Returning Home to ourselves time and time again.
I knock on your front door and find myself. You knock on my front door and find yourself. When I can remember that, there is no “other.” When I can remember that, every time my feet touch the ground I am Home.
“I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet.”
― Walt Whitman