excerpt from WISDOM OF OTHERS (see Aug 31, 2010)
"The day will come when after harnessing space, the winds, the tides and gravitation, we shall harness for God the energies of love. And on that day, for the second time in the history of the world, we shall have discovered fire."
-Tielhard de Chardin
Quoted in CANFIELD AND HANSEN, 1993, p. 1
Used in MANAGING WITH THE WISDOM OF LOVE
by Dorothy Marcic
Friday, September 10, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
BOY'S PRAYER AT POW WOW
excerpt from CHEROKEE DIARY (see Aug. 31, 2010)
Summer of 1993 - When living in Gainesville, Florida I attended a community pow wow as opposed to a public pow wow. I think it was a blessing that it was my first pow wow. It gave me a deeper appreciation of the spiritual nature of Indians that isn't as apparent in the public pow wows. My reaction to the drums and round dancing resonated internally. It felt like a part of me. My daughter who had a passion for dancing turned to me and said "this is where my love of dancing comes from. I feel it inside."
The speaker at the mike advised the audience that this was not a performance but a community prayer pow wow and if we could participate in that spirit we were welcome, otherwise we could leave quietly. That intrigued me but the thing that affected me the most was one of the round dances. The speaker announced that the next dance would be a prayer dance for healing requested by a young boy who looked to be about 8 years old. He said his grandmother was sick and he wanted to dance the first round by himself as a prayer for her and then anyone who wanted to dance for healing could join in the rest of the round dance. The boy seemed totally unaware of the people watching him as he very reverently danced completely around the circle by himself. His whole body seemed involved in this very spiritual experience expressed in the physical action of the dance.
Summer of 1993 - When living in Gainesville, Florida I attended a community pow wow as opposed to a public pow wow. I think it was a blessing that it was my first pow wow. It gave me a deeper appreciation of the spiritual nature of Indians that isn't as apparent in the public pow wows. My reaction to the drums and round dancing resonated internally. It felt like a part of me. My daughter who had a passion for dancing turned to me and said "this is where my love of dancing comes from. I feel it inside."
The speaker at the mike advised the audience that this was not a performance but a community prayer pow wow and if we could participate in that spirit we were welcome, otherwise we could leave quietly. That intrigued me but the thing that affected me the most was one of the round dances. The speaker announced that the next dance would be a prayer dance for healing requested by a young boy who looked to be about 8 years old. He said his grandmother was sick and he wanted to dance the first round by himself as a prayer for her and then anyone who wanted to dance for healing could join in the rest of the round dance. The boy seemed totally unaware of the people watching him as he very reverently danced completely around the circle by himself. His whole body seemed involved in this very spiritual experience expressed in the physical action of the dance.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
WHAT IS A FAMILY?
When we come into this world, ideally, we are in the care of two loving parents, adoring grandparents, caring aunts and uncles. We feel safe, nurtured and trained to be a healthy, happy human being. We know each other, we share common goals, and hopes for the future. We support each other in times of stress or pain.
SO? You know all this even if your particular family didn't quite measure up to this ideal! Nothing new, huh?
Well! Just suppose we really believed everyone on this planet was our family.
We would "know" each other. I would "know" your story and you would "know" ,my story. We would know each other's personalities, joys, and sorrows.
How do we "know" each other? Face to face if possible, talking and laughing and playing together, comforting each other during the tough times.
Since geographically that is not always possible then it only stands to reason that we must find another way to feel like "family".
This blog is what I have discovered about my "family". In my travels to other countires or other neighborhoods it was face to face. I heard the stories of some very interesting family members.
In my reading and attending courses and conferences I learned more stories of my human family.
This blog is not about me but about those stories and ideas that helped me get to know my human family. Some are funny, some are painful but all are real.
They are your family, too!
Want to meet them?
Want to learn what I am learning?
Stay tuned!
SO? You know all this even if your particular family didn't quite measure up to this ideal! Nothing new, huh?
Well! Just suppose we really believed everyone on this planet was our family.
We would "know" each other. I would "know" your story and you would "know" ,my story. We would know each other's personalities, joys, and sorrows.
How do we "know" each other? Face to face if possible, talking and laughing and playing together, comforting each other during the tough times.
Since geographically that is not always possible then it only stands to reason that we must find another way to feel like "family".
This blog is what I have discovered about my "family". In my travels to other countires or other neighborhoods it was face to face. I heard the stories of some very interesting family members.
