The Living Centrifuge

Despite knowing all of these things, I still feel wounded and betrayed. Even though I know that I was not coupled with him from 30 August onward. That I mistook a summer fling for something more permanent.

Anyway, I don't feel like this poem yet, but soon, I hope.

The House of Belonging
By David Whyte

I awoke
this morning
in the gold light
turning this way
and that

thinking for
a moment
it was one
day
like any other.

But
the veil had gone
from my
darkened heart
and
I thought

it must have been the quiet
candle light
that filled my room,

it must have been
the first easy rhythm
with which I breathed
myself to sleep,

it must have been
the prayer I said
speaking to the otherness
of the night

And
I thought this is the good day
you could
meet your love,

This is the black day
someone close
to you could die.

This is the day
you realise
how easily the thread
is broken
between this world
and the next

and I found myself
sitting up
in the quiet pathway
of light,

the tawny, close grained cedar
burning round
me like fire
and all the angels of this housely
heaven ascending
through the first
roof of light
the sun has made.

This is the bright home
inwhich I live,
this is where
I ask
my friends
to come,
this is where I want
to love all the things
it has taken me so long
to learn to love.

This is the temple
of my adult aloneness
and I belong
to that aloneness
as I belong to my life.

There is no house
like the house of belonging.