Joy Harjo 

I believe in the sun. 
In the tangle of human failures of fear, greed, and 
forgetfulness, the sun gives me clarity. 
When explorers first encountered my people, they called us 
heathens, sun worshippers. 
They didn’t understand that the sun is a relative, and 
illuminates our path on this earth. 
 
After dancing all night in a circle, we realize that we are a part of a larger sense of stars and planets dancing with us overhead. 
When the sun rises at the apex of the ceremony, we are renewed. 
There is no mistaking this connection, though Walmart might be just down the road. 
Humans are vulnerable and rely on the kindnesses of the earth and the sun; we exist together in a sacred field of meaning. 
 
Our earth is shifting. We can all see it. 
I hear from my Inuit and Yupik relatives up north that 
everything has changed. It’s so hot; there is not enough 
winter. 
Animals are confused. Ice is melting. 
The quantum physicists have it right; they are beginning to think like Indians: everything is connected dynamically at an intimate level. 
When you remember this, then the current wobble of the earth makes sense. How much more oil can be drained, 
Without replacement; without reciprocity? 
 
I walked out of a hotel room just off Times Square at dawn to find the sun. 
It was the fourth morning since the birth of my fourth granddaughter. 
This was the morning I was to present her to the sun, as a relative, as one of us. It was still dark, overcast as I walked through Times Square. 
I stood beneath a twenty-first century totem pole of symbols of multinational corporations, made of flash and neon. 
 
The sun rose up over the city, but I couldn’t see it amidst the rain. 
Though I was not at home, bundling up the baby to carry her outside, 
I carried this newborn girl within the cradleboard of my heart. 
I held her up and presented her to the sun, so she would be recognized as a relative, 
So that she won’t forget this connection, this promise, So that we all remember, the sacredness of life.