I lost my identity. I lost the part of me that was so rich in gratitude, steeped in spirit that I rarely questioned my faith in love. I didn’t have to. Everywhere I was, love existed in abundance. Not because of me but because the light of people loving and giving in service to one another is a glorious testament that we are all one.
Then, I died. That sounds melodramatic, probably because it is, but it’s so terribly difficult to figure out my role here when I grieve the gift of support, encouragement, and guidance from some of the best people I’ve ever met. I know I was meant to find them so I could get past being mad at the Universe, so I could carry on my mission.
And yet, here I sit, a year after being ripped away from whom I thought I was, returning to the place I ran all over the country trying to refuse my roots. Not only am I back in my home state, but in my home town in my own house. I should be happy that my dreams have come true. My material blessings match what I had spiritually, the sense of blessing so deeply entrenched that I rarely felt poor.
With my news and social media blowing up with violence and hatred, it hurts to think or breathe. I can’t know what melanin enhanced people truly go through, but I know silencing their voice is like slut shaming. I know what that feels like. The humiliation and condescending superiority of those in power creates a resentment towards their injustices, but likewise any human that would harm another with violence is hurting more than a quick probationary period.
I want to give. I want to serve. I want to celebrate and love life like there’s no tomorrow, for we aren’t promised that. I fearfully hoard hugs. I avoid serving. I avoid living my life because I’m terrified of losing it all over again.
“I’ve lost my identity.” I told my husband while I choked back sobs. “I don’t know who I am.”
“You didn’t lose your identity. Your people know who you are in Tennessee. The trick is to figure out how to get the people here to know your name. Show them the Mayor Mare magic.”
He’s right. I can’t find my tribe while hiding behind my front door. I need to find something to do. I’ve been lax in prayers and meditation. Perhaps looking inside myself for guidance would help. I’m tired of feeling lost. I need to hear my calling.