Chapter 19
Epilogue, Journal entry, Circa 2000 A.D., found in the bottom drawer of an old oak armoire, in a house by the Gulf of Mexico, South Texas maybe, the other side of the moon:
While I am waiting, I fall asleep in a kiva. In this place there are no maps. There are days of walking without direction, though it seems my head was facing North, and in the West a flock of ravens eclipsed the moon.
This is what I know now: that lessons thousands of years old are learned in the world above the rim of the kiva. The raven tries to guide me in a way of silence. The glide of wings is the message to keep flying; the rest on the telephone wire is the message to stay still.
In this lifetime the lesson is about boundaries: trip over an invisible edge and fall forever. My heart wants to be clear, to rest in itself and fly free. The raven says Go to your dreams and I’ll meet you there. I’ll take your Heart, for She is one of us, and belongs to you no more.
I remember something about another place when I look at the night sky, before I fall asleep in the kiva, before I leave this world. Ravens and space ships–are they one and the same? Aunt Opal said something about not forgetting our roots. She said the only thing true is what is born in us, what runs in our blood. That blood drums in my ears, my eyes are blinded with stars. For a moment the heart stops, and I fall into the dark place where it is safe, where the medicine woman makes no mistakes, where the raven is eye to eye.
There is another side to this, where ravens have clipped wings and medicine women make snakeroot potions for the spirits of those afraid of the dark. I have been there without a map, hidden behind rocks, wide awake.
Before they sent us, we were given maps and dreams, but some of us lost them on the way. We are the ones who sit in the kiva until it is time to go home. We are the ones whose hearts race with each shooting star. We are learning to draw maps with stars, we are learning to dream.
