The Turtle

 Many years ago, I became acquainted with a potter named Senora Lynch. Senora is from the Haliwa-Saponi Tribe in North Carolina and has work featured at the Smithsonian Museum in Washington, DC. I first met saw Senora on a NC Arts Council video that featured that Haliwa-Saponi Tribe. I then recognized her at her booth in the Village of Yesteryear at the NC State Fair. I was immediately star struck. I introduced myself and we began to talk, striking up an acquaintanceship that has lasted for years. While Senora doesn’t remember my name, she remembers me and is genuinely glad to see me each time our paths cross. I see her each year at the fair and at the American Indian Heritage Day at the NC Museum of History. That’s where I saw her on Saturday.

 

Saturday was an odd day. I went to the Raleigh Christmas Parade and was standing just beyond the point where a truck’s brakes failed, causing the truck to go out of control and kill one young girl. After looking at footage from the event, I think it amazing that no one else was hurt. My family and I had to move three times for ambulances to enter the parade route. We didn’t know what was going on, but we quickly found out from my mom who was watching on TV. The parade was immediately cancelled. Crowds dispersed. But a heavy feeling hung over our hearts.

 

After walking a few blocks to the History Museum, I immediately began to feel the pulse of the Native American drum—the heartbeat of Mother Earth—the call for humanity to be alive. I heard Southern Style singing, which has a low pitch, and I heard Northern Style singing, which has a high pitch, and for the first time in my life I understood the difference between the two. I heard syllable songs and I heard word songs in Native tongues, and I watched both children and adults dance. I breathed in this life and culture that the white man tried to strip away, and I felt a strange connection to a people for whom I have very deep respect.

 

Then I went inside and visited the culture representatives and vendors. I learned about the Three Sisters. I learned how to do a simple quilt stitch. I learned how to do beadwork. It is so much work! I learned how gourds were grown, dried, and cut. And I learned of the generosity of a Cherokee stone carver who gave me a soapstone carved turtle shell simply because he wanted me to have it. I was floored by his kindness.

 

I saw my Senora and greeted her with a hearty handshake. We exchanged pleasantries and then I noticed that one of her turtle’s tails was broken. Her most popular item is her turtle. It is small, meaningful, and affordable. I had purchased two of Senora’s turtles before Saturday. Now I have a third—the one with the broken tail. Its design symbolizes saying prayers each morning and having grandmother moon guide the way each night. It is beautiful.

 

I’m thankful for my acquaintanceship with Senora. I’m thankful for her art and for the work she does to educate and keep Native American tradition alive. I’m thankful for the beat of the drum that reminds us to feel the pulse of life, even when it is heavy and hard. And I’m thankful for a stone carver who selflessly gave his work to a teacher whose heart is open and whose spirit is genuine.

 

Dear God: Be with the family and friends and witnesses who experienced Saturday’s tragedy at the Christmas Parade. Surround them with good people—with life-giving words—with a call to keep going—and with the resources to heal. You provide us with good people like Senora and the stone carver who remind us of the beauty in life each day. Provide those people for them. And thank you, God, for providing them for me. Amen.