It twirled down and danced across the grass in Grand Jeté . Glistened by the street lamp, I thought it a tiny bird but its golden splendor curled and stopped among the still green blades, an autumn leaf in exhale. I envied its vivacity.
I suppose I have allowed myself to fall into the depths of despair this past week, the reason for my lack of writing, it snuck up behind me in shadows. But, take mercy for I am still recreating the screenplay of my life, or rather a greater hand has taken over direction and I struggle to learn which scene and costume we are in and what my character is.
Once a farmgirl, now a city girl looking for gardens in asphalt and wondering fearfully if this is all meant to be. “Grow where planted!” I scream over the sirens.
I recognize it from my favorite New York set movies and career girl articles. Glamorous. There is a sushi place across the street.
Where are the chickens? Where are the children? Not here…
As the sun sets behind mountains I cannot reach, I scribble with pen on paper frantically seeking self, trying to read ahead in the script.
On a downtown corner a man across the street digs through the trash for food, finds a belt. Pleased, he walks on.
“Quiet, inner child!” I whisper in secret, “Be thankful!”. Listen to the words of my elders and teachers. Know my work is healing and I haven’t time to tend to livestock I will not eat, but rather let in the house to watch television (oh, how the goats enjoyed singing shows…). I am exactly where I am on purpose, I sobbingly confess. I feel not unlike a new child at school, unappreciated, looking for new friends, and my teachers, and new pastimes that will enchant me as I diligently do my called work, which I love, and plan gardens on balconies humming Green Acres with a smile. And I dance to a new drum. For we may only have today…
These photos of me and my fellow dancers were taken at the Denver American Indian Festival.