Another school project...

(I apologize for the poor quality of this picture. I have a terrible camera. The words "We Shall Endure" are written on the sky, the river and the grass).

They will not let us go outside, these teachers. They say the sun and the moon, the stars and the wind, the water and the grass are the devil, and yet today, sitting in their rigid church, the preacher said, “And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations.” Their own book, the one they beat us with if they catch us staring too long at the sky, the one they give to all the new children who do not speak English, the one they use to tell us we are bad, this same book tells them to use the plants as medicine. But, they do not hear it. They let the children die. The preacher read those words and while every Indian heard none of the teachers did. I do not know what they hear. It does not matter. I hear the healing waters of my river, many days train ride away. I hear the sound of the wind as it comes down the Blue Mountains and rustles the leaves in the tree beside our camp before it touches my face. I hear the songs of my ancestors in the stars and I smell the roots and berries my grandmother picks, the plants and herbs drying, the ones my father uses for medicine. Even in this church, even in this starched dress with the lace collar, even after seven years at this school, miles and miles from home, I still feel the drums. Even through these hard-soled shoes, the song of the earth rushes up my legs and passes through me. It does not take much. You only have to remember. I whisper to the new children, “Do not forget, we shall endure.” Many, too many, forget anyway or die in order to return home. Me, every morning before the others wake up, I stand at my small window that does not open and look at the branches of a tree. I do not know the name of this tree, the teachers do not care. They do not see a tree. I sing, in a whisper, the song my father taught me. The song he sang for the tree with the healing leaves. Every morning, for seven years, I sing that this tree will keep me Indian and send me home.

My latest school project: a painting & a story

It is not easy for me to tell this story, but I will tell you anyway. 

I went to white schools, to the mission schools.  I went because they made me.  I went to one on my own reservation.  It was four miles from my mother and father’s house.  All around me was the land of my people, but I could not touch it.  I could not speak my language.  I could not sing my songs.  I could not say my prayers.  Most importantly, I could not go home.  If I tried to sneak away I would be punished.  My parents would be punished.  My brothers and sisters would be punished.  These punishments were so awful I cannot tell you about them.  They are too sad and will make us cry. 

This was my second boarding school and I was older than the first time.  I knew how things worked.  I wore my starched dress with the starched apron and I was good and I read my Bible.  The Bible and I were friends as long as the priests were not involved.  The stories were good.  I liked the miracles.  I understood miracle stories.  My favorite was about the Red Sea.  I imagined an ocean, vast and terrible, an ocean, red like blood, only not bloody.  I imagined Moses with his magic stick and Miriam with her tambourine.  Only I thought they got it wrong and she really had a hand drum.  I imagined this brother and sister leading the way.  Moses praying the old prayers and singing the old songs, asking Creator to have pity on his people, asking Creator to show them a way to be free.  Free of the pain, free of the suffering, free from things so awful I cannot tell you about them.  They are too sad and will make us cry.  I imagined Miriam whispering to the sea with her drum.  Asking the spirits to let them pass.  Moses and Miriam whispering and praying on behalf of their people who were all lined up behind them.  Freedom, the salt air on their lips.  I had never seen a Jew, but I imagined they looked like Indians.  All together, a family. 

God answered the prayers and the drumming and the singing and that crimson sea split open with tremendous force and let the people through.  Then they were safe and they were free and they were happy.  They showed Creator their joy with more prayers, more singing, some dancing and more drumming.  There were men’s songs and there were women’s songs.  In my mind, their freedom came at night.  There were no clouds.  There was no moon.  It was dark and the Milky Way, the road to the ancestors, was clear and it was bright. 

When I began to imagine the sky, the spirits put another picture in my mind.  They showed me my mother’s ghost dance dress.  The one she had wrapped in paper and hidden away.  I saw it hanging among the stars, invisible to the free people below.  Only I could see it.  Sitting on my mission school bed, reading the Bible in the dim light, the spirits of my ancestors showed me the truth:  We are not so different these priests and I.  We both have our miracles.  And yet, no matter how many times they read their own story, they do not remember what it felt like to suffer.  They do not remember the longing to be free from those who take and take and take and never give back.  But, I remember, sitting in my starched dress.  And my mother remembers, her longing wrapped in paper and hidden away. 

Trickster

I have been reading "Women Who Run with the Wolves" by Clarissa Pinkola Estes.  If you have not read this book...then stop reading this and go buy it!  It is a must read for everyone who can read.  Her Wolf Woman, La Loba, is the wild woman archetype.  She is the brave, deep aspect of ourselves that collects all of our pieces and breathes them back to life.  When we are suffering, broken, lost in the desert, she is the one we can count on for healing.  Her way is not easy, but it is good.  I have had the pleasure of meeting this Bone Woman in my own life.  She is old, funny, strong, loving and fearsome.  I met her several years ago when I was still married, but it has been a long time since I have seen her.  Last night, before bed, I was wishing I would dream of her, wishing to re-connect to her primal, wild wisdom.  I dreamt alright, but it wasn't La Loba who came to call.  In the dream, I was on a walk with a friend when she said, "Look, a wolf."  And I looked, but it was no wolf.  It was Coyote.  Looking me straight in the eye, unafraid, and laughing.  

"I'll tell you right now, the doors to the world of the wild Self are few but precious.  If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door.  If you love the sky and the water so much you almost cannot bear it, that is a door.  If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door."  --Clarissa Pinkola Estes, PhD

Growing

It's that time of year when, if you pay attention, you will notice Spring.  Trees are beginning to bud, green shoots are poking their leaves through the cold, wet ground.  On the Wiccan calendar today marks the beginning of Spring.  It is a time when we begin manifesting all that we have been planning during the cold, winter months.  During class this weekend, I wrote a little something about my relationship to God.  It is my wish for manifestation.

