The Dominican Republic is my holy land, my Mecca.

More than anything, this place feels familiar. I bury my hands in the hot sand and think about the embodiment of memory or, more specifically, our natural ability to carry the past in our bodies and minds. Individually, every grain of sand brushing against my hands represents a story, an experience, and a block for me to build upon for the next generation. I quietly thank this ancestor of mine for surviving the trip so that I could one day return.

The things that come to us easily, our propensities, are carried on a deep subconscious level into our next life. There are no coincidences.

When we illuminate the road back to our ancestors, they have a way of reaching out, of manifesting themselves...sometimes even physically.

Individually, every grain of sand brushing against my hands represents a story, an experience, and a block for me to build upon for the next generation.

This thing I am feeling, I’m almost certain, is the closest I’ll ever come to standing somewhere in between truth and reconciliation.