(circa the beginning of August 2016)
Getting home to Limuru is normally difficult. For those of you who don’t know what Limuru is like, imagine a slightly more tropical version of the Shire mixed with The Great Gatsby. I have a neighbor who lives in a castle overlooking a shanty town, inhabited by tea pickers. However, the extremity of my surroundings isn’t really what shocks me when I get home anymore, though it should. What destabilizes me now is the feeling of an overnight revolution of identity, a disconnect from who I am in the United States and who I am here.
But this time has been more stable. Yes, it does feel like I’m formless, a wave crashing back and forth and back and forth across two opposite beaches. I do feel like an intrinsic part of my subconscious is a delicate bridge, convoluted in strange new weather. But this time around, I’ve decided to brace myself, to embrace it. Hanging over the abyss of uncertainty, I’ve decided to look for the little steps I can take to get me across. My mantra is “just don’t look down.”
So, the past week has been spent at home, not doing much externally but making large strides under the surface.
I decided to work towards a goal of free lancing, specifically as a ghost writer. It’s helping me to feel more confident and to keep moving forward. As a child, I loved this word, “free lance.” It conjured up images of a modern day warrior, surviving, traveling, wandering and taking a stand against various empires. While I don’t think that I’ll be crippling any empires as a freshly birthed high school graduate, I want to be a medium for transformative energy, especially for myself. I want to deeply evaluate what self – imposed tyrannies I’ve subjected myself to.
I’m getting over what felt like being chained to planning a perfect future. I’m stepping into the golden light of the sunset, preparing to march through the night, and wake up alone, in the wild.
Waking up every morning and simply doing something, without the accustomed gravity, feels like jousting. This past week, I fell in love with writing again, and it’s like I’m ramming into the fears that have been paralyzing me. While the recoil sometimes is formidable, the past is starting to shed, like old scales, and I’m regenerating into a more fearless creature. I’m ready to not only advance, but also to fall. The great chess game of independency is beginning. I’m on the ground, a knight, learning how to move. I see the unique spaces I can fill, maneuver, and use to obliterate through the ranks of what is oppressing me.
It’s a mental decision, a choice to outstep myself until everything feels like I’m dancing.
Even if I’ve only contributed a few small words, echoing with ghostly reverberation, at least it’s a start. At least I can feel impassioned and empowered. At least I can sometimes see my invisible armor, a rising star through the mist.