windthread

I look at Judy Martin's   Judy's Journal.blogspot.com.  She shows me the work of Nadia Myre,  a woman of mixed Algonquin and French Canadian heritage.

heritage.

a collapsed basket.    "Nadia Myre's  deep respect or and committment to the act of making things by hand is evident as she explores the politics o identity and belonging through poetic,  feminist backdrops of craft, care and resilience."

identity

belonging

heritage

Emrie and i spend the day.  

i am learning the way of the death doula.   Simply because of living among the living.  Some of whom become dead.  so far,  4 human beings,  5 dogs,  3 Goats,  4,  .

we hear Goat voices,  one might be of TenZen.  We listen but just listen for a while,  but then feel the need to go and look.  No…he is ok.  Lying upright at his gate but the comotion of us going down there,  the noise of the whole herd wanting feed causes him to try to stand.  He can't and falls.  His legs move in the air.  To  no avail.  He cannot right himself.  I tell Emrie in a stern voice not much used ,  to Stay There!   at the outside of his gate.  She does and watches.  I am surprised that she senses the situation.  She does.  I move the gate slowly against his head enough to squeeze through and then latch it with the bungie cord,  move around and lift him to standing and straddle him some long moments until he gets his bearings.  We continue to Feed.  Her carrying small handfulls.

She plays in pots of water.  I wash underwear by hand in the sink and hang it from the Morning Tree to dry,  the same tree that serves to stage the small concert of the song bird.  We listen and sing back the best we can in it's own language

we sorted through scraps.  She likes to smell them.  and then lift them to my nose.   ?????  

heritage.

identity

belonging

i have none.  for my Self   that i can call on.  Other than what i know of the creek and earth from my 5th year on.