It seems like the day we went to this PowWow was a lifetime ago. It was in Bozeman, a year or so ago. This is a photo of the Grand Entry ceremony.
It was my first PowWow. The kids’ first too. It was beautiful and intensely energetic, welcoming yet far away. Very overwhelming and colorful, the electricity alive with the sound of the drums, the rustle of voices, the jingle of bells. I wanted so badly to dive in, to dance, but it just wasn’t time. We were welcomed and that was enough. We showed up, we arrived, and that was enough for that moment in time.
I am very lost right now.
My life has been stripped. I hold a child on each side and stand in the wind, struggling with which way to run.
Everything we own is in storage. What’s left of it, that is.
The woman I was before is broken, gone. But she wasn’t a woman, she was a girl growing. The woman is here. Me. Now.
The woman was bursting from chains.
So I am lost. Settling into dust stirred up by the wind. Still here, though here is different now. I watch the glitter of dirt as it catches the sun, the distance coming into view beyond the distractions of shine.
I am coming into my voice. With preparations to sing. There’s a tribe, so beautiful, who sings along. Is the song mine or theirs? Are we in harmony? The only answer is to sing. To try. To let the words out of constricted throat, to join along. To take a risk.
To see if my voice can fly.
I see you out there. I’ll be there soon. I’ve come down from the stairs, two children in tow. We move slowly until everyone knows we are here alone, until you see we need extra eyes, extra hands. Those graces will join us, give us space, lend a hand. Make room for song.