In my reading and attending courses and conferences I learned more stories of my human family.
This blog is not about me but about those stories and ideas that helped me get to know my human family. Some are funny, some are painful but all are real.
They are your family, too!
Want to meet them?
Want to learn what I am learning?
Stay tuned!
Monday, September 6, 2010
FIRST"RACE"MEMORY
excerpt from COLORS OF MY WORLD (see Aug. 31, 2010 blog)
Red clay, green grass and blue sky; blondes, red heads, brunettes; pink, red-burned, white, freckled, tan and olive - those were the colors of my childhood. In the very early years I did not miss the other colors - the browns, mahoganies, ebonies and the almost blue-blacks. You have to experience something to miss its absence.
I must have been about three, maybe four. Sunday, after church, my family always ate dinner (Noon) at Grandmother Hunter's house. The dining room was a pastel green. The dining table, which seated 14, was a rich, dark mahogany as was the long buffet. The buffet always had a fresh bouquet of flowers from the yard. On the wall hung still life paintings of flowers, which Aunt Leona had painted. They called her the "black sheep" of the family. I wondered why. She was not black nor was she a sheep. She was definitely more fun than all the rest. Her laugh was boister, she lacked the "gentility" of a lady, but Grandmother thought she was wonderful even if she didn't wear a dress and did smoke. Grandmother loved everyone, even Aunt Martha. Anyway, back to Sunday dinner. Lunch was the noon meal every day of the week except Sunday. Sunday dinner was golden fried chicken, white and tan biscuits, home churned, sunny butter, fried green okra, sliced red tomatoes, chips of cucumber soaked in vinegar, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes or potato salad and thick, creamy light brown gravy. I was stuffed and restless watching my aunts, uncles, Mother. Daddy, my older brother Billy and my baby sister Sara Frances. We were gathered after the meal in the sitting room, which was also Grandmother's bedroom. Even though Grandmother had a lovely formal parlor across the hall, no one used it, at least not that I ever saw. Grandmother's room was huge and cozy.
I wandered into the kitchen, past the wood burning stove and the work table in the middle of the room, past the counter full of mason jars and crock pots full of interesting leaves, seeds and stuff, back to a little corner table next to the kitchen window.
Coffee, yes, like Daddy's, without cream - that was the color of old Essex eating in the corner, hidden away behind the tall wooden churn and the big white porcelain stove. His eyes were black and wary. I leaned my four year old, skinny body against the small wooden table he used as a dinner table. What was this manner of man! He did not look dirty but he was so dark! Grey hair in tiny coils hugged his head. The palms of his hands looked faded and pink, not dark like his arms.
Dark brown eyes softened and twinkled. I edged closer. Without dropping a single crumb, his gnarled hands continued their journey through the biscuits and gravy, slowing down for the chunks of ham, then speeding up with the soft, bacon-flavored green beans, and lingering over the orange sweet potatoes. A mason jar of iced tea washed down the remains. I leaned against the little table, completely absorbed in his wrinkled, brown face. No words - just watching. He seemed tired in his worn dusty faded overalls. Quietly, without a word, he returned my gaze. His face was gently, patiently smiling as I stared.
"Anne! Get out of here. Come back to the sitting room!" sharply jarred my spine and sent me back out of the room. This Aunt Martha, who never saw the good, who seemed bitter and abrasive, domineering and hateful, shoved me into the room with the others. My aunts and uncles, my daddy and mother, my sister and brother sat mute, unable to defend or protect. They never challenged her. She was the one who inherited the personality of my grandfather. He died before I was born but the stories of his brutal parenting made me glad I never knew him.
As a child, I watched as my aunt screamed at the elderly, gentle, sweet, dark-skinned laborer on her farm because he smiled at me. I knew she no longer belonged in my heart family from that day on. "You know better, Essex! Now get out of here and get back to work," came from the kitchen in angry tones as my aunt shooed old Essex out into the screened-in back porch and through the back door. Bent and subdued he went back to the barn and to chores that rightfully should have been done by my stronger, younger uncles. They spent their time telling jokes and put downs sprinkled with the "N" word. I could not allow myself to even say the word it was so cancerous to me.
"Stay away from him," she said as she came back in.
Thus began the journey to get to know all the colors of my world.
