Ozarks Folklore

With the arrival of cooler temperatures, I'm starting to delve into research for my book of family history again. Even though I feel a lot more energetic physically when autumn arrives, I also feel the coming of hibernation time, and that leads me into project mode and the sense that active family history gathering -- genealogy as well as culture, stories, and history -- has sat on the sidelines long enough.

native Poke weed in background

"Boiled poke root used to be a famous remedy for itch, but 'it burned like fire, and the cure was probably worse than the ailment.' A strong ooze of pokeberry root, [a man said] 'will make you think hell aint a mile away, but it sure does cure the eetch.'"

Two of the most well-known old books about the Ozarks are quite different. The first is Ozark Magic and Folklore (formerly titled Ozark Superstitions) published by Vance Randolph in 1947 and based upon stories he obtained throughout the Ozarks of Missouri and Arkansas (the above quote is from this compilation). Some of the material was gathered together from other sources going back to 1927, while other portions came from the author's own interactions as he says:

"I first visited the Ozark country in 1899, and since 1920 I have spent practically all of my time here, living in many parts of the region, sometimes in the villages and sometimes in the wildest and most isolated 'hollers'. I fished and fought and hunted and danced and gambled with my backwoods neighbors ...." 

I've delighted in reading Randolph's book, even when he is being subtle in his condescension or derision. Much of the herbalism described has now been proven effective based upon scientific research, and some of the superstitions are familiar from my own elder relatives when they were alive. I also found some of the information to be similar to that of the folklore of Appalachia; no surprise since a good portion of the Ozarks settlers' families and ancestors came from that part of the country back in the early 19th century. One aspect that surprised me was that many of the so-called superstitions about weather relied heavily upon the astrological signs; the reliance upon lunar cycles was no surprise as many cultures followed the waxing and waning, the light and the dark cycles, but until now, I'd never heard of Ozark references to following what sign the moon or sun were in.

Some habits in the backwoods possibly harken back to Celtic beliefs (not surprising since most people in these parts have strong links to a Scots-Irish heritage) such as:

"A woman ... told me that ghosts and spirits are accustomed to stand about near cabins at night, and it is dangerous to offend these supernatural beings by throwing dirt in their faces. Sweepings are best gathered up and carried out of the house ...."

Remind anyone of the Little People of Ireland and Scotland? That said, the land which was taken over had once been part of the Osage Nation and they, too, had stories of "little people" of the woods.

Indian Pipe flower

The second book that is, or used to be, notable about the Ozarks is The Shepherd of the Hills, published by Harold Bell Wright in 1907. (The book can be downloaded for free; the movie made in the 40s can be viewed HERE.) This one is a novel, and, as far as I can find, it's the first novel written that was set in the Ozarks (here's a list of more novels set in the Ozarks, though nearly all of them are relatively recent in publication). Starting in 1959, an outdoor drama based upon the book ran nearly continuously until recently; my parents and grandparents took us kids to see it, although I can't recall what year (likely around 1970). This is the closest full-length tale we have to a sort of modern Ozarks myth, although some legends have been retained as well as ghost stories passed along.

As my research continues, I'm realizing that this place where my family has lived for over 150 years has a lot of fascinating history, some quite tragic, and I find myself eagerly scrabbling online to find out more. What's great is that bits and pieces of what I find can be incorporated into my book on family history so that future generations can catch a glimpse of it.

Celtic Family Roots

Carnac in Brittany, 1909

I have ancestors with Celtic connections on both sides of my family tree. Most Americans whose families have been here for 350 years probably do as well. Of my ancestors who I’ve been able to trace back to country of origin, there were 59 (at last count) who emigrated from the Celtic locales of Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, alas none from Brittany (in context, there were 208 from England, the clearly predominant country, with a smattering from countries on the continent including Germany, the Netherlands, Sweden, Switzerland, Denmark, and France, plus a few drops of Native American mixed in for good measure).

My primary fascination with the Celts is due to their visceral and spiritual link

to the landscape, one that I resonate with, as well as their belief in a mysterious parallel dimension, referred to as the Otherworld, inhabited by fairy-folk.^⁠ On the other hand, the Celtic aspect completely alien to me is that they were renowned as a warrior culture; I definitely didn’t receive those genes. I also try to extricate Celtic women’s past out from under the heavy weight of the patriarchal times and mythologies (since the 1970s, thankfully, many other women have been absorbed in this effort as well so I have plenty of guides). Unfortunately, most non-mythological records focused on battles and wars; that’s what interested most men and they wrote the histories, so one has to peek between the lines to find cultural nuggets beyond those limitations.

The Baker family tree on my mother’s side reveals a robust blend of Celtic lineage. My great-grandmother Rosetta Jane Baker’s line contains 10 individuals from Scotland, 5 from Wales, and 7 from Ireland (possibly Scots-Irish, based upon the time period of emigration; further research would be needed to verify), a few of which I’ll mention here.

