Sometimes I wake up in the early morning, and I sit out on the front porch, looking down on the fog that slowly ascends up the canyons. I am still far-away in my dream world, trying to make sense of the world I have just awaken to, the "real world." So often this world of ours seems to lack meaning, and I struggle with what to do each day that has meaning.
The quest to "Find Home" seems so universal that my mind dwells on that. "Home" is not a house, but it is the place where your heart resides, where your dreams can be fulfilled, where you can do that which you were destined to do. As I think of these things, I recall a poem I wrote last year. I share it with you now…
In flat grassy lands hot and dry
Where mountains rose steeply to the sky
We walked narrow canyon and watched ravens fly
Along fire-burned willows that would not die.
Past acorn pancakes could smell if you try
And buckwheat mush that mama would fry.
A hot summer day, a distant hawk cries
I’m trying to see what the present denies.
Vibrant little village hundreds years ago
Down by river where the waters did flow
Sheltered by rock from the winter winds blow
Open fields where wild crops did grow
Good clay abounds, lots of ochre yellow
And asphaltum seeps back in the canyon low
Back in the willows could see hidden doe
And grew here all the reeds for crafts and show.
It’s Tataviam summer in this wild grass plain
Where men fasted in the cave out of the rain
And social structure kept you from going insane
While families collected the wild grain
It’s Tataviam summer and I’m looking for home
I’m getting tired of my civilization roam
It’s been a hard millennium away from our loam
It’s time to get back to our Tataviam home.