For if dreams die/ Life is a broken-winged bird

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
-Langston Hughes

 Two weeks left to go in Prague and today I am feeling the weight of alone. Yesterday I visited the cafe I went to in November, my last night before going home. I remembered. I remembered the homesickness I felt, the gratitude for the family and life I was returning to- a loving and faithful husband, three wonderful children, a thriving farm and business, a life of plenty and joy. I sat there, in that cafe, overcome with loss. This time: I will go home to three beautiful children, divorce proceedings, and move to a city apartment.

Life will be good. Just different than what I imagined. In the meantime, I am in Prague. A beautiful city, full of art and music. I am studying poetry at Charles University, the historicity of the craft. I am learning to choose my words, braise them, and let them simmer slow before serving. I am eating well.

I am learning to dream new dreams, impossible ones. But this life will have poetry, art, music, and laughter. So much laughter.

I also refuse to continue living in barren fields, frozen with snow. My new found freedom will take me home, to warm and humid swampland of the South. It is in my blood and I need to go home to heal.

That's what I have been homesick for my whole life: this place where my body and my mind feel the comfort of Southern heat. Someone told me last Spring, "You don't get to be warm here." That moment is when I decided to go home. I will never be warm in Iowa. I am tired of compromises.

In the meantime, here is a preview of a study I did here. Loneliness.