What are we here for?

It’s the end of March; the beginning of Spring. The back yard and the driveway are covered in an inch or so of fresh snow. More storms, with a possibility of more snow, are forecast for Tuesday night and Wednesday. Meanwhile,, a flock of more than a dozen wild turkey hens came out of the woods to visit the back yard Sunday. On Monday, three or four toms and jake turkeys were displaying to most or all of the flock of hens. A few whitetail deer also have wandered through from time to time. Springtime in the North Country is full of surprises. I’m working hard to temper my expectations and enjoy much of whatever comes next. That seems to work better with Mother Nature than with current versions of American government and politics.

hen turkey flock sunning in the back yard

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning I presented myself with a challenge: what would happen if I tried to find as many opportunities to demonstrate in favor of things I want instead of things I don’t want. I suspect I’d be more than a little frustrated. Then again, the country doesn’t yet have an Equal Rights Amendment. We are far from where we should be to respond effectively to a growing climate crisis. We seem to need many more leaders like Ayana Elizabeth Johnson to move the climate needle far and fast enough. (Full disclosure: I’ve yet to complete my own version of a climate action Venn diagram. I hereby make a public commitment to completing a personal version before posting again on this blog.) We’re nowhere near meeting the 1972 Clean Water Act's 1983 goal of “fishable-swimmable” water. Let’s not even get started on the loss of biodiversity issue and/or the increase in economic inequality. I bet the Venn diagram worksheet could readily be adapted to other issues that need support.

In his book, Cradle to Cradle, William McDonough writes about "Why Being ‘Less Bad’ Is No Good.” Among the things we make are environmental laws. What if we work more, and harder, and smarter, to create better laws that support indigenous rights of nature, for clean water, and air, and productive soils that exist for their own sakes. What would Venn diagrams for that approach look and read like? Can we afford to settle for any less? Do you remember the punch line from the old joke about “the operation was a success, but the patient died?” Isn’t that what we’re setting ourselves up for?

Characteristics of Life

Camille T. Dungy
1972 – 

^{A fifth of animals without backbones could be at risk of extinction, say scientists.
—BBC Nature News}

Ask me if I speak for the snail and I will tell you
I speak for the snail.
                          speak of underneathedness
and the welcome of mosses,
                                        of life that springs up,
little lives that pull back and wait for a moment.

I speak for the damselfly, water skeet, mollusk,
the caterpillar, the beetle, the spider, the ant.
                                                        I speak
from the time before spinelessness was frowned upon.

Ask me if I speak for the moon jelly. I will tell you
                        one thing today and another tomorrow
        and I will be as consistent as anything alive
on this earth.

                        I move as the currents move, with the breezes.
What part of your nature drives you? You, in your cubicle
ought to understand me. I filter and filter and filter all day.

Ask me if I speak for the nautilus and I will be silent
as the nautilus shell on a shelf. I can be beautiful
and useless if that's all you know to ask of me.

Ask me what I know of longing and I will speak of distances
        between meadows of night-blooming flowers.
                                                        I will speak
                        the impossible hope of the firefly.

                                                You with the candle
burning and only one chair at your table must understand
        such wordless desire.

                                To say it is mindless is missing the point. 

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Another aspect of equity

I bet you know that the first ten amendments to the U.S. Constitution are known as the Bill of Rights. It has an interesting and contentious history, as does the country. Did you know there’s also a Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Some of the reading I’ve been doing recently made me wonder if there is any sort of declaration of human responsibility. It seems to me that the exercise of rights implies certain corresponding responsibilities, kind of like the golden rule. (I remember once upon a time learning of a version of the golden rule that ended “.... but do it first.”) So today I did an on line search for universal declaration of human responsibilities, not expecting to find much.

does a right to vote imply a responsibility to be informed?

Photo by J. Harrington

Indeed, I didn’t find much but did find a version of A Universal Declaration of Human Responsibilities. That was encouraging, until I skimmed through it and then searched the page and found no mention of Earth or our environment. At best, I find this short-sighted. Fortunately there are a number of authors, indigenous to America, who have provided the basis for a necessary expansion of our (all humans) responsibilities to the environment of which we are a member and on which we depend for life-sustaining services and goods. One of the better examples that comes to mind is Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Honorable Harvest.