© Trustees of the British Museum

According to an online genealogy resource for the Baker family, it is said that, “The dark rolling moors of the Scottish/English border are home to the notable surname, Baker. Its ancient history is closely woven into the rich and beautiful tapestry of the border chronicles” and that the family motto is “Dum spiro spero. (While I have breath I hope.)” The theory is that the Baker name and family descended from the northern mix of Scottish Picts and Angles (about 400-1000 CE). That adds in the intriguing history of the Picts, current theory emerging that they were the “indigenous population,” the original inhabitants, for that part of the world^⁠.

My 4^th-great-grandparents were James and Rebeckah (Small) Baker; their families were from Kentucky, and previous to that, Virginia in the 18^th century. I am still trying to unearth the definite direct link for James Baker, but it was recorded in 1889, in a county historical tome, that his wife Rebeckah Small was of Irish descent. This statement is a curious puzzle, however, since most of my research points to the Small ancestors (plus the Burnett and Henderson wives in that family tree) as being from Scotland; immigrant John Small was born in 1716 in Kilmarnock, Ayrshire, Scotland (southwest of Glasgow, though he could have Irish roots) and the others in the northeast lands of Aberdeen and St. Andrews (both are northeast of Edinburgh). James and Rebeckah’s son Hiram married Clarisy Maddy, and her family line brought in some Welsh through the Morris lineage.

This indomitable Celtic family line gradually traversed America from Virginia, then to Kentucky and Tennessee, before finally arriving in Missouri in the mid-19^th century. There’s a generational story here, one of many, just waiting to be told!
My husband doesn't really understand my recent interest in ancestors and cultural family history. I tell him it's not that I think this knowledge will change me--life is good and I like who I am--but rather that it does seem to help me understand myself a bit better. Plus, I've always been curious and a seeker, learning is fun for me, and "visiting" my ancestors or ancestral cultures is also a way to honor their journey.

Theories of History and Pre-History

As I get further into researching Celtic history, for both my family genealogy book and a future novel, there are contrasting theories (I mentioned a little of this in an earlier post HERE). Lo and behold, in an older (1975) book titled The Celts: The People Who Came out of the Darkness by Gerhard Herm, the author doesn't even pretend to have all the answers. Refreshing!

Herm states at one point, referencing an amateur being derided by experts, that even those so-called experts "have had to admit that they were themselves guilty of bias" toward the amateur who, they said had "a tendency to tailor pieces of prehistory to fit his own ... theory."

Herm then goes on to explain that:

"This practice [of tailoring] is not, however, uncommon, even among reputable scholars. Indeed, used in moderation, it is quite legitimate. It is rather like trying to do a jigsaw that refuses to come out by starting at a different corner. If it works, so much the better. If it fails, the attempt should not be condemned out of hand but should be classed among the many models that have, over the years, been set up only to be knocked down again. Indeed many useless hypotheses belong among those sorts of wrong answer that must be given so that we can know why they are wrong." 

Further, Herm states that:

"The existing facts have grown into such a mountain that a survey would take a whole lifetime, without guarantee of result. Hypothesis has to be our core-sampler: with it we can probe the mountain, in the hope of being rewarded with unexpected insight. I have in what follows had occasion to use such methods, and studies whose arguments, though plausibly founded, cannot be conclusively proven. At best the result will be a picture that ought to be looked at with caution: this is how it might have been. If it was not, no doubt we shall one day find out."

I would personally step back from even the optimism of that last sentence. For one reason, because the "facts" used are often not facts themselves but interpretations and theories. Secondly, I do like his cautionary approach, but would view the theories as likely to remain in the realm of "this is how it might have been." Herm doesn't address this once, but regularly throughout his book, like when trying to find the answer to a particular question, he writes that, "to answer it we must persist with hypotheses and the sparsest evidence." I truly did find his openness to possibility delightful.

I'm glad that I've placed Herm's older book at the top of my reading list, for it more easily lends itself to later thoughts and ideas.

Notes from the Past

It's funny what appears sometimes. Here I am, diving back in to my fiction manuscript, and I want to file an article I had clipped from last year, one that I had simply stuck into my pile of papers. I pull out the folder and it falls open to reveal an old newspaper clipping from 2003.

What's funny about this is that my protagonist has a "father issue" and this is one of the few artifacts I have from my own father who always seemed to disapprove of whatever I was doing in my life, including writing (I wasn't writing the "right" material). Attached to the article was a note from my father:

My father died a little over five years later, in 2008; finding his handwritten note along with the article made me feel closer to him. And, even though he never said he was proud of me, maybe he was...just a little. He was encouraging me, and I take that as a good sign.

Introverts, Misfits, and Community

My Brothers & Me in Missouri:
A Tree Planted When We Were Toddlers

I have been puzzling over the curious concept of community. How has it changed or remained the same in the past five decades? How much of community is fed by our similarities as compared to our differences? More specifically, how does community manifest for deep introverts (like me)? 

A lot of my curiosity has arisen because of an epiphany I had while writing Desert Fire, which was the realization that I had slowly and gradually become part of a community in Maine. And that it’s only upon reflection that I’ve realized how my soul was nourished by that subtle ebb and flow of community. I lost most of those tangible threads when we moved to Arizona, and, after nearly four years, have been unable to feel welcomed into a strong sense of community here.

Is that loss of community why I feel this tug to return to the landscape where I was born? To return to the land where both sides of my family-of-origin have lived for generations?

