I Didn't Put Those Trays There — A Dream About Releasing What Was Never Mine

I dreamed I walked downstairs to my ancestor altar.

And there it was.

Old school cafeteria trays. Sitting on my sacred space. With a brick in between a few of them, and another brick on top.

I kept going down the stairs, stopping at the bottom, trying to figure out why they were there. I respected it. But I felt afraid. Because me and my daughter didn't put them there.

The trays — provision, nourishment, what feeds you. But old school. Institutional. What was given to them, not what I chose.

The bricks — weight. Burden. Survival that's pressing down on the food, making it heavy to access.

The altar — my lineage. My ancestors. Where I go for guidance.

And I didn't put it there.

That means it's ancestral. Passed down. Patterns of survival that I inherited — and am now being asked to see and release.

In my waking life, I'm carrying:

· Repairs to my town home

· Waiting on funds

· My daughter hates her job

· My business is slow

· Recovering from a breakup after 4 years

· My back is injured from trying to exercise and care for myself

I woke up crying. Fed up.

Because those are the bricks. That's the weight. That's the old cafeteria trays showing up in my life — institutional survival patterns that I never asked for.

But here's what I realized:

I didn't put them there.

My ancestors did. Not to hurt me. But because they survived. They got fed. They carried the weight. And they passed it down because they didn't know how to put it down.

But I do.

And I'm at the bottom of the stairs, looking at it, feeling the fear, respecting the lineage — and preparing to clear it.

If you're carrying weight you didn't ask for — ancestral survival patterns, heavy provision, brick-by-brick burdens — know this:

You didn't put it there. But you get to clear it.

Not with anger. With ritual. With love. With the knowing that your ancestors survived so you could thrive.

And thriving means releasing the old cafeteria trays.

Thriving means putting down the bricks.

Thriving means choosing fresh provision, your own foundation, and a lighter way.

The tears are the bricks dissolving.

The fed-up feeling is the release.

And the dream is the invitation.

It's time to clear the altar. Rebuild the foundation. And eat from something new.

Prayer for You

Ancestors, I honor you.

I see what you carried.

I see the old cafeteria trays.

I see the bricks of survival.

I thank you for getting me here.

But I release these patterns now.

I choose fresh provision.

I choose my own foundation.

I release the weight.

I release the fear.

I release what was never mine.

Ase! Ase! Ase!