...it seemed like I didn't belong to my self. I felt like a ghost that just hangs around until one day it finds and lives in a real body full of love, confidence and fun to be around.... J.P. and I, ages four and six respectively, were home alone again, this time for the second or third day in a row. Then there was a knock, the firm, authoritative kind. It's usually the cops in these situations, as was the case in ours. Much to my brother's chagrin, and to my secret relief, I opened the door.
We were bounced from home to home amongst relatives who, I believe, creatively shielded us from the pain and revolution of the sixties because I didn't get the honorable chance to march nor raise my little fist and holler the words, Black Power I never felt poor, I was healthy and smart and things just seemed wonderful. So, I was fine, as long as I was with family, especially Daddy. I was his little girl, his princess. He made me feel like a queen. Then one day I was dethroned.
I had become this thing called "foster" child. As a little girl quickly becoming a teenager, I was obsessed with the quest to reclaim my identity as a "normal" person by defying the foster child stigma that would haunt me throughout college life and as a young adult, until I met a world-renowned meditation master. Her teachings would change my life, forever....