"Bubbling up in our own good time-- online."
Groundwaters Publishing, LLC
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Volume 5 Issue 4
Page 26
Page 26
I am from conglomeration – how rocks are made – little pieces of one thing and
another hardened and patched together with the sands of time.
I am from farmers, people of arts and letters, loggers of forests, fiddle players,
eccentric rulers in foreign lands, cattle drivers and forbidden ghost dancers.
I am from things made with our hands, fine laces and beaded buckskins, smooth
butter and crunchy chitlins, fine furniture and cracking bullwhips.
I am from Saturday night musicians, preachers of hell-fire and brimstone, and users
of the sweat lodge.
I am from men who were clean shaven and uncomplicated, who gave handshakes
not contracts, who were always there for their neighbors.
I am from men who drank heavily of white lightning, who sang and danced and
created their own wild stories with large and extended families.
I am from women of honesty and honor who wore dresses whether they plowed a
field or made delicate embroidery stitches, they cooked without recipes and
catered to their men.
I am from women who gave up their dreams in exchange for marital servitude,
frustration, and bitterness.
I am from restrictions of what could be spoken, of artistic endeavor, of what could
be worn and what could be consumed.
I am from freedom to roam and explore forested mountains scattered with
numerous wild creatures, mysterious caves, and splashy giggling waters.
I am from violence and pain, whispered secrets and hidden bruises, addictions and
illnesses of the brain.
I am from the storms that erode, little bits and pieces scatter, some are lost, some
are added to one thing or another, hardened and patched together as the sands of
time move on.
another hardened and patched together with the sands of time.
I am from farmers, people of arts and letters, loggers of forests, fiddle players,
eccentric rulers in foreign lands, cattle drivers and forbidden ghost dancers.
I am from things made with our hands, fine laces and beaded buckskins, smooth
butter and crunchy chitlins, fine furniture and cracking bullwhips.
I am from Saturday night musicians, preachers of hell-fire and brimstone, and users
of the sweat lodge.
I am from men who were clean shaven and uncomplicated, who gave handshakes
not contracts, who were always there for their neighbors.
I am from men who drank heavily of white lightning, who sang and danced and
created their own wild stories with large and extended families.
I am from women of honesty and honor who wore dresses whether they plowed a
field or made delicate embroidery stitches, they cooked without recipes and
catered to their men.
I am from women who gave up their dreams in exchange for marital servitude,
frustration, and bitterness.
I am from restrictions of what could be spoken, of artistic endeavor, of what could
be worn and what could be consumed.
I am from freedom to roam and explore forested mountains scattered with
numerous wild creatures, mysterious caves, and splashy giggling waters.
I am from violence and pain, whispered secrets and hidden bruises, addictions and
illnesses of the brain.
I am from the storms that erode, little bits and pieces scatter, some are lost, some
are added to one thing or another, hardened and patched together as the sands of
time move on.
| The Creation of Me By Wanda Edwards |