Rituals of Return

Too often, I remind myself of Lewis Carroll's breathless White Rabbit who, with an impossibly large pocket watch, runs from one event to the next as he informs everyone of how very important and late he is. The finish line, although worthy, is always distant, and the work of getting there on time is never quite done.

So my life hurtles on until from the shadows along the edges of the hustle and bustle I start to notice a quiet voice that calls me to soothe my blistered soul in a ritual of return.

I never know what will trigger it, but, when it comes, it's call woos me like no other. A Siren's song. Maybe. Slow. Steady.

Obedient, I go. Wiser, I return. Home tastes sweeter. Today seems more dear.

The question, I suppose, is do we really find peace in the past or do we simply shipwreck the spirit against the jagged rocks of personal history?