Mirror in the Hay, Thanks for showing me the Way #7

In the Green Hallway… “Tus Labios pa’ mí, Tanit, Turai; Tu Estrella en Mí, Tara, Thurai”

Swoosh! I hear in the wind, as I see a silver cord dancing in spirals around me. I grab it and hold onto it, happy to know that kites always have cords long enough as to never get lost. Before making it back to the green hallway, I look at my surroundings and I smile at the little bridge over the acequia, facing a park across el bosque. Sunrays on the snow have given the bridge a whole new dimension. “EstA Puente, mi Espalda”, I whisper in an homage to Gloria Anzaldúa, and then also to my favorite Native writer, and finally to some place up north in LA NuevA México. It now looks like a series of wheels in motion.

I wonder if those wheels united through their center mean that I am about to ride the pony that will finally show me the way to come full circle with myself. As I wonder and ponder, the caw caw caw of ravens across the street takes me from my reverie, or leads me into a new one.

The beautiful black birds are dancing a round dance on a huge stump, and then I am no longer the only one watching. Aang, the little character from Avatar, the last Airbender, is looking at them too, and his gaze creates a long line of ancestors who, in their own time, were Avatars before him. As I blink wondering what it means, the vision disappears and only the big stump remains, shivering in the snow.

-I am sorry that they cut your body, I whisper in sadness and reverence for the tree. I move forward along the acequia, and all of a sudden a "Y" in reverse, in the shape of a fallen cottonwood branch, starts drawing weird visions in the snow. 

The shadow, on the left of this “y” upside down, looks like the shadow of a dancer: a ghost dancer. Edison’s images come flying and floating before my eyes again, and then a man in a headdress who’s carrying a pipe makes me feel uncomfortable, because something tells me that he should be carrying a tomahawk instead. As I come to this conclusion, I see myself facing the other side of the wall by my fireplace, back in Spain. I remember how electricity problems often obliged me to go and "re-boot the system" from the landlord’s house. Once, I had seen those Native-American items above the fireplace mantel. It was such a weird feeling. Why am I remembering this? Why do I always experience such weird things with electricity in the first place?

-Oh so you feel the pain of trees as well?

This is not “my” usual voice talking to me. I know he respects it when I ask for time and I know he must be flying that kite right now. So who is talking to me? I like the question anyway, so I accept to engage in conversation with her. All I know for now is that the voice is a “she”.

-Yes, I do.

-Not bad for a wasichu…

-I think it’s because I’ve learned to not always take all the fat for me alone, since “wašíŋ ičú” means “he takes fat” to refer to White folks who rob indigenous people of what they consider “resource” , when Native people see the Source in everything, therefore deserving equal respect since it is a manifestation of Creator… How does that sound on your wasichuness-detector?

-Ha! You’re cool…

-Thanks… You’re cool too… And apart from that you are…???

-Well, you seem to like learning new things, so for now I will just recite some of my writings, which I remembered by this fallen branch: “My mother and I laughed away the momentary hurt. Then she built a brisk fire on the ground in the tepee, and hung a blackened coffeepot on one of the prongs of a forked pole which leaned over the flames. Placing a pan on a heap of red embers, she baked some unleavened bread. (…) For the white man’s papers I had given up my faith in the Great Spirit. For these same papers I had forgotten the healing in trees and brooks. On account of my mother’s simple view of life, and my lack of any, I gave her up, also. I made no friends among the race of people I loathed. Like a slender tree, I had been uprooted from my mother, nature, and God. I was shorn of my branches, which had waved in sympathy and love for home and friends. The natural coat of bark which had protected my oversensitive nature was scraped off to the very quick. Now a cold bare pole I seemed to be, planted in a strange earth. Still, I seemed to hope a day would come when my mute aching head, reared upward to the sky, would flash a zigzag lightning across the heavens. With this dream of vent for a long-pent consciousness, I walked again amid the crowds.”

-Wow, this is beautiful, I say. Sad, but beautiful. Maybe it’s the reason why my sweet voice chose that burnt cork memory to wake me up, since it led me to think of the oak trees stripped off their bark for the production of oak corks put atop bottles and ready to pop open when the time is right. I think we have things in common, new voice. You know, white man’s papers are made of trees, and maybe trees anticipate what will be written on them. Also, trees, when changed into cold bare poles, held the telegraph wires with which the white man had invented a new kind of communication, stepping even further away from other, more subtle and metaphoric ways of communication. It takes time to re-learn, but let’s look at it that way: trees always end up helping for communication… And I’m thinking of a third way in which they help, I say in a smile as I look at my recorder with my name fire-tattooed on it.

-You have moved me, says the new voice. Not too many people manage to do that. Let me offer you another excerpt of my writings: “We had been very impatient to start on our journey to the Red Apple Country, which, we were told, lay a little beyond the great circular horizon of the Western prairie. Under a sky of rosy apples we dreamt of roaming as freely and happily as we had chased the cloud shadows on the Dakota plains. We had anticipated much pleasure from a ride on the iron horse, but the throngs of staring palefaces disturbed and troubled us. (…) I sat perfectly still, with my eyes downcast, daring only now and then to shoot long glances around me. Chancing to turn to the window at my side, I was quite breathless upon seeing one familiar object. It was the telegraph pole which strode by at short paces. Very near my mother's dwelling, along the edge of a road thickly bordered with wild sunflowers, some poles like these had been planted by white men. Often I had stopped, on my way down the road, to hold my ear against the pole, and, hearing its low moaning, I used to wonder what the paleface had done to hurt it. Now I sat watching for each pole that glided by to be the last one.”

-…

Before I can say anything, this powerful evocation of a train ride and the brutal contradictions of what communication means from different spectrums seems to take form in the actual sound of a train… The round shapes of the iron bridge looking at its shadow draw the wheels of a train in motion in the shimmering snow. I shiver like the old stump as I watch “the Thunderbird” going back and forth along the bosque between Tingley and the zoo, with its load of fake coal and real tourists, “in no particular order”… I feel a strange connection with this, since, as we mentioned with THE voice a while ago, my green hallway on Gold is near Coal Avenue as well. I live surrounded by metal  and fossil fuel names, and something tells me there’s a reason for it. I wonder if “the Thunderbird”’s loco number is 49… If it were so, I would rather think of it in terms of a tribute to the round dance instead of an apology of 49ers. Not that I have anything against them personally, but against the huge damage done to life in all its forms by their hunger for gold. I have colliding visions and words in my head: coolies, coral reefs, heishi necklaces, edges on fire, dark forests at night, white bodies of water, and a mural that had drawn my attention when I visited California, back in 1997. It mentioned the dramatic dwindling of the Native Californian population because of the greed of those who went crazy for the yellow powder. 100,000 Native Californians died between 1848 and 1868. Why is all this showing up now? As I look at the little bridge again, the lyrics of an old nursery rhyme hammer their images in my soul, And I start singing : « Meunier, tu dors, ton moulin, ton moulin, va trop vite. Meunier, tu dors, ton moulin, ton moulin va trop fort… ».

