When I first began writing as a little girl, I guess I was in search of home. “Houses, houses, houses red, in it is a pretty bed,” I wrote for Mr. Iverson’s music class. Chalk in hand after he told me that I could place my poem on the blackboard, I proudly finished my six year old first publication, “Houses, houses, houses green, in it is a pretty scene.”
From then on, I wrote about home. I painted houses. I painted windows. Doors. It occurs to me, in an airplane above France, it’s been a long since I’ve painted any of that. I smile, because, I suppose I found it…I had been carrying it with me all along.
It’s the same with almost everything. We think we will find it out there. So busy trying to discover the place, find the answers, seek the inspiration. Looking for the who, the what will fix it all, save us. There is no there there.
At the moment, shoulder to shoulder, knees against seat, it would be easy to feel trapped. Or I could be a bird. After all, I’m actually flying. Imagine that. No room to paint wings on paper, but my heart is scattering images of everywhere I’ve been. Everywhere I’m going. And I am free. I am home. I have come to fly!