Isak Dinesen Quotes - Standing Rock Edition

Isak Dinesen (the writer) has some great quotes.

• The cure for anything is salt water — sweat, tears, or the sea.
• God made the world round so we would never be able to see too far down the road.
• Through all the world there goes one long cry from the heart of the artist: Give me leave to do my utmost.

I love these pearls, and perhaps they apply to the family's holiday trek. But my favorite is a Dinesen quote that she never actually said or wrote:

• All sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them.

This is not to say that I am a "man of constant sorrow", but rather I find that stories help me distill meaning from events both mundane and sublime.

On the way to Standing Rock, we took a detour to Wounded Knee. Wounded Knee is a massacre site. On December 29, 1890 a large group of Ghost Dancers were surrounded by the 7th Calvary. Ghost Dancers believed their worship and dance would bring back the buffalo and those who had gone beyond the ridge. 

The 7th Calvary demanded these dancers (mostly old men, women, and children) surrender their weapons. In the confusion a single shot rang out. The origin of this shot was never firmly established. The consequences of this shot, however, cry out from the red earth beneath the snow.

One hundred and forty six members of Big Foot's band fell to the Army's Hotchkiss guns.

We met four groups of people as we explored the the massacre site and prayed on the hill above, and so begins my parable.

The first we met was a single man. He walked halfway up the snowy hill to meet us. He told us he lived nearby. His truck needed gas. His home needed weathering. The people visiting this memorial were his family's main source of income. My son, Mason, gave him some cash.

The next two we met were a mother and daughter. As we descended the hill, they met us in their pickup truck. They had jewelry to sell. My daughter, Bobo, bought a necklace.

The third group we met was a family that spoke to my children. 

"What did they say," I asked my girls.

"They were making sure we were ok," Bobo responded. "They wanted to make sure we weren't out of gas and that we had what we needed."

Bright and early on winter-crisp Tuesday morning, Wounded Knee was beginning to buzz with activity. The fourth couple that passed us, stopped to ask it the Dakota 38 + 2 riders were arriving that day. These riders travel on horseback through Mankota MN on December 26th to honor those 38 Dakota executed that day in 1862. On December 29th the riders arrive at Wounded Knee to mark the anniversary of those deaths. I let this couple know that the anniversary was still a couple of days away.

As I reflect back on our journey, I realize it was more about people than places. And people are people. Sometimes we struggle to survive. Other times we are able to reach out and ease our brothers burdens. Still other times we are able to lean back and enjoy the ride.

My son, Mason, has a solo project in which he performs under the name Wounded Knee. I filmed him singing Buffy St. Marie's song, "Wounded Knee" in the snow at Wounded Knee. At the same time, my daughter Judea was taking still photography. At a certain point this video turns into a visual essay on short people problems.

We Hold onto People Not Things - Standing Rock Edition

Growing up, you hold onto the things you love most, but sometimes you forget. You forget the things you love most, but that keeps you in line. It keeps you in check

When I was little, my mother made me a buckskin doll. It was made of fine buckskin -- hand tanned buckskin. The dress she wore was also of buckskin and was beautifully beaded. One day when I was playing with her, I decided to make her a new dress. The new dress didn't work out. I didn't put the original dress immediately back on the doll... In fact, I lost the beautifully beaded dress. That broke my tiny heart.

After a while, my mother took pity on me and made me a new, even finer dress for my buckskin doll. And I made the tiny doll a cradle board and baby out of leftover hand tanned buckskin, buffalo wool, and trade cloth. This was the first doll I ever made. I've made many since - but I no longer have hand tanned buckskin, buffalo wool or trade cloth. I use commercial buckskin and store bought fabric.

Fast forward to today. I was too lazy to look under the hotel bed before we left Nebraska and I left this doll's tiny baby behind. We called the hotel, but the doll is lost. I felt my heart break again, but this time I know - I can make another doll. I can make a tiny baby even better than the one I'd made before.

