Tamil Kavithaigal About Life

[Brigitta Martini]

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I wrote this poem about reaching the finish line of life. Sharing today on LinkedIn because I lost my stepfather who was an Angel and deeply impactful part of my family over the weekend. This poem also came to me as a song, and a song variant is in the works but not ready to be shared quite yet.

I read and write a lot of Native history, case law, and policy. Poetry helps transition from this intense process. Sometimes, I'm just processing things in Native life. I started sharing my poems many years ago in middle-school and nationally in 1999 through pageants.

I had to find a traditional talent, so I read a poem I wrote It's Never Too Late: A Life Story in English and our Ichiskiin language. The background of this is if my tribe wanted me to represent them, then I would share my voice about the impact of alcohol and having doubt or judgment in our tribe. I realize the irony now, being on stage talking about the judgement of Native women as I am being judged in a pageant. At the time, I would say it was surreal as I wondered if people would accept me. A part of me did not think I would win, because maybe they could not accept women's voices and choices. Again, I went forward with poems because along with the fact an elder asked and believed in me, at least I could get new moccasins from my mom and represent myself and my family. By winning two pageants with this poem, my tribe and others validated that teenage voice. Even to this day, it means a lot.

I recall being a teenager, standing scared on stage reciting this poem while looking at hundreds of Yakamas. Then later in California on stage reciting this poem to hundreds of tribes. At the center - our people - ourselves - need to continue to believe.

Sometimes, my poems are the core script for short films. The Silence Within: Crevices at Tribes was screened at a Northwest Native Film Festival. Sometimes, I just want to add some visuals to my words. (see below for links to The Silence Within and Truth Teller Tribute).

Maybe you write poems or want too. My daughter, age 8, tells me she's writing a poem and asks me to help her spell some words. "Okay," I say, quietly excited and curious. I put in my best calm mom helping face. She comes prepared, she hands me paper and a purple pen, aw, so cute. She smiles. I look at her poised to write down what she's going to say. She asks, "Ready mom? Here goes":

Inside I'm wondering what's this about? Who?? This is deep! But I remain calm and take it as her expression. Perhaps like many of us, she writes about something she saw or is anticipating. Later, she was able to tell me about her sister and some kind of random kid-thing, like spilled juice.

I drive to a meeting with my girls in the backseat visiting. We reflect on some things. Little things, that they have been thinking about, but they are big things to them. What a friend said or what they learned. In a way, I am preparing them to be able to handle and process life. I also want them to know, that I am here for them. To listen or to help.

Native Friends was founded by Emily Washines, MPA and scholar. She is an enrolled Yakama Nation tribal member with Cree and Skokomish lineage. This company is a Native lifestyle empowerment brand with a focus on history and culture. Building understanding and support for Native Americans is evident in her films, writing, speaking, and exhibits. Emily speaks Ichiskiin (Yakama language) and other Native languages. Yakima Herald-Republic lists her as Top 39 under 39. She lives on the Yakama reservation with her husband and three children.

So many of them had been swept away
as if by a hand from the sky,
it was good to recall them,
I was thinking
under the cold lights of a supermarket
as I guided a cart with a wobbly wheel
up and down the long strident aisles.

It was pouring by then,
spilling, as they say in Ireland,
people splashing across the lot to their cars.
And that is when I set out,
walking slowly and precisely,
a soaking-wet man
bearing bags of groceries,
walking as if in a procession honoring the dead.

Our union is like this: You feel cold, so I reach for a blanket to cover our shivering feet. / A hunger comes into your body, so I run to my garden and start digging potatoes. / You asked for a few words of comfort and guidance, and I quickly kneel by your side offering you a whole book as a gift. / You ache with loneliness one night so much you weep, and I say here is a rope, tie it around me, I will be your companion for life.

Deleted Sentences
Dear husband. Dear lover. Dear darling of my
heart. No, I do not want to attend the barbeque
scheduled cruelly over naptime. I do not want to
go to the recital either. Can you tell your sister
that too? In the morning I saw you dancing with
our daughter and for a moment, I almost cried.
I hate when people say I almost cried. Why even
mention it at all?

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if you
died and I had to write a eulogy while lost in my
grief. What would I say? And who would take out
the trash bins on dark Sunday nights or hold our
children while they cried through fever dreams?

I believe your recommendation of the Union is what inspired me to read those vows to my husband on our wedding day (10.10.20). He has suffered depression his entire adult life and I knew that, so I cried reading it to him.

Well, after our wedding, he fell into depression again. Contemplated suicide. Is now in treatment for his (military-caused) PTSD. And the poem? It swirls in my head. The potatoes in the garden on a good day. The rope around both of us on a bad one.

The last 5-6 years have seen so much turmoil and despair, whether it be new or ancient but only recently acknowledged. This poem gives me hope that my generation, beginning to raise children in these years, will deeply sense the urgency and importance of raising children who crave justice in the world and intentionally raise them to take action against injustices, however big or small.

I am so sorry to hear this. I remember this strange limbo so well and it is so painful. Might I suggest this Cup Of Jo story, which helped tremendously and sums up the love we should be looking for (especially the piece mentioned in #1). -seven-step-guide-to-heartbreak/ And also, no matter what happens, I also HIGHLY recommend the poem Come Celebrate With Me by Lucille Clifton (I know that title is A LOT right now, but the final line strikes the perfect balance for knowing you can make it through hard times). Good luck and lots of love.

Every morning my kids wake like the ocean. Creased and wild haired, they walk to me like they are made of old whalebones. They beach on the couch for cartoons, entertained by the white bellies of minnows blinking from the sandy, salty stew.

And where do you fine me, their mother? No, I am not the ocean. No, I am not the moon orchestrating their tides. I am the pier. Rooted along the edges of their childhood, trying to be so neutral, so observant, so casual. But mostly, desperately, trying to never forget these views.

What sprouts from the body
and touches the body?
What filters sunlight
and drinks moonlight?
Where have I misplaced my heart?
What stops wheels and great machines?
What tangles in the bough
and snaps the loom?

Rise said the moon and the new day came.
The show must go on said the sun.
Life does not stop for anybody, it drags you by the legs whether you want to move forward or not,
that is the gift.

Tomorrow will have an island. Before night
I always find it. Then on to the next island.
These places hidden in the day separate
and come forward if you beckon.
But you have to know they are there before they exist.

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on the stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

My marriage abruptly ended about two years ago and my therapist sent me sweet darkness by David Whyte because she thought it would resonate AND IT SURE DID. I read it everyday and wept for about a month.

The children have gone to bed.
We are so tired we could fold ourselves neatly
behind our eyes and sleep mid-word, sleep standing
warm among the creatures in the barn, lean together
and sleep, forgetting each other completely in the velvet,
the forgiveness of that sleep.

Elaine Mansfield writes about bereavement, family, marriage, and the environment. She facilitates bereavement workshops, gives presentations, and volunteers at Hospicare in Ithaca, NY. She has been a student of nature, philosophy, Jungian psychology, mythology, and meditation for forty years and writes a weekly blog about life and loss. Elaine's book Leaning into Love: A Spiritual Journey through Grief (Larson Publications) won the 2015 Gold Medal IPPY (Independent Publisher Book Award) for Aging, Death, and Dying. Her TEDx talk is Good Grief! What I Learned from Loss. You can read more about Elaine and her work at her website.

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