Why have we strayed so far away from our roots to find some facsimile of so called “home”?
I have inklings of memory: memory of lost love, and dust; memory of battles and words I don’t understand but still feel. I remember, I’ve always remembered.
Modern blood lines; and blurred borders; unsavoury connections, and disheartening observations. All connected to surface level descendants – my own disdain for living lineages; an eschew of comfortably strayed spiritually stunted children. Rejecting the idea of tribal law, generations of memory traded for stucco siding and a manicured flower garden. Handicap by choice, because a life of feigned ignorance is an easy life.
I abhor not the people but the aspects of society that twisted the warrior within myself towards such disapprobation. How could I be a guardian to anyone with such contempt for the present?
Those who have hurt she who moulded me, she who gave me life, she of whom I want always to protect. I -within the constrains of my audacious hero syndrome- hold such an deep and unexpressed anger towards them. But I have come to understand that it is she that has hurt herself more than anyone else – for that’s all she was ever taught.
– these broken ones have unpurposefully bruised and tarnished my bond to what once was (old lang syne). Hands in the air, Nose up, and lip curled I refused their fear of living.
Although- sometimes, I do this with far too much adolescent attitude. This upheaval has to end.
I am connected to all, and I enjoy educating myself in worldly theology, fable and history; understanding its correlation to lands far from each-other’s conscious reach. Finding comfort in our shared stories.
But why stray so far? Why purposefully embrace so much, but only taste the scent of where my parentage was birthed? The foundation of my ambiguous DNA.
My loyalty lays not within my given family, but with the one I found; my alliance is with the lushness of the world; and pride lays deep in my blood.
So far back in to where I see in my dreams; the myth and narrative that the ancestors hum in to my ear, trickling down my fingers, tickling and intoxicating my tongue.
“LISTEN” they say, “LOOK” they plead.
I am neither here, nor there. Too far ahead and too far back; blessed now with tangible anchors, to the world I adore. My rebellion suddenly with a cause. My feet suddenly more grounded than ever. How terrifying.
We are all indigenous to somewhere, they whisper to me. But where? and why doesn’t it seem matter like it should on the surface to everyone else – could they truly believe themselves to be a cause so lost that it isn’t worth an excavation?
Don’t you feel the pang from those and that of which has been left behind, the ache of hunger in your chest for something more? The longing for something real, something that tells us we belong.
I feel it.