Just like in the story of the Dun Pony, each horse Dirty Belly got after the Dun Pony was finer than the last. Sometimes in order to move forward, we have to let go of the past.

-- Guest Blogger, Naji Haska Oha Iyage
#DokshaStandingRock

It's All I've Ever Wanted - Standing Rock Edition

We are on the road, and I am filled with gratitude.

I am thankful for my family - extended, by blood, by friendship, and by progeny. These are the people in my life who make me a better me. I want to thank Joy, Merilee, Sharon, Jill, Gary, Beau and Miki, Katie, Britt, and Amanda and Nolan. I want to thank everyone who has written us words of encouragement and hope.

Today we started with Sunrise in Utah

We had Sunset in Wyoming

It was well after dark before we made it to our stop in Chadron, Nebraska. Siri (in her best English Accent) estimated our trip at 9 hours. With a 45 minute lunch break, we made it in 12. 

When I first proposed #DokshaStandingRock to my family as an alternative to Christmas, my youngest had "reservations". He could do without the Christmas gifts, but what would he say at school when asked, "What did you get for Christmas?" And worse yet, what if he were asked to write an essay on what he got for Christmas? 

My response was, "You'll be able to write the best essay ever!" He didn't seem satisfied with that answer. so I acknowledged that our #DokshaStandingRock plan was not in the realm of normal, "But," I said, "Do you want to be like everyone else?"

His voice was soft, but sure, "It's all I've ever wanted."

Despite his common middle school complaint, he took the road less traveled with his family. Some of this road's conditions were sketchy. The worst was Wyoming Highway 20. The road had snow pack and ice. And to make it even more of a challenge, the blowing snow took visibility down to zero in places. 

I was riding with my eldest son and his wife as we ironically passed Martin Cove and crossed over the Sweetwater river.  The irony being, we would have stopped it the wind hadn't been so biting cold. (For those who don't know the tale, the Martin Handcart Company was holed up in that cove for five days trying to wait out an early October blizzard. This was after they were soaked from crossing the Sweetwater river.) My daughter in law told me the story of three young men who died carrying pioneers across that river. Her story reminded me of a folk song written around that time involving men from Sanpete County (my parents hail from there).

Today is December 26, 2016. I am remembering the past. I am thinking of the Dakota 38 who were executed on this day in 1856 in Mankota, MN for protecting their homeland. I am remembering Big Foot's Band at Wounded Knee and the massacre of old men, women and children on December 29, 1890. I am remembering those who lost their lives crossing the great plains because the First Amendment protection of religious freedom did not apply to them. Remembering these things does not make me anti-American. 

It makes me a better American. It helps me understand who I am, what I have come from, and where I am going. It helps me understand that as America listens to the voice of those who have gone before -- as remembered by those who remain, she will gain strength in her honesty.

On a trip like this, it is the simple things like complimentary water and free public bathrooms that remind me how grateful I am for America and how my hopes and desires are wrapped up in her future.

A Delight Song For Naji Haska Oha Iyage

He is
A shimmer of water on a cold mountain stream

The golden leaf of winter refusing to fall
A sunburst of light through dark thunderous clouds

A flat pebble skipping, skipping, skipping 'cross
the still mountain lake
The red earth drenched in a rare summer's rain
A breeze of sweet grass blowing in from the east
The greasy yellow of pony beads, the cheyenne pink of shells
A shaking of bells and twirling of shawls
The crackle and leaping of a flame from a fire
A plume of smoke curling upward from sage
He is the searching, searching, searching of
the skyward eagle's eye
The watery path of a loon lit by the sun
A mountain in the north, snow capped and tall
A quaking aspen in a forest of lodge pole pine
He is a dream and a waking a future and a past

You see, he is a son and a brother, an anchor to his kin
He stands tall in his spirit
He stands tall in his pride
He stands tall with his family
He stands tall in his life
You see, He is a son and a brother, an anchor to his kin


Happy Birthday Naji! (Nope, you're not even half-way done)

The Chipmunk's Tail - Standing Rock Edition

"He had laughed at that and said he wished he, too, had a tail. His mother had said, "When you are a man you will have a tail, though you will never see it. You will have something always behind you."

