When you dream, it is always home.

You are there among your own,

the rhythm of their voices rising like song

your blood would sing through any dark.

Then you awake to find yourself listening

to the sounds of traffic in another land.

For a moment your whole body recoils

at the strange emptiness of where you are.

This country is cold to your voice.

It is still a place without echoes.

Nothing of yours has happened here.

No one knows you,

the language slows you,

the thick accent smothers your presence.

You sound foreign to yourself;

their eyes reflect how strange you seem.

When seen across a cold distance

that has no bridge to carry

the charisma in which your friends

delight at home.

Though your work here is hard,

it brings relief, helps your mind

in returning to the small

bounties of your absence.

Evening is without protection;

your room waits,

ready to take you

back like some convict

who is afraid

of the life outside.

The things you brought from home

look back at you;  out of place here

they take on lonely power.

You cringe at the thought

that someone from home

might see you now here,

in this unsheltered room.

Now is the time to hold faithful

to your dream, to understand

that this is an interim time

full of awkward disconnection.

Gradually you will come to find

your way to friends who will open

doors into a new belonging.

Your heart will brighten

with new discovery,

your presence will unclench

and find ease,

letting your substance

and promise be seen.

John O’Donohue

‘To Bless the Space Between us’.

‘A Book of Blessings’

The Irish Chaplaincy in Britain

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