Home, a bittersweet place

What is home? Where your feet land? Heart and throat sing? Where is home? Your footprints in sediment? The heart of one you love? Where do you live? Do you consider that “home”?

Regardless of spacetime and current conditions, we all deserve a home. Who do we become when we lack necessities, such as a safe, loving environment? One where we feel loved, supported, protected, and capable? Bitter, tense, guarded, withheld, sick, lonely— we become empty husks.

If we find peace, or violence, in our home, how does it feel? Where in your body? How can you go home when it has been paved and horribly redecorated? What do you eat? Which way is North? How do you return to a place that’s gone? How do you live with that? Dancing with its ghost or repression or anger? Acceptance and self denial? How can you go home when you’ve never known it?

Where do you rest your heart? On the vast sea, because the pain of leaving is too great? Deep within your rib cage? How do you survive? And do more than survive? Celebrate, be joyous, worship, garden, harvest, and sort, tell stories and dance. How do you transmute your misery and pain, rather than wearing it proudly?

In this essay, I will touch on some answers to these questions, whiteness (i), my personal experiences with Home, a brief history, and finding it (ii), and how we depend on each other to create home and joy (iii).

i

I saw a reel on instagram of someone explaining how “whiteness is a homelessness” (https://www.instagram.com/reels/DTzRJUbDE6g/) [white is a state of mind] and I’m sitting here, days later, still thinking about it. The atrocities and violence committed by Europeans and early Americans has left a gaping wound on this planet, oozing, infected. We live in a world that has been formed by colonization. Terrible legacies of white supremacy and racism, violence and thievery, desecration and dehumanization live on and thrive in most places. It is an endless, ongoing story, a vicious cycle that we’ve been subject to for the last 500 years.

The so-called United States of America is founded on white supremacy and their disgusting, inbred entitlement. Europeans colonized their own region before crossing the Atlantic, specifically Catholic Christians. Before they touched this continent, they had already begun perfecting the process of white-washing and disconnecting indigenous peoples from their lands and deities. This is nothing new, forcing a group of people to assimilate to your beliefs or be murdered. Spaniards were looking for “gold, glory, and God”, the British wanted religious and economic freedom, etc, every European country had its colony. Most are still in debt between goods and services not adequately paid, damages they’ve caused, reparations rightly due.

The United States of America is doing what it does best, hunting brown and black people and killing anyone who stands in their way. THAT is the American dream— to be a cruel police officer, ICE agent, slave catcher, to maintain an evil status quo and shoot the life out of anyone who desires otherwise. What is happening now is the same as the last hundreds of years. It’s hard to call this country home when it has made a point of creating unsafe conditions for people who deserve every right to live safely and happily. Violence is inherent in whiteness, physically, emotionally, spiritually. This country’s actions and words have never aligned, founded in false belief, broken promises, on stolen lands. There is no future as it crumbles in on itself again. Are we cognizant enough to finally move past it, to finally break free and guarantee individual and collective liberties? 

Our displacements fill us with aimlessness, anxiety, depression, whether it happened 600 years ago with your ancestors and body carrying the memories or 6 years ago when you left your homeland to come to a country that refuses to see your humanity and worth past “legality” or anytime in between. The true criminals are not those seeking better lives, they are rapists and pedophiles in power, who fund and are contributing to the demise of our lives and ecosystems. They are the abusers and murderers protected by that same system. To consider someone illegal on stolen lands is insane, especially when the people who should be responsible for stewarding the land and their people are disregarded and tucked away, lacking the proper resources they deserve.

