a basket to hold it all
pine needle and flax basket beginnings...
It's been an intense time for all of us...standing rock...trump...holidays....
I've been finding refuge in weaving this basket, smelling the pine needles as i watch them wind themselves into a vessel. it feels like i'm participating in an act of transformation that is beyond what i could ever imagine, and that feels so very helpful right now.
Also, I've been reading the words of the elders who are holding the energy at Standing Rock, and have been profoundly moved by the integrity, simplicity, and truth of their message. They have been here, tethered to the earth, and deeply understanding that they aren't separate from it, for thousands of years. there's no business venture involved, no undercurrent of individualism, no scheming for the betterment of humans alone. I hear them voicing that they are doing what they are doing because they are a small part of the whole. Somehow, I feel like my mostly European roots got severed from that simple fact a long time ago, that i've had to actively remember and relearn what the indigenous people of this continent have never lost. It feels so powerful to have such a silly, big-headed clown spouting off reactions in the White House (and on twitter) alongside this group of first nations elders speaking with such equanimity about the simple fact that water is life, and they will protect that life with their own. Now feels like the time to learn to listen, deeply, to the root of what these people are saying. They hold the key in how to be in right relationship with the earth and all her inhabitants, and we owe it to our children's children's children to listen close and follow their lead. The gratitude I feel for the tenacity and truthfulness of the american indigenous people is immeasurable.
with the softness of lady's mantle and the brightness of lemon balm, i wish you well~
I Go Among Trees
by Wendell Berry
I go among trees and sit still.
All my stirring becomes quiet
around me like circles on water.
My tasks lie in their places
where I left them, asleep like cattle.
Then what is afraid of me comes
and lives a while in my sight.
What it fears in me leaves me,
and the fear of me leaves it.
It sings, and I hear its song.
Then what I am afraid of comes.
I live for a while in its sight.
What I fear in it leaves it,
and the fear of it leaves me.
It sings, and I hear its song.
After days of labor,
mute in my consternations,
I hear my song at last,
and I sing it. As we sing,
the day turns, the trees move.
~ Wendell Berry from Sabbaths