My Horizon

I feel grounded, at home again. Interesting how one’s physical space can sometimes speak to the architectural design of one’s life. It was a clean, functional space, but transitional. It never felt like a home. Just somewhere to hang my coat. But this?! This is not a space, it is a place, my place, our place. Already transformative in diagnostic form, its brief life is already constitutive of battles won, and a warm, endearing heart of restitution, and hope for tomorrows to come, and with anticipatory valour pre-emptively celebratory. A horizon vastly open is charming in its beauty and flattering in its almost childish faith. Not the angst-ridden, overwhelming variety of which Nietzsche speaks when he says: “At long last the horizon appears free to us again, even if it should not be bright; at long last our ships may venture out again, venture out to face any danger; all the daring of the lover of knowledge permitted again; the sea, OUR sea, lies open again, perhaps there has never yet been such an open sea.” No. For it is not in the groundlessness experienced as that unfreedom in open possibility that I find myself. Home is grounding. But not grave-like. Roots. Roots that grow and spread through the lands, simultaneously sprouting life above ground, moving as she does towards the warmth of the bright shining light of the sun. It is all I could have ever hoped for.