Generations have lived inside my house, prayed here. When a family member was in trouble, every evening my mother and I retreated to my bedroom and prayed. We were unrelenting and did this for hours and weeks. I worked the medicine, tended the altars, went to the woods. This is an old-fashioned kind of faith, a way of living. I can see my father praying as he comes toward the house from the wood-shed, hear my mother’s glad cry when she saw the angels. I know exactly where my grandchild stood when we claimed him. I have things from my grandmother’s land, pictures of my great-grandfathers who fought in the Civil War. There are shields I made when I lived in the desert. Some things hanging on the walls I never move. In this way my teacher taught me to bring life to my house, to awaken it. She said that if I do this I should be able when I arrive home to know if someone has been here, and who. What lives here takes care of me against what I don’t see as well as what I do. But more than this, spirit explains things to me, brings the gift I need. I am sure this is why old people used to sit in their homes in the silent dark and listen. If I do this, if I watch the crows and the deer, if I have faith in what I am, what I come from, quiet joy fills my heart. I need nothing else. This is enough. |
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October 2017
AuthorJune O'Brien is an author of fiction, non fiction and poetry, living in the Pacific Northwest. Categories |