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.
This one takes me back to a pow wow in St. Ignace, Michigan where I first heard it; a sunny, warm September day a dozen years ago; standing next to the drum under the cedar arbor; surrounded by the blue waters of the Straits of Mackinaw - Ojibwa country. If you've never been to a pow wow, get yerself there. If you've never stood next to the drum and felt it pound its rhythm into your body - go stand next to it. If you've never seen an Indian child dance, you've missed a chance to smile deep.
Go. Eat good food. See good sights. Feel good music. Dance. Everyone is welcome. Step into another world; a world of tradition that is still strong today. You'll be glad you did. In fact, how did you ever get to be this old and never have gone to a pow wow? Go! Get yerself there. Take the kids. Take Grandma and Grandpa. There's room and respect for everyone. Have fun -- tell 'em Indigenous Mickey sent ya. (listen closely - One of the Best Cultural Appropriations in reverse)
Last week was the cross-quarter - the halfway through winter moment; the light increasing; the snow and ice melting. Ice flows breaking apart carrying ice fishermen into Lake Erie, reminding them of their very small stature. Spring surges beneath the surface. The pressure pushing, breaking apart the old, the frozen; breaking free.
Y'all hung in there with me through this last three part poem: the dictionary. It's a hard poem about hard work among other things. It's not comfortable. The pressure builds.
And then the sap rises. The ice cracks. The waters get troubled. And the release begins.
Here's a little something to soothe the way: Eva Cassidy - Wade In the Water Striped icebergs of Antarctica
malignant - showing great malevolence; actively evil in nature
malevolent - having or exhibiting ill will from the latin malus - bad and volens - to will or intend.
an evil force outside of myself evil invaders who break into my home tie me up make me helpless as I watch them rape my wife and kill her slit the throats of my children steal my belongings torture me in my powerlessness to this great ill will that leaves me to burn in the rubble of what once was my home until all that remains is smoldering ash.
i do not know this malevolent force that wishes my undoing it is an inheritance from the rapists murderers and pillagers. they want me to believe. they need me to believe.
instead i have a wolf same as francis' wolf of gubbio.
when the villagers of gubbio cried out for help the holy man came to the rescue but instead of driving the wolf away that had murdered and eaten children and hunters alike that had struck fear into all the villagers - he went into the forest to talk to the wolf and the villagers cried out "oh no! don't do that! he'll kill you!" but francis walked into the dark woods unarmed except for invisible protection and when he found the dangerous matted stinking wolf he reached out his hand and said "bless you brother wolf" and having only been cursed before and never been blessed and having never been called "brother" before the wolf stopped to listen and francis continued in intimate conversation.
from the darkened woods they emerged together walking toward the city gate and the villagers screamed to kill the wolf to hang him as was the custom but francis said, "no."
"good people of gubbio" he addressed them "this is your wolf." "what? this isn't our wolf! he's not ours! he needs to be killed!" they protested. francis countered "he is your wolf - and he has been very hungry he has agreed to stop killing you to fill his hunger but you must agree to feed him and keep him from starvation this is your wolf people of gubbio and you must feed him."
from that day on the skinny hungry wolf would travel each morning from house to house looking for scraps left by the door by the woman of the house.
and there was no more killing.
i live with a wolf. he's not a malevolent force that wishes me evil. he hungers for my attention i do not know why but every day he shows up at my door hungry wanting and i choose to invite him in for something to eat a cup of coffee or green tea and conversation and listening about life as a wolf and being so misunderstood.
