Allee allee in free?!!

Today’s weather, and the state of the country’s and world’s politics, have me waxing nostalgic for times that at least seemed simpler and more sensible. It’s been raining and pouring intermittently all day. Dog walks have been scheduled between downpours but the dogs would prefer to wait until it’s dry so they can sniff better. Today’s “poem” takes me back to high school and college days, and before. I hope you enjoy it.

rain clouds overhead, and on the horizon?

Photo by J. Harrington

Our governor is reported to be one of the two remaining candidates for Madame President’s VP pick. I have mixed feelings about that. Minnesota’s loss being the nation’s gain, etc. The reality is it will be interesting to see what happens if he’s selected and we end up with a Native American woman as governor. I’ve just about reached a point where I believe we can survive almost anything but #45 becoming #47, or would that be #45a and b?

The last line in the lyrics below is how I remember ending hide and go seek games when I was a kid in Dorchester, a Boston neighborhood. My mother used to claim she could tell whose back yard I’d been playing in by the way I smelled. The phrasing differs from the Kingston Trio’s Ally Ally Oxen Free. I have no idea what may be the real etymology of the phrase. Do you?

It's Raining

Song by Peter, Paul and Mary

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring

Bumped his head and he went to bed

And he couldn't get up in the mornin'

Rain rain, go away, come again some other day.

 

"hey I got an idea ... we could all play hide and go seek inside,

Now everybody hide and I'll be it!"

 

Star light, star bright,

First star I see tonight,

Wish I may, wish I might,

Have the wish I wish tonight.

 

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring

Bumped his head and he went to bed

And he couldn't get up in the mornin'

Rain rain, go away, come again some other day.

 

Five ten fifteen twenty.

Twenty-five thirty. thirty-five forty.

 

Lady bug, lady bug, fly away home.

Your house is on fire, and your children,

They will burn, they will burn.

 

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring

Bumped his head and he went to bed

And he couldn't get up in the mornin'

Rain rain, go away, come again some other day.

 

Forty-five fifty. fifty-five sixty.

Sixty-five seventy. seventy-five eighty.

 

Won't be my father's jack,

No I won't be my mother's jill,

I'll be a fiddler's wife and fiddle when I will.

 

It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring

Bumped his head and he went to bed

And he couldn't get up in the mornin'

Rain rain, go away, come again some other day.

 

Eighty-five, ninety. ninety-five, a hundred.

 

anyone round my base is it! ready or not, here I come!

allee allee in free!

Songwriters: Allen Toussaint / Naomi Neville 

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Beware November’s gales and other storms

On this, the 46th anniversary of the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald, we offer for your consideration

• The National Weather Service’ story of the aftermath of the tragedy


• Gordon Lightfoot’s haunting rendition of his song about the sinking


• Previous postings on My Minnesota about the Edmund Fitzgerald


• A reminder that the Split Rock light will be lit this evening in memoriam

Split Rock light house

Photo by J. Harrington

Although not a November gale, today’s weather forecast brings a threat of the season’s first local snowfall sometime during the next several days with significant snowfall forecast for northern Minnesota and Canada. We’re hoping that whatever we get will melt shortly after it falls. We’d be happy if we got lasting snow on Christmas Eve that melted about New Year’s, but our drainfield tells us it needs the insulation of snow cover.

Storm Fear

Robert Frost - 1874-1963

When the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts the snow
The lower chamber window on the east,
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,
‘Come out! Come out!’—
It costs no inward struggle not to go,
Ah, no!
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,—
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away
And my heart owns a doubt
Whether 'tis in us to arise with day 
And save ourselves unaided.

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Earth, rise

Thursday of this week is Earth Day. It was first celebrated in 1970, largely through the instigation of Senator Gaylord Nelson of Wisconsin. Senator Nelson was later awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom for his role as founder of Earth Day.

“The ultimate test of man's conscience may be his willingness to sacrifice something today for future generations whose words of thanks will not be heard.” — Gaylord Nelson

Photo by J. Harrington

Two years prior, during the Apollo 8 mission, Earthrise, the first photo of Earth rising over the moon's horizon, was taken. It clearly showed how alive, alone and potentially fragile our home planet looked against the blackness of space.

