P.S. – I’m still on my break from blogging, but my muse insisted that I share this post today after seeing the little wasp again. Her return visit reminded me about the photo I took a couple days ago when I first saw her on my side step. She waited patiently for me to grab my iphone and take a number of pictures. I meant to see if I could learn more about her then, but there is always something else that needs doing. This morning, she was walking over the moist ground in my backyard, a gift from last night’s rain, and then flew up with her tiny wings and sat on a bent fern. Her return inspired me to discover more about her and share what I learned.
You have all probably noticed my frequent absences recently. Autumn is always a busy time for me. This year is no exception – except it already feels busier.
The rotting board on my deck has been repaired and the deck floor has a new coat of paint. I think I’ve washed off most of the paint from my hands and arms, and under my nails.
Weeds and branches are secured in large paper bags, waiting to be transported to the local collection site. I still have many more branches to bag, though. Hopefully the bags will fit in my little car (White Pony).
Despite the heat and drought, life has been kind.
There are bountiful gardens to tend and harvest.
Another round of editing has begun for the book manuscript I’ve been working on for years. This time, I have a plan.
Soon I will have a digital copy of an original painting for the cover thanks to a dear friend, Carl Gawboy, an Ojibwe artist, scholar, and storyteller. Here’s the old photo that has now become part of my chapter one rewrite. It illustrates shifting times. Children who were once surrounded by nature and family live on reservations where the original forests were clear cut. The first generation didn’t realize the magnitude of the environmental and social changes that would follow when most of the trees were gone. But the next generation lived with the consequences of yet more losses.
A quick visit today to the on-line site for the class I will be teaching beginning on September 8 was a rather alarming reminder about the amount of work I have yet to do on my syllabus and assignments. Luckily, the new edition of the course text arrived yesterday. Of course, I will be trying something new, again. We’ll be looking at the link between access to clean water and community health. That means some research, thinking, and writing. Any suggestions you have about relevant research articles, online resources, or innovative initiatives would be greatly appreciated.
I hope you all know how much I value your presence in my life. For now, though, I will need to carve out more time to deal with these pressing responsibilities. I can’t predict how long I’ll be gone. I have an unpredictable muse who surprises me now and then with something urgent I need to write and share. Of course, I can’t post something without reciprocating visits and responding to comments (often belatedly). As you all know, that takes a lot of time. Frequently I resist posting until my muse makes my life unbearable.
(1) Annette S. Lee, William Wilson, Jeffrey Tibbetts, and Carl Gawboy (2014), Ojibwe Sky Star Map Constellation Guide: An Introduction to Ojibwe Star Knowledge. North Rocks, CA: Lightning Source: Ingram Spark.
(2) Basil Johnston (1990), Ojibway Heritage. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, p. 93.
Somedays there are too many tasks
demanding decisions and immediate attention
Which one’s a priority and which ones get an extension?
Rather than agonizing over choosing
I decide it may be wiser to avoid choices that are confusing
grabbing my camera and going for a walk instead
a great way to clear my heart and my head
Even when it’s cloudy now with a slight chance of rain
hoping my foolishness will tempt fate again
encouraging clouds to share precious moisture as they hover
showering on my camera lens as I hasten to find cover
Choosing to head home not wishing to be drenched
wondering later if retreating was wise
perhaps the earth’s thirst would have been quenched
instead I watched safely through my window
disappointed by rapidly clearing skies
Ah, who knows what life has in store
Just one day more
Mow the lawn – postponed because it’s been too dry
concerned that cut plants would quickly fry
Then take little Pinto out for his mid-day stroll
As we’re leaving our yard thunder crackles and rolls
Sprinkles start as we walk down the street
Transforming the air – now moist and sweet
Half way home it begins to pour
Soaking us both before we reach our door
Both grateful in our own way
For the surprising storm we encountered today
Acknowledgement – A dear friend recently reminded me how important humor is in our lives, although he spells the word differently – “humour.” I had begun this silly poem and his comment inspired me to finish it. As synchronicity would have it, I had also just found an old video of Loretta LaRoche that made me laugh when I first saw it during a PBS (public television) fund-raiser. I’ve posted the video below. I hope it brings peace and healing laughter into your life, too.
