Posted In: Bodily Autonomy, Indigenous Spirituality and RJ
The air in my lungs feels toxic sometimes, like it hurts to breathe. The memories leave me gasping for air and with every breath that I take, it feels like I’m swallowing pine cones. Every breath feels like I’ve just finished a bottle, but I have not lost. So I concentrate and with every breath I remember the smell of the red woods, the smell of dirt—the color of my flesh.
It feels like I’m carrying the half dome on my back. It is heavy like a rock, with edges as sharp as thorns, but smooth as diamonds. The memories flow like a river, coming into contact with everything that crosses its path. But these memories, like water, breed life, sustain life. Because native is never cruel, it just is.