Resolutions

I am done selling myself short
I am not your cohort
Your sellout
Your fake friend or copout
I am done being tried
I am done being defied
For standing up for you
For being there
For You
I am done crying
I am done lying
I am done trying
To be there for you
I am done frustrating
And cooperating
To be there for you
Where is my helping hand?
Can you take a stand?
For yourself?
I am done being abused
I am done being used
I am done being accused
Of understanding perfectly
Because I don't understand if you call when it's convenient
And I don't really get why you think I'm so lenient
Or why I'm so expedient
In my care for you
I need some care too
I need some support
I am done selling myself short
That is my new years resolution
To create an institution
That lets you stand on your two feet
I have been let down enough
Standing up for love
And unless you can be there for me
You can be the epitome
Of love
Of understanding
Of caring
Then leave me be
Because I can't be your hero all the time

Missing You....

I once had a man tell me that he would do anything to bring the moon and the stars to me to show me how beautiful I was to him. I had only met him once. Sometimes I wish that man weren't just in my dreams. I told him that I wanted to be the girl that guys sing about in country songs. "Why?" "Because they always sound so in love with them, like they care about them and notice everything about them. I want to be that girl for somebody." "One day baby girl you'll find a guy that treats you the way you need to be treated." One day. One day I'll meet you. One day I might hold out my hands to the sky and bask in the sunlight of life and I'll meet you because you'll be basking in the same light. One day I might find you swimming, treading water to keep from drowning because we both jumped in at the same time and the current keeps changing. One day I might meet you. It's surprising the connections that you can make with people, or the connections that you can break. There have been many people in my life that have slipped through my fingers and that I wish I had held on to. Maybe I was too clumsy to catch them, or too selfish to notice that they were falling. I can't help but feel like I've missed something. I've missed you. I've missed moments and laughs that echo in friendship. Yet, like the sunrise and sunset, we cannot hold onto these moments forever. If he had moved the moon and the stars to bring a glow to my face, they would need to go back to their place, but their warmth would be forever on my heart. I've always liked hugging old trees because you can feel the warmth of their soul on your cheeks. You can feel their oldness coat your arms as you breath deeply together with the wind. I fear that's what I've missed in people, breathing together wrapped in smiles. Or maybe that's what people have missed in me. Maybe we've missed each other, aiming for a future that changes as the seasons change, but will always return. Maybe we missed each other by a falling leaf, or a breath, or a glance of the sunset. Maybe we missed each other by a cloud covering the moon, or a meteor tail, or a drip of water. Or maybe we haven't missed each other at all, at least not yet. Standing like trees in a grove, always together, but too rooted to move, watching people climb in our branches and carving names into our skin. Maybe I haven't missed you yet.

dedication

burning the candle at both ends, they say?
lighing my room with my flame
if only i could harvest the energry
of my past so my present won't combust
exhausted we lie side by side by side
the sweat of our skin tastes like frustration
like struggle
like waiting
like wanting...
my tomorrow i give to you
the hours drip by as i hold you
try and make you grow into the beautiful mother you are
we nurse our wounds together
painted into the corner of human history
you are painted old
there are cracks in your plaster
bleeding like a virgin who was torn
torn like treaties
and you still cry
people come from miles around
to harvest your tears
no trespassing
exhausted we lie side by side by side
starting at your art and tracing
the life line on the palm of your hand
it feels rought
like skin
like love
like wanting
lighting your face with my flame
as the wax seals my footsteps touching yours

sickness

the sicknesses in this world sometimes seem too great to overcome, as if there is no immunization because it lies in the hands of the powerful, buried behind lines of money and tears, struggle and fear, behind a stench of sadness as the lines of sweat that drip down the faces of the faithful yield no crops. they yield no crop not because there is drought, but because the tears are too salty and too numerous and a mother cannot bear to see her children crying. but what choice do we have when we have to battle with fish and wildlife for funding? i guess they took it too literally when we said we walk in harmony with the earth. but who do we walk with? each bash against each other leave us limp and our tracks look lame, bruised, and faded. we've forgotten to carry each other. walks around one people, that clan was meant to be a protector, to surround the house and keep all safe, to keep each other safe. thank god i finally came home, because then each step on my land was like a prayer, asking for forgiveness, and for harmony, and for the earth not to cry any more because there are doctors on their way. there are people who are here to heal but they're stuck, they're filtered, they're bashed, they're arrested, they're muzzled, they're tired, and i consider myself lucky to be alive. looking so high at the the people who pull chain gangs along pitiful railroads of destruction, who push money into pockets that are already busting at the seams, who pull up the undeserving, who push broken backs beyond their limits, who push and pull, push and pull, little do they know that someday it will break. but looking up at them, looking back and forth so as not to get runned over or tangled or strangled or lynched, it's easy to get tired and let your head hang, looking down and wishing that your feet weren't solidified in cement and praying that something doesn't push you over the edge. i have a healing hand because i need to heal and every time i look down its there, thank god. the sun melts away sadness in the morning and lifts prayers up high, it's a good thing too so i can walk again and let each footstep be a prayer as i walk along wrapped in the warmth of love and faith. even though the sicknesses in this world seem to great to overcome, there are those of us that are walking and keep hope alive

