Makaya & Solstice 2023

Sometimes coming home means leaving the place that isn’t. 

Time is best measured in the most liberatory ways: the cycles of this planet Earth around the Sun; the 28-day cycles of the Moon around the Earth, constant and steady in its predictable movements, unchanging in its Power regardless of who below on Earth is in power; the traditions which do - and have done - the most to align power on Earth with the power of Earth, Moon, Sun and planets.  

If you have read anything else I have written, you likely know that I regularly draw attention to  Haitian Vodou’s role in this last category, and thus honor Vodou’s measurements of time: at present, sezon Makaya. You can read more about what Vantem Pa Fyem of Sosyete Nago has written about Makaya season, which includes highlighting it as a time to cleanse, reflect, set intentions, and bring one’s habits into alignment with those intentions.  

Today, in particular, is the Solstice: in the latitudes of the North, we find ourselves as far as we will get from the Sun, and it is the shortest day / longest night of the year. As with the Makaya season, generally, it is a time for reflection and intention-setting. It is also a time for rest. And because the other parts of my work - which I also love and value deeply - take me outside and among others, I am taking today to do the restful and reflective work of writing. By myself.

The closer I’ve gotten to this Solstice and Makaya season, the more I feel like, truly, I’m coming home. A year and a half ago, my closest family and I experienced an Earthquake of sorts: in the upheaval, many of us relocated, moving from places we’d lived in from as short as a half decade to as many as almost four. Some of us landed close to one another, in Central Virginia, with other family, or trickled in later, like the aftershocks of the main event; others landed half a world away, closer to other family, but far far away from the family I think most immediately of as “us.”

And really, we are ALL an “us”; the tricky part is remembering that, and navigating all our relationships - how to relate to ourselves and one another - in light of that. 

This Solstice homecoming has been about more than geographical shifts, and settling into a new place; it has also been about settling more deeply into the truth above. Ultimately, it’s been about taking the love and lessons of the family, friends, teachers, communities and loved onesI’ve been blessed with, and really settling into Healing. Or, to put it in starker terms, marrying myself to Healing. 

Last year in the time spanning between Makaya season, the Solstice and 1ye Janvye - the anniversary of the Haitian Revolution: Ayiti’s momentous victory* against colonization, chattel slavery and white supremacy - my overarching intention was around Healing: continuing to focus even more energy on healing my own self; building my capacity to be a healing person and hold healing space for others; inspiring others to embrace and center healing amidst all we and our Ancestors have endured, so that we may channel our power - so much of which is as-yet-untapped - to (re)create healing-rather-than-harming structures, systems, states, etc. 

I suppose until today, though, that I hadn’t consciously put two and two together: that finding one’s way home is a key part of Healing, and how both of these relate to the the truth that we are ALL an “us”; the tricky part is remembering that, and navigating all our relationships - how to relate to ourselves and one another - in light of that. 

In the grand scheme of things, “we are ALL an ‘us’ “ has been the easier part of my healing journey - and my efforts to contribute to the healing of our collective human family - than has been the ‘finding my way home’ part. My parents have guided me to lead with curiosity, to adhere to my own Spirit, and to question the powers-that-be and their fear-driven messages - which often conflict with those my Spirit sends me. By setting an example of treating strangers as unmet friends and unknown places as worthy of mindful and respectful exploration, they have ultimately prepared me to ‘find my way home’, even though their choice to migrate in the early life of my younger brother and me felt, for the longest, like an insurmountable loss.  

Thanks to our parents and the way God and the lwa have moved in my life, I’ve found bits and pieces of myself all over the planet, and found home in people and places near and far: I’ve been transported to far-away lands by the stories of those whose movements are limited by ‘papers’ - or lack thereof; I’ve smiled big cheek-aching, tooth-shining grins every time I’ve been to Cameroun or Ayiti - even and especially the first times - feeling the strong, vibrant energy of these places before I even touched the ground; I’ve become a mother and a manbo, and much more. 

But as a child, leaving Nippon* and landing on Turtle Island* - in what they now call New Jersey, of all places - I felt the opposite of what I did those first times visiting Ayiti or Camer. This ain’t it. I literally felt the tension in the bodies of the people around me: their fear and distrust of each other. I could weep now - and did, copiously, last year when my 6-year-old relative made a similar migration in the opposite direction - thinking of the little 6-year-old me, arriving in a place where so much sacred had been buried over and forgotten. But unlike our parents - who landed in a place with no blood, leaving a community and a land where the sacred is ever-present on the surface, for this one, where the collective task of excavation is underway but overshadowed by so much profane noise and distraction and dirty pain - my young relative’s parents left this violence-enabling-and-promoting country for one that banned guns as soon as the first school shooting occurred. And most importantly, they landed in the arms of nearby family. 

No migration - no life-unsettling upheaval - could ever be perfect. But as I cried for my 6-year-old self - and all the selves that followed in this land I’ve since tried so hard to escape - I was healed by thoughts of my younger relative - and his parents and siblings - who, though now so much physically further away, were traveling in the right direction, headed towards home. 

Home, of course, is about more than intersecting points of latitude and longitude on the map - the geographies of belonging; it is about the people we belong to, and who belong to us. 