Earthrise, NASA

Although it would be too harsh a judgement to assert that Earth Day has been a failure, looking at the current status of climate weirding, multiple extinctions, continuing widespread pollution of our air and water, a global pandemic, growing inequality among nations and people, meaningless squabbling about who should do how much of what to save the planet, and the recent election of a totally unqualified individual as 45th POTUS, one might conclude that our consciences are failing the Nelson test. This week, this month, every week and every month, we must make every day an Earth Day or we will have no future generations with  words of thanks. They will justifiably be cursing us for our failures to provide them with a habitable home.

For the Children

by Gary Snyder

The rising hills, the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us,
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.

In the next century
or the one beyond that,
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.

To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light

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'Tis almost time to celebrate Winter Solstice

Tomorrow we celebrate the Winter Solstice. Tonight's weather forecast calls for some overnight snow, an appropriate prelude to the 4:02 am local arrival of the Solstice, since the ground is currently bare. We've found, during the past few years, that the Druid perspective on the Winter Solstice is helpful and satisfying.

A Winter Solstice celebration

Photo by J. Harrington

"... the Winter Solstice, called in the Druid Tradition Alban Arthan [the Light of Arthur]. This is the time of death and rebirth. The sun appears to be abandoning us completely as the longest night comes to us. Linking our own inner journey to the yearly cycle, the words of the Druid ceremony ask “Cast away, O wo/man whatever impedes the appearance of light.” In darkness we throw on to the ground the scraps of material we have been carrying that signify those things which have been holding us back, and one lamp is lit from a flint and raised up on the Druid’s crook in the East. The year is reborn and a new cycle begins, which will reach its peak at the time of the Midsummer Solstice, before returning again to the place of death-and-birth."

just a light dusting would be nice

Photo by J. Harrington

A Christmas present ordered for someone in the family disappeared for almost two weeks in the USPS system. It was finally delivered this morning. We've been fussing off and on for ten or more days and accomplished absolutely nothing thereby. Aided and abetted by the Better Half, a duplicate of the missing present is on its way, not via the USPS. We'll make arrangement to return the duplicate after Christmas or whenever it arrives. In the process, we've almost convinced ourselves of the futility of getting exasperated. In fact, when we were much, much younger, we hung around with a crew whose approach to life's disruptions was "don't get mad, get even." Somehow, we've let that slip away from us. We've been relearning this holiday season that we enjoy life more if we simply deal with what's in front of us and move on. That reminds us of another old saying that's eluded us during the past four years or so. Remember that "Living well is the best revenge." The way we're feeling this afternoon, it's almost as though Santa came early this year and left some presents between our ears and in our heart.

The Snowfall Is So Silent

Miguel de Unamuno - 1864-1936

translated by Robert Bly

The snowfall is so silent,
so slow,
bit by bit, with delicacy
it settles down on the earth
and covers over the fields.
The silent snow comes down
white and weightless; 
snowfall makes no noise,
falls as forgetting falls, 
flake after flake.
It covers the fields gently
while frost attacks them
with its sudden flashes of white;
covers everything with its pure
and silent covering;
not one thing on the ground
anywhere escapes it.
And wherever it falls it stays,
content and gay,
for snow does not slip off 
as rain does,
but it stays and sinks in.
The flakes are skyflowers,
pale lilies from the clouds,
that wither on earth.
They come down blossoming
but then so quickly
they are gone;
they bloom only on the peak,
above the mountains,
and make the earth feel heavier
when they die inside.
Snow, delicate snow,
that falls with such lightness 
on the head,
on the feelings,
come and cover over the sadness
that lies always in my reason.

---

La nevada es silenciosa

La nevada es silenciosa,
cosa lenta;
poco a poco y con blandura
reposa sobre la tierra
y cobija a la llanura.
Posa la nieve callada
blanca y leve;
la nevada no hace ruido;
cae como cae el olvido,
copo a copo.
Abriga blanda a los campos
cuando el hielo los hostiga;
con sus lampos de blancura;
cubre a todo con su capa
pura, silenciosa;
no se le escapa en el suelo
cosa alguna.
Donde cae allí se queda
leda y leve,
pues la nieve no resbala
como resbala la lluvia,
sino queda y cala.
Flores del cielo los copos,
blancos lirios de las nubes,
que en el suelo se ajan,
bajan floridos,
pero quedan pronto
derretidos;
florecen sólo en la cumbre,
sobre las montañas,
pesadumbre de la tierra,
y en sus entrañas perecen.
Nieve, blanda nieve,
la que cae tan leve 
sobre la cabeza,
sobre el corazón, 
ven y abriga mi tristeza
la que descansa en razón.

