Miners in a cave covered in soot, and tears that staled upon dad’s first lesson about manhood, are akin to the liver that takes a beating, which is like the lover that couldn’t hurt a fly. A ravine run dry of water and gold, requires a man to sift with patience. These cherokee drums and the sap from this old maple, which is just as thin as water, are just as full of life, as your mother’s round belly on that sweet afternoon some summers ago.
Once Buffalo said, Because we are not changing, the climate is.
When he spoke I heard feathers brush against bells spiraled shells turn in the sloshing waves breaking around my ankles so small upon the earth.
Despite inherited and standardized norms insisting the world is made up of facts rather than metamorphoses I know that I do not exist in isolation from any form of intelligence or life in the universe.
Our routines can be containers for our healing and connection or our routines can be containers for our wounding and disconnect.
Within the integrity of a braid I wrap my visions for the world I imagine possible twisting them in with what is.
Because tress exhibit the kind of love that the arrogance of reason has separated us from I keep seeds in my hands to remember the role of personal healing in collective healing so I don’t forget diversity is a form of resilience and a refusal is also an affirmation.
A tree is not a tree a tree is a forest when in doubt consult the grandmothers.
My prayer is that we can become comfortable without taking and learn to be soothed by giving to replace the void of consumption with the fortitude of community to approach the dissonance with possibility rather than limitation.
I’ll never forget last time I saw Buffalo he was singing If you are proud of who you are you should be out here dancing around in the circle of life.