Going Home and Coming Alive

My hands shook anxiously for the chance to study meaning,

to experience it,

to feel alive again and be consciously, serenely aware of it.

I craved the courage to show up in a world

that hands out a silver-tongued list of all things filled with danger and hatred,

and then create a list of what it means to see it all and still feel love. 

This is when I decided it was time to stop dreaming about the world

and become a part of it instead.

I read somewhere that going to Africa was going home -

that genetic memory was the only explanation for the familiar sense one receives

after arriving in Africa having never actually been.

After listening to the news alerts telling me how dangerous the world is,

especially parts of the world where poverty, disease, and violence are so raw and prevalent,

I began thinking about my own mortality.

When I really sat down and contemplated my own death,

I realized how necessary it was to go on,

how acceptance is the greatest fuel for creating a fulfilling life.

And with becoming so acutely addicted to living,

one’s death cannot deem a tragedy.

To fall in love with a part of the world that so many people hold clenched fists over

became a task so necessary for me to receive a balance in my own existence.

And whatever happens,

as a result,

is better than the nothingness that is inevitable with never leaving.