Red clay, green grass and blue sky; blondes, red heads, brunettes; pink, red-burned, white, freckled, tan and olive - those were the colors of my childhood. In the very early years I did not miss the other colors - the browns, mahoganies, ebonies and the almost blue-blacks. You have to experience something to miss its absence.
I must have been about three, maybe four. Sunday, after church, my family always ate dinner (Noon) at Grandmother Hunter's house. The dining room was a pastel green. The dining table, which seated 14, was a rich, dark mahogany as was the long buffet. The buffet always had a fresh bouquet of flowers from the yard. On the wall hung still life paintings of flowers, which Aunt Leona had painted. They called her the "black sheep" of the family. I wondered why. She was not black nor was she a sheep. She was definitely more fun than all the rest. Her laugh was boister, she lacked the "gentility" of a lady, but Grandmother thought she was wonderful even if she didn't wear a dress and did smoke. Grandmother loved everyone, even Aunt Martha. Anyway, back to Sunday dinner. Lunch was the noon meal every day of the week except Sunday. Sunday dinner was golden fried chicken, white and tan biscuits, home churned, sunny butter, fried green okra, sliced red tomatoes, chips of cucumber soaked in vinegar, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes or potato salad and thick, creamy light brown gravy. I was stuffed and restless watching my aunts, uncles, Mother. Daddy, my older brother Billy and my baby sister Sara Frances. We were gathered after the meal in the sitting room, which was also Grandmother's bedroom. Even though Grandmother had a lovely formal parlor across the hall, no one used it, at least not that I ever saw. Grandmother's room was huge and cozy.
I wandered into the kitchen, past the wood burning stove and the work table in the middle of the room, past the counter full of mason jars and crock pots full of interesting leaves, seeds and stuff, back to a little corner table next to the kitchen window.
Coffee, yes, like Daddy's, without cream - that was the color of old Essex eating in the corner, hidden away behind the tall wooden churn and the big white porcelain stove. His eyes were black and wary. I leaned my four year old, skinny body against the small wooden table he used as a dinner table. What was this manner of man! He did not look dirty but he was so dark! Grey hair in tiny coils hugged his head. The palms of his hands looked faded and pink, not dark like his arms.
Dark brown eyes softened and twinkled. I edged closer. Without dropping a single crumb, his gnarled hands continued their journey through the biscuits and gravy, slowing down for the chunks of ham, then speeding up with the soft, bacon-flavored green beans, and lingering over the orange sweet potatoes. A mason jar of iced tea washed down the remains. I leaned against the little table, completely absorbed in his wrinkled, brown face. No words - just watching. He seemed tired in his worn dusty faded overalls. Quietly, without a word, he returned my gaze. His face was gently, patiently smiling as I stared.
"Anne! Get out of here. Come back to the sitting room!" sharply jarred my spine and sent me back out of the room. This Aunt Martha, who never saw the good, who seemed bitter and abrasive, domineering and hateful, shoved me into the room with the others. My aunts and uncles, my daddy and mother, my sister and brother sat mute, unable to defend or protect. They never challenged her. She was the one who inherited the personality of my grandfather. He died before I was born but the stories of his brutal parenting made me glad I never knew him.
As a child, I watched as my aunt screamed at the elderly, gentle, sweet, dark-skinned laborer on her farm because he smiled at me. I knew she no longer belonged in my heart family from that day on. "You know better, Essex! Now get out of here and get back to work," came from the kitchen in angry tones as my aunt shooed old Essex out into the screened-in back porch and through the back door. Bent and subdued he went back to the barn and to chores that rightfully should have been done by my stronger, younger uncles. They spent their time telling jokes and put downs sprinkled with the "N" word. I could not allow myself to even say the word it was so cancerous to me.
"Stay away from him," she said as she came back in.
Thus began the journey to get to know all the colors of my world.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
CHEROKEE TRIBAL GROUND COFFEE
This coffee house became a very important part of my loving experiences in Cherokee. I spent many an hour sitting on the back porch of the coffeehouse watching the river and sharing stories and thoughts with friends. Watching the ducks, otters and birds dip in to the river was a peaceful time.
I grew to love the co-hosts, Natalie Smith and Leon Grodsky and Natalie's son Galen who would crawl up into my lap and share his latest projects or toys with me. Natalie was Cherokee, artist and an art education major. Leon was a muliti-media artist who has had exhibits throughout the world.
