A present of Presence

Thanks to the Better Half’s [BH] leading the way, today we dumped half a coffee can’s worth of change into the coin counter at our credit union. For a long while the lobby at the branch we use was off limits due to COVID and the only coin counters I could find were the commercial ones that limit you to a gift certificate or charge a fee of almost 12%. Last week the BH did a run with her coin jar and today she showed me how it works. Despite Omicron, things seem to be improving slightly, at least on some fronts, although, unless there’s a massive change in behaviors and attitudes all over the world, we had best learn to live with pandemics and adapt to horrendous climactic and related conditions and growing levels of autocracy. It’s up to us and our record so far isn’t encouraging. Perhaps for Christmas and during the new year we can “do better."

one of my all-time favorite Christmas ornaments

Photo by J. Harrington

After the credit union, fully vaxxed, boosted and masked, the BH and I visited our local bookstore and, as my contribution to “Giving Tuesday,” I bought a poetry anthology, Poetry of Presence. I gave it to myself as an early Christmas present. After Minnesota’s “Give to the Max” day, I’ve pretty much reached my limit on charitable contributions for the time being. However, I am once again going to try to be more mindful in my daily life and including the anthology’s poems as part of my morning reading routine seems like a helpful and hopeful way to ease in to themes of mindfulness such as “acceptance, impermanence, non-clinging (“letting go”), compassion, or the unity of all things.” Few, if any, of these themes get much attention in the news or social media and yet, they seem to be essential if we are to have any joy in the world we’ve created.

As an example, today’s poem is included in the anthology and, without naming names, at least once of us needs to be reminded again and again!

How to Be a Poet

By Wendell Berry

(to remind myself)

i   

Make a place to sit down.   

Sit down. Be quiet.   

You must depend upon   

affection, reading, knowledge,   

skill—more of each   

than you have—inspiration,   

work, growing older, patience,   

for patience joins time   

to eternity. Any readers   

who like your poems,   

doubt their judgment.   

ii   

Breathe with unconditional breath   

the unconditioned air.   

Shun electric wire.   

Communicate slowly. Live   

a three-dimensioned life;   

stay away from screens.   

Stay away from anything   

that obscures the place it is in.   

There are no unsacred places;   

there are only sacred places   

and desecrated places.   

iii   

Accept what comes from silence.   

Make the best you can of it.   

Of the little words that come   

out of the silence, like prayers   

prayed back to the one who prays,   

make a poem that does not disturb   

the silence from which it came.

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Whatcha got?

This afternoon a pileated woodpecker visited what’s left of the suet. [Note to self: get more suet soon.] It was the first visit of the season. Woodpeckers and gazillions of black-capped chickadees at the feeders are nice signs of normalcy these days. Temperatures have warmed enough that local waters are opening again. All in all a fairly typical late autumn heading into winter in the North Country.

pileated woodpecker on suet feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re three weeks away from astronomical winter and a little more than a day until the start of meteorological winter. We’re also slightly more than a month away from the end of 2021 and the start of 2022. Part of what I’m wishing for this Christmas is the insight needed to have a more satisfying and joyous year next year than this year has been. I let the COVID and the climate crisis and politics and whatever get to me more than I should. Worst of all, I really have no one to blame but myself. I keep waiting for things to get better instead of making the best I can of what I have to work with.

A few years after the many years ago that I was born, Walt Disney released a movie called So Dear to My Heart. It included a song titled It’s Whatcha Do With Whatcha Got. The lyrics to that song are today’s poem because I suspect many of you may be feeling worn thin, as I am, from one or another, after another, conundrum to deal with. That’s not the way we want to enjoy the holiday season. The words below might help, if we take them to heart.

IT'S WHATCHA DO WITH WHATCHA GOT

Gene Vincent De Paul (m) Don Raye (l) as rec by Kay Starr

It's whatcha do with whatcha got, You never mind how much you've got, It's whatcha do with what you've got That pays off in the end! You gotta add how much you do, Then multiply by what you do; You think you can't win, but you do, And you get that dividend! It's the means you apply it That raises your stock; Look what David did to Goliath With a little old hunk o' rock! It's whatcha do with whatcha got, Never mind how much you've got, It's whatcha do with what you've got That pays off in the end! It's the means you apply it That raises your stock; Look what David did to Goliath With a little old sling and a hunk o' rock! It's whatcha do with whatcha got, Never mind how much you've got, It's whatcha do with what you've got That pays off in the end! Take my advice, brother, I have been through it! It ain't what you do, it's the way that you do it! Once you know how, well there ain't nothin' to it And it pays off in the end!

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Pining for Christmas

The Christmas tree, a young white pine, is (cut) down. The tree is up (in its stand). We’re several steps closer to Christmas decorations being in place, accompanied by the traditional cursing and griping from the senior male in the household, who once again has discovered that tools were not where he left them, even the ones he used last. New this year: the entire process of of adjusting the tree in the stand was accompanied by blood-curdling, heart-rending howls from Harry the beagle, the Better Half’s most recent rescue, who thoroughly disapproved of being left out of all the fun, especially if food might be involved.

one of our own white pines, decorated for Christmas

Photo by J. Harrington

Young white pines have very flexible, springy, branches. They won’t hold heavy light strings nor as many decorations as balsam and fir trees. But they’re home grown and attractive in an etherial way. (Plus, the Iroquois consider the White Pine the Tree of Peace.) Today we’ll just water the tree. Lights will go on tomorrow. After that, the decorations can be hung with care. The need for sparser decorations fits nicely with the fact that the Daughter Person [DP] and Son-In-Law [S-I-L] “inherited” many of the ornaments we’ve collected over the years. Passing such things on is a tradition some families follow to honor continuity, right? 

