Before my tears had dried, or even stopped flowing, before I had hit “send” on the reply to the email that brought me the news, seemingly before I had even asked the question, I knew the answer in my heart. Horse hair.
Seeing video clips of Winona Laduke and other women and men on horseback, raising tipis, setting up camp on the mall in Washington, D.C., a rush of blending energies surged through me and I wept because I want to be there, on my horse, though I get homesick when I leave Vermont or even my land for long, and because I want no one to have to be there protesting the rape of the Earth and genocide of Her children again and again. I knew as I watched the proud footage of cowboy hats and feathered headdresses parading through the streets together that somehow, I would be there, I would contribute something to this great and terrible gathering of unlikely allies.
Seeing video clips of Winona Laduke and other women and men on horseback, raising tipis, setting up camp on the mall in Washington, D.C., a rush of blending energies surged through me and I wept because I want to be there, on my horse, though I get homesick when I leave Vermont or even my land for long, and because I want no one to have to be there protesting the rape of the Earth and genocide of Her children again and again. I knew as I watched the proud footage of cowboy hats and feathered headdresses parading through the streets together that somehow, I would be there, I would contribute something to this great and terrible gathering of unlikely allies.