Going Home, again.
After a very intense six days at the Storyfield Conference, I have returned to my family here in Denver. It's nice to come down to a lower elevation and I am grateful for the time for post-conference debriefing and re-entry rituals of reflection.
My mind has been blown. And I have been reminded-once stretched emotionally and spiritually like this- can one ever truly go home, again? My gut tells me no, and things will never be the same again.
I spent yesterday with my cousins, aunties, and niece and nephew. Sunday, we went to church and to my deceased uncle's grave to celebrate and acknowledge the 50th birthday he would have had. We placed roses there and prayed the rosary.
My hands have not held rosary beads in ages. While I left the church long ago, the Hail Mary's provided a comfort there in the circle of the women in my family. Heads bowed, as they cleaned the grave site, they uttered prayers for his soul and for mercy for the souls of the world. The repetition was lulling.
And so, silently, I prayed, too. Prayed for the living- and the honoring of moments of heaven and hell that initiate one to finding a new inner place of seeing and being. I prayed that I might be able to live a new story while old ones were dying around me. And I prayed that I might have courage to do so-even when this means going home, may mean leaving all that one knows.
My mind has been blown. And I have been reminded-once stretched emotionally and spiritually like this- can one ever truly go home, again? My gut tells me no, and things will never be the same again.
I spent yesterday with my cousins, aunties, and niece and nephew. Sunday, we went to church and to my deceased uncle's grave to celebrate and acknowledge the 50th birthday he would have had. We placed roses there and prayed the rosary.
My hands have not held rosary beads in ages. While I left the church long ago, the Hail Mary's provided a comfort there in the circle of the women in my family. Heads bowed, as they cleaned the grave site, they uttered prayers for his soul and for mercy for the souls of the world. The repetition was lulling.
And so, silently, I prayed, too. Prayed for the living- and the honoring of moments of heaven and hell that initiate one to finding a new inner place of seeing and being. I prayed that I might be able to live a new story while old ones were dying around me. And I prayed that I might have courage to do so-even when this means going home, may mean leaving all that one knows.
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