Grit: The Playground
Sometimes, I find myself in the mix of words, in the creative spirit of play. What follows is my attempt to creatively play with images from my dreams and explore the connections they have with human emotion.
From the mouth of a young girl with her hands in pockets, “Once, I saw a Black bear keep fighting— she was too injured to keep on — she did anyway though.
And, once I caught a Tornado with my bare hands— I spun it round with the lasso given to me by my great grandma. I heard her laughing all the way down the hill, she was riding that speckled colt, she was.
I once spit out landscapes from the depths of the ocean, the ruin — become wonder, the seaweed escaped through my front two teeth.
Once, I heard an elder leaving — heard her fashioning St. Mary’s, the vessel of her rest.
Once, I found, hidden, such a small place to dwell — amidst this boat she drifted in.”