Some Americans feel angry when faced with those facts. They think, well, where am I supposed to go? Or that was in the past, that doesn’t affect us now. Or Who cares? We won the wars and land fair and square. Or I was born here, that makes me native too! We cannot move forward if we don’t acknowledge the past. There is no future without where we’ve been, no presence if we can’t face the reality of more than just ourselves. A lot of white Americans are stuck, unable to look past their experience and pains, holding onto it as if it’s a badge and something to be proud of. There is a wonderful substack article I read a few days ago by Jamila Bradley (Bright Black Honey) on how joy is a critical, life giving strategy, and a struggle for white people They subject everyone to their misery and hate when others are joyous, between snide remarks, backhanded compliments, mockery, white people excel at demeaning another by their words. They hold onto their bitterness, biting and vengeful, they degrade you in tiny ways until you finally can’t take it anymore, then suddenly it’s your fault for reacting.

Who are they without their misery, pain and avoidance, their sunken eye sockets and sullen cheeks? How can they be joyous when they’ve never known love or home in a meaningful capacity? [Depending on who you are, it is not your responsibility to hold them or give them that grace. At the end of the day, we are all “grown” with an infinite number of resources around us, hateful ones choose to be so, and they need to learn how to be a decent, functioning person without racism and xenophobia.] How can you move past something if you’ve only ever held it alone? We, as white people, are sick, lonely, depraved, too proud to admit the cage we designed has trapped and is killing us as well. We cannot move forward if we don’t acknowledge our wrongs and shortcomings.

White supremacy avoids accountability, it kills and belittles you if you question its lacking ways. Where is home if you’ve never known? If it is built on exploitation or envy, it does not count. The people partaking in ICE, as patrol, politicians, enablers, and whoever else, are monsters. They could be redeemed upon proper action and accountability, but for the most part, they are scum and contribute to an evil, forsaken world. Any person who stands, fights, or hopes for America and its future has faith severely misplaced. This country does not belong. Land Back. Honor the First Peoples, their lives, landscapes, and stories. Restore landscapes and habitats. We have, over these last few hundred years, lost an incredible amount of biodiversity and precious ecosystems. Who now hears the kek of an Ivory Billed Woodpecker, thudding hooves of millions of bison, the splashing of salmon upstream on both coasts? We have lost worlds of creatures, forests, peoples, forced to adapt to a wretched, sterile world. That was planned, while hordes of pawns work and pleasure themselves to death, with no regard for those around them.

I digress, whiteness is something ingrained, a desperate, crumbling power grab. If we are to progress in society, we must dismantle the structures that uphold it, including physical infrastructure, thought patterns, and power dynamics. We must abolish the carceral and justice systems, birth a new government structure that respects regional, localized groups where people’s voices are heard, not spoken for by crooked representatives, and provide care, support, and necessities (food, shelter, water, love) for every single person. For thousands of years, the First Nations lived on these lands, in reciprocity and communion, they cultivated grand gardens and food forests, built and maintained beautiful cities and cultures. Early colonists saw their kindness, trust, and value and pillaged, lied, and partook in the desecration of the Holiest of lands in the name of a false, ego based god. They may claim God’s children or His kingdom as their home but they have never known true love or security, and they subjected that wound onto the world.

ii

Home— idyllic, azure waters, cool sugar sands, swaying sea oats, sprawling sea grapes, sharp cacti and tasty red fruits, verdant pine needles and burnt bark, small dunes, peeling skin and pointed leaves of Gumbo Limbo, the moon glowing and half full as our pink sun slips beneath a misty horizon— this is where my heart is, at the beach, by salty seas.

I was born in Eastern woodlands, in a city modernly known as Columbus, Ohio, by two white parents, raised in predominantly white areas. I, with my family, moved to Sarasota, Florida at nine. Southwest Florida and central Ohio have different ecosystems, peoples, and rhythms. Ohio has four seasons, Florida, two, one is saltwater, the other freshwater. They both have major limestone formations and their habitats are managed similarly (by fire.)

I firmly believe I could feel at home anywhere on this beautiful planet. I was born here, will die and decompose here, and will most likely reincarnate many more times. There’s a sense of belonging, necessity, community, that comes with living alongside the land. Your obligations and responsibilities are your Way, the paths and steps you take, rooted in damp soil, thousands of years of partnership, you follow those who came before you and guarantee that those after you will have the same opportunities. Ideally.

