She is the Wind of the East.
The bringer of vision.
Her face is worn and weathered.
Her eyes carry the wisdom of her prayers and silence.
She is a breath of life. A last hold to her culture.
At dawn she offers the corn meal.
Let her traditions be preserved.
May her children walk the Corn Pollen Path,
with beauty above them and all around them.
May they know the land they walk upon,
and may they hold the Elders' roots that are tied to the earth as sacred.
She, the Wind of the East,
blows gently upon me and touches my hands.
Her eyes looking beyond to the future.
She places these words in my heart:
The rugs you hold come from my hands. They hold my songs and prayers. I weave them with good thoughts for your people. I will not see to weave many more. My eyes must look to the future and what I will leave in the hearts of my children and grandchildren. Your hand has touched mine and you cared for me and my simple life.
Many hearts would speak to us in the tradition of our own Giveaway though your hands. My hands touch yours now in your vision as we sit inside the rainbow hogan. We reach out to each other. The feather sacredly carries our prayers to the heavens. You've honored us and our Forgotten Ones. Our lives have been touched with letters, food, blankets and socks. You've traveled many miles to visit us and shared our lives with many others. Your people, like seeds, were carried in our Wind in all directions, they went home. And our circle has grown in the hearts of many.
We think about you and prayer for your people. You pack many boxes, and travel great distances to bring us together. You work, hard. We understand. It is our way.
I send the faces of my future to you now to ask your hands to help me. For the children, may there be a path you walk for the traditions of my children. May there be a path you walk that gives beauty, that the blessings of my songs and prayers be in the children's eyes. And may we walk a path together, each holding the child's hand to the future.
That my breath will be carried on the hearts of the children. As our hands are facing each other, let us complete this circle with a future we both create together.
The wind softly touches my face, my heart and my hands. My footsteps look out on the horizons for those who will help create this circle and help create this program for the Children.
I look upon the rugs sacredly, touching each one, knowing for many I've touched the last rugs they will weave. I am to pass them on. The Wind touches me as a voice of past, of present and of future.