Out the window is morning, early morning.

Hot air balloons rise slowly, almost imperceptably slowly

between us and the Sandias to the East.

I usually pray eyes closed, or mostly so, but now,

here, I must watch this prayer in a more outward way.

This light is captivating.   

Flashes of it sparkle up and dissipate skyward

through the surprising density of trees

lining Rio Grande's bed below.

I finger the juniper seed in my pocket

nesting with the Apache tear I've carried fifteen years;

the Mama Rock.

The "welcome home" hums in my body with the shruti

and soft, simple, steady drumming.

I know that it is true, and high time.  

There is something here that belongs to me;

a strong medicine that is mine. 

It is a power to reclaim

along with the grief and disappointment

to reclaim the joy,

the open intimacy of living

and loving deeply.

It is wisdom earned. Grace granted. 

A natural receiving; like a birthright.

It is a tangible thing; real.

It is meant to be owned assuredly-  

carried forward like the black, but translucent

rock in my pocket, and the green seed in my hand.

Watching the sun and colorful balloons rise, I chant, earnestly, 

Ana b'choach gedulat y'mincha tatir tz'ruah.

Please, with the strength of your right hand,

untie our tangles.

It enters me, this prayer, and I pray it outwardly,

eyes wide open and facing homeward

and heartward, and worldward.

We are well met.

We speak of our tribes, our commitments, of journeys,

joys, losses, betrayals and stepping out anew,

of trust, of play, of deep learning, of the angel cards

carrying integrity with moments of

shining synchronicity.

I hear you today out there

entrained in each of the directions.

chanting strongly, harmoniously,

patiently

working the tangles;

untying them.