Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 108242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Traditions are the memories of those before us, breathed to life when we carry them on. My hands reach back, straining through time for the peace my ancestors found even in the midst of unimaginable loss and injustice.
I haven’t smudged in so long that at first, I feel like a phony. Like I’m going through the motions of something that could be wasting my time, but when I close my eyes, I see Mama in the mornings. She liked to smudge outside. She said when you call on the four directions, you start with the east, and she could never remember where that was. Seeing the sun showed her where to start. We laughed, but really she just loved to be outside, to breathe fresh air.
The idea is that the smoke attaches to the negative things in our lives, in our bodies, in ourselves, and draws them out. They float away with the smoke. There were days Mama was only outside for a minute or so. But there were other days when, through a cloud of smoke, I would see tears washing her cheeks. It’s only now that I carry my own pain, that I have my own healing to do, that I wonder what she was healing from. I don’t think the smoke is magic. For me, it’s one of those practices that connects me to the elders and reminds me of their strength in the face of upheaval and violence and disenfranchisement.
Mena said to start with intention or an affirmation. What do I even say? Do I say it out loud?
“I will live this day in gratitude,” I whisper, the words mingling with the smoke I scoop over my face. “Grateful to be alive and breathing and able to give and receive love. I will face every obstacle with the boldness of those who follow me and with the courage of those who came before.”
Behind closed lids, I’m suddenly transported again to that dank cave, blind inside the black bag. It’s so disorienting my head swims. Just as I feel those iron fingers gripping my throat and the ground falling away beneath me, I breathe in the sage. Fear, panic, and anger slowly recede, and I wonder if it’s as easy as breathing in and breathing out; as surviving one breath to the next, one day at a time, healing in my own way.
I’ve regained my ground and breathe deeply, honoring the four directions, starting with the east, the dawning of a new day—new beginnings. Putting the old behind me and embracing what is ahead.
After a few more minutes, I stand and overlook the bay that used to belong to the Miwok tribe. They’d been here thousands of years when the first settlers came ashore.
Save the man, kill the Indian.
That was what those missions were for—to eradicate everything that made us us in hopes we’d become what they wanted us to be. The acculturation of a people who were doing just fine before the boats came. After the missions were long gone, some of the Miwok were still here.
That’s me. I have no idea what’s ahead, and I’m still healing from the past, but I have to believe that, like the Miwok, I’ll remain, planted, rooted, and still standing.
CHAPTER 23
LENNIX
“Owen, Lennix,” Millicent Cade calls from up the hall, excitement lighting her voice. “It’s on!”
Owen glances up from the red-lined papers spread out on his desk. For the past hour in his Georgetown home office, we’ve been revising tomorrow’s fundraiser speech with Glenn Hill, the campaign speechwriter, and we’re all ready for a break.
Owen runs a weary hand over his face and stands. He looks younger, disheveled, the sleeves of his Harvard sweatshirt pushed up to the elbows, the expensive Italian boots he favors replaced by white athletic socks. Nothing like the shiny, pressed, pulled-together candidate I’ve been crisscrossing the country with.
“You guys coming to watch Maxim on that late-night thing?” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves his study.
Hearing Maxim’s name sets off tiny, needy bombs in my pants. I miss him. Tomales Bay was two weeks ago, a brief reprieve before we had to resume the unrelenting pace of our schedules.
“Good grief,” Glenn says, highlighting a point in the speech we agreed needed clarifying. “How many more of these do we have to sit through?”
I chuckle, shuffling my copy into a neat pile of papers. “What do you have against the senator’s brother?”
“It just feels like ever since he was on The View,” Glenn says, “America’s all fixated on Maxim instead of on the issues Owen wants people thinking about.”
“I know what you mean, but it’s according to plan.”
“Really?” He quirks a brow, doubt all up in the word.
“Owen just announced last month. This campaign is a marathon, not a sprint. If he’s too wonky and blah, blah, blah policy now, when most Americans aren’t even paying attention, we’re not taking advantage of what they will pay attention to.”