-What does that mean? asks the shadow poet.

-“Oh, miller, you are sleeping, your mill is going too fast, oh miller, you are sleeping, your mill is being too strong” I translate.

The wheels of my brain are in full gear indeed, and the next thing I see is a mill wheel on a tiny river with yellow hues, and then a windmill from where my former self peeks out of a tiny window.

-What are you thinking of? asks the curious voice.

-I was remembering a time in Southern France. I remember I could barely breathe as I tried to lean over that tiny window... This region is close to the Mediterranean Sea and the Camargue Delta, the land where Saint Sara is honored by all the earth wanderers. The first time I was in the region, when I entered the mill, was not during the pilgrimage though, which is celebrated in May. I was at the mill for Christmas. My parents and I had decided to meet “in between” both our dwelling places. Our tour took us to Fontvieille’s mill. The mill is famous for being where the author was said to have been writing his stories, or “letters” as Daudet called them: Lettres de Mon Moulin…

-Letters are so important… Come back to the hallway, we all want to learn about that story.

-All? So you’re not alone?

-Just come, hurry.

A bit startled, I obey the command and walk away from the bridge. Escalante, San Patricio, San Carlos… I cannot help interviewing History as I see those names on the street signs on my left.

-Carlos, oh poor Carlos… says the voice.

-I have no idea why you are saying “poor Carlos”, who was Carlos?

-I’m remembering one of my not-so glorious ways of treating another human being…

-And as for me, I’m remembering family… Even though I was physically gone already, I saw that hat flying off Carlos’s little head and “landing” on the river… I wanted so bad to tell him it was ok… to tell him that dad would always be there with and for him… I don’t know who was the saint, though, says a SECOND female voice.

-Wait… Who are YOU now???

-Just come, she’s right, we’re waiting for you at your place on Gold…

Wow, I have a crowd waiting for me in the green, apparently…

I finally make it to the door of the green hallway and I turn the key, feeling a bit of apprehension as I wonder who’s there… As usual, Lilith the grey cat greets me from behind the faded and torn green sari I use as a door curtain, and as usual too, Caramel opens one eye from her nap, near the other green sari whose diamond flowers and stars decorate the North wall. I would have sworn that…

-We are here, Nathalie, says the second female voice. We are not as clearly defined as your kitties, but we are present. Maybe at some point you will be able to see us as shadows watching over you, just like that vision you’ve just had of the Avatar and his ancestors by the stump at Kit Carson Park.

-Oh, so you basically see all that I do… too?

-Let’s say that we are here with you, because you showed interest for us.

-Ah… If you say so, I smile. But I still don’t know who you are, and therefore whom “I showed interest for”, heehee…

I am feeling more relaxed and really eager to know who hides behind those voices.

-Fair enough, says the stronger voice. We have grown accustomed to roam together, the three or four of us, but we know there are way more characters who would like to join our circle.

-What circle? I ask.

-The one we are wishing to form with you at some point, around that apricot tree in your garden.

-Oh, you have noticed it? I smile. I like it a lot, although the poor thing only gave like three apricots last summer.

-We sure hope to have more blossoming flowers this coming spring, assures the softer voice.

-You know, when my folks buried me, they dressed me in a beautiful silk dress whose tone was a gorgeous apricot orange, or was it peach? I always mix those two. Anyway, so I was buried there in the Darke County of my birth, says… A THIRD VOICE.

-Oh, well, condolences, I stutter, feeling ridiculous at once since it’s the first time I have to tell someone I am sorry for THEIR passing. I guess you don’t say ‘condolences’ in these circumstances, and I can’t help laughing, feeling ashamed just a split second after it happens. The sound of a frank laughter in four distinct tones makes me feel better.

-Ah, we like you, adds A FOURTH VOICE coming from behind the sari on the Northern wall.

-Yes, said the “apricot” voice, and I learned to like you better when I saw you bury that little bird under the apricot tree. You know, the one that Caramel the cat had killed. It also made me feel bad for so many little birds I myself killed, sometimes “for fun”. Well, most of them were killed for food, at first, but then later on I could have cut on so much shooting…

Oh great, I think. I have a compulsive killer in my room.

-You know, killing is an essential part of life, says the voice who seems to have heard my thought. I think you are learning that. Plus life was not always as easy as yours in the here and now. But we understand that it can be a bit hard for you to grapple how life was in the past. Also, I understand what you may feel towards weapons. I myself started to feel it after World War I, when I saw those broken faces of people coming back from combat with a hole instead of factions. I think you folks called them “gueules cassées” in French. It really gave me the shivers. I started to think in terms of destruction and construction, and wondered where my place was in all that cycle.

-…Thank you for your understanding?! I say without really knowing if I’m grateful or wanting to tell ‘them voices’ that I am having a headache and run away from them, the only problem being that I AM at my place and so are they... But I know deep inside that I have always wanted to experience this incredible opportunity to be able to dialogue with History. So be it, then.

-Who is the gentleman talking to this island girl? asks the strongest voice.

-Huh?

I have a hard time following the numerous threads thrown at me by the chatter-shadow-voices.

-The one you’re seeing in your mind’s eye, clarifies the first voice. He has long, curly hair and black drawings on his body.

-Oh, I smile. He’s the one who decided to go a little bit ahead of events and decided for Moana when it was good to thank him, I say in a smile. I was thinking of that movie character when I’ve asked THE voice to let me do some stuff by myself, when we were by the acequia. Even though I did not yet know for sure what “stuff” it was, and that I would “meet” you, ladies, but he is, hmn, my first and primal voice, if I may say. And what you see in that mind projection are moments of the movie with which, sometimes, I felt really identified. Just like the young lady facing him, Moana. Oh funny, it sounds like “moi, na!” in French, heehee. There were times when I didn’t know if I wanted to thank him or make him taste the sweet BAM of a paddle blow on his head. But then like in the movie, with details like a little heart carved in the paddle’s wood, the inked character makes me melt. One example comes to mind: when the demi-god answers “no” to the question “are you afraid”, while his ink shadow is shaking, revealing the contrary. That’s cute, so I forget the anger that might have arisen earlier… And this beautiful island girl also reminds me of another young lady who stepped off the screen, who would have no problem handling the paddle like a cudgel either, sometimes on MY head maybe, haha! But since we basically have the same concern at heart, I think we could use those paddle moments to learn martial arts moves, heehee. Anyway, this is what you see in my mind’s eye: images from a movie…

-So what is a movie? asks the softer voice.

