All my life I have been living in this world, and only now do I search for a home.  But all celebration is lost in words like “parcel” and “lot” and this makes it hard to find the perfect place when what I want is the valley that reaches up to the mountain that touches the sky that holds the clouds that rain down into the river that nourishes the land I walk on.

All my life I have been living–my hair an extension of the wind, my feet two seeds waiting to be planted, my fingers earthworms digging in the soil–and only now do I post signs that read “looking for land,” though I find land everywhere I go, though I am constantly surrounded by land.

Tax maps and septic plans, listings and for sale signs: pieces of paper with boundary lines and words that do not show the curve of a ridge line or the mix of grasses and legumes in a pasture.  Half of me yearns for that paper titled “Deed”, and half of me laughs, knowing I am home wherever I can run barefoot and free.  And yet, I have had so much time with the wind, and I can hear the land whispering, inviting me to it, and I hear my body asking to be rooted in return.