hearing voices
all day when a question comes
I hear
you know how to do it
not since I was a sassy eight-year-old
have I felt so sure
Tag: ancestors
Mayan Flower Healing Ceremony
Mayan Flower Healing Ceremony
Humans being human
are usually like The Breakfast Club:
we see each other’s humanity.
At the flower ceremony
we take turns speaking:
how hard the last two years have been,
how lost we’ve felt from losing the people we love.
We grieve alone, jointly.
Maya puts us on a cloud
and invokes our ancestors,
and, surprisingly,
they show up for us.
All the people from my bedtime prayer
gather in a way they never did in life
and, smiling,
(while tears streak my surprised face)
they say, over and over,
you know how to do it
and it could be anything.
All evening I’m buoyed by new confidence,
done with second-guessing,
sure about what to do,
whatever comes up.
Oh my ancestors,
for all the years I’ve known
how to say your names,
I never thought you’d say mine again.
Tonight I’m going to look for you
on that cloud once more,
now I know how to do it.
catalog of irreplaceable losses
catalog of irreplaceable losses
my husband and I discuss
what we’d wish to take from our home
if we had time:
our children
our dog
our bird
wallets, coats, hats, gloves, shoes
(practical for immediate survival)
the mini photo albums we’ve made each year
since our children were born
our boxes of letters
the framed photos in our hallway
(some exist nowhere else)
my journals
our Christmas stockings
(all handmade)
the quilts Amma stitched for the boys
the original artwork we own
Grammy’s viola
Owen’s bass clarinet
the box of heirloom family baby clothes
these are the things for which there’d be no substitute
it seems to us
(our photos were scanned years ago –
the cloud cuts our losses so much these days)
but the truth is
we’ve been through three fires between us
and barely saved a thing
when he was in high school,
in the Black Tiger Fire in 1989,
Alex fled his Betasso home with a neighbor –
doesn’t recall taking anything at all
I was home alone for the other two:
a chimney fire in Nederland
around 1997
and our Louisville home was struck by lightning
around 2003
and a bit of the attic burned
all three were before cell phones
(for us)
and both times I called 911
then ran out of the house
in Louisville I put the dogs in the cottage
then changed my mind,
and brought them to the car
both times I stood out front
waited for sirens
then decided to run back in for my coat
(and hat and gloves and scarf in Ned)
stood out front again
then thought about my purse
ran back in and grabbed that, too
then met the firefighters
in Ned I was embarrassed when they asked
if I’d closed the vent
and I had to say no,
chagrined I hadn’t even thought to starve the flames
but that’s all the getting I ever did –
not even the box of important documents –
and I feel no shame in that;
there simply was no time
so why make this list now
when there’s so little chance we’d ever
have the luxury of checking it?
it’s a way to acknowledge
to our friends and ancestors
what they’ve entrusted us with
that we feel most responsible for –
what we’d be most gutted to lose
ancestors
ancestors
we are here
and we see you
each one of us trailed
by our ancestors’ shadows
radiating out from our small souls
like spokes from a turning wheel
like the infinite bodies extending
away from ours
in the dressing room mirror
when we speak
echoes of their beliefs rattle
through the drums of our chests
we are never alone
with us they say
in their own silent tones
we are here
and we see you
Our Hope for Humanity: Vuyi with diopmawu and me
When we visited the Norval Foundation art museum in Cape Town, South Africa today I was delighted to find wonderful poetry handwritten on sacred texts scattered around the exhibits. I asked at the front desk about the artist who created this work, and was told that it was part of a performance piece that day called Historical Glitch, and the artist would be performing at 2pm. We had already signed up for a guided tour at that time, so I also asked the guide if we needed to choose between the two events, and she explained that the artist would perform at the end. Our family waited to see what would happen, and a woman with a very long braid descended the stairs and then sat among spiritual implements like drums, stones, flowers, red clay, and a pan of water. A man knelt in front of her and they took hands and quietly talked while she washed and massaged his hands in ritual fashion. It was a loving and forgiving gesture. I thought maybe he was part of the performance