-Oh, says the apricot gown voice, a prodigious invention by my friend Edison, even though French people claimed otherwise. The Lumière Brothers only improved Edison’s invention and then took all the merit. But they like to brag…

-Let there be light, I whisper…

-I tried to be part of one or two movies, proceeds Miss Apricot, but it did not really work. How could we put it so that movies would make sense for you, dear one? She says addressing the soft voice. Well, let’s say that it’s as if our spirit was jumping inside little boxes, which in turn show what our bodies do and say on another surface, a bit like what we are doing with Nathalie right now, actually, so that she can see or at least feel us.

-Oh, I see, answers the soft voice.

-Well, I say, I’m glad that YOU guys get part of my world of the here and now, but… just a kind reminder: what about ME, now? I still don’t know what is your world and who I am talking to!

They giggle.

-Oh, true, she’s not really trained, says the strong voice, or she lost her training somewhere. We’d better inform her. OK, so let’s get started. I’ll go first. They called me Gertrude Bonnin.

-Oh I know those lines sounded really familiar! I exclaim. I’ve read some of your writings, Gertrude.

-I am glad, says the writer from the past, but I’d prefer you to call me Zitkala-Sa, it means Red Bird in my language.

-My dear, Lakota was a first cousin of your language, but not exactly YOUR language, may I remind you… says the soft voice with some more strength in her tone.

-Oh who cares, honey, Wasichus did not know that… Many of them STILL don’t really know, I am afraid… They still lump us all together…

-Right, recognizes the soft voice. And it is also true that we have to work on redefining ourselves, especially you and I, Red Gertrude, I mean Bonnin Bird, since we’re half and half, aren’t we? So, let me introduce myself to our hostess… They called me Adaline, and I keep on trying to remember my Arapaho name, but dad’s strong will was too present in my memory for me to remember the other name I had as an infant. I know that dad was fond of my “white” name, because it reminded him of his… niece, who nevertheless was older than him, just a few months. They would play together when he was a kid. I know he loved those times. Sometimes, I thought that he would have liked for his niece and I to switch roles for maybe just one day. Maybe he was waiting for that magic to happen when he sent me away…

-Oh I see, I say as I lie a little bit yet. And what was your dad’s name?

-Christopher.

-A nice name… Did you know that it means “the one who carries God” in Latin? Christo Ferens… Just like Christopher Col…umbus. Well, maybe it’s not the best example here, though.

-Columbus is the capital of my State! exclaims the apricot voice.

-Hum… Yes, but it’s true that it is a painful reminder for many people in this country, Phoebe… answers the soft voice that I can call Adaline now.

-Don’t call me Phoebe, you know I don’t like it… whines Apricot.

-Oh well I don’t know why. I love that name, I say. There was a great TV show “a while” ago, it was called Charmed, and my favorite witch was precisely Phoebe…

I remember that particular episode in which the witch (haha) had to deal with her three selves in the magical attic, guardian of the Book of Shadows: her past little girl, her present mixed-up grown up, and her future old lady.

-How appropriate, giggles Zitkala.

-Then, there was another one in which she and her sisters had to face their fears, traumas and frustrations that had come to life from their dreams. Mr. Sandman was the one carrying the dream dust from which all this came to life…

-Wow! exclaims Apricot. I see a nice specimen of horse skeleton in what your memory is projecting to us! Is he the one who brings your dreams?

-Maybe, I smile… Maybe he brings balance through hollow bones… I remember that Charmed was first aired in 1998, in October, just one year after my first visit to the States… When I was in San Francisco, the Golden Gate Bridge was always in the fog, and I could not take a good picture of the gorgeous skyline of Victorian houses in front of the skyscrapers, although the Golden Gate Park was supposed to be a good spot to take that classic pic. I remember, also, that I had felt a bit offended by a fashion photographer when he ironically shouted at me that “I looked great in the background”, instead of telling me that I was in his field of view.

-I don’t blame you, I would have gotten offended too, says Miss Apricot.

-Ah… San Francisco, sighs Adaline. I never made it there, I was so close though…

-It is a nice city, but then again, too big for me. I answer. My favorite moment in the area was when I visited Yosemite, and my encounter with a bear (the first one before another bear encounter, way later by a little acequia).

-Oh, wow, ouch! And scary… says Zitkala.

-No, there was no reason for any ouch, I answer. The first bear had a stellar moment on the film I was shooting on my camcorder, when crossing my path by the waterfall of el Capitán, and I just said hi to the second one that was standing by water again, looking at me pulling my suitcase along the acequia.

-Whaaaat? asks Zitkala.

-Well yes… I mean, I was so tired that I thought it was a person I saw in the dark, so I said hi, got no answer, and just went by to have a well-deserved sleep in the little casita where I stayed. On the next morning, the landlord told me that we had had a bear visit the night before, so that’s when I figured that it must have been “him” that I had greeted, heehee. But who knows, it might have been a shapeshifter too!

-Oh dad once had an encounter with a bear too, says Adaline. He climbed up a tree and stayed there a very long time… It had left quite an impression on him. You know, I want to thank you for telling us the meaning of his name, although many people now don’t see him as god-carrier, since they focus on tragic events that occurred because of the cruelty of the times we were living… But if something is true about him, it is his sense of duty, which sometimes led him to poor choices. I know the name Carson still stirs controversy today.

-Ah, I say. That’s your last name. Carson. Adaline Carson, daughter of Christopher. Christopher… Carson… Oh shit! Oops, sorry. I mean, yeah, I know what you mean now. I saw his grave when I visited a park named after him. Well, they tried to change the name with something that was thought to honor the Native ways, but then again it was complex because of the way elders saw it too, so anyway, for now Red Willow is still basically the name of a tree…

-Aaaah! Here comes my moment of glory again, says Phoebe Apricot. I was born near Willow-dell.

-Willow d’elle, like Fernandel, I chuckle… À tire d’aile… So since you’re the one who likes shooting (see, I have a good memory regarding each voice’s tastes), let’s sing a song together, in my language. It goes like this: “alouette, gentille alouette, alouette, je te plumerai. Je te plumerai la tête, je te plumerai la tête, alouette, alouette…“ I always imagine young women singing it as they go after birdies in the meadows before they turn them into dishes, like you said you did, Phoebe. Wait, I am going to show you on the computer. Look! Isn’t it funny? “Dear lark  I will pluck your feathers”…

This could also be called a movie, Adaline, although this one is made of drawings.

-Fascinating, says Adaline.