Their vision was to focus on Native American renaissance and provide a place for local Cherokee artists to show their work.The presentations made in their art gallery and large lounge area were many and varied. I learned so much and was inspired by the many artists who came through. Many of the blogs you read concerning happenings in Cherokee occurred there.
I grew to love the co-hosts, Natalie Smith and Leon Grodsky and Natalie's son Galen who would crawl up into my lap and share his latest projects or toys with me. Natalie was Cherokee, artist and an art education major. Leon was a muliti-media artist who has had exhibits throughout the world.
Their vision was to focus on Native American renaissance and provide a place for local Cherokee artists to show their work.The presentations made in their art gallery and large lounge area were many and varied. I learned so much and was inspired by the many artists who came through. Many of the blogs you read concerning happenings in Cherokee occurred there.
Friday, September 3, 2010
LENORA
excerpt @RACE UNITY.COM
Beloved friends,
In our ongoing struggle with making a better world, we have dwelled a lot on color - sometimes to a wearying degree. I woke up at 5 a.m. this morning with the following thoughts full blown in my head, unable to go back to sleep, so I wanted to share them with you.
I hope Ed Barber, my friend and former boss in Florida, will read this to Lenora.
Lenora
I have a friend, blind from birth,
But she has vision.
She sees the oneness of human hearts.
We had some interesting talks.
Some on color, some on pain, some on mirth.
What is color to Lenora?
White is milk, brown is chocolate.
Black is the tangle of her tight curls.
Yellow is the warmth of the noon day sun.
Red is the smell of a rose.
Blue is the touch of a summer breeze.
Green is the feel of a leaf or blade of grass.
Pink is milk and strawberries.
Orange is her morning juice.
What is pain to Lenora?
Wondering why her son is shoved at school or worse.
Wondering why her ideas aren't heard.
Hearing despair in a friend's voice.
Hearing anger and frustration over just her being.
Sensing distrust without having said a word.
What is mirth to Lenora?
A quick hug from a friend in greeting.
A touch to her cheek in deep conversation.
My clumsy attempt to describe her pretty dress.
My spelling something instead of her.
Holding her hand in a strange place.
Clapping to the sound of gospel rhythm.
The joy she hears in my voice when I see her.
What is a saint? Lenora
What is a friend? Lenora
Who do I miss? Lenora
Love, Anne
8-17-96
Beloved friends,
In our ongoing struggle with making a better world, we have dwelled a lot on color - sometimes to a wearying degree. I woke up at 5 a.m. this morning with the following thoughts full blown in my head, unable to go back to sleep, so I wanted to share them with you.
I hope Ed Barber, my friend and former boss in Florida, will read this to Lenora.
Lenora
I have a friend, blind from birth,
But she has vision.
She sees the oneness of human hearts.
We had some interesting talks.
Some on color, some on pain, some on mirth.
What is color to Lenora?
White is milk, brown is chocolate.
Black is the tangle of her tight curls.
Yellow is the warmth of the noon day sun.
Red is the smell of a rose.
Blue is the touch of a summer breeze.
Green is the feel of a leaf or blade of grass.
Pink is milk and strawberries.
Orange is her morning juice.
What is pain to Lenora?
Wondering why her son is shoved at school or worse.
Wondering why her ideas aren't heard.
Hearing despair in a friend's voice.
Hearing anger and frustration over just her being.
Sensing distrust without having said a word.
What is mirth to Lenora?
A quick hug from a friend in greeting.
A touch to her cheek in deep conversation.
My clumsy attempt to describe her pretty dress.
My spelling something instead of her.
Holding her hand in a strange place.
Clapping to the sound of gospel rhythm.
The joy she hears in my voice when I see her.
What is a saint? Lenora
What is a friend? Lenora
Who do I miss? Lenora
Love, Anne
8-17-96
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
PRISONER/WRITER
excerpt from WISDOM OF OTHERS
"He marked the days on the wall
Small scratches in gray cement
The man who had warned the world
The voices of the voiceless
Alone, undernourished, he could have survived
The cold, the damp, the lash could not kill him
But for want of paper and pencil
He starved."
SURRENDER:CANDLES IN THE NIGHT, p. 61, Kathleen Eagle
"He marked the days on the wall
Small scratches in gray cement
The man who had warned the world
The voices of the voiceless
Alone, undernourished, he could have survived
The cold, the damp, the lash could not kill him
But for want of paper and pencil
He starved."
SURRENDER:CANDLES IN THE NIGHT, p. 61, Kathleen Eagle
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