‘I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day, with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.’ -John Masefield
We’ve all been ocean spray at one time or another, leaving our homes to seek the unknown. Sometimes we simply drift away. Or we leave amid raging storms. Maybe we’re flung into the air from the tips of cresting waves, a normal separation, but separation nonetheless. Sometimes we’re trapped behind barriers so tall or rocky, we wonder if we’ll ever return.
I left my childhood home many years ago. Since then, I’ve drifted over mountains and across plains. I’ve nurtured gardens and sculpted streams. Storms have swept me to strange places I never expected to see. I’ve rained on deserts, snowed on ice fields, then returned to the clouds to try it all again.
But eventually, like water running to the sea, I find myself headed home.
When water rejoins the ocean, it grows in strength. A single drop can shoulder only a speck of soil, but the ocean carves continents. It’s always moving, even in moments of calm. Sometimes it swirls into squalls or tempests. Either way, it’s cleansing, changing.
A visit home is a time to gain perspective, a time to assess where we’ve been and where we are headed. Ideally, it’s a time of communion and peace, when we renew relationship and restore strength.
Most people have somewhere they consider home, somewhere that calls to them, no matter how far they drift away, somewhere they can rediscover themselves. What does home mean for you? When was the last time you were there?
