Everyday I think about where I’ve been, where I am, and where I am going. Not quite in those terms, but terms that have real meaning to me. Where did my ancestors come from and what shaped their dreams and thoughts?
Were they farmers, mud oozing between their toes, growing floating gardens and crops that seemed to magically appear? Or did they gather seeds and store them in wicker baskets, saving them for harsh winters?
My roots may be from peaceful people who were driven from their lands and were forced to forage and discover new lands. Yet, in spite of what I have imagined or dreamed, my roots may lie deeper in the soil, connected to spilled blood.
A tribe or two, struggling to find their place in the sun, are in my dreams. These people are somewhere in my story, connected to the earth, buried deep and twisted.
Others may be branches,loftier groups that seek perfection. These branches deceive themselves and others. All are tied to the sky and to the darker days when seeds were planted.
I am connected to my past and I fight against myself at times, trying to pull out my own roots, trying to connect branches to the sky. But try as I might, I cannot separate the two. I am my past, present, and my future.