I am sitting in a Starbucks in Edina, MN.  Milt is at a movie at his favorite theater , and I’m taking the time to catch my breath.  This morning we did two Bead People projects that were a cooperative project between a 4th grade class and the Bayport Senior Center and a 6th . . . → Read More: We’re not getting old . . . we’re becoming Elders]]>

I am sitting in a Starbucks in Edina, MN.  Milt is at a movie at his favorite theater , and I’m taking the time to catch my breath.  This morning we did two Bead People projects that were a cooperative project between a 4^th grade class and the Bayport Senior Center and a 6^th grade class and the Stillwater Senior Center.  The students were having a blast—so were the volunteers—playing with beads, building bodies, heads, arms and legs.  There still is nothing better than plopping down beautiful trays of beads in front of a bunch of young people (or old people).  It is creative, colorful, fun, noisy, and full of stillness all at the same time.

The purpose of The Bead People is to celebrate our differences—color, size, race, religion—and age.  When each class was done today, I tried something a bit different.  Always after we have created our Bead People, we come together in a circle to talk about peace and what it means to celebrate our differences.  I asked all of the volunteers from the Senior Centers to form a circle behind the student circle.  Some of them needed chairs—others sat on the floor with the students.   I explained to the students that these are our Elders—they have our back, they support us, they are wise and have had many life experiences.  I could almost see the backs of the Elders straighten.  I looked around and saw that I, too, have become a “senior” while I wasn’t looking.  Some of the volunteers were much older than I, but many were my age.  I thought how sad it is that in our current society we become seniors, or elderly, or just plain old when we all deserve and have the responsibility to take our place as Elders.  There is much we have to share with these younger generations—things of great importance.

After the students were gone I asked some of the lingering volunteers what it felt like to be called “Elder” and to be recognized in that way.  Unanimously they agreed that it was wonderful—one woman said, “I felt so wise.”

As much as our Native communities have suffered from colonization and war, I give them much credit for not forgetting our Elders.  Becoming a respected Elder should be the golden prize of a life well lived, for the suffering we have endured, for the wisdom we have gained—and the mistakes we have made that led to such wisdom.

Today felt special.  I hope I get the chance to do many more of these collaborative projects between youth and their Elders.  Even as I sit here today I’m waiting for a call from my friend Maggie.  We are submitting a proposal to do a Youth Radio Project in northern MN.  This will give us many more opportunities to put the generations together.  The project idea has been gestating for many years, but a couple of months ago I called Maggie and told her I had been thinking about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.  She laughed—sounds heady, she said.  I told her I really want to work more with the young people.  I want to help them find place, a voice, and strength and not just be tossed to the winds of crap media and relentless desire for stuff.  This proposal is a first step.

The Bead People recently made the news in Lakeland.  I was going to add a link, but can’t seem to find it.  I’ll add it later!   Thanks Jamil!  Let’s make a little beautiful bead noise in the world.  Here is the link:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2xwGeaOCUY&feature=player_embedded  Be sure to share it with others.

Don’t worry.  Bead Happy.

Have you got yours?

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I’m a bit of a brain junky.   For years I’ve been fascinated by this gray hulk that sits inside the skull—about the size of a grapefruit—three pounds on average.  I don’t get how it works—and what happens when it doesn’t work.  Think about it.  We human beings are forced to rely on information that . . . → Read More: The Seven Magic Words]]>

I’m a bit of a brain junky.   For years I’ve been fascinated by this gray hulk that sits inside the skull—about the size of a grapefruit—three pounds on average.  I don’t get how it works—and what happens when it doesn’t work.  Think about it.  We human beings are forced to rely on information that comes in on a mere five sensory systems.  All those billions of bits of information are then funneled into the brain and the nervous system—and from there springs language, thought, art, music–and everything else.

Years ago I was teaching developmental English at Oglala Lakota College on the Pine Ridge Reservation.  I was disheartened by the challenges my students were facing.  How could they balance the tough life issues they were facing and still focus on college?  Why would they care whether a word was a real verb or  verbal, a clause dependent or independent?

