Saturday, October 29, 2016

Thinning walls

For those who have had some sort of (re)experience with ancestor memories their world can be a different place. It is 2 days before Samhain, and the veil is very thin.

Imagine, if you will, that as you go about your daily life you’re in a house. However, it has no doors, nor windows- simply smooth walls that you don’t pay attention to because they are always there.

Now there’s a very small, high window. You see the face of a stranger through that window and for a moment, you are sure you know that person. But then you look away, the moment passes, and you go about your normal day.

There’s a bigger window and you stare, mesmerized, at a scene that feels real, like a memory from here and now, but it’s not. Perhaps you hang a curtain over that window, maybe the same shade as the walls and turn away, determined to never acknowledge that window.

Now there’s a door. It stands open, darkness on the other side. Did you open it voluntarily? Was it held open for you? You walk through. What you experience there is real. As real as here. When you stumble back through to your house, do you close the door softly? Do you slam it shut and scream at it? Never again.

The walls fade. Stone and wood and plaster and paint slide into transparency, glass that barely holds back the wind and rain, where moonlight and stars from another time and place illuminate faces and scenes that part of you knows isn’t now, but are you sure?

When I watched the armed attack on the #NoDAPL protectors, the already translucent walls faded. Under a hot sun my blood and bones boil and seethe. My ancestors are here and now.

I am Cherokee.

I am Tsalagi.

Ahyv jijalaki.


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