We sleep with the night sounds and stars over head and rise with the morning song birds. Each night we do the queens jewel and run our feet with soul blossom radiance. We ask the state of our souls many times throughout the day. Altering along we go.
Singing the native sings before the altars we bow it raise our hands to the skies. No words left. Now stories. New stories being made. The dust of the paths are on our moccasins and I try to close my eyes and feel the wimyn with their babies at breast walking. Walking. Walking.
Maybe aiming as are we. But what in their hearts? Minds? Strong spirits? I breathe so that my blood pumps faster and stronger through my heart. Their blood. The blood of my people. The blood of the people whose home was this land we walk and pass by. We pause often.
Before the last one hundred miles of altars I make a new prayer. In honor or all that was lost. In honor of all that was preserved. In honor of all things seen and unseen. Known and unknown. Spoken and unspoken. Up above. Down below. Never ending. The spirit of the Cherokee. Soul strong.