Love After Love

by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.


Reading this poem moved me deeply. One wonders if the whole purpose of our life journey is to lead us to that place where we see ourselves, finally, “face to face,” and greet ourselves with love and elation in this ultimate homecoming.

I’m pairing Walcott’s poem with one of my own, about another, or similar, kind of homecoming.

A Prodigal Turns Prophet

Three summers I spent by the river in the heat of a homeless camp. (Having left my father’s home, which was my home, though I knew it not.)

Three summers of night terrors howling through my tent as the stars threw down their furious spears. (Having left my mother’s home, which was my home, though I knew it not.)

Three summers trolling the streets in blistered feet while eyes turned sideways at my glance. (Having lost all I loved, which loved me still, though I knew it not.)

As I walked the flesh melted from my bones, my teeth melted from my mouth. My thoughts dried up and blew away. Past and present dried up and blew away.

Nothing was left behind to claim a name, to know what I was or wasn’t.

Empty, careless and carefree, I danced along the street like a wind-tossed leaf, like a moon-mad fool, marveling at how all I saw danced with me.

Now my tent is my temple and the river flowing past me washes through me—mother and father and all I love and always was and ever will be.

Now as I walk the streets flowers grow at my feet, and every eye turned toward me is mine.

By Deborah J. Brasket

I wrote this poem with my son in mind, who, if you read my essay My Wild Child, My Son is on a difficult journey through life.

The story of the Prodigal is a favorite found in almost every faith because it tells deep truths we all recognize. We are all prodigals in some ways, whether living homeless on the streets or in the home of our dreams, if we have not, as this Prodigal has, returned home to our true self. If we have not gone through the weaning process that strips us of all we never were and gives back to us all we are, the magnificence of our oneness with the All-in-all.

This poem, too, is influenced by the tales of the old Zen Masters, relating their journey to enlightenment, a process known as “losing and losing.” Often they began their journey in abject poverty. Chuang Tzu describes how he was able to free himself from the limitations of the finite mind and gain an insight into his innermost being: First freeing himself from the concerns of the world, then from all externalities, from gain and loss, right and wrong, past and present. Finally he was freed from his own existence, from birth and death, I and Other. He sees the One and becomes part of the One. At that point, he was able again to enter again into the world of men, but this time with “bliss-bestowing hands.”

The photo above is one I took at the Asian Art Museum in San Francisco. I wrote a blog post about that visit called “Fascinating Faces, Tao and the Arts.” 

I wrote: “Some works of art speak to you on a level that is hard to define. You gaze and are drawn inward. Something in you identifies with what you see there. It’s not outside, it’s in here. It was there before you saw it, and the seeing is just a reminder of its presence.” I felt a special affinity with this face.

I paired that face, that smile, with this Zen story:

Once there was a monk fleeing for his life, a tiger at his heels, chasing him over the edge of a cliff where he grabs hold of a branch.  He dangles there just out of reach of the tiger’s snapping jaws, while below another tiger is snapping at his feet.  No escape.  Just then he notices a fat juicy strawberry dangling from a nearby vine. He plucks it loose and pops it into his mouth.  “Oh, so delicious!” he sighs.

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When Things Go Missing

A mother vanishes, a family unravels.

Three journeys to wholeness unfold in this poignant & propulsive tale of love and longing.

“A powerful novel about losing yourself in order to find a way home, When Things Go Missing by Deborah J. Brasket is an achingly poignant exploration of femininity, responsibility, and liberation from societal expectations. Featuring sharp, emotional storytelling and painfully flawed characters traversing profound developmental arcs, this subtle but profound novel is a testament to choosing your own path, no matter how strange the road.” SPR Review, ★★★★★

Get your copy at at Amazon, Amazon UK, Amazon AUS, Bookshop, Barnes & Noble and other major outlets. Available in ebook, paperback, and hardcover formats.