I have said that a man without a home is a man to whom everywhere is home. After peace and personhood, that has become true of me. But before I was whole, the opposite was true. I was a man who felt home nowhere. And as I began surrounding myself with vagabonds, we developed our own vocabulary. In the wind, turning over leaves, chasing the sunrise...these all became phrases that carried very specific meanings. But the phrase that I always liked the most was "getting underground."
Underground was a place you could feel safe. A place on the long road that welcomed ragamuffins. It was a place you could hang up your coat let down your guard. For a long time, getting underground was the closest thing to home we ever had.
After being on the road for over 30 hours, we are finally underground. We stepped out of a small local airport to find none other than David Livingstone waiting for us. What followed was hugging, laughing, balloon popping, overfeeding, joy. It is good to be here. In this land where heat and bustle reign, I am a rest.
Tomorrow the run begins. For now, it is time to just be with the family.
"Time is meant to waste, with good old friends, walking hand in hand." -The Normals