The Furious Spinner

Went to the Emerald City this weekend for a Coyote Cowgirl book reading at Elliott Bay Book Company. It was a small and eclectic group that gathered in a circle in the basement of the store. Eleven of us, ages 5 months to 70-something. I decided to chuck my regular humorous spiel about Coyote Cowgirl, and instead we talked about creativity and how artists can make their way in this society. Most artists are hardwired to create their art (writing, painting, dancing, healing) for the community. When we don't have an outlet for that expression, we are crazy-making. (In the process of going crazy.) If a writer can't get her work published, or a musician can't get anyone to listen to his music, something goes haywire. I told the group that all my work is about trying to find home, to find a place where people live in community and accept one another. Everyone in that red-bricked basement room nodded in agreement. I wondered then if we are we all looking for the same thing, and we just don't know how to connect any more. We need to sing, dance, make ecstasy together. It's no wonder so many of us drug, drink, or throw-up. We are missing that ecstatic creative link with community. For an hour or so Saturday night, male and female, young and old, black and white, homeless, middle-class, hitchhikers, and an infant created a strange little community as we searched for the answers of how one lives in this world and remains whole...

The next day, Mario and I went to the Salmon Homecoming on the Seattle Waterfront. We got there early, so not much was happening. Salmon is the soul of the Pacific Northwest, and I was glad to be in a place where Salmon was being honored. As we walked around watching vendors set-up for the day, we heard the sounds of drumming, so we walked until we found the source. We sat nearby as three Native American men sang and drummed. I stared up at the highrises beyond and the pale blue sky and was completely enchanted to be in this place at this time listening to the drumming. For a moment, I felt completely and inexorably at home. Then the men stopped drumming and began laughing and talking with one another.

Mario and I stayed a few minutes longer, then got up and left. I wondered, as I looked down into the bay, if anyone ever felt at home for very long. I hoped so. I hoped most people knew what it was like to be home in their bodies and on the land. The Salmon certainly knew where home was. After cruising in the ocean for a few years, they knew when it was time to return home, and they knew right where to go. No question about it. Something to be said for biology. I once dreamed that my hand was pressed against the Earth, and suddenly the rich cinnamon-colored dirt came up through my fingers and held my hand and said, "This is home." I wept when I awakened. I was never sure if the dream was telling me my body or the Earth was my home. Details, details.

As Mario and I left the Emerald City, I shouted a Welcome Home to the Salmon, then I clicked my heels together three times. 0 comments

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