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<\/a><\/p>\nAnya at the new garden\u2019s edge \u00a0May 9, 2020<\/p>\n
Mom and the kids<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Joy Harjo\u00a0<\/strong>\u00a0\u201cTalking with the Sun\u201d \u00a0 (in \u00a0Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings)<\/u>.<\/p>\n How does a grandmother carry her fourth granddaughter out into the sun on a rainy New York Times Square morning?\u00a0 You could read the poem with pauses. \u00a0 Or you may imagine driving along SD highway 18 as the sunset shows off a front being pushed East by a storm\u2019s energy.<\/p>\n Have a blest weekend,<\/p>\n <\/p>\n john sj<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Today\u2019 Post<\/strong>\u00a0 \u00a0Joy Harjo \u00a0\u201cTalking with the Sun\u201d<\/p>\n I believe in the sun. After dancing all night in a circle we realize that we are a Our earth is shifting. \u00a0We can all see it. The quantum physicists have it right; they are beginning to I walked out of a hotel room just off Times Square at dawn The sun rose up over the city but I couldn\u2019t see it amidst the Joy Harjo: Poet Laureate \u00a0June 19, 2019 Highway 18, c. 3.9 miles from Mary Tobacco\u2019s home<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" September 11 \u2013 Mary Tobacco & Joy Harjo This week ends with bright September sun & its crisp wind gusts. \u00a0 For me, today\u2019s morning stillness stirs memories of two great native women, soul friends both Poet Laureate Joy Harjo … Continue reading <\/a><\/p>\n
\nIn the tangle of human failures of fear, greed, and
\nforgetfulness, the sun gives me clarity.
\nWhen explorers first encountered my people, they called us
\nheathens, sun worshippers.
\nThey didn\u2019t understand that the sun is a relative, and
\nilluminates our path on this earth.<\/p>\n
\npart of a larger sense of stars and planets dancing with us
\noverhead.
\nWhen the sun rises at the apex of the ceremony, we are
\nrenewed.
\nThere is no mistaking this connection, though Walmart
\nmight be just down the road.
\nHumans are vulnerable and rely on the kindnesses of the
\nearth and sun; we exist together in a sacred field of
\nmeaning.<\/p>\n
\nI hear from my Inuit and Yupik relatives up north that
\neverything has changed. \u00a0It\u2019s so hot; there is not enough
\nwinter.
\nAnimals are confused. Ice is melting.<\/p>\n
\nthink like Indians: everything is connected dynamically
\nat an intimate level.
\nWhen you remember this, then the current wobble of the
\nearth makes sense. \u00a0How much more oil can be drained,
\nWithout replacement; without reciprocity?<\/p>\n
\nto find the sun.
\nIt was the fourth morning since the birth of my fourth
\ngranddaughter.
\nThis was the morning I was to present her to the sun, as a
\nrelative, as one of us. \u00a0It was still dark, overcast as I walked
\nthrough Times Square.
\nI stood beneath a twenty-first century totem pole of symbols
\nof multinational corporations, made of flash and neon.<\/p>\n
\nrain.
\nThough I was not at home, bundling up the baby to carry
\nher outside,
\nI carried this newborn girl within the cradleboard of my
\nheart.
\nI held her up and presented her to the sun, so she would be
\nrecognized as a relative,
\nSo that she won\u2019t forget this connection, this promise,
\nSo that we all remember, the sacredness of life.<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\nBorn\u200e: \u200eMay 9, 1951 (age 68); \u200eTulsa, Oklahoma<\/a>\u200e<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n