Migration as A Movement
what the butterflies and birds and countless beings know.
mi·grate:
(of a bird or animal) move from one region or habitat to another according to the seasons.
(of a person) move to a new area or country in order to find work or better living conditions.
At its core, migration is survival. And in its flight is determination. A pressure to persevere because there is no turning back now. No money to go back and only means to make a way. On this journey, rest is rare for those on the move. As is safe shelter and the next meal. All in search for a patch of green land to serve as refuge. Even if for a night.
The birds in the city know this best. Resources far and few between, Fighting to maintain their place in the sun becomes a way of survival. A place to rest for the flock. For birds near and far to also find safety from flight. Many species sharing the same feeder. What was once separate is now all one.
We are all birds of a feather seeking survival. Seeking safety.
To move to and from. Living. Habitat. Seasons. Conditions.
We are not separate from the natural world. We are the natural world.
We are a living, breathing, habitual species who move and migrates for better conditions.
Migration is as natural to the living as death. Movement to sustain. The body, primed to know when to stay or when to leave, can sense danger before the threat comes into the mind’s eye.
It is the way of the matriarch to hold memory in the womb, of life past and future. To see a way even in the dark. The elephants of the African savanna know this. Our grandmothers did too. My grandmother knew it was time to leave the South and convinced my grandfather the same. “My bones said go,” her spirit told me, “The same way they tell me when rain is coming.”
Like the shift in the wind, our body has ways of signaling to us when change is ahead. A change in direction, a thickness in the air, and a subtle intensity.
As a storm gains momentum in the distance, the winds will warn you of its arrival. The leaves know when to let go, the birds know when to fly south, the monarchs make their great journey knowing not all will make it to the end. The people of the South knew when it was time to go north; the East to the west when they heard there was gold to be found. All in hopes of a better life, a more comfortable existence, safer ground to stand.
These are the foundations of movements.
Hope is fueled by courage. Stepping out of the familiar in hopes of a distant dream with the courage to believe and make it a reality. These are the steps we walk in. The path paved by ancestors near and far. Human and more than human. It is what binds us as a planet. Our ability to move, to migrate to higher ground.
For many, the motivator is opportunity; for others, it is survival. Sometimes they are one and the same. The hopes and promises of opportunity make way for survival. People don’t often want to leave home unless home is the very thing that threatens their livelihood.
What promises your living if not the sanity of your heart?
Time doesn’t exist when one has their heart set on the horizon. When you are moving from one reality to another, your focus is on what is ahead; there is no time to look back. Before you know it, you’ve traveled miles, crossed borders you didn’t know existed. You look up and there is a whole life behind you. Time stood still while you kept moving. Your face is different, but the eyes of the little child still shine. What is time when the life in your mind makes its way to the heart and you are standing at the shore waiting for your ship in the distance?
Is your heart not a beating thing made from the pulse of this Earth?
Do we all not share the same Womb? The one crying for her children who have forgotten that they all come from her.
Migration is as normal as death. A sacrifice often made for hopes and promises of better life. And now people are facing death for the very thing that brought them here. Freedom.
Who’s to say who is worth loving based on the dialect of their tongue and who they cry Mother to?
Be good to yourselves and your neighbors, too.
I spent the winter with the birds and butterflies, with migrants, with many who sought refuge. Some with wings, others who wave. My journey led me to the land that holds the oldest wildlife refuge in the United States; Oakland, California. Home to many who sought shelter after the storm. The river is flowing again and I am following it. I’ll share more with you. Origin stories retrieved along the journey. Themes woven in the tapestry of lifetimes.
Like ships passing in the night, I’ll see you at the shore.
Grace
fantastic writing
A beautiful ancient truth. Thank you Grace!