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We're better than this, are we?

In the fields behind the house, purple love grass is ripening. Soon the seed heads will be getting blown across the fields, scattering seeds in early autumn. As of today, the election is 90 days away. We will be choosing not only a POTUS, but we will be making an informed statement about who we are as a people and to what we aspire. No longer will some of us be able to hide behind a nice-sounding but empty "we're better than this." On one hand, we can work to return to the kind of country that opens its arms and extends them to those who come here seeking a life better than they can achieve in their country of origin. The kind of country that once stood behind, and stood for, the description in today's edition of The Writer's Almanac:

Today in 1884, the cornerstone of the Statue of Liberty's pedestal was laid. One year prior, a fundraiser for the pedestal's construction solicited art and literary works for auction; 34-year-old Emma Lazarus donated a poem for the occasion, which she titled "The New Colossus."

Devoted to the plight of Jewish immigrants, Lazarus imagined that the statue would become a symbol of hope for all Ellis Island arrivals. She wrote her verse three years before the statue was completed, and only four years before her own death. The poem was essentially forgotten for 20 years, after which Lazarus' friends lobbied to have it emblazoned on a bronze plaque and hung in the museum inside the pedestal.

"The New Colossus"

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

In the alternative (on the other hand), we can continue as we have for the past three and three-quarter years. In that case, I suggest we disassemble the Statue of Liberty, remove the bronze plaque from the pedestal, and replace that plaque with one carrying a more appropriate poem by Yeats.

purple love grass ripening in August's sun

Photo by J. Harrington

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? 

As the old saying goes, the choice is ours (in ninety days or less). It remains to be seen if enough of us really are "better than this" and choose to be lead by someone who aspires to be more than a "rough beast, its hour come round at last,..."

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We're better than this?

Tomorrow the "July 4th weekend" celebration starts. Many fireworks displays have been canceled to help protect the health  and lives of people vulnerable to COVID-19, which is raging through the US. Some people, placing their liberty and freedom ahead of any sense of responsibility to their community, refuse to wear a mask, one of the most demonstrable ways to limit transmission of the virus that is now a worldwide pandemic.

As I've mentioned a number of times elsewhere in this blog, I come from Massachusetts, one of the original thirteen colonies who declared independence on July 4, 1776, and I'm proud of that heritage. Unfortunately, as I look about at the actions, and inaction, of the federal government today; as we suffer from more and more foreign influence on the governance of what was once a world-leading independent democracy, noted for its continuing efforts to live up to ideals espoused in both the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution, I wonder if we as citizens have slipped so far, have become so self-centered and spoiled, that we would be capable today of doing what our founders did more than 200 years ago. I fear the answer is no.

a new dawn for America Again?

Photo by J. Harrington

We as a people have let ourselves become too divided. We focus more these days on our differences than our shared inalienable rights to "Life, Liberty, and  the pursuit of Happiness." Too many of us seem to have forgotten, or do not want to recognize, that it was not individuals, acting alone and independently, that secured our freedom from the English Crown and Parliament. It took almost all of us, acting together, putting aside for the most part our less significant differences, to throw off a yoke of tyranny. Are we about to succumb to a new tyrant, as our right to vote is suppressed and our ability to chose our legislative representatives is gerrymandered by those whose prime concern is their own self-interest and maintenance of a standard of living most of their constituents don't enjoy. That smacks distressingly of royalty rather than public service.

Over this weekend, I ask those of you who read this to take some time and make a commitment to read, between now and election day, our Declaration of Independence and Constitution of the United States, as provided by the US Citizenship and Immigration Services. Then as you vote by mail or in person, cast your vote for those who you truly believe best represent the ideals for which this country once stood. If enough of us do that, often enough and over a long enough period of time, we may be able to regain the respect of other world leaders and, more importantly, once again earn a level of deserved self-respect. Politicians whose highest qualification is pandering to our basest instincts should be banned and shunned. The premise of a representative democracy is that we choose those who represent us. For the most part these days, I'm ashamed of and shamed by those who claim to represent me on the world and national stage. I keep hoping for evidence that "we're better than this."