Based on photos shared via cell phone, DP and S-I-L have their tree up and decorated, but I don’t think they’ve enjoyed the satisfaction of gowing it on their own property. On the other hand, they have a one year old with whom they can share all the wonders and joys of Christmas time. Childhood, for us lucky ones, may be the best Christmas present of all. Wouldn’t it be great if we all lived in a world in which all children were healthy and happy? Shall we put that on our lists for next year and start working for it now?

Gidiskinaadaa Mitigwaakiing/Woodland Liberty

Margaret Noodin

Apii dibikong gaashkendamyaan miinawaa goshkoziyaan
When in the night I am weary and awake wondering
endigwenh waa ezhichigewag bagoji Anishinaabensag odenang,
what the wild young Anishinaabeg of the cities will do,
mitigwaakiing izhaayaan miinawaa anweshinyaan.
into the woods I go and rest.
Nimawadishaag zhingwaakwag miinawaa okikaandagoog
I visit with the white pines and the jack pines.
Nibizindaawaag zhashagiwag miinawaa ajiijaakwag.
I listen to the herons and the cranes.
Nimaatookinaag zaagaa’igan ogaawag miinawaa apakweshkwayag.
I share the lake waters with the walleye and the cattails.
Niwaabaandaanan wesiinhyag-miikanan miinawaa nakwejinaanig
I marvel at the complexity of wild paths and webs woven.
Miidash apii bidaaban niswi giosewag miinawaa
Then when the dawn hides the three hunters
niizhwaaswi nimisenhyag dibiki-giizhigong gaazhad
and seven sisters of the night sky
baabimoseyaan nikeye naawakweg zoongide’eyaan.
I walk bravely toward the noonday.
 

This poem was written in response to "The Peace of Wild Things" by Wendell Berry.

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As Advent approaches...

Thanksgiving is over, although we’ll be eating turkey for awhile yet. Thanks to the Better Half’s [BH] efforts today, the house is looking all sparkly and twinkly. Christmas must be coming.

sparkling snowflakes cover the window

Photo by J. Harrington

Tomorrow the BH and I will see about choosing one of the skinny pines on the property for this year's tree. The  Daughter Person’s birthday is early next month and  it’s been a long-standing tradition that the house has to be decorated by her birthday. It looks like the tradition will again be upheld this year. And, after all, aren’t traditions a big part of most Christmas celebrations?

By now you’ve probably heard the news reports about yet another worrisome COVID-19 variant and are wondering how much this year’s “season of joy" will be disrupted by the continuing pandemic. There is at least one other way to look at the circumstances surrounding this year’s Christmas. Any disruptions we experience may parallel those of Mary and Joseph, thanks to governmental lockdowns for the Roman census. According to Luke:

At that time the Roman emperor, Augustus, decreed that a census should be taken throughout the Roman Empire. (This was the first census taken when Quirinius was governor of Syria.) All returned to their own towns to register for this census. And because Joseph was a descendant of King David, he had to go to Bethlehem in Judea, David's ancient home. He traveled there from the village of Nazareth in Galilee. He took with him Mary, his fiance, who was obviously pregnant by this time.

And while they were there, the time came for her baby to be born. She gave birth to her first child, a son. She wrapped him snugly in strips of cloth and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the village inn.

Meanwhile, lots of folks these days  are complaining about wearing a mask or getting a vaccination to help protect those who are more vulnerable, especially children under 5, who aren’t eligible to be safely  vaccinated. Makes me wonder how many of US know the form but not the real meaning of Christmas.

“Your Luck Is About To Change”

By Susan Elizabeth Howe

(A fortune cookie)

Ominous inscrutable Chinese news 

to get just before Christmas, 

considering my reasonable health, 

marriage spicy as moo-goo-gai-pan, 

career running like a not-too-old Chevrolet. 

Not bad, considering what can go wrong: 

the bony finger of Uncle Sam 

might point out my husband, 

my own national guard, 

and set him in Afghanistan; 

my boss could take a personal interest; 

the pain in my left knee could spread to my right. 

Still, as the old year tips into the new, 

I insist on the infant hope, gooing and kicking 

his legs in the air. I won't give in 

to the dark, the sub-zero weather, the fog, 

or even the neighbors' Nativity. 

Their four-year-old has arranged 

his whole legion of dinosaurs 

so they, too, worship the child, 

joining the cow and sheep. Or else, 

ultimate mortals, they've come to eat 

ox and camel, Mary and Joseph, 

then savor the newborn babe.  

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In honor of Native American Heritage Day

After too many broken treaties, it took yet another Act of Congress, in the 21st century, to begin to really recognize treaties. Then came oil and gas pipelines. When will we ever learn?

American Indian Cultural Corridor, Minneapolis

Photo by J. Harrington

Native American Heritage Day: 2009 Congressional Act

SEC. 3. HONORING NATIVE AMERICAN HERITAGE IN THE UNITED STATES.

    Congress encourages the people of the United States, as well as 
Federal, State, and local governments, and interested groups and 
organizations to honor Native Americans, with activities relating to--
            (1) appropriate programs, ceremonies, and activities to 
        observe Native American Heritage Day;
            (2) the historical status of Native American tribal 
        governments as well as the present day status of Native 
        Americans;
            (3) the cultures, traditions, and languages of Native 
        Americans; and
            (4) the rich Native American cultural legacy that all 
        Americans enjoy today.

    Approved June 26, 2009.

from the Editors at the Poetry Foundation

Native American Poetry and Culture

A selection of poets, poems, and articles exploring the Native American experience.

discover who's territory you're living on:

Native Land map

A Quest for Universal Suffrage

Kimberly Blaeser

I.

Suffrage:

In late middle English

intercessory prayers,

a series of petitions.

Not the right—but the hope.

 

Universal:

applicable to all cases—

except those marginalized

and unnamed.

A belief, but not a fact.

 

II.

In the trombone slide of history

I hear the suffer in suffragette

the uni uni uni in universal—

each excluded ikwe: women

from five hundred tribal nations

mindimooyenh or matriarchs

of ancient flourishing cultures

still disenfranchised by race,

still holding our world together

in the dusky and lawless violence

manifest in colonial america.

 

Twenty-six million american women

at last granted the right to vote.

Oh, marginal notes in the sweet anthem

of equality, Indigenous non-citizens

turn to the older congress of the sun

seek in the assembled stories of sky

a steady enlightenment—natural laws

(the mathematics of bending trees,

sistering of nutrients—maizebeanssquash,

or wintering wisdom of animal relatives)

each seasonal chorus colored with resilience—

earth voices rising in sacred dream songs.

 

Even now listen, put on the moon-scored

shell of turtle, wear this ancient armour

of belonging. In the spiral of survivance

again harvest the amber sap of trees

follow the scattered path of manoomin

the wild and good seed that grows on water.

Oh water, oh rice, oh women of birch dreams

and baskets, gather. Here reap and reseed

raise brown hands trembling holy with endurance.

Now bead land knowledge into muklaks

sign with the treaty X of exclusion.

Kiss with fingers and lips the inherited

woodland flutes and breathy cedar songs. 

Say yea, eya, and yes. Here and here cast

your tended nets—oh suffered and sweetly mended

nets of abundance. This year and each to follow

choose, not by paper but by pathway, a legacy:

woman’s work—our ageless ballad of continuance.

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Happy Thanksgiving 2021

May all of  US return home healthier than when we left and may those who remained at home not need quarantine. (It never hurts to wish large and it doesn’t cost any more than a smaller wish.)

May we all learn to appreciate the  Earth, our home, and our fellow inhabitants, as well as those have whose homelands we now inhabit.

Thank Mother Earth for her gifts
Image Credit: NASA/NOAA/GSFC/Suomi NPP/VIIRS/Norman Kuring

Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address 

 (The words in bold are not meant to be spoken)

The Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address is an ancient message of peace and appreciation of Mother Earth and her inhabitants. The children learn that, according to Native American tradition, people everywhere are embraced as family. Our diversity, like all wonders of Nature, is truly a gift for which we are thankful.

When one recites the Thanksgiving Address the Natural World is thanked, and in thanking each life-sustaining force, one becomes spiritually tied to each of the forces of the Natural and Spiritual World.  The Thanksgiving Address teaches mutual respect, conservation, love, generosity, and the responsibility to understand that what is done to one part of the Web of Life, we do to ourselves.

 Greetings to the Natural World 

 The People

Today we have gathered and we see that the cycles of life continue. We have been given the duty to live in balance and harmony with each other and all living things. So now, we bring our minds together as one as we give greetings and thanks to each other as people.

 Now our minds are one.

 The Earth Mother

We are all thankful to our Mother, the Earth, for she gives us all that we need for life. She supports our feet as we walk about upon her. It gives us joy that she continues to care for us as she has from the beginning of time. To our mother, we send greetings and thanks.

 Now our minds are one.

 The Waters

We give thanks to all the waters of the world for quenching our thirst and providing us with strength. Water is life. We know its power in many forms‐waterfalls and rain, mists and streams, rivers and oceans. With one mind, we send greetings and thanks to the spirit of Water.

 Now our minds are one.

 The Fish

We turn our minds to the all the Fish life in the water. They were instructed to cleanse and purify the water. They also give themselves to us as food. We are grateful that we can still find pure water. So, we turn now to the Fish and send our greetings and thanks.

 Now our minds are one.

 Plants

Now we turn toward the vast fields of Plant life. As far as the eye can see, the Plants grow, working many wonders. They sustain many life forms. With our minds gathered together, we give thanks and look forward to seeing Plant life for many generations to come.

 Now our minds are one.