A couple of years into my teaching career there I was introduced to the work of Dr. Rita Smilkstein.  Over many decades she had developed an approach to teaching that that she calls “The Natural Human Learning Process.”  She wrote a curriculum for teaching sentence structure based on the way people naturally learn.  On the surface, this seemed like a no brainer, but as I worked with her process, I was stunned by the results.  Each lesson begins by having students connect with something they already know.  They work individually, then together, then as a whole class.  The teacher does not “teach” but waits for the students to get there—in the meantime the students get it wrong, get confused, stretch a bit further, practice, etc..   Each step of learning mirrors the way the brain works, always seeking the next thing to understand.

My students started coming to class excited to learn the next step toward correct sentence grammar.  Yes, I said excited.  Attendance went up, completion of my classes doubled and then tripled.  More importantly, my students were rediscovering their own love of learning and feeling excited and capable to do more.

Rita points out that the one thing that brains—and human beings—like to do best is learn.  All kinds of crazy things happen—endorphins flow, serotonin flows, neurons grow treelike structures called dendrites which form highly complex neural.  Neurons like to talk to one another—they are social  organisms and they can’t solve the problems unless they get together.

Here is the key.   The new learning has to be just beyond the reach of the last learning.  Too much learning and the brain gets swamped and gives up.  Not enough learning and the brain gets bored and begins to yawn.  Ho Hum.

Several years ago in my graduate program I was studying the brain and came to the conclusion that the brain is like this exotic plant living like some beautiful orchid in our heads.  It needs good food, several hours of darkness (and dreaming) each night, plenty of water, and the right kind of “sunlight.”  For us, that sunlight streams in when we say the simple words, “I don’t get it.”

It can be uncomfortable to admit that we just don’t’ get it.  Somehow we think—or are told—that we should be good at something instantly or we must be “stupid.”   To avoid discomfort, too many of us stay away from new challenges, just continuing on with what we have already learned.  This leads to a kind of stale, gray depression, because in order to get the natural high that comes with natural learning, there has to be a new challenge followed by practice, making mistakes, and getting it wrong.  If we are getting it right the first time every time—the task is too easy and we aren’t really learning anything new.   Or if some know it all always steps in to tell us how or what to do, our learning is short circuited.

Rita says the seven magic words for natural learning are “See if you can figure this out.”  Oh, the brain loves that alluring invitation.  See if you can figure this out.  Learning something new is like a fascinating puzzle we want to solve.  I don’t get how this works.  What is going on?  What do I need to do next?

A great sage once said, “Never do for another what they can do for themselves.”  I take this advice seriously.  I let my children figure it out. I let my friends figure it out.  I let my own brain figure it out.

Just yesterday I was standing out in the sunshine with my ancient cement mixer.  We have been building a straw bale house for three years with a natural sand, clay plaster covering the whole thing.  My old cement mixer was groaning, squealing and coming to a sudden stop.  I was alone there with no big man to help me figure it out.   If I wanted to continue mixing without burning out the motor, I had to do something.  I went over to my brother’s metal shop and borrowed a grease gun.  Then I found a small foam brush—it was just the right size and shape to add grease to each of the teeth used to make the thing go round and round.  The grease was pink—not sure why—and very thick.  One by one I greased the gears.  Voila—my mixer thanked me and went on mixing quietly—well, as quiet as a cement mixer can be.

I had figured it out.  By myself.  It’s amazing how we can get that little high when we figure it out.  Endorphins.  Magic.  Neural networks.  I guess I am just a brain junky.  I get it.

_________________

This was my commentary for last Saturday’s Between You and Me on KAXE/KBXE.  The topic this week was to fill in the blanks on the sentence “I don’t get . . . “  I had some fun with it.  As always, be sure to subscribe by adding your email below in order to get my Monday posts (sometimes on Tuesday) each week.  I am happily mudding the interior of our house–lots of walls to cover!

Josia’s Tears

The Stone . . . → Read More: Josia’s Tears]]>  Happy May Day!  I am excited to say that my “fairy tale” is being published in a Twin Cities publication this month.  It seemed like a great story to honor the spring and our awakening earth.  Hope you enjoy it.

Josia’s Tears

The Stone People are nocturnal and wary. They live long, long lives, so long that the passing of seasons, centuries, even eons go unnoticed unless something unusual happens to disturb their peaceful natures. They measure their days by the cycles of the moon.  The full moon is their morning and the slim stick moon their night.  A month is but a day and a year a single week.  Only under the full moon are the Stone People able to release their spirits from grainy rock so they can emerge to dance and sing and share stories beneath the glowing orb.

