For those grieving a home

For those who are grieving a home or place…

Let it. Let it hurt. Let it agonise you. Let it churn up anger and regret. Let yourself be angry, I know you are desperately, fiercely angry. Let yourself be wild and unkempt. Let the feelings pass through you— for they are not part of you (although they may feel like an extension of yourself).

What is it you long for? There is goodness on the other side of this chaos. I know you are afraid. Lean in, my love. Let the pain be painful. Let the joy reach its fullness. Let yourself grieve, for when it’s time, you will have the opportunity to let it go and in turn you will be released into more fullness than your grief permitted you to believe for. There are always deeper things at work. Let it.

I am writing this in Ireland as the rain mists my windows. Ireland seems to collect those longing for roots and a sense of home, and so, here I am. The sky is grey, the mist hangs limply over sodden land. With each passing year I spend in the UK, the cold worms its way deeper down. It’s down to the bone now and I am frigidly tired.

We parked our car on oil slicked decks, emerging into carpeted lounges of dozing passengers. After wrangling four chairs, we made ourselves at home in a corner next to blaring football screens and the sound of grinding coffee machines.

The ferry to Dublin from Holyhead was chaos. Outside was relief.

The ocean spray was cool as the boat chugged from its dock leaving the port lights blinking in our wake.

Two red rimmed funnels stood at the rear exhaling glugs of smoke as seagulls caught the thermals, tailing us like airborne guardians.

The rails were slick with dew. Plastic benches stood sodden.

The sea and sky were radiant. The sun did not glisten, but sank; a warm orange globe shrouded by cloud. Waves tossed and danced, their white manes caught by the fading light.

I love ferries, simply for the vital opportunity of standing on deck and being with the sea.

She is wild; even in the mildest of places. She reminds me who I am. To gaze into the sea is to see deep time in action. Looking into her ocean depths is to be present with all of time at once.

Deep time seems to do that… remind us that we stand in the fleeting grey in-between.

As I stood and gazed out at the blue-black expanse, grief came and stood with me by that white railing and we watched together as the sky faded to black. Sea salt mingled with tears.

I think I am sad for all the times I have worked to embrace a place and not been embraced in return.

I truly try to be where my feet are. To be present to the place I am in, not chasing the sunsets of fantastical timelines. I try to live rooted, grounded in the soil in which I find myself, not rushing to be repotted prematurely.

As my sadness bubbles, I realise that I am tired of working so hard to be where I am. It’s like trying to embrace a struggling fish. The only fruit of all this labour is blue bruises and an off putting odour.

I left my home at ten, and 14 years later I still feel like a foreigner in every place I find myself. My feet are tired. Tired of mud and blisters and mild frostbite. They ache with wondering if they will ever be planted in a place of embrace again.

There are so many questions that decorate the walls of this liminal hallway. I am frantic with the chaos of it all.

So, as I stand here in the chaos, I have decided to write my way through the mayhem. Perhaps to make sense of it all, perhaps to just to tie down the hatches as the wind continues to blow.

Living as a forever foreigner has made me realise that there are so many others living in this chaotic middle too. I write for me, and I write for you.

Question for you today…

When, and where, was the last time you felt truly embraced by a place?

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Letter from Love…

I Love you, my wild one. Do not be dismayed, for the time you have been waiting for is fast approaching. Don’t get caught up by the ‘what ifs’. Let me tell you what is…

Love is. And you are so Loved. The waves are roaring out my Love. The sky is shouting out my goodness. There is no where you can hide from such raucous beauty. It chases you down. It wrestles you to the ground and pins you there with its ardent gaze. You are cherished and embraced right where you are. There is a mercy in the beauty that adorns the sea and sky— let yourself be taken up by it all. You are not alone. You do not grieve alone. You do not walk with blistered muddy feet alone. I am there before and behind you.

Do not be afraid to go to the limits of your longing, for there too I will meet you. Long before you were a seed in the soil, I was planting goodness for you. Nutrients to sustain you. Water to refresh you. Nestle down in my Love. I will secure you. I will fasten you. Do not be afraid, for you never walk alone.

In one week, I leave Ireland and go back to England. One week after that, I embark on a new adventure. I am going back to South Africa. To the blustery sea that knew me first. I am excited, but I am also terrified. I hope to write my way through this process, and I would be honoured if you joined me.

Love,

Keziah x