Another aspect of human responsibilities that I found conspicuous by its absence from the Declaration is the issue of decolonizing our society and economy and the integration, or at least acknowledgement, of indigenous and western knowledge and world views. We do seem to be making some progress on those fronts. I hope it won’t end up being a classic example of “too little, too late.”

Covalent Bonds

Gwen Westerman

we are
dream carriers
child bearers
those burdens borne
with hope
and intensity
under the gravity
of responsibility
history and
love
not guilt
love
and hope
for those who
will dream
and share
these burdens born
we do not give up
willingly
but attract and repel
balance and share
stronger
in that bond of
love

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REMEMBER

Today is Native American Heritage Day. November is Native American Heritage Month. In Minnesota, Native American Heritage is acknowledged in and through:

• Native Governance Center, "a Native-led nonprofit dedicated to assisting Native nations in strengthening their governance systems and capacity to exercise sovereignty.”
• Why Treaties Matter
• Teaching Native American History and Culture (Minnesota Historical Society)
• Indian Affairs Council
• American Indian Cultural Corridor (Minneapolis)

American Indian Cultural Corridor Minneapolis

Photo by J. Harrington

The linked resources above include additional resources that can help US learn about and honor our diversity while acknowledging the high and low points of our histories and conflicts.

Remember

Joy Harjo
1951 – 

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star’s stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother’s, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
are you.
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.

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Welcome, Native American Heritage Month

Today marks the start of Native American Heritage Month. Minnesota’s Governor, Tim Walz, has issued an official proclamation. In a similar vein, President Biden has issued a national proclamation. There are a number of Minnesota events honoring Native American Heritage listed here. A recent US Poet Laureate, Joy Harjo, as her signature project, compiled Living Nations, Living Words, “a sampling of work by 47 Native Nations poets through an interactive ArcGIS Story Map and a newly developed Library of Congress audio collection.” During the rest of the month, from time to time, we’ll add additional resources and expand on the theme.

Although I’m sure it wasn’t a conscious decision on my part, Harjo’s approach to her project, recognizing the connections among the poets, has influenced how I’ve been choosing which poets I want to read next during the past few years. I look for poets who are connected to poets I’ve already enjoyed reading and, although it doesn’t always pan out, it has helped me find several volumes, poets, and publishers that are very much to my taste. Homebound Publications is one example.

Photo by J. Harrington

Our Halloween record is intact. The only Trick or Treater to arrive at our front door was our granddaughter, leading her mother and father. They left with chocolate bars for the youngest and cheese for the adults, at least that’s how it was supposed to work. If we get lucky, our treat today and tomorrow will be watching the white stuff melt. Today’s poem is one of the few items I can find that reflect Halloween ghouls, snow, and Native Americans.

Windigo

By Louise Erdrich

For Angela

The Windigo is a flesh-eating, wintry demon with a man buried deep inside of it. In some Chippewa stories, a young girl vanquishes this monster by forcing boiling lard down its throat, thereby releasing the human at the core of ice.

You knew I was coming for you, little one,

when the kettle jumped into the fire.

Towels flapped on the hooks,

and the dog crept off, groaning,

to the deepest part of the woods.

In the hackles of dry brush a thin laughter started up.

Mother scolded the food warm and smooth in the pot

and called you to eat.

But I spoke in the cold trees:

New one, I have come for you, child hide and lie still. 

The sumac pushed sour red cones through the air.

Copper burned in the raw wood.

You saw me drag toward you.

Oh touch me, I murmured, and licked the soles of your feet.

You dug your hands into my pale, melting fur.

I stole you off, a huge thing in my bristling armor.

Steam rolled from my wintry arms, each leaf shivered

from the bushes we passed

until they stood, naked, spread like the cleaned spines of fish.

Then your warm hands hummed over and shoveled themselves full

of the ice and the snow. I would darken and spill

all night running, until at last morning broke the cold earth

and I carried you home,

a river shaking in the sun.

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Do you harvest honorably?

In recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ Day, I want to share a resource I recently discovered. NYU, a few years back, chose Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass as their NYU Reads Book. One section of their online resources focuses on the Honorable Harvest. I hope you follow the link, explore, learn, and enjoy. It’s now about six weeks until Thanksgiving. We have much for which we should be thankful, plus much work to do to share, with honor, the blessings we have harvested.

Franklin Avenue, Minneapolis

Photo by J. Harrington

Once the World Was Perfect

By Joy Harjo

Once the world was perfect, and we were happy in that world.

Then we took it for granted.

Discontent began a small rumble in the earthly mind.

Then Doubt pushed through with its spiked head.

And once Doubt ruptured the web,

All manner of demon thoughts

Jumped through—

We destroyed the world we had been given

For inspiration, for life—

Each stone of jealousy, each stone

Of fear, greed, envy, and hatred, put out the light.

No one was without a stone in his or her hand.

There we were,

Right back where we had started.

We were bumping into each other

In the dark.

And now we had no place to live, since we didn't know

How to live with each other.

Then one of the stumbling ones took pity on another

And shared a blanket.

A spark of kindness made a light.

The light made an opening in the darkness.

Everyone worked together to make a ladder.

A Wind Clan person climbed out first into the next world,

And then the other clans, the children of those clans, their children,

And their children, all the way through time—

To now, into this morning light to you.

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Becoming native to a place

Tomorrow is Indigenous Peoples’ Day. If I’ve read my history correctly, settlement of the “New World” by European colonists was largely justified by the Doctrine of Discovery. Earlier this year, that doctrine was repudiated by the Vatican. A case of too little, too late, but better late than never.

American Indian Cultural Corridor, Minneapolis

Photo by J. Harrington

As the Democrats and Republicans battle for the soul of the US, it is a good time to realize or remember that many of the concepts in the US Constitution are indebted to and derived from the Iroquois Confederacy. In fact, these are times when we should refresh our knowledge of how the country came into existence. One way to do that is to read Heather Cox Richardson’s Democracy Awakening: Notes on the State of America.

Along with that, if you haven’t yet, you probably will want to read Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass, in which she points out that

“For all of us, becoming indigenous to a place means living as if your children's future mattered, to take care of the land as if our lives, both material and spiritual, depended on it.”

― Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass 

Another way to honor and celebrate Indigenous Peoples’ Day is to

Remember

by Joy Harjo

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star’s stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother’s, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
are you.
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.

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It’s “Brave New World” time

The world that is being created around us is less and less one that I want to support or participate in. I won’t be presumptuous enough to claim I understand how the indigenous folks felt when the pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, but I can definitely relate to how humans felt after they encountered the Borgs. “Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated.” Seems to reflect the perspective of our new AI wannabe overlords. 

What used to be Twitter [now “X”] is reported to be removing the ability to block accounts. That, plus an insistence that I provide a phone number to authenticate my account were the last two straws. If you’re interested, I can now be found at https://mstdn.party/@JohnHthePoet. 

I had been planning on acquiring a new Apple laptop. The odds keep increasing that I may bite the bullet and try a Linux version instead. The family gave me a new iPhone for my birthday, to work with my new hearing aids. I’m finding the “new and improved” iOS software to be more intrusive than I prefer. I’ve always believed that technology makes a good servant but a poor master. The AI Borgmeisters don’t see it that way, as long as they think they’re the masters.

books, and books, of poetry

Photo by J. Harrington

Fortunately, as Paul Simon once wrote in I Am a Rock:

I have my books

And my poetry to protect me

Much of the poetry that protects me these days was written by Joy Harjo. Many of the books were written by Ursula K. Le Guin. I recently started reading, for the first time, Always Coming Home. I’m looking forward to comparing her style in that novel with that of Debra Magpie Earling in her The Lost Journals of Sacajewea.

I lived a rich, full, less stressful life before there was an internet and hundreds (thousands?) of companies trying to turn me into a product as they competed for my attention in this new economy. I think it’s past time to return to a world that has neither the time, interest, or need for a metaverse. Just the verse part will suit me fine.