 The Food Plants

With one mind, we turn to honor and thank all the Food Plants we harvest from the garden. Since the beginning of time, the grains, vegetables, beans and berries have helped the people survive. Many other living things draw strength from them too. We gather all the Plant Foods together as one and send them a greeting of thanks.

 Now our minds are one.

 The Medicine Herbs

Now we turn to all the Medicine herbs of the world. From the beginning they were instructed to take away sickness. They are always waiting and ready to heal us. We are happy there are still among us those special few who remember how to use these plants for healing. With one mind, we send greetings and thanks to the Medicines and to the keepers of the Medicines.

 Now our minds are one.

 The Animals 

We gather our minds together to send greetings and thanks to all the Animal life in the world. They have many things to teach us as people. We are honored by them when they give up their lives so we may use their bodies as food for our people. We see them near our homes and in the deep forests. We are glad they are still here and we hope that it will always be so.

 Now our minds are one

 The Trees

We now turn our thoughts to the Trees. The Earth has many families of Trees who have their own instructions and uses. Some provide us with shelter and shade, others with fruit, beauty and other useful things. Many people of the world use a Tree as a symbol of peace and strength. With one mind, we greet and thank the Tree life.

 Now our minds are one.

 The Birds

We put our minds together as one and thank all the Birds who move and fly about over our heads. The Creator gave them beautiful songs. Each day they remind us to enjoy and appreciate life. The Eagle was chosen to be their leader. To all the Birds‐from the smallest to the largest‐we send our joyful greetings and thanks.

 Now our minds are one.

 The Four Winds

We are all thankful to the powers we know as the Four Winds. We hear their voices in the moving air as they refresh us and purify the air we breathe. They help us to bring the change of seasons. From the four directions they come, bringing us messages and giving us strength. With one mind, we send our greetings and thanks to the Four Winds.

 Now our minds are one.

 The Thunderers

Now we turn to the west where our grandfathers, the Thunder Beings, live. With lightning and thundering voices, they bring with them the water that renews life. We are thankful that they keep those evil things made by Okwiseres underground. We bring our minds together as one to send greetings and thanks to our Grandfathers, the Thunderers.

 Now our minds are one.

 The Sun

We now send greetings and thanks to our eldest Brother, the Sun. Each day without fail he travels the sky from east to west, bringing the light of a new day. He is the source of all the fires of life. With one mind, we send greetings and thanks to our Brother, the Sun.

 Now our minds are one.

 Grandmother Moon

We put our minds together to give thanks to our oldest Grandmother, the Moon, who lights the night‐time sky. She is the leader of woman all over the world, and she governs the movement of the ocean tides. By her changing face we measure time, and it is the Moon who watches over the arrival of children here on Earth. With one mind, we send greetings and thanks to our Grandmother, the Moon.

 Now our minds are one.

 The Stars

We give thanks to the Stars who are spread across the sky like jewelry. We see them in the night, helping the Moon to light the darkness and bringing dew to the gardens and growing things. When we travel at night, they guide us home. With our minds gathered together as one, we send greetings and thanks to the Stars.

 Now our minds are one.

 The Enlightened Teachers

We gather our minds to greet and thank the enlightened Teachers who have come to help throughout the ages. When we forget how to live in harmony, they remind us of the way we were instructed to live as people. With one mind, we send greetings and thanks to these caring teachers.

 Now our minds are one.

 The Creator

Now we turn our thoughts to the creator, or Great Spirit, and send greetings and thanks for all the gifts of Creation. Everything we need to live a good life is here on this Mother Earth. For all the love that is still around us, we gather our minds together as one and send our choicest words of greetings and thanks to the Creator.

 Now our minds are one.

 Closing Words

We have now arrived at the place where we end our words. Of all the things we have named, it was not our intention to leave anything out. If something was forgotten, we leave it to each individual to send such greetings and thanks in their own way.

 Now our minds are one.

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Sharing a table

In my younger days in Massachusetts, all the smart folks that I knew shared a secret, not well kept, that the best part of a party ended up in the kitchen. The more formal types remained in the living and dining rooms while real people ended up in the kitchen. With more open floor plans, such distinctions are often lost. At tomorrow’s Thanksgiving dinner, the dining and kitchen table are one and the same. That may be an improvement, especially if, as we do, you believe in the truth captured in Joy Harjo’s poem [see below]. Meanwhile, I’m thankful and full of gratitude to the powers that be that I lived long enough to see Native Americans serve as both the United States’ poet laureate (Joy Harjo) and the Minnesota state poet laureate (Gwen Nell Westerman). Their poetry fits well with tomorrow’s celebrations, don’t you think?

before the celebration begins

Photo by J. Harrington

 

Perhaps the World Ends Here By Joy Harjo The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on. We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women. At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

Give-Away Song Gwen Westerman This is my give-away— not because I don’t want it anymore, not because it’s out of style or broken or useless since it lost its lid or one of its buttons, not because I don’t understand the “value” of things. This is my give-away— because I have enough to share with you because I have been given so much health love happiness pain sorrow fear to share from the heart in a world where words can be meaningless when they come only from the head. This is my give-way— to touch what is good in you with words your heart can hear like ripples from a pebble dropped in water moving outward growing wider touching others. You are strong. You are kind. You are beautiful. This is my give-away. Wopida ye. Wopida ye. Wopida ye.

