Mindful Miles

I have relocated many times, crossing borders and oceans to build new nests, but the truth remains: I am deeply, achingly homesick. I walk for miles every day, tracing the pavements of this new life, yet no matter how far I travel, these miles never lead me closer to where I began. I am haunted by the “inevitable absence”—the quiet grief of knowing that back home, life is unfolding, faces are aging, and memories are being woven into a tapestry that I will never get to touch.

Lately, I find myself seeking home in the small things. I smile at the sight of a globe, my finger tracing that familiar line down the map like a prayer, a silent path back to my roots. My heart quickens at the sight of an ornament shaped like a drum, its silent rhythm echoing the pulse of my people. I fell in love with a piece of wall art—three women in vibrant, storied attires, carrying calabashes that hold more than just water; they hold a heritage.

I have stood frozen before a miniature hourglass, mesmerized by the concept of time—how it allows us to pour our whole hearts into one place today, only to demand we begin again elsewhere tomorrow. In the center of my home, I have fallen in love with a kitchen mat. It features five hens that my children and I have claimed as our own. I have named mine Ọdún. In my language, this means Festivity; it means The Year; it means the sacred cycle of celebration. Every time I stand upon it, I am transported back to the laughter of my loved ones, to the shared meals, and the warmth of a home that didn’t need to be searched for.

We are all growing older, separated by miles that the heart cannot reconcile. So this year, my soul has a single, urgent craving. I don’t just want a new year; I want Ọdún. I want the celebration of being present. I crave the hugs that don’t have to end, the sounds that settle in the spirit, and the warmth of a home that is no longer a memory, but a reality.

I am ready for the festival to begin.