And figuring out who we belong to and who belongs to us, especially amidst the truth named earlier - 

we are ALL an “us”; the tricky part is remembering that, and navigating all our relationships - how to relate to ourselves and one another - in light of that

- can be a very challenging process. 

I savor the most beautiful memories of where I have been and the people who continue to touch me, touched me for long periods of time or, in some cases, brief instants. And. To heal and continue towards home, I have also been learning to ‘let go’ with greater and greater ease. In another forthcoming writing, I will share more about this, including the powerful moment of letting go during the Gede season (November), and the wisdom of Gede which reminds us of the interconnection of death and (re)birth, whether literal of symbolic. 

Beyond what I have already shared, I want to offer a poem I wrote when I was in the throes of a seemingly impossible ‘letting go’ that happened months before Fèt Gede, at a period in my life that felt very different from how I felt leading up to Fèt Gede and have felt ever since. This old, previous feeling explains, in part, the relative silence that has followed; although I’ve been writing all along, most of what I wrote felt too unripe or raw - as was the case with the piece shown below - to share in real time. 

So, as I emerge from the turtle shell refuge referenced in the poem below, I share this piece now both as a reflection and a celebration that I am no longer that person in that place, and as encouragement to all those who are struggling to let go so they may continue their healing journeys home.

When I move my body I think of you
My body now a minefield of memories 
trap doors taking me back to a life that no longer exists

sensations 
like insistent threads
pulling 
pulling me back to you
no matter how much my mind says
now we must be free

they say the subtle body is connected to the lizard brain
involuntary reactions programmed thousands of years ago that bypass rationality

I did not pick you
did not look at you with seductive eyes of desire
or calculate what would happen that first night
looking back now I see the signs that foretold you would choose me
but I did not pick you back
my body did

how could my body betray me like this
she who has been with me since the beginning
baby body
before that the one in mama's belly that danced to music floating through the headphones dad placed there
this body that has ached 
and birthed its own babies
been shattered by falls and accidents and crashes and hands
and countless breakings of 1 exhausted heart
...

they say the body keeps the score
but mine is lost somewhere thousands of years ago
crossed wires
between 
one fateful night
when my body chose yours back
and almost every day since
a catalog of evidence too dizzying to itemize
a myriad of minor stories, generic in their resemblance
each of the major strikes severe enough not to warrant another
chance

the travesty of 
enough is enough
belied by
one more time

one more
kiss 
caress
touch
embrace
love-filled night together

one more flood of
sweetness
safety
surrender
release
before my brain pays the price
once again

this rational brain that has built the case against you
at war against this body
that should belong to me
but somehow
still
belongs to you

this body that just today
squeezed shut eyes
and in the darkness sent a message to the mind
a plea perhaps
maybe if we stay shut long enough
when we open he'll be there

my imagination
unsure which side to choose in the battle
spun a scene
in the not too distant future
the 2 of us, magically trapped in an elevator
my body
so weary from all of this
curled into his on the floor 
wrapped in protective arms which still feel like home

you 
who say you are homeless
and yet
in your lost-ness
forced this disorienting eviction from the home-like space you lured me into
i don't know what that leaves you with
but i am left
heart
mind
body
brain
imagination
a jumbled heap on the sidewalk 
once functioning, now a disassembled mess
just my Spirit left to sew me back together after
(finally)
shooing you away


my disembodied parts 
finger scratching head
hand stroking chin
brow furrowed
lips pursed in thought
how many weeks, moons, months, seasons
to put this all back together
to create a home like the turtle shell i wish i had 
a place to retreat to
to take stock of all my pieces 
a place no one else could fit into or take away
a permanent refuge right there on my back

My people: I share the poem above and the reflections below with all of you, and especially with some of you in mind. Hear me if, like me, you are a traveler, if, like me, you call the whole Earth home; hear me if, like me, you know well ‘tired’ and ‘weary’; hear me if, like me, in the repeated Earthquakes of migrations and crusades and pogroms and witchhunts and colonization and enslavement and wars and Maafas and Nakbas and Holocausts, you and your Ancestors have been spread so thin that home sometimes seems like a mirage and loneliness sometimes feels like your closest family and friend. Here are the lessons from last Makaya season and Solstice to this one which are resonating deeply within me: 

• Beware of stagnant waters; the longer you rest in a place or with people that are not your home, the more you may convince yourself - and your body - that they are. 

• Give grace to yourself when you need to rest, and then keep pushing. 

• Hold close the people and the practices you were born with or have found along the way  who/which give you strength to keep your energy flowing and healing at center-stage.

  • If/when the energy is not flowing with them, do not crowd their air or soil or light; give them space to grow; give yourself space to grow. Have faith that growth will happen, and embrace the stretching and the tears that come with it. 

• Keep listening to - and learning how to listen to and trust - your Spirit as it speaks through your body. With time, you and the places and the people that you will know instantly in your breath, blood, flesh and bones - in your Spirit - will attract each other. 

• Kouraj and pasyans all along the way as you journey home. 

Ti pa ti pa ti zwazo fè nich li. Little by little the bird builds its nest.  

Ti pa ti pa - with the Spirit at the Center, and the Healing of our Spirits at the Center of it all - we will find our way home and build our nests. 

Bon fèt Makaya and Happy Solstice.