Where did I come from? My parents? My parents’ parents? Their parents? Was it a place? Was it always that place? Or maybe a time? Or the time before that time? Who is my family? What’s their story? Is it a name? Was it always that name? What was the name before that name? Before that?
How far back in my lineage do I have to go before nobody knows? I’ve been pretty far down that list of names and dates. We’ve got people in our family who know all of it. I’ve gone far enough back to realize I don’t care how far back someone knows something about somebody. Far enough back to realize that’s only part of the story?
No matter how long the story is, no matter how much of it is known…it’s only the first part.
What brought me here and where am I going? I’m
learning painfully scraping along the
journey of releasing, without forgetting, where I came from. And all of a sudden there are new things I
can do. Things that I didn’t think I was
supposed to be able to do. Because of
where I came from. Things I didn’t know
I wanted to do. Because of where I came from.
There’s the family I came from, and the family I made. The man I chose and those precious children? We made them. They are of us. We are of them. These things we made are making us into who we are.
That’s the next part of the story.
I left one family. And made another. That’s just simply the way it’s done.
As if any family ever gets made any other way.