Now he understood. Now he knew that time lays scars on a man like the chipmunk's stripes, paths that lead from where he is now back to where he came from, from the eyes of his knowing to the tail of his remembering. They are the ties that bind a man to his own being, his small part of the roundness. (When the Legends Die)

Not all memory is personal. N. Scott Momaday wrote an essay, "Man Made of Words." In it he discusses racial memory.

And in the racial memory, Ko-sahn had seen the falling stars. For her there was no distinction between the individual and the racial experience, even as there was none between the mythical and the historical. Both were realized for her in the one memory, and that was of the land. This landscape, in which she had lived for a hundred years, was the common denominator of everything that she knew and would ever know -- 

and her knowledge was profound. Her roots ran deep into the earth, and from those depths she drew strength enough to hold still against all the forces of chance and disorder.

Three of my seven children have never lived on the Fort Peck reservation. Three of my seven have never roamed their ancestral lands. And yet, even far away from culture and influence, their tails lead back to where they came from.

My youngest walks backward through life, like a heyoka. He studies old family photos of his siblings at powwows. "Whatever happened to that beadwork, that fan, that shawl, that necklace?" He creates items to replace those that were lost. He repairs regalia that is way past its prime.

His siblings bristle at his questions and tell him he doesn't know. He wasn't there. He missed out on so much. But he is not alone in his looking back.

We have all missed out on so much.

The tail of our remembering leads us back through our relations. Turnip Digger, Lodge Pole, Duck Head Necklace, Walking Cyclone, Gray Face Woman and her brother Crazy Bear.

All of these lived, loved, created -- prayed, always in the hope of a better life for their young ones.

We are not solely tail, we have eyes as well. Balanced, grounded by our remembering, we focus the eyes of our knowing.

Mato Witko, Crazy Bear, my kids grandfather, became head chief after the Gauche -- He Who Holds the Knife. Crazy Bear was not of the Gens du Gauche. He was a member of the smallest band, the Gens des Jeunes Filles.  The Nakoda Nation (Assiniboine) was asked to send representatives to the signing of the 1851 Fort Laramie treaty.

The treaty signing was to be held in Sioux territory. The Sioux and the Assiniboine were warring tribes. In between Fort Union and the Sioux lands were marauding bands of Blackfeet. Any Assiniboine traveling alone would be killed. No one would go.

Crazy Bear determined that he would go alone. Soon he was accompanied by warriors who vowed to follow their chief even to certain death.

They rode to Fort Laramie. Crazy Bear signed the treaty which promised land and goods and services for his people. He and his party returned home in safety.

Things had not gone well in their absence. The Blackfeet killed Crazy Bear's son. Crazy Bear's wife, in her grief, hung herself. Crazy Bear mourned, but he stayed tethered to this earth and raised his granddaughter, Sweet Grass.

The government did not keep its promises. No goods came. Crazy Bear's people were hungry and angry.

Crazy Bear looked forward in hope. He held his people to the promises they had made. When the government goods finally arrived, six months late, the tribe rejoiced and again praised Crazy Bear.

In two weeks, our family will travel the lands Crazy Bear traveled. My youngest will be with us. As we entrench ourselves in racial memory, we will also create personal memory. We go to ground ourselves in the past and pray for the future.

Like the chipmunk's stripes, we have paths that lead from where we are now back to where we came from, from the eyes of our knowing to the tail of our remembering.

In this way, we are a small part of the roundness.

