My children,

You may struggle as I do

To find your place.

I have taken jackhammers to concrete, changed my names, carried my belongings thousands of miles.

I have drifted, high and light, spinning with feather arms, winds carrying me far from home into new lands.

All along, losing myself, catching glimpses of my joy, learning about myself.

I want to meet you on fertile, welcoming soil.

I want to be joyful in my labor. Pointed in my power.

What could father have done? Do we knock on new doors, or do we wait for introductions?