Everywhere I touch it hurts,

My leg, my face, my arms.

Everywhere.

 

For years I have been hurting everywhere,

And complaining to anyone who will listen.

Which seems to be a declining number …

 

One close friend suggested a doctor,

And eventually I succumbed to the idea.

And visited the physician.

 

His diagnosis … a broken finger.

It was a wake up call I did not expect,

Jolted I and looked into the tiny mirror,

Held for emergency “make-up” checks in my go-to bag.

 

This time, it was not the just the 30 second glance,

Reviewing the areas for smudges, or eye liner errors,

But an examination of eyes, not their surrounds.

 

Those deep dark brown pools, seemed to draw me in,

Not a validating stare,

But deep recollection and searching, into a place unexplored.

 

There, after what seemed hours,

Another face, or rather eyes, appeared … staring back,

Also brown,

but male, not mine,

shivers ran down my spine, undiscovered facts

revealed themselves.

 

Who was this inner personality I didn’t recognize in myself?

Then, he spoke, without words,

And I knew it was Him.

 

And now I am safe.

Traveling denotes transition,

Moving between places,

The steps in between,

For our desired destination.

 

But travel misleads.

 

Travel is each moment connected; a journey defined.

With all the stops and the souls along the way.

Good and bad, sad and wonderful, hard and easy; the ultimate elixir for the soul.

A nourishment and discouragement sandwich, which somehow, I swallow and survive.

 

When I am reminded, by one who matters, it becomes a milestone,

A place where I pause and listen,

See the way forward,

And, perhaps, change direction; if called for.

 

In the meantime, I can come to love the traveling,

And begin to understand why others make it a way of life.