Kumbaya

The word Kumbaya originates from Africa and was primarily sung during the 1940s and 50s, when slavery was in it’s peak in America. The word literally means: come by here and it was meant to be of spiritual comfort during hopeless times. When I was little this was my favorite song. Not because it was uplifting or fun to sing and dance to, but because it was my song of protection. My song I would hum quietly to myself when loud screams and smashes filled the house and sleeping was an impossibility. It was my song when the basement became my enemy and my knees, my best friend. My song of desperation, the only words of comfort. Every time the word kumbaya escaped my lips, I imagined waves of water exploding from my mouth, creating an entire ocean between me and the fists. I imagined magic forcefields spraying out of my teeth, surrounding me with impenetrable protection. I imagined kumbaya turning everyone around me and every word they spoke into sand at my feet, for me to walk on, bury myself in, build sandcastles on. I imagined the largest pair of arms, sent directly from the most pure and holy of places, arms made of light and love, separating me, holding me, carrying me to a field of wildflowers, where music and dance were required; where rainbows were slides, water was crystal, and hugs were constant. It was always strange to me that when I was hurting most, a hug from my own self seemed to calm me some. I felt warm, whole, alive, while sometimes I very much did not want to be these things, my arms around my little legs were a secure reminder that I was still breathing, that I was still loved. That if I could love myself, then I absolutely was capable of being loved and loving back.

A couple nights ago, I couldn’t sleep. My sleep schedule was all messed up from night shift and I was frustratingly exhausted. I started humming kumbaya and the tears started to slowly and cooly, trickle down my face. Then without warning the clouds darkened, rolling in, lightning bared it’s teeth and thunder roared from my chest. My body heaved with the rain streaming down my cheeks, soaking my pillow, my blanket. And as I slowly began to catch my breath, I grew very uncomfortably aware of the crater that was still present in my heart; the one I feel I work to fill and repair everyday, still there, still active, still empty. But it feels different now. It doesn’t scare me like it used to. I allow it to let me feel sad because sad is absolutely what I should feel and while it feels like it just might some day, that sadness in that crater has yet to defeat me. And kumbaya has yet to fail me in creating a massive conflict in my chest between hope and tragedy. But, as I pulled my knees gently in closer to my core, tucking them securely beneath my chin, I remember how very much alive I am and how that life has grown to become a very large crater filled with love.