by Anoa Monsho

Words can reveal only fragments and facets of Marsha A. Gomez, so multi-layered, so thick with life was she. The facts of her life -- that she was 46 years old when she died; that she was born in New Orleans; that she used to pick cotton and loved the cottony feel of African hair; that she won numerous awards for her sculptures and her work as a human rights and environmental activist; that she fought to help her gentle loving son Mekaya as schizophrenia fragmented his mind but not his heart, never his heart, she who loved him above all. Those facts are infused with and at the same time transcended by that force of nature we loved as Marsha.

Like the time we were in a disco and she was wearing her high-heeled Converse All-Stars and we were looking at our friend Sharon on the dance floor, "Mira, Anoa. Look at her cheekbones glowing in the yellow light...See? Las indias, las africanas, even -- pero she would kill me if she heard me say it -- las blancas. Todos. All of her ancestors are there, in her facebones." And she stood there, near the edge of the dance floor, dreaming the lives of our friend Sharon, till there came a tune she could feel. Then, she danced alone, graceful in her ridiculous shoes. Ay, Marsha!

...or in the sweat lodge, we all sister friends and what she said in that steamy misty earth womb is shrouded in sacred silence and ineffable beauty, but sister friends stepped out naked as newborns and just as clean and clear. That night, a crescent moon cradled gleaming languorous Venus, and we danced in the chill and soaked in the hot tub at Alma and felt ourselves unabashedly beautiful and Marsha smiled an impish, wise smile at we, her sister friends.

...how she looked into the eyes of those of us she loved, acknowledging our highest spirit, winking at the mischievous parts, urging our evolution yet gentle with our failings. Familiar with her own faults, but never laboring over them. Looking into us, and pulling out the light, in the name of the Great Spirit and the one she called Mother, the Earth.

...that she reveled in her gray streak and said it was the grandmothers reminding her to walk in wisdom, that she stroked her mustache with a wry smile and said it was the grandfathers advising she not take herself too seriously, that she was a wee bit vain -- with her beautiful self -- when she could find a spare moment and a mirror.

...the most expressive hands. Strong, they could do nearly everything -- create visceral beauty and fix the foundation at Las Manitas. Or was it her eyes, discerning future and probing past, extracting and translating eternal truths, unflinching. Or was it her laugh, loud and raucous and gut-bucket. Or was it...

...oh yeah, and she could (and strategically did, with much glee) cuss like a longshoreman.

...always she affirmed the artist in us -- in every one of us she loved, making us feel as if we too could create art that healed and expressed Spirit. That my dance, your words, her painting, his parenting, their music, our innermost urges to bring forth life in any form, has the potency to heal and transform La Madre.

...the bleak look in her eyes, after another lover hit the wall, and just before she feverishly began molding a slab of red or black or brown Earth into a work of surging power, of poignant emotion, of exquisite and primal beauty. "...out of heartbreak, I make art."

...the way she always said "I love you." at the end of a conversation or visit, realizing what a gift life is and how important it is to really cherish loved ones. As busy as she was, I never felt taken for granted, and I am only one of many...

...where she traveled all over the world and made sister friends with indigenous women of many cultures, gathering us all to her sacred ground at Alma de Mujer to send her ashes into the wind. We are sisters now, as we have always been, but now we know each others' faces.

...she is now an ancestor, now truly, "Ma Gomez."

Oye Metakuye Oyasin!