Let America Be America Again

Langston Hughes - 1902-1967

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine—the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

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Alternatives to perpetual conflict

If you haven't read any of Margaret Wheatley's books, I commend them to your attention. I'm in the midst of rereading two that I have in my library.  Today I'm sharing quotations from one of them, a simpler way, because I think they're highly relevant to the times and troubles in which we're living.

"Understanding that life is self-referential gives us insight into the process by which change can occur in a person, an organization, an ecosystem, or a nation. Every  change is fostered by a change in self-perception. We will change our self if we believe that the change will preserve our self. We are unable to change if we cannot find ourselves in a new version of the world. We must be able to see that who we are will be available in this new situation."

The thoughts in the preceding paragraph offer me a very different perspective on the events and developments of the past several years and, particularly, the past several months. I've read that current demographic trends foretell the ultimate demise of the Republican party. That supposedly helps to account for its / their current support for the "Crybaby-in-Chief" (not me, George Will) in the White House. This makes me think of the classic Janis Joplin hit "Get It While You Can."

Wheatley continues: "Thus we can influence each other only by connecting with who we already are. Every act of organizing occurs around an identity. Every  change occurs only if we identify with it."

each dawn offers a chance for a fresh start if we choose it

Photo by J. Harrington

Reconciling those concepts with the ideas proposed in Community control of police — an idea whose time has come is a challenge. I wonder how the existing members of the Minneapolis Police Department, or their replacements, might come to identify with the 6 steps listed in the article. I certainly agree that the Department needs reformation or transformation. Has the vision for a transformed department been articulated clearly enough that it can be shared? Although I don't fully accept or agree with the analyses, several conservatives have noted that the elected leadership of Minneapolis has been heavily weighted toward the liberal, Democratic view for some years now. Do both the rank and file and the elected leaders need to envision a fresh start? How could that be accomplished?

Raising the preceding questions and concerns comes in light of the last paragraph Wheatley writes on the page from which I'm quoting: "We encourage others to change only if we honor who they are now. We ourselves engage in change only as we discover that we might be more of who we are by becoming something different."

I've yet to read or see a proposal for correcting the faults in the current policing model, or instituting a new model, that accounts for police officers becoming more of who they are by becoming something different. There are few opportunities as ripe for motivating change as the current situation. It would be unfortunate if the chance were missed by imposing a solution with which police officers can't identify. How do we get there from here? We clearly neither want, nor need, nor should accept, policing that is "only following orders."

Would I leave you at this point without at least a suggestion of how we get from where we are to where we need to be? Of course not! One of my favorite poets, and the current poet laureate of the US, has done the  hard work for us. See for yourself:

Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings

By Joy Harjo

I am the holy being of my mother's prayer and my father's song
                                                      —Norman Patrick Brown, Dineh Poet and Speaker

1. SET CONFLICT RESOLUTION GROUND RULES:

Recognize whose lands these are on which we stand.
Ask the deer, turtle, and the crane.
Make sure the spirits of these lands are respected and treated with goodwill.
The land is a being who remembers everything.
You will have to answer to your children, and their children, and theirs—
The red shimmer of remembering will compel you up the night to walk the perimeter of truth for understanding.
As I brushed my hair over the hotel sink to get ready I heard:
By listening we will understand who we are in this holy realm of words.
Do not parade, pleased with yourself.
You must speak in the language of justice.


2. USE EFFECTIVE COMMUNICATION SKILLS THAT DISPLAY AND ENHANCE MUTUAL TRUST AND RESPECT:

If you sign this paper we will become brothers. We will no longer fight. We will give you this land and these waters "as long as the grass shall grow and the rivers run."

The lands and waters they gave us did not belong to them to give. Under false pretenses we signed. After drugging by drink, we signed. With a mass of gunpower pointed at us, we signed. With a flotilla of war ships at our shores, we signed. We are still signing. We have found no peace in this act of signing.

A casino was raised up over the gravesite of our ancestors. Our own distant cousins pulled up the bones of grandparents, parents, and grandchildren from their last sleeping place. They had forgotten how to be human beings. Restless winds emerged from the earth when the graves were open and the winds went looking for justice.

If you raise this white flag of peace, we will honor it.

At Sand Creek several hundred women, children, and men were slaughtered in an unspeakable massacre, after a white flag was raised. The American soldiers trampled the white flag in the blood of the peacemakers.

There is a suicide epidemic among native children. It is triple the rate of the rest of America. "It feels like wartime," said a child welfare worker in South Dakota.

