A few days ago, I started a new y.a. novel. I should be working on my nonfiction book on healing, South Africa, religion, science–all that jazz, the reason I went to South Africa in the first place. But so much happened to me while I was there, and I interviewed so many people, that it feels like I need a few weeks to synthesize that information, to process the new changed me.

That is, if I am changed.

Except…I know I am. I just haven’t entirely figured out how yet. I had a few epiphanies while I was gone. Some things inside of me broke, but in a good way. Some things inside of me feel calmer now. And one of the first things I did when I got back was buy an orange tree to honor my ancestors–actually, two particular ancestors, my great-grandfather on my father’s side and a child that my mother miscarried–like a sangoma that I visisted advised me to do.  We planted it last week in the front yard. 

 I’m aware more than ever that hokey-ness has nothing to do with whether a thing is true or not. Still, I hate hokey. Which is why all we did is dig a hole and plant the tree and now we’ll watch it grow.

The story of how I visited a sangoma, an African traditional healer, and why I believed what she had to say about my life–that’s a long story, one that will surely be in the book, but one I’m not ready to tell yet. At least not here.

But I can say that I like seeing that orange tree out there in my front yard. I like knowing that it will grow tall and strong, and bear fruit for many years to come, even after I’ve moved away.

I like honoring the people who came before me, reminding myself of what they did for me–and what they might still be doing for me.