Not in a million years did Josia expect to fall in love.  Although he is surface Stone and not one of the Elders embedded deep within the body of earth, still, he has been around for a good long while.  He remembers a time when his broad, flat surface was a place of prayer and the stony hillside a great cathedral of the night.  There was such celebration as both human and animal gathered around his Stone clan—that is until they forgot to listen.

It happened this way—the falling in love thing.

One night, during one of his long slumbers, Josia was plucked from his tribe (his spirit unaware) taken in a truck, and placed on the empty corner of a groomed human lawn to act as adornment. During the first full moon after his capture, he rose out of the stone expecting to dance and chant with his people but awoke instead to find himself alone, surrounded by concrete, and houses, and Humans.  How embarrassing, how undignified to discover he had been taken captive in this way.

This busy corner was not a place of sacredness, not like the old days when he had patiently accepted the tears and pleas of the people who honored him. No, these Humans ignored him except when they walked by, tethered to barking dogs who performed the most unnatural acts against his base.

He would have died but, in truth, Stone People never actually die. Each grain of their dense bodies is imbued with the essence of life and so, even should the stone be shattered or turned to sand, each particle lives on.  Josia wouldn’t have minded becoming a beach, but this—this was a fate worse than death.  How could he bear such loneliness?  He would have withdrawn completely except for the Children—the little ones.  They, at least, had always revered his tribe and had not lost their ability to hear the murmuring and song deep beneath the surface of the land.

Now, Josia had always been a mindful Stone, and he knew it would do no good to bemoan his fate.  Beneath each full moon he still took the release afforded him and wandered the neighborhood.  Stone People are especially sensitive to the energy and vibration of all around them, and so it was during this nocturnal roaming that Josia forgot his own deep loneliness and tuned in to the wider energies of the night.  He stopped before each home on the street to sense the Human’s who lived within. The experience shocked him.  What he saw and felt hurt him deeply. These loosely held Human spirits were more frightened and alone, more desperate than he. The Humans wept. They wept for their Children. They wept for their Old Ones. They wept for their own sad spirits. Their cries nearly overwhelmed Josia.

What had befallen these poor Humans since the centuries long ago when he had received both their tears and their prayers and songs, taking their burdens onto his own back?  With the question came the answer.  His human brothers and sisters had lost their ability to listen to the earth, to the Old Ones embedded deepwithin.

Josia had a plan.  He decided to attempt to communicate with just one of those desperate Human beings.  Just one.  If even one could remember to press his or her ears again to the Earth, perhaps others would remember.

He decided to focus his attention on the daughter of the house in whose yard he had been planted.  Her name was Selena.  He already had a connection of sorts because the young woman had claimed his surface as her prayer perch. Over the past many days he had felt her tears and appreciated them. She came almost nightly (according to her calendar) to sit and look out across the world, asking questions and scanning the sky for answers.

It was a simple plan, really.  On the first full moon he waited for Selena.  When she arrived, he felt her weight, tested her presence, searched her heart to measure its sincerity, its integrity, and decided yes, she was the one he would approach.

Josia felt the grainy solidity of his body loosen and release him.  He began a slow, low hum—Remember me. Remember me. It was not very sophisticated, but then he was a Stone, not smooth with the Human ways.  Remember me, he chanted.

He sought the help of the Old Ones, the embedded relatives below him, and was pleased when they joined his chant, Remember me.   Josia was pleased when the young woman placed her hands palm down on his back and listened quietly.  He felt he had made some progress, that she had heard his chant.

Rather than retreat back into slumber when the full moon had passed, Josia forced himself to stay conscious and continued his efforts during each of her nightly visits.  It cost him a great deal to not retreat into his own deep communion, but he was patient and somehow sensed it was the right thing.

Then, one night just before the full moon, Josia got a bit of a jolt.  Selena had arrived to sit on what she had come to call “her stone” when, suddenly, Josia felt her thoughts join his and she began chanting, Remember me, remember me.  The next night she came again, but this time she did not repeat their chant, but hummed words softly to herself.  “Come to me.  Come to me,” she sang. 

Josia experienced a profound confusion. It had been so long since a Human had bid him to come, he’d nearly forgotten one of the fundamental laws of his people. When called by one pure of heart—he must respond.

