29 October: during Saturday Morning Prayer

Consejero cuidador,

Acaba de decir el Nicolás a ti que la comunidad se termina como lugar de libertad.

Place of freedom? Freedom.

And in that I recognized what Boston was: freedom. And quite possibly why I’ve been missing it this week.

Freedom. Boston was freedom. Symbolically, the six and a half hours literally flew me from my grounded, entrenched world of, well, not-freedom. And I saw also that sad, wrought flight back–the homing pigeon come back to cage. Come back because it’s what I know.

Is it not the extreme point of tragedy that the place where I have community–where I have life and place and niche and recognition–almost seems to reach chains up to tether that homecoming bird?

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About xkawai

I write to find out what I'm thinking.
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