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Wandering from pillar to post, seeking searching, finding and loving, only to leave because there is something not fulfilled and satisfied.
Like in a desert occasionally finding an oasis to quench the thirst and a relief to find it wasn't a mirage, then again hydrated, rested, full of sweet dates, energized and thoughts of growing roots here, and then this urge----there is something else.
Returning to the city and finding a person to love and be loved, just as with the oasis this is an oasis to fill an aching heart.
Why is this so? Finding on rare occasions a love that is not in form, but in heart, deep within the soul and yet it leaves silently like a lover walking out the door. Then this feeling of the living desert, where has that love gone, how does one know where it is and how to get to it, so one can hold it tightly to one's breast?
Yet knowing it is always there is a cold comfort even if not experiencing it, and knowing like the wandering hobo that at one person's home you have your sleeping bag stashed away in some corner and that person 's heart hoping that you'll stay.
Wandering, experiencing, restless there is a tearing, torn rent feeling, an uncomfortable cleansing fire, an emotional cleansing, for the desert is a refining purifying process and until one gives up completely and unconditionally surrenders, a capitulation without conditions that this Grace, the Mystery Of Life claims one for itself and one can roll out the sleeping bag and know that the roots of Love are here and one need not wander anymore.
SHACK
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