Selena sang again. “Come to me.”

With great effort, he materialized from the dense energy of stone, pulled his particles together, and emerged, taking a shadowy form.  Josia did not mean to deceive poor Selena, but hHis loose particles just naturally arranged themselves into a configuration that she would recognize—that of a young, male Human. The smile on her beautiful face was worth the intense effort it had cost him.

Josia had existed for so long, beyond memory really, that he did not at all expect to feel this sparkle and flash again. Alas, he was in love, instantly, with the pale, moon-kissed Human sitting on his Stone back.

And alas, Selena fell instantly in love with Josia.

This was not a romance destined to progress.  After all, he was of the Stone clan and she was Human.  Still, the energy between them was strong.  Selena yearned for his strength, his long-enduring qualities, his ability to carry any burden with ease; and Josia could scarcely resist the light-infused quickness of her form, the pulse of her warm blood pumping through her equally warm heart.

In the months and years to follow (on the human calendar) the love between Josia and Selena grew.  Josia no longer seemed to need the long slumber between full moons, and Selena spent each night planted on his stony form while fully entranced with his spirit form.

What a love they shared.  Josia told Selena all he had learned from the embedded Old Ones.  Selena told Josia of all the light, bright things of her fleeting Human life. He could hardly fathom that of which she spoke—a world of colors, alluring scents, and flickering emotion. The two lovers could scarcely wait for the sun to drop low in the violet sky and disappear so they could continue such exchanges.

At last, the lovers came to the same conclusion at the same time. They realized their love was an echo of their two worlds—that Stone needed Human love, and Human needed Stone love.  How they laughed together when they discovered this oh-so-simple truth.  And they felt the humming amusement rumble up from deep within the Earth as the Old Ones shared their amusement and insight.

“So what shall we do here?” Selena wondered aloud one night.

Josia couldn’t answer her.  It was only her pure heart and sincere plaint that had enabled her to see him in the first place. Neither Stone nor girl knew how they could go about sharing their simple love with others.

And then, disaster.

One full moon night Josia emerged to find no girl perched, palms down and singing, on his dense stone body.  He waited.  And waited.

He waited until the birds awoke in the trees, until the moon faded, until the first light touched the sky. When at last he reemerged into his Stone body once again, he knew.  Selena would come no more.  The Old Ones below spoke it.  The weeping hearts in the home in whose yard he sat spoke it.

Selena had given up her human body and her spirit gone to distant realms.  She was now beyond even his reach.

Josia, the Stone, wept.  He wept for the loss of Selena, his love, and he wept for the broken hearts of her family.  He wept for the lost chance for Stone and Human to meet and share so great a love as they had shared.

Josia was not aware of it, so lost in grief was he, but the weeping stone was causing quite a commotion in the neighborhood. The Children noticed it first—a stone wet and seeping beneath a clear shimmering (and very dry) sky?   They gathered other Children to come and see.  Arriving in twos and threes, the children held hands and watched the weeping stone.  For some reason, the sight of it brought tears to their eyes. One small brave Child, moved by inner impulse, leaned over and licked Josia’s tears—and tasted salt.

The Children told their parents about the Stone that Weeps.  One by one, the Human parents crept out from their cubicles and came to inspect. They found no source for the waters seeping from the stone.

From all over the neighborhood and surrounding area, the Human families gathered to see the Weeping Stone. On one of these days, a father, one pure of heart, whispered the words aloud, “A miracle.”

Disbelievers and Scientists came to inspect the tears but found no source for the water seeping from the stone. The holy men and the innocent ones came and added their tears to the surface of the Weeping Stone. Birds and small animals, wiser in their ways, came to drink the waters and to bathe in Josia’s tears.

Josia again remembered the long ago tears he had received from those who knew to call his name.  And as more and more came and prayed and wept and sent their prayers into the earth where the Old Ones could hear and respond—he at last understood.

Selena had left her body behind and traveled so others would come. He could hear her sweet voice whispering, “Weep for me, Josia.  Weep for all who can’t remember the love between Stone and Human. Help them remember, Josia.”

Yes, his clever girl had found a way to make their great love alive in the world once again.  And so Josia wept his tears, and the people came and they wept with him.