piece, but then she looked at me and invited me to join her. She explained that we were doing an intervention to heal the wounds of division from colonialism and the harming of our earth, to remember that we are all one. It was very moving, and in our brief conversation she intuited some things about me that were spot on. Owen took a turn, too. It was another gift from the universe – the only way that I even heard about the museum was thanks to the fact that yesterday when we had lunch we walked past the Simons Town information center. I don’t usually go into those, but something made me double back and see what information they had. The Norval brochure said “Where art, architecture, and nature meet” – yes, please! Today our main goal was to go to the Indonesian consulate, and it ended up being a quick visit because they explained they only issue visas to South African nationals. Unsure what to do instead, I sifted through the brochures and noticed that Norval has a monthly free day on the first Thursday of the month – today! And it was on our way back home. We stopped at their lovely restaurant first, but through a mixup it took about an hour for our order to even be taken – another stroke of luck, since we probably would have left before two otherwise. When you’re open to it, the universe finds a way. Tonight I did some research and found her name: Vuyi Qubeka. When she performs, her name is listed as “Vuyi Qubeka with diopmawu,” which I think means her spirit guides/ancestors. I didn’t find a website or email address for her, but she’s active on Instagram and Twitter, and you can watch her TED talk about becoming a healer: “Don’t Die with Your Song Still Inside You.” I incorporated some of her well-chosen words in this thank you gift which I hope makes its way to her!
Our Hope for Humanity: Vuyi with diopmawu and me
she comes bearing songs
born of red clay,
an intervention
inviting audacious hope
she holds a circle of water
that dissolves guilt,
makes new space
for radical compassion:
the resolve to see
All One Always
palm to palm
we make a circuit –
loving energy looping
round our own tiny peaceful
world of now,
smiling eye to eye,
joyful servants to the work
of binding wounds
and stitching things whole
even as the seams strain
things not to talk about
Rhino poaching has become such a crisis that we were asked not to post photos of rhinos to social media. In the end we saw white rhinos in Botswana, Zambia, South Africa, and eSwatini, so I believe this poem + photo should be sufficiently generic as to not further endanger any individual rhinos. Although we were on the lookout for black rhinos throughout our time in Africa, we never saw any.
things not to talk about
I cannot say where we saw the rhinos.
That is, rhino or rhinos.
(If they were seen,
I cannot divulge their number.)
I am not able to report
on their sad, sleepy eyes.
How their triceratops-type bulk
only accentuated their vulnerability.
How their one thought was napping,
not curing cancer,
not battling,
not staying alive.
I couldn’t say what the calf thought of the situation, either.
(That is, if there was a calf,
which, of course,
I cannot confirm.)
I cannot say what our two boys felt
on seeing them
(if that happened)
and being told
(hypothetically)
that their own children never will.
Anything that I might say
could of course be used
to cut them down
and grind them up –
a fate much worse than silence.
Also, I cannot say how,
in our party of six,
in tents cheek by jowl,
I am the only one
who heard a choir singing
for one hour last night.
It was as magical as the bushbabies
we find watching us each dusk,
then springing through the air
like implausible puppets.
As improbable as sighting a pack of wild dogs
with pups
or an entire family of rhinos lazing in the sun.
Finally, I refuse to speculate as to whether
the crying baby next door will indeed
draw a leopard –
a ghost of good manners
possibly here, or, then again, not.
On this day I wouldn’t be surprised if
it was the ancestors themselves singing last night,
saying sleep well,
who knows what tomorrow may bring.
Tswapong Hills
Tswapong Hills
o my ancestors
I pray for you I called by name every night
and you catch me unawares
slipping into my in-between states
not quite awake
not quite knowing what to do
reminding me
how you managed to live
long enough for
me to appear
now how may I best
honor your time?
offer you a cool drink of clear water
a shady canyon to rest your head
a wheel of vultures to look after you
a surprise in the deepest pool?
I ask humbly
knowing cured/cursed
are nearly one