X Minus X

By Kenneth Fearing

Even when your friend, the radio, is still; even when her dream, the magazine, is finished; even when his life, the ticker, is silent; even when their destiny, the boulevard, is bare;

And after that paradise, the dance-hall, is closed; after that theater, the clinic, is dark,

Still there will be your desire, and hers, and his hopes and theirs,

Your laughter, their laughter,

Your curse and his curse, her reward and their reward, their dismay and his dismay and her dismay and yours—

Even when your enemy, the collector, is dead; even when your counsellor, the salesman, is sleeping; even when your sweetheart, the movie queen, has spoken; even when your friend, the magnate, is gone.

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National Code Talkers Day

 Today’s posting speaks for itself in gratitude and apology.

• History of Navajo Code Talkers Day


• Navajo Code Talkers and the Unbreakable Code (CIA)


• The Past, Present, and Future of the Navajo Language


• The Diné Reader: An Anthology of Navajo Literature

A Blessing

By Luci Tapahonso

For the graduates of the University of Arizona.

This morning we gather in gratitude for all aspects of sacredness:

the air, the warmth of fire, bodies of water, plants, the land,

and all animals and humankind.

We gather to honor our students who have achieved the extraordinary

accomplishment of earning doctoral or master's degrees.

We gather to honor their parents, grandparents, children,

family members, and friends who have traveled with them

on their path to success. They have traveled far distances to be here

this morning: we honor their devotion.

 

May we remember that holiness exists in the ordinary elements of our lives.

 

We are grateful for a homeland that has always thrived

on a glorious array of people and their diverse cultures, histories,

and beliefs. We acknowledge the generosity of the Tohono O'odham

in granting this land on which we learn, teach, celebrate

accomplishments, and sometimes mourn losses.

 

May we always cherish our ancestors as we prepare for the days ahead.

May we remember that we exist because of their prayers and their faith.

 

We are blessed with distinct and melodious tongues.

Our languages are treasures of stories, songs, ceremonies, and memories.

May each of us remember to share our stories with one another,

because it is only through stories that we live full lives.

 

May the words we speak go forth as bright beads

of comfort, joy, humor, and inspiration.

We have faith that the graduates will inspire others

to explore and follow their interests.

 

Today we reflect a rainbow of creation:

Some of us came from the east, where bright crystals of creativity reside.

They are the white streaks of early morning light when all is born again.

We understand that, in Tucson, the Rincon Mountains are our inspiration

for beginning each day. The Rincons are everlasting and always present.

 

Those who came from the south embody the strength of the blue

mountains that encircle us. The Santa Ritas instill in us

the vigorous spirit of youthful learning.

 

Others came from the west; they are imbued with the quiet, yellow glow of dusk.

They help us achieve our goals. Here in the middle of the valley, the ts'aa',

the basket of life, the Tucson Mountains teach us to value our families.

 

The ones from the north bring the deep, restorative powers of night's darkness;

their presence renews us. The Santa Catalina Mountains teach us that,

though the past may be fraught with sorrow, it was strengthened

by the prayers of our forebearers.

We witnessed the recent fires the mountains suffered,

and in their recovery we see ourselves on our own journeys.

We understand that we are surrounded by mountains, dziił,

and thus that we are made of strength, dziił, nihí níhídziił.

We are strong ourselves. We are surrounded by mountains

that help us negotiate our daily lives.

 

May we always recognize the multitude of gifts that surround us.

May our homes, schools, and communities be filled with the wisdom

and optimism that reflect a generous spirit.

 

We are grateful for all blessings, seen and unseen.

 

May we fulfill the lives envisioned for us at our birth. May we realize

that our actions affect all people and the earth. May we live in the way

of beauty and help others in need. May we always remember that

we were created as people who believe in one another. We are grateful,

Holy Ones, for the graduates, as they will strengthen our future.

 

All is beautiful again.

Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.

Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.

Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.

Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.

Home territory?

As I’ve pondered my experiences in New England and Minnesota, trying to get a handle on why my affections for the former are so much stronger than those for the latter, it occurs to me that in Massachusetts, there was much more that I could do, close to where I lived, that I really enjoyed doing. In Minnesota, I can do many, but not all, of the same things but it involves much more travel.