At home, in Payne Park, I attend a prayer vigil for those in my community affected by ICE. They hold this meeting every Sunday at the same time as the Miccosukkee in Big Cypress, across from the detention center in the Everglades. The breeze is strong, sun shining, palms rustling, some stand, others sit, listening, patiently, heavy. We pray and are reminded that we are the ones who answer our prayers, our feet and hands create the changes we want to see. Spirit listens, guides, and provides support but we move. Vigilance follows the vigil. We must take actions.

In the place I call home, along with many others, there’s unimaginable amounts of wealth, a sickly greed as every green lot is paved over for apartments or an ugly shopping or storage center, a slimy entitlement that puts down those who haven’t had the same opportunities. In the place I call home, I often feel out of place, that I don’t belong, even when these lands are my home. As I go to the sea and sing to her, releasing my fears and sadness, she takes and always returns them to me, shiny and pearl-esque. How can I feel I don’t belong with these people when the lands are generous and loving? Simply put, they have no connection to the land, their humanity. Grossly concerned with money, themselves, and maintaining the conveniences/commodities they feel they deserve, they refuse to dedicate energy and resources to their community.

It is the same story repeated, the hoarding of resources attained by exploitation and thievery, turning a blind eye to those in need because they don’t “work hard enough” or they aren’t “legal.” A person cannot be illegal!I will give a very brief history of the Sarasota Bay region, for context and greater understanding, because even still, citizens of this area do not know the truth and history. We cannot move forward if we don’t know where we’ve been. To build atop foundations paved with racism, violence, greed, we do ourselves a major disservice. We must look at where we’ve been to amend wrong doings and begin anew. We must remember, even if it is uncomfortable and painful. We live in the aftermath, imagine the bravery and strength those who lived it must have carried, and the legacies that live on in their descendants.

200 million years ago, the foundation of modern Florida was attached to west Africa and north South America. Huge supercontinents and shifting plates eventually separated forming the Atlantic Ocean, Gulf of Mexico, and current continents that we know today. [Side note, that is one of my favorite facts I’ve learned. I travel often and returning home always feels unique, like no other place on this landmass. Time moves differently here, this region is distinct and it’s so beautiful to experience.]

This continent, Turtle Island, has more than 14,000 years of human history. Over 5,000 years ago, there were flourishing, prominent societies that had distinct cultures and languages, more than 5,000 years ago. As Ancient Egypt rose and constructed great pyramids, our peoples were moving earth and shells and building mounds. We see “proof” of that in pottery, mounds and middens, and rock carvings. The landscape was rich, biodiverse, ancient, greater than anything our modern minds can imagine. We have many pantheons, creation stories, and sacred regions. From the Northernmost point of Turtle Island to the Southernmost part of Abya Yala, migration is a right and natural way of life.

The wing-ed ones are a timeless example, swallow tailed kites soar thousands of miles, crossing the ocean, they don’t even stop to drink (they are adept fliers, skimming the surface of a body of water to satiate themselves.) Insects, mammals, peoples— we all came here through some form of migration. We have the right to choose, respectfully of course, where we settle and where our feet step. These lands are not themselves without migrants. Without those who’ve wandered, how would this have been found, loved, and known? Without those who established themselves, tended the land and planted seeds, how would we exist now? In a literal way, Home is where we gather with loved ones, provide sustenance for each other, and what we protect with our lives. 

There are a few major distinct time periods/cultures, the Paleo-Indian, followed by Archaic, then localized cultures (Safety Harbour, Belle Glade, etc). Characterized by time, pottery, ways of living, archeologists have established those cultures as a way to tell their stories and piece together history. This is a very brief and oversimplified summary.

