Monday Morning Musing: Reflection on the Water

This morning I muse and write and ponder and pray while the tide is high and the suns' light is muted by the haze of this season. Across the lagoon the homes reflect themselves back in the smooth surface of the water. I wonder about the people who live there; how has their day begun? What celebrations or sorrows has their home held?

We are in a season of looking for our next home and we are grateful for the life circumstances that allow us to do so. In every house we tour, we are aware that it is just that, a house, not yet a home. It becomes a home when the stories of its people take shape within it, when joy and heartache sit side by side on the porch; when milestones perch on the mantle; when love gathers around the table.

Many have written of home; poets and philosophers and pastors and prophets consider its virtues. The very young and the very old and sometimes those in between long to remain there for as long as possible. Homes tend and care and shelter in different ways depending on the need and the season.

We have been wanderers for five months, although we've been lucky enough to always have a soft landing. We currently reside at the water's edge within this particular home, the one that shelters our beloveds and our new grand-girl. The home tended with care by our son and daughter in love. The home where our daughter and son in love were married. This particular home reflects the love that resides here as surely as the homes across the lagoon are reflected in the waters.

For this musing and this morning...this poem by Emily Pauline Johnson (who sometimes published under her grandfather's Mohawk name, Tekahionwake, which means "double wampum"), titled The Lost Lagoon.

The Lost Lagoon

It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon, And we two dreaming the dusk away, Beneath the drift of a twilight grey— Beneath the drowse of an ending day And the curve of a golden moon.

It is dark on the Lost Lagoon, And gone are the depths of haunting blue, The grouping gulls, and the old canoe, The singing firs, and the dusk and—you, And gone is the golden moon.

O lure of the Lost Lagoon— I dream to-night that my paddle blurs The purple shade where the seaweed stirs— I hear the call of the singing firs In the hush of the golden moon.