I am a proud Anishinaabekwe of mixed heritage and I strongly identify with my Anishinaabe/Ojibway roots. I am an author, writer, poet and healer. On my blog, I share my life experiences through my poetry and stories. Areas and interests covered in my writing and poetry include: Anishinaabe heritage and culture, Anishinaabe territory, Native identity, Aboriginal/Native/Indigenous/First Nations issues, Native feminism, matriarchy, the Great Lakes, Michigan, Mother Earth, environmentalism, earth based spirituality, healing and the healing arts.
Why did you do this to me? Why did you take me through your darkness? Power lines… distance… pain… the past… the fire… the decay… the burden…
This time this letter was about the darkness that encircled her. The sounds of torment that trailed behind her through tears and from her heart. The second part of the letter is about releasing the past but also for renewal. She continued to write the letter.
The soul was dark. There was a darkness in the soul. There was darkness from the world that was in the soul. The sounds of torment. The longing for love. The comfort of a mate. The comfort of a companion. The comfort of a lover. The comfort that drifted away, slowly and painfully. I still remember the jeering sound from the city outside as you drove away. People kept shouting in my ear, “get over him, get over him…” until I could take no more. Angels surrounded me but my heart was in pain. I’ll listen to the sound of the train go by. The sound on the old heavy rails. I’ll throw rocks at the power lines. The lines that connect. The lines that divide. The industry that keeps us distracted. The industry in which the sky turns a color from the haze. The industry in which the sky turns a color from pollution. The industry that destroyed my spirit. The industry that broke down both of our spirits. We could wish for better things. We could hope for a triumph. Except we received a cordial invitation from the darkness of the world. The corruption of buildings with the layers of bricks and mortar. The residue inside that buildings that toppled onto us. We couldn’t breathe. We became destroyed. Our innocence and tenderness was slowly undone. Slowly destroyed.
I’ve laid myself down in an empty city field. I’ve felt the tall grass of the city field on my skin. I heard the homeless shout into the sky. I was shouting with them. Shouting for love that was far away. So much pain in my heart. I was there in the field for a moment. I was there in the field for a moment until the movement of the train in the distance disrupted the peace I was seeking. The field propelled me to a house. An abandoned house in which the remnants of the past forced me to retreat. Why did I try to retreat in an abandoned house? Love was my torn jeans. Love was a skinned knee. Love was the bass player who I watched when we were at shows. Love was the darkness in the bar. Love was the night sky, void of stars, that I could not see in the city. Love fell down like broken glass and the pieces could not be collected.
The longing for love is in our souls. But my feet hit the pavement and I had to move forward. Recollection of the old. Recollection of great sorrow. I could cry in a crowd and no one could hear me. I could cry and the ceiling would crack. Paint chips feel down to the floor delivering a message on the ceiling. Love was displayed yet my teeth ached because of malnutrition. Your hands were nervous and you smiled, although forced. I wished for your soul to heal. I wished for this but knew correlation difference and denial to equate running, falling and failing.
I wanted the city, so I thought. The city had no love. I went from one damaging experience to the next. I went from the sorrow of our eyes to the sorrow of generations. Sorrow of a failing city, a fallen city, a crying city, crying souls and yearning souls.
The damage has been present in our hearts. Silence. I could stand in the ghetto or slum of my heart and seek within the abandonment for eternity. I could wander around inside buildings where remnants of the past have not yet been removed. I could wander through the threads of old voids and turmoil to stumble, drift and fall. I could wander where the birds could sing until no more. When the sounds of the freeway were a torment to my heart and soul. The darkness of the past can halt the healing of the heart and soul. I must reconfigure. I must realign my heart. I must leave this all behind. I have a planned exit from this city I have known.
The letter is complete. Part two is complete. The letters are complete. The past can encircle us. The door is open now so you can depart. The city will change. The city can heal. The sorrow can compost and transform to love. The sadness of the people in the city can be lifted. This love letter is about demolishing the abandoned house. Cleaning up the rubble. Tending to the soil, the soul. Tending to the healing of the land with our hands and bodies. The broken pieces of glass make various sounds of guitars, violins and drums for healing. Healing can be painful. Running to recollect, sitting still and feeling. The birds can return to the land and sing. This letter speaks for me when I was silenced. When the pain and trauma catapulted me into hiding. Darkness made visible, now.
Editors Note: The first letter can be found here