Yesterday I marched through downtown Portland to the river with many people who I don’t usually meet. The Indigenous Women’s March was called by Native Americans from several tribes, women of color and their supporters on the 1 year anniversary of 45’s inauguration.

The march began with moving testimony from women who had been at Standing Rock and suffered severe psychological and physical injury from what happened to them there during the raids. There were also even more harrowing reports of those whose sisters/mothers/daughters had disappeared or been murdered throughout the country. There were voices talking about the fears raised by our recent government’s intentions, and the lasting pain of having been forcefully removed from their lands. Anguish all around, tears certainly in my eyes.

At the river all joined into a ceremony that combined traditional spiritual and progressive political elements.

After that there was traditional music, drumming, singing and dancing which truly lifted the spirits, despite the haunting sound of the conches and the eagle whistles. Hope was the strongest emotion then, hope that the future will be carried by those who resist, and that it will be a future where disparate groups find a way to work with each other.

 

Many generations attended, including a whole gaggle of raging grandmas, who were a spirited bunch.

And of course there were plenty of signs that pointed us in the appropriate direction:

 

This week I am pairing a poem/piece of writing with each posting, so I thought for today this would fit: