My heart lives here, amongst the rivers and restless winds. The hills and snowy peaks, wild flower and ancient tree. My bones rest here, in stone, and mud, and stories yet told.

I wander here in dream, and re-live the lore of old, and wake to it’s ghost, slowly fading into the calm waters of a once wild stream.

“My generation is now the door to memory. That is why I am remembering.” Joy Harjo

Many of us River People speak about still hearing those waters fall. Like a longing at the doors of our dreams. Or a remembering that we know in the beating of our hearts. Each pump a drum of longing to be home, amongst the joyful jumping of Salmon. A familiar smoke drifting from shacks holding old stories. The repeating patterns of metaphor, and the sound of Echoes of Water Against Rocks.

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Watch the documentary, Echoes of Water Against Rocks, here: