The end of the Terrible Toos?

Measured by the meteorological calendar, there are about two weeks left of Summer. Astronomically speaking, we've about five weeks to go. In either case, there's less left than spent. We've decided that we've not spent enough time outside this Summer. We think it's because of a case of the Terrible Too's:

• too hot
• too humid
• too windy
• too rainy
• too tired
• too lazy
• too timid?

This despite knowing that we are generally happier when we spend more time outside. Although the Better Half claims it's all in our mind, we suffer Seasonal Affective Disorder in deep Winter and compound that with Nature Deficit Disorder. We should know better than to expose ourselves to NDD during the Summer. If only we humans were wise enough to consistently do what we know is good for us instead of what we think we want right now.

Something else we haven't been doing enough is creative writing. Most of our postings here lean more toward the nonfiction, journalism end of the spectrum, with occasional excursions into creative nonfiction. Somehow, during the past few years, we've drifted from writing poetry. Culture shock since November 2016? Anyway, thanks to the Better Half, we're going to re-engage the left side of our brain, plus our heart, in this one day writing class taught by Kimberly Blaeser:

Aldo Leopold Center

Photo by J. Harrington

Wisdom Sits in Places: Creative Writing from the Natural World

Can we translate earth voices or invoke the buried layers of ecology and natural history when writing about the natural world? Aldo Leopold wrote, “There is…drama in every bush, if you can see it.” This workshop will invite participants to create works of poetry, creative non-fiction, and mixed-genre writing arising from encounters in the field. The day will include short explorations of the prairie and woods along the Wisconsin River, discussions of sample readings, directed writing exercises, instructions on craft, and the process of writing, reflecting, and “translating” our nature experiences into creative works. The workshop will conclude with a group sharing of the best of our day’s work.

[ASIDE: we've been writing this on the screened patio and just watched a flock of five hens and seven poults wander within ten feet of where we are sitting. A most enjoyable experience and another example of why we should spend more time outside.]

hen turkeys with poults

Photo by J. Harrington

Sometime between now and the beginning of Winter we expect to enjoy the best six seeks of the year, whether all at once or spread out remains to be seen. Cooler days, Autumn colors, fresh apples are among the pleasures for which we give thanks each November, but as of today (and most every day) we are also very thankful that the aforementioned Better Half has somehow managed to stay married to us for 33 years and put up with us even longer. All too often (another "terrible too") we're not sure how she does it, but we're learning to just be glad she does.

Apprenticed to Justice

Kimberly Blaeser

The weight of ashes
from burned-out camps.
Lodges smoulder in fire,
animal hides wither
their mythic images shrinking
pulling in on themselves,
all incinerated
fragments
of breath bone and basket
rest heavy
sink deep
like wintering frogs.
And no dustbowl wind
can lift
this history
of loss.

Now fertilized by generations—
ashes upon ashes,
this old earth erupts.
Medicine voices rise like mists
white buffalo memories
teeth marks on birch bark
forgotten forms
tremble into wholeness.

And the grey weathered stumps,
trees and treaties
cut down
trampled for wealth.
Flat Potlatch plateaus
of ghost forests
raked by bears
soften rot inward
until tiny arrows of green
sprout
rise erect
rootfed
from each crumbling center.

Some will never laugh
as easily.
Will hide knives
silver as fish in their boots,
hoard names
as if they could be stolen
as easily as land,
will paper their walls
with maps and broken promises,
scar their flesh
with this badge
heavy as ashes.

And this is a poem
for those
apprenticed
from birth.
In the womb
of your mother nation
heartbeats
sound like drums
drums like thunder
thunder like twelve thousand
walking
then ten thousand
then eight
walking away
from stolen homes
from burned out camps
from relatives fallen
as they walked
then crawled
then fell.

This is the woodpecker sound
of an old retreat.
It becomes an echo.
an accounting
to be reconciled.
This is the sound
of trees falling in the woods
when they are heard,
of red nations falling
when they are remembered.
This is the sound
we hear
when fist meets flesh
when bullets pop against chests
when memories rattle hollow in stomachs. 

And we turn this sound
over and over again
until it becomes
fertile ground
from which we will build
new nations
upon the ashes of our ancestors.
Until it becomes
the rattle of a new revolution
these fingers
drumming on keys.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.