Roots...roots and rooting. I'll be- well, maybe not the first, but pretty close to- first person to admit that sometimes I lose my way; I lose my focus, my footing, my roots. Life in all of its intricate complexity, twists, turns and such, can really-no, really put a spin on the way we think it should be; the way we envisioned, the way we intended. You know what I mean, right? The kind of shtuff (I'm not afraid of the word "shit" -just so you know-but, I've met my belligerence quota for the week.) that happens between planning and fruition, and after "Plan B". That, my friends, is precisely when life calls for a 90 minute phone call with grandma, a soul-less soul food recipe involving faux pork infusion, and some quiet time, twisting away on sweetly scented scalps.
Some time ago, one of my fellow "transplanted" girlfriends mentioned that she needs to ground herself with her, "New York shit": quarantined in the car alone, with a song or four, thousands of miles from "home" in reality, but in a place, in a space of this-is-as-good-as-it-gets-right-now satisfaction. I think I get it.
Make no mistake, I don't miss NYC, and I am at home here...but, I was missing something; some sort of connectivity was lacking, and my return to the simplicity of rich Gullah convo, cornrows and cornbread (far too many pieces) made me realize, I'm perfectly content and at ease without it, or I found it. Perhaps I never lost it, whatever it was. Forward march...