And they remembered.
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Yesterday was melt-down day.  I had done a workshop the day before but it was a fun, relaxed day and there should have been no reason for me to be so exhausted.  I nodded off through the day, took a nap at 7:30 pm and woke up at 8:30 am.  What I realized was . . . → Read More: When Darkness Falls . . . pay attention]]>

Yesterday was melt-down day.  I had done a workshop the day before but it was a fun, relaxed day and there should have been no reason for me to be so exhausted.  I nodded off through the day, took a nap at 7:30 pm and woke up at 8:30 am.  What I realized was that my body was sending me a message to take it easy, chunk down the size of my current project, breathe, take a bath.  Relax.

The mind can take the most perfect day and turn it into a six-month overwhelm.  More and more I realize the need to monitor the activities of my own brain.  And not just the brain—but my own body.

If body and mind are having a big discussion (argument?) about how much it is possible for me to get done—I need to be in on the conversation.  If I were a magician I could just wink or wave my hands a few times and all would be accomplished.  Life is magic—but I am no magician.

I also realized that part of my exhaustion was that most of the work on my table has to do with helping other people to realize their dreams.  A woman wants another book, the kids want a radio show, Milt wants to finish two big projects without losing his own soul.

Me?   I want a new addition to our house, a healthy beautiful garden, a new jazzy project of my own.

Me on the inside?

I want to find my way back to writing my own fiction.  Maybe that was the cause of the melt-down.  The workshop was a writing workshop.  I spent the day telling others of my love for writing, the play of words on paper, the magical realm of ideas and characters.  On the way home I fought to stay awake.  The next day I fought my exhaustion.  I think I was grieving.  Today, I realize that it is one thing to tell others how to trip the light fantastic, and another thing to deny that to your own self.

Timeline.

My solution to this kind of problem is to stretch my timeline out.  The addition to the house (or completion of the existing one) does not have to happen by July 4^th.  I will have fun planting the garden—in June.  OPP (other people’s projects) will all happen in a timely way.  I don’t have to carry the burden of that.

A good friend of mine, (with a sassy sense of humor) once said in a meeting we were at that she had been “hanging and bleeding” for too long.  This idea of being a victim to our own creative energy is a silly thing.  I loved her expression and it pops into my mind when my wily mind wants to get too cranked up about stuff.

So, my goal is to stay in my moment, act in the moment, enjoy the moment.

How about you?

I also want to tell all of you who checked in to let me know that my subscriber dealy thing-a-ma-bob was finally working.  The cool part was that I figured it out alone, a techy no-mind wandering in the dark and lonely despair of cyberspace.  The creator is so good to me.  If you enjoy my weekly posts, please pass them on to others who may enjoy them.  You can subscribe by adding your email to the box below or in the upper right hand corner.

In 9th grade Marge Engebretson was my English teacher at Cass Lake High School. My family had just moved there from the Iron Range the year before, and I was feeling more than a little lost.  Marge was a lovely woman who spoke with a slight German accent.  Her family had immigrated when she . . . → Read More: Three Gates of Gold]]>

In 9^th grade Marge Engebretson was my English teacher at Cass Lake High School. My family had just moved there from the Iron Range the year before, and I was feeling more than a little lost.  Marge was a lovely woman who spoke with a slight German accent.  Her family had immigrated when she was small—I loved the sound of her voice.  It is so amazing how much one great teacher can do for a single student.

One assigment Marge gave us was to make a list of all the books we had read.  I don’t think I realized that not everybody was hooked on books the way I was.  The assignment seemed impossible—there was no way I could remember all the books I’d read let alone make a list.  I had always been a reader—but with just a little encouragement and direction—Marge helped me to become a writer as well.

I still have some of the papers and assignments I did for Marge—for some reason I’ve kept them for nearly forty years even when getting rid of stuff became a major priority.  One of was is a Poetry booklet.  We were to choose and comment on poems that were meaningful for us.  I can see the 9^th grader that I was in this booklet—the cover has a giant pink flower in the corner, a peace sign, a heart created from the word “love” and the symbol for woman.  But more interesting is that when I read the poems I chose back then, I can also see the 58 year old woman that I have become.  Let me share a few verses of them with you.  The first is called Three Gates and the author says “From the Arabian”

     If you are tempted to reveal

     A tale to you someone has told

     About another, make it pass

     Before you speak, three gates of gold.