It feels strange to me to want — or at least be open to, for the first time in my life — to place myself in the midst of a culture that is predominantly the opposite of my own belief system. For me, as a pagan-liberal, to consider the value of living around Christian-conservatives is an enigma swirling in my mind. Will I be welcomed or ostracized? And yet, to continue growing in my understanding of Self and humanity through conscious placement into diversity holds a tantalizing energy. It’s almost like choosing to live in a  foreign country as an observer, an anthropological endeavor, while unable to detach from my emotions. Yet, within the southwestern Missouri Ozarks reside my own genetic and blood-roots, foreign as they may seem.

Big Spring, MO
(courtesy Wikipedia)

It is easier in many ways to settle in a place where everyone, or at least the majority, thinks as we do (Oregon, a state we are also considering moving to) than to be where the mindset is alien (Arizona and Missouri). And yet, if one’s purpose is to grow and share the beauty of diversity, what better way than to live on the edge, at the perimeter? If we live in separation — segregated — the gap becomes wider and the bridge more flimsy due to the distances between us. How do we nourish community within diversity? Precious Diversity in her “coat of many colors that my Mother made for me.” Will I be able to stay focused on my path and also find the community’s core goodness, our commonality?

Will the land support and soothe my fears and nurture our differences? At least in the Ozarks, I would be living in a moderate, lovely landscape (in spite of the occasional tornado) and climate where my husband and I can afford to live comfortably as we age closer to retirement. I want to walk barefoot upon the land and within my own mind — free from aversions to my past. 

My Grandparents' Farm in MO

I yearn to sink down, to ground — even if it is into my own blood-roots that I swore I would never return to. I never felt I fit in — with family or culture or religion — and yet, now, I also feel a kinship arising within me like the ancient sap of an ancestral core. Is it the simple process of aging that does this? Or is it self-realization? An acknowledgment and acceptance that I am spirit; genes, and uniquely woven — all of these? What are the gifts held within genetic memory and the people who are my family-of-origin?

Is it possible for the moist verdant rolling hills, the vibrant vegetation, and the multi-generational roots of family and community to be nourishing enough to offset the strain of living a culturally misfit presence?

During the past couple of months, as the potential for moving has become clearer, I’m reading a variety of related sources that touch upon family, community, diversity, and how we view our historic past. The books written by psychologist Mary Pipher have been extremely helpful; they have provided me with insights I’d not previously considered regarding our American views of family and community. (I wholeheartedly recommend her books, I’ve read all of them, though I find myself disagreeing with some of her more rigid views.)

For me, this research also entails trying to understand why some of us attach so strongly to the past and its symbols, while others can detach, even when we are born into the same families.* Most southern Missouri people were allied with the Confederacy, and yet, somehow, from a quite young age, I personally felt more like a Yankee. Because of this desire to comprehend a different perspective, I’m also reading books like Beyond Revenge: The Evolution of the Forgiveness Instinct by Michael McCullough, The Righteous Mind: Why Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion by Jonathan Haidt, and The War that Forged a Nation: Why the Civil War Still Matters published this year by James McPherson. 

_______

* I am an American hybrid, an example of the genetic melting pot; my ancestors are mostly 17^th century immigrants from Ireland, Scotland and England, as well as from the Netherlands and Germany, blended with a couple of Native Americans. Is it possible that my different views (from my family) are also a product of genetic memory? In Beyond Revenge, the author points out that most of the American South was originally settled by “livestock herding” immigrants from Ireland, Scotland and Wales; these traditional cultures held a strong “honor mentality” due to their original way of life (their livelihood — herding animals — were portable and could be stolen away). This imprint has held firm even when they moved into agricultural pursuits. This is in contrast to the settlers of the American North who were a majority of European, England and Germany for example, established farmers in traditions (their livelihoods were predominantly agricultural and, therefore, could not as easily be stolen therefore emerging a different culture and mindset). Is it the German genes being expressed more strongly through me? McCullough’s book is absolutely fascinating, even though I don’t concur with all his findings. Nevertheless, it helped me to think outside the box.

Within The Creases

His DNA is in the creases,

in flecks of skin that fell.

Open the pages and feel a life

that once was here. Tell

me his dreams, crooked symbols

marking fading paper we've both seen-- 

whisper stories of past and present

and futures where our minds have been.

My cells blend with his, 

my finger turns the page, 

waiting for another generation

to join us in imagination. 

I recently got home from a several-week trip to Missouri, where I helped Mom settle into a retirement community. There, she has a beautiful back yard, but one that she isn't responsible for maintaining. Dad died in 2008 and Mom was finally ready to sell the last home they bought together. This one is her house, and I wanted to help her unpack, to lend my love and support to this huge endeavor. May she be happy in her new place.

