Home is where your heart is: I don't remember writing this

Tuesday: 26 April 2011 


Trolley pushing. Terminal searching. Where the fuck is terminal 5. Terminal 1, 2, 3 and 4 all seem to be clearly marked by the heathrow express.

“Excuse me, how do I get to terminal 5,” I ask.

“You’re in terminal 5,” the heathrow attendant remarks.

“mmmm well then terminal 3,” I stutter. Shit, I got the directions confused.

In another trolley parade I go. Back and forth, back and forth.  Today is going on a downward spiral quickly. Next train to terminal 3 in 15 minutes. Perfect, at least I found it. The topheavy Green rucksack maneuvered on my back. Blue French connection bag on my shoulder and heavy camera bag that weighs just as much as my rucksuck in my hand. All balanced perfectly, any sudden movement shakes my thoughts. As I imaginarily topple over into the mind the gap section. Brutal.  I lean on a wall to stop my thoughts.

Ah crap, I’ve only been here for 30 minutes. What to do, what to do.

Unfinished

Always unfinished

No endings

Only moments

Rarely ever a beginning.

An untraceable story

for something that’s dying to be heard

more than words

more than pictures

hear movement

see movement

watch it ebb and  flow

there’s a story that’s dying to be heard

revolution.

As I’m sitting in the London airport, on this layover that is anything but pleasant mainly because I cannot check my bags and explore like I intended on. So I’m stuck in one section without much companion except for a measly computer. I have no desire to drown out my thoughts with movies, nor can I formulate a thought at the moment, and I’m running from my bible. As I have been for the last 2 weeks or so.  I can’t say I feel nothing like normally. In fact, I feel a lot.

Scotland is a fabulous city. London would be a fabulous city if I could explore, but cannot.  I’ve never really been a tourist. In America, sure but that’s always with the knowing that I’m returning somewhere within days and maybe once or twice in mexico, but once again—that’s still America. But as I tour Scotland, I think I could live here but can’t really picture it. My heart isn’t really for Scotland. Although, it’s a lovely place to visit friends. As I’m on my flight to London from Glasgow—I picture myself in the bush. On field—doing something. African travel seems like a breeze compared to UK/European travel. In Africa travel if something doesn’t work out it’s automatically assumed TIA (This is Africa)—Let’s make a plan. But in UK/European when something doesn’t work out a rise of blood begins and the only words crossing through your mind are cross. Shit. Fuck. Dammit. 

Excuse my language, but I’m just needing to be brutally honest right now.

But take me back to African life. And not just to South Africa which I have began to view as my second home. Not so much in the metaphorical sense but in an actual physical sense. As in I miss my bright pink bed and my family bound through Christ—and other minor factors.

But take me back and put me where I’m called to be. Among something greater. A calling that requires all of me.