Between chasing the chicken from the outdoor kitchen for the 100th time, sweeping the rice grains now scattered on the floor while trying to stop my grandmother from eating the raw onion that rolled to her feet when I scattered the chicken, the village gives a body enough activitiy in a day. You do pilates, yoga and zumba all before 10.00 O'clock.
And when you again get to the sink and notice the pile of dirty utensils that has gathered once again, peace is not the feeling that you get.
But amidst the disorder, there is a pulsating energy that carries you on it's shoulders like a flood current, slower, but all the time moving, moving.
I walk bare footed, all around the rooms, around the compound, up and down the land. the heat in the earth wraps my feet like therapy, like reassurance that, I was part of the ground. That I am the daughter of the soil, I was hewn from this earth, and each step grounds me, firmly.
Someone asked me ; why do you move around so much?
I gave her an answer.
But my truth is different, I move around so much because I have never found a place to call home.
Perhaps it's the pastrolists blood coursing in me rendering me restless. Moving with the seasons, and only stopping at one place long enough to exhaust its green grass, and then it's time to move again.
I only recognize one place as home, the one that I grew up on, next to the forest. But I cannot be there, so as long as I am alive, I am a temporary citizen on this earth, with no particular attachment to place, person or tribe.
I am a soul that walks its own path, guided by my own true North.
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