DEAR READER,

I walked into my first breathwork class with no expectations, just the subtle hope of finding rest.

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What I didn’t expect were the tears.

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That morning, I’d been editing a powerful piece by E. Paris Whitfield that’s included here in the following pages about the deep, embodied grief he and others felt when prison guards cut down Black Walnut trees in the space where they’re currently incarcerated. As I sat with his words, I found myself thinking about my father, Winchel Aubourg. About the decades he spent inside. About the letters he sent, where he once wrote, “If we really connect spiritually, these bars won’t even exist.”

Hours later, lying on my back, breath weaving through belly, ribs, and collarbones, those memories returned like intense waves. With every inhale, and every slow exhale came visions of my father, except this time, he finally looked at peace. The tears flowed endlessly, unbothered except by the breath itself.

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In a world overwhelmed with noise, with threats to Black safety at every turn, with anxiety that simmers beneath nearly everything, we are rarely given the space to pause. But that day, breath became a portal. A quiet reminder: there is power and resistance in stillness. In making room to feel. In remembering that our ancestors are not in the abyss, they are with us when we choose to listen. That space to connect takes time to nurture. But it is necessary. Especially now.

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This third release of the Land, Food, and Freedom Journal honors the sacred threads that bind ancestors, legacy, and resistance.

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Dr. David Jefferson reflects on the safe, radical space his late grandmother created in her kitchen, where he first learned what it meant to resist. Tameka Amado answers a call from her ancestors, urging us to recognize the power and necessity of archiving. JovVanTa Mason-Gray urges us to flip open books and study the Mau Mau Rebellion, offering it as a blueprint for movement work today. Darius Simpson rhythmically reminds us of the hyper-surveilled spaces we inhabit, calling us to stay alert, stay grounded, and stay rooted. 

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Within these pages, through poems, recipes, research, meditations, artwork, interviews, and personal essays, may you remember this: if you are not already connecting with your ancestors, calling on them, learning from them, unlearning through them, the invitation still stands. My dad once wrote in his letters while inside, “The spirits last forever.” Even when you stray, even when the connection feels frayed, you can always find your way back.

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With peace and possibility,

ASHIA AUBOURG