-Yes, I acknowledge. Now that I’m seeing this, I’m also reminded of the expression “miroir aux alouettes”, it is an old hunting device made of spinning mirrors, maybe you know about it Phoebe Apricot? I ask, voicing the nickname I had kept in my head until now.

-Of course I know what that is, says the apricot voice. You use it as a lure. Isn’t it funny that some people call this lure “will-o-the-wisp”? It reminds me of willowdell again… Anway, larks are attracted to the spinning device and its reflecting mirrors, therefore they fly low enough as to ease the process of catching them. Hunters always come up with smart devices.

-I guess… I reluctantly acknowledge. They also seek help from natural hunters like prey birds… It was a frequent practice in Andalucía where I lived, not in my times though, but under the Muslim rule. And also, I am remembering another bird of prey in the first images of a movie that has left a profound impact on me.

-I should definitely be more in touch with that “movie” thing, says Adaline. You mention them so often!

-Haha! It’s true. I think they are my way of connecting to the divine, through whatever Spirit has imprinted in the filmmaker’s sensitivity… which then is rendered on the celluloid… The movie that I was mentioning is Caótica Ana by Julio Médem. This young “chaotic” soul is experiencing flashbacks from other lives and leaves her cave in a small island facing Ibiza to embark on a journey of self-discovery. Check out her art! She had drawn many colored doors on the cave walls, and she also drew power animals, like a jaguar and an owl…

-Had she always lived by the water? asks Adaline.

-Before her journey, yes, I answer. On a little island that is quite magical. It is called Es Vedrá.

-I think it means “it’s true”, right? inquires Adaline.

-Heehee… Yes it’s true, the island is called Es Vedrá, although “it’s true” in Spanish would be “Es VERDAD”. But I love your mind path. So this island is very rich in limestone and...

-Maybe it’s why I needed to ask, whispers Adaline.

-Oh really? Well they say the place is quite magical. It was born in the aftermath of big earthquakes, just like the rest of the Balears. You know, it’s funny, because I kind of “surrounded” this island through “random” journeys that I took at different moments of my life: the first one when I was a very little girl, in Mallorca, I think it was the first trip my parents took with me, and then the second one when I was a teenager, to earn a living and try to learn the language. I worked as a waitress in Benidorm, from where I looked at another rock in the water with a weird fascination. Later on I realized that the Benidorm island had the nearly exact same shape as Sierra Nevada in Granada, where I would end up living for a long time. Check this out, I say as I show a map on the computer, to which I’ve added the details of the rock and the mountain.

-“Oh my God”, I hear coming from behind the green sari on the North wall.

-Anyway, I say, apart from a Carmelite friar once in the 19^th century, wild goats, lizards and the bird of prey called Eleonora’s falcon, the island is supposedly inhabited by “non-regular” beings. It is home first and foremost to sirens and sea-nymphs, the ones who tried to lure  Odysseus himself. You see, Apricot, we’re not too far from the hunter’s luring device… Also, the island is thought to be home to Tanit (the Phoenician lunar goddess, whom the friar saw when he was fasting and meditating there) and to a Giant. The big rock is often visited by star people in their shining UFOs. I did not know what an “Eleonora’s falcon” looked like, so I checked it out.

-Oh now can you figure out the difference between a hawk and an eagle? asks Zitkala in a scornful tone.

-You’re so funny, I say… You remind me of two supposed humorists from Spain who were pretty dense in my opinion...

One was famous in France for his magician tricks: Garcimore. It rhymes with this stupid word “Condemor”, uttered by “a star” of Spanish humor back in the nineties. I HATED his ignorance disguised in humor which NEVER made me laugh… The most supreme insult to me was when some people told me that I didn’t laugh because I did not “get it”. No, I never got how being ignorant is funny, how not being able to utter three words in a row is funny, how asking someone else “what’s wrong with your mouth” when that someone speaks another language is funny… Oh I’m sorry, I’m getting a bit tense, here, but just check out the beginning of that stupid “movie” with “Chiquito de la Calzada”: “El Pecador de la Pradera” (the sinner of the prairie).

It is exactly the same kind of stupid anachronic “humor” they display in their riding show, there at “Fort Bravo”, Almería, where the movie was shot.

-Is it still Chiquito de la Calzada in the center, asks Adaline, behind that water curtain?

-Well, that’s the thing, I answer. I believe that those two faces kind of reminded me of an image of your father when he was older, under a weird hat. You know, maybe it came to my mind when Garcimore talked about one of his mice that had peed on his face while doing a trick, because I was reminded of when drunk people go and pee on Carson’s tomb. I mean, it’s horrible, and it is as shallow as the humor of those two, but then again, maybe through those weird mind associations I am made to understand that sometimes, for some people, balance is brought through desecrating acts that are meant to liberate what no longer serves us, I don’t know…

-Back to the trick, asks Phoebe Apricot who sounds a bit ashamed by this mention of peeing mice and men, did it consist of having the giant card stand on the magician’s forehead, as the mouse fought to keep its balance while on the edge of it?

-Yes, I answer.

-It is not bad, not bad at all! I love to learn new tricks. Although I used regular size cards in my gigs. No one did it like me. And let me tell you, I have had many people trying to imitate me. I have also had impersonators. How I hated that! You know, speaking of this peeing mouse, I am thinking of when you erect something sacred and then you let others pee on it by imitating you… But well, even though they try, they will never be as original as they claim to be!

-What led us to all this? asks the fourth voice who sounds a bit lost right now.

-Well, I answer, we were talking about the Eleanor’s falcon when Zitkala asked if I still mixed hawks and eagles… Soooo, here is what an Eleanor’s falcon looks like: I have added the bird to some images of the movie that depict one of Ana’s past lives. They had really struck a chord in me, and others too, which I might show later.

-What is this? asks the voice behind the green sari.

-This is when Linda, the best friend of Ana, the heroin, tells her that she filmed Ana as she was remembering one of her past lives as a mountaineer, “una ochomilista” or “eightthousander”. Then she climbed the K2 Mountain out of despair for her lover who did not commit to her because he did not want to change his status quo, so she never made it back down, dying of cold.

As I say that, a heavy sigh permeates the room and the following words are uttered from behind the green sari-veil:

-Yes, mountains decide for us, and sometimes when it is too cold, we are so weakened that we are no longer able to make a rational decision. We give up our spirit to the Mountain’s will. Many are those who decide to die in its frozen and majestic wilderness… Others ask to be laid to rest in her white immensity.

-You’ve been talking for a while, I say, and in beautiful words. Will you please tell us who you are?

-Just call me Thurai for now, she answers… A little bird will tell you more, sooner.