During the unpacking, we came across a couple of boxes of old books, vintage books. One of the rare things that Dad and I had in common was a love of books. I'm grateful that he had kept these boxed books during the past five decades as he and Mom moved around the country and stored them while they were overseas. A few were familiar, like 1955 copies of Black Beauty and Heidi, those were Mom's, and even the worn Camp Fire Girls Go Motoring published in 1916 by Hildegard G. Frey. I remembered reading those. The unfamiliar in the thirty or so dusty volumes included an 1888 copy of Tom Temple's Career that I cannot imagine reading, and a 1906 edition of Jack London's The Sea-Wolf that I'm looking forward to reading. I'm researching how to keep several dozen of these books from deteriorating further; they aren't of monetary value, rather they are priceless. Mom agreed that both of my brothers would approve of me becoming the Keeper of the Books. So I am. I'm taking it seriously. Until the day that a niece or nephew, or one of their children, might express a devotion to books and ask to be the Keeper.

The dogwoods and redbuds were in full glorious bloom during my visit, a beautifully cool, moist spring. I was born two hours south of where Mom now lives, and when I drive through the Ozarks I smile at the memories.

Fading Flowers

photo courtesy Kerry N Barlow,
all rights reserved

I hide myself within my flower, 

That fading from your Vase, 

You, unsuspecting, feel for me — 

Almost a loneliness.

~ Emily Dickinson

When we absent our insights from the people and world around us, what is left is the ghost of a fading flower that was briefly seen. Perhaps I’ve been plucked from my nourishing garden to die more quickly in your vase as an object of curiosity, a thing to glance at even as I fade away and you wonder in a hidden corner of your mind where I went to. This is mere reflection of how we feel but don’t suspect when people die who haven’t left their stories behind except in snippets of someone else’s distorted memory. 

When I do not offer my story, and my body grows frail toward a fast-approaching death (relative to the vast expanse of time), you wonder where this vague uneasiness and loneliness comes from as a part of you remains forever curious about my life, my thoughts and feelings. “What?” you ask. “What was your life inside the walls around your heart?” As my soul pulls away from our relationship and the material world, my fading energy is unrecognized, obscured, fleeting.

Even if we don’t have the whole picture, we can immortalize particular moments. In my novels, there are parts of people I’ve known; I’m less lonely for them and others will see them, too, see glimpses of a life that made a difference … as we all do. However, I imagine how marvelous it would be if every person wrote at least one memoir of a pivotal transition or transformation in their life. This flower would be fresh forever, unfading.

A photograph doesn’t reveal soul or share story; after a generation or two passes, the photos tossed loose in the aging maple chest lined with cedar strips mean nothing. But dig through and pull up from below a sheaf of letters, a journal, a slim volume of preserved memory and the person is fresh, telling a tale of insight, of passage through the past.

Unless and until the reciting of oral history returns, books are best, paper is tried-and-true in its longevity. The books survive hundreds of years, maybe even longer now — they provide an opportunity to speak to an unknown great-great-grandchild or stranger who would be unsuspectingly lonely without having met your legacy. Maybe the paper will fade like the flower, though more slowly, your story rooted in the pages-once-living … like you were. Your body decays in the earth or your ashes are scattered, but your story means someone is less lonely for having known you beyond your death. Your descendants don’t have to access you through an archive or require electricity to read you digitally. All they need to do is open the cover, turn a page, and there you are — speaking to them, showing instead of hiding yourself, revealing the flower of your life in what may be a single petal through which they can, hopefully, hear your voice and know the essence of who you were.

And the world is a little less lonely.

_____________

More programs are being developed every day that preserve personal stories for generations to come. From StoryCorps to hospice programs to personal historians, writers and storytellers are attempting to make more voices heard; a particularly good article is “The Beneficial Effects of Life Story and Legacy Activities” by Pat McNees. 

Side Note: I often use the poems of Emily Dickinson as a portal into reflection and/or writing. Because I’m not trying to understand her meaning when writing it, the poem can become something unique to what is already simmering in my mind (whether conscious or subconscious) — kind of like dreamwork. There’s a lovely, and different, interpretation of this poem at The Prowling Bee.

Fragments

A train — each car a fragment, a piece of the whole — took me away and brought me home, with fresh

insight and renewed love. A peculiar sort of journey that allowed extended periods of focus upon thought and idea, upon reality and our place within those spaces.

I’d never ridden the train before, and Amtrak was the perfect option for this particular trip because I didn’t want to drive up north during January. As the train pulled out of the Tucson station, I was pleasantly shocked at how smooth and quiet it was. While the side-to-side rocking motion was an adjustment, after a few hours I barely noticed it except for the occasional rough bit of track. Although, sleeping on the top bunk took a little more time to get used to. The 48 hours of travel between Tucson and St. Louis was peaceful and mostly solitary; I had reserved what is called a roomette in the sleeping car, and ended up spending most of my time in that little room reading, relaxing, reflecting, and writing. 

The train took me to visit my mom. Originally planned so that I could be with her during and after kidney surgery, which was cancelled a few days prior to my scheduled departure, I decided to go up to northeastern Missouri anyway. Mom, my brother, and my nieces were expecting me so we simply turned it into a social visit. I carefully selected two books for the trip; one for going and the other for returning home. I had my Kindle with me as well, but far prefer reading paper books.

