I have been studying High John for two years from a place of fear that I mistook for reverence. I listened to podcasts, read texts, walked in the forest. I was terrified when a tall Black figure stood before me pouring blood on my head. I was empowered learning HJC is that nigga & I didn’t have to tolerate white nonsense. I felt part of something old and sacred and secret to be living among the pine forest and mountains. I kept learning in solitude. Leafing through passages and walks in the woods. Discerning whose who. La llorona and the many crying mothers and Gaspar Yanga and Nat Turner and I followed the ravens/crows, the mothers that open for High John to travel between the realms. The black rainbow.

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