Healing Sword

I step onto a yard of grass, green and fresh with the rain of the day before, and I press my bare toes into it. I greet the sycamore whose roots coil below before turning to the light of the sun, rising in the east, and the warmth embraces me like a friend missed for some time. Mockingbird perches at the top of the electric pole, preening her feathers in the dawn light before singing her old song, and I quiet my mind to listen. Her songs are indigenous like me, and I always keep my ears tuned for pieces of shared language and stories about the land, and our ancestors which her kind remembers, but my people have forgotten. I take a deep breath and thank God for waking me, and for the cool of the air which I know will not last as the day progresses and the sun’s caress will turn into a harsh beating. I grip the sheath of my sword, draw the blade free and raise it to a sky tinted gold. I present my weapon to the heavens and summon energy from the high cosmos, down to my dimension to course through the tip of my sword, down the length of the gleaming blade and into me. I proceed into movement, wielding my weapon with the surety of an extended limb.

I embody water in my movements, slow and calm, side to side, back and forth, pushing and pulling like a tide. I channel the currents of the wide water to the north, the great river to the south, and the bayou to the west. I summon fluidity to adapt and maneuver, to be as the element which can take the form any container and still shift, rise, rage, and swell its way into resistance and freedom. I call on the force of water, which defies containment.

I then shift from water to the earth beneath my feet. I focus on the stability of my stances to embody the lock of the ground, of the land which has supported my ancestors for generations. I call on the memories carried by the birds to be returned to me through my feet, from the roots of the sycamore. I swing my sword with a full sense of who I am, who I was, and who I will be. I thank the plants and animals which surround me for their aid and protection, and I focus on the love they have been able to relay onto me. I plant my feet with the surety of strength and power which prevents me from being rocked, moved, knocked down. The black soil at my feet reminds me that even if I am buried, I cannot be kept from growing.

From earth, I rise to channel air, which elevates me into my aspirations for freedom and exodus that my ancestors pray for, supporting my dreams of flight. I quicken my movements and let my hand guide my sword without as much thought or consideration for what ifs. My turns become faster, and I move with the grace of a breeze. I have always craved freedom, which I know will be attained by the alignment of my mind, body, and spirit before it can be manifested into physical mobility. When channeling the energy of wind with my sword, I communicate to the devil that his curses and strongholds will not keep me locked in place, stagnant and limited. I fully intend to fight, if necessary, to carry myself and my ancestors into a reality that is lighter than the one forced upon us.

Once three elements have been channeled, I call on the fourth: fire. I seek out the sun for its life giving energy and illuminating nature to course through me and deliver me forceful power that I may use to overcome my obstacles and maintain the freedom earned when I summoned air. With fire I wield my sword with the combined movements of the previous elements, but now I move with purpose and focus, power force and speed, imagining that I am transitioning from training and preparation to execution in battle. My strikes are sharpened into a concentrated stream of elemental delivery, and as I move I feel the fluidity and capacity of my body aligning with my ancestral memories, and I am reminded of my lineage.

I descend from long lines of warriors from both Africa and Turtle Island who embodied the cosmic power of divine femininity. Femininity, divine in the sense that it triumphed past its understandings through concepts such as sexual beauty, physical presentation, and submission. As I swing my sword I am reminded that my ancestors were conduits of spiritual and physical war-craft who embodied forces of creation and destruction. For years we endured colonization, slavery, and assimilation, separated from our true selves, restricted from our weapons, denied the right of defense and self-recognition. When I raise my sword on land stolen, I am reminded that my body, mind, and spirit are my own, and proclaim refusal to be subjected. I demand to be respected. My faith is mine, mine to me. Any thief who wishes to impose a false dominion over me as they have the land will face the edge of a sword wielded skillfully by a practiced hand driven by a willful mind. I praise God for realignment, survival, and prosperity. I am thankful for the healing achieved from years past to now. We endured the loss of names and the taking of our spears, the stripping of armor, and the consumption of our undefended bodies. We then embarked on journeys to realign hands, speech, knowledge, and martial arts and finally manifest warriorhood in this time when it is so needed. Warriorhood demands devotion through my urges and gifted capacities to wield fist, spear, and sword, while the rising sun and songbirds gather to watch. It is understood that freedom earned by way of healing, must be maintained, shielded, and protected. My people will not know happiness without an intimate connection to ferocity. I channel ferocity into the wielding of my sword to protect my femininity, triumphant and divine beyond beauty, beyond sex, beyond gender roles, and social perceptions. I am a warrior, ancient and knowing, overcoming, and ascending, immortal as the dawn in the armor of physical prayer.

Behold, Me.