On my first trip to Maine I couldn’t account for how familiar it felt – this place – where I had never been registered in my blood like heat. ~Terry Tempest Williams
I know the feeling, the feeling of seeing a place for the first time and knowing by the heat in the blood that I finally found my home. I was mentally aware home was out there, had pictured it in my head hundreds of times. But had never previously set foot on the hallowed soil.
Waking the first morning following a middle of the night arrival in the blackest new moon night reified my imagination into stone, red stones layered in impossible configurations each speaking directly into my soul, whispering in an ancient language as old as Earth herself saying, “Welcome home. We’ve been expecting you.”
The words were a koan, a paradox I am still wrestling in my mind more than thirty years later. How can I be welcomed home to a place on my first arrival twenty-six years into my life? One might as well go back in time to kill their grandparents so they were never born meaning they wouldn’t be alive to kill them.
That first morning I awakened in a natural lavabo, emerged into the womb, experienced ablution cleansing my psyche of layers of misconceptions about my existence, my destinies, a fluvial force scouring the necrosis obscuring my vision until I was able to peer through the patina into my longing soul where I saw the moon and stars gazing up at me from the heavens.
I saw a magpie flying high wings tattooed on the blue sky carrying my anemic sigh until it became a war cry and I saw where my body will ossify and mummify at the final closure of my eye.