Musings From The Trail
River in flood carries me to a new mountain.
Mountain holds me and whispers,
Bringer of the fairy light
Learn to hold the valley… learn to hold.
I rest in the lap of Isis
Sacred mother of all
Tears flow and heal.
Blood river of my ancestors
Washes over me, through me
Dark Goddess smiles.
Just dance your dance.
Just dance your dance.
I am drumming my sister awake
Blooming hills surround
Bee priestesses dance
And Her honey flows.
~Nancy Lankston
☾☽
I offer this poem as an antidote to the political tempest we find ourselves in right now…
Today is neither the beginning
nor the end of the world,
much sadness and happiness
still wait behind the curtain.
If you are one on the Way,
do not lose heart if the distance
seems too far, or the time too long,
for you are the ancient wayfarer
whose real home is love,
and each step you take here
must be marked by your blood.
If water remains still
it is swallowed by the earth;
but if it keeps on moving
the river becomes the sea.
~Hooshang Ebtehaaj, Iran
Poem translated by Salvi Asefi & David Hunter
She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
of her life, and weaves them gratefully
into a single cloth—
it’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
and clears it for a different celebration
where the one guest is you.
In the softness of evening
it’s you she receives.
You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking center of her monologues.
With each disclosure you encompass more
and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.
~Rainer Maria Rilke
☽☾
#SelfLove
“I am dreaming back my sisters
Whisper-worn footfalls on the Temple steps
Skywalkers
Storm dwellers
Heavy-breasted cauldron keepers
Songweavers
Snake sisters
Darkmoon dancers
Labyrinth builders
Star bridgers
Fiery-eyed dragon-ryders
Wind seekers
Shape shifters
Corn daughters
Wolf women
Earth stewards
Gentle-handed womb sounders
Dream spinners
Flame keepers
Moon birthers
Come home sisters, come home”
~Marie Elena Gaspari
Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop.
Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.
Open the door, then close it behind you.
Take a breath offered by friendly winds. They travel the earth gathering essences of plants to clean.
Give it back with gratitude.
If you sing it will give your spirit lift to fly to the stars’ ears and back.
Acknowledge this earth who has cared for you since you were a dream planting itself precisely within your parents’ desire.
Let your moccasin feet take you to the encampment of the guardians who have known you before time, who will be there after time. They sit before the fire that has been there without time.
Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.
Be respectful of the small insects, birds and animal people who accompany you.
Ask their forgiveness for the harm we humans have brought down upon them.
Don’t worry.
The heart knows the way though there may be high-rises, interstates, checkpoints, armed soldiers, massacres, wars, and those who will despise you because they despise themselves.
The journey might take you a few hours, a day, a year, a few years, a hundred, a thousand or even more.
Watch your mind. Without training it might run away and leave your heart for the immense human feast set by the thieves of time.
Do not hold regrets.
When you find your way to the circle, to the fire kept burning by the keepers of your soul, you will be welcomed.
You must clean yourself with cedar, sage, or other healing plant.
Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.
Let go the pain you are holding in your mind, your shoulders, your heart, all the way to your feet. Let go the pain of your ancestors to make way for those who are heading in our direction.
Ask for forgiveness.
Call upon the help of those who love you. These helpers take many forms: animal, element, bird, angel, saint, stone, or ancestor.
Call your spirit back. It may be caught in corners and creases of shame, judgment, and human abuse.
You must call in a way that your spirit will want to return.
Speak to it as you would to a beloved child.
Welcome your spirit back from its wandering. It may return in pieces, in tatters. Gather them together. They will be happy to be found after being lost for so long.
Your spirit will need to sleep awhile after it is bathed and given clean clothes.
Now you can have a party. Invite everyone you know who loves and supports you. Keep room for those who have no place else to go.
Make a giveaway, and remember, keep the speeches short.
Then, you must do this: help the next person find their way through the dark.
~Joy Harjo
Joy Harjo has been named U.S. Poet Laureate. She is the first Native American to receive this honor. Joy is an amazing poet AND one #BadassWoman!
Remember
Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star’s stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is. I met her
in a bar once in Iowa City.
Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother’s, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe. I heard her singing Kiowa war
dance songs at the corner of Fourth and Central once.
Remember that you are all people and that all people are you.
Remember that you are this universe and that this universe is you.
Remember that all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember that language comes from this.
Remember the dance that language is, that life is.
Remember.
——
Perhaps The World Ends Here
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
——
Joy’s memoir, Crazy Brave, is also an astonishing piece of writing.
Congratulations Joy Harjo.
💗
She wants to meet the serpent
Have a chat with Eve in the garden
Before she was banished
For the sin
Of wise curiosity.
She longs to sit with Medusa,
Gazing into her eyes
While M recounts
The whole sordid tale
From her point of view.
She craves dinner with Lilith
And all her beasts
On a beach overlooking a sea of red.
They will talk until the full moon rises
Then dance with Cybele until dawn
She wishes to hear stories of HER
The Great Goddess
Stories that lie long buried
Beneath a pile of myths and legends
Told for millennia in a male voice.
She longs to learn more, so much more
About Her lineage
Her story
Her wisdom
From the she’s who came before.
And so she sits quietly waiting.
She senses every story of Her Is still here,
Hidden in ripples on still water
In bird song at dawn
And the flicker of flame in the night.
So she sits
She listens
She waits
Holding her longing
Close.
~Nancy Lankston