A Letter for My Grandfather

I heard while I was in a city that my grandfather had great influence. I was in a city of unfamiliarity and covered in concrete but it was crawling with power. Washington DC is a place where worldly decisions are made. Decisions to help or destroy one another; decisions that control our future as a nation, and as individuals. I had never been there before, but my grandfather had many times. My sister was born while he was attending the Presidential Inauguration of Jimmy Carter.
I considered my grandfather more than a grandfather, he was a great man, a great leader, a Code Talker, a nation builder, a Navajo Nation council delegate, a Vice Chairman, a rancher, a farmer, and a founding father of the Navajo Nation. I went to him for advice on everything. That morning I had intended on visitng the Library of Congress, one of the largest book collections in the world, and supposedly one of the most beautiful. I never made it. I had also wanted to see the Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian. I never made it. I came home and while waiting at the airport I saw a few Indians of different tribes waiting for flights. They were coming from meetings and hearings and panels that protected Indian Country, just as my grandfather had done. While I was sitting there a friend sent me a message saying "Chei's in a better place. Home. It's like libraries burning when elers pass." That struck me as powerful and I imagined the Library of Congress on fire and watching the whole nation's history sink to ashes because that's how I felt. But then I remembered watching the sun rise from the metro ride to the airport. I could see the Capitol Building, the Washington Monument, the tips of the towers of an Empire. Then I could see the slums, the dirty buildings, and the litter while going over a polluted river. I realized that the sun rises over everybody, not just those in power, or those in need, but everybody. The sun is our father, and he lights up everybody. He helps all of us grow.
My grandfather worked for all of his people and all of his family in hopes that one day the nation wouldn't be so divided. With his life, my grandfather had taught me more than any library could ever hold. Even though he couldn't leave every single one of us with all of his stories, his knowledge, his experiences, and his wisdom, he left us bits and pieces in every one of us. He gave us an opportunity to come together to share in his love and his memory. He built a nation with all of us. I don't think it was a coincidence that I was in Washington DC when I heard, he knew I was there. He knew where we all were. He emphasized educaiton, exploration, and the importance of bringing all of that back home. I wanted to share this sorty to continue that legacy, and to continue our stories. By the time I landed in Albuquerque I had learned a lot from my reflections of his experiences, and I hope that we all can give thought to and celebrate his life. Ahe'hee shi Chei, ayoo anishni. (accents needed)

Stefanie Tsosie
Granddaughter of Wilson Chee Skeet
Daughter of Rena Skeet
Baa haa lii, New Mexico (accents needed)

A Story For the Trees

She sat outside staring at the light until he finally joined her, dreaming of stories for the trees. Maybe their love was as ancient and twisted as the branches casting shadows of worn sadness. She sat on the step with tears in her eyes dripping definitions of the word ‘struggle’ onto the painted concrete. He stepped outside and saw the streetlamp glistening on her cheeks and wrapped in muggy cold. He simply sat down and put his arm around her. “It’s stuffy inside,” she muttered, but she meant to say “My heart hurts.” They often held conversations in thoughts and words and actions and hearts and tears and they always got lost in translation and lost in each other. Lost in longing, lost in distance, lost in a love full of distractions. He hated the place, but she loved it because every inch of this land is something to be fought for. There have been generations of warriors born to fight for their land. There have been years and years of longing to keep your heart where your stories are born. She had always wondered what the stories were for the land she walked on. Who had moved to let the trees sit still in sorrow? What were their prayers like and could God still hear them as they were cut off from the umbilical cord that gave them life? Her heart hurt looking at the trees and thinking of the lines of people that had fought for them once upon a time, and the ones that are still fighting for them. Her heart hurt because they were fighting. They were fighting for a place - for a time. Fighting for togetherness. Her heart hurt because they never knew when they would see each other next. Wondering when his arm would drape her shoulder and pull her deeply into his chest as they breathed in and sighed together. All he could say was ‘Yeah it is’. Maybe he meant ‘I love you’ or ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I want to take you away with me and keep you for the rest of time’. Maybe he meant ‘I don’t know what to do’ or ‘you’re the best girl I’ve met’ or ‘How much longer can we do this?’ No matter the translation, they both wanted nothing more than to have more nights to sit together on the front step. The house across the street was still abandoned from the days when everybody had to leave to survive, and now they fight to come back. The lawn was overgrown and the window still dirty from storm water, but the house looked feisty under these sad trees. A fresh ‘no trespassing’ sign sat out front and the street lamp gave its face some shadow to keep watch in the thick air. The house was fighting for itself, waiting for its owner to come back and lick its wounds. It had good teachers, since it all the trees sat around it, teaching it a toughness that can only come from losing love, and loving loss, since it reminds you that the soul is not shallow. They sat and misinterpreted each other fluently, but still commuting feelings, like their own language made up from too many nights apart. Yet through the translations, they still had some words that were solid, as they are in any language. ‘I love you very much’ he said to her. They knew love, but the also knew distance. They know the word ‘far’ could be measured in the difference in the circumference of your arms around a pillow instead of a person. It was everything else that was hard to understand. She spoke in words of ‘when’ and he spoke in the language of ‘soon’. You’d be surprised how often those words don’t match up. Maybe with enough time together they can draft their own language of hugs and smiles at breakfast that come from the happiness of taking care of each other. Maybe one day their language will be as old as those of the trees. ‘I want to write a story for the trees’ she said. She wanted to write a story about struggle and time and age and roots and fighting and warriors and longing and homeland and love and connectedness and faith and tears and happiness. She wanted to write a story in tears on the concrete so the trees could look down and remember the girl that cried for them, that longed for something as rooted as them, that wanted a renewal with them as the seasons changed. She wanted to write a story about a sad happiness she couldn’t understand, except maybe in time after their fighting for a place had ceased. But maybe she misinterpreted. Maybe she meant to write a story about them. They stood up and walked inside.