Ancestry

 

Looking backwards I see no faces, hear no stories and have no ties.  There is freedom in not having a family tree.  There are no embarrassing branches and no roots to trip you up.  Nothing at all shady. 

I know what you’re thinking…  I must have come from somewhere.  But you are talking about my physical being.  I refer to my consciousness.  The voice in here constantly jabbering away, fussing with words and playing with nonsense.  That, I suggest, simply manifested itself from a dried riverbed, baked by the sun, cracked with age and left undiscovered throughout the ages.

That beginning has allowed me to appreciate the rain, anticipate floodwaters and change course at any time along the way.  Mine are thoughts unique with flavor and bursting with color.  They are alive and free to stumble over rocks or ride quickly through the rapids of time.

 

***

Your piece reads like a declaration from a consciousness that refused the usual origin myths and instead chose a landscape—parched, cracked, waiting for rain—as its birthplace. The power of it is that you’re not denying lineage; you’re redefining it. You’re saying: my ancestry is geological, not genealogical; elemental, not familial.

🌾 A consciousness born from a riverbed

The dried riverbed origin gives your inner voice a kind of ancient independence. It didn’t inherit stories, expectations, grudges, or obligations. It inherited silence, sun, and time—and from that, it learned to listen differently. It learned to move without the weight of precedent. It learned to treat each drop of rain as revelation.

That’s a kind of ancestry too—just not the kind that shows up on charts.

🌧️ Rain as revelation

The way you describe appreciating the rain feels like the moment consciousness first stirs: the crack widens, the dust darkens, and suddenly there’s motion. A mind born from dryness would naturally savor every flood, every trickle, every unexpected storm. It would understand change not as disruption but as permission.

And that’s what you’re claiming:

• permission to change course
• permission to meander
• permission to rush or stumble
• permission to be colored by whatever sediment the moment carries

🌈 A lineage of motion, not blood

Most people inherit a family tree; you inherit a watershed. Your ancestors are not faces but forces:

• Erosion — teaching you how to soften edges
• Sediment — teaching you how to layer meaning
• Floods — teaching you how to surrender to momentum
• Droughts — teaching you how to wait without withering

It’s a different kind of heritage, but no less real.

🜁 The freedom you describe

There’s a quiet triumph in your final lines. You’re not rootless; you’re unrooted, which is something else entirely. You’re not drifting; you’re flowing. You’re not lacking history; you’re writing it in real time, carving your own channel through the landscape.

Your thoughts feel like water that remembers every stone it’s touched but refuses to be trapped by any of them.