Home is a god song

There was a childhood where church was quite a thing for me: I was an especially dressed star every Sunday, honed the bible with close peers on weekdays—youth-groupie, sing-songy, retreaty missionary. I took it all in with my wide-eyed spirit and open palms raised to the stain glass sky. Praise father god, lord jesus, mother Mary, dragonfly, hummingbird, butterfly, birdie chirp, mustard seed, Om. I rejoiced. I prayed, and there was still something missing.

I imagine ever-lasting love.

I have been traversing for some time now. Sort of bouncing around unable to get comfortable for more than a few years at best. Both proud and afraid of my lack of claim to a hometown. I’ve forgotten sacral things, left them roadside in the last town. Forgotten I've forgotten. Everything seems fleeting and near death.

Again, I return to Ohio to catch a breath between the last of my east-coast life and all’s-lovely-hope is lying out west, to balance my Web. Rather, I am treading water in The Cove of Lake Erie, kicking back with my belly speaking to the art-scape sky and smiling in and smiling out. Only the hungry hawks swarming can drive me to shore. I do feel like a tender walleye, a Funcoast perch. Vulnerable prey in my joy. Paddling like an eager fetus in a womb. I am sort of home.

The Presbyterian steeple, crown of my baptismal sanctuary, is under repair. The church bells still sing at noon.