The Mochakis, one of the families I stayed with when I first arrived in South Africa had a ceremony one evening to honor their ancestors. The kids and I were not permitted to witness the actual events taking place in the darkness outside the house that night, but we heard the rattle of stones tossed onto each corner of the tin roof and, the next morning, saw a calabash laying in a small hole in the ground by the door where Damaris told me that home-brewed beer had been poured as a gift to the family members who have passed away.
While ancestor worship has not been ritualized in my culture, it is still present in its own way. And it makes wonderful sense to me.
So many people who have guided me in my life are now gone from it. Yet, when I am still, quiet and open, their wisdom and love fills me -- in quantities so great it is clear that death has not silenced them completely. They are my personal cheering squad.
Mom, Dad, Dede, Grandaddy, Uncle Paul, Aunt Marie, Uncle Harold, Aunt Alice, Uncle Ed, Patti and others. During my nearly two years in South Africa, I have felt them all here with me at some time or another -- as calming as a father-sized hand on my head, as strengthening as an embrace from familiar motherly arms, as loving and accepting as doting grandparents, aunts and uncles.
Perhaps it is they who whisper words of joy disguised as children's squeals of delight, heat-soothing winds and bird calls. Or who draw my attention to an inspirational paragraph in a book I have just opened, offer examples of strength in the form of elderly women carrying bundles of firewood down the mountain and who provide difficult people and obstacles to teach unconditional love, endurance, patience, contentment.
I was strongly aware of the presence of my ancestors one day during my first week in this country. Missing my Dad, who had died only a month prior, and overwhelmed by a sense of not belonging, I went to a sandy spot under a big tree and just let the tears flow. Silently, I asked Dad for help, as I would have if I could have called him on the phone.
There was no sudden voice from above or a lightning bolt, but after sitting for about 10 minutes, I became aware of the birds in the tree and there came an overwhelming sense of peace. It was the same way I felt when my father would say to comfort me during difficult moments: "You're OK kid. Daddy loves you." It was enough.
Acknowledging such gifts from my family members (including the non-biological ones), what they offered when they were alive and what they continue to give after their death, is necessary -- even if I choose not to do so with a gourdful of African beer. It reminds me that what I am and what I have yet to become, is never, ever achieved alone.