Open is a feeling within my soul. Closed was how they wanted me to live. I learned both languages and speak them both badly. I wanted to be free and alive and full of love. They wanted me to be quiet and reserved and damaged. I feel called to the sea, the beaches and cliffs. Like a bird, I sail on the wind, looking down and watching for a familiar shore. My wings were broken when I fell into the truth of me.

Heart said, “Listen to me, not them.” Heart inside me beats fiercely as I breathe in my ancestors. They call back to me, answering my angst. I say their names one by one. “I am here,” I tell them. I say their names one by one. “I feel you.” Hunter moon rises in the night sky; she is my maternal great- grandmother. She beats the drum.

Terrified I have lost too much time and that my thoughts are too wild, too far fetched. Terrified that I haven’t the right to search for my true nature. Terrified that I will not die in Scotland under a full moon overlooking the banks of the river Tweed. Terrified my own country won’t want me back. Terrified that I must go. 

Spirit chatters away. How do you know my name? Are you in the candle light or in the dreams of my soul? Why do I continue to call out to courage and faith, searching for a road which will not end in blinding dust? Are my visions true and strong enough that I can find my way under the waxing gibbous moon of my birth? Brave hand in weak hand, I take to the road.

Searching is a wild and hungry ghost who needs to be fed. I searched until the soles of my shoes had holes and could walk no further. I searched in the night. I searched in the day. I searched for truth in phone books and law libraries; I searched my face and hands. Searching is an adagio in G minor – haunted strings resonating within me. We are the lost children. Stand your ground. Drink my water. Take my hand. 

Aimlessly wandering, I found and lost me again. I found them and lost the others. No place to find and no place to call home, despite having left pieces of me all over. I can only breathe in my own ancestors. Lately I scatter my own ashes here and there, in places I want to be forever. There isn’t enough time to fix my wings.