Anchored and Rerooted

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry eleven.

Can a root still nourish you if it never knew how to hold you?
Can blood be both legacy and lesson?
Can you grow toward the sun
while still brushing the bones of what first fed you?

Yes.
You are doing it already.

Even when the ache still visits,
sits beside you unannounced,
like a shadow long familiar—
you keep growing.

You stretch toward something unnamed,
a light you didn’t learn from them,
but found anyway.

You reroot not out of rebellion,
but out of truth.
Out of the longing to become
what you were always meant to be.

* * * * *

What am I holding onto that no longer feeds me?
At first, the answer was nothing.
But that was my ego speaking—quick to defend, quick to preserve the illusion of wholeness.

Then I sat longer.
And I saw it.

The desire to be noticed.
Not just generally, but by my family.
The wish to be seen, accepted, folded into something I never quite felt part of.

Even as I reroot—growing new limbs, blooming in light of my own choosing—
those original roots run deep.
And maybe they don’t feed me now.
Maybe they never fully did.
But they are part of my foundation.

So I ask:
Can I honor the anchor,
without mistaking it for the whole tree?

Can I let those blood roots remain where they are—
buried in history, imperfect and unmoving—
while letting my soul sprout elsewhere?

Rerouting isn’t rejection.
It’s redirection.
It’s reverent release.

And I think the answer is yes.
Yes, I can be both.

Anchored.
And rerooted.

* * * * *

Some days, the ache returns—not because I’m lost, but because I’m learning to see clearly. The mind is powerful. It can hold two truths at once: where you came from and where you're headed.

There’s a moment in the journey where you can no longer unknow what you’ve seen. Where oblivion is no longer possible. This is the sacred mess of becoming.

I don’t know what comes next—and that’s the beauty. There is no prediction, only presence.

Some days are quiet, full of surrender. Some days, it’s a battle between my old skin and the new one still forming. But I let the process unfold.

I write to share. I write like breathing—without planning, without apology. I collect the lessons, even the ones I don’t yet understand.

And I trust: when it’s time, the path will appear.

Nature speaks, the universe whispers, and the spirit within responds. This is where I am.

Anchored.
And rerooted.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai