Flower and Song: the flowers - the gifts we receive; the songs - our offerings we leave behind. These are my public markings of both, offered in gratitude.
It's the long, deep winter here. No usual January thaw; just endless winter; cold joints; limited mobility. The long winter does interesting things with the mind and to the body. As we wear, as our toughness and hardiness begin to erode, with February still ahead of us, we pull out the St. John's Wort, the Vitamin D, the happy light boxes as remedies to help get us through just a little longer. We wait for the sun to return.
Poetry and music are more remedies. Music helps carry me through. Poetry helps me keep that shovel in my hands (still moving that mountain). So once more I have a gift for you: a clip of poet/musician Joy Harjo (Muskogee Nation) with a teaching poem of "How to Get Rid of Fear". And who couldn't do with getting rid of more of their fear right now - here - today. After hearing her (and I hope you can take the time to hear her through), I hope the remedy of her words helps your load be just a bit lighter. It's a radical, revolutionary act: getting rid of fear - taking off the leash. Time for me to kick fear to the curb - it's already taken too much of my life, kicking me to the curb instead.
Water spirit feelin' Springin' round my head Makes me feel glad That I'm not dead
Jim Pepper (Creek and Kaw Nations), was a jazz saxophonist who brought us a blend of jazz with Native American music. i've always loved this song, and tonight it came to visit me once again. Found a clip of him performing it to share with all of you. It's to the point, eh? "... glad that I'm not dead." Ironic song for me personally; I knew that he had died relatively young - age 50, but never knew until tonight it was from something I know well - lymphoma. Thank you for reaching out to me Jim; I hope to carry the gladness forward.
Witchi-tie-to, gimee rah Whoa rah neeko, whoa rah neeko Hey ney, hey ney, no way
Witchi-tie-to, gimee rah Whoa rah neeko, whoa rah neeko Hey ney, hey ney, no way
Water spirit feelin' Springin' round my head Makes me feel glad That I'm not dead
Witchi-tie-tie, gimee rah Whoa rah neeko, whoa rah neeko Hey ney, hey ney, no way
Witchi-tie-tie, gimee rah Whoa rah neeko, whoa rah neeko Hey ney, hey ney, no way
Easy to say, "Yeah, sure. We'll see." Yep, hang around long enough and we'll see; whether we're talking politics or health - we'll see. And until then, I don't think I can afford the luxury of cynicism. It's a new day - today, and everyday - a new day.
It's A New Day -by will.i.am
It's a new day It's a new day It's a new day It's a new day It's a new day
It's been a long time coming Up the mountain kept runnin' Songs of freedom kept hummin' Channeling Harriet Tubman
Kennedy, Lincoln, and King We gotta manifest in that dream It feels like we're swimming upstream It feels like we're stuck inbetween A rock and a hard place, We've been through the heartaches And lived through the darkest days
If you and I made it this far, Well then hey, we can make it all the way And they said no we can't And we said yes we can Remember it's you and me together
I woke up this morning Feeling alright I've been fightin' for tomorrow All my life Yea, I woke up this morning Feeling brand new Cause the dreams that I've been dreaming Have finally came true
It's a new day (it's a new day) It's a new day (it's a new day) It's a new day It's a new day!
It's been a long time waitin' Waiting for this moment It's been a long time praying Praying for this moment
We hope for this moment And now that we own it For life I'm a hold it And I won’t let it go
It's for fathers, our brothers, Our friends who fought for freedom Our sisters, our mothers, Who died for us to be in this moment
Stop and cherish this moment Stop and cherish this time
It's time for unity For us and we That's you and me together
I woke up this morning Feeling brand new 'Cause the dreams that I've been dreaming Have finally came true Yea, I woke up this morning Feeling alright
'Cause we weren't fighting for nothing And the soldiers weren't fighting For nothing No, Martin wasn't dreaming for nothing And Lincoln didn't change it for nothing And children weren't crying for nothing
It's a new day It's a new day It's a new day A new day It's a new day It's a new day!
Outlier - any person or thing that lies, dwells, exists, etc. away from the expected place. It's a term used in statistics to note that which falls away from the average; that which falls to the extreme edges, skewing the statistics. Outlier - what I aspire to be.
There are many voices of the 'norm': the voices of authority, parents, culture and beliefs. In my personal life some of these voices of authority have to do with my health and well-being, my prognosis with cancer, my prognosis in life. These are the voices of averages. I do my best to not listen to these voices that attempt to predict my unknown future, and instead I try to cultivate the outlook of an outlier.
Music helps. A defiant attitude helps. This song by Los Lonely Boys gives me a raucous beat to move my body to, plus some lyrics with attitude. If I could tell them, I'd let these young guys know that their song here has helped me many a day, to feel a little stronger when I'm feeling weak, a little tougher when I'm feeling soft, and a little stronger in my own voice when the voices of conformity start squawking loudly.
Turn the volume up and get up and move - strut across the room with some bad-ass attitude. It's good for you. If not now, when? Enjoy....
My Way
I don't need no fortune I don't need no fame That's all just an illusion To me it don't mean a thing
You can try and deceive me But I see right through your skin And what you're trying to tell me Is something I don't believe in
Don't tell me how to live my life Don't tell me how to pray Don't tell me how to sing my song Don't tell me what to say
Cuz I believe that miracles happen every day I don't care what you say, I'm gonna do it my way
You say you have all the answers And I should do it your way How many times do I have to tell you I ain't no puppet on a string Listen to me...
Don't tell me how to live my life Don't tell me how to pray Don't tell me how to sing my song Don't tell me what to say Cuz I believe that miracles happen every day I don't care what you say, I'm gonna do it my way I'm gonna do it my way What'd you say
Ohhhhhhhhh Ohhhhhhhhh Ohhhhhhhhh
Don't tell me how to live my life Don't tell me how to pray Don't tell me how to sing my song Don't tell me what to say
Don't tell me how to live my life Don't tell me how to pray Don't tell me how to sing my song Don't tell me what to say
Cuz I believe that miracles happen every day
I don't care what you say I'm gonna do it my way I'm gonna do it my way Ohhhhhhh I'm gonna do it my way
This old oak tree put its roots down several hundred years ago not far from my home. It helps me to put things in perspective, having been here since long ago, when only the Potawatomi people walked through here. Perspective. It's an easy thing to lose, but not in the presence of elders, whether human or oak. I visit this tree often, and its kin that are the remaining trees of a very old oak grove. Long before I came along, these old oaks were here, and will remain here long after I'm gone. They remind me of my smallness. They talk to me about endurance and standing strong over time. They tell me that even their existence here is temporary; that they too shall pass – so of course, so must I, and you, and everyone and thing that I love and hold dear. This isn't a dress rehearsal. Every day counts.
And they teach me that from a tiny acorn a great tree is born.
When I fell seriously ill a few years ago, they took me under their shade to teach me. As the shade of their canopy was stripped bare, so was I. They told me about standing exposed against the bitter winds of winter. They told me how to stand strong; how to endure; and how to wait for Spring.
I wrote this during that time of extreme schooling:
"When I step outside and walk through the park, I feel the Winter unlike ever before: the stillness, the darkness, the quieted landscape, yet underneath all of this "silent night, holy night" lies another world; a world of regeneration and potential awaiting to emerge. I think perhaps the winter doesn't irritate those of us who have the luxury of plenty of sleep and rest, the luxury of not having to rush, the luxury of not having to stress over the small stuff. For the first time in my life, I get to live in synch with Winter and it's quieter ways, and the only thing I really busy myself with, is that other world of regeneration and potential: seeds that appear to be quietly dormant waiting for the returning sun."
It's not easy to slow down; to move at winter's pace; to appreciate the light changing through the course of a day, living in the quiet of regeneration - the seed lying dormant, waiting for Spring. Quiet regeneration is hard work. It looks similar to 'doing nothing'. It looks like waiting. It's not. It's hard internal work; the hardest ever; letting go of the 'doing' and embracing the 'being', and waiting for the coming Spring.
Roasting chile, that’s how it began; my nose, full of the smell of the burning skin of the long pale green chiles as they scorched on the fire. As they roasted, the scent carried me away to childhood memories of my parents doing the same. I roasted enough to put into the corn chowder, with plenty left over for the next morning’s eggs. I remembered how my Dad would always like to have fresh roasted chile for his breakfast eggs. Smells have the power to take us to distant and familiar places as they awaken our memory.
With the smell lingering in the air, that night, I dreamed myself back to New Mexico.
Mom had passed away a only a few months before; now it was time to return her memoria to the land of the saints and the spirits that had followed her throughout her life. We followed the scent of the roasting chile.
In the dream, upon arrival, New Mexico was under attack. I’m not sure who it was that was after us, but I knew I was one of the “us” and had to remain on the run and hidden. Those who were caught were rounded up; worn, tattered, beaten, all resistance gone, people were being loaded up and carted away by the busload. Others were being slain in the streets. I knew to survive I needed to be clever, and lucky, and have friends. I ran, hiding close to the ground, pressing snug against the walls of buildings to hopefully go unnoticed. Running from place to place I sought refuge and safety from the round-up. ‘They’ were a powerful force, with extraordinary powers to root us out; to find, enslave and kill us.
My refuge? It was the library. I ran inside where there were children waiting for the story hour. A young chicana came out with her books and stories, and we sat on the floor, children and adults together. She began weaving her stories, spoken in English, while on the other side of the room another woman translated the stories into Spanish. A large aquarium stood between the two of them. There were no fish in it. Instead, there was sand that would rise to the top, then float down, landing at the bottom mysteriously in columns. These pillars of sand she said, were miraculous forms of the saints manifesting. While we listened, I watched the sand rise up and then fall, drifting through the water, forming these aqua-saints she spoke of. I cried.
I realized how the saints and spirit helpers were a constant in my mother’s life; how they had followed her from the southwest, to our new home in the north; how she had made sure they would never leave nuestra familia, by the building of small shrines and altars - on a table top, a shelf, a dresser. Paintings and statues of the good ones watched over us. They were our friends and allies: Francis, Joseph, Mary, Jude, Therese the Little Flower, and of course Jesus in his many forms - crucified, resurrected, and as the small child Prince of Peace. They were always with us; and here they were again, reminding us in the miracle of an aquarium with santos of sand. Only in New Mexico -- the land of enchantment, where the milagro of the face of Jesus can be found scorched on a tortilla; where the plow of a farmer reveals a cross hidden in the earth, and the dirt becomes a miracle, sacred and healing: the miracle of sacred red earth.
Here, in the library, we were safe; no aberrant destroyer could find us. Outside, our world was being destroyed, while here, we were protected by a young chicana storyteller and her saints.
Suddenly, I was no longer in the library, but instead was transported to the safety of the home of friends. The siege was over: we were safe. I was looking at the family photos on the wall. One of the photos was of three dogs. Inside of the frame, the photo began moving. The dogs romped, playing in the foreground of the photo, while behind them, many white horses were running; and as they ran, their hooves rumbled like thunder, kicking up dust and sand that swirled in a white cloud storming the land -- sand that would rise and fall again to the earth as saints or healing dirt.