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Twosday before Thanksgiving

Once again the people, the marriage, and the house, have survived the hanging of the outside Christmas lights. This year some gratuitous yard work was accomplished concurrently. In the process, we noted that at least one string of lights needs replacement for next year. Somehow there are a couple of dead spots along the string, in between sections nicely lit. I remember the strings where, if one bulb was burnt out, the whole string was dead, and others where only one bulb wouldn’t light but the rest of the string was fine, but never before extended sections that were dead while the rest of the string lit. For this year, what we have will do. Maybe we’ll watch for post-Christmas sales.

soon the house will look something like this

Photo by J. Harrington

Thanks to the Better Half going above and beyond, many of the dead branches brought down by this week’s winds are picked up, stacked and ready to be fed into the burn pit if the weather ever cooperates. Meanwhile, the birds (goldfinches, chickadees, nuthatches, and woodpeckers) and squirrels (gray and red) are pouring into the feeders as if it were time for free Thanksgiving dinner. This morning’s moon was still visible and high in the sky at 9’ish. We had to abandon leaf blowing because today’s wind was largely  blowing in a direction opposite where we were trying to blow the leaves. Maybe tomorrow prevailing winds will be more favorable.

post-Halloween pumpkins nibbled on by ....?

Photo by J. Harrington

The Halloween pumpkins have been hauled up the hill to the vicinity of the pear tree and left for deer and/or whoever else may be desperate enough to eat them. Every year the pumpkins do seem to disappear over the winter before the pear tree is in bloom the following spring. Some years the deer, or rabbits, or .... don’t wait for us to dispose of pumpkins before they start nibbling on them.

All told it’s been a mostly productive day, enough so that we will remember to be grateful on Thursday for the  fact that we live in beautiful country even if leaves fall from the oaks for six or seven months of the year. We still need to take a trip to say Hi! to the St. Croix river. We’ve not visited her enough this year, but  remain grateful we live in the watershed.

Thanksgiving

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

We walk on starry fields of white
And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
Of pleasures sweet and tender.

Our cares are bold and push their way
Upon our thought and feeling.
They hang about us all the day,
Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives
And conquers if we let it.

There's not a day in all the year
But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
To brim the past's wide measure.
But blessings are like friends, I hold,
Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
While living hearts can hear us.

Full many a blessing wears the guise
Of worry or of trouble.
Farseeing is the soul and wise
Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes
Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
As weeks and months pass o'er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
A grand Thanksgiving chorus. 

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In memoriam Robert Bly

It may be particularly appropriate that this Thanksgiving week, although we are saddened to learn that the poet Robert Bly has walked on, we can, should be, and are grateful that "Robert Bly was appointed the first official Minnesota poet laureate February 27, 2008.” [Library of Congress link re “official” laureate]

Almost exactly two years ago, on November 15, 2019, we posted this:

Robert Bly Collected Poems

This morning I finished reading Robert Bly's Collected Poems, all 500+ pages. I'm thankful I lived long enough to read them all. Some of his poems left me confused; others I felt like I understood. Since Bly has been described as “one of the legends of contemporary poetry,” according to David Biespel, “the prototypical non-modernist the one who set in motion a poetics of intensity for generations to come.”, and is Minnesota's second (not first) poet laureate, I wanted to become acquainted with all of his poetry. The fact that I've taken a few poetry courses at the Loft Literary Center with someone who has edited several books on Robert Bly probably has something to do with my undertaking. Also, in fairness, I've read most of the volumes of poetry written by Joyce Sutphen, our current poet laureate of Minnesota but had only skimmed through a few of Bly's separate volumes. I do find most of Sutphen's work more comprehensible but can't say whether that says more about the poets, their poems, or the reader. Perhaps that's as it should be. In any case, I'm thankful to live somewhere that produces such poets of note and noteworthiness. I'm also thankful to have been able to explore so much of the country in Minnesota captured in Bly's and Sutphen's poetry.

 As with too many things these days, it’s fitting that we remember the guidance “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” In his own way and his own words, such as those in today’s poem, Bly acknowledged that such a perspective can be essential.

Robbert Bly In This World

If you’re interested in learning more about Robert Bly's life and writings, I suggest you look for one or more of the books edited by Thomas R. Smith. A list is here [scroll down].

What Things Want

Robert Bly - 1926-2021

You have to let things
Occupy their own space.
This room is small,
But the green settee

Likes to be here.
The big marsh reeds,
Crowding out the slough,
Find the world good.

You have to let things
Be as they are.
Who knows which of us
Deserves the world more?

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Let's give a damn

Today’s howling winds have stripped most of the remaining leaves from their holds on branches. Morning snow showers were followed by blue skies, sunshine, and a touch of the gales of November. One of the bird feeders, plus its hanger, were blown off the deck railing. Local weather mirrors the tempestuousness of current events?

late, late autumn swans

Photo by J. Harrington

Several swans were riding out today's blow on the open waters of the Sunrise River pools well north of county road 36 and south of county road 19. In years past, they’ve kept us company into early December if enough  water remained ice free. I believe the lyrics to the Twelve Days of Christmas include “seven swans a swimmin” but we now lean toward goose or ham at Christmas and turkey has long been traditional at Thanksgiving.