     These narrow gates:  First, “Is it true?”

     Then, Is it needful?” In your mind

     Give truthful answer.  And the next

     Is last and narrowest, “Is it kind?”

      And if to reach your lips at last
It passes through these gateways three,

     Then you may tell the tale, nor fear,

     What the result of speech may be. 

 Here is the first verse of another poem called “Tell Him So”.  It says “Author Unknown”

     If you hear a kind word spoken

     Of some worthy soul you know

     It may fill his heart with sunshine

     If you only tell him so. 

Many of these verses have become a spiritual practice over my adult life.  I find that fascinating.  Did they pick me—or did I pick them?   This one is called “The Pessimist” by a poet named Ben King.  I get a kick out of it still and think it reflects the darker side of my nature way back then.

Nothing to do but worry,

     Nothing to eat but food,

     Nothing to wear but clothes

     To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air,

     Quick as a flash tis gone:

      Nowhere to fall but off,

      Nowhere to stand but on.

It goes on for four more verses.  My comment typed in red ink below says,  “this poem is so skippy and catchy that it is likely to stick in your mind for years.”  This next little poem (also author unknown) I seemed to have taken as a mantra throughout my life.

Life will hand Mary

     No harder task

     Than to know the right answer,

     And have no one ask.

My comment below the poem says, “the author was ridiculing man’s need to be praised,”   Today I have a different take on the meaning.  Now I think of how many times I have had creative ideas and solutions for friends, family, clients and have “no one ask” me for those ideas.

This next one still guides me today.  It is by Langston Hughes.  The first verse says

Hold fast to dreams

     For if dreams die

     Life is a broken-winged bird

     That cannot fly.

 Each one of these poems has real meaning for me today.  Each selection mirrors a part of my soul—then—and now.  On reflection, I can see that the words we choose—and the words we use—really do shape us.   This next one is a great mantra for all of us.  It makes me think of my father for some reason—it must have been his mantra, too.  Again, it says author unknown.

If you’ve got a job to do,  do it now.

     If It’s one you wish were through, do it now.

      If you’re sure the jobs your own

      Do not hem and haw and groan—do it now.

      Don’t put off a bit of work, do it now.

      It doesn’t pay to shirk—do it now.

     If you want to fill a place

     And be useful to the race,

     Just get up and take a brace

     Do it now.

      Don’t linger by the way,

      do it now.

     You’ll lose if you delay,

     do it now.

 Finally, this one seems to show my ongoing love affair with nature and her many gifts.  It is called Rain, by Jean Little.

Rain is as mischief-making as a child.

     She pokes the thunder’s ribs until he roars

     She sits on steepled roofs and thrums her heels

     And tickles grass and taps at solemn doors.

     She dampens dignitaries and their wives,

      Pains saucy freckle-face on the roads,

     Makes mud puddles and rainbows; and then gets down

     To scrub the tiny blissful backs of toads.

What words have shaped your life?  What poems or sayings have guided your path?  I’d like to hear about them.

A bit of housekeeping.  A lot of you who used to get my posts (from having subscribed) are telling me they are no longer coming.  I’m trying to solve the problem, so if you get this far, leave a short comment or email me to let me know you are getting the weekly posts.

Also, the first version of this post was written as a commentary for KAXE/KBXE radio.  If you would like to hear it, visit Between You and Me on the station website.  (It may take a week or so to get the show up on the air.) I’d also like to congratulate KBXE for being the midwife to a brand new station serving Bemidji, MN and surrounding area.  They worked so hard to get there and now I click on my radio and hear wonderful programming.  Well done!!

I tried to go back to my Why War series but it just seemed too heady for my mood tonight.  Part of me feels like the sun is bright above my head, but clouds hover on many horizons.  It is so difficult to watch the people you love go through difficult times.  I so . . . → Read More: Keystone Habits and Garden Fever]]>

I tried to go back to my Why War series but it just seemed too heady for my mood tonight.  Part of me feels like the sun is bright above my head, but clouds hover on many horizons.  It is so difficult to watch the people you love go through difficult times.  I so want a magic wand that could just wave it all away for them, but it simply doesn’t work that way.  For some reason, even someone like me who is highly trained and loves to solve problems with people just can’t seem to make it all better for them.  Money, career, love, direction, relationships, parenting, being a kid—my horizon is full right now.  Life is a demanding teacher.

