The rosy dawn breaks as the golden light dips onto the treetops like molten gold erupting in a spray of color. The cat chases the hummingbird off the feeder dashing over as if to catch it, her only form of hunting through the screen on the back porch, through her fantasies.

But at least she gets to try. They say indoor cats have a longer life. Hopefully ‘they’ are right. My fantasy of a tribe to claim as my own continues, yet the reality learned once again is that the ‘family’ or origin is not a safe place, nor ever was.

Yet my attempts at reaching out don’t stop, causing pain from acknowledging that being wanted comes with the stamp of dutiful sister hushed by critical inuendoes and other manipulations, disturbing my peace, then dwelling on them for days after foiled tries blaming the uncomfortable interactions on my own failure to connect.

Like (or unlike) Ayla in CLAN OF THE CAVE BEARS, as a child she was torn from her tribe in a quake ending up with a tribe not of her own and was treated as such. They thought her ugly.

Though born into my real tribe, it wasn’t long before becoming one that wasn’t really a family at all, not in the real sense where love, safety, acceptance, and authenticity abound.  

Finding a real tribe has taken time, but is found; my husband, sons, grandchildren and friends, and most importantly a start at feeling at home within.

Or like Dorothy in Oz, “and it’s that if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard; because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with.”

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