on coming home
dear ones,
I am writing to you from my bed. The days here have shortened and I am accepting that earlier bedtimes and rising with the sun may be my winter routine. On Friday, several of my colleagues (now friends) and I celebrated the end of our first semester and the upcoming holiday season. As we were celebrating, an apparently famous photographer asked to snap this photo of me. She wandered into the room because she heard Leon Bridges’ Coming Home echoing from the record player.
A few moments before she landed there in the Record Room with us I’d asked everyone to pick an album from the collection and share a song with the group. Almost instinctively, I headed for the Soul Collection and grabbed Coming Home and Sam Cooke’s Portrait of a Legend. My Mama will probably read this and laugh about all the times I begged to fast forward through Chain Gang or one of her favorites, Having A Party.
Baby, baby, baby
I'm coming home
To your tender sweet loving
You're my one and only woman
The world leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, girl
You're the only one that I want
Bridges’ Coming Home, the title track of his debut studio album, is ballad meets pop meets soul, a song about a lover returning home. The last three months of my life have been many things, but most of all a homecoming. It is strange to think of homecoming when I sometimes feel so far from home. I am coming home to my own tender sweet loving in this season. I am changing.
Sometimes I’m really afraid that the nightmares are more palpable than the dreams. I am talking about Wednesday morning afraid, sitting in my bed, passing my water, and tapping. Other times, I turn on a record and let my hips remind me that the only way through is through. Every now and then, I’m brave enough to ask somebody to dance with me. I am coming home.
About two weeks into my move, I was very homesick. I changed jobs, started Graduate School, and even made a major dietary shift. A beloved of mine reminded me that home is on the inside of me, while holding space for what I was feeling. Some of the most important work for me right now is the work of returning home to myself over and over. I am my own home.
I am changing. I am coming home. I am my own home.
What would it look like if we could come home to ourselves and then make room for others to do the same?
At every turn, I’m a well loved woman, a dream keeper, a memory worker, a friend, worthy. Coming home means leaving relationships that do not offer us the capaciousness we deserve.
At some junctures, my body is weak, aching, alerting, longing, and occasionally downright sick. All the while she is my vessel, a force of wonder, where God meets me. Coming home means honoring my body as the friend and guide she is in every season.
At the rate we are going, I find myself wondering what I will tell my children I did in a wartime. So, I will tell them I came home. Coming home means choosing the symphony of solidarity over the often powerful drum of propaganda.
What does coming home mean for you?
Even on the edge between final papers, projects, and a well deserved break—I choose to come home, today and always.
May we find the courage to come home, to make homes, to be a home.
May tender sweet loving meet us, carry us, lead us on.
Here’s to coming home.
Xo,
Brittany
P.S. I promised more on the important healing work I am doing with beloved, a retreat for + by Black non-men. I’ve decided to share about this special project during my 2nd Annual Virtual Escape Room on 12/29 and you’re invited. Details and R’SVP (Free) here.