Most of the problems we all suffer from are the result of our own bad habits of thought and behavior—usually sprouted from the garden of our own needs.

We’re all just trying to feel good

Maybe the key is to not make this all too complicated.   Milt just finished a good book called “The Power of Habit” by Charles Duhigg.  He says that we all have “keystone” habits that spread out (like crabgrass) throughout our lives.  If we can discover what one of these keystone habits and make a tiny change in it, the change will also spread throughout our lives.  Just do one thing different.

For instance, I’ve been replacing my habit of drinking coffee at 9:00 at night with drinking herbal tea.  It doesn’t sound like much, but I’m discovering that I sleep better, wake up a little less sleepy, and have more energy.  How can those three things begin to shift and change other things in my life?  I guess I’ll find out.  Milt has been working on creating a new habit for keeping things tidy and letting the pleasure of that be its own reward.  I’m loving that one and it is really starting to take root.

You can tell I have a bad case of garden fever—too many metaphors.

Last week we drove up to Grand Marais to do some training with a great group or radio station volunteers and staff.  We spent the weekend creating, exploring voice and story, trying to find the gem of our own ideas.  I was on a high—working with people in a creative way.  When we got back we went the next day and began building our wood shed—four big poles, a shed roof, bales all around.  Between the work out my mind got, followed by the work out my body got—I felt pretty good.

I just finished a fairly work-intensive project of writing viewer’s guides for several native films that are coming out.  It was a fun project.  In one film an elder Houma woman said, “When you don’t know what to do—do what you know. “

Here are the key ideas in all that jibble jabble I just wrote.

1. Find a keystone habit and make one small change.
2. Work out both your body and your mind with creative projects.
3. When you don’t know what to do—do what you know.

I love the last one.  When my mind gets overwhelmed, I get moving and do what I know how to do.

I hope that you are all enjoying this beautiful spring.  I just realized today that we are actually connecting to our land and house two months earlier than we have ever been able to—another benefit to having our small apartment in Bemidji.  It is getting harder and harder to leave Two Poles each day though.  I’m in love!  Be sure to sign up to get my weekly post.  Just put your email in the box below.

I was on a path to do a four part series on “why war,” but then spring happened, and I was taken by the wind. Last Wednesday I finished a big project and decided to give myself full permission to go over to our land and putz around. I screened clay, dug weeds, lit . . . → Read More: Making love . . . a daily practice]]>

I was on a path to do a four part series on “why war,” but then spring happened, and I was taken by the wind. Last Wednesday I finished a big project and decided to give myself full permission to go over to our land and putz around. I screened clay, dug weeds, lit a fire in the house, and detrashed the yard. If peace is the opposite of war, then I was in a peace zone.

On Friday my sister and her husband arrived for a visit. They live in Pennsylvania so we don’t see them all that often. Suddenly my perfect peaceful world was made even richer with family.  After our winter hibernation a couple dozen brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, siblings and in-laws crawled out of their winter dens and we had parties—a fish fry, a taco party, a pool party. One night we were all around the table at my brother’s and Milt said, “Look, six of you are here.” We have eight siblings in our family and six of us were around the table. (The picture above is the six–two brothers are missing from the picture. I am third from left in the blue vest.)

Two things made this gathering particularly special to me. One of our clan is facing a serious battle with cancer—the outcome uncertain. And the second was that there were two newborns in our midst. Two of my nephews have become fathers in the past two months. We rallied around both the one fighting for his life—and the ones newly entering it. It reminded me again of that amazing generational flow of life over thousands of years—and our singular place within the greater flow.

If I could wish anything for the many troubled people I’ve worked with, it would be a family like mine. We are so imperfect and so flawed and so twisty at times–and yet when we gather, all of the imperfections are lost in the polish of love. We are polished by our feelings for one another. Somehow as a whole we are stronger and better than any one of us could be individually. We are a touchy family so we hug and kiss and hold hands. This is the cleansing wind of love.

