I Have an Ache

I have an ache that Advil can’t help.

This pain doesn’t reside in a muscle;

It sits in the background of my soul.

Some days it’s pronounced,

While others it’s barely noticeable.

Some days it’s a friend, many days it’s a troll.

I have an ache that substances can’t numb,

Though the temptation lurks.

It’s an ache you can’t escape or outrun.

Even retreats and vacations intersect twice-fold:

One, as a small experience of what will one day be relief.

Two, an agitator that makes the ache grow as you rest.

I have an ache that a move won’t fix;

Geography, Relationships and Careers are no match.

They can only be lamps, drawing attention to the pain. 

It’s a rare pain in that it both hurts and draws you closer; 

Knowing, somehow, the closer you get to seeing it, 

The more strength you find to strain. 

I have an ache that, though deeply personal, is also, I’m finding, quite universal.

In every cry for justice, in every desire for a father’s affirmation, in every longing

for a space to be seen and heard, known and loved.

For every person wanting to be skilled, productive, helpful–to be able to work hard

and play hard with no threat.

For every canyon that makes you feel small and every hug that makes you feel big.

For every colorburst assault on your senses strolling in a garden.

For every scrunched face when the music hits just right.

For every time you push back from the table, sated after a good meal with good friends.

In every desire for every sad thing to come untrue and every good thing to be shared and multiplied with all who would welcome it. 

It’s the ache of the soul, longing

for home.