One example that promptly comes to mind is that I could, with a half an hour’s drive, be wading a pond and fly-fishing for bluegills and small bass. Although I’ve spent a fair amount of time searching for a comparable location in Minnesota, there are few places (none I’ve found) to wade and fish a pond or lake. Things look much better if one has a boat or canoe, but that adds to the complexity of a quiet evening in the water.

Here’s one that I admit is unfair, but I could readily go clamming, fishing and duck hunting in several locations near my abode in Marshfield, Massachusetts. Minnesota doesn’t offer clamming, the goose hunting is better here but I have to drive most of the way across the state to enjoy that. Trout fishing back East was about as long a drive from home as it is in Minnesota. Turkey hunting when I lived back East was almost unheard of and only became viable in Minnesota several years after I arrived. These days I can hunt turkeys and deer in my back yard, but neither of those is a preferred outdoor activity. I’d rather be slightly more active than sitting in a blind or on a stand. Grouse hunting in both locations I’ve found to be pretty much comparable and about equally distant from home both places. 

some Minnesota trees

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half and I have enjoyed a number of vacations that involved some travel and trout fishing. The fishing part has been singularly unproductive. Maybe we should have hired a local guide. (Yes, I want it all: attractive surroundings and good sport.) At one point we lived somewhere that was about half an hour’s drive closer to a wonderful trout stream in Wisconsin. That was almost as good as the pond in Massachusetts, but I’m not sure about including Wisconsin in my assessment of Minnesota.

The purpose of the preceding is to compare, not criticize. I’m convinced that Minnesota, at least around the Twin Cities, has a much more active literary community than I ever found around Boston. I’m truly grateful for that. But overall, I find it much more challenging discovering a sense of place in Minnesota than I did back East. Could it be because I grew up with clam and corn chowder (chow dah) rather than tater tots? You may have noticed that I’ve not mentioned the people in either location. I have every reason to believe that New Englanders are no more or less insular than Minnesotans, but I was born there, not here, so I can’t really do that comparison. I was native to parts of New England and accepted as such. Others, not so much.

If you have any thoughts you want to share about becoming native to aa place, we’d love to see them in the comments.

Native Trees

By W. S. Merwin

Neither my father nor my mother knew

the names of the trees

where I was born

what is that

I asked and my

father and mother did not

hear they did not look where I pointed

surfaces of furniture held

the attention of their fingers

and across the room they could watch

walls they had forgotten

where there were no questions

no voices and no shade

Were there trees

where they were children

where I had not been

I asked

were there trees in those places

where my father and my mother were born

and in that time did

my father and my mother see them

and when they said yes it meant

they did not remember

What were they I asked what were they

but both my father and my mother

said they never knew

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Becoming native to this place

Today’s title borrows from Wes Jackson. Today is International Day of the World's Indigenous Peoples. Yesterday, the voters in Ohio chose self-determination, for women and men, over autocracy. Kimberly Blaeser seems to have anticipated such a combination of events in a poem she wrote several years ago. Her words exceed any ability of mine to honor those who must continue the battles to control their own bodies and lands. (Some years back I had the pleasure of participating in a poetry class she taught at the Aldo Leopold Foundation.)

American Indian Cultural Corridor, Minneapollis

Photo by J. Harrington

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.

Copyright © 2020 Kimberly Blaeser. This poem was co-commissioned by the Academy of American Poets and the New York Philharmonic as part of the Project 19 initiative.

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Lammas loaf

Lammas, or Lughnasadh, is celebrated one week from today, on August 1. In its honor, I have a sourdough loaf in the oven. It’s been months since I last baked bread and the house’s AC is coping with having the oven on while outside the temperature is exceeding 90℉. This year, between spring burning prohibitions and summer drought, and skies smoke filled from Canada, we’ve not been able to work celebratory bonfires into our schedule at appropriate times. I know it’s early for “baking season,” but it feels good to be getting back into the routine.

sliced sourdough loaf

Photo by J. Harrington

Now, it’s not my intent to do a “bread and fishes” routine with this posting, but earlier today I (re)discovered an organization known as the Native Fish Coalition which is developing an approach for holistic stream restoration. The pilot is on a stream in my state of origin, Massachusetts. The target species is brook trout. This serendipitous sequence has re-enthused my waning interest in fly fishing, brookies, and habitat restoration. Those interests had, like bread baking, drifted to the wayside over the past few months. Summer ennui?