-OK, I say. I don’t want to put the pressure on you. I like that you mention birds, because they really are an important part of the movie. Apart from the hawk, which appears in the very first images, the soundtrack also contains this song by Cesaria Evora, Tiempo y Silencio: “una casa en el cielo, un jardín en el mar, una alondra en tu pecho, un volver a empezar, un deseo de estrella, un latir de gorrión, una isla en tu cama, una puesta de sol”…

-Such a beautiful language, says Adaline. I wish I had stayed longer at dad’s home so that I could have learned it better.

-Funny, says Zitkala, I’ve always felt drawn to Spanish too, without really knowing why… What does “alondra” mean?

-Well, it’s a lark, I say. And “sabanero” would be a meadowlark.

-Oh I remember when I shot a meadowlark in the wing once, to prove there was no trick in my shooting and my targets were real.

-Damn, says Zitkala-Sa. Did you shoot all that flew, swam or crawled just for your ego’s pleasure, or what? Poor meadowlark. So disrespectful. I am more interested in learning some new words here. Sabanero, you said? Does it come from the Savannah?

-Haha! I like that, I say. Why not! Maybe it’s called that way because green meadows in the spring acquire a yellow tone like the color painted on the little bird’s breast… or like the one given by the broom bushes around the stupa at O-Sel-Ling, the Buddhist center in Las Alpujarras, Soportújar, near Pampaneira, Granada… It is a very beautiful place, let me Google it for you:

-What a nice statue on the water, says Zitkala. Who is this?

-Check out the arrow sign. Wow, it looks a bit like the sign in the maze, by the way. It shows her name: (Green) Tara.

-Thara? asks Zitkala, the one you were remembering when you thought about that procession in southern France?

-Haha! You talk with a lisp, now? That’s cool though, and Sara is very powerful, so we should investigate that, I answer.

-Thí, tí, sí… answers Zitkala.

-…Sí, Zit, sit now, heehee. Well this one is from Asia, and there is a mantra associated with her: om tare tuttare ture soha. In short, it means “I prostrate to the Liberator, Mother of all the Victorious Ones.”

-Oh, please, let’s search the meaning of each word of this mantra! Begs Zitkala. I love this tool you have shown us on the computer, it’s so practical! It makes everything ten times easier and faster than when I wrote my books!

-Yes, maybe we should take advantage of it to learn some more about peyote as well, I chuckle…

-Why?

-Nada, nada, I say as I smile. You tease, I tease, little red bird… But I think that each and everyone of us should address what we want to address. So let’s see about those magical words… Ah! Here, it says that “tare” means liberating from Samsara (now I know that it means the wheel of incarnations, our cyclic wandering, our earth walks). “Tare” asks for liberation from human suffering: birth, old age, unfulfilled desires, sickness death… Then “tuttare” liberates you from the eight fears related to external dangers: fire, water, air, earth, and also thieves and so-called dangerous animals. But apparently those dangers are associated with ignorance, attachment, anger, pride, jealousy, miserliness, doubt and wrong views. These eight disturbing thoughts that you have in your mind are the main dangers… So I guess it has to do with our mind constructs… The third word, “ture”, liberates one from disease. The real disease we have is ignorance, and not knowing the absolute nature of the I, and all the disturbing thoughts that arise from this ignorance… The rough meaning of tare tuttare ture is: “To you, embodiment of all the Buddhas’ actions, I prostrate always, whether I am in happy or unhappy circumstances, with my body, speech and mind.” And the final word, “soha” means establishing the root of the path within the heart. In other words, by taking refuge in Tara and doing Tara practice, you receive the blessings of Tara in your own heart. Your body, speech and mind are transformed into Tara’s holy body, holy speech and holy mind.

-Oh wow! say my shadow guests. This is pretty awesome…

-Oh wow! I exclaim back. It is indeed, and you’re learning modern words pretty fast too, I smile. I think it is great to have invited the protective Goddess in our circle. She is compassion in action. Here it also says that in many languages from India, 'Tara' means star.

-No wonder I felt drawn to her, says the mysterious voice who promised more bird sounds soon.

-Maybe you read it in the stars, I whisper. And here on the screen I’m finally reading that Tara is the one who will save us from eight particular dangers: the lions of pride, the wild elephants of ignorance, the forest fires of hatred, the snakes of jealousy, the robbers who steal right views, the prisons of greed, the floods of desire and attachment, and the demons of doubt. Her statue was not there at the Buddhist Center when I visited it, though. But I still loved the little adventure there when friends of mine had come to visit me. When I saw the stupa, it felt like entering one of Tintin’s adventures, the one in Tibet where he goes in search of his friend Tchang, the only survivor of a plane crash. Tchang had been saved by the Mingoo, Yeti, or Sasquatch I believe you call it here… I am reminded of that story everytime I go to teach a French class to a friend of mine, here in town. There are Buddhist prayer flags outside the house of one of her neighbors. I swear I nearly see Blessed Lightning levitating in the air when I drive by that garden…

-Blessed Lightning? What a beautiful name… says Adaline.

-Yes, I answer. He is more delicate than Tintin’s friend, the Captain Haddock. Apart from causing an avalanche and breaking a valuable vase, he also breaks part of a Stupa.

-What is it, asks Zitkala who really sounds extremely interested.

-There are different kinds of Stupas, you can have Stupas of Many Doors…

-Oh says Phoebe Apricot, that reminds me of one of the first movies I saw! Alice in Wonderland, back in 1903. One of the frames said “Alice dreams that she sees the White Rabbit and follows him down  the Rabbit-hole, into the Hall of Many Doors”…

-Wow, dear little Apricot, I love it! Haha… And regarding the Stupa, well the info I have says that after reaching enlightenment, the Buddha taught his first students in a deer park that the series of doors on each side of the steps represents the first teachings. They go on talking about Four Noble Truths, the Noble Eightfold Path, and things like that. The website also says that an important element in every stupa is the Tree of Life. It is a wooden pole covered with gems and thousands of mantras placed in the central channel of the stupa. During a ceremony, the participants hold colorful ribbons connected to the Tree of Life. Together, the participants make their most positive and powerful wishes, which are stored in the Tree of Life. In this way the stupa is charged, and starts to function. Wow, Zitkala, maybe this is why we were remembering those poles when you came to talk to me by the park…

-Maybe… she says in a tone meaning that, she too, has thought about that possibility.

-Finally it says that the five elements are also represented in or by the stupa: the square base represents the earth and is yellow, the hemispherical dome represents water and is blue, the conical spire represents fire and is red, the lotus and the crescent moon represent air and is green, and the sun and the dissolving point represent the element of space…

-You know, it is not far from what the medicine wheel teaches us, says Zitkala. It is amazing how things are represented in mirrors between cultures.

