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no place like home.

you wake up one morning to find yourself alone. there’s an empty table. no chairs. you set the stage, your offerings to the world laid out in careful arrangement. strangers approach and the magic begins. but somehow, the razzle doesn’t dazzle. you can tell they don’t care about your dog or your pony. still, it doesn’t feel good when the audience leaves early, so you learn how to entertain. but the show feels empty; you’ve made your life performance and not a communion. yours were the only gifts on the table. you left no room for others to offer theirs. you went hungry even as you laid out a feast.

you realize you’re done with the table. it’s boring. you can’t shake your grief. your stomach is growling. eyes tired from crying. you’re done making pilgrimage for love. building bridges where the banks won’t hold.

you’re remembering —and recognizing for the first time— that you’re already home. there’s nowhere to be but in the present. in your body. in this day that the Lord has made. nothing to do. nothing to fix. nowhere to go. you don’t have to make it to the end of the day, the end of the week, or the top of the hill. you’ve already arrived.

and when you make it back home, you can finally enjoy your desires again. you don’t need anything from anyone. so your desires become your pets, your earthly delights, anchoring you to the rhythm of daily life. no longer conflating desire with need, your desires are no longer screaming mouths to feed. they become presents under the tree: ready, wrapped and waiting for you to reveal the light.