As a peninsula, these lands and its inhabitants are often dependent on the sea. I will focus on southwest Florida specifically, because north Florida has different soils, elevations, and plants and use the early 1500s as a starting place, as that’s when Spaniards first came and began documenting. I won’t use the colonizer’s names, only the dates and areas they landed.

In 1513, the first feet fell on the East coast. A brief eight years later, the same voyager landed on the southwest coast and was met with violence. He most likely landed in, what we know them as, Calusa territory, a strong peoples who were brave, large, intelligent, and dedicated to protecting their lives. They lived on huge mounds seaside, seasonally, yet always dependent on shellfish, fish, turtles, manatees, native fruits and berries. They were fisher folk who maintained small gardens. They were geniuses, molding the landscape and using various plants to assist in hunting, ceremonies, and other aspects of daily life. Their hold stretched from as far north as Sarasota to the end of our landmass, inward to West Okeechobee, and they constructed huge canals that allowed easy passage for trade and travel. They were concentrated around Marco and Pine Islands.

Written records are limited, we don’t know the true names of most towns, peoples. The Sarasota region is unknown. We know of the Tocobaga, who resided in Tampa Bay, Uzita, Mocoso, who lived off various forks of, what we now call, the Manatee River, which is still northeast. While it once had mounds and signs of previous lives, much of that history has been lost. Decimated to make coquina and pave roads, our mounds are memories, street signs. Guess why Mound Street in downtown Sarasota is named that? If you guessed that one of the largest mounds in the area was there, you’d be right! Even more correct if you guessed the reason why the mound was destroyed was to build apartments, which weren’t developed until many years after the desecration! But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Between the 1560s and late 1700s, southwest Florida was relatively left alone. Spaniards brought their plagues, violence, treachery, and toys, bothered the native inhabitants and left when they realized there was no gold here. They continued north, many dying at the hands and arrows of Indians, many more dead at sea. As new Americans expanded their settlements, they demanded slaves, encroached upon territory they had no claim to, and caused needless amounts of violence. La Florida was a Spanish territory, a place where black people could live freely, as long as they made it here and could stay. Black and indigenous peoples, deeply similar in values and culture, worked together to cultivate long lasting relationships and lives they both desired. Cuba and La Florida were very close, fishermen would seasonally reside in southwest Florida en ranchos, our waters were healthy, teeming, and had an abundance of food. (As conditions worsened, it is presumed that some Calusa left for Cuba and never returned.)

Gathering around springs, tending their gardens, hunting, fishing, and worshipping, the inhabitants of these lands were granted final years of peace. Most towncities were abandoned, people relocated, the landscape was sharply different compared to almost 200 years before. Off the Oyster River (now, the Manatee), a shallow, clear, wide stream, not far off Sarasota bay, lay a spring.  In the early 1800s, a town named Angola was born, composed of Maroons, free and escaped black people, Creeks and Choctaws who were avoiding evil settlers and the government. They were thriving, alive, but had to do so quietly as the United States laid its claim to La Florida.

By the 1820s, the Seminole Wars had begun. Andrew Jackson and his legion of demons were terrorizing people who were simply trying to survive and live freely. In 1821, he and his battalion attacked Angola, murdering almost 300 people, and enslaving those captured, even if they were free people; survivors abandoned town for safety reasons. Many sailed east, following the gulfstream to the Bahamas. If you are interested in learning more about this fascinating city, Uzi Baram (local archeologist) and Vickie Oldham are excellent resources!

Shortly after the massacre at Angola, sick, white settlers began their new township down the road. They left no time for mourning, they gave no honor or respect. They took what remained and built atop that, pretending it never happened, neglecting to acknowledge who came before them. That legacy of white supremacy and violence lives on in Bradenton, the refusal to admit that these current cities are built on stolen lands and wrongful principles, nothing has changed in the last 500 years. Shortly after, the US government dredged the Oyster River, to allow large military and trade boats to traverse, destroying precious artifacts and remains.

