homebodies

I wish I could read this book for the first time, every time. Tembe Denton-Hurst is a tender and masterful storyteller, building a world distinctly rooted in the one that exists in all of us, and forging a path in the ether that navigating felt like easing on down the road toward Emerald City. The familiarity and deep knowing that went into cultivating this world and somehow seeing myself reflected in it left me both breathless and nourished. 

A deep, deep breath of a book. I felt like a kid again, diving so deep into Tembe’s world — a world that many of us girls and women of color already navigate — tuning out my adult responsibilities to tune into this frequency of honesty that disarmed and soothed like a balm, or the sound of a thunderstorm. Electrifying and calming all at once. 

An exploration of the self. An open invitation to explore what it really feels like to be embodied, to be yourself out LOUD. And the mess that accompanies it.

I just can’t seem to escape the cliches, but this book really shifted something for me. A curious pang of hunger for knowing and doing and being impatiently tugs at my insides, and I feel anxious and ready to eat. 

Years have passed since I claimed novels and fiction as part of my regular reading rotation (as if social media hasn’t had its foot on my entire neck for the better part of a decade). But this book is a gorgeous reminder of the power of “story-truth” over “reality-truth”. Cause what the fuck is going on in our reality truth these days actually? Can we not find the richness in asking, “what if we did it this way?” Playing, imagining, world-building. How sticky and gooey it is to just take a bite? That “life imitates art” is sincerely reflected in these pages and this was a swift kick in the ass to get to dreaming and doing.

BIG appreciation and endless thank you’s to Tembe for trusting us with this story. Fields and fields of flowers for you for this multitude of gifts. I eagerly and willingly await the chance to receive another.