So many signs point me back at my roots. At the same time, there are places I can not go now. There are people I can not talk to now. I question where my roots are and just how much of it is a fabric of lies. Perhaps this is why I am getting this message so many times from so many places. Spiritually, I am on the verge of a month of discipline and preparation for spring. I am facing the beginning of a week where the kids are on break from school. I'm not feeling very well. I'm not sleeping very well.
And yet, I feel this deep pull to go back to my roots. Not just here, but on my other blogs. In my other writing. I feel almost compelled to exhume my old work from high school to just review it. I kept my writing journals and my personal journals. They're among my prized possessions. They're my memories when my brain is not functioning correctly. I've added to them my daily journal in the planner format.
I don't know why it is so important for me to return to my roots. But, I find myself wishing I could walk the hills of my youth and hear my grandparents' voices again. I find myself wishing that I could have one more cup of tea with my late aunt and let her know that I actually wanted her at my wedding but my parents pressured me into not inviting her and her wife. I find myself not missing my childhood but reliving parts of it by way of dreams and being confused.
My memories are a patchwork of trauma and blank spaces from that period of my life with shining moments of joy interspersed. There are more blank spaces then happy memories. And intermixed with it all is the narrative that I was told about my childhood from my parents, which runs so very contrary to what my memories tell me.
Go back to my roots. How do I find the roots of it all if I can't remember the way? I suppose the gods and my ancestors will show me the way. They always have.
