Being Home was...wonderful, as always. It does something to my soul, which I can hardly relate in words. It heals all the little tears and scratches, and even the bigger gashes. No, it doesn't make the fibro pain go away...but it certainly doesn't matter that I hurt, when I'm being embraced by the Holy City.
I tried not to look back as we left the City, but I certainly offered Her a little prayer as we passed through (we stayed on the Elysian Fields side of the City), promised that soon I would come back and give Her more of my time, more of my attention, which was divided between the concert we went down there to attend, two friends I got to spend time with, and keeping the Captain in the right direction (he, like most folks, tends to get turned around down in the Quarter)...not to mention the pain. This flare-up is easing off, but between the travel, the hellish week I had last week, and...a myriad other everyday evils and concerns, it haunted me the whole time I was Home.
...but I was Home. Home. It's a liturgy, a love, and a secret, the shout of trumpets and the subtle hum of the River. There was so much burning in me while we there, so much I could feel myself wanting, so much I could envision having, doing - and, for a little while, I let myself forget the reality of the situation. Just for a little while - it never does me any good to forget for long.
We need to go back, if for no other reason than Christmas shopping. I have to go to Baton Rouge next month; perhaps I will persuade the Captain to come with, and we'll spend the weekend in New Orleans, by ourselves, and haunt the Holy City like pilgrims.
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