As a long-time member of Trout Unlimited, I was curious to learn TU’s perspective on native fish conservation. Turns out TU has a National Workgroup on the subject. I hadn’t picked up on that over the years. Now I’m going to do some reading on what each organization has accomplished and hopes to achieve in the future, particularly regarding brook trout, and see what volunteer opportunities that presents. Not bad for a sultry summer weekday.

We hope you keep cool during our hot spell and that the thunderstorms we’re expecting don’t become another severe weather alert. However, since I’m not doing bread and fishes today, I’m not above casting (some of) my bread upon the waters, if we get enough waters. If not, I may see what happens if I cast a fly upon them. (I know. I’m ashamed. The heat’s got to me.)

Bread

By Richard Levine

Each night, in a space he’d make

between waking and purpose,

my grandfather donned his one

suit, in our still dark house, and drove

through Brooklyn’s deserted streets

following trolley tracks to the bakery.

There he’d change into white

linen work clothes and cap,

and in the absence of women,

his hands were both loving, well

into dawn and throughout the day—

kneading, rolling out, shaping

each astonishing moment

of yeasty predictability

in that windowless world lit

by slightly swaying naked bulbs,

where the shadows staggered, woozy

with the aromatic warmth of the work.

Then, the suit and drive, again.

At our table, graced by a loaf

that steamed when we sliced it,

softened the butter and leavened

the very air we’d breathe,

he’d count us blessed.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

Home, again?

A week from tomorrow is July 4. Where I come from [Boston, MA], that’s deep into Summer. June is wending along the same path as Spring, into memory land. Greens are deepening, as we get some rain. More types of butterflies are showing up almost daily. We’ve already more than halfway to the average number of days we reach 90℉ [9 so far, 13 is average]. We’ll have to wait and see how it goes from here. Cooler and wetter, but not too much, would be nice.

I’m noticing that spending less time checking newspapers and social media usually puts me in a better mood and gives me more time to devote to things I can actually do something about and/or things I enjoy doing. I’ve been reading more and more about Traditional Ecological Knowledge [TEK] and that’s slowly helping me to shift bits and pieces of my world view. I’m involved, as a volunteer, in a project for which I’d like to find at least one way to integrate TEK, similar to the Wakan Tipi Center at the Bruce Vento Nature Sanctuary in St. Paul. 

Water of the Dodem Spirits

Photo by J. Harrington

I grew up learning about the American Revolution, the Minutemen, and the “shot heard round the world.” I have been much slower, as I grow older, learning about those who lived here before “settlers” arrived, before the fur trade changed the economy and the relationships among those living here. We can’t go back, but we can do a much better job of restoring not only the environment on which we depend for food, clean air and water, and our relationship to that environment plus our relationship with those who lived here before US and are still here.

Dakota Homecoming

By Gwen Nell Westerman

We are so honored that

              you are here, they said.

We know that this is

             your homeland, they said.

The admission price

             is five dollars, they said.

Here is your button

             for the event, they said.

It means so much to us that

             you are here, they said.

We want to write

             an apology letter, they said.

Tell us what to say.

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

A passion for poetry

 As I was rereading the first chapter of Joy Harjo’s Catching the Light this morning, my day was brightened by  this paragraph:

The traditional ways and rituals of all of Earth’s peoples are kept in containers of poetry, song, and story. It is how we know who we are, where we are coming from and who we are becoming.

Those thoughts became a great lead-in to an article in today’s Daily Yonder which we’re republishing below. Those who would ban books be damned!! They  would keep us from knowing  who we are.

A ‘Little Town Poets Society,’ and the Woman Behind It

by Presley West, The Daily Yonder
May 24, 2023

Growing up in Scott County, Tennessee, Cheyanne Leonardo's passion for poetry and the arts made her feel like a bit of an outsider.

"It's hard growing up and feeling different, feeling like no one is interested in the same things as you are … I definitely felt like a weirdo. But I kind of liked it, in a way, and I tried to make it my super power."