Since the shovel is out, and since I'm riding a steroid rocket right now (prescribed), and I have more energy in my mind than I've had in some time, well instead of taking this 3-parter slowly, I'm going to plow ahead, shovel firmly in hand.
i can no longer call you cancer after finding out your name is greek for the crab with its many legs creepy-crawling here and there under this rock or shoal. i shall call you by your formal name - lymphoma or your fully baptized name - follicular non-hodgkins lymphoma or your nickname - my annoying roommate mr L but I will not have creepy crawlies trying to creepy-crawl their way through my waters.
cancer goodbye.
i shall see you written as c-answer when i hear your name and think of you pointing to an answer within - the one I may never find.
very smart book that dictionary with all its words and meanings and definitions with its roots and etymology always looking for the center of a thing a feeling an idea - the defining essence in as few words as possible. very smart book that dictionary one of my favorite guiding scriptures that contains all that is holy and sacred and blessed without excluding the unholy and mundane and cursed.
the word holy and whole and heal all from the same root - and if one is the same as the other or cousins at least then the holy is the wholly from the sacred to the profane.
i like that all-inclusive dictionary and wonder what kind of a guy that webster was.
i look up "hate" as in "I hate cancer" and learn it comes from the greek via the german word "kad" the old word for hatred and sorrow. hatred and sorrow living side by side children of the same parent word - kad and this is one of the deepest and most profound things that i've heard in a long, long time. because underneath any hate I have i also have great sorrow or "kad". i have great kad - hate and sorrow.
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.
Tonight, the longest night of the year is also the coldest and we begin to live in winter again. After the big snow, the deep chill has arrived – and now the darkness.
It’s time for reflection, for staying warm, for staying safe from the bitter cold. The longest night, the deepest reflection, these are the messengers of winter solstice.
This year, tonight also begins the first night of Chanukah, the Festival of Lights.
After marrying into a Jewish family, I clearly remember my first Chanukah, each night another candle added to the menorah, the candleholder. The first night beginning with two candles: the shamash – the helper candle and one other candle representing the first night of the 8 day Jewish Festival of Lights. The light from these two candles filled the darkened room with their small glow. The next night another candle was added to total three, making it a little brighter. The following night - another, with each night growing brighter as a little more of the darkness was lit. Finally on the eighth night, the room was ablaze in light.
This dark and bitterly cold night my family gathers around the table once again to light the menorah. A Christmas poinsettia shares the same table. We sing the song in Hebrew for the growing light. We sit in the darkness of the longest night and listen to the biting wind outside. We lean close, relying upon each other to get through this time of darkness till the light returns, until the warmth returns – as it always does. And we wait.
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This Little Light of Mine - Mavis Staples (she sings it with a lot of heart)
Survivor - from the Latin: supervivere; super – above, vivere – to live.
Survivor: Above to live. A place I can aim for that is somewhere above this worried, fearful, stressed world that we’ve come to accept as normal. When truly pushed to the edge, still, we usually meet the challenge. That thing you’ve heard mention of? Survival instinct? It’s real. Been there, done that. As they say, I can ‘testify’.
I can testify that we underestimate ourselves. When push comes to shove we instinctively rise to meet the occasion. It’s not courage… it’s not bravery. It’s instinct.
I can testify that we are capable of so much more than we believe we are. As Mexican artist Frida Kahlo who lived with much pain and limitation said, “At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.” She painted her way through her survival. It helped her ‘above to live’ the circumstances of her life.
There is a Chinese teaching riddle from the chi gong healing tradition:
How do you move a mountain?
One shovelful at a time.
We stand at the bottom of that mountain feeling overwhelmed, feeling doubt, feeling where do I even begin? You begin when you decide to pick up the shovel. You begin when you determine that you will do all it takes, regardless… You begin when you decide that no matter how long it takes, no matter if your undertaking is successful or not – that it’s not the outcome that matters as much as the journey taken - that shoveling matters.
That mountain might be a life-threatening illness, an abusive relationship or an addiction. It might be an ill child, the loss of a loved one, a natural disaster… It might be the terror of living in our own minds, or our own nations at war… It might be poverty. We each have our own mountains, things that call us to rise - above to live…
Some say of cancer survivors that the moment you receive a cancer diagnosis you're a survivor. Others say they don't like the word for a variety of reasons.
Above to live: survivor - I can not only wear that word, I’m thankful to be able to wear it. It's lovely to be a survivor. Truly lovely. And it's a horror. A horror of circumstance. That's the part I've had to live above. Survivor isn't a new word to me. If it were a coat, I've worn quite a few of them throughout my life. I'm sure most of you have also.
There was surviving my alcoholic Dad, the beatings my Mom endured and that I powerlessly witnessed. There was the electrocution of my brother and my family’s survival as the loss brought grief and depression. There was a lot of human damage, and unhealed, damaged humans create more damage… I'll just leave it at that.
As a young man I married into a Jewish family - survivors of the Holocaust; not that they were in the camps - they were the part of the family who left in time. But others in the family did not get out in time. It's all the same... here, there.... Jewish holocaust survivorship is a huge shadow over the shoulder. Kind of like cancer for many of us - frequently looking over the shoulder – hyper-vigilant. Is that it? Is the shadow closing in once again???
Oh yeah, and the cancer... and the treatment! I survived that! Can't forget that- although I almost did! Caution: Chemo-brain At Work!
In light of the shit in my life, Survivor has been a good place to land. I don't object to the word. In fact I've taught my kids to feel strong in the knowledge that they come from two lineages of survivors: the Jewish side and the Mexican/Indian side. We wear many mantles of survivorship between us. Many coats. In these times, when so many people are living in fear of an unknown frightening future of their imaginings and a matching powerlessness, it can be strengthening to remember all those many surviving moments in a lifetime - our own and others.
We all come from survivors really. There are strong, hardy stories in EVERYONE'S families... Those were the folks who lived to reproduce, and their hardy babies survived - sometimes terrible odds. The hardy survived... and gave birth to the next generation, and the next, and the next.... and here we are: Survivors... from the moment we are born.
Above to live.
Especially when I was in the throes of cancer and treatment, back when the journey felt like I’d been plunged into the third ring of hell, I thought of holocaust survivors. Their stories spoke to me loudly. Victor Frankl especially:
"We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."
That was a powerful reminder to me and still is - "to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."
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Sometimes I am uncomfortable with the word though. I wish it weren't part of my story. But ain't that just the major bitch of this whole cancer thing and every other survivorship, including the life after and the after-effects: It is what it is. I find myself arriving at this conclusion repeatedly. "It is what it is." But that's only after I've pitched a royal fit, screaming and crying, railing against it all, raising my fists.... raising hell and then in exhaustion giving up and collapsing, giving in to a new level of acceptance that "it is what it is" and attempting to move forward from there.
And I continue to seek: Above to live.
In context of ‘surviving cancer’, I'm only recently becoming dissatisfied with the word. It's not big enough. I want more. Sometimes ‘survivor’ can sound like the bare minimum. We made it. We're alive… and I want more than that bare minimum of ‘I survived’. And for that sometimes I feel guilty, as if maybe I want too much, but not so much guilt that I stop thinking I deserve to be worthy of more and that the pursuing of it is worthwhile.
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My local YMCA received a grant from the Lance Armstrong Foundation to start a LiveStrong program training cancer patients; helping us recover our de-conditioned bodies. I've been going to the gym working out under the trainers' guidance. It’s been extraordinarily hard work for me and usually I’ve felt worsened with my post-chemo nerve condition in my back and leg. Often I was laid up after in extreme pain. I pushed through. Many days I hated it, didn't want to go. I'd say, "Fuck Lance Armstrong!" I hated and resented him with his Tour de France, race winning, testicular cancer survivor shit. Show-off. I hated him. My body was broke down in so many ways. Recovering it seemed futile at times. I wanted to give up many times, but didn't. From the beginning I committed that I would show up. I would consistently show up. No matter what, I would show up. After some experimentation I found my proper challenge level which was at a much lower level than my male psyche wanted to recognize. I stopped hurting myself repeatedly and started making some progress physically. The biggest strengthening? This one caught me by surprise – my mind, the result of making the commitment; pushing through despite wanting to quit about 30 times a day; showing up, regardless...
I look down at my wrist and this little funky yellow band of rubber from China with the word LIVESTRONG written on it that I received for completing the program. It represents a lot to me. I earned that word I'm wearing - LIVESTRONG. I'm not somebody who has ever worn any of the little rubber bracelets before. This one is special though. I think maybe I'm doing it - I'm becoming more than a cancer survivor. I hope so.
Yeah, there's been some crap in my life. I have no corner on crap. I know y'all have had your share also. And we're here. Still here to tell the tale. Still here to write the remainder of the story - at least as much as we are allowed to contribute to that story line. And as Victor Frankl would remind us, no matter what, nobody can rob us of our dignity or the last of our human freedoms – to choose our attitude, to choose our own way. That's the part of the story line we actually do have control over: how we respond to the crappy circumstances of that moment; we always have the Power of Choice in our response.
Survivor: I can live with that word. I just want the chance to really live it from its roots in Latin - Above to Live.
LiveStrong y'all, (and I apologize to Lance and all for cursing him!)
el poquito
"After all, man is that being who invented the gas chambers of Auschwitz; however, he is also that being who entered those gas chambers upright, with the Lord's Prayer or the Shema Yisrael on his lips." - Victor Frankl
Bob Marley's Redemption song taken around the world:
in honor of my mother's departing moment (1911-2007)
It was yesterday, in the early afternoon light;
I held your hand closely in mine, the rosary beads
draped between our hands - together, passing
from one bead to the next,
Hail Mary, full of grace,
flavoring the room: a balm.
Breathing in deeply: All That Is.
The Lord is with thee
ninety-five year old vesseled spirit
with staccato breath.
Blessed art thou among women
emptying with each exhale in the
lengthening pauses
of
nothingness.
The tide leaves the shore:
each wave withdraws deep
to the sea.
Blessed is the fruit of thy womb
a vessel made of red earth and chile;
once strong legs, a blackening blue,
as you take your leave
no longer needing them.
Ticket in hand, you turn away,
look at the clock, see that it’s time,
and move toward the gate that reads
‘Departures’.
Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of god,
water pouring into it’s source,
the vessel empties,
the breath rests,
and this time
does not
return.
Pray for us sinners.
The red-brown clay dries, crumbles...
returns to the earth,
The Islamic Sufi poet-philosopher Rumi wrote this in the 13th century. Although Rumi's works were written in Persian, Rumi's importance is considered to transcend national and ethnic borders; a 13th century poet for the 21st century.
THE GUEST HOUSE
This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they are a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice. meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes. because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.
-- Jelaluddin Rumi
translation: Coleman Barks painting: Michael Green
I remember long ago hearing a wise piece of counsel from Wallace Black Elk, a controversial Lakota
elder who has since passed. He said, “Wherever you travel in the world, it is a matter of respect and would be a great benefit to learn the ways and history indigenous to that land.” In Europe, the old ways of that land - the Celtic and Druid; in Asia, the Taoist, Buddhist and Hindu; in Africa the ancient African cosmology that preceded the missionaries; in the Americas the ways of the First Nations.
Since this is the one time of the year when the mainstream culture includes and recognizes the First Nations in our national story, I wanted to share with you another Native elder’s words on Thanksgiving.
Chief Oren R. Lyons is Faithkeeper of the Turtle Clan of the Onondaga Nation and a Native American scholar at Syracuse University. Here he shares the First Nation’s history of Thanksgiving and survival:
"Thanksgiving in America is a family day. It’s the least commercial of American holidays, and that’s good.
I can only suppose that religious peoples would celebrate Thanksgiving religiously, meaning that they would direct their gratefulness to the god of their religion, or gods, as the case may be.
As for us, the native peoples of North, Central, and South America, giving thanks is a way of life. We have ceremonies of thanksgiving for all of the Creation that take place around the lunar year.
Prior to 1492 things were quite good here in Turtle Island (North America). The streams, rivers, and lakes were teeming with fish. The woods were magnificent with old growth trees, full of free and contented animals. The Great Plains of North America were as full of animal life as the Serengeti plains of Africa. There were millions upon millions of buffalo and passenger pigeons. The deer and the antelope were playing and villages upon villages of our peoples (American Indians) sharing peace and prosperity and giving thanks on a daily basis to the Creator for the goodness and bounty of Mother Earth. Life was good. No doubt things have changed, drastically.
