Sunday, May 5, 2013

Rain Blessings

(Day four)

When it rains in the desert, everyone takes notice.  As desert people, we pray all year long for rain.  We sing for it. We dance for it.  We rejoice when the scent of the clouds descends into the desert basin.  We walk around with faces lifted towards the skies, waiting, watching, hoping to be blessed by the sacred water that falls from the sky.   

The first drop you feel on your skin can stop you dead in your tracks.  You hold hands outward, palms towards the sky, waiting for that second drop of confirmation.  The rains have come.  Your heart sings.   

Rather than run inside to seek shelter, we desert people open our front doors and stand welcoming and admiring the rain.  No one minds if they get wet.  It's a blessing. 

Except if your car doesn't work in the rain. 

And you find yourself being honked at an intersection because you're not moving. Which means you have to get out and push.  Even though you're wearing your brand new, Payless, work shoes that you just splurged for and you're splashing through water that comes up to your ankles. 

Sometimes, you forget that rain is a blessing, if you're sitting on the side of the road, waiting for the car to dry out, so you can drive through another wash.  Your crying, hungry babies don't know yet that rain is a blessing and all you can do is calculate the time it will take you to get through the four running washes that are between you and home. 

Sometimes you forget that rain is a blessing when you're standing in the rain with a piece of wet plastic, trying to use tape that won't stick, to cover the car window that can't be rolled up. 

Sometimes you forget until you're back home, listening to the rain, smelling it, sitting with the doors and windows open.  Like a good friend who played pranks on you.  You finally smile at your day and wonder, "How did I end up with a Rez Car, if I live here in the city?"




*Written as part of the "On the Warpath Women Poetry" Native Women's Writing Challenge.
Day Four Topic: Rez Cars.On the Warpath Women Poetry

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