Joy Harjo's Web Log

I return to the betrayal. It’s a self-betrayal first, or a betrayal of spirit. Isn’t that how betrayal works? There’s some kind of inner warning and it may be subtle and difficult to perceive with the television going or music made to sell you false dreams spinning in your ears. I felt the tug of my spirit. I watched others go out into the etheric ocean and when they veered into a danger this protection came to them. I tested it with another female. We coasted and flew and I sent out a signal to that one to come and see us back safely. There was no response at all. I regret to say that my response wasn’t satisfactory. I wilted briefly into the feel-sorry stance, then when we returned from our adventure I found the spirit and challenged him for his failure to come to us. Maybe I was asking in the wrong direction, or from the wrong mind. The one who is to direct will be there, or will watch from a distance to see how you respond on your own, to see if you are worthy of what they have to teach you. Each day brings opportunities to test yourself against yourself.

This morning I uncurl from knowing in a dark, cool room in my cousin’s duplex in West Hollywood. I can’t even see whether it’s light or dark out. It’s just me and my spirit and the shaking of the world as it starts into the weekday mind. I am fresh from being out in the stars, flying as I used to so consciously as a child, until I was thought to think too much, and put away my dreams. That was one of the earliest betrayals. “It’s just your imagination”, was my mother’s refrain to my traveling stories. I know and knew different, even knew better than to ask her but I wanted a companion made by the sharing of a story.

Sometimes you have to be alone and protection won’t come when you ask for it. Then how will you act? Will you act with dignity? Or slam things around? Or curse? Or turn on the television, have another beer or piece of bread? And what does this have to do with your music or your poetry? Everything. You follow your spirit into the poem or music. There’s an inner space there, much as dream space, and while you are there you are exchanging gifts of knowing, of being, as your human spirit assists in birthing another small world into existence.