Be the Mountain, Not the Thunder

By Bella Mahaya Carter

Years ago, on a solo trip, reeling from rejections in my writing practice, I met a hunched, elderly shopkeeper at Taos Pueblo who winced with pain as she rubbed her neck. I offered her a massage. Her dark eyes twinkled as she nodded and led me to her small back room. The warm air smelled of earth and woodsmoke.

She sat on a chair in front of a stove. I set my hands on her shoulders and kneaded lumpy knots. She closed her eyes and moaned softly.

When I stopped, ...