A pilgrimage to my fatherland

I remember the very first time I went to Morocco. In fact, I remember it in vivid detail, winding down the taxi window and seeing a mother, father, and young boy on a moped with tonnes of chickens stacked in box cages. I remember getting out of the taxi and lifting my head up to be confronted by a donkey's large, moist tongue. I remember the sensory overwhelm of the sounds and smells, the swarms of people and the souks. I had travelled quite a lot by then, but boy, it was a cultural immersion if I had ever experienced one. I was about seventeen when I went to my fatherland for the first time, curious about discovering who I was, given I had grown up estranged from my father. At some point, I would receive a message on Facebook from a family member telling me they knew I was in Morocco and my grandmother would like to meet me.

I never replied, and I never met my grandmother.

A few months back, I found myself telling my close friends this story. For the first time, I named something I hadn't realised was weighing heavy on my heart, "I really regret that I never said yes to that invitation." Trying to justify my decision, I continued, "I just couldn't get past the fact that I had never met my dad, and it would be strange to meet anyone else in my family before meeting him." A friend kindly suggested compassion for my teenage self, the one making these big decisions on my own, unaware or capable of knowing the consequences of that decision. Another friend mentioned, "Her presence is really strong; I can feel her in the room. She wants to connect with you", and before we knew it, we were talking about going to Morocco.

I don't know what happened next, but suddenly, at the end of October, we found ourselves talking about the trip again. Could we catch the last of the summer sun? Before long, we were finding a friend to look after the dogs, and on Samahain, of all days, we booked our flights to go at the end of November. We planned out our entire holiday, the mayhem of Marrakech to start with, an overnight trip to the desert in the middle, and the end of the trip was an easeful stay in the port city of Essaouira. However, I had managed to book all our hotels apart from the dessert. Some otherworldly force was delaying me from getting it booked. So I waited and waited until one day when a friend opened my Akashic records. She said, "Alex if you have time, you have to go and visit your grandparents' graves while you're there, especially your grandmothers."

Somewhere deep down, I knew this was true. I had indeed done the ancestral pilgrimage to my motherland, and my mother had even asked when I would do my fatherland. I had even thought I would do it back-to-back straight after Colombia, knowing it would be hard to build up the courage to do such deep and frankly difficult work, but I was swiftly reminded by friends what the first trip had cost me. But this time was different; I wasn't going alone, and it wasn't my first rodeo. So, I messaged my Dad, "Dad, I'd like to go and visit my grandparents' grave. Where are they buried?" I had checked in with Emma, who I was travelling with, well aware that we were meant to be on holiday, but I think we both knew it was unlikely to 'just' be a holiday knowing what mythic adventure I'd been on in Colombia and the magic that seemed to trail me now.

Plans were made, and dates were set. We were no longer going to the desert; we were going to Casablanca, where my father's family are from. We headed there by train two nights after landing in Marrakech's Mayhem. At the train station, we swapped selfies on WhatsApp, given I'd never met any family. An uncle arrived with a young man who introduced himself as my cousin. It had just been earlier that Emma and I were wondering if he was married or had children. Maybe he lives by himself. We arrived at my grandparents' apartment, where we headed to the top floor to be greeted by about ten family members. There were kisses, hugs, and smiles. We sat down for dinner, and our hands were washed at the table. At some point, I turned to my uncle and said, "My Dad says we're very alike. We both write, we both paint, and we're both spiritual. What's your story?"

The following day, we headed to my grandparents' grave. Emma and I were lent some shawls to cover our hair. Earlier that day, I met another uncle who would be joining us with his wife. We walked and walked until we got to the grave. I knelt down, and discreetly placed some herbs and leaves from the garden of my home. Prayers were made, and I cupped my hands on their instruction. Tears filled my eyes at the grief of a loss I never imagined I would ever feel. A man from the cemetery began to pour water on the grave, and I stopped him and asked if I could do it. Water was poured, bowls were cleaned, and prayers continued. As things came to an end, we were leaving, and I could sense the grief rising in me until I turned and fell into Emma's arms, crying, "Thank you for the choices you made to bring Alex to us," she whispered to them as we walked away.

"What a thing to think of how many choices had to be made for my grandparents to meet and have my father. So many possibilities for us not to exist, yet here we are."

My grandparents had been buried separately as the grave my grandfather was buried in was full. When we arrived at the entrance of the following cemetery, we were waiting to get the location of my grandmother's grave. About three women entered and began handing out handfuls of dates and dried figs. As I munched away, the most striking man sat on the bench at the entry, the threshold keeper, I wondered. We were then ushered to what I can only describe as a motorbike with an open trailer and a set of garden chairs on the back. I climbed onto a garden chair to get onto the back, and we all huddled together as it began to drive through the cemetery. We were all laughing at what was clearly a novel and authentic experience. When we arrived at the area she was located in, it took a while to find my grandmother's gravestone. Eventually, we did.

It turned out no one had visited her grave since she'd died over ten years ago. It also turned out no one had visited my grandfather's grave until recently. We wondered what the Muslim customs were for tending to the ancestors. Many thanks had been given for the inadvertent push my visit had made for my family to reconnect with their passed loved ones. We headed home for lunch, and after my cousin's wife dressed me in Moroccan attire and wrapped my head with a scarf, we went to the mosque. It turned out to be closed, so we continued our marathon of greetings across town, more cousins, aunts, family friends, and neighbours. That same evening, which was to be our last night, my uncle asked, "Why don't you have our surname?" I replied, "It's funny you should say that. Before leaving for this trip, I decided to add it back on my return. I took it off because I never thought I'd meet you all."

"It's important" he replied.

"I know," I said.

With love and magic,

#AuthenticAlex

We have two spots left for a magical immersive weekend focusing on soulful nourishment, story weaving, exploring power and intuition. You are invited to join me and my wonderful friends Emma Collins , Kate Fismer , at The House at The Edge, a beautiful cottage in the South Downs National Park.

If you feel called to explore mythtelling, ceremony and ritual.

If you’re longing to be rooted and claimed by place and to deepen your relationship with the more than human and unseen worlds.

If you seek the profound, the mystical, and the otherworldly.

We are laying a place at our table for you.

If you're interested in finding out more, head here and if you can't make that date, you can join us in March .