Tag: #journaling

Where do you find home when you’ve searched most of your life for belonging?  I have not found home in square or rectangular structures built by men with plans.  I have found home in being a cypress tree in my dreams.  Tall and strong with roots anchored deep into mother earth and branches growing toward the bluest sky.   

Go home America says if you’re black or brown or any color for that matter.  My body traveled to the mother land, Nigeria to be exact.  I walked out of the Lagos airport and saw the same shade of black among so many people.  It was as if I was sifting the darkest coffee roast with my eyes instead of my hands.  I wondered how I would find the man I flew thousands of miles to marry with no hue variation in people.  Panic, awe and intrigue went through me all at the same time.  Panic finally said, “Crazy girl you’ve done it now.  Your ass did not think about everyone being black and your phone not working across the Atlantic.  What if his ass doesn’t show up to marry you?”  I looked up from my phone to see him walking towards me smiling.  I breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Damn you’re crispy and I’m here now.” 

I saw blackness everywhere amongst strange foods and bright, patterned fabrics.  We tried to find home in each other.  We tried to forget we were running from the hurt of others as we took vows and rode motorcycles.  I tried to wash the heat of this land off me multiple times daily but had not packed enough clothes for so many showers.  Perhaps that is why the television shows I remember about Africa had half naked people with painted faces.  I would rather have been naked with white tribal paint on my face standing in the ocean with green waves crashing around me.  We lived in my American house, but like I said I never found home in structures created by men.   

When you left, I found home in an esoteric pull to mystic things.  I was not scared because I’ve had the gift of sight into the supernatural since I was a child.  Ancestors, spirit guides and spirit animals greeted me and welcomed me home to my true self.  My mother watches this journey and remembers my baptism as a baby in the spiritualist church.  I laugh each time she tells me I was Aunt Helen’s child as she stood at the altar with Reverend Hester.  My mother sat in the back frozen with fear as objects began to float in air during the baptism. My mom is afraid of everything and we call her Chicken Little.  I am awaiting the right time to visit the spiritualist people.  My intuition tells me I know how to do their magic.  Their founder shared my birthday and love of woods like me.  Reading his biography with my aunt was eerie. 

I have a favorite meditation, come home to your authentic self.  I think I find home in the evolution of me.  My spinal vertebrae merge African and Native American spiritual practices in my body.  I left churches for bodies of water and campfires.  I know the Cherokee heart song and have been jolted once by some electric force during a shamanic journey.  African shamans are initiated into healing work by lightning strikes.  My shaman says, “Kathryn you have the mojo you don’t need me.”  I think she is the training wheels to my current bicycle ride. 

Home is healing with emerald energy placed at heart center by crow.  It’s waking up to Mexican curls on the pillow beside me and the sound of Telemundo echoing through rooms.  It’s Home Depot runs on Sundays because the Mexican is one who builds structures I never found home in.  Although when I go into the basement he renovated, I turn in circles thinking to myself this is now home.  I wonder about us.  I haven’t told him his spirit leaves his body and tells me how much he loves me.  He is afraid of this love.  I wonder about us; soul mates with the 222 energy circling us. I watch him in the garden through windows.  Keep the faith Kat and come home to your authentic self.  Whoever she may be I’m sure she’ll be strangely magnificent.