My desire to get home walks through my every intention, from the character’s I try to become to the little pictures I want to make…it’s all in order to go home. It isn’t the same as mama’s desire who we would hear crying in her sleep asking god to take her home. Mine isn’t out of despair like hers, but like hers it is desperate. It’s desperate for you to get me and go home. I want you to get it, to get me, to get the symbols coming out of my mouth, and calling up your history. Somewhere between my meaning and your experience, somewhere, if we’re lucky, we’re understood and that understanding takes us home. “To understand is to forgive.”
Why do I long to get home…Maybe it’s because home is the only place I know where our shame of being in need and our secrets of being in sin are forgiven. The traits that make us appear evil are redressed when we go home and that is why I am traveling (to you). It’s the same reason I am always in transit, seeking my final destination, moving like a gypsy through introductions and ruptures; greeting people and letting them walk away from me, desiring to find my bed to rest awhile, but being sent out. It breaks my heart every time I walk away and every time I have to watch them walk away from me, because I want to stay, like this, forever, even though I am grown enough to know that all things change. I know too that my definition of home may have to change as the home I seek may not be the same as it is for others. Even though I long for a final stop, what if there is no singular home or final destination for me? I might never reach the doorway, you might never get me, I may always be too much, too intense, too different and maybe that’s okay, maybe that is home—this making contact and waving goodbye.
Although it feels like it’s too much at times, somehow it’s all too bearable. Although it’s too much at times, it’s the only place I want to be. “I want to live here, right here, sir.” I don’t want to be anywhere else even though I hear you telling me the property is too steep and that I should find a lower ground, an easier access place, a little less high on cracks. I hear you but it’s not even a choice anymore. This is the only way I know how to be. It’s the only place which I want to live and believe me when I say with my whole heart that I wish i/t wasn’t ‘too much’ because I would be home by now. We touch doorknobs, we knock on walls, smiling as we pass each other, and sometimes holding on for minutes…that make me dream.
I’m a dreamer and I guess this is what dreamers do. We dream, we see visions, we see into the future, we see possibilities; we see other ways of being and desire to bring them in to being. They aren’t law but maybe just a little more profound since they don’t carry any claim, just mirroring many. We see the way things could be, what they are, what they are not, and all of it makes us believe.
Broken hearts, closed doors, endings, can only expand the world to dreamers like me. It makes the whole world unknown again, alone again. No other choice but to search for home and no telling now where that might be. You turn around and see the whole world fill up with a thousand possibilities. You look straight ahead with your eyes open in your bed, unseeing, laying on the one you love, as the whole world of your little room fades away. You scan the horizon like two arms fanning out from where you lay. No reference point, no dream to work from is making everything open. I pray that when the time comes to make the decisions in my life that I do so with a broken heart. My heart should be broken, so that it can see. This is the only way a dreamer can see, everything. Anything is now possible.
When I reach home I’ll tell you, although I am beginning to believe that I find it all the time in this marriage of greetings and goodbyes where we try to make sense, be understood, and loved, to be gotten and taken home.
My home comes and vanishes, giving me a piece of what it is to be understood. A moment where when we try to forgive, and where we try to write a story, and where we try to make love, we come home. It’s where I live in an extreme, always too much and so intense, wanting to make you see me, wanting desperately to see you, wanting to take you inside, wanting to take you to heart, wanting to take you home, making me surrender myself, making me love you, making me always try again. Home…where you may not always understand me, you may not always get me, but yet you take me all the same.