Tag: Joy Harjo

Poem of the Day – 04032026

Posted in PoetryTagged , Leave a comment

Remember

Joy Harjo

1951 –

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star’s stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother’s, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
are you.
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.

Quote of the Day – 04032026

Posted in Quote of the DayTagged , Leave a comment

Personal Reflection

It sounds simple at first—almost gentle. Like something you’d hear sitting outside at dusk, the air cooling just enough to make you pause. We all have a story. Of course we do. The idea feels familiar, almost comforting.

But remembering isn’t passive. It’s not flipping through clean pages or pulling a neat narrative off a shelf. It’s fragmented. Uneven. Sometimes it comes back in flashes—smells, sounds, a moment you didn’t realize mattered until years later.

There are parts we forget on purpose. Not because they’re gone—but because they’re inconvenient. Painful. Complicated. So we rewrite. We simplify. We turn lived experience into something easier to carry.

I’ve caught myself doing that—rounding off the rough edges of memory, telling a version of the story that sounds better, makes more sense. Leaves out the hesitation, the doubt, the moments I didn’t show up the way I thought I would.

But the truth doesn’t disappear. It waits. In the quiet moments. In the things that don’t quite line up.

Joy Harjo’s line isn’t about nostalgia—it’s about excavation. The kind that requires you to sit with what you’d rather skip. Because the story you remember determines the life you believe you’ve lived.

Maybe remembering isn’t about getting it right. Maybe it’s about getting it honest.

Not the version that sounds good.
The version that feels true—even when it’s unfinished.

Because that’s where your voice lives. Not in the polished narrative… but in the parts that still don’t settle.

Reflective Prompt

What part of your story have you rewritten to make it easier to live with?