If you send your children to our schools we will train them to get along in this changing world. We will educate them.

We had no choice. They took our children. Some ran away and froze to death. If they were found they were dragged back to the school and punished. They cut their hair, took away their language, until they became as strangers to themselves even as they became strangers to us.

If you sign this paper we will become brothers. We will no longer fight. We will give you this land and these waters in exchange "as long as the grass shall grow and the rivers run."

Put your hand on this bible, this blade, this pen, this oil derrick, this gun and you will gain trust and respect with us. Now we can speak together as one.

We say, put down your papers, your tools of coercion, your false promises, your posture of superiority and sit with us before the fire. We will share food, songs, and stories. We will gather beneath starlight and dance, and rise together at sunrise.

The sun rose over the Potomac this morning, over the city surrounding the white house.
It blazed scarlet, a fire opening truth.
White House, or Chogo Hvtke, means the house of the peacekeeper, the keepers of justice.
We have crossed this river to speak to the white leader for peace many times
Since these settlers first arrived in our territory and made this their place of governance.
These streets are our old trails, curved to fit around trees.


3. GIVE CONSTRUCTIVE FEEDBACK:

We speak together with this trade language of English. This trade language enables us to speak across many language boundaries. These languages have given us the poets:

Ortiz, Silko, Momaday, Alexie, Diaz, Bird, Woody, Kane, Bitsui, Long Soldier, White, Erdrich, Tapahonso, Howe, Louis, Brings Plenty, okpik, Hill, Wood, Maracle, Cisneros, Trask, Hogan, Dunn, Welch, Gould...

The 1957 Chevy is unbeatable in style. My broken-down one-eyed Ford will have to do. It holds everyone: Grandma and grandpa, aunties and uncles, the children and the babies, and all my boyfriends. That's what she said, anyway, as she drove off for the Forty-Nine with all of us in that shimmying wreck.

This would be no place to be without blues, jazz—Thank you/mvto to the Africans, the Europeans sitting in, especially Adolphe Sax with his saxophones... Don't forget that at the center is the Mvskoke ceremonial circles. We know how to swing. We keep the heartbeat of the earth in our stomp dance feet.

You might try dancing theory with a bustle, or a jingle dress, or with turtles strapped around your legs. You might try wearing colonization like a heavy gold chain around a pimp's neck.


4. REDUCE DEFENSIVENESS AND BREAK THE DEFENSIVENESS CHAIN:

I could hear the light beings as they entered every cell. Every cell is a house of the god of light, they said. I could hear the spirits who love us stomp dancing. They were dancing as if they were here, and then another level of here, and then another, until the whole earth and sky was dancing.

We are here dancing, they said. There was no there.

There was no  "I"  or "you."

There was us; there was "we."

There we were as if we were the music.

You cannot legislate music to lockstep nor can you legislate the spirit of the music to stop at political boundaries—

—Or poetry, or art, or anything that is of value or matters in this world, and the next worlds.

This is about getting to know each other.

We will wind up back at the blues standing on the edge of the flatted fifth about to jump into a fierce understanding together.


5. ELIMINATE NEGATIVE ATTITUDES DURING CONFLICT:

A panther poised in the cypress tree about to jump is a panther poised in a cypress tree about to jump.

The panther is a poem of fire green eyes and a heart charged by four winds of four directions.

The panther hears everything in the dark: the unspoken tears of a few hundred human years, storms that will break what has broken his world, a bluebird swaying on a branch a few miles away.

He hears the death song of his approaching prey:

I will always love you, sunrise.
I belong to the black cat with fire green eyes.
There, in the cypress tree near the morning star.


6. AND, USE WHAT YOU LEARN TO RESOLVE YOUR OWN CONFLICTS AND TO MEDIATE OTHERS' CONFLICTS:

When we made it back home, back over those curved roads
that wind through the city of peace, we stopped at the
doorway of dusk as it opened to our homelands.
We gave thanks for the story, for all parts of the story
because it was by the light of those challenges we knew
ourselves—
We asked for forgiveness.
We laid down our burdens next to each other.

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A time for regrowth

Despite the sunny skies and warmer temperatures, I'd been feeling glum and gloomy. There's still a patch of ice and snow near the front walk. I hadn't noticed many signs of real greening. The small, ephemeral pond behind the house refroze overnight. I've yet to hear any wood frogs or spring peepers. Other years by this time we've had day lilies emerging.

day lilies emerging: March 24, 2012

Photo by J. Harrington

After looking at the picture above, I took my grumbly self outside to double check if I'd missed something. Turns out I had. In the front flower garden, underneath the leaf mulch [sounds better than if I'd not gotten around to cleanup last Autumn, doesn't it?] the Better Half point out new, green growth. Across the front walk, there's what looks like strawberry plant(?) leaves, newly green, bringing signs of new life and hope. As the numbers of those stricken by COVID19 continue to surge, as the death count increases frighteningly, I feel a greater need to see signs of the continuity of life. I understand that your mileage may vary.

As I catch the daily news reports, I find myself sometimes thinking back to President Kennedy's inauguration and his inspirational challenge to us “Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country,” I find that far different in form and substance than anything I've heard in the past three plus years. I'll take a chance on being guilty of waxing nostalgic, but it seems to me that another passage from Kennedy's inaugural speech could well fit the circumstances faced today by all of us, especially the kind of voters who elected Kennedy. Please consider, as we move closer and closer to November, which candidate you can envision offering something like the following:

Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans—born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage—and unwilling to witness or permit the slow undoing of those human rights to which this nation has always been committed, and to which we are committed today at home and around the world.

I can see Bernie, and, maybe, Joe, but definitely not Donnie, defending and restoring our sadly eroded human rights. The time is past for us to return to growing a heritage of which we can be proud. We won't get there with a "Me first" philosophy that really means "Only Me."

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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A Christmas wish

The lines below are as much in the spirit of the season as anything I've ever seen.

Merry Christmas!

away in a manger, no crib for a bed

Photo by J. Harrington

Forever Young

Written by: Bob Dylan

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young 

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Are you for the birds?

The black cherry tree behind the house has finally reached peak color. In fact, most of the trees in the neighborhood are at that stage these days. Having blue skies and sunshine to go along with peak colors makes the world seem a prettier place than the dreary, damp, downpour-ridden days we've been experiencing. Although we're several days past this month's full moon, this morning, early, was the first time in a long while the cloud cover's been broken enough to see moonlight.

black cherry leaves near peak color

Photo by J. Harrington

The local blue jays are back. We rarely see them around the property during the Summer, but they're a relatively common sight during the Autumn, Winter and early Spring. Most of the feeders we use are hanging feeders, reported to not be among the jay's favorite. Since our cold season visitors are mostly business-like buffs, grays, and blacks (nuthatches and chickadees), blue jays, and cardinals, add splashes of welcome colors.

black-capped chickadee

Photo by J. Harrington

Speaking of chickadees, we have to admit that this week we discovered our knowledge has been woefully lacking. We thought there was only the black-capped chickadee and were truly upset when we read that climate change might cause them to move from Minnesota. It turns out, as we did a little research, that there's a separate species, the boreal chickadee. (We should have read the article more carefully when we encountered the phrase "Boreal species such as warblers and chickadees will suffer greater effects because they are specialists and less adaptable to changes in temperature and habitat....") The boreal chickadee is the one that Minnesota may lose to climate breakdown. (In the research effort, we also learned there's the carolina chickadee, the mountain chickadee, the mexican chickadee, the gray-headed chickadee, and the chestnut-backed chickadee.) Our Winter feeders just wouldn't be the same without the cheerful, black-capped visitors that flitter in and out with a beguiling frequency.

If you missed the stories about the loss, since 1970, of 3 billion birds or the Audubon Society's estimated impacts of climate breakdown on birds, you can follow the links in this sentence to either or both reports. First, many years ago, it was market hunting that triggered species loss of passenger pigeons and diminished populations of waterfowl and other avians. That was largely corrected with hunting regulations and the creation of wetland protection programs funded largely through taxes and firearms and ammunition and the sale of federal and state "duck stamps." Climate change and habitat loss are going to be more challenging to address. We've demonstrated we're capable of responding to these kinds of issues. The bigger question is, are we willing? What's a bird in the hand or two in the bush worth to us?

