Coming Home with David Whyte
When my mind is weary from
too much thought,
I go out of doors
and fall in love.
Beyond my doorstep
the green grass woos me,
beckons bare feet to
touch the earth
feel the earth,
and if I should lie down
in a meadow
the grasses whisper the same
love songs that the bees
hum and the sparrows chirp,
a song of longing and satisfaction
of heartbreaking beauty,
of the comings and goings of all
living things, of the dance we all
dance, of the joining of hands
and minds and cells,
and the conversation between beats,
the sharing of secrets that, once known,
open eyes long closed.
Not What I Thought
There is your path,
and there is my path,
and everywhere everyone
is walking a path unknown to me,
unknown to you,
paths of light, paths of darkness,
stony, steep paths,
paths that run downhill.
We are not all on the same path.
We are not all the same,
but I can shout out when something
I’ve discovered on my path is
too good not to be shared,
and you can call out from yours
over something too awful to face alone.
And so its seems we walk the same path
because we can hear each other calling.
We walk through the same bands of fog
or sunshine. Nonetheless you are on
your path and I am on mine
and everyone else is making a
solitary trek, and only our voices
are blending and joining,
making it seem like we are all one.