The deer people

Day 51

photo by Wilson Alvarez

I went running at dusk today, felt the ground disappear beneath my feet; watched the world soften and blur with each sharp intake of breath, each thump of my pounding heart.

And for a moment I was one of the deer people, invisible in the graying twilight, each cell awake, humming , the razor wire awareness that can only come from living with predators; being prey.

And then tonight, preparing the venison to roast. Slicing the carrots, celery. The thump of the knife on the cutting board, garlic, onions; salty tears.

She was a victim of the road, left to die, left to lay like trash, like nothing. Our friend lifted her limp body from the cold ribbon of road, took her home, called Wil for a lesson in skinning, butchering.

He came home proud, with tenderloin, a roast, arms covered in blood up to the elbows.

And now, it’s not clear who is who. Because that deer fed us. Filled our bellies with warm meat, colored our cheeks with goodness, and laughter, and talk.

An ancient trade: She gave her life for ours; she left her family to feed mine.

So then, in a very real way we ARE the deer people.

Flanks heaving, hooves pounding, shapeshifting,

Wild.

*******

Thank you.

I love you.

I am sorry.

Please forgive me.

**********

Thank you for listening,

Love,

Natasha

photo by Michelle J.

Our guest post tonight comes from my dear friend and kindred spirit Sarah H. She asked me to post this footage of “the rally at Franklin Forks” from her “friends up north”, who are fighting the monster that is fracking, the exploitation of the very bedrock we stand on. We are in solidarity with you friends. You are not alone in this fight. Thank you for sharing Sarah.

Birth

Day 18

photo by Michelle J.

I’m thinking of birth tonight.

Our son, born at the foot of our bed, me on my knees. Like a prayer, Wil says.

My nephew, born on the day of the super moon, pulled here, same as the high tide.

My own birth, 30 some years ago, the first photos of my parents holding me, smiling, a little shellshocked, so in love.

My sister’s birth, me at 3, watching sesame street as she came wailing into the world.

And I think, birth is not clean or tidy. It’s not wrapped up in a neat package. It’s not cute.

It’s bone wrenching, wrung-out, blood- soaked, wailing,

wild.

It hurts. A lot. You feel like you’re going to die.

And you might.

Years ago Wil and I picked up a doe, killed on the road, abandoned. She was big, belly round, we had trouble lifting her into the car. We figured if the meat was no good, we could at least get her skin, tan it, make moccasins, a shirt, maybe a pouch as well. Bury the rest, pay our respects.

When you skin a deer, you make a neat shallow incision, right up the belly. The skin peels off exactly like a shirt from sweaty muscles. And it’s a pure, lily white inside, no meat attached, no blood, if you do it right.

Once the skin is removed, you make a slightly deeper incision. And then it’s messy. There’s blood, and ruby red organs, glistening liver, chambered heart. Miles of intestines. The smell of grass, and arterial blood, rich with iron.

But this doe, on this day, she, oh God, she, contained indescribable beauty. As we made the incision in her abdomen, we opened the womb that lay inside.

And out slid the two most perfect little baby deer. Twins. Long curled eyelashes, elfin hooves, and such delicate spots, you’d swear, it was just dappled sun shining through the trees.

Birth is looking into the face of God.

And if you survive, if you look into the face of God and come out safe on the other side,

After your bones have shifted, and your throat is raw from shouting, and your hair is plastered to the back of your neck and your heart is broken and mended all at once,

you’ll finally understand.

You’ll finally understand

what we’re fighting for.

And that EVERYTHING

must be born.

Even

revolution.

Even

a

new

world.

Thank you for listening,

Love,

Natasha

photo by Michelle J.

Thank you Daisy, for this incredibly beautiful guest post tonight. Thank you for your words; for sharing.

A poem

by Daisy

We People,

Concrete and steel for hearts,

burning, gasoline-fire hands.

fucking trees and forests

rivers of acid,

acrid, rotting blood.

Dead fish,

We float below roads and bridges,

Harbinger of modern chemical

miracles,

our nation of oleam.

We have come

to consume,

to climb.

Exist to progress,

shoulder shrugging, we powerless,

congealed mass.

Break away,

shining with knowledge

dirt covered faces

whisper magic birdsong

open lips

in awe of snake tongue spirit springs…..

and pau-pau.

Some day,

great wooden arms

will stretch and flex through our mass.

The river will be glass,

and the glass will be broken.

There’s mountains to move.