Birds Again

Jim Harrison - 1937-2016

A secret came a week ago though I already
knew it just beyond the bruised lips of consciousness.
The very alive souls of thirty-five hundred dead birds
are harbored in my body. It’s not uncomfortable.
I’m only temporary habitat for these not-quite-
weightless creatures. I offered a wordless invitation
and now they’re roosting within me, recalling
how I had watched them at night
in fall and spring passing across earth moons,
little clouds of black confetti, chattering and singing
on their way north or south. Now in my dreams
I see from the air the rumpled green and beige,
the watery face of earth as if they’re carrying
me rather than me carrying them. Next winter
I’ll release them near the estuary west of Alvarado
and south of Veracruz. I can see them perching
on undiscovered Olmec heads. We’ll say goodbye
and I’ll return my dreams to earth.

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Territory Acknowledgement

We've discovered another resource related to Native American place names. It's called Native Land.

Native Land Digital is a Canadian not-for-profit organization, incorporated in December 2018. It is designed to be Indigenous-led, with an Indigenous Board of Directors who oversee and direct the organization. Numerous non-Indigenous people also contribute by being on our Advisory Council. The Board of Directors runs finances, sets priorities, and appoints staff members as required.

According to the online "territories" map, our property has been part of the lands/territories of the

• Wahpekute


• Anishinabewaki ᐊᓂᔑᓈᐯᐗᑭ


• Očeti Šakówiŋ (Sioux) 

Sunrise River near Sunrise, MN

Photo by J. Harrington

We had read about about the Anishinabe and the Sioux. The term Wahpekute is new to us. We're still searching of details on the time lines of whose territory this was and when, as well as whether there were any actual Native American uses in this vicinity, such as maple sugaring camp, Winter or Summer camp, or whatever. For example, we wonder if the Sunrise River was ever a worthwhile source for wild rice. We'll keep looking and let you know if we find anything. Once again, if anyone has any suggestions for resources regarding Native American places and activities in the St. Croix Valley, please leave a comment.

The Theft Outright

By Heid E. Erdrich

           after Frost

We were the land's before we were.

Or the land was ours before you were a land.

Or this land was our land, it was not your land.

We were the land before we were people,

loamy roamers rising, so the stories go,

or formed of clay, spit into with breath reeking soul—

What's America, but the legend of Rock 'n' Roll?

Red rocks, blood clots bearing boys, blood sands

swimming being from women's hands, we originate,

originally, spontaneous as hemorrhage.

Un-possessing of what we still are possessed by,

possessed by what we now no more possess.

We were the land before we were people,

dreamy sunbeams where sun don't shine, so the stories go,

or pulled up a hole, clawing past ants and roots—

Dineh in documentaries scoff DNA evidence off.

They landed late, but canyons spoke them home.

Nomadic Turkish horse tribes they don't know.

What's America, but the legend of Stop 'n' Go?

Could be cousins, left on the land bridge,

contrary to popular belief, that was a two-way toll.

In any case we'd claim them, give them some place to stay.

Such as we were we gave most things outright

(the deed of the theft was many deeds and leases and claim stakes

and tenure disputes and moved plat markers stolen still today . . .)

We were the land before we were a people,

earthdivers, her darling mudpuppies, so the stories go,

or emerging, fully forming from flesh of earth—

The land, not the least vaguely, realizing in all four directions,

still storied, art-filled, fully enhanced.

Such as she is, such as she wills us to become.

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Marching past the Ides

Unlike Caesar, we have once again made it through the Ides of March. The best parts of this year are now ahead of us, at least as far as weather and activities are involved. A dash of the outdoors makes just about everything better. Today's sunshine is melting the ice at the East (road) end of the drive. The rest of the drive is shaded by enough trees that we may need to exchange our yak-tax for skate blades this year.

the drive / skating rink

Photo by J. Harrington

We know hedgehogs are not indigenous to North America, although they are native to Ireland and so fit in with this Irish weekend. Plus, we've developed a fondness for them after seeing so many cute pictures of them online. Since our primary chocolatier makes chocolate hedgehogs as Easter/Spring decorations, we once again have one sitting on the dining room table. [The seam in this year's version isn't noticeable.] Would that we were so easily pleased in all things.

our very own hedgehog

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning we baked some oats and barley scones. Tomorrow it will be Irish soda bread. All in honor of St. Patrick's Day and our Irish heritage. The Better Half is planning on corned beef and cabbage for tomorrow's dinner. We're reminiscing about marching in the Boston St. Patrick's day parade, back when we were in the equivalent of junior high (7th and 8th grade). This year the weather  back East is slightly warmer than ours and both places are doing much better than the folks in Nebraska, Iowa and environs. At this time of year, many of us would love to be at a cabin on Innisfree.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

