The Maker of Rain
The maker of rain sits in front of a forgotten sun
spilling forth its solemn tears it cries-
the rhythm of it’s sorrows sings sad songs
lamenting the long day in sheets of gray hues.
the echoes of thunderous choirs
and winds that chant through forests halls-
in these shadows-
the maker of rain summons.
Maker of Rain | © H a v e n
I read this article in the New York Times today, and the film really hit home with me, so I thought I would share.
You can read the article here: https://www.nytimes.com/2020/02/05/opinion/sundance-haida-totem-pole.html
Watch the film “The Family Who Brought Totem Poles Back Home”
In the corners of the garden, I can see words caught in the geometry of webs that bob and dance in the breeze. I feel the sunflowers ushering poems through the labored
Humming Bird keeping time to the biology of existence.
“Invasive plants were like all evil things; the only way to ensure that they wouldn’t return was to face them head-on, battle it out, and win. Anything else was only a temporary fix. I sighed, thinking of my own life. I was letting the weeds grow all over me. They were threatening my happiness and, in some ways, my life. So why couldn’t I face them?”
― Sarah Jio
I seem to keep courage in a box, only reaching for it when life is set a blaze. My day to day has been ran over by fear, a crippling fear that eats and gnaws at my insides. Like brambles who bribe me with their berries, I allow this fear to grow until I am unable to move at all. I lose relationships to this. I lose myself to this. The garden is teaching me courage of everyday life. And in these times, everyday life is getting increasingly darker, so the practice is appreciated.
Be well Comrades.
The curve around a domed landscape harkens an era of black smoke and tar. Roads and the gorge became intwined in a historical knot of progress and expansion. Along with the trailblazing of the railroad, the fuel dependent pathways would change the course of what it meant to transport goods and culture. As the pace quickened along its shores, the river seemed to halt and stall behind pale dams hungry for a dragon named energy.
The very base of this mountain holds vigil, and reminds the River how it use to sing, and the mingle of wind holds time with the sun.
Real Indian
By my Auntie Teri Deras
Little boy
questions
‘Are you
a real
Indian?’
‘Yes!’ I
Patiently
say.
‘But you
don’t have
braids!”
I smile and
walk away
in my
Reebok moccasins.
The Cowlitz name for Mount St. Helens is Lawetlat’la, which roughly translates to “the smoker”, and on May 18th, 1980, I watched as she awoke and gave her smoke to the world. I was six years old, and have never been the same!
I was six years old and bewildered by what I saw and felt that day. I could hear so clearly the call of my Ancestors and the Call of the Land. This was God, this was the true power of God. On this day, I became an Animist.
Photo info: These photos were taken by photographer John V. Christiansen at 8:32 a.m. local time on May 18, 1980. They were later featured in a 1981 edition of National Geographic magazine.
The shots were taken from Pahto (Mount Adams), looking across to Lawetlat’la (Mt. St. Helens) just over 50 kilometers away.
The persistence of strength and hard work, just to live, and to function each day. When the flowers bloomed, and the rains subsided, you noticed.. and, you smiled.
Moore/Nelson Flume near Stevenson, WA., early 1900′s.
Che-che-op-tin, is an old Watala/ Cascade word meaning, “the navel of the world.”
Che-che-op-tin, (beacon rock) © H a v e n
The constant sounds of falling water and rustling winds make up much of the landscape of the Gorge.
Dog Creek Falls, Washington
Myself, I’m one of the generations. My mother is one of the generations, wandering out there in alcoholism, and death, and murder, and domestic violence, and thinking there’s no way out. Well, there is a way out… Like I tell my children, my grandchildren, ‘You don’t have to walk that road of alcoholism and drug addiction. I walked that road. I took all those beatings for you guys. You don’t have to walk that road.’
- Verna Bartlett, Ph.D., Native American elder and sexual abuse survivor
My sweet Grandmother and myself in 2009.
I recorded this from my Grandmother while she was waiting to go home for Hospice and pass on to her Creator.