So much has happened during the past 5 months. Thank you to all of you who continue to drop me a line, a thought, a hello.  

I recently returned from the Associated Writer's Conference (AWP) in Atlanta where I was part of a panel on the ancestral voice in African American poetics. I talked about the ways in which priests and priestesses would have been selected and trained to remember histories in order to pass that information on or be reborn to retell it. This would have been extremely important during the Transatlantic Slave Trade.

I have become more conscious of this idea of memory and time these past few months because my last living aunt has lost both her memory and awareness of time. The last few months have been spent supporting family through this difficult passage. 

Of course, we are all thinking: Who among us knows the old stories, the names, the locations, the meanings of things? Do we know how to make the black rum cake? the bake? the sorrell? Just so. And, when we tell her we love her, does she understand? Does she even know our names?

I'm a practical person. This generally means find a solution to the problem first, cry later. I'm still in the find-the-solution phase. If I let myself think too much that this is an ongoing issue in my family, I will become overwhelmed with the responsibility to remember anything and everything that my own children might one day want to know.

Spiritually, it brings home to me over and over again the necessity to continue the work I do as poet, healer, priestess. It is my duty. The obligation to remember for the collective has become very personal and so I find myself re-understanding and re-evaluating the meaning of the collective and the types of collectives to which I belong.  Is there a place where they meet so I don't have to choose my allegiances? Do I have to choose?

Oddly enough, the lines of the larger collective and my family collective merge, blend, root in similar places. Choosing which is not a concern. However, choosing how and when and how much at any time so that I do not exhaust myself does become a concern.

The only way through is through. I do this with a good deal of support spiritually and physically. I am grateful every day for new connections, new breaths; the newest small thing that catches my eye to remind me that life continues. Ifa, Reiki, poetry continue to teach me that nothing ever dies. The body continues to hold memory and teach us things long after we have forgotten or denied them.

One day soon, when my aunt has returned to the US, I will hold her.  The smallest cell in her body, her little toe, the wrinkle in her finger will tell me what she will never be able to access again.

For those of you who will be in Chicago next week:

I am doing a one-hour intro workshop on
What's In Your Chakra: Understanding the Body's Memory

Maybe you might be able to make it?


tuesday, sept 26, 6 p.m.
soothe your senses day spa (great little place run by family from new orleans)
6260 N. Broadway
(block or so north of granville in a new condo building on the corner, south west corner)

IPlease RSVP: 773-262-4246 (and let me know too as I'm making materials)
limited seating

thanks much for your support.

pass it on!

coral sunsets and blue moon nights,
-Abegunde

Parade Magazine ran a story this morning on if you had one day with someone who is gone, who would it be and what would you say. Instead of sending it to them, I'm posting it here.

If I had one day with someone who's gone...   It would be my mother, Linda Theresa Daly Hamilton. November 29, 2006, marks the 27th anniversary of my mother's death. I was 14, my sister was 11. She had been ill for at least the last four years of her life. She loved the color orange.    

I would return home to Grenada (West Indies) with her and sit on Bathway or Telescope Beach. I would eat mangoes with her after washing them in the ocean. I would rub my silver bracelets clean with sand the way she taught me, and then clean our feet and hands the same way.  

I would tell her how grateful I am for her visits in my dreams to let me know everything will be fine, and let her know that my father has never forgotten her visit to him one evening when he thought he couldn't make it one more day to feed, cloth, and school two little girls. I'd tell her how much my sister misses her and looks like her, all classy and beautiful.  

I'd tell her about my Brasilian husband and I know she'd laugh and be happy for me: Her father lived in Brasil and talked about it until he died. I'd ask her to pray for the children on the way, and ask if she would be returning to me as a daughter.  

My mother was a fantastic recorder of all the places she visited and public events, so I would show her my journals and all the pictures of places in the world I've visited, my features on public tv and radio, my history making voyages. I'd let her know that after living in other countries I understand how hard it must have been for her to leave home and adopt a new country.  

And, before our time was up, I'd show her my work as a healer and a priestess. My mother was a nurse. She knew how she was dying but could not help herself. We were too young to understand. I'd let her know I was following in her footsteps.  

I would show her how I never turn away from or walk past anyone who looks ill or lost on the street. I remember when someone brought her home too weak to walk another block. It is the kindness of strangers when I was a child that taught me compassion.  

I'd tell her how I listen to the Universe and Ancestors for messages. I'd show her all the things I've learned to help people become clear about their lives or to give them the courage to walk away from things that hurt them. I'd show her how my hands can help reveal illnesses and the causes of illnesses so people can get help before they are completely ill.

I'd show her the miracles that have happened when people visit me.   I'd touch her body all over, letting her know that if she were still alive this is what I would do to help her - that now I know how to help her. Now, 27 years later, I am an adult and now I know how to love her and be loved by her.  

More than anything, I would thank her for dying when she did. Even at 14 I had understood that her death broke a cycle of violence. That without her death I would not have lived. I would thank her for being the ultimate good mother: sacrificing her life for her daughters so they would know happiness and joy one day.   

The work I am able to do is from the guidance of her and all my Ancestors. I would thank her for not abandoning me and for the undying love that only the Ancestors can provide.

Today, I could not resist walking outside or sitting on a bench in the park near my home.  The pleasure in the day is not only the sunshine and cool weather, or the lake across the street.  It is the smiling at complete strangers that creates new relationships. I enjoy this aspect of my life very much. A hello.  A smile.  A can I help you. People are always so surprised. The women are wary or pleased. The men immediately begin checking me out for the possibilities. There is no in between.

I realize more and more how distant we are as a community from the days of my youth on a small island where everyone knew everyone and knew your business before it even got done. The thought of walking down the road and not speaking was not entertained.  Disrespectful. Disconnecting. Disruptive. To the family and to the community.

The older I get, I long for this community.  I recreate it as much for myself and others who don't even know they are missing it. This makes for very interesting conversations about lives otherwise hidden. 30 minutes on the bus next to a willing stranger and you can learn a language you never heard of or laugh so hard at an immigrant's story that you forget that you lost your bank card. You can learn that your next door neighbor is a master gardener who is willing to teach you - if you teach him how to samba.

Truth be told:  I've met some of my best friends and lovers this way.  20 years later, the lovers are friends and the friends are still friends. And my life is more enriched than I could have ever hoped for - or if I had simply walked down the street avoiding the eyes of everyone who avoided mine.

Tell me a story of a smile or a hello that opened a door along the path of your destiny.

-Abegunde

There is so much healing to be done that if all of us in the world were to actively contribute to healing ourselves, communities, the world, we would still need more people.  Really, we would need more children, more ocean, more clear sky.  But, I know healing is possible. It is necessary.