Particles of Light: Journey to Self-Actualization part 1

Memories. Sometimes so vague they seem mystical. Recalling the pieces can feel akin to entering another life or dimension; familiar and faint. I remember meeting my father. Ain’t that something, I can remember meeting my father. I was a young toddler, somewhere between the ages of 2 and 4. Though I remember this particular meeting, I know it wasn’t our first. There were pictures, in our home, before it burned when I was 5. Pictures of me, and him. Me, an adorable, chubby baby with legs like burst biscuits, hair dark and curly, and him, this white man with a dark brown Jheri curl. I can’t put my hands on that picture, but I remember it with great detail. It’s so memorable to me because he looked so happy. I don’t know how an emotion can be captured in a photo, but his contentment and excitement was evident.

Daddy. A word I didn’t use much growing up. My mother was in a 7–8 year relationship (they separated when I was like 8 or 9)and though I generally called him by his name, there were times, as a young child, I elected to call him daddy. But at some point, I knew he wasn’t my father. My mother’s father was one of the only father figures I had and we’d travel the two hours to my…