By William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

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Thank you, Veterans

We're grateful today for the service and sacrifices from veterans and by their families. In our house, both of the "grown-ups'" fathers/grandfathers served during WWII. One of our fathers also served during the Korean Police Action (check M.A.S.H.)

hard to soar like an eagle if you're basically chicken

Photo by J. Harrington

Every once in awhile, the nuns that taught us in grade school noticed someone too afraid to go out in the rain. Then those normally kind, sweet, saintly sisters would ridicule such person as a "sugar plum, afraid they'd melt in the rain." It's too bad a minority of voters did the rest of us the disservice of voting for a minority president who so fears rain showers that he won't honor those who gave the ultimate sacrifice to protect our freedoms. Even during the Vietnam War protests, we were only angry with our country. These days we're also ashamed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was mal-chosen to represent US. We wonder if John McCrae foresaw a failed visit to Flanders Fields by America's "sugar plum president."

In Flanders Fields

John McCrae, 1872- 1918

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row, 
That mark our place, and in the sky, 
The larks, still bravely singing, fly, 
Scarce heard amid the guns below. 

We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields. 

Take up our quarrel with the foe! 
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high! 
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

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"Ain't gonna let nobody turn US around"

As we headed out for dinner yesterday, we took a careful look at one of the local tamarack bogs. The tamaracks are beginning to show color, but it looks like it's only about ten percent. The local weather forecast is mentioning another three inches or so by Wednesday. All this rain, and the limited leaf fall makes the woods pretty quiet. Neither squirrels nor whitetails make much noise walking, scampering or dashing through damp leaves. When the leaves are down and dry, the woods can sound like invading armies are marching through.

some beautiful colors are showing in our oak leaves

Photo by J. Harrington

Some of the oaks are turning unusually bright colors, at least before they fade to a milk-chocolatie brown. We've seen several notices about how climate change may improve Autumn colors. We've also seen a few mentions about how this is supposed to be an above average show of colors this year, although maybe a bit later than usual. Looking a photos from years past, we can confirm colors are developing later than we're used to. Some places have what might be really nice colors, if the sun ever arrives to show them off. Yes, we're displaying grumpiness because so far, we've had one of our favorite months turn disappointing in both the natural world and the unnatural environment of Washington, D.C.

Joan Baez at the "Nasty Woman" concert 2016

Photo by J. Harrington

Plus, we're feeling a little sad and nostalgic. The Better Half bought tickets to the Joan Baez "Farewell Concert Tour." Baez joins Paul Simon and others, including those like Pete Seeger who've already walked on, in reminding us how long of tooth we've become. Furthermore, we still remember her performances during the Civil Rights marches and the anti-war protests of the 1960's (told you we're long of tooth). We suppose that gives us reason to be agitated as we watch the need increase to fight battles, battles we once believed had been won. Perhaps those battles were, and it's the broader war that never ends, the one between good and evil, progress and backsliding, right and wrong. Don't be surprised if we return to some of those themes in future postings. Meanwhile, we'll enjoy tonight's performance, although it's only been a couple of years since Baez was here and we enjoyed her pre-election performance. We'll also remember what we read somewhere or other today: "Doom is inevitable. Gloom is a choice we make." Let's not get turned around into gloom.

Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around

Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me ’round
Turn me ’round, turn me ’round
Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me ’round
I’m gonna keep on walkin’ Keep on talkin’
Marchin’ to that freedom land

Ain’t gonna let segregation turn me ’round
Turn me ’round, turn me ’round
Ain’t gonna let segregation turn me ’round
I’m gonna keep on walkin’ Keep on talkin’
Marchin’ to that freedom land

Ain’t gonna let Jim Crow turn me ’round
Turn me ’round, turn me ’round
Ain’t gonna let Jim Crow turn me ’round
I’m gonna keep on walkin’ Keep on talkin’
Marchin’ to that freedom land

Ain’t gonna let Bull Conner turn me round
Turn me ’round, turn me ’round
Ain’t gonna let Bull Conner turn me round
I’m gonna keep on walkin’ Keep on talkin’
Marchin’ to that freedom land

Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me ’round
Turn me ’round, turn me ’round
Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me ’round
I’m gonna keep on walkin’ Keep on talkin’
Marchin’ to that freedom land

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