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It was around 4am when I wiggled awake from an alreadey light sleep. I found myself first hazily aware of my surroundings, yet, in an instant, locked in a reality I was not familiar with. Squeaky springs of a single bottom bunk mattress held my body suspended about a foot above the floor. Four layers of thick wool blankets lay stacked upon my body covering me from the neck down. I was also protected with a warm, knitted sweater, a lengthy skirt I only wear during ceremony, and moccasins that perfectly surround the contours of my feet over my socks. The room I shared with 14 others had no heat, but I didn't feel cold, really. I only felt loved. I felt as if I had been preparing for this moment all of my life. I then realized why I could not sleep, but I had to work up enough nerve to pull myself out of bed, scramble for my flash light, and recollect where I stashed my package of tissue. The bathroom was outside about 15 yards from my bunk. My only enemy at that point was my own imagination. It was the end of July, but in the southern hemisphere, it was the winter season. A very mild winter to an Anishinabekwe who had endured over 30 unyielding Minnesota winters. I cautiously approached the door of the sleeping quarters and slowly reached for the handle, keeping my fellow delegates in mind. After carefully twisting the doorknob and intentionally guiding the door toward me, I estimated just enough room to slip outside to liberate myself from the confines of the modest structure. My feet then began to collaborate in harmony with every chilled surface they encountered and it was then that I truly realized the sacredness of mocassins as they acted as receptors, channeling energy from Mother Earth that was immediately transmitted throughout the remainder of my body. My hands clinched into fists as I swiftly stride en route toward the bathroom. However, the moon literally demands my attention as it glows so brightly from its position in the night sky, that it almost looks like the sun. The twinkling, distant stars continue to hold their eternal place as our Ancestors emitting essences of our Creation Stories. I stop for a moment to allow my eyes to receive and process every detail of this multidimmensional vision. I then slowly draw in the crisp, cool air of a vivid winter night in the process of shape shifting into a new day and have to remind myself, as if I were experiencing a dream - I am in Bolivia.

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Comment by Deanna Rae StandingCloud on November 7, 2010 at 9:01pm
Thank you for taking the time to read it, CiCi!
Comment by Cecilia Martinez on November 3, 2010 at 5:17pm
you can seriously become a writer... must really love Bolivia

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