-Mirrors are fantastic! exclaims Miss Apricot. That was one of my finest tricks, when I shot at my bull’s eye while looking in a mirror. Sometimes I also felt a strange desire to stand upside down and shoot in that position, but my husband Frank told me that I should really not do that since people were looking weird at me… Plus I would have had to wear bloomers for that, and no, no, siree, not for me!

-Bloomers? I ask. What are those? Is it related to flowers?

-I have no idea where the name comes from, says Apricot, but look how horrible they are, I am sure you can find some on your computer…

-Oh what are you talking about? They’re so cute! I exclaim…

-I can’t believe we were talking about stupas and medicine wheels and Phoebe found a way to reduce it to bloomers, sighs Zitkala… I felt like telling you more about the medicine wheel, but sometimes I really wonder if it’s worth it, like I would be casting pearls before swines…

-Are you calling me a swine? asks Phoebe. Well let me tell you that I was in touch with Lakotas for many years. I may not know many things, but I sure did know more than someone I might have called a swine, that impostor of Lily…

-Ugh tell me about impostors, says Adaline. After my death, a soiled dove tried to impersonate me calling herself “Adaline Kit Carson”, all for money, ugh, I felt so outraged and powerless.

-I know the feeling, says Phoebe. Well you know, that Lily, who claimed to do everything better than me and that I was going to be “history” once she stepped in the show, even paraded as an Indian when she went back to California! She seemed to really believe she was that so-called Indian princess. How pathetic is that?

-Wow, “mine” did that in Aurora, Colorado… says Adaline.

-Well, you know, I say, many people nowadays still “dress up” and pose something they’re not supposed to be. I was tempted to harshly criticize that, also in myself, but now with all that is happening in this weird time warp with you, ladies, and also with what Adaline said regarding being torn between two identities, like herself and Zitkala, I no longer feel like being so adamant. I mean, you also chose your garment between “white” and “Indian” according to what you wanted to convey in your shows and who was your audience, didn’t you, Zitkala?

-Hmmm, I hate to admit it but you’re right…

-Oh and Phoebe Apricot, you keep on talking about your own shows, so what did you do exactly? Did you have to dress up as well?

-My dress code was very important, yes. I always tried to maintain my lady-like style, something Lily was frankly not too good at. So to answer your question, I toured Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show for quite some time.

-No way! I exclaim. I’ve always been fascinated by it! I don’t recall any Phoebe, though…

-Well, no, because I took a different name, like I said earlier but everybody is keeping on calling me Phoebe…

-Oh so you were calling yourself something you were not, I chuckle…

-Look, says Miss Apricot who got very serious all of a sudden. I really can’t explain why, but there was something so off with my official name. I never wanted my folks to use that last name of ours… That’s why I changed it. My family was mad at me first, I think, but I did not care, I like being Annie Oakley instead of Phoebe Ann Moses.

-Moses??? I don’t blame you, says Adaline. I feel a profound rejection towards that name. All this conversation is stirring painful feelings too. When he took me to his folks there in Saint Louis, dad had not mentioned to his white family that I was what they called a half-breed. Half Arapaho and Half White. He dressed me up as a white person, but I was still my Arapaho ME inside, under the ribbons and hat… I was very proud of who I was. My maternal family was highly respected among the tribe. Dad really did not fit in what was supposed to be his family, but thought that I, his daughter, somehow needed to fit and would fit better once I’d have tasted his world of birth. I did not want to fit, I wanted to stay with him. But when we were together, love sometimes nearly felt too much. Plus dad was lost without mom, and he did what he thought was best for all. His folks did not really know us, they did not understand the land and heart from where we came. And even though I never told dad because it would have broken his heart, I think I lost the child I was in many ways, back there in Saint Louis. And regarding that name, Moses, it keeps on hurting me when I think of his folks. He was dad’s half brother. He was 17 years older than him, the son of Lucy, not Rebecca, who was my white grandmother. I simply did not like that man…

-That Mooses sounds more like a wolf than a moose to you… says Annie.

-Wow, that’s an interesting metaphor, Annie, I say. Does wolf have a double meaning for you?

-Yes, because that’s the only name I want to remember of the he-wolf…

I feel that Annie is a bit tense and I don’t want to add to her uneasiness, so I switch to her original name, looking for a way to keep our connection.

-You know, when I was little, my nickname shared Annie’s letters, just playing around a bit with the N’s and taking the one in the middle to put it in the front: NaNie. That’s how my family would call me there, back in Verviers, proud city of wool, water, and the old green oak of its coat of arms.

-Ah well it’s perfect, says Annie / Phoebe Apricot, your oak can be added to my tree alley, haha! Welcome to Oakley!

-Thank you, I smile. It is an honor to be part of the shooting star circle!

-That’s it! Adaline exclaims. That’s me!

-Oh you were good at shooting too? I ask.

-As good as my dad, and better than many men, if I may say. But actually I was thinking of another kind of shooting star, what the children’s writer, Mary Pope Osborne, in this time and age, turned into “Falling Star”… I think that is the lost name I was looking for… I don’t know if she was channeling my spirit when she wrote my biography, but she mentioned something that made me ponder and wonder ever since. Well, she says that her work is fiction, but let me tell you that what writers call fiction is sometimes way closer to the real truth, not the official one, well, except for those cheap writers of even cheaper dime novels, though. Those can do great harm.

-Tell me about it! exclaims Phoebe-Apricot-Annie-Swinging-Under-an-Oak-Tree, jumping in the conversation again, damn liars!

-Well if you let me proceed, says Adaline, who dares talking as if she had been barred from doing so for a very long time, I WILL tell you about it. So this writer said that when I was born, there on Horse Creek, the sky rained fire. She also says that my Arapaho grandpa, Running in a Circle, thought I was the reason for that fire rain. And in her book she makes my grandpa talk in horrible terms, saying that they should kill me.

-This is horrible, shouts Phoebe-Apricot-You-Know-the-Rest-of-Her-Name. Had I been there, I would have defended you, not one single child is said to suffer around Annie Oakley. As God is my witness, children will always be going to live through whatever is thrown at them, and when it’s all over, no child will ever be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. As God is my witness, no one will ever be hungry again.

-Heehee, I chuckle, Annie, you skipped a few lines in Miss Scarlet’s monologue, among others, the “they won’t lick me no more”, más o menos, and you’re all red in the face! Calm down or we’ll change your name to Scarlet Woman! Haha… And if the wind turns, it’ll stick forever!

