“The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.” ― Maya Angelou, All God's Children Need Traveling Shoe
I was born from a spirit who couldn’t find home. My mother was angry tears, and a broken child searching for a heart to let her in. In her agony she built a wall in her womb that separated us.
When my own agony came from my uncle’s abuse, I was already preconditioned to store silence. I should clarify it was a noisy silence. I was a distraught, crying child who couldn’t be comforted. My mother didn’t know my terror, so I drove her to an edge without an escape.
In roots where secrets are planted in life reasons never sprout leaves so questions brood and grow thorns. It was in that void imagination became my home. I took myself out of what I didn’t understand and lived in books, a butterfly chase, or the wild path of untamed dreams. Within me was a home where pain didn’t have a key to the door or shadows to keep me from sunlight.
Even now at sixty-eight years old with all I’m blessed to own it’s the home within that nurtures me. It is where I can travel in the middle of chaos to find peace, the place where I can grow cackles on windowsills, and no one complains my laughter is too loud or has the bleating of a goat. It is rooms where curtains are words waiting for me to write them on paper. It is a beautiful place where things don’t have to make sense because imagination doesn’t care if you’re hearing voices in wallpaper.