Bare threads criss-cross, piercing soft earth’s surface, sprouting roots of varying lengths and width as they shoot downwards. Ground hardens. Tree sits atop, creating shade through its height and might. Roots continue to travel deep and wide.
I feel a presence.
Who is there? He does not yet exist in this world, an unborn child in his mother’s womb.
He invites me to lay down my roots here, with him, and his family. It’s as if he knew I would doubt his existence. And so, he brought his father, just in case. A clever child. He is here to invite me, with his father by his side. “Will you be my godmother?”
His mother is absent, because she already asked me months ago. A decision I’ve been mulling over. “No” being the default answer. Now, all three implores me.
Saying yes is a commitment to South Africa. A contradiction. I’ve been thinking of uprooting myself and moving back to Korea or the USA. On top of the black chalkboard of a load bearing wall, I had etched my future in white chalk: “Be in Korea by 1 January 2024”.
Saying yes would mean laying down my roots and coming back. A lifelong responsibility I cannot take lightly.
I exercise my free will to accept the universe’s invitation to integrate into my truest self. To commit to a place with a violent past (so similar to motherland) with the power to heal and flourish. With all its imperfections and impermanence.
Still, we smile.
Here, we walk barefoot, plants and small flowers growing between our toes, through the tough soil, texture changing with the comings and goings of the rain.
This love letter is dedicated to our joyful gardener. A small bundle of joy no longer tiny, as he grows strong and tall, just like the tree I saw in my heart. Thank you for showing me my way home. Into my heart, into yours. South Africa, I love you.
I was in deep meditation, sitting on a black cushion, next to my dining room table, in the middle of afternoon, a daily practice. I open my eyes. I call your mother to accept your invitation.
You were meant to join us middle of April, but I had a feeling it was too soon. I joked you’d be born on the Fourth of May. So that I could be that cheesy aunt rhyming fourth with the force of a Jedi every birthday.
You are overdue, or maybe you were right on time.
May the force be with you.
11 is a palindrome. Double manifestations. Two equals walking side by side, holding hands. Skipping as they go, giggling along the way.
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