Yesterday, in this raw ass Cancer season with a recent fuck-em-up Capricorn moon, I got to celebrate my 55-year old sister and our almost 76-year old cousin for their birthdays. Gratitude can’t even begin to describe it. As time has moved, or as I have moved through it, I wouldn’t consider myself a family of origin person. Too much has happened to me and those I love that I both understand and don’t, accept or don’t, but have created boundaries around nonetheless, that I may have forgiven or haven’t, and there’s just too much pain and brokenness. Or nothingness. Or people just left fragments in their transition and I refuse to piece them together alone or at the expense of my joy, stability and sanity. I tried that for years and I got other shit to do now, frankly. So I don’t try much to stay connected or at least I don’t overextend myself to do so. Instead I choose some people, mostly unrelated through blood and DNA, and they’re my family, and our drama together is enough. But still, I spent this time with my kin and quickly remembered our immediate ancestors, many of whom were my age (41), or my sister and cousin’s ages when I entered the world in human form. Ages I never considered being and now hope to make it to and past if lucky. It was a welcome mind fuck to be with these now elders who share so much collective history and lifetimes and it’s working on me. It’s softening me and reminds me that we didn’t have to be here, now, in our mostly right minds and functioning bodies. With genuine smiles on our faces. It’s a reminder that even as fucked up as so many people can be in a world that we often devalue, a lot of shit doesn’t have to end our stories. The shit can simply be the jokes and anecdotes we tell each other over some chicken. Asé.
A frenetic journey to peace and acceptance.