The Way Home


The myriad of dancing colours begins to fade as the young woman falls back against her pillows, exhausted by the exertion of sitting upright. Her own smile is fading and the figure standing over her leans forward. Staring into those eternal eyes, she sees his lips move and finds a distant memory, locked in the darkest recesses of her mind, as his words fill her being.

The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.

I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet.

It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself, and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune.

The traveller has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end.

My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said `Here art thou!’

The question and the cry `Oh, where?’ melt into tears of a thousand streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance `I am!’

Journey Home by Rabindranath Tagore

Darkness is circling her; the young woman is gripping the edge of the bed. Three rosy faced children peer out from the photograph on the bedside cabinet, their bright smiles projecting hopefully and unsuspectingly into the future. The figure, blazing light as through a summer cloud, is greatly troubled in spirit and deeply moved. Slowly, he holds out his hand to her. She is reaching out to him, fingers outstretched, quivering, and she sees the silent tears flowing from those blazing, eternal eyes.

Photographer: Matt Levin


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