A Writer's Words

Part 2: Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost

I once met a wanderer. In our village, one who is a wanderer is often lost. Cowering in caves, searching for shelter under a roof that belongs to one who does not know them. Longing for a fresh start in life.

Mostly, these are souls who are weighed down with secrets. Lies and stories untold that weigh their tongue too heavy to speak, which chain their lungs so hard they long for the times when they could breathe freely.

I twice met a wanderer. The second the same as the first. He begged for food at the stone steps that led up to my house. I, in turn, begged my mother, have mercy. 

For I understood what it feels to be left stranded and alone, without hope and with bruises of pain and grief. But mercy comes at a price. Believe me; I begged 'till dawn, terribly distraught, tears running rivers underneath my bloodshot eyes. Still, mercy comes with a price. My mother turned me out without a single rag on me but the clothes on my back.

An eye for an eye, I suppose.

I thrice met a wanderer. But the third was not the same as the first two.

For this time, I too, was a wanderer. Cast out of my village, left to ponder and regret into the deep, dark frosts of the night. I huddled near a firelight, kindled by the ashes of love from my very own soul. I receive no more sparks of hope, and when my soul is emptied at last, I'll lie my last breath on the ground and hope luck to the beings I loved.

But a wanderer, just a lone wanderer, was different than the others. Different than myself. They walked beneath the snow-laden trees. Even from far beyond their mind, and outside of the heart that housed their soul, I could feel purpose, radiating like sunlight, sinking into my throat like warm honey on a midnight journey to the kitchen.

And rekindle my ashes they did. Bring hope like wild game into a warehouse for the winter. Soul filled with enough sunshine and faith to light more than a thousand fires. 

For not all those who wander are lost. Perhaps some are just looking for destiny, underneath fate's branches. Perhaps some, holding hope delicately within the gentle folds of their souls, wander with the purpose of finding themselves.