As we begin Thanksgiving week this year, we note with some irony that the day after Thanksgiving is both  Black Friday and Native American Heritage Day. We should, no doubt, have noted the juxtaposition before this but we’ve been more inclined to treat the Friday after Thanksgiving as “Buy Nothing Day.” One of our favorite companies, Patagonia, has a great ad for this year. [see below] They’ve also provided a fantastic theme for this holiday season Give a Damn. Take a look. You’ll be glad you did. But first, the ad:

now read this bottom up

About Standing (in Kinship)

By Kimberly Blaeser

We all have the same little bones in our foot

twenty-six with funny names like navicular.

Together they build something strong—

our foot arch a pyramid holding us up.

The bones don’t get casts when they break.

We tape them—one phalange to its neighbor for support.

(Other things like sorrow work that way, too—

find healing in the leaning, the closeness.)

Our feet have one quarter of all the bones in our body.

Maybe we should give more honor to feet

and to all those tiny but blessed cogs in the world—

communities, the forgotten architecture of friendship.

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Finding the silver linings

This afternoon’s sunlight and lack of a howling wind belong on my list of things to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. In her great song, Big Yellow Taxi, Joni Mitchell sings a refrain  with an all too true question: 

Don't it always seem to go 
That you don't know what you've got 
Till it's gone ....

Until this year in particular, I’ve probably taken sunlight too much for granted, although each winter I complain about its lack. The Star Tribune had an article last March about our cloudier than usual weather. I’ve not been able to find anything that continues the trend analysis. Nevertheless, I’m trying to appreciate what  we are now enjoying rather than complaining about  what we’ve been missing. It’s part of my strategy to avoid coal in my stocking this year. That should help reduce my carbon footprint, right?

November overcast breaking up

Photo by J. Harrington

In the midst of writing this posting, the Better Half and I were invited to keep an eye on the  Granddaughter while Mom and Dad did the Christmas lights. The advantages of having an extended family that lives a short drive away! We’ve spent much  of  the afternoon reading, playing blocks, waving Hi! and taking a walk to look out the door and see what Mom and Dad are doing outside.

On our drive home yesterday, after picking up our dinner to go, we saw three separate houses with Christmas lights on. Like mushrooms after a wet spring, more and more decorations will pop up during the next week or so. None will be as bright, heartwarming nor as entertaining for us as a certain 1 year old we enjoy hanging  out with. May each of you have as much joy in your lives as we’ve found this  holiday season. With luck and love, we can make cloudiness just a passing  state of mind.

At Christmas

By Edgar Guest

A man is at his finest
     towards the finish of the year;
He is almost what he should be
     when the Christmas season is here;
Then he's thinking more of others
     than he's thought the months before,
And the laughter of his children
     is a joy worth toiling for.
He is less a selfish creature than
     at any other time;
When the Christmas spirit rules him
     he comes close to the sublime.

When it's Christmas man is bigger
     and is better in his part;
He is keener for the service
     that is prompted by the heart.
All the petty thoughts and narrow
     seem to vanish for awhile
And the true reward he's seeking
     is the glory of a smile.
Then for others he is toiling and
     somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas he is almost
     what God wanted him to be.

If I had to paint a picture of a man
     I think I'd wait
Till he'd fought his selfish battles
     and had put aside his hate.
I'd not catch him at his labors
     when his thoughts are all of pelf,
On the long days and the dreary
     when he's striving for himself.
I'd not take him when he's sneering,
     when he's scornful or depressed,
But I'd look for him at Christmas
     when he's shining at his best.

Man is ever in a struggle
     and he's oft misunderstood;
There are days the worst that's in him
     is the master of the good,
But at Christmas kindness rules him
     and he puts himself aside
And his petty hates are vanquished
     and his heart is opened wide.
Oh, I don't know how to say it,
     but somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas man is almost
     what God sent him here to be. 

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Icing called!

This morning I drove past the Sunrise River pools along county road 36. It looked very much like they were covered with skim ice. In fact, the smaller, shallower water bodies in the neighborhood all look iced in, but not thick enough to walk on. Any waterfowl still in the vicinity will be forced onto the larger, deeper water bodies until they, too, begin to ice over. Winter continues to edge its way into the North Country.

poinsettias on the piano

Photo by J. Harrington

The poinsettias that spend the holiday season on top of the piano arrived today. well, actually, I bought them while out tending to other errands. We’ll dig out the lighting over the next few days and then it will be Thanksgiving. One week from today, Taylors Falls is having their Lighting Festival parade the day after Thanksgiving at 6 pm. If the weather cooperates, it should be fun to watch a 1 year old granddaughter watch the parade.

small ponds first ice ices first

Photo by J. Harrington

We got to see the tail end of this morning’s lunar eclipse and added the date of the first of next year’s to the calendar (May 16). The other one is about this time in November. The Anishnaabe refer to this morning’s full moon as gashkadino-giizis(oog): freezing moon. That’s a timely fit will our growing ice cover so, despite the madness of politics, much is on track in our world.

