What is this blood that runs through my veins?
As we approached the shores of this Promised Land,
A new beginning to a troubled past,
A future that looked bright,
Past forgotten.
One foot on this shore and my past evaporated.
Roots gone.
Culture lost.
Class unknown.
The quiet shame that has been past on from generation to generation, not knowing the richness of our lineage.
Pre colonization it was warlocks and witchcraft.
Sovereignty begotten.
Unconsciously afraid of standing out and going against the status quo.
That’s what got us into trouble in the first place.
Sticking your head out just enough, but not too much.
Politicians and churchman in bed together.
Bloodlines muted and crossed.
Innocence lost.
Shame sets in.
Again.
Each generation not wanting to cross any barriers,
Just doing enough to get by, but not enough to be great.
Either the descendants of those who slaughtered the nations first people and stole their child or criminals.
Either way it’s not a promising foundation to stand proud upon.
Whether we’re conscious to it or not, it’s there lingering in our bloodline.
The quiet shame cursing through veins.
That rich culture of witches and warlocks,
Adventurers and artists,
Farmer’s and family man,
Celtics, Druins,
Lost, but not forgotten.
That swirling you feel in loins,
It’s your past.
Before you white washed it and started again.
It’s your ancestors calling,
Inviting you to do the deep work of remembering.
Remembering just how rich they were,
Before gender mattered.
Before class mattered.
Before the church raped our sovereignty,
Before we had to adhere to ridiculous rules.
When we lived off the land,
Lived by the seasons,
Followed the stars,
Leaned our nature for medicine,
Listened to the spirit within.
Let our divination lead us.
Where family was everything.
Where matter didn’t matter.
The richness of our blood pulsating throughout all generations.
Cultures honoured, remembered, respected.
Before we set out to conquer and exploit,
Capitalism and colonialism.
Women were Warriors, Queens and Gods.
Independent of spirit.
Both personal and transpersonal.
Connected and interconnected.
I want to remember the fertile ground I walked upon, before my feet touched the shore and washed away my lineage.
I want to remember we were Goddess’ worshipping Storytellers.
Descendants of fierce, honouring, nature revering, humble, powerful and bespoke people who knew no separation between being fully humxn and fully divine.
