I am born connected to Source Source being All S/he being One As a child, I know that I am part of One And tap into All
In my first memory I taste pure darkness I am standing in my crib Alone at night Younger than three Watching war unfold around me Feeling the heat of fires
I stand gripping the bars of my crib Watching full-sized human figures blown to bits Feeling fear on faces facing death Scale changes With everything shrinking Enabling me to watch Helicopters flying across my space Planes dropping bombs on tiny homes Scattered across the room
During WWII That Polish room had served as a hospital That room had been bombed and burned All around that sacred space Played out destruction At its most raw
My vision is my first introduction To the gifts I am born to share
Conceived on a mystical lake I battle entry into this world with all my infantile strength After a full day of fighting to remain within a watery womb I enter the world screaming from my cut-open Mama I continue to scream for endless hours All through the night As if I am being tortured
I am brought to see my Mama I am laid on her chest I fall into my first silence We look into each other’s eyes Into each other’s souls She gently places her nipple between my lips And with rage, I nearly bite it off
We stay in the hospital for weeks I lay in isolation Bundled tightly Because doctors suspect my Mama Of an illness that is never found
Rituals are one form Of being able to connect to Source Rituals are also a form Of being cut away from Source My process of disconnecting from Source Throughout childhood Is through a series of illnesses, raw pain, and grooming
As a child I am practically always in pain With mysterious illnesses I am drugged with regular shots of penicillin Drugged with malaria pills Drugged
My hips are unevenly developing To stretch my legs and correct my potential deformity I wear a wooden board between my legs for years It arcs like a bridge Keeping my legs at a distance from each other
I develop a cavity In almost every baby tooth My dentist is the closest adult figure in my life besides my parents She takes care of me sometimes after school Feeding me bread with butter and sugar As if in apology For slowly drilling God Out of my teeth
Living in Nigeria The old drill often looses power Each cavity is drilled out slowly Without local anesthetic I cling to the arms of the chair through the slow drilling of each tooth And then forgive my dentist The Source of my pain As I love her
With each drilled tooth I am taken a step away from Source Yet deeper into my spiritual path Of enduring pain And forgiving
I display a terror of having my toe nails clipped It becomes a team challenge for my parents Sitting on me with much weight To hold me down In the ritual of cutting my toe nails Which with each clipping Take me a clip away from Source
I meet one of my animal guides on a safari He is a wild lion standing under a tree Yet I am not impressed I tell my parents that lions look better on TV Since we don’t have a TV Everything looks better on TV to me
Death settles around every corner in my childhood Leaving this bodily form is possible at a higher rate living our life-style Persecuted out of our country To live in the vibrancy of the tropics
I check my shoes for scorpions every morning I step between a viper and little girl one afternoon I hide when the ju-ju men come to take away little girls
I grow On land where mass starvation had recently occurred During a brutal war I pick up bullet casings in the sands of our school yard Rubbing them together wanting a spark Like the sparking rocks at the university
No one helps me understand who I am No one helps me understand what I am I am an outsider anywhere I go In Nigeria, I am a little white girl surrounded by African faces When I return to Europe, I am the African girl When we travel, I am from elsewhere
Yet I feel like I need to create connection To wherever I am Because I have to arc worlds I am a chameleon Taking on new accents Taking on behavior patterns Trying my very best to fit into this crazy place Where no one seems to know who they are Yet runs around super busy pretending to be important
I spend much of my time observing people Trying to figure out what they are thinking Trying to figure out how they are living Trying to figure out how I can possibly Fit myself into all of this
Like most of us today, I am given no training About how to develop my connection to Source Instead like many of us I am introduced to a tyrannical church and religion Where I am taught That everyone who is not a Catholic goes to hell That all un-baptized babies go to hell That it is my job to prevent all these souls From burning in fires of damnation
I lie awake at night Worried about how I can help save these souls From the fires of hell I lie awake at night Feeling watched By a force that thinks me evil
We have a school band composed of drums and recorders I want to play the drums But only boys are allowed So I play the recorder A special creamy white one
One sunny afternoon My bible study class sneaks into the new church That is still under construction With our beloved priest We pass an important test in that raw space And go together to his home To celebrate
I am not allowed to eat foods given to me by others I am not allowed to go into unknown homes I am not allowed to do much So I decide to join the others And eat cookies and fruit in the air-conditioned home Of a priest
Little me in a dress Stands eating forbidden fruit and cookies
The other kids leave And the priest invites me to his small room It is hot in there With the bed unmade He stands over me With a white sheet And I fly right out of my body Looking down on the scene from the ceiling
I walk home that afternoon Alone Standing before a huge wild bush Covered in white flowers And falling into those white flowers Trying to recreate the space of the light and gold Which is fading more and more
Then my creamy white recorder cracks
I am determined that I am powerful enough To heal back my recorder After all, I taste my powers If I can change weather patterns Why not fix an object I love?
I create a solemn ritual for God not Source I taste the difference I think God to be more powerful than Source After all, everyone speaks of God and sin No one speaks about connection and light
In my ritual for God I state that I would forgive the priest completely In exchange for a fixed recorder My belief is absolute I know who I am Of course God would fix my broken recorder And then I can continue on my path Of being in service
I lay out my recorder on a thick white pillow I put my small hands on her I call into the directions I leave her there To be put back together
I leave the room After all Perhaps some magic might be involved
Time passes
I keep wanting to rush the room But I hold myself back I listen to a story About two boys who steal the moon and wander in mystical lands With singing snakes and haunted swamps
I enter the room Certain that my recorder will be whole Certain that the crack through its side will be gone My fingers touch a book about WWIII I think briefly about the potential of everything ending Then I take a breath I walk to the pillow To find a broken recorder
She lies broken And I join her Draining away the memory of what had happened With the white sheet and the priest
After that I don’t recall ever being taken To the space of rotating circles with gold and light My games with spirits continue But I don’t believe them to be real anymore
I begin to forget who I am Until all I know is that I am a girl In this world To do something That I have forgotten.
******************************WE ARE ALL STARS***************************
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