Love and Distance, a Meditation

It is almost time to leave.
How can I prepare?
My blood family is few, and dispersed around the seas.
I have no job or home.
I am a stranger in a land of ice and snow.

It is the first day of a new year, and your voice from 3,000 miles away sounds like nothing of this world. I can not speak back to it. I am stunned by it. It is unbelievable I share my thoughts with you. It is unbelievable you share your home, food, and family with me. It is made strange now by absence, by distance. I do not know how I came to you. I do not know how I meant to leave months ago, and landed in your basement instead.

You are a native of dawnland, your ancestors have been there since the beginning. You lost your first child the year I was born. You pronounce mother, “motha.” You do not trust people of my immigrant ancestry, yet you await my return.

Two weeks I have been in the place that created me. I do not laugh here but with the sky. I do not cry here but in my hands. I do not speak here but in my head.

My blood mother says “have a bowl of good luck,” and gives me black eyed peas with rice, ham, and wine to toast with.

The west is having everything in isolation. The east is having nothing surrounded by everyone. The oceans weigh this loss and gain with the tides.

I do not know what will happen next, and so, make up my mind to disinherit belongings. To be light and able to sleep anywhere. This means being able to sleep in the backseat of a car. To have few wants and needs. This means being free from addiction. To be made of love, kindness, and gentleness. This means being no one and everyone.