Beadwork
a poem about my mother, my aunt, and the greatest bead shop in Spokane, Washington
Article voiceover
My mother and aunt, both wearing purple head bandannas, took me along to the bead shop in Spokane. The shop was owned by white women but that didn't matter. Beads are sacred in every culture. My mother and aunt were choosing the beads they would use to build the regalia of a dozen powwow dancers. I was never a dancer. Not once. But I was always a dreamer, so I dipped my little hands into the loose bead barrel and pretended that I was sifting through all the molecules in the universe.
I never knew until right this now that bead comes from Middle English "bede" which means prayers. Thank you for dipping into the sacred as you do and stringing together words in a kind of universal molecular prayer bead offering. And your aunt . And your mother. They have spoken in this store in this poem in Spokane. (: Thank you all. The work. The work of hands.
Wonderful imagery Sherman! I'll admit that I still enjoy sliding my hands into the depths of the loose bead bins at local bead stores. 😉 There's something to be said for how life's simplest pleasures connect us to each other and the whole of the universe... Thank you for this poem. 🙏☺️