Grandmother, you are a funny one.  I'm sorry it's so hard for me to listen.  So hard for me to understand.  I want to hear your wisdom.  Great Mother, please help me to be open, to listen and to understand.  You have told me that to reach the center is not easy and does not happen in a straight line.  You have told me that the path is like a river.  Still and quiet, then fast and raucous.  I get close to you, then move away.  You have shown this to me so many times.  You have told me that the path would be less painful if I understood that finding you is not simple and that my path to you is unique.  My path is not to be defined by anyone, but you.  If I hear a song in the flap of a crow's wings or the rhythm of leaves in the wind--that is you.  If I find healing in the hidden lake of Taos Mountain, it is you.  If you are in the Egyptian dance or the wall I face during zazen or the playful eyes of my nephews, I do not need to deny you.  I do not need to keep you in check or hidden.  I can bring you into the world.  Your voice wants to be heard and Lady, I assure you, it can be heard through me.  Whether through my pen or song or hands or dancing feet.  I want to birth You into this world the way you have birthed me.  You did not make me an abandoned, then found child for nothing.  Goddess, I accept this path as mine.  I accept that I can be a healer.  I accept that I can write your wisdom through my own story and memories.  Goddess, when you disappeared from my inner landscape I was terrified.  I thought I had lost you, but you merged into me.  You are everywhere inside of me.  When I found you within my heart, you did not hesitate, you went directly into my every cell.  We birthed each other.  Lady, help me hear your voice so I can heal this wound in the fabric of creation.  On your path, we heal each other with our stories.  And so I walk.  And so it is.

An impromptu poem

Transition Complete.

I breathe more deeply today.

My native blood, my white blood

At rest and relieved.

Push through the darkness.

Birth a new day.

Change has come

Change is here.

Arriving Again and Again Without Noticing by Linda Gregg

I remember all the different kinds of years.

Angry, or brokenhearted, or afraid.

I remember feeling like that

walking up the mountain along the dirt path

to my broken house on the island.

And long years of waiting in Massachusetts.

The winter walking and hot summer walking.

I finally fell in love with all of it:

dirt, night, rock and far views.

It's strange that my heart is as full 

now as my desire was then.

Going Vegetarian

I have been struggling between what my tastebuds desire and what my heart and mind want.  So, I am posting pictures of the animals I have been eating to remind me why I do not want to eat them anymore.  When I look at these images I see creatures of intelligence, beauty, innocence, vulnerability, and trust.  I am not asking anyone else to stop eating meat...these images are for me.  I don't want to eat these little guys.  I think I'll stick to tofu and vegetables and fruit.

Happy Birthday

Today is my 32nd birthday.  I remember when my Uncle Glenn turned 30 and we had an "Over the Hill" party for him.  I must have been about ten  years old.  At the time I thought a person in their thirties was old.  I was wrong.  I feel like I am just starting to figure out this thing called life. I'm finally back in school with some idea, some focus of what I want to do with my life.  I am a writer and a theologian-in-progress.  I want to help people heal their spiritual wounds and heal my own while I am at it.  I like this birthday cake picture.  It is celebration in fondant and cream!  Today I celebrate my life, the life of my mother (it's her birthday too) and the life of my cat (Phoebe is nine today).  Happy day to all of us and many blessings on all of you!

The Pain of Writing

When I look at this picture I want to cry.  I want to be back there.  On Pueblo land in Taos, New Mexico.  I want to stand on the mesa and stare at Taos Mountain.  I want to climb Her slopes and dive into her secret lake because I know that at Her center is God.  Not God the Father, distant and frightening, but God the Mother.  Comforting, loving, nurturing, safe.  I know that in the center of that sacred mountain I would be able to write.  At home, on my couch, I am so distracted.  My pen feels like a snake in my hand, ready to strike.  My heart refuses to open up, afraid of the memories lurking inside.  I do not want to put them on the page, but I do not have a choice.  I became a Divinity student because I knew it would force me to write my life.  I have been afraid to tell my truth.  Afraid to write about adoption, anorexia, abuse.  Those are not safe topics.  My monkey mind starts up before the pen even touches the page, "Don't write that.  No one will love you if you write that.  Everyone will abandon you if you tell the truth.  Don't do it.  No. No. No."  And I drop my pen for a chocolate chip cookie or a 16 oz peppermint mocha or a pint of beer.  What am I doing?  When did writing become so hard?  When did my thoughts move from joy to despair?  When did I go from writing fairy tales and love poems to the hard truth of my life?  And why, now that I am paying an obscene amount of money for a graduate degree, am I unable to write?  The truth is I have been unable to write for a long time.  When I began writing about divorce and the death of my birth mother I wanted to quit.  Every time I pick up my pen it is these words that fall out:  Karen died three days before her 47th birthday.  She had been diagnosed with lung cancer only ten days previous.  In the hospital, while she was being kept unconscious with morphine, I saw for the first time that we had the same hair, the same fingers and toes, the same shoulders.  See what I mean?  This is why writing is hard.

A Poem for Today

Being 

by Linda Gregg

The woman walks up the mountain

and then down.  She wades into the sea

and out.  Walks to the well,

pulls up a bucket of water

and goes back into the house.

She hangs wet clothes.

Takes clothes back to fold them.

Every evening she crochets

from six until dark.

Birds, flowers, stars.  Her rabbit lives

in an empty donkey pen.  The sea is out

there as far as the stars.

Always quiet.

No one there.  She may not believe

in anything.  Not know

what she is doing.  Every morning

she waters the geranium plant.

And the leaves smell like lemons.