I did not fear the spirits—restless souls, entities and hellhounds—that roamed about our childhood home in my youth, or those that followed me into love. Yet, I feared the makings of my own restless spirit, my demons, my tribe’s maternal traumas, and many attachments—spiritual ones, mental ones, and physical ones. Those fears lead me to fear my greatest joy, one I had only spent countless moons and seasons wishing, praying and meditating upon—a chance at motherhood, a chance at carrying love in my womb and baring a child to crown—a chance many said I could and would never have. I feared my consort having to settle for a life with only me—as if that was not the first and only life he had set out to live when we first sat by those October train tracks sipping on Jamaican Me Happy. I had to give up my fears, my worries, my self-doubts, my addictions—all of my inhibitions. We had to throw away our futile manmade cares, let our freedom hang out, and look back to our stars, our planets, our moons, and our many aspects—those that had first charted our way—and we had to fall back into us.