Because of the initial circumstances behind the trip, my book selection for the journey up was A Bittersweet Season: Caring for Our Aging Parents—and Ourselves by Jane Gross. The time had not yet arrived for my brothers and me to step into a position of elder-care, but, since my dad died a few years ago and my mom was turning 77 this month, I felt compelled to do a little research on the subject. The author’s book is well-written, part memoir and part expose, but provides a bitter pill to swallow: the plight of the elderly in our medicalized, fragmented, and what I consider inhumane, approach to “sick care.” Much of what I thought I knew was wrong, and I was nearly overwhelmed by what I didn’t know.

One benefit, though, was that while I was visiting my mom and staying in her house with her, I was much more aware of the varied aspects of her current lifestyle and how quickly it could potentially change. Too many of us live in denial and I would advocate waking up sooner rather than later when it comes to this topic.

The book I chose for the return trip was Finding Beauty in a Broken World by Terry Tempest Williams, another

profoundly moving and deeply disturbing book. I confess that I almost turned to my Kindle for refuge in some lighthearted fiction, but the unique quality of traveling by train with its gift of relative isolation kept me glued to these subjects of depth. There are often so many distractions at home that making steady and rapid progress through difficult subject matter can be challenging.

At first glance, the blend of topics chosen by Williams — the art of mosaic, vanishing prairie dog towns, and African genocide — seemed bizarre. But since I’m a fan of this author’s work, I was determined to read the book. I found myself quickly falling under her spell, though my heart ached throughout the process of reading; I often needed to close the book and take some deep relaxing breaths before continuing. Even the style of writing is fragmented, a fitting example of how the author is trying to make sense of the world we have developed -- and damaged.

As I rode the train home to Tucson, I could feel myself to be fragmented — an angry witness to a broken medical system, a shard of pottery in rubble, a bleached bone. And yet, I choose to allow the anger to melt, I choose to soften into love. I choose to continue finding my own way to create a beautiful, healing mosaic out of my own life and the world around me, knowing that I am also a fragment in someone else's mosaic. 

My Nieces

P.S. There's something funky going on with the text in this post -- my apologies! 

Hitchhikers

Writing has been a mega-rambling flow of words these past few days as my scattered energy catches up to my body here at home. I’m landing, pausing, holding the space of after-journey so that the nuances of it are unafraid to show themselves. Those nuances are like fairy hitchhikers I didn’t know I’d picked up on the way, hiding in the cracks and crevices of skin and cell and senses that perceived more than I consciously recall. These are the hitchhikers that create the Essence of Experience, the ones that tag along just out of visual range peripherally like our shadow or the dust motes always present but unseen except through direct light when they become magical beings from galaxies far away … or from that hidden table in the corner of the room.

Warning: A couple weeks of driving over 3,000 miles round-trip can have this effect! 

Eureka Springs, AR

I felt a kinship in Eureka Springs, in the center of town, the valley filling my senses and grasping for my feet to extract root-like tethers so that I would remain longer. The lush greens and black bark from excessive rains held me in thrall while the exquisite winding roads and steep stairways kept me curious of what might be around the next corner even while I yearned to sink into the space of the momentary pause A walking town of inclines and buried history in the tunnels and mountains cradling the lives of community built around healing and healers. Springs are abundant (at least 62), the gifts of Gaia’s womb bubbling up and rushing down to greet the seekers with mystery and gentle wisdom where cure is not synonymous with healing, and faith is the earthen pores beneath bare feet. I was born about 60 miles north as the crow flies and Eureka Springs feels as close to birth as any town I’ve walked; is it possible for roots to stretch so far? The hills of natural healing methods passed along for generations of mingling blood and culture. My toes tingled and I raised my arms overhead in praise of photosynthesis-generated emeralds, pouring rain, trees dripping, autumn leaves of past and present underfoot for miles it seemed, a place out of time where caves remember tunnels — or the other way around — and the dank earth is the chalice of all life. If I lived and died there, could I become the sapling growing out of the hillside that is feeing the wandering deer skipping silent among the trunks, nearly hidden? Tiny homes of rock sit like the fairytale cottages of the Grimm’s from long ago and far away, yet right next door in psyche. Many could be replicas of that which enticed Hansel and Gretel to enter. If I entered, would I ever leave? Or would I become absorbed into the mineralized space of springs and hills and fall into the great crevasse that will open one day and swallow the town whole? Taking it to an inner land to be discovered in 100,000 years by another incarnation of civilization? Earth and Water create an oasis that I am craving, and a friend from far back days of transitional innocence was on the journey with me as memories played hopscotch with present lives so different. I can dimly sense a character emerging who was born and raised in Eureka Springs … does she move to the town in my novel? And is she past or present, ghost or substance? The mudslides meant that the streets are slowly buried and levels of ground rise up until the second story becomes the first story, until doorways and windows are portals to mystical tunnels where water floods, gushing inside the walls and creating dreams and demons for those who cannot help but listen, each generation touched by the rivers within the walls. These are tunnels of dead-ends and prohibition, of ghosts and gambling, of hidden passages and buried treasures from sinkholes filled with past life treasures and decluttering debris.

A Wandering Pine

I miss my White Pine sentinels; they surrounded our Maine home on three sides, and I always felt protected.