-Haha! “Aho”, chuckles Zitkala-Sa. Scarlet Woman, Red Woman, hmmm, I like that, she says in an enigmatic way. Look, Annie, hun, you’re really cute, you are, but sometimes you just don’t get it, or you just don’t shut up. So PLEASE, we all know that you’re an incredible defensor of the poor and sick kiddos of this world, but let Adaline TAAALK… It really interests me.

-Oh wow, well sorry, Gertrude… says an offended Annie. I don’t know if you ever realized that your name rhymes with what’s left when you take the “Gert” out of it…

-Yeah, I know, and also with “prude”, like you, shoots Zitkala. Who would have said, huh…

-SILENCIO! I shout, not giving credit to this chicken-coop-like circus (which I actually kind of started, though). Man, I mean ladies, I thought it was sometimes tough to deal with Nico, Santa and Peridot, but it’s obviously because I had not met you yet. Holy Cow!

-Yes!! says Adaline (who miraculously rebounds and regains the thread of her thoughts and our conversation). We come from the holy cow. At least this is how the French people would call us: les gens de la vache. Dad knew French too… We Plains Indians have a profound bond with buffalos, and Zitkala will tell you more about White Buffalo Woman maybe, when the time is right.

-Maybe, says Zitkala. I need to exercise my memory since we’re talking about 19 generations ago.

-Wow, let’s go back two generations before Adaline for now, I say. So why did your grandpa want to kill you? I ask.

-He did not want to kill me, silly. Well it’s what dad understood at first but…

-Yes, says Zitkala Red Bird, but I’m sure he learned how to get a deeper understanding of your mom’s culture later on, and therefore…

-Zitkala, you’re learned and brilliant, but please, as you just begged Annie in eloquent terms, please LET ME TELL MY STORY. I have had people talking for and about me ever since I was born, I’d appreciate to finally speak in MY OWN VOICE, if you don’t mind.

-I get that, go ahead, beautiful woman, I’m sorry that I interrupted, recognizes Zitkala.

-Thank you… My grandpa belonged to a sacred society, in which men do and say things that are opposite to what they really mean. His Crazy Dog Society was very powerful.

-Oh dogs! I’m fond of dogs, exclaims Phoebe Apricot.

-Of course it was too tough for you to stay silent for a while, says Zitkala. Yeah, you loved your dog Dave so much that you were about to kill him at every show, playing “William Tell” with an apple on his head. Apples, they can be so deceitful, sighs Zitkala…

I am so amused to hear those ladies talk, washing their delicates in my room and sometimes throwing a wet towel in their shadow faces, that I decide to show them a comic I liked as a child, maybe to look for the wisdom behind the character’s name: Sophie. It is also an attempt at redirecting the talk towards the Arapaho, in the way I sometimes know best: through puns.

-Easy, ladies, easy… I smile. Let’s have a commercial break, here, haha!

-How disrespectful is that book by the little girl, says Zitkala-Sa. I guess that is a mockery of Hunkpapa Lakotas. “Oumpah-pah”, how ridiculous.

-Yes, I recognize it was not the most subtle comic of all, I say. I don’t know what it does in the middle of two Sophie albums. She was a fun and smart character. She always ended up in crazy futuristic vehicles that made you feel like time traveling with her. Look, Adaline, in honor of your multicultural dad, the other day I thought that this parrot making eye contact with Sophie should be called, in French, “un Ara pas haut”, which means a Macaw not too High. Heehee… Because it sounds like Arapaho, and now I know you… So tell us more about what your grandfather really thought?

-You know, says Adaline, I think he knew that the falling star was a sign, he knew it would mean I might be living difficult times, so maybe all he wanted was to protect me from my fate, but one gets to learn through hardship. Anyway, this is how I interpret it.

-The apples on that book cover remind me of home, says Annie Apricot.

-That’s cool, I say, it makes me feel like learning how to can jams or make yummy pies with apples and apricots, heehee!

-Yeah… Although like I said, adds Zitkala-Sa, apples can be deceitful. You remember those lines I recited by the park, Nathalie, when I first talked to you?

-Of course, I do. They’re really poignant.

-Those wasichus lied to us when I was approximately the age of the young girl on that drawing. They took us to that place called Indiana (first I thought the name was another thing meant at laughing at us, actually).

-Oh so you came so close to where I was born! exclaims Annie Apricot.

 -Oh really? I guess we’re united through apples then… Anyway, I ended up at the White’s Manual Labor Institute, a boarding school in Wabash, founded by Quaker Josiah White.

-Well yes, my family taught me Quaker values too, whispers Annie.

-Wow, it’s getting dense, answers Zitkala. I sure hope your days as a mini Quaker were happier than mine. When we got there after a long ride on the iron horse, it was snowing, and there were no apples on trees. And now apples remind me of how my people were called after your folks completed their wonderful training or should I say un-training: we were perceived as red on the outside, white on the inside, therefore an apple. It’s so hurtful.

-The first time I learned about this word was in class last year, I say. I had tears in my eyes when my classmate explained it to us when she did her presentation of who she is. Her cousins called her that way because she had moved from the reservation and now lived in the big city with her family.

-You know, goes on Zitkala, canning jam makes a lot of sense if we want to use a metaphor of how it feels. Because when we go through that process of brainwashing education, it is really how it ends up feeling up there in your head. Your brain is turned into jam, and it takes a long time and much work to rebuild who we want to be.

-The patience to grow, heal and be who we want to be… I whisper.

-Yeah! I would not have stated that feeling in a better way! exclaims Zitkala-Sa.

-Well, maybe you just suggested it from the past and it came to life and light in this day and age…

-I like that, smiles Zitkala who is remembering her years as little Gertie. It is as if I had traced it and left it out there for you to pick, like foot steps in the snow, for you to find them and walk in my tracks.

-Me or another me, I say…

-You know, Gertrude, adds Annie Apricot, I too know the feeling of being shunned and humiliated, and the snow reminded me of it. My dad died a few months after being caught in a blizzard when he came back from the mill. He had lost his speech as well, so it was doubly painful, maybe it’s why I talk a little bit too much sometimes. Also, I myself was thrown out in the cold once, without shoes, in the snow, because I had fallen asleep as I tried to finish a huge load of work I had. All I could think of when I was left out there in the freezing temperature, was that I did not want to end up like my dad: I would survive, I would speak up and I would become someone I was proud of.

-How you must have missed your dad, says Adaline. I’m sorry to hear that.

-Yes, thank you. But I was lucky enough to find a good person later on. I am obviously not referring to that time when I was literally working as a slave for the wolves. On the snow day, the he-wolf coming back home is what made his wife taking me back in, because she was afraid of his reaction. But she hated me. And the he-wolf… well, I don’t even know why I called him that way because real wolves are noble.  Let’s talk about something else…

-Oh so you’ve had your share too, huh? I always thought you were kind of a teacher’s pet when I watched you from afar, recognizes Zitkala.

