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I'm a weird one, in terms of lineage. I'm a mutt, basically. Irish-Catholic-Australian (largely lapsed) on one side and Jewish-Russian-African (largely non practicing) on the other. I've never really felt rooted in anything - my parents were of the generation and group who left their origins behind them. The group they hung around with were all people in denial of their heritage. I'm the child of that denial. Raised spiritual yet irreligious, and incredibly ignorant of things that people around me simply took for granted - I was sixteen before I finally figured out the difference between a Christian and a Catholic, for example. These were simply not things I was exposed to on any regular basis.
So, earlier this year I went to Ireland. The Irish roots I have are the strongest of the bunch. My tree peters out somewhere between one and three generations back in all other direction - lots of family members who've moved countries and taken new names to escape their past, which makes following up further than that impossible. However, my name on the Irish side is common, the tree is well documented and I was able to find out which areas my family came from (Tipperary county, as it happens).
So, I went 'home' hoping, I think, to find the spirits and gods my ancestors revered. When I got there, I realised pretty quickly that these were not my people. They looked like my Grandparents and Uncles, for sure - but being a weird mutt I don't look like them. I stood out like a sore thumb, despite being able to see my family name inscribed above storefronts and on gravestones - some dating back further than I could even concieve.
I spent time in prayer and communion. I spoke to the spirits of the lands, both Catholic and Pagan. I travelled to misty churches, isolated in the midst of swamps and dedicated to the worship of the goddess and the virgin at different times. I met the old spirits there, let them wash over me.
And they sent me away.
They were polite. They were pleased to see me, for a visit. There was a sense of "Oh look! One of the progigals has dropped in to say hello!" but I wasn't invited in. Their mysteries weren't mine - their mission wasn't mine. They were tied to the land, and I was not of the land. I was a nomad, a wanderer.
No home but the road. No community but that which I create. No path but that I forge for myself.
So now, where does that leave me? That's something I'm still finding out. The voice of my ancestors is strong - even though they're mostly obscured through the sands of time, those recently departed are very close to me. I'm confident they'll help me to meet the ones I never knew. My G.D. work is very natural to me, standing as it does poised between the symbology of my Jewish and Catholic lines.
But I need to find the Gods who support me. Gods without geography. Gods who look to a nomad and recognise him as one of their own. In one sense, finding out more about Judaism and my Jewish roots has helped in that regard. But given I'm not actually Jewish (my Father was, Mother wasn't) even amongst the Jews I stand alone.
Accepting this, though, has been very freeing for me. Realising that in some fashion I am a new thing - tied to my line, but not of it. My path can only be forged by looking ahead - and for a long time, I've looked back in the hope of finding my solutions there. |
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