Woman of the Land in the beginning, we bore children, stoked the campfires, fed and clothed the village with the hunting spoils of men. Our hands were strong from working the land. We told stories, legends, passed down culture, tradition, folklore around the fires.
We came across oceans, settling land that we didn't quite understand. The land was harsh to us. We followed the men, gardened, cooked, and wrote letters across oceans. We created schools, churches, and communities.
Our relationship to the land changed. Buildings grew taller. Automobiles drove us over the land and didn't live and breathe like our horses and oxen. Men worked and we had dinner waiting. Metal planes flew through the air and after a while the passengers barely looked out to admire the clouds.
We fought to vote. We fought to own the land, alone, without a husband co-signer. We worked outside our families and homes. The concrete beneath our feet separated us from the land. Over many generations, we forgot how to process hunting spoils, plant food, tell legends, and send letters. Some days we don't even touch the land. Sometimes it is many days in a row.
We look out the windows of our homes and admire the land. We long to reconnect to it. We take off our shoes and walk in the grass. We learn to hunt, to fish, to ride, and to grow our own food again. We teach our children to be good stewards, as the land slowly dwindles.
We reach out to touch the dirt, to dig. It connects us back to the beginning. We tell the stories of the now.
Poem by Quincy Knight
