My past is like foreign countries
In the cartography of my mind
Each visited and explored
alone in some group tour.
There are no stamps
in my passport,
no visas, no signs
of entry or departure,
but my past is full
of stays in those distant places
remembered incompletely well.
I spent time in them
as a child, slowly rushing;
through the joy of discovery;
In the turmoil of adolescence
grasping for independence;
and with purpose and conviction as a young man.
And though those journeys
are increasingly remote,
and beyond imagination
I am certain I was there,
even in the absence of proof.
The experience of those travels
serve as the foundation and,
faintly a light, for my path
as I venture toward
a somehow familiar
yet very foreign land.
Looking backward into the mirror
to see what lies ahead
I confess to colouring those memories –
snatches of film, fading photographs –
from a palette that matches my mood,
shading them to fit my fears,
sometimes my dreams.
What have I learned,
have I learned?,
from those years in now foreign lands.
Will those lessons prepare me for
where I wake tomorrow
or leave me fearful to open my eyes.
Trust and anticipation,
helplessness and fear.
What has stayed true?
What has remained constant?
The hope of arriving home.
The need to love and find love.
The sure knowledge
that peace will come
at journey’s end.
The choice of joy
at finding light.