#MendTheHoop #DokshaStandingRock

He Who Holds the Knife - Standing Rock Edition

The Assiniboine had a head chief by the name of He Who Holds the Knife. He was also called Left Hand or the Gauche. He Who Holds the Knife held much medicine. He knew when people were going to die. He knew when he was going to die. He was wica wakan, and he led his people in battle. Because he knew the hour of his death, he did not fear going into battle. In battle his only weapon was his medicine drum. When he beat his drum and sang, his people were victorious.

Edward Denig, the colonial in charge of Fort Union, wrote that the Gauche must have acquired poison from some white man. Denig claimed that the Gauche could predict death because he himself administered the poison - even to himself. In Denig's book Five Tribes of the Upper Missouri, Denig describes Left Hand as an "arrant coward" who sang while his warriors fought. But there was much Denig could not explain away.

How did He Who Holds the Knife always know exactly where the enemy was camped? How did He Who Holds the Knife survive small pox and so many battles? What about the battle where a great fog rolled in hiding the Assiniboine from the Gros Ventre? The Assiniboine warriors were separated one from another, and when the fog cleared, they found their chief wrestling on the ground with an enemy warrior. In the chief's hand was the Gros Ventre warrior's knife. That is how he came to be known as He Who Holds the Knife.

"Who lives, who dies, who tells your story." This is a lyric from the musical Hamilton. Nowhere is this more true than for Indigenous Americans. But spirituality is spirituality is spirituality is spirituality is spirituality (ok, that doesn't have the same ring as "love is love is love is love."). God, the creator, the higher power does not bless one people and leave everyone else on their own. Gifts of the spirit are available to all.

I believe in the power of prayer. I have felt its healing influence in my life. We go to Standing Rock to pray. We join our prayers to those of ten thousand more. We will pray for the earth. We will pray for the water protectors. We will pray for this nation. And selfishly we will pray for ourselves -- to be a little stronger, to be a little more serviceable, to be better citizens of Turtle Island.

#dokshaStandingRock

Battle Hymn of the Sea Otter Mom

Some years ago, I watched a documentary on Netflix. I don't really care for documentaries, and I don't spend a lot of my time in front of the TV anymore. But there I was, watching a documentary on sea otters with my family. The documentary focused on a young female sea otter about to have her first pup.

She gave birth on a pier amongst some ropes and nets. Volunteers stood guard, keeping tourists and locals a safe distance away from the pair. The documentarians then detailed how the mother taught her pup to wrap herself up in seaweed so as to not float away, how to hit shells on the hulls of boats to break them (the shells) open, and how to find shell fish under the pier. It was interesting to see the mother adapt her training to urbanization.

Suddenly, in a M. Night Shyamalan turn of events, the mother was gone. The narrator told us she had been killed by an aggressive male otter! The baby sea otter was on her own. The narrator asked, "Did this baby sea otter's mother, in three short months, have enough time to teach her baby what she needs to know in order to survive?"

The documentary had our full attention as we rooted for this little otter.

Full disclosure: I cried. I looked at my children and cried. I'd been their mother for much, much, much longer than three months - but have I taught them enough?

As a young mother I spent too much time teaching them what not to do -
Don't pick your nose
Don't touch that
Don't ask so many questions
Don't do anything risky
Don't expect too much and you won't get disappointed

Child number four opened my eyes.

He insisted on taking risks - and his crazy risks were rewarded with success and opportunity. He opened our family up to yes, to dreams, and to hope. By eight he was somersaulting out of the big bowl at the skate park. By seventeen he was off touring Europe with the high school band. Since then, his brother has lived abroad. His sister has toured Europe, I've traveled overseas. And four of my kids took took a crazy trip to New York to see Hamilton on Broadway. My default answer is no longer "no" but "how". This has been a better way to raise my kids.

My kids are now mostly grown, but I look at them and know that there is so much more I can teach them. I can teach them to serve others, to be aware of the world around them. I can teach them the power of prayer and faith.

#DoksaStandingRock