Soul Honey, Ancestors, and the Limits of Understanding
I went to the Salif Keïta concert last night. Alone. I love doing things alone. As I was looking for my seat, a friend suddenly stood in front of me. We were both delighted. She told me she’d just been talking about me with her partner — and then, there I was. We parted for our seats and met again after the concert…
My friend — white, midlife — said she was disappointed. Too short. No spark. She wanted more energy from Salif Keïta. “Mick Jagger still rocks,” she offered, “even at his age.” When things finally got moving, it was already over, she said. Her partner, also midlife, with East Asian roots and a violinist’s ear, was frustrated he couldn’t hear a particular instrument properly. Something must have been off in the setup.
And I was somewhere else entirely. Like we were in different galaxies.
For me, it was soul honey buttermilk balm. It cradled me, I floated, I swam. The music held me like warm water or strong arms. The Black community gathered in all its beauty. Women glowing, dressed with care and radiance. Men in Boubous and shiny shoes. That particular electricity that only rises when African people gather to celebrate.
And then Salif Keïta. That voice aged and textured, unmistakable. It reached right through the body and straight into the soul. I felt every note. It was ancestors, present, and future braided into sound. It was a ceremony, deeply spiritual.
And that — that is the difference.
In so many spaces (and as you already know, I mostly talk about New Age spirituality) ancestry is either flattened, romanticized or ignored entirely. Like we all showed up here without history. It often gets erased on the surface. Dismissed as irrelevant and overpainted with “we are all one” — or turned into a caricature by Beckys who insist, “I was Native American in a past life and a Geisha in another.” Sure, fascinating.
It matters who your people are.
It matters where your story began.
It matters who dreamed you into being.
It shapes how you feel the world. How you read the air. And how you move through rooms. It shapes how you connect — or don’t.
And you don’t need to understand everything. You can’t understand everything. That’s not a problem. It’s not a failure of empathy or imagination. That’s just reality. And it’s sacred, I believe.
The point isn’t to dissolve the differences or try to overstep them. It’s not to perform some kind of spiritual cosplay and pretend we’re all the same beneath the surface. We’re not. And we’re not meant to be.
The point is to recognize difference.
To bow to it.
To let it be… intact, untamed, and unexplained.
Not to consume it or to borrow it for aesthetic or clout. Not to extract meaning and walk away. But to witness, honor, and stand at the edge of what you don’t and won’t ever fully grasp — and be ok with it.
To resist the deep-down colonizer instinct to name everything as yours. To meet the other not with hands outstretched to take, but with your palms open. Empty and listening.
That, to me, is real connection.
Not pretending to understand.
But choosing to respect what you never will.
If this resonated with you, moved you, or made you pause and reflect – consider this your cue. I’ve set up a virtual tip jar via Buy Me a Coffee. No monthly commitments, no strings, no memberships required.
Your sweet kindness helps keep the thoughts flowing, the energy exchange intact, and the glow of my inner goddess alive. It won’t fix capitalism, but it might buy me five minutes of joy (or at least a cortado).
Gracias. Thank you. Jërëjëf. Merci. Obrigada. Danke. Arigatō. Medaase. Grazie. Hvala. Tack. Asante. Shukran. Teşekkürler. Dziękuję.
