Monday afternoon. Friends hurry away to Festival. Random texts pop up with goodbye kisses and promises to think of me on the land. I like this. I wish I could be up North this week. I feel like I’ve taken the low road while a sliver in my community took the high road. We’ll see where we’re at in the end. Big smirk, I do appreciate Michigan. Festival. Pick a word depending on locale.
I am at my keyboard, sipping coffee and slipping on my day. This GoGo is stuttering to a start today. I find myself lingering in contemplation rolling over my eyes in waves. Blinking back understanding; sometimes gasping for clarity, only to remember to keep flowing, keep breathing. I prepared myself to be away this week, getting lost in wooded reveries and fairy wonder in this movable community that centers together once a year in a great powwow. I prepared to be listening to music on three stages, fluttering my wings in greetings, maybe valley ball, to prose spun with eager lips on the café stage. Instead I am landlocked into a week in Capitol Mit, wings still buzzing for some distraction on my page.
Bummed out. I adjust my shoulder blades. Festival would have been a nice diversion while trying to place words on my life these days. My mother has the big C, though she carries it like a horseshoe anchored around the nape of her neck, a dame ready to accept her dance card in life.This case of the Cancer is rather serious at the moment. A tempered dance between the ailing in treatment and the prognoses called life. If the Cancer don’t kill you, the treatment could. Everyone has an opinion of hope and glory. I remind myself this isn’t my story, but my Mother’s, and well this is where I have some trouble because she and I never were good at the choreography between mom and daughter.
I’d rather tap out my feelings on a random sprite ready to let me read her tattoos with my fingers, or sketch a lazy day in my hammock while music rolls over my skin then think about my Mother dying or rather living through the body wearing out. There I said it. I think my mother is a beautiful woman. Her story which bore into the cellular memory in my history deserves a place in the sun. Our bond a phenomenon too common and I often wished would be undone could easily be re-spun with festi fun. What a way to honor her, daughter liberating the sun through her lens. Next year, I’ll dance for her at Fest. This year my friends are taking her name to the land and me too. I am left refocusing my energy on what feels like an impossible task. I could have used the energy on the land. In case it’s not noticed, this me is being pouty today.
I need to go home. I need to prep my head to go there. The whole world will tell me how to do this. Ah, but this place I know, this place where my heart first grew isn’t really ready to journey home. I don’t believe she ever will want to. When the big C caws though, its best to know this daughter is being called home. Ready or not. I have to admit, there is little morbidity in this thought. If my mother gave me the grace of something, it’s accepting living regardless of the circumstance. I’m simply not fond of the circumference of daughter to mother. I’m not a very good one and yet I know I am the best daughter a mother could ever have. I wish I could be better. I wish I was heading up North, getting dusty on the line and letting the energy of women unfold. There I could find my story, understand her story, and get past this dreaded impasse where daughter wants to come home and walk with mother on her journey yet knows I usually feel swallowed up and spent. Grace tells me this is where the heart got caught up and knows it is time for her to go home and grow. Tomorrow though, today I just want to keep thinking of the land.