There Are Always Stars
A bright star meant someone coming or going
to the people of the forest, guarding the earth,
doing what we had be told to do
for each other, and the other beings here.
When the white sails landed on the sanded coast
they had their own story that would tell of our undoing.
Although it was foreign to us,
coming from another cardinal point,
we were taught to respect that Christian Star
who received his education in a wilderness.
A child was born in a stable and became worshipped.
Reil’s mother did not know who she had.
Wovaka’s mother, Lame Deer’s, Black Elk’s mothers
Knew only that every child born is a savior for the future.
And so they were treated and so they became.
My grandson was born, black haired and squalling,
in the middle of a Manitou Island thunderstorm.
His name is Northern Lightening Man, Wasmo’een
Keyjack, and he became the new light and promise of our future.
There is not wasted breath. We offer the best bits
to our ancestors, and the two-legged, and four-legged,
the swimmers and the crawlers in thanks for the Roving Angel
that helps us know to give is to receive.
We needed to know the father’s son will come again.
We do not take a plant, an animal, a drink, a breath
without first giving offerings and making sure
another generation can be born in its place.
This is the way of accepting their words
without losing the remembrance
of passing that gift on once it is enjoyed
because it was sacred in being given and in being received.
Everyday is Christmas in Indian Country. The sun rises
to remind us we are centered around the spirit
of giving, and that the sun walks a Good Red Road
that we must follow. Every act, every being
is spiritual first. It does not matter if the date is right,
if we meet in four walls, if we sing certain songs,
or chant specific well-worn phrases.
Strangers will come and you offer them the best food.
There is no mention of inconvenience, nor is there show.
We know the more we give, the more spiritual we are.
We do not save it for a holiday. Every day is sacred
and in that sacredness, we offer all when it is needed.
It is not required that we ask, make lists, as if we were poor.
We know we are not. It is the faith we have
in getting what we need that defines us. Our intermediaries
are not elves nor men in red suits,
nor guilt-throwing black robes that hold out their baskets
as a way to live. We live to give, if we can give it all away,
it is seen by who needs to see.
The bird tells of the seed thrown out. The deer
allows itself to be taken for our good. The plant
drops its seeds from the stalk before we cut it.
The child is a sacred gift, and who is to know?
Who is to know? Each child is our only hope
and there are always stars.