Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god
Traditions of a Tulalip sduhobsh Indian
Sherman Alexie, he wrote of a
Drug called tradition.
I speak of the same drug,
So tired of forcing the vision
To come in the twilight as
I light random scented candles
And hope I can tell the future
In the smoke created.
Tradition.
It's not just a nine letter word,
It's years of consistency,
Years of doing the right thing,
The same thing,
The sane thing.
Powwows bringing memories
Of late night drives with my dear mother,
Whom I love no matter what her flaw.
Eagles in flight bringing memories
Of silent chats with my loving father,
Whom I love no matter what his flaw.
I know only of traditions in my years.
Smudging the room with sweetgrass.
Blessing the dream catcher,
Blessing the drum,
Blessing the feathers,
Blessing the family.
All this not done in church
But in the home, with the family and not
In front of
An overabundance of people
You've never known.
In the home, with the sage, and sweetgrass and abalone shell,
And the beads that ripped free of the earrings
I made for myself,
A silent but strong reminder
That I must give away the first new things
I attempt to make as my art,
And not to selfishly keep them for myself.
Not everything deserves to go directly to me,
It should be going to those
That I love relentlessly.
February 2, 2004
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Traditions of a Tulalip sduhobsh Indian
Traditions of a Tulalip sduhobsh Indian