Community members gather for a Little Town Poets Society meeting.
(Photo courtesy of Cheyanne Leonardo)

 

"Little Town Poet" Cheyanne Leonardo.
(Photo courtesy of Leonardo)

Today, her poetry – and gift for sharing it with others – has become just that. In the past three years, Cheyanne has published three poetry collections, cultivated a thriving group of local poets, launched a local poetry anthology that's received more than 100 submissions, and assumed a leadership role in a recently formed nonprofit working to advance arts in the community.

Though she is now doing what she considers her life's work, it happened by accident.

Only three years ago, Cheyanne was living in Stuttgart, Germany, at the tail end of a decade-long odyssey of boarding school, graduate school, traveling, and living abroad, which she started when she first left home at fourteen. Fluent in French and German after extensive travel in Europe and a graduate degree in modern language and literature, she taught English for two years before the Covid pandemic hit Germany. In the face of so much uncertainty, homesickness — and a chance at a love she’d left behind — brought her home.

"If I'm perfectly honest, the reason that I came home was because I'm a romantic. I was waiting for the right time to be with someone here in our hometown," she said. "When I was faced with the possibility of the imminent death of all my loved ones, I thought, okay."

So she moved home, rented a small apartment behind her old childhood dance studio, and began working as a barista. She wrote poems to process her feelings about her time abroad, her journey home, and everything in between. Those poems eventually became the foundation for her debut poetry collection, More Than Metaphor, published in the summer of 2021.

Birth of the Little Town Poets Society

What began as a personal exploration of her feelings became a way to connect with her community more deeply than she ever had before. Surprised by how much people connected with her work, and humbled by the encouragement she received from friends, family, and strangers while selling her work at the coffee shop, she decided to start a free weekly poetry class.

"So, I am starting a club. And everyone is invited," she wrote on Facebook. "The LITTLE TOWN POETS SOCIETY will be a place for YOU – to join me in creating poetry and art of your very own."

Little Town Poets Society meetings, like the one pictured above,
started as weekly free poetry classes taught by Leonardo.

Despite early fears that no one would show up or care, eleven people – ranging from teens to seniors in their seventies – showed up to Little Town Poets Society's first meeting at the coffee shop. And they've continued to show up since, sharing their work, forming unexpected friendships, and opening up about their feelings.

"More than once, a grown man has cried at Poets Society, which I feel is progress," she said.

The group has been transformative for Whitney Swain. "The little community that [Cheyanne] has created has opened a world of possibilities that I didn't know would exist for me," said Whitney, who is studying to become a licensed counselor. "She gave me space to find an artistic voice that I did not know I had."

A discussion at the Little Town Poets Society.

Weeks after launching Little Town Poets Society in the fall of 2022, a couple of friends and family approached Cheyanne with an idea to start a nonprofit arts organization, a moment she remembers as a "sign that everything was moving in the right direction." 

 

 

 

 

Friends made through the Little Town Poets Society.
(Photos courtesy of Leonardo)

"When I started out, I was kind of hoping it would evolve into something like that."

Today, she serves as Director of Literary Arts for that nonprofit — the Appalachian Society of the Arts — which recently hosted its first fundraiser for a Budding Artist scholarship fund and is planning free and low-cost classes in music, photography, acting, and crafting.

Supporting access to the arts and emerging artists from Scott County has been incredibly meaningful for Cheyanne. "I was dissuaded from pursuing [the arts] for so long because they're “not valuable.” And that's the exact thing I'm trying to break — this notion that it's not helpful or doesn't contribute. Because [with] what I've done in the last two years with poetry alone, I've seen more of a positive impact in terms of other people's lives and the world, that I've been able to do, than anything else ever."

The Hometown Poems Project

Her current project, "Hometown Poems," is an example of that. It’s a local anthology she created for residents of Scott, McCreary, and surrounding counties that will benefit the Appalachian Society of the Arts. She’s received poetry, photo, and drawing submissions from over 100 residents. "The youngest person who submitted is four years old, and the oldest is in his 80s. So we've got the whole range of life," she said.

She’s also writing, with her current work focused on spirituality. "I'm always a romantic. So there's always love in there as well," she said. "But I like the idea that everybody has a little piece of the divine in them, whatever their name for that is. And for me, poetry is what gets me in touch with it."