A little further south in the 1840s, Five Points Park in Sarasota, a Scottish man devises a plan to sell and develop Sarasota; that area is now downtown. In the next 75 years, large parcels of Floridian acres were being sold for cents and dollars, investors from the north laying claim. They forever altered the landscape by their greed. Bertha Palmer and John and Mable Ringling were three prominent figures in the development of Sarasota. Palmer bought 100,000 acres of land, planning neighborhoods, ranches, groves; she encouraged her wealthy friends to spend their winters here. John Ringling “gifted” the Ringling Bridge to the city of Sarasota, he destroyed our seagrass flats to build out Bird Key and expand Lido. While they did “wonders” for the economy and put Sarasota on the map, they trashed our ecosystems.

The Everglades once reached this coast. Sawgrass marsh and pine ridges composed this region, subtle elevation changes of 1-25 feet gave way for diverse, functioning ecosystems, dependent upon fire and rain. The river of grass flowed here. Complex systems of dikes and ditches, thoughtless ways to diverge and try to control water, were established. The lands were drained and free to be settled, used as whoever pleased. By the way, The Everglades: River of Grass by Marjorie Stoneman Douglass is an excellent, informative read and I’d recommend it to anyone interested in Florida!

The desecration did not stop there. Sarasota remained segregated until it was forced to stop, although historically black areas still lack proper infrastructure and resources, while simultaneously facing gentrification. Bradenton is no better, every year they host a festival with their ”sister city” from Spain, a direct correlation to colonization. If we are to move forward, we must examine our behaviors today and recognize which ones are outdated. Throwing a parade to celebrate the murder and thievery of these lands and the alliance that formed in that is disgusting and it needs to cease. The funding for our police department needs to be allotted elsewhere, into updating infrastructure and schools and restoring our water and environment. Today, Sarasota county schools now have an agreement with ICE. They are to be at our schools, with our children, those who should feel safe (but probably don’t anyway because of school shootings) will be terrified. How are they to learn if they are scared? 

We see it in the number of Trump supporters and their racist, dehumanizing, remarks that are flippantly said. We see it in the predominantly white government that makes and supports legislation in favor of the white man and his superiority. 

All that to say, these lands are my home. I have found myself time and time again here, I’m sure I’ll come back in a next life. To love them, to consider them home, I must learn who’s walked here and what must be done to restore the way of living. What wrongs have been committed that leave a gaping wound? Trauma is the space between us. I can stand right next to someone and it feels like I’m not there. I want my humanity acknowledged, I want the land to be heard and seen, people to feel valued and safe. We live in a terrible period of disconnect and avoidance, barely capable of navigating conflict and definitely not capable of meaningful repair. I am not happy with those who spout violence and hatred, and honestly wish they would shut up. I don’t like the development nor the greed that runs rampant and often feel the ones who hold wealth don’t deserve it, the least they could do is redistribute and share.

When you are home, you have responsibilities, obligations, duties to maintain and uphold. You must care for yourself and your neighbor, your shared spaces. You must keep it clean, cook, bathe, socialize, dance. You make a Home, maybe for the first time in a place, then a person, then yourself when you realize they can’t stay. You have responsibility and that ties you to a place, to a daily ritual. Referencing back to the article on how Joy is a strategy, your home is your magick and where that recharges. You offer hygiene, steam, smells to your home and in return, it shelters and sustains you. That is a form of worship. You offer yourself to that space and you are safe.

Through these lands, I’ve found home, belonging, and connection. I have returned again to my body— burnt skin, growing muscles, stubbed toes. My body that reflects the landscape— fragmented, disjointed, foggy. There is no purity, no wholeness. We are left in bits and pieces, scattered, wandering, hoping, searching. We find our Divinity in recognizing and witnessing it. Every month, I watch the moon wax and wane, rise and set, I see myself in her slivers and reflections on still water. I hear stories in the rustling of palmettos, chorus of toads and bullfrogs, and ruckus of cicadas. I’m repeating myself. Through repetition, we retain. I am home in the ways I find myself again and again, in the stretching of my body when I rise, the sweeping motions as I clean, dances of glee.