Sitting on my step sipping coffee
listening gratefully as the little oven bird sings
greeting morning once again with sweet melodies
listening to the sound of the train on the western ridge
whirring by then fading
listening to leaves rustling in the gentle breeze
remembering times long past
of setting off alone again and again
to begin anew in different places
like the little chickadee in another song
I would have preferred to live in a fantasy world
escaping to other places in books and daydreams
but I sense that I chose otherwise
long before I was born
Remembering the dark worlds I’ve entered
institutions that mistreated Mickey and Donald students, elders, and communities
beset with oppression they didn’t deserve
Someone had to offer kindness, strength and solace
even if imperfectly
that was the right thing to do
Sitting here now in the morning
remembering past encounters and new beginnings
healing old wounds to my spirit and building strength
to face whatever comes next
It’s not easy when others expect you to be a bodhisattva
or describe you as the smartest person in the room
You know it’s the kiss of death to friendships
Those who seek status and control will vengefully attack
Those you thought friends will opine “I’m not in your league”
and demand you assume responsibility, make decisions, and lead
How can others learn their own wisdom, strengths, or who they are
if they always expect others to know the answers and serve as the vanguard?
You know you’re not anyone’s guru –
you stumble and fall more times than most
After a while you retreat and grow silent
knowing others need to find their own truths
all you can do is to keep seeking and forging your own path
It’s a paradox, isn’t it
when the only way to lead is to simply live
without need of recognition or followers
in hopes that others will find the song in their own hearts
that’s been waiting patiently to be discovered all along
I wrote this poem when I was wondering if I would recover from a serious illness recently. Although I am recovering, there are no guarantees for the future. It’s only one moment at a time now, so I have to be ever mindful of how I spend those moments. I had no intentions of sharing this poem until today when I read the following passage from Gitanjali: Spiritual Poems of Rabindranath Tagore.
I THOUGHT that my voyage had come to its end at the last limit of my power, ⎯ that the
path before me was closed, that provisions were exhausted and the time come to take
shelter in a silent obscurity.
But I find that thy will knows no end in me. And when old words die out on the tongue,
new melodies break forth from the heart; and where the old tracks are lost, new country
is revealed with its wonders.
(from Gitanjali: Spiritual Poems of Rabindranath Tagore – An e-book presentation by The Spiritual Bee, pp. 31-32)
I wonder how many others have felt silenced by others’ expectations for them to be strong, smart, or a spiritual healer because of their Native American heritage. Reading Tagore is helping me focus on following what’s in my own heart. He’s a gifted thinker and poet.
If you want to read more of Tagore’s work, you can access a free copy from The Spiritual Bee. “This e-book is a reproduction of the original “Gitanjali – Song Offerings” by Rabindranath Tagore, first published in 1913. This book is now in the public domain in the United States and in India; because it’s original copyright owned by the Macmillan Company has expired.”
The Spiritual Bee also has a number of other copyright-expired books that can be downloaded for free.
My father was 76 when he died on April 26, 1994. He was surrounded by strangers on the psychiatric ward of a veterans’ hospital when he passed away. I have a haunting photo of him during his last days. (Even if I could find the photo that I’ve misplaced, it’s not how I would want my father to be remembered.)
I was the only one in my family who could have visited him at that point, but I didn’t feel it would be appropriate. As a responsible daughter who could see no other options, I was the one who had to initiate an involuntary placement in the hospital with an order of protection. He was threatening to kill my mother before he planned to commit suicide. He would hold a loaded gun and point it at her. My mother, in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, was terrified he would kill her. My younger brother was threatening to kill my father to protect her.
So the responsibility fell to me. Someone needed to intervene in a reasonable and compassionate way. My father’s threats needed to be taken seriously. I had survived his physical and emotional abuse during my childhood and witnessed his violent emotional instability and attempted suicide.
Paradoxically, though, I came to understand his emotional volatility. His bipolar disorder and the deep insecurities he carried given the traumas he experienced during his own childhood made his life so difficult.
His years as a Marine during the Korean Conflict added new dimensions to his trauma. I remember times when he cried but couldn’t give voice to the experiences that brought him so much pain.
I had forgiven him decades before I had to act to protect my family, perhaps because I had educational opportunities that he never had. Or perhaps it was due to the fact that I had embraced my mother’s Ojibwe culture as I eschewed the cold, dour nature of my father’s Anglo-American heritage. He could rarely bait me any more with racist, angry tirades. I had learned how to respond with gentle humor. “Well, Dad, this is an enlightening conversation,” I would say as I smiled. “I think I’ll go see how Mother is doing.”
As I think of him today, I am grateful for the many things I learned from him. Most importantly, I learned how to understand someone who was suffering with compassion and forgiveness. That’s what I remember on this father’s day, along with sadness for people whose suffering may not be healed during this lifetime. I hope his death brought him peace and I hope that wherever he may be he knows that I am grateful to him for doing the best he could with what he was given in life.
May you finally know peace, dear Father.
A welcoming space for resistance to the forces of oppression and hegemony.