The other day Milt sent me an article from the New York Times, a woman talking about love and brain development. Did you know that love and cocaine have the same effect on the brain? I smile as I write that. It sounds crazy, but love makes us high. Love also lowers blood pressure, makes us feel safe, and even makes the brain cells continue to grow and stretch. The good news in the article is that the brain is a resilient and growing structure—it is never too late to find and nourish love. It doesn’t matter if we didn’t “get enough” as we were growing up. We can do it now. The other good news is that love is not a noun—it is a verb, an action we do that brings a certain response. We can even “practice” love by gentling our vocal tones, smoothing our thoughts, using our bodies and our touch. And we can practice not only with others but with our own inner self.

I’m rambling now, but then I am in love. Over the past week I made love to my land, my house, my family, my husband. I’m trying to figure out how to make love to a lot of other people and places. I guess I would rather make love than war.

So, make love. Look around—there are infinite possibilities for making love. Infinite.

I’ll attach a link to that article—pretty good.

http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/03/24/the-brain-on-love/?hp#

And also, I’m still struggling with why some of you who have subscribed don’t seem to be getting my weekly article. If you got this, do me a favor and just leave a comment that says “got it” or something. Or if you want to subscribe, just add your email to the box below. Happy Spring!

Last night as I lay in bed drifting off to sleep my mind continued to hum, keeping rhythm with the vaporizer pumping moisture into the dry air.  I was thinking about war.  I know that sounds like such an odd lullaby.  I was thinking specifically about what causes war, whether waged between nations, or . . . → Read More: Why War? part one]]>

Last night as I lay in bed drifting off to sleep my mind continued to hum, keeping rhythm with the vaporizer pumping moisture into the dry air.  I was thinking about war.  I know that sounds like such an odd lullaby.  I was thinking specifically about what causes war, whether waged between nations, or between siblings or between children in middle school.

Four words formed in my mind and kept running through slowly like a mantra; greed, creed, need, and unresolved grief.  I tried moving them around, changing the order to see if there was an order.  I discovered there was, and it began with need.

We need.  Human beings have basic needs for food shelter, clean air and water, and then we have emotional need to be loved, recognized, to belong, to feel a part of.  And then we have more esoteric or spiritual needs like the need for purpose, understanding, knowledge, the need to learn and discover.

I remember Maslow’s hierarchy and all of my own puzzle play with the jigsaw of human needs.  Initially, from studying Maslow and others, I visualized these needs as a staircase to heaven–fill the belly, fill the heart, fill the spirit.  Then one time I read somewhere (sadly I can’t remember where—I think it was Rollo May) that just because a person is hungry, it doesn’t mean that he or she does not have vision or reach.

Later, I spent years considering Joseph Chilton Pearce’s tight focus on the need for mother/infant bonding.  He drew an interesting matrix of triangles, one embedded into another with the inner triangle being the bond between infant and mother and moving outward from there–infant to father and family, to community, to country, to world, to universe or spirit.

It is such a simple diagram, but Pearce said that all the outer triangles depend upon successful bonding of the one just before it.  If the infant fails to bond with mother, it weakens or distorts all future bonding.  I hated this premise when I read it and still hate it today, but my heart fears it is true.  Pearce wrote of the way an unbonded child (read—essential need unmet) will begin immediately to “attach” to stuff like a blanket, a pacifier, a toy, a certain corner of the room.  Is this the headwaters of need, the place where need becomes greed?

Now, skip ahead and put the unbonded child at the head of a nation, a corporation, or an army.  Need leads to greed.  It is a much simplified picture, but if we are to understand war itself, somehow we have to find its most simple essence.

Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t write too much in a blog post—that I will tax your time and patience, but the result (for me) is feeling like I don’t dive into the depths of what I want to say, that I skim the surface looking for the quick bites.  This sounds like a fishing metaphor—or a lake metaphor.  I want the deepest part of the sea.  I want to see where dark shapes move and thin quick things slither by almost unnoticed.  And I want readers who are willing to dive with me.  This is the first of four posts.  I plan to explore the four words (one phrase) more deeply.

On a practical level—what do you need?  What needs are going unmet?  Do you feel safe?  Do you feel cherished?  Do you feel that you have a voice, a bit of power, the opportunity to explore and discover beyond this moment?  It is our human nature that these needs change every day, so we have to ask the question again and again.  How am I doing today?  What do I need?  Be assured—it is not more stuff. Let me hear how you are doing. Leave a comment or subscribe to my weekly (mostly) posts by adding an email address below.