Finding our way home


“I have no right to call myself one who knows.  I was one who seeks, and I still am, but I no longer seek in the stars or in books; I’m beginning to hear the teachings of my blood pulsing within me.  My story isn’t pleasant, it’s not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories; it tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.” ~ Herman Hesse

Finding our way home

I am German.
I am English.
I am French.
I am Dutch.
I am Cherokee.
I am Scottish.
I am Irish.
I am from the red, clay hills of Mississippi.
I am from the marshes of New Orleans.
I am a seltzer truck driver.
I am a seamstress.
I am a stevedore.
I am a Bourbon Street musician.
I am a farmer.
I am a logger.
I am a potter.
I am a department store manager.
I am a housewife.
I am a textile worker.
I play minor league baseball.
I play the fiddle.
I teach shape-note singing.
I taught myself to play the piano singing hymns.

And I realize,
I am a hymnal to my ancestors…

And I realize,
the music that makes America’s song
is still being written.

An experiment.
Will it last?

Ask your great grandchildren.

We are all immigrants.
We are all finding our way home.

Written by Lindsay Wilson, January 2017


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