Thin Ice

Ellen Doré Watson

Reedy striations don’t occlude the beneath—
earthy mash of leaves, flat pepper flakes, layered,

tips protruding, tender-desolate above a mirror
surface, gently pressing on horse-mane, nest material,

tickle-brush, fringe. Buff block-shapes further down,
ghost-bits of green-green, a lone leaf burned white.

My thrown stone skitters on ice. The next, larger,
plunks through and for a moment I am a violator

but then I see it opened a bubble cell, a city,
a lesion, a map—the way in cold and luminous.

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Amid the noise and haste...

One week from today is Thanksgiving. The more we look around, the more we find for which we are grateful and in need of giving thanks. Slowly we are learning that much of the difference between a good day and an otherwise one depends as much on our focus and attitude as on the day’s actual events. We remember some advice from a management seminar years (and years) ago, under the heading of management by walking around: keep your eyes open so you can catch people doing something right and thank them for it. (It probabbly also works on Zoom, but maybe not  as well.) A very different approach to Aha! If need be, there’s almost always an opportunity to revert to Scrooge mode, but how often is that necessary?

Harry the beagle and SiSi the Lab caught behaving well

Photo by J. Harrington

In today’s Guardian, Rebecca Solnit offered Ten ways to confront the climate crisis without losing hope. That prompted us to remember that, lurking somewhere around the house, is a copy of Max Ehrmann’s Desiderata. It will probably turn up during the next week as we dig out seasonal decorations, books and music. In case you’ve never heard of it, or read it, we’ve included it as today’s poem, because we think the season, our moods, and our home planet could be vastly improved if more of us took its sentiments to heart and did our best to actually live them. 

Desiderata 

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story. 

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. 

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism. 

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass. 

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself. 

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. 

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. 

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy. 

Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.

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Beginning to see the lights

At the Sunrise River pools in Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area, the water is high and there’s no sign of ice. Most of the snow on the ground has melted. We may, or may not, get more snow in the foreseeable future. My smartphone’s weather app has the snowflake symbol appear at times and disappear entirely at others. Such is life in a season of transition.

Have you heard there may be problems due to supply chain issues and/or shortages? We’ve already been informed that one of the Christmas presents we ordered will be delayed in delivery by an unspecified amount of time. We have a recommendation that may serve as at least a partial solution for many of you. Last year we got and mostly read the book Merry Midwinter. See if you can lay your hands on a copy of it and follow advice therein. If, understandably, you want more insight into what the book is all about, here’s a link to the author’s website page celebrating its publication. An even more abbreviated executive summary goes like this:

“... It demonstrates how we can dress our houses with traditional authentic evergreen decorations, give thoughtful and sincere gifts, celebrate more genuinely, and be more inclusive in all our activities. It suggests how we can be more considerate and honest in our dealings with each other. How, for instance, we can more authentically and genuinely send out greetings cards and ‘round robin’ letters. When we can ask for – and expect/get – support and help. How to deal with the challenges of difficult relatives and family members and to remember the less fortunate, lonely and sick. All this in a flurry of family recipes, craft instructions, historical facts and explanations, fresh and inspiring suggestions, stories, vignettes, childhood reminiscences and present day snapshots of a busy but dedicated family.” 

 

merry midwinter lights

Photo by J. Harrington

Consonant with the preceding version of the Christmas spirit, we hereby suggest that the current status of our neoliberal, global, capitalist society is a barely mitigated failure. We are destroying global ecosystems on which we depend for food, water, air and shelter. We have created unsustainable levels of economic and social inequity. We have foregone truth, respect, integrity and authenticity for the sake of social media memes, misleading ads, inept journalism all for the sake of accumulating more individual power and/or material wealth than we know how to enjoy. There is little, if any, sense of community among US. At the risk of overstressing a point, we close today’s posting with Yeats’ The Second Coming. Although we’ve closed with it before, it fits too well as a descriptor of the prevailing themes of our times. Nevertheless, we wish one and all a Merry Midwinter leading to better years ahead!

The Second Coming

By William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst   

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   

The darkness drops again; but now I know   

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

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The gift of sunrise

Some years the local deer have, by this time in November, begun snacking on our Halloween jack-o-lanterns. Not this year. They’re snow covered and unnibbled. We’ve seen few deer or turkeys this year and have no idea what’s triggered the changed foraging patterns. Have home ranges changed? We don’t know. Perhaps now that firearms deer season is over we’ll see a few more whitetails. Or, not. In any case soon it will be time to dump the pumpkins under the pear tree and replace them with yule greenery. Eventually the deer or other wildlife will tidy up the pumpkin pile.

jack-o-lanterns nibbled to death  by  deer

Photo by J. Harrington

The pond up the road is now covered with skim ice on the east side of the road but not west of the road. Although we haven’t ever waded either pond, we presume the difference is because east of the road the water is more shallow and consequently loses heat more quickly. We’ll keep our eyes on both pools to see how ice-in proceeds.

Since we’re entering the season of Thanksgiving and yule tide, I’m going to file the news I learned today under he heading of early Christmas present. A book by one of my favorite poets, Joy Harjo, is the NEA Big Read in the St. Croix Valley. An American Sunrise is the volume of Harjo’s poems that provides the themes for next year’s Art Space’ programming. I’m looking forward to seeing how it plays out and if and where I might want to be involved, over and above rereading the book.

