A Strange Kind of Guarantee

Somehow,
the light is always
just out of reach.

Just beyond
the place
where you stand.

Leaving you with a choice
to surrender,
or walk.

A strange kind of guarantee,
perfect
for the curious, the lost, and the pilgrim.

About this poem.

A poem crafted out of forgetfulness. Last night I read a phrase about searching for ourselves, which this morning I almost completely forgot.

I forgot the phrase, but not the idea it planted in my head. A remembrance of my mother, who often commented that I was always looking ahead, and too often missed the moment, the now. She was mindful before mindful became a buzzword. It took me longer to get there. Today, I live in the moment far more than anywhere else.

But there is a part of me that is, as my regular readers know, slow to process my feelings. I spend a lot of my life trying to catch up, name, claim my emotions, always somehow, slow to find myself. I find myself a pilgrim in search of myself.

The photograph was taken in Venice.

Tom