Guided through desert thickets
Past abandoned couches
And rough patches of bright sunflower faces
I find my place

I can’t quite prove it
Or anything really, anymore
But I’m grasping at believing
The ancient ones guided.

I place my hand on the still cool desert clay
Sharp edges of shale pierce alive
I kneel
I ask permission

I ask permission

I offer

I wait.

I listen for them

Here in this circle

I listen for direction

The wind blows gently

It is my only evidence

Life in the barren lands of battle

Is quiet

Now.

I wait

I listen

There seems only to be silence

I tell myself to be patient

As the old well of grief rises

Bursting from lacrimal glands

Trailing wet and salty down cheekbones

Silence

Have I come

Thousands of miles

For no real reason?

Do I fabricate this entire experience

To make myself matter

To make myself…good?

Where are you?

Have you left me?

A penance of separation

Forever?

I feel the well-worn channels of sorrow

I feel the clutching in my chest

Like vines holding captive

I let them bind me

I let the tears of longing

Drip onto the dry earth

I sit

In this great, great Silence.

And then

The tears 

Of shame, abandonment

Transform to rivers

Flowing rivers

Across this dry desert skin

Of apology

For all my relations

For this wetness

To matter

To…heal?

Sounds of chirping birds 

Call out in the distance

My heart jumps

Hoping they will grace me

Help me feel

Help me heal.

The birds keep their distance

And I sigh.

But Bee, Wasp and Fly

Buzz incessantly near

And Ant

His bite makes me wonder

Of the small and subtle

Spirits of place, greeting

I allow for this possibility

I let myself believe

Again.

Around my body

The quiet thicket holds me

And I let the silence

The soft wind ruffling

The crawling and buzzing ones

I let it be enough.

I start to sing

I howl

I cry

I babble

I hover

I build a circle of stones

I adorn

I lay the corn

I lay the pine nuts

I let it be enough.

Me 

The silence

And this possibility.

I leap over the great chasm

Of myself

I recognize my place

In the bigness of things

Even seemingly silent things

I let my grief

And these salty tears

And the ghosts of bloody battles

Hidden

Deep

Beneath

The

Weathered

Cracks

I let it 

Be enough.

.

~Written for “Sanctuary,” a women’s literary collection soon to be published by Red Earth Press, ed. Pamela Eakins.

.

I have been in the Salt Lake City area for the last few weeks, meeting Mormon family members for the first time, seeing where my 1800’s ancestors built their first homes and family after making the long journey in covered wagons. They were escaping persecution from others for their beliefs, and were seeking sanctuary to live in peace. Ironically, and sadly, the area they migrated to was already inhabited by communities of people–and in their unconscious “settling” of the land, these indigenous ones were persecuted and pushed out by the same Mormons.

This is why I lay down my heart on the land and made reparations. In my blood pumps the blood of those people who came, colonized and disrespected the indigenous of Salt Lake…the Ute people, the Goshute. The small amount of time and effort I put won’t ever equal the tragedies that occurred on the land, but I knew I needed to at least show up, eyes wide open.

Thanks for reading.