Sara Maitland said “pine woods have a strange habit of wandering” (From the Forest). In less dramatic fashion than the Ents of Tolkien lore, granted, yet they do wander. I love this perspective of how pine forests move even if the individual trees don’t necessarily pick up roots and move over to the next ridge. It’s a bit of fascinating observation and can give rise to all sort sod fantastical stories of how boundaries and landscape change face across time, where once the line was here but now it is there; one at first blames the memory, perhaps I don’t recall my childhood experience as well as I thought because visiting to woods sixty years later, the slope appears different — but it is! 

One can almost imagine in the cover of night, a pine wriggling its toes free of the soil and a long root, then another, reaching over, slowly, ever so subtle, creeping like a vine, sinuous as a snake, and then tugging as it digs in once more shifting its tall trunk in that direction, nearly imperceptible because it doesn’t want to topple. Shifting itself away from the group. 

The fantasy is actually easier for me to imagine than the practical science of how “they re-grow as new individual trees from seed and tend not to do this under their own canopy, but to the sides of existing stands.” 

Maybe this is another subtle reason I am aligned with pines (though, fyi, in this instance the author is speaking of Scots pines) — I didn’t grow under the “canopy” of my family of origin but rather to the side. I really love this new conceptualization of my beloved pines, evergreen and raining positivity upon me continually. The author calls this wandering “spooky” but I find the entire notion utterly delightful and encouraging to the growth of diversity away from the familiar. For instance, my younger brother is definitely deciduous, growing from our mother-base; my older brother doing his own thing from a trimmed height where he branched out but still firmly connected to the original trunk … but me … I’m a seed cast to grow beyond the canopy. 

I’ve been waiting my entire life to be in the forest and free; 

cycles are age, yet less age than individuality. 

One never knows where and when shift may happen.

Toe-Tapping Empowerment

An awesome song I heard for the first time last night. Not a new song or artist, but new to me. :-) Enjoy!

To Hear into Healing

There is power in listening. There is good in being the best listener possible ... to be open, caring, receptive, accepting, non-judgmental ... to hear the voices into healing. To value the ear, the voices and expressions of all life. To listen. To write what I hear. To share the voices of Gaia. 

Before I can write the truth, mine or anyone/anything else’s, I have to hear it ... through the voices, songs, colors, expressions of joy and pain. Really HEAR the cries and laughter within and without. Listen into Love. Hear into Healing.

Hear the voice of Goddess through Her world, animals, plants. Hear people in what they say but also how they behave ... to see into the hearing of their voice disguised. To allow the voices to flow through me ... to be mirrored or reflected back into the world, slightly shifted to be revealed in a different way, new notes, words that are more articulate for those who cannot speak clearly. Including myself, my own inner voice.

How does it happen that we cease to hear? Is it because we’ve reached a point where everyone is clamoring and so we tune it all out? How did I stop listening that time? What made me stop hearing for a while? Was it because I wanted to be heard? Did I think that if I stopped listening that I would somehow be heard more easily? Did I think that pretending to listen was the same as truly hearing? Or that taking turns in talking automatically means each one is also being heard?

And if that sad confusion happens with people, it’s even easier to comprehend how it can happen among different species and indeed all life. When Gaia speaks softly through a gentle rain in drought or through blooming wildflowers in a field of beans, or through autumn leaves decaying underfoot on a concrete path ... do we listen? Or do we not listen until She begins to cry torrents of tears in hurricane winds and Her bones crack open from mining and fracking? Do we say we’re sorry and do better? Or do we fall back into selfish habits hearing only our own demands of empty grasping because we don’t even listen to our own hearts when they speak of love and kindness toward self and other people?

We can open and truly hear. It’s not a weakness or a waste of time or a distraction. Hearing is healing. 

How many people pay to be listened to? Because they aren’t heard in their jobs or families or lifestyles of hectic to and fro? And even then, how often are they really heard? 

We can be taught how to listen but only the heart knows how to hear ... the words are differentiated by a single letter that holds the space for Truth.

Is the ability to hear the true beginning of sharing? How can I possibly share anything of value if I haven’t heard what the world is saying? If I don’t hear the love and compassion that calls out from within my own heart?

I’ve often been told that I’m a good listener. Looking to past relationships, I was often listening more than speaking. Though, at times, I felt resentful because I felt ‘used’ without my full permission. I allowed others to create the boundaries that often lacked balance. This was on me, not them. They had a need and tried to fill their emptiness by voicing in whatever way they could; my responsibility is to find my own balance.

Speaking is ‘active’ and today’s society is all about the action, the doing. Everyone talking yet few are listening because they’ve burned out and finally the listeners need to be heard as well! The listeners, like the introverts (often one and the same), are not valued. 

And so we find ourselves in a world where no one listens, everyone talks, and the heart of hearing is absent.

I’ve spent most of my adult life speaking through writing, usually only privately, in my journal, because I was listening to others and no one was listening to me. Or so I thought and felt. 

Yet now I realize that I was being heard. There was a reason I wrote and then felt better. Because, by writing, I was hearing myself, hearing my heart, working things out, and, I also knew on some level that when I wrote it was, and is, a sort of prayer, a conversation with Goddess. I write the words and their unspoken vibrations are embraced by The Divine. She hears me, She always has ... in dark times or light, She cries with me and dances with me.

