‘The back-eddies of the flowing river reflected our tears, the drooping willows – on which we hung our harps – matched our spirits,’ describes the Israeli captives in Babylon of ancient history as they thought of home.
Home.
The astronauts of Gemini 7, in December of 1965, as they returned from then the longest flight in the U.S. space program, requested NASA Mission Control to play “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”
Home.
There’s a place, I’m told, in the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Appalachians where rivers of water flow, seen from the peaks as ribbons of shining silver turning to gold in the setting sun.
No wonder this area is called by romantics the “Beautiful Daughter of the Stars.”
For those born there you’ll hear them say that it is the only place on earth that feels like home.
Home.
Across the continent, in the Olympic Mountains, there is a place called “Home, Sweet Home.”
It is a pristine tiny high-mountain plateau where long-bladed grass bends beneath the weight of early morning dew, and a laughing, chortling, bubbling stream flows by your tent as the sun peeks over the snow capped mountain soaring above.
No wonder it’s called “Home, Sweet Home.”
Wherever we were born in this wide world, on top of whatever mountain we stand, wherever we travel in time or space, home is where we long to be.
And from coast to coast, adventurers to “purple mountain majesties” likewise stand atop their respective vistas and gaze into the far distance, silent, in love, and in wonder.
David, Thanks.
You take us folding back, through pages of memory reimagined, where senses summon inner heart to outer world, returning always to beginnings, seeking.