In 1620 a small band of religious refugees and entrepreneurs fleeing religious persecution on a small sailing vessel named the Mayflower landed at a place we now call Cape Cod. After raiding a deserted Nauset village of ten bushels of corn, oil, and a bag of beans, they settled at their next stop – a deserted village of the Wampanoag [people] called Pawtuxet and later renamed Plimoth. For the native people of the Americas, the story goes downhill from there.
Yes, it’s true that a former English slave named Samoset, an Abnaki, came with another former slave named Tisquantum, a Wampanoag, and together they saved the lives of this bedraggled group of survivors whose ranks had dwindled to nine able-bodied men. The others were too sick and/or weak from hunger to help themselves.
Yes, there was a harvest celebration in the fall of 1621 and the great leader Massasoit, with ninety members of his village, brought five deer to help launch a three-day feast. This was the first Thanksgiving for the English on our soil.
Massasoit kept the peace. It was the children of this Thanksgiving who broke faith. In 1661 Massasoit died and in 1676 his son, Metacomet, was hunted down and killed by the English in a swamp. His head was put on a pike and stayed for twenty-five years as a reminder to all native peoples that this fate awaited those who would resist the hegemony of English and Christian empire.
Today we the survivors of a great genocide continue to give thanks for what we have. It is still our way of life, and I think it’s a good idea that Americans set aside a day of thanksgiving for life and family. The freedom to give thanks is not predicated on a religious doctrine, but it is an inherent right vested in this land and our peoples who were here long before the white man."
- Chief Oren Lyons
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Giving thanks, or an attitude of gratitude is one of my own keys of survivorship and living the well-lived life, beyond surviving and on toward thriving. I am very grateful to be a survivor.
All the best as we reflect in gratitude,
el poquito
84 year old hands
guide scissors,
carving light,
pure chroma;
visions: Japanese Green,
Persian Violet, Aquamarine.
Matisse’s scissors move forward,
always forward – confidently
cutting the contours,
cutting away all that is not
leaf and vine; woman and flower;
determining what is not,
and what is.
Perseverance furthers.
Determination defines.
This: I will keep.
This: I will not, and
let
fall
around my feet -
worry; fear;
pain; despair.
I cut them away.
Remaining: the fruits, the flowers, the sea, the vine.
Buddha’s blade cuts; a scythe
through dark illusion.
Sword of discernment
slices the air
without
a
sound…
the fabric, the veil
of the known Universe,
torn -
never to be the same!
Once witnessed,
you cannot turn back.
Once the veil has been sheared
in two,
you are the invited guest
into an
UN-
KNOWN
UNIVERSE.
Buddha with shears -
more than
invited guest.
From his wheelchair,
from his bed,
dancing, birthing
hand-carved illumined
vision;
dipping hands into
raw earth,
color, form…
stirring Life and Joy,
freeing
flora and fauna,
springing forth
from his hands
as if
from
Nothingness.
Genesis: Let there be Light!
Magic leaping,
climbing the walls,
ascending upward,
around the corner, down the hall,
spilling… pouring …
into the rooms, out the doors,
through the windows,
into the streets,
ecstatic splendor
cascading
throughout the countryside;
the magic of:
a child at play;
Buddha with his Blade
of Discernment;
a madman departing in
mahasamadhi;
magic of Light and Beauty
rising from his aged hands…
Hands that
loved, touched,
wiped tears, comforted;
tended wounds, gardens,
children and paints.
Now, magic scissors
and pure heart,
cut a swath
through darkened
fear and illusion…
and passive voices
of lost hope.
He is more alive than most!
More free than many.
He is the Pied Piper
on the “Adventure of a Lifetime”
through the veil,
up the hill…
a chapel of light, a beacon
on the mountaintop,
calling All
to the Tree of Life,
to sit in its shade,
to taste its fruit…
Behold: the Gateway,
spun from color, breath,
determination and spark;
carved
from the
Rapture of
Matisse’s scissors.
