tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27630662149258972062024-03-18T21:16:32.028-07:00LyncantationsThe rants, ravings, and writings of a Two Spirit / Non-Binary Native American Traditionalist / Christian of Lakota heritage... Ordained minister, drummer / drum maker... rhythmic spirituality facilitator / practitioner... artist... photographer... ritualist... Spouse... Mother... Grandmother, Sacred Sibling... Activist... troublemaker.Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-29350977144676681152020-07-04T17:48:00.002-07:002020-07-04T17:48:49.228-07:00On Freedom<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The first stirrings of this piece began as I considered a response to a Facebook post, which queried how or if Native Americans celebrate July 4<sup>th</sup>. As the first people of this land, as the host people around whom colonial society grew like an invasive species – all but choking out our traditional societies, cultures, and very existence – it would be understandable if we took a big pass on this holiday, but most of us don’t. We wish each other love, health, and happiness; we enjoy one another’s company as we celebrate and eat a range of foods from hot dogs to frybread. This year that may look like social distancing picnics, barbeques, or pool parties. We also <span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>honour our ancestors</b></span> and the Indigenous and non-Indigenous warriors that have served this country in the military. In fact according to the US Dept. of Defense, Native Americans represent the </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">highest per-capita commitment of any ethnic population to defend the United States with their military service.</span></div>
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Lori Piestewa member of the Hopi tribe, was the first<o:p></o:p></div>
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Native American woman in history to die in combat while serving in the U.S. military. </div>
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Lori died in the Iraq war March 23, 2003.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Arizona's <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piestewa_Peak" target="_blank">Piestewa Peak</a> is named in her honor.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: start;">Lori, Rest in Power, Rest in Peace.</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">While that truth may seem hard to wrap our heads around, given the devastation wrought upon Indigenous North American cultures by colonialism. Warriorhood is a powerful ethic in Indigenous societies. The strong tradition of warriors as leaders places the draw to military service into cultural c</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">ontext.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">When Native American people gather for Pow Wow, the American flag is honoured, as well as armed forces flags and the flags of tribal nations. The colors are carried by veterans, and placed ceremonially during Grand Entry to open the event in a good way. Veterans are respected and given roles of great honour and respect – as the gathered community offers up honour songs and dances of gratitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The dancers enter the arena greeting each and every veteran with a handshake or hug, and words of gratitude and respect.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So yes, many Indigenous people of the U.S. celebrate Independence and Freedom, on July 4<sup>th</sup>, and many other days. Personally, I hold in tension the realities of genocide, racism, and oppression that is woven into the founding and history of this nation ~ continuing to this very day, and the reality that Indigenous people continue to stand to defend the nation that tried to kill off our ancestors to "solve the Indian problem." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">As I reflect on personal independence and freedom – I feel the need to delve beyond the glitter of my star spangled Facebook feed. This holiday can be so mired in parades and traditions like the “oohs and ahs” at the fireworks extravaganza and “please pass the potato salad” (or the frybread) at the picnic - that we don’t talk about deep issues. Yes, the fourth of July is a national holiday, but it is also an occasion which invites discernment and deep reflection about what freedom and independence means to us on a personal level.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I ponder deep thoughts this Independence Day. I may be extra contemplative from my place of solo Covid-19 isolation. I hold many things in tension. Celebrations of love and equality juxtaposed with racial terrorism and profound denial of its causes that are so deeply rooted in the history of this land. I see marriage equality as a good thing, but just because two men or two women can marry each other if they so desire – in no way means that true equality exists across the queer community.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">While a same-sex couple somewhere are joyously saying their long-awaited vows – somewhere across town, a transgender woman is killed as she waits for the bus, and the shelter turns away queer youth because they lack the capacity to give every person who needs one – a meal and a bed <i><span style="color: #cc0000;">without judgment</span></i>. It is getting better, but there is still so much work to do.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">As I consider my independence, I frame that as being free from the control of others over my actions and choices, giving me the freedom to self regulate my life, and exercise the many freedoms I am fortunate to have; I name a few here, there are many, many more</span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have the freedom, and the luxury to chose from the</span><span style="font-size: large;"> many healthy foods in our cabinets and fridge, to prepare my meals, while others subsist on highly processed nutritionally abysmal “foods” – because they are the only choices they have.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am free, to pray the day in with tobacco in my hand, and to watch the sunset as I pray the day out – offering prayers in the way of my ancestors. I have the freedom to enter the sweatlodge with my elders, and to dance my prayers in full regalia in solidarity and fellowship with other indigenous people. These are spiritual acts whereby I exercise my religious freedom.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I also have the freedom to serve my church, without concern for my personal safety – while believers of other faiths or races practice their faith, knowing that they may be doing so at great personal risk.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">I am free to seek medical treatment when the need arises – while many others face the hard choice of seeking care, or feeding their families – millions live in this reality </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">every.single.day.</span></span></span></li>
<li style="text-indent: -24px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have freedom of movement - to a degree that Covid-19 restrictions allow.</span></li>