And when I am in nature, She hears my Soul and heart resonating ... and She retunes me like a harp, plucking the strings and tightening or loosening them until I am once more at ease. I’ve been heard. 

Now it’s my turn to hear Her. Maybe that’s where my contemplative writing comes in. I was/do express myself but also I mirror Her calls and concerns, Her needs and gifts, how we dance together. We are One, and when we listen to each other, the stillness is deafening as it becomes a universal symphony spiraling us into galaxies of the heart. Can I share our dance, our song, with others?

Let’s find the balance to listen and truly hear through the heart.

Obligation?

Because of a recent situation with my own mother, and synchronistically, the problems two friends are having with their mothers, and another friend with her sister, I can’t help but think about obligation. What do we owe to ourselves and to others? Where does expectation set up a house of cards ready to tumble around us? How do we balance helping others with maintaining healthy boundaries for ourselves? Where can we transform relationships into compassion-derived rather than guilt-driven? How do we provide care from a space of love instead of duty?

I am reminded of one of the verses from the Tao Te Ching: 

When the greatness of the Tao is present,

action arises from one’s own heart.

When the greatness of the Tao is absent, 

action comes from the rules

of “kindness and justice.”

If you need rules to be kind and just, 

if you act virtuous,

this is a sure sign that virtue is absent.

Thus we see the great hypocrisy. 

When kinship falls into discord,

piety and rites of devotion arise. 

When the country falls into chaos,

official loyalists will appear; 

patriotism is born.

~ 18th Verse of the Tao Te Ching of Lao-tzu, from Wayne Dyer’s Change Your Thoughts, Change Your Life

It seems to me that when we are expected to offer services, when we are pushed and shoved and guilted into behaviors, then the actions that were previously provided out of love become empty and tarnished with a dangerous, damaging energy. How do we provide kindness to ourselves then? How do we maintain the greatness of our heart energy?

I know there are no easy answers, and, certainly, every situation is different. With these thoughts, I also recalled a scene from Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner -- one that has stayed with me for decades: 

Embedding is not available, but the short YouTube of this scene is HERE; Sidney Poitier playing the role of the son speaking to his father, and following is the script: 

"You listen to me. You say you don’t want to tell me how to live my life. So what do you think you’ve been doing? You tell me what rights I’ve got or haven’t got, and what I owe to you for what you’ve done for me. Let me tell you something. I owe you nothing! If you carried that bag a million miles, you did what you’re supposed to do! Because you brought me into this world. And from that day you owed me everything you could ever do for me like I will owe my son if I ever have another. But you don’t own me! You can’t tell me when or where I’m out of line, or try to get me to live my life according to your rules. You don’t even know what I am, Dad, you don’t know who I am. You don’t know how I feel, what I think. And if I tried to explain it the rest of your life you will never understand. You are 30 years older than I am. You and your whole lousy generation believes the way it was for you is the way it’s got to be. And not until your whole generation has lain down and died will the dead weight of you be off our backs! You understand, you’ve got to get off my back! Dad… Dad, you’re my father. I’m your son. I love you. I always have and I always will. But you think of yourself as a colored man. I think of myself as a man. Now, I’ve got a decision to make, hm? And I’ve got to make it alone, and I gotta make it in a hurry. So would you go out there and see after my mother?"

May we all find the spirit within to somehow retain or recover our ability to act from our heart, and not from tainted obligation.

Experiences

My 16-yr-old niece Kenzie and her new  boyfriend;
he's stable and reliable. She met him at
Colossal Cave, AZ.

Love the 'dreadlocks' on the Saguaro at
Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum.

Mount Lemmon, with Tucson to the left and way below.

Mom and Kenzie in Sedona, AZ.

Kenzie at Grand Canyon.

The road to Jerome, AZ.
We survived the 158 curves in 12 miles!

Tuzigoot National Monument, AZ, with the
Verde River valley.

Kenzie at Montezuma Castle, AZ

On our way home, between Phoenix and Tucson, got caught
in the first significant dust storm of the Monsoon season.

My family was visiting for two weeks so we had a full house! Air mattresses are a great invention. The first week, we hosted Mom, my brother David, and nieces McKenzie (16) and McKayla (12). Then, took David and Kayla to the airport as they had commitments back in Missouri, while, during the second week, Mom, Kenzie and I took off for sightseeing up north. We didn't get to Sunset Crater or Wupatki ruins; maybe next time. Dear hubby Ron stayed home and took care of the dogs and cats. :-)

Explanations

What she did not explain was clearly more important than what she did. Hidden behind the words of reassurance and the wide-open eyes gazing steadily was a sadness that led down a pebble-strewn path to a secret she felt no one would understand. How could they? It wasn't that she did not explain what had become, what was happening to her, who she was ... it was that she couldn't. Between them lay a barrier on this topic that neither side bothered to bridge anymore. And that left a great grief, a loss of connection. Only if they talked--and listened--would the gulf between them start to heal.