While wholeness is what we seek, it is not readily available. Capitalism demands infinite growth, colonialism seeks to divide and conquer. In an ideal world, where we are all nourished and loved, we feel whole and inspire that feeling in others. Realistically, we must compromise and choose what we focus on. Most people do not have the luxury (yet!) of quitting their job to prioritise their mental health or passions, to choose themselves over toxic and unhealthy relationship dynamics. We are left feeling scattered, empty, drained. To exist in this world is exhausting and far too much to do alone.

Awareness, intention, and nervous system regulation are small ways we can build capacity and allow ourselves to envision a world larger than what we know now. I know this is possible, I have seen it in my dreams, I hear it as I stand in Pine Savannah, as I stare an alligator in its eye. They tell me to be patient, that what we need is coming, we must work towards it. I often don’t feel whole, I feel guilty for my leisure and pleasure, but to indulge is resistance— so is caring for yourself, avoiding burnout, to rest and engage in joy, strengthen your resilience and capacities. We cannot do this alone. When we connect with one another, we experience some form of wholeness. Let that feeling sustain you and seek it out as often as you can. How wonderful it is to learn someone’s name, to make them smile. We often create the moments we’re seeking, of course, at times, we stumble upon them (then you become the answer to someone else’s prayer.)

iii

When we share homes and live together, we experience joy, misery, anger, fear, peace. We grieve and celebrate, share responsibilities and duties, do things for one another to ease the burden of existence. That is love and home.

Colonization has washed everything down to a mediocre version of Christianity. God should never be the focus or message, it is your people and your service to them. Power and wealth are not motivation, they are signs you’re living in excess. Although I’m not necessarily a Christian, I’m baptized Lutheran, and recognize the power of belief and meaning of the Bible. It is no coincidence that Christianity is the top religion in the world, again a direct consequence of colonization. I don’t understand how so many people worship that God when this is what remains. Divinity can be found anywhere and deities are flexible, changing names and appearance, occupying different times, people take what they need to survive and believe in that. But aren’t we ready to move past survival? 

We need to remember the names of our gods, the Rivers and Seas, the Sun and Moon. Polytheism is a natural order, to assign ultimate powers to one being is odd. Our beliefs and forms of worship should reflect our lives, we each have roles, strengths, weaknesses. No one person can do any and everything, we need each other, just as functioning ecosystems have millions of tiny pieces co-existing.

We give each other life, meaning, love. We are social creatures, nothing without one another. In modern days, our affections are expressed differently, we show regard in more convenient ways. Going to the grocery store together, grabbing a drink, taking someone to their doctor’s appointment, seemingly crucial things at this time, but how do we collaborate in ways that aren’t based around consumption or complicity in broken systems, but around our well-being?

Tending a garden— weeding, harvesting, shelling beans, telling stories— we sustain ourselves, livelihoods, and communities when we take food sovereignty seriously. Using ancestral and heirloom seeds, growing plants with thousands of years of History in this region, we heal ourselves, the soil, and Earth. We find meaning, fulfillment, and health.

We are surrounded and nourished by Ancestors and Spirit. The Earth is our first ancestor, her soil, air, water. Her plants, animals, bugs still transcend us. We are babies, curious and fumbling, we have much to learn from those who’ve stood eons before us. The first humans appeared a few million years ago, incredibly recent. In Florida, and much of Turtle Island, there exists a plant by the common name Horsetail (Equisetem Hyemale), this group of plants is 350 million years old, living fossils that function more as ferns with spores, rather than younger plants with seeds.

