It’s 5 a.m. as I lay wide awake in darkness. There is a permeating sense of loneliness as my daughter is not in bed next to me. Her grandmother offered to care for her so that I could catch up on some much needed rest.
This week my therapist has been helping guide me into the subconscious layers of my psyche. It hasn’t been an easy process. We are in the process of digging up a lifelong montage of memories in random order, so that I can locate the stored dissonances in my physical body and release the energetic currents that hinder my ability to live life from a place of true freedom.
(( *Side-note: our mind runs the show, if we let it. Our minds think between 60,000 – 80,000 thoughts per day, and the majority of these thoughts are useless and irrelevant. And we wonder we live in such a chaotic world and often find ourselves surrounded by people, including ourselves, who are dissatisfied with their lives because they are floundering for a semblance of peace and calm. ))
The last 24 hours have been replete with a cascade of powerful emotions. Whenever I notice I am clenched, my therapist instructs me to bring oxygen into the brain by breathing consciously and deeply, and to simply notice the sensations that follow the emotions, and where they arise within the physical body. This allows the prefrontal cortex to re-calibrate, rather than the more primitive aspects of brain, namely the amygdala which is the primary center for emotions in the brain-stem region, being given free reign. It seems so simple yet I find it to be one of the hardest practices in the world to implement. Paying attention to the nature of our breath from moment to moment provides us with a deeper self awareness and brings us back to the present.
This morning, I notice a tightness in my throat where a bittersweet lump forms as I am suddenly transported back to a time in which her smooth, chocolate colored skin layered itself on top of my ivory toned body. Her vital heart beat thudded against my thighs, and her eyelashes tickled the tips of my leg hairs that hadn’t been shaved in weeks because we didn’t have access to running water. China was 4 years old. She was dropped at Becky’s Orphanage Home in Ghana, Africa by her grandmother who was unfit to care for her after both her parents were murdered. China and I were inseparable from the moment I set foot on the rust colored soil in the village of Senya-Beraku until the day I left to begin the long journey home to America… a country that no longer felt like home to me because China wasn’t there.
I’ll never forget the instance I laid eyes on her for the last time in person. I sat and watched her breathe and nap peacefully on a concrete floor. Her supple body was covered with a tattered sheet coated with flies. Part of me desperately wanted her to wake so I could see her radiant smile and feel her hands interlaced around my neck while we gave each other the hug of all hugs before the taxi was due to arrive to take me to the airport, while the rest of me was grateful to watch her rest and not have to face peering into her open, solemn eyes one last time. I kissed her on her soft forehead as I confessed my love for her and how deeply I would miss her; I made my way to the car with immense difficulty as I intuitively knew in my heart I wouldn’t see her again. I had to let go. I had to sit with my grief and fear.
I sat in the backseat alone… with my heart shattered and tears streaming down my cheeks as obnoxious African rap music blared through the car speakers and feral chickens crossed the road as the driver swerved left and right to miss them. “Do I leave?” I perpetually asked myself until we pulled up at the airport hours later. It was all I could do to not insist that the taxi driver take me back to the orphanage immediately. I no longer felt whole for my heart had been captivated by the adults and children alike in Senya. I was about to board a plane while a colossal part of me remained in the coastal village I had called home.
I journaled incessantly for the next 72 hours… in airports, on the flights, in the hostels… as a way of releasing my strong emotions and documenting all I had witnessed, learned, and experienced during my time on the Mother continent.
I never knew China’s exact day of birth, but I do know that she is 10 this year, that is, if she is still alive against all odds and adversities that existed for her and the other children at Becky’s Home. It was months and years before she stopped infiltrating my daily thoughts… then it became every week and eventually, every other month or so that she would invade my mind. Lately she has been coming up more and more again. Our time spent together was unparalleled. Our bond… unable to be conveyed through mere words.
For months as I went through nursing school, I had incessant daydreams and fantasies of the orphanage owner showing up outside my lecture hall with China’s hand in his and him handing her hand to me while saying, “She’s here to stay with you, Tasha. She’s home.” No-one had ever captivated my heart and soul like this human:
This morning, in my mind’s eye, I saw a portrait of both my daughter, Ashaya, and the young girl, China, who I considered my daughter for a few months time when I was the young age of 20, adjacent to one another. China was soft and gentle. She shared everything with the 45 other children at the orphanage, even if it was her last morsel of porridge or rice, which is all they lived off of. I yearned for her to develop more of a fierce-ness as it could often be a ‘dog eat dog’ type of environment. I felt fiercely protective of her. She was my little lioness cub. Yet, her one of a kind beautiful nature and spirit proved time and time again to prevail. She was revered by many of the other children, as well as myself. When I observe my daughter now, I see a beautiful intermingling of a softness with a fierce warrior vibe.
I never thought I’d be a mother. I simply didn’t have that urge or incentive. While I always had the drive to be of service and was an innate nurturer throughout my life, I was comfortable playing that role through my line of work as a nurse and through volunteering within communities. Were I to have a change of heart, I always presumed that I would adopt someone like China from a marginalized area. China provided me with my first preview into the joys and sorrows of motherhood – during the weeks I spent with her, day and night, I started thinking… ‘Maybe I do want to be a mother someday, but definitely not until I’ve accomplished X, Y, and Z… not until my life looks like this or that.’ Scratch that idealistic plan…. motherhood came at a time when I least expected it and felt anything but ready, yet I was thankfully able to surrender into it and trust that life was unfolding just as it was meant to – all in divine timing.
Once I was back in America, and re-immersed in my bustling life of academia and intensely focused on procuring the specialized nursing job I was determined to have, the thoughts of motherhood quickly escaped me again.
Clearly, times certainly change! And thank goodness they do. This little ray of sunshine lights my world and has literally saved my life in more ways than one.
