About a month ago I wrote a post called Adventure Music, about the melodies that I listen to whenever I need to be reminded of my own adventurousness. As I tried to describe in words what made each piece of music adventurous, I kept lighting upon the same quality: the music that makes me feel most like my wild self possesses a certain nostalgia, hanging about its eaves like cobwebs and floating in the air like dust. Adventure music is replete with a melancholia that longs for another place, another time, another world.

This leads me to ask the question: why is nostalgia such an integral part of adventure to me?

It's like something calls to me. A clarion call, the hunting horns of the King. Brazen and bronze. Like sunrise and sunset and twilight and rose all at the same time. Like stars and gold.

Something calls. It is familiar, and yet its like nothing I've ever known, and yet --

And yet.

It feels like home.

It feels like I was born in a far green country and part of me has never left.

It's as if I'm divided into halves -- one in this world, one in the other -- and they are desperately trying to get back to one another. To reunite in my homeland, whatever it is.

Something is calling me. And my eyes widen and my breath relaxes and catches at the same time and my body aches for something I can't describe or define, but that I know like my own skin.

If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.
- C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

Is it possible that I am longing for home? Is it possible that I was born in a far green country and abducted from it by bandits in the night when I was a child?

In the way orphaned children long for the place of their birth without knowing where it is -- so I long for my Homeland.

I hear the King's hunting horns.

He calls my name. He beckons to me.

My wild heart surges and I long to be reunited with Home.

The only way tot get there, though, is through here. To make this place as much like Home as we can.

So we set up our artifacts and our Ebenezers and our reminders in order to make our temporary place more like Home.

We talk about it. Everything links back to it. We see in every sky a glimmer of the sunrises in the Old Country; in every river a glimpse of living water. In every cathedral we see the outline of something familiar, though we cannot put our finger on what.

We are being called, and we want to respond. We are bound by cords of here-ness, but we also know that Home is now.

Home is here.

He has come.


All photo credits to George Cole.