Personally, Cheyanne is living happily with her partner — the one who inspired her journey home — and their dog and cat. She quit her barista job to write poetry full time and has wholeheartedly embraced her identity as a Little Town Poet. "I hope to continue representing rural places, especially in Appalachia, and inspiring people to represent themselves.”

While she hasn't ruled out a future odyssey — “there's part of me that still fantasizes about running away and being alive somewhere else." — she's putting down roots for now.

"I really like being here right now … growing up, I felt like, kind of an outcast. So all of a sudden, it's like I'm really active in the community, and I like it. I feel like I'm making a difference, and that is what matters to me."

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This article first appeared on The Daily Yonder and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.

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

Earth, rise!

 

Earthrise, taken on December 24, 1968, by 
Apollo 8 astronaut William Anders

That’s our home planet pictured above. The only one we have. It’s also our “Planet B,” as in there is no place we can move to if we burn down our house. From Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, through the Silent Spring of Rachel Carson, to the multitude of reports from the IPCC on climate disruption, we have thus far failed to sufficiently respect and respond to the guidance of those who would lead us to a sustainable future.

One of the "rules of thumb” I learned long ago goes something like “the proper definition of a problem is half the solution..” I continue to fail to understand why we continue to fail to follow the precautionary principle or even acknowledge the truth of Pogo’s observation from years ago:

"we have met the enemy..." - ©Walt Kelly

Did Pogo get it wrong? I don’t think so. Another old saying I remember my mother using to describe me is “too smart for his own good.” That may well be true of all of us who don’t have enough smarts to get out of our own way and to stop choosing to follow those who place their best individual interest ahead of our collective good. No, I’m not promoting Ayn Rand. Why is it, do you think, that more of us aren’t promoting Elinor Ostrum’s work about managing our commons?

Or, you could read Robin Wall Kimmerer's Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants. If you’ve read it once, reread it. If you want or need something with pictures, try Bimaadiziwin Nibi - Water is Life. Why? Look again at Earthrise. That gray, lifeless area at the picture’s lower section is the moon, which is lifeless as far as we’ve been able to .tell. It’s also pretty much waterless. Have you heard about desertification? Hard to picture after the local winter we’ve had but Minnesota (and California) are undergoing a really tough solution to their recent droughts. Our weather is getting more volatile as we disrupt our climate. Now, go back and reread the first paragraph in today’s posting. How soon do you think you could move to Mars? Does that really seem like a better idea than restoring Earth?

Remember

Joy Harjo - 1951-

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star’s stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother’s, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
are you.
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.

Make STEM STEAM

There are still a few widely scattered patches of snow remaining after a couple of days in the 80s.We are now into RED FLAG brushfire season plus flood warnings along some rivers. The rain and snow showers expected this weekend will help the former but not the latter. Meanwhile, after a record-setting winter’s snowfall, we’ve set several new daily high temperature records for the Twin Cities area this week. This is what happens when you don’t have an ocean nearby to temper wild weather swings.

haven’t yet seen a local red-winged blackbird

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m pondering why there seems to have been limited effort so far exploring the concept of bioregionalism in the upper Midwest. At least there’s little I can find on line about bioregionalism for Minnesota, Wisconsin, the St. Croix river and watershed, etc. I’m becoming more and more interested in learning about any potential relationship(s) between bioregional and traditional ecological knowledge. I’m also back to exploring questions around the concept of cultural appropriation. All of the preceding is because I am delighted by A Literary Field Guide to Southern Appalachia and look forward to reading Cascadia Field Guide: Art, Ecology, Poetry. 

All of the preceding is due to recent discoveries of online literary field guide type resources and a desire to find a useful model for organizing them. I’m convinced we must include the Arts as part of Science, Technology, Engineering and Math or we are likely to find ourselves in a position similar to the person whose only tool was a hammer. Consequently, every problem or opportunity looked like a nail. Plus, we’ve taken reductionist thinking beyond reasonable limits and need to put time and effort and resources into synthesizing new and improved world views. Perhaps it’s literally time to go “back to the future.”

Digging

By Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb   

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

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