There is not a simple way one travels to her birth-land for the first time after three decades and then pours out the experience for readers, listeners, students, family, and friends. Well, at least there is not a way I have figured out, yet. I have been reduced to blank stares that perpetuate silence and raised to eager eyes that beg adventure and story-telling both.
Is there safety behind the screen of a new blog? I imagine so. And yet, the tapping out of a journey with no shared space, place, and pause feels distant and under-selling to the spirit that is changed and a truth of how we were born to belong.
We crave more than birth-lands that define or boisterous blogs that dazzle; we desire to stand as known, accepted, and loved. So to how a country, a classroom, and a courage have restored my song of belonging, I offer my words to whomever will read.
I will often wish to retract or erase, for leaving a piece of me on the fringe of connection–the very art of writing, to touch your heart and never know, to be misunderstood and feel the scorn, to wonder if it all matters–is a fearful business. However, I write to free. I ask the same of my students. I dare the same of you.
A story at a time.
A picture at a time.
And in the meanwhile? Let us live and breathe hope; we belong.