-Well, you were the one lucky enough to be around teachers, answers Annie. That turned you into an educated person and a great writer. I have always felt ashamed at my poor reading or writing skills, so I struggled very much, with the help of my husband. Sometimes I was bragging a bit too much about my shooting skills to overshadow what I considered as not good enough writing skills…

-We all tend to do that, to compensate, to show the world we do not suck as much as we are the first and only one to think so, answers Zitkala.

-So did you know each other when you were alive? I ask, realizing how weird it sounds.

-Well, I knew who she was, says Zitkala. Who didn’t!

-I may have seen pictures of her, says Annie.

-The pictures I prefer of you, I say to Zitkala, are those taken by your “tocaya” as we would say in Spanish: Gertrude Käsebier.

-Can we see some? asks Adaline.

-Sure, let’s share some pictures here, that would be fun, I say. Let’s build our own tributes to who we all are, through pictures. How does that sound?

-Yes, so you would feel less alone as a flesh and bone woman here, chuckles Zitkala.

-Well yes, it would make me reach out to you somehow, I do believe in the power of pictures. So here’s what we can do: we’ll google your names, and we’ll make beautiful tributes of what we want to enhance, and I myself have tons of pictures so it will be easy for me, even though I’m not as famous as you are, ladies. Although everything is relative nowadays, all our life is exposed on social media, so there’s really not much left of so-called privacy anywhere.

-Ah, even in my times these things happened, and people would make up stories based on who they thought we were instead of who we actually were, says the fourth voice that’s been pretty quiet up to now.

-Can you tell us your name again, I ask.

-Well I haven’t said it yet, answers the soft voice. I like to take my time and follow the rhythms of the moon, that is how stars become really bright and shine forever in the night skies of our memory.

-Wow, you sound extremely poetic, I say.

-Shukran, answers the voice. Gracias. My name is Estrella de la Mañana, aka Soraya. It comes from Thurai, it means the Morning Star.

-Tus labios pa’ mí, Turu, Thurai, tus labios pa’ mi… I sing a flamenco song by Remedios Amaya when I hear our new friend’s name. Could you possibly be… Isabel??? I ask in awe now that I remember Granada’s history. 

-Yes, Isabel de Solís, answers the voice. But it is a painful reminder, since the family that gave me that name abandoned me because they were ashamed and too dependent upon our Christian world’s values. But I am and will always be my beloved Hassan’s Soraya, estrella de su mañana, even though I was morally obliged to convert back to christianity when he died.

-Madre míaaaaaaaaa, it gets more and more interesting, I say. Well, dear Soraya, welcome home, if I may say. You know, I always wondered how your beloved felt, up there buried in the snow of Sierra Nevada. I thought of him often, sending him warmth, and giving him thanks for giving his name to our highest peak.

-Yeah, you’re sure you were not more prone to find an interest in his son, Boabdil? asks Zitkala.

-Well, of course, history told us about Boabdil in more detail, because he was the last sultan, and up until recently, those who wrote history were not too keen on writing balanced portrayals of the people who made history, I answer. By the way, Zitkala, I’m not sure that you know about this funny anecdote regarding the Morning Star, because they named one of Venus craters after you…

-Red Bird? she asks.

-Unfortunately not, they gave it your last name. I answer.

-What? Simmons??

-What do you mean, asks Adaline. Simmons was my first husband’s last name!

-Heehee, I laugh… Esto se está poniendo más divertido que el culebrón mexicano de turno…

-Simmons was my mother Ellen’s last name. She never really felt like talking about it, so I did not insist. And I preferred calling her by her Indian name. It had to do with the wind…

-Oh how I love the wind, I say. Winds of change, winds of revelations, winds of new paths… So to answer your question, the Venusian crater was called Bonnin. All this because you were the one who inspired your husband when he gave you a name related to Venus, Soraya.

-Yes. He was the most poetic man you could ever imagine. Our relationship was frowned upon by many, not only because of religion but also because of our age difference.

-Tell me about it, sighs Adaline. But yours sounds like real love. When I first got married it was quite a different story. I felt as if my romantic life had to be frozen for some time. It is weird to explain…

-Well, sometimes it’s wise to freeze our passions for SOME time, because it can have complicated ramifications. History can be cruel, answers Soraya. And we sometimes make mistakes that will have terrible consequences in our lifetime, and that will linger a bit more in the future. It is weird that you used that description, Adaline, because it is precisely what my husband asked me to do: to freeze him, so to speak. Once he said, when he knew he was dying: “Morning Star, do you remember that place, there in the beautiful mountain, where the cold lakes and beautiful rivers are, please take me there when it’s time. And wait for me… Wait for me.”

All of a sudden I start crying as I remember how many times I was looking at the moon over the peak that received its name from what Soraya has just mentioned, when I lived in front of Sierra Nevada. So legend was true… Muley Hassan had been buried there among eternal snows, and that’s why the mountain had been called Mulhacén, of course, Spaniards always end up deforming all they hear…

-This is so beautiful, Soraya. I have always been intrigued by your life.

As I sit in the middle of the room, between my two green saris that adorn the south and north door, I sing that song by Remedios Amaya again. “Te quiero mucho, leleyleley, te quiero mucho, leleyleley, te quiero mucho, leleyleley”. I love you very much, ladies, I feel that something beautifully fierce has burst open in my heart. It expands like a bridge, like a rainbow bridge as colorful as those ribbons Buddhists add to their tree of life… I believe you came for a reason, I believe you came for us to reinvent the meaning of love, here in the green by my fruit trees waiting for spring to come, to blossom in joy. In our conversation all of you have mentioned past wounds, and in order to heal, we have to address those wounds, both those inflicted on us and those we have inflicted, take them out, wash them gently, let them dry, and practice forgiveness and compassion, just like this Green Goddess sitting on water in her hiding place in the Alpujarra is asking us to do… I’ve read somewhere that if the mountain forgives her wounds and crevices with green shoots of tender blades of grass every spring that comes after the harsh winds and ice, we should use the green shoots of kindness and understanding too. We also have to honor the delicate deeds done by others which led us to our beautiful self-discovery. Shall we start our healing session as we pay a tribute to our lives and that of those who shared and share it with us, painting our world in magic colors?

-We would love to, say Adaline, Zitkala and Annie.

-It would be an honor, says Soraya-Thurai-Estrella de la Mañana.

-Very well, I say, as I start creating my own green mantra:

“Tus Labios pa’ mí, Tanit, Turai; may we talk through Love Lips,

Tu Estrella en Mí, Tara, Thurai; may Love shine on our World…”

(To be continued)