Sacred Place for the Broken

     

   

     My sacred place is my fathers' house located in Jackson, New Jersey.  Growing up as a child, I suffered at the hands of my stepfather.  When ever my sister and I were able to visit my father in NJ, it was a place where we could breathe.  We were able to just be kids at this house; no responsibilities, no fears, and no pain (except for little cuts and scrapes every now and then from our adventures in the forest).  Here we could stay up all night, run around the yard, eat anything we wanted, and embrace our childhood.

      My home with my mom and stepfather was filled with anxiety, fear, pain; it was just very volatile.  I remember at night asking my mom and stepfather over and over again why they "disliked" me, but I would always receive the same answer, "We don't 'dislike' you, we love you." My mother never did anything to hurt  me, but she never saved me either and neither did my father.  It seemed as if my stepfather was a dark cloud that had descended upon my sister and I, a force that could not be stopped.

     The Native Americans value sacred places because the land has its own spirit and in each place the memories of their ancestors have imprinted on the land.  Many of my positive childhood memories are attached to that house in New Jersey where I always felt safe, but due to some extenuating circumstances, I've lost my sacred land, something the Native Americans and I have in common.  On a positive note, I have made an effort to create a new sacred space for myself and this time... I won't let it go.