Somewhere back in the generations
of your family,
someone ran away:
from the guns of an army,
from an abusive marriage,
from the whips of Pharoah,
from a poor town with nothing,
from a nameless dread,
from the everyday lies and casual hate of the world.
Someone ran away, so that you could be
Home.

Some got away
with their bodies,
some, chained to the plantations of utter control,
got away only with the seeds of what may come.

None got away unscarred.
The blood on the door stains for life.

Your life is your own possession, to be taken in freedom.
But it is also a commentary on the holy text of their lives.
Remember their lives in the body of your being.
Call the past forth with sacred names,
and live.
You are free,
tangled not by chains,
but by memory,
and by the obligation to take your place
in the generations, always trying
to draw milk and honey from a promise.

Never forget the journey has not finished for some,
has not begun for others.
The journey, taken in paces of the heart,
is your calling and your bloodline.
Somewhere on the other side of the raging oceans of time,
a presence waits
for you to call this place
Home.