Coming Home | Part 1
To come home you must first leave.
As I write to you, I’m in the process of moving my things out of storage to make space for a new beginning, a new home. It’s a tedious, decisive process that’s been a long time coming. There’s no formula for leaving or returning to a place.
In one of my last letters to you I said “Sunshine, water and time was all I needed then. It’s all I crave now.” When I wrote that, I was living in NY and the pandemic was nearing its first year anniversary. The bone-cold of winter was quickly settling in and my feet hadn’t touched sand, grass or the ocean for months.
But it wasn’t just the frigid weather that was getting under my skin. My creative career in advertising didn’t align with passion for climate change storytelling and was increasingly becoming a detriment to my creative integrity, my neighborhood felt claustrophobic and all my tactics for self-care and renewal seemed to be failing. I was living dreams I’d outgrown and feeling disoriented. I was aching to leave the monotony of survival and knew my only hope for restoration was to try and find my way back home, literally and figuratively.
I decided to leave New York and head to Puerto Rico, my father’s home, for a month.
My entire family is from Honduras or Puerto Rico, two Caribbean islands that are among the most at risk for climate change disaster, a reality that has warped my idea of home and belonging.
Returning to my father’s motherland was my attempt at answering the growing ache in my chest to feel at home before home became obsolete. Knowing that the islands I call home likely won’t be habitable in the next few years is deeply unsettling and strange and sad. How to enjoy home now, but also protect and hold it while it morphs?
The last few years have been a time warp and the people, spaces and moments that make home home have also evolved. Still, there is awe in the transition. There are the belly laughs with my homie in her car. The warm cups of lemon water and chats with my cousin while listening to afro beats. There’s the breaking of bread and caring eye contact that says i’m listening. There is the man on the corner of Caton and Flatbush selling coconut jelly and fresh coconut water in twenty three degree weather. These markers are the shape of home that remind me I’m here for much more than any future plans I can conceive. I’m also here for the now.
In my next few letters, I’ll be exploring climate change realities through the stories of different generations of my family and our experiences with island life, sustainability and home. Looking forward to sharing and hearing from you about all of the above.
3 Awe ‘Tings
a short list of awe inspiring content to help you through your week
📖 All We Can Save anthology written and edited by women climate leaders
🎧 This video of these blind and legless men planting a forest
✉️ This interview with Maya Angelou speaking about her writing as work