Another ancient plant, Coontie (Zamia Integrifolia), is 325 million years old and this continent’s only native cycad. Seminole, Miccosukee, and earlier Indigenous peoples processed the toxin, cycasin, out of the roots of this plant by soaking them in water, rinsing, and leaving it to ferment before drying into a powder to produce a flour (Coontie) that was used to make porridge or bread. This plant was prolific, acres and swaths covered the state. Upon learning how to process it, white settlers immediately began harvesting ridiculous amounts, upwards of fifteen tons, per day, decimating local populations. They called it Florida arrowroot and envisioned it becoming a major staple and industry in Florida (the boom ended a few years after, when populations weren’t re-establishing because Zamia is a slow growing plant.) In the cleared land, they began development. Another interesting story about Coontie is the Atala butterfly! The beautiful black, sky blue, and neon orange butterfly is dependent on Coontie as its host plant, as populations diminished, it was thought to be extinct. In mid 1900s, a scientist was able to establish a population in the Keys, and from there, we’ve begun to see their spread northwards and population re-establishing. In downtown Sarasota, off Orange and 2nd Streets, Coontie grows and Atala butterflies flitter, land, and explore the area. They love white flowers, can ravage a coontie in days, and their abdomens match the orange of the seeds. When you give beings adequate space (food and shelter), they will come. Atala butterflies are a testament to that, and to the resilience of our native flora, fauna, and creatures.

Every single thing has a story and lesson. In stillness, you hear. When you offer your mind to another, your world expands. When you cook a delicious meal, make a plate for your ancestors. Pour them a libation, a glass of wine, juice, or water (better if it’s something you know they like!), light a candle, as you remember and bring them forth. Eat with them, savor each bite and chew thoroughly. Thank them for your presence at this time, acknowledge the ways they live in and how you too will join them.

We have lost touch with Spirit, as I said earlier, most of us believe and follow a watered down version of Christianity, worshipping a strange god, forgetting the rituals that sustained our peoples for thousands of years beforehand. It’s no fault of your own but you do have a choice, you can remember and learn, you can devote yourself, again, to those who came before you. Your ancestors are waiting. They cannot help unless you ask. They watch, support, and love you from afar but cannot involve themselves in Earthly matters unless you specifically call them forward. You must commune with them and leave offerings. They are your shadow, the echo of your voice, strands of your hair. You cannot be without them. Be grateful and aware of that. Ask what you can do for them, and they will give you anything you dream. We are never alone. We live in an intricate, deeply connected web, where every movement has multiple consequences. Our small brains cannot grasp that, nor can we envision the ripples, but our ancestors see. They are the bridge between Spirit, we must worship and call upon them for help during this great time of change. (Pepper Jackie, my cat, types 8888888888888888888888888888888888.)

Land stewardship is a priority in indigenous cultures. They recognize the importance of the land, how it sustains and gives us everything we could ever desire, how in order to receive those blessings and love, we need to be careful and tend to it. Speak kindly, leave offerings, pick up trash, rip out invasive weeds, protect our forests, waters, and air. To them, we are each reflections of the landscape, we have a personal responsibility to care for this planet, as it is our creator, our life giver. When we stray from that path, we are lost and feel empty. In these colonized times, conservation and community based jobs are low paying, even though they are our purposes and what lead us to fulfillment.

In many cultures, worship requires sacrifice. Some may squirm, disagree, call it primitive or savage, but there is truth in those practices. From these endless, generous lands, we live and breathe freely. Every person has the right to live and thrive, but no more so than the person besides you. Your life is not placed above the community’s well-being, death is integral, and chances are you would be reincarnated shortly after your passing anyway. We’re facing an ego crisis, big heads, overinflated importance, the fear of an inevitable. An ant or butterfly has the same claim to life as we do. To believe that your life and possibilities are more important than the whole is questionable.