She didn't want to bring it up again and feel the distance grow, see the bodies move away, see the concern and fear in their eyes. Not just one of them but all--a subject that was off-limits because of fear and intolerance, a matter of great importance because they discussed openly and freely their own views but she wasn't encourage.d So she did not explain and they didn't ask and the 'elephant-painted-red in the room' just stood there, creating an obstacle ... even if none of them wanted to acknowledge it.

She would blurt it out in strange places and at odd times--when they weren't around--to relieve the pressure like a balloon that had become so full of air it was going to pop unless a little pressure, a bit at a time, was released squeaking into the silence.

What was it she did not explain? No less than her Spirit and Soul and the path she was on, the purpose to her being on earth, the Light of Truth that put the wonder in her eyes and the love in her heart and the bounce in her step and the laughter in her voice. All that she was, really, the essence within the body she wore and the roles she portrayed -- that child-construct image they wanted to cling to as the reality of her. So she felt sad but that sadness also opened her to knowing that they, too, were damaged-souls-in-recovery, were holding within themselves a mystery they were too scared to touch, too anxious to embrace for once beheld we are unable to turn away without betraying our own deepest self, our own truth of Being, our own purpose of this precious birth.

She could see in them the miracle of Soul and Spirit, and she held the faith for all of them that one day, someday, they would all embrace as equals in love and Being, honoring each other's uniqueness, even celebrating the diversity that holds at its center Truth a love unbounded by time or space, beliefs and paths honored and welcomed.

So, she did not explain, she chose instead to seek the middle path of Being as True as she could in life, to not judge or feel superior, to not allow ego to take over making her prideful of what she knew as True for her. That would taint and tarnish Truth, hiding it behind the same veils of delusion that wrapped others so tightly they could not move, could not break away. They became mummies confined to their narrow costumes only able to walk one little path with covered eyes and hesitant steps, sleeping in coffins that held them secure and protected from the elemental joys and mysteries and beauty all around out in the Real World. She did not explain, no, she simply held to her ownTruth, opening to love and peace as her garments flowing gently upon her satin skin, allowing dance and delight in all the elementals and all the unseen mysteries of spirit that reveled in the expanse of sky and beyond to ether, the space where all begins and ends and transforms.

What she did not explain was how and why she was so content and felt such peace. They sometimes would look at her and she could see in their eyes Curiosity sitting next to Fear like Cat and Mouse, each waiting for the other to make the first move but then Mouse darts away into his safe hole and Cat remains, waiting for the next opportunity but falls asleep eventually, a deep sleep of inactivity and inattention induced by the drug spread all around which is the control of not wanting anything to change and upset the status quo. And their eyes would glaze over.

And so, what she did not explain was ... everything. The everything she simply was ... herself ... precious ... enough ... happy.

_________________
A story explored from a ClarityWorks writing prompt "what she did not explain." The story is a blend of personal experience and empathic extrapolation of a broader range of experiences.
The photo is of my 16-year-old niece.

Thanks to Dad

On one of the last trips my parents made to visit us in Maine, Dad talked about this great BBC show called "New Tricks" and kept singing the theme song. I only caught a couple episodes in Maine but once we arrived in Arizona, they've been showing them on PBS so I've been able to watch nearly all of them. They really are great, and the song spins 'round in my head sometimes for hours afterwards, and every time I watch, I think of Dad and am grateful for the times we spent together.

Mom and Dad were big believers in staying active; they kept traveling and learning and enjoying life. Three years after losing Dad, Mom does her best to keep on keepin' on.

The lyrics to the tune:

it’s alright it’s ok 

doesn’t really matter if you’re old and grey 

it’s alright i say it’s ok 

listen to what i say 

it’s alright doing fine 

doesn’t really matter if the sun don’t shine 

it’s alright i say it’s ok 

we're getting to the end of the day 

high-tech, low-tech take your pick 

cos you can teach an old dog a brand new trick 

i don’t care what anybody says 

(at the end of the day) 

there’s a place that i can find 

a drink or two to ease my mind 

golden days 

it’s alright take your time 

everybody thinks that you’ve passed your prime 

it’s alright it’s ok 

you've still got plenty to say

In Loving Memory of My Father

Jerry Ervin Graves

May 25, 1936 - August 9, 2008

His form is gone but his essence lives on. 

Mother~Daughter

love

wisdom

companionship

thank you, mom

Happy Holidays!

Buttons

Attach a button
Limply drooping
Thread is looping
Stitched with love

Tin of buttons
Colors gleaming
Metals beaming
Family

Hole for button
Gathered into
Twisted through
Together

Fancy or plain
Big button or small
Without the hole
Nothing at all

Without the whole...Nothing

I was sewing a button on one of Ron's shirts this morning, and felt so peaceful, so at ease. I found myself sinking into those few minutes with total attention, watching the thread on the needle attaching the button, pulling it closely. The simple act of caring for the clothing of a loved one, something that protects and covers and embraces. The tiny stitches that make such a big difference. I remember the tins of buttons Grandma had; they were like a glorious, colorful world of plastic and metal and wood, and sounded like a tamborine! And, yet, without something to connect with, the buttons are not whole, they are loose and disconnected, pretty without purpose, a substance without love.

_____________

GRANNY'S BUTTONS
free photo © Mike Weidman | Dreamstime.com