August 30th 2019

DSC01948Hello fellow travelers. I’m sitting at the Berlin Airport as I write this. I’ll probably be boarding the plane soon. And so will be writing this post in various parts of the globe. I took photos while riding in the back of the taxi. My sorrow at my daughter’s absence returned while leaving Berlin. It’s a strange thing to have cared for a someone for so long, to have held them newly born in your arms, to have read them stories night after night, to have scared the monsters away, to have played with them and laughed with them, only to see them go off  one day—and have no voice to look after.

DSC01936

And that gets me thinking about home again. I’m sorry to go and sorry to come home.

DSC01939

And now I’ve arrived at the Dublin airport. I’d like to try again to formulate my thoughts on what home means to me, but with so little time , I struggle. Robert Frost said that home is where they have to let you in.

DSC01938Maybe it’s also possible that home is where they have to let you go.

And home is where you have to be willing to let go.

midnight
    in a little courtyard—the cricket's worldly
        song

242: August 30th 2019 | bottlecap

 

4 responses

    • Surrounded by many buildings in Berlin (you can see it on Google Earth) are courtyards often filled with trees, a garden, and quiet spaces. That was the case as concerns the flat where I was staying. I kept hearing something that sounded like a cricket from the little forest island of the courtyard. I hoped the haiku would feel cheerful. As for my melancholy, It’s hard to get to the bottom of that in a series of posts written during traveling; but maybe I’ve touched on some of the reasons. I’m truly hoping my novel opens new avenues for me.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. One of my best friends has two daughters and when I asked him to describe the process of raising them he said “humbling.” As poetry goes I think this is that sentiment in verse. It’s from A.R. Ammons.

    . . . we tie into the
    lives of those we love and our lives, then, go

    as theirs go; their pain we can’t shake off;
    their choices, often harming to themselves,

    pour through our agitated sleep, swirl up as
    no-nos in our dreams; we rise several times

    in a night to walk about; we rise in the morning
    to a crusty world headed nowhere, doorless:

    our chests burn with anxiety and a river of
    anguish defines rapids and straits in the pit of

    our stomachs: how can we intercede and not
    interfere: how can our love move more surroundingly,

    convincingly than our premonitory advice

    Like

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