Various rituals and celebrations can be held publicly or in secret. I am asking you to remember, to believe, to know there is more than the hellscape we are living in. We live in an infinite, gracious universe and happen to exist in the same space-time. Doesn’t that mean something? Shouldn’t we celebrate and ask for more from ourselves and the lives we lead? I don’t know you but I’d like to, and I’d like to meet you again, many years later, and smile as I remember you. To be known is to be loved. To remember, again and again, the importance of always trying and creating. We can pray to any god we’d like but until we move in their holy direction, we stay put, until we offer them blood, sweat, and tears, we stay put, until we move as one and intentionally direct our energies, we stay put.

If something is worth living for, it’s worth dying for. If we want to progress, we must embrace death and navigate this world carefully. To go against this government is dangerous, they are swift to pull a gun, but it is a necessity. The only way out is through. Florida is an open carry state and as long as you are older than 21, a permit isn’t necessary. I don’t advocate for guns or their usage, but as situations escalate and tensions rise, we must adapt and learn new skills, including staying strapped. The old world is dying, a violent, cruel death, and it will do its best to take us down with it. We must keep our hopes and spirits high, taking care of each other, dreaming, remembering, building. We are bridges, the alignment of our bodies and minds determines the world that will come. We must protect each other, there is no one else to do so.

We can only do this together, united, determined, persevering. There is no separation between you and me, you’re merely a different version of me and I, you. We are all fragments of our Creator, imbued by spirit and innately divine. We must remind each other of that, along with the ways we can cultivate and protect sacredness. As times change, so must we, and we will do so together.

Home— a place, emotion, memory— exists in all of us and we often find it within each other. Tumultuous times cause great stress, reminding us of the fundamental ways we are connected. We cannot give up or slow down, we must show up for each other and those unable. We act accordingly, we are the changes we want to see.

I pray one day this world will know peace, that the blood and gore of our everyday lives become sour memories. I pray for those who’ve lost their home or had to leave, who’ve been violently and inhumanely separated from their loved ones. That the “United States of America” crumbles and we are free of this selfish regime. I pray that those in detention centers are released and given access to medical treatment and proper necessities. That the pain and grief we carry will be transmuted into compost and nourish us for years to come.

May we create peace and belonging. May we fulfill our roles and maintain our responsibilities to one another. May we use kindness and love, rather than fear and violence. May we live and breathe our wildest dreams.

This essay, probably unfinished because this is an expansive, changing topic, has been brewing for years. I’ve spent the last three years living on ten acres, twenty five miles outside of the town I grew up in. These slash and longleaf pines have inspired my design. I wake to fog, before sunrise, sometimes long after, I sleep under the Milky Way. My sunsets are orange and cloudy, pink at the tops of pines. I watch the woodpeckers, red headed and bellied, pileated, peck and fly, hawks and vultures soar. This has become my home. I will carry these pines with me forever, every step I take, I bring them with me. When I leave this body, I will come back to them (hopefully as a pine myself <3.)

I’ve learned so much and am closer now to who I know I am but I have much further to go. I’m proud of my progress but recognize the growth still necessary. I am deeply grateful for my time in this region, stepping on Myakka soils and burning in the Florida sun, there is nowhere else I’d rather be! Clear springs and salty seas, playing with otters and alligators! Watching fires smolder and breathing in their clean smoke, letting it waft away my misery!

Thank you so much for spending this time with me and my words! This is a lengthy piece that covers many different facets and I am very appreciative of you for giving me your attention! The upcoming full Moon in Cancer, the last of this lunar year, coincides with the beginning of February. I’ll save further analysis for my full moon post but, please know and remember how beautiful and special this time is. We are here together for many reasons.

How can I help you? How can I inspire you? Do you mind grabbing this for me? (I pass you my hand.) Can you tell me what makes your heart sing, your sweetest dreams? What is something that you can do today to benefit another person, to warm them? Something you can plan for tomorrow that helps two people? Every action ripples, every feeling and prayer will be felt and heard. If you feel called to say something, you must do so. Someone out there wants to hear. Your voice is your power, your body a vessel. Stand proudly and bravely, we must defend our futures and livelihoods. Thank you thank you thank you :+)