Where am I - really?
Two weeks ago right now, at 3:05 pm, we were at the Atlanta airport awaiting our flight to Managua.
One week ago right now, at 3:05 pm, we were at the Atlanta airport awaiting our flight back to Charlotte.
My spirit, my soul, lingers somewhere between here and there.
On a runway. In a pueblo. At an airport Starbucks stand.
Crammed in my seat with all my books and pens, my journal and my camera.
Standing in a open field. Or sitting next to a rock-strewn playground.
Following an endless stream of children to a church - where we would distribute 120 meal packs in a community of more than 150 families, my sorrowful tears for our inadequacy already beginning to flow.
Last March, I found THE poem that would address the way I feel now.
Thank you, Nikki Hardin, publisher of Skirt magazine.
flying home, starting over,
having soul lag, waiting for it
to catch up with my body, the
dislocation of being Here, There
Somewhere Nowhere, of being
between heaven and earth, of
flying and landing and waiting
and taking off and going in
circles, when every new wait-
ing room is filled with middle
of the night regrets and yester-
day's news and strangers and
you're a stranger too, flying
so far you break the barrier of
your own fear, flying so high
no one can reach you, flying
home and learning to kiss the
ground I step on every day.