I'm going to finish with a poem by good friend, Janice Gould.
And I want to say, something I've been thinking a lot about
and written about a lot is this idea of in-seeing.
Because so much of the language of the United States
is languaging over the language of where we come from,
the real stories of this land.
And so when we look to the land, we often
don't see ourselves on the maps as things are defined.
So we have to learn how to see with invisible maps.
And this kind of in-seeing, I think,
is distinct from seeing form or relationship or order.
It's not referential.
It doesn't say or name.
It doesn't draw the boundaries or define.
It's a way of insight.
It's a way of remembering place internally.
It's a visibility in a way that holds love as evidence
of our continuation.
And that's really why I wanted to read Janice Gould's poem,
"Earthquake Weather."
In this poem by Janice Gould, who has incredible work
and left us too early in June, 2019,
I hear the words of a poet who has the knowledge
and insight of love, the love that exists by in-seeing.
Janice Gould is a good friend, a teacher,
and a Konkow Maidu poet born and raised in Berkeley.
As it is autumn and fire season in California,
I wanted also to share this poem for all
who are suffering from the many losses,
to not lose faith in love.
This is called "Earthquake Weather."
It's earthquake weather in California,
that hazy stillness along the coast
just before the Santa Anas howl out of the east, hot and dry.
There were days in September when we drove down the fault
line south of Hayward.
We went where there were Spanish names, Sunol, and Calaveras,
La Misión de San José.
I remember seeing the cells of the padres,
their faded vestments, the implements of wood and iron.
We were looking for another country, something
not North America, a taste, a smell, a solitary image,
the eucalyptus on a bleached hill.
Its blue, pungent leaves made you long for another home.
That was what you wanted from me, to be your other home,
your other country.
Being Indian, I was your cholo from the Bolivian highlands.
I was your boy, full of stone and a cold sunset.
At night, seated at your bedside, I was remote.
I often made you weep, you in the guise of an angelita.
You lay on the low mattress, a weaving beneath your head,
and watched me with your slow eyes, your sadness.
When September comes with its hot, electric winds,
I will think of you and know somewhere in the world,
the earth is breaking open.