The Garden, the Road, the Verb

The Garden, the Road, the Verb

I was born with wheels in my blood,

a caravan dream stitched into my marrow

to roam, to wander,

to hitch my heart to open roads

and let horizons be my address.

Yet I am also the one who longs

for soil beneath my fingernails,

a garden to tend,

a homestead to name as mine.

I am the paradox of restless roots—

both pilgrim and planter,

both city-breath and country-heart.

Without a partner,

the world is an endless map of streams—

each glittering, each calling,

none chosen, all uncertain.

Like Goldilocks, I wander

through porridge and beds and chairs,

testing, tasting,

refusing to swallow “almost right.”

For what is life

if not the courage to admit

“this does not fit”?

Stagnation is the true danger.

The rinse and repeat,

the cookie-cutter days,

the wearing down of spirit

until even my own perspective

becomes heavy with dust.

Routine beats me down,

but change—

change is breath,

change is unfolding,

change is the verb of life.

With another beside me,

every trail becomes infinite,

every meal a liturgy,

every ordinary moment

a widening of the garden.

Perspective multiplies,

and the smallest rituals

grow into vast landscapes.

For fifteen years,

I lived inside that unfolding,

and even then,

I still longed for new soil

to plant our roots together.

Now I see it:

home is not a noun.

Not four walls,

not one address.

Home is the act of tending,

the choosing of growth,

the verb of expansion.

It is movement,

it is love,

it is the garden of the self

forever opening—

whether on highways

or in kitchens,

in new cities

or quiet cabins,

alone or in the arms of another.

I will never settle

for what is too hot or too cold,

too small or too shallow.

I will wander, I will tend,

I will keep seeking

the stream that feels like home.

And when I find it,

I will name it not a place,

but a practice—

the sacred verb of becoming.

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