Something in the bloodline is calling.
You may not be able to name it precisely. It arrives as a pattern that repeats regardless of how much personal work you have done. As dreams that feel ancient rather than psychological. As a grief that does not belong entirely to this lifetime. As a disconnection from your roots so deep it has become a kind of homesickness for a place you have never physically been.
The ancestors are not silent. They are simply waiting for someone who knows how to listen.
