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Ancestral Grief

I look back towards my last shore as I catch my breath upon this new land I’ve called Freedom and it’s there, on that shore I have left behind. A glimmer of something that pulls me to my feet. A calling that yanks at my core. It is something I can’t rationalize, but something I cannot ignore. I am feeling something bigger and grander than my mind can even imagine. It doesn’t have words and nor should it. Words belittle this deep ache.

My feet are sunk into the ground, the sand and soil and rock are holding me in place. They have steadied

my foundation. I can feel roots sprouting from the soles of my feet and it is in this moment I realize I am not only being held by this place but I have been craving this for centuries. I am being told that there is something in this land I am responsible for. That inside this rapture, this oasis, this Freedom that I have found the power to remain.

My hands reach down into the ground to welcome it into my nails and into the creases of my knuckles and into my scars. The earth is nestling into me just as much as I am in it. This land is claiming me. It has told me I will belong soon. It is asking me to stay. It is vibrating and beating through me in a way that only ancestors could know. Not just my ancestors but all ancestors. It is telling me that everything I have been looking for, that future-proofing and opportunity has always been in the places I have continually left behind. That those beats and vibrations are coming in from every shore I have pillaged.

That the pulse of it is connected to me. That I am the ancestors, that these lands have been waiting for me to stop looking across horizons and to start feeling their bedrock. To place my heart on these shores, to courageously stay. To crack the core of my intellectual shell and trust what raw humility is buried deep in this fortress of opportunity.

I break open in a wild range of sorrowful wails. A lamentation and celebration happening all at once. A space that isn’t driven by purpose, but one driven out from my control. One that simply cannot yet be described and only felt.

The pulse fills my ears, the spirit of the experience is rising up through the ground and into my body. I am craving more...I’m starving yet surrounded by nourishment.

And I am exhausted. It’s a desire so deep that I am losing touch. I cannot hold on no matter how hard or fast or slow I swim. Because I am just tired of trying. Trying to get more, be more, find more, discover more. I am tired of what MY ancestors called opportunity.

And I am finally realizing that my ancestors are tired too. My ancestors are tired of raping and pillaging. I sink into the ground and wrap myself in this realization. The smell of children’s blood on my ancestors hands. The wails of grandmothers, mothers, fathers and children not only for themselves but for this land. The moments when my ancestors knew that they had gone too far but went on anyway.

When my ancestors chose me over everything else.