An American Sunrise

By Joy Harjo

We were running out of breath, as we ran out to meet ourselves. We

were surfacing the edge of our ancestors’ fights, and ready to strike.

It was difficult to lose days in the Indian bar if you were straight.

Easy if you played pool and drank to remember to forget. We

made plans to be professional — and did. And some of us could sing

so we drummed a fire-lit pathway up to those starry stars. Sin

was invented by the Christians, as was the Devil, we sang. We

were the heathens, but needed to be saved from them — thin

chance. We knew we were all related in this story, a little gin

will clarify the dark and make us all feel like dancing. We

had something to do with the origins of blues and jazz

I argued with a Pueblo as I filled the jukebox with dimes in June,

forty years later and we still want justice. We are still America. We

know the rumors of our demise. We spit them out. They die

soon.

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The “fat lady” hasn’t sung. She’s not even on stage, yet.

I’m not denigrating the size, seriousness nor complexity of the issues we face locally, nationally nor globally, but among the current crop of books I’m reading, it’s obvious that humans and their societies have a long experience of making a mess of things and fumbling through. Will this time be different? We don’t know and won’t know unless and until enough [too many] of us give up. Furthermore, neither is this intended to be a “misery loves company” solution. Here’s the books I’m referring to:

• Sacred Earth, Sacred Soul: chapter 1, Pelagius, makes repeated reference to “the religion of the [Roman] empire was about to formalize a teaching that was convenient for imperial power, enabling empire to relativize people’s worth rather than reverence their dignity.” 


• The Dawn of Everything: A New History of Humanity: chapter 1, Farewell to Humanity’s Childhood, asserts (all in UPPER case) among other things “How the conventional narrative of human history is not only wrong, but quite needlessly dull”


• On Immunity, an Innoculation (which I’m rereading) notes that “Throughout the nineteenth century, vaccination left a wound that would scar. “The mark of the beast,” some feared. In an Anglican archbishop’s 1882 sermon, vaccination was akin to an injection of sin, an “abominable mixture of corruption, the lees of human vice, and dregs of venial appetites, that in after life may foam upon the spirit, and develop helll within, and overwhelm the soul.”

not all serpents are snakes

Photo by J. Harrington

If you read the Bible’s Old Testament, you may have noticed that, although Adam and Eve had only one job, it didn’t take them long to screw it up. Then, some time later, the whole human race had to start over with Noah and the Ark. Does this mean that our species is hopeless? Probably not, but it seems to strongly suggest we are subject to evolutionary developments. If we continue to destroy earth’s climate and life support systems on which we depend for food, water and shelter, it might be unwise to expect divine intervention to bail our dumb asses, or us, out of our self-created diminution. What we seem to be facing is not a serpent in a tree but the excessive, egregious influence of non-human “persons” on our institutions, customs, and values. Frankly, the serpent was less pernicious.

A Map to the Next World

By Joy Harjo 

    for Desiray Kierra Chee

In the last days of the fourth world I wished to make a map for

those who would climb through the hole in the sky.

My only tools were the desires of humans as they emerged

from the killing fields, from the bedrooms and the kitchens.

For the soul is a wanderer with many hands and feet.

The map must be of sand and can’t be read by ordinary light. It

must carry fire to the next tribal town, for renewal of spirit.

In the legend are instructions on the language of the land, how it

was we forgot to acknowledge the gift, as if we were not in it or of it.

Take note of the proliferation of supermarkets and malls, the

altars of money. They best describe the detour from grace.

Keep track of the errors of our forgetfulness; the fog steals our

children while we sleep.

Flowers of rage spring up in the depression. Monsters are born

there of nuclear anger.

Trees of ashes wave good-bye to good-bye and the map appears to

disappear.

We no longer know the names of the birds here, how to speak to

them by their personal names.

Once we knew everything in this lush promise.

What I am telling you is real and is printed in a warning on the

map. Our forgetfulness stalks us, walks the earth behind us, leav-

ing a trail of paper diapers, needles, and wasted blood.

An imperfect map will have to do, little one.

The place of entry is the sea of your mother’s blood, your father’s

small death as he longs to know himself in another.

There is no exit.

The map can be interpreted through the wall of the intestine—a

spiral on the road of knowledge.

You will travel through the membrane of death, smell cooking

from the encampment where our relatives make a feast of fresh

deer meat and corn soup, in the Milky Way.

They have never left us; we abandoned them for science.

And when you take your next breath as we enter the fifth world

there will be no X, no guidebook with words you can carry.

You will have to navigate by your mother’s voice, renew the song

she is singing.

Fresh courage glimmers from planets.

And lights the map printed with the blood of history, a map you

will have to know by your intention, by the language of suns.

When you emerge note the tracks of the monster slayers where they

entered the cities of artificial light and killed what was killing us.

You will see red cliffs. They are the heart, contain the ladder.

A white deer will greet you when the last human climbs from the

destruction.

Remember the hole of shame marking the act of abandoning our

tribal grounds.

We were never perfect.

Yet, the journey we make together is perfect on this earth who was

once a star and made the same mistakes as humans.

We might make them again, she said.

Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.

You must make your own map.

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