July Sentences
dragonflies
Greetings friends and family -
I have been quiet here on Substack the last few weeks as I was a supporter at my first Sundance here in South Dakota. We stayed onsite for a few weeks, I brought my daughter, we met the families and took our, sometimes awkward, place quietly beneath the open sky, pine trees, unbearable heat and occasional rain storm.
I am writing now from this hotel in Hot Springs, South Dakota, home to a famous healing spring they call Kidney Spring because it was used to cure diseases of the kidneys long ago. We’ve spent a few nights here after the dance to come back to earth, take showers and swim in the very beautiful, mineral rich waters that surround this area.
Carrying forward in prayer, having learned a lot, and without further ado, here are my July sentences, based on Chris La Tray’s single sentence writing practice.
July
1. Attempting to finish the chicken coop fencing, I begin giggling and wobbling, internally and externally, feeling as though someone has dosed me with psychedelic mushrooms, when I realize the heavy toxicity from the wildfire smoke is dangerously flooding my lungs and my body.
2. I ask Amara to dance like only Amara dances and she wiggles like a human ribbon all throughout the downstairs bathroom.
3. I realize the song is actually carrying me in its high frequency and my only job is to keep singing, keep singing.
4. The leader of the men’s group walks by and drops a degrading comment in our midst.
5. Sweat pouring out of my body, smoke filling the air, I feel I want to leave the planet.
6. My dear friend sits down at the dinner table next to me and I realize it’s the first time in days she’s eaten anything substantial - I hold back the tears as we give thanks for the meal and the circle of friendship.
7. By the end of a few hours working up on my land, my nose is running like a faucet, my eyes itch and everything in my face feels swollen and irritated.
8. The chickens begin clucking wildly from their cage in my front seat as we drive them off the mountain and through town.
9. We imprint thunder and rain into the waters of our bodies and place the offerings on the spirit plate.
10. The afternoon has a human baby in my arms, a baby bunny tucked into my hip, my daughter running around the kitchen and two women lounging on the couch.
11. As we walk up towards the old farm where my daughter was conceived, I stop to look in and remember the simplicity.
12. The tiny, hairless, barely alive baby bunny wiggles back and forth in my hand.
13. Driving past the tall rocky cliffs where I grew up, my body adjusts and registers a deep felt sense of home - my chest loosens and my breathing changes.
14. The way the artist used earthen pigments from her the earth of her homeland to create the black and red background and the simply, perfectly organic, white hoop - it brings tears to my eyes.
15. The moment I lay eyes on the man in the hospital bed, all sunken into the sheets, hooked up to machines and tubes, I knew I loved him.
16. At the cottonwood threshold, I reach deep into his eyes as the world around us sways in an otherworldly back and forth, back and forth.
17. From inside the tent, I can hear that the coyotes of South Dakota sound different than the ones back home.
18. At the small family cemetery, the sun and time itself shift after we leave our offerings and I stare at the carved wooden eagle with its head turning to the south.
19. Dried deer meat, wild turnip and corn stew, eaten with a plastic spoon under the hot moon - it tastes really good.
20. A sprig of white artemesia was placed in the wooden bowl of fresh buffalo blood, and passed around the circle.
21. Quiet beneath the old cottonwoods, the smoke carries through the forest as we walk south towards the wild sage patches to harvest for ceremony.
22. The evening finds me sitting cross legged on the ground, wrapping red cloth around the long, kind sage bundles.
23. His mother comes to me in a wave of light and showers love through me to him.
24. I hear one of the lead singers say to her son, “You better be nice to your brother or I’m gonna go tell the grandmother.”
25. Amara and I go for a little drive up the hill to cool off and look at wild plants, when we see an eagle take off across the road toward the lone hill to our left.
26. Jay collapses in his camp chair, eyes in another realm, skin shrunken in, and drinks bottle after bottle of cold water.
27. I’m swimming across the lake when the sun comes out, shining on my back, but in front of me, past the other shore, there are big beautiful rain clouds pouring down water in a thick straight path beneath them.
28. Cracking up on the hotel bed, he pulls the glued fascia out from my ribs.
29. A cool breeze comes blowing out of the small opening at the wind cave, and as I lean into the wind, I see the opening is full of prayer ties.
30. We enter the crystal river valley under the looping flight paths of three enormous osprey.
31. I walk out the front door of the yurt with a basket and some herbs in my hands and see that the evening sky is full of dragonflies.
Thanks for reading this edition of Wild Leaf. This publication continues to be a central point of integration and expression as a mother, writer and creator in these times of great change. Your comments, time and support are appreciated.
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Rainwater on a hot red tin roof, small children in the neighbor’s yard, yell, “hi Kent, watch me swing.”
Work gloves on the outdoor table with a candle and garden clippers. Dried weeds laying on the grass from garden plucking. Sweaty, showered. Chocolate.