The Return Home (a poem)

I got back from Northern (the North of) Ireland again a few weeks back. When you return home from a meaningful trip, there is always a hangover, a jetlag of the soul.  

Here's a poem I wrote about my trip. It is untitled.

What does it mean to be at Corrymeela?

A world without optimism, but world of possible hope.

I have learned a thousand ways of being, a thousand ways that share the same path.

I could be the lady that knocked on everyone’s door.

I could be the South African working with poor, forgotten children in a township.

I could be the traveling American minister with more questions than answers.

I could be the Afghan who works in an Italian restaurant in Lithuania.

I could be the Kazak student full of the confidence of youth.

But I am not.

I am just me.

I go back home the way I came, 

a little different, much the same.

Reflective and confused, awake but bleary-eyed as ever.

I do what I do because it's the path in front of me.

There’s only one Corrymeela.

There’s only hope.