People always say, “you can’t choose your family.”
I would beg to differ.
Perhaps in the textbook definition of both choice and pedigree, this is mostly fact, unless you are, of course, one of us.
Wanderers: those who are not lost and yet find a family in each other.
Nearly a decade has passed for this hat wearing mama bird. Where, for newcomers and old, I have played the role of shelter from the storm of new experiences. A hand to hold in the case one is needed.
But this weekend, I realized two things:
We are not a family and I am not their mother.
A family, by definition is a sharing of bloodlines, a complementing of genes, a hierarchy of birth orders, referencing lineage and next of kin.
We are not a family.
We are a tribe.
We are an aggregate of people who are largely self sufficient yet intertwined as a community of customs and traditions. A collective sustainability of common values and interests creating a tightly woven network and support system.
We are not bound by bodily secretions.
We are kindred.
We roam together.
We roam in spirit.
And the doors to our hearts, they are always open.