We are young elders living ancient futures. We have Harriet Tubman standards for everything. We eat every meal as though it is our spectacular awakening, ceremonially and slowly—laughter as libation, collards cut magic coils, eggs baked fluff perfection, a single market trip—lifetimes worth of nourishment. The glacial water stings joints alive, a Muslim ritual, pressed into the edges of my crimson Black skin, aware of and attuned to mammal me.
Began building relationship with earth ecologies on Anishinaabe land this past week—spittlebugs, self-heal, yarrow, broadleaf cattail, marsh thistle, bull thistle, dwarf raspberry, and orange hawkweed—many others gently greeting us along the way. Smelled dead things and living beings, saw deer beds, found red cedar root at the foot of a grandmother tree, all in honor of the land I am set to begin stewarding this August.
I am beginning to feel emerging threads between the care ecologies of my values, communication, love, and life and nature ecologies that I exist among and belong to. I do not have much to say as this life transition is requiring more listening than speaking—but below is a picture of some berries we consensually picked, ate, and felt nourished by from berry bushes on my soon to be home, farm, and place of everlasting awe in land relations healing. Baby Kamra is so giddy.