We become lost, Unsteady. Take a deep breath, Pray. You will not always be lost. You are right here, In your time, In your place. - Joy Harjo

My mother was a songwriter and singer. She is William Blake’s “Little lamb, who made thee / Dost thou know who made thee?” and Alfred Lord Tennyson. She is the traditional Cherokee songs sung at her aunt’s funeral. She is the “Burning Ring of Fire” running away to Independence, Kansas, at sixteen. She is “Crazy” sung by Patsy Cline in a wake of heartache. That was my mother, singing, all those years. My mother’s gifts were trampled by economic necessity and emotional imprisonment.

And, Wind, I am still crazy. I know there is something larger than the memory of a dispossessed people. We have seen it.

We make ceremony with words even as our words can lead us to the hells of destruction.