I noticed yesterday, even in the depths of an uncontrollable tantrum of emotion and heartache, that the core of my being remained still and silent throughout it all. I'm not just saying that either, it is absolutely true. I noticed this core of stillness not only when I allowed myself a momentarily reprieve from convulsively crying and yelling but even right smack dab in the middle of my grief, as it shook my body and heart. It's funny how such a core of stillness can be twisted into something spiritual, or something one would set out to attain. How ridiculous! Or better yet, there is the idea that I will remain conscious of this core of stillness for the rest of my days, every moment of every day, only conscious of that and everything else would just happen as if on automatic pilot, working itself out perfectly. Sure, it may sound silly when I write it down, but I promise you it was a dream I ungracefully pursued for many years. To make peace, truth, God, or whatever you may call it into something special for a few to attain is such a tragic mistake, no wonder we all seem to aimlessly wonder through life, without smiles on our face or joy in our heart. We share such a long history together of making life into a struggle to achieve, overcome, conquer and endure. It is as if we believe we left home a long time ago and have wondered so far, stayed away so long that there is no way back. We ask everyone we meet how to get back home and everyone points in a different direction, each lost as well hoping you may have passed their home along your way. Nothing looks familiar, nothing reminds me of the home I left. I imagine what it must have been like, what it will be like when I find it again. Along the way I make the best out of the wondering life, establishing homes away from home, habits that comfort, habits that numb. And yet, I never stop to ask myself, not another, myself, whether or not there ever was a home I left long ago. I tell you this evening, in the midst of my agony yesterday, the clarity of that silent core of my own being was right where my agony was, right where I was. What if I haven't gone anywhere, lost anything, or left a home somewhere? What if I have just been mistaken this whole time? A friend of mine did a radio program today and she talked about the black community and the "New Age Movement." She mentioned how much of the spiritual text of the world, if not all, originated from Africa. I had known that for some time as well, having studied Egyptian history on my own some time ago, but what struck me was that it is not only spiritual text that originated in Africa. Life as we know it, human life, originated there too. All of us, not just those with dark skin today. And yet, look at all that has transpired since the dawn of human kind? The history etched on our faces and embedded in our genes. And yet, where have we gone? How far have we fallen? I would imagine if a human being were capable of feeling the weight, emotion, heartache and despair of our entire span of human history would they not also be aware of this exquisite core of silent being in the midst of it all and realize they may have been mistaken?