next
Low to the ground, easy to see
Predictable, safe consistent
We know what will happen first, then, after.
There is safety in routine,
in trust,
in knowledge.
This place has no routine.
No pictures to tell us what comes next.
The monster has a name, but we can’t see it’s face.
And we feel every emotion at the same time.
Knowing so little, we wonder and we worry.
Searching through uncertain terrain
No map to be found.
Looking
Listening
Reaching out
To the giant hearts and curious minds
That make our family strong
In the fog I cast lines
And wait
As long as it takes
For the tug that tells me they are here.
These waters are murky
The fog is thick
This place is unknown
But we keep casting lines
And tugging back
And hoping
To go home soon.