<li><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have the freedom to be Out, to live an open</span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> and authentic life as a queer-identified Two Spirit person, </span></span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">while others must live in stealth to keep their jobs, their homes, and their lives.</span></span></li>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">With all of these things held preciously, I close with</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> this prayer:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Wakan Tanka, Mothering-Fathering God, Divine and Holy Love, be present with us that we may face the winds, and walk the Red Road in ways that honour you. Help us seek to be in right relationship with </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">one another and be responsive when the world cries out. May we have deep gratitude for the freedoms and hold as Sacred, the freedoms of others so that we may <span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>never disrespect them</b></span>. Free us from small mindedness, bless us with a deep capacity for Light and Love. Awake in us wisdom, courage, and understanding. Equip us to walk this Earth as relatives to all that live within your creation ~ and to see a reflection of you in one another's faces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Igwein Gitchimanitou</span></div>
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Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-30178521698044977922018-11-19T11:00:00.000-08:002018-11-19T14:19:39.557-08:00Thankful<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am thankful, and I mourn. I mourn for the devastation brought to Indigenous people by hordes of colonizing strangers. I mourn for the victims of the Sand Creek Massacre, who number in the hundreds, with over half of the victims being women and children, literally the future of the people. I mourn for the Old Ones killed in 1890 at Wounded Knee, half of which were women and children. They gathered at Wounded Knee, to dance for the future of their people. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am thankful for my wife, my family, and my friends. I am thankful for the amazing community of activists of many faith traditions, worldviews, and seeking paths with which I am engaged in meaningful work. I am thankful that I have the ability and access to follow my calling, and pursue education towards that end. I am thankful that I have adequate food and shelter, and do not take that for granted. I am thankful that I am able to follow the spiritual traditions of my ancestors, a right that was denied to many of my ancestors when the practice of Native American "religion" was against the law. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am thankful for the beautiful abundance of creation, the ways in which Mother Earth arranges and rearranges herself fascinates and humbles me on a daily basis. I am thankful that my ancestors clung fiercely to their culture and their ways and that the inherent tenacity and integrity of Indigenous People is why we persist today. We are not gone... we are not "tamed." </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This year, I am particularly thankful that not EVERYBODY builds a celebration this "Thanksgiving", upon the bones of the dead. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Igwein Gitchimanido!</span>Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-16416928823143426862017-03-08T18:56:00.000-08:002017-03-08T18:58:01.798-08:00Various Two Spirit Writings - in One Handy Place!<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>This is a piece I wrote about Two Spirit Identity:</b></span><br />
<a href="http://www.transfaithonline.org/explore/indigenous/stories/two_spirit"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">http://www.transfaithonline.org/explore/indigenous/stories/two_spirit</span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>A collection of my writing at Believe Out Loud:</b></span></span><br />
<a href="https://www.believeoutloud.com/latest/meet-the-bloggers/Lynn+Young"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">https://www.believeoutloud.com/latest/meet-the-bloggers/Lynn+Young</span></a>Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-77853201750747300342016-06-12T17:46:00.001-07:002016-06-12T17:53:15.141-07:00Who Will We See?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Reports and updates from Orlando come across the media in a
mind-numbing cycle, they point to the level of dysfunction manifest in the
human family. Media feeds report the suffering, division, anger, hatred, fear,
bitterness, and violence swirling around the massacre at Orlando’s Pulse, a hub
for Orlando’s LGBTQ2SIA community. I am deeply grateful that I was with my
church community when I learned that this had taken place. That yet another manifestation
of intolerance and hatred had exploded in our midst. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The horror and devastation of this massacre aimed directly
at the queer community brings several things to the surface of my bleeding
Spirit. I am acutely aware that the reactions by various factions of society
will range from compassion to sanctimonious pronouncements that the violent
horror experienced last evening in Pulse, was the work of a vengeful God. Some
factions will attempt to pit against one another two vulnerable communities –
namely the queer community and the Muslim community. It is my deeply held hope
that voices of queer people of faith from all traditions, the voices of
coalitions working for unity, and the voices of interfaith activists, are the
voices we will hear and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">remember</i> from
the horror of this time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The queer community is terrorized every day. As we walk down
the street, engage with social media, and go about our daily routines. We
experience terror and know it intimately, we are targets of violence simply for
being exactly who we are, and having the bold authenticity to live our
identities openly in a dangerous and violent world. We are oppressed and
terrorized for having the audacity to exist - exactly as the people we were
created to be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Living through times of devastation, it is easy to become
jaded, to be cynical and to believe that we as human beings are just built for
conflict, that turning upon one another - is just what we do. Woven into the
fabric of the human family, are threads of conflict, strife, anger, hatred, and
fear. There are two ways to respond to that reality - either by
"perfecting" our ability to armour ourselves and strike back - or by
doing the very hard work of creating spaces where we can hold the difficult and
necessary conversations that must take place to dismantle the dynamics of
hate-driven violence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I believe that our common connection to the Divine - is
imbedded in the very core of who we are. We can be wildly inclusive and work
boldly together, I have the privilege of being involved in work of that very
nature. I believe we must be vulnerable, and find ways in which, we can risk
our grief stricken, cracked wide-open hearts to the possibility of reconciliation
and wholeness that only lovingkindness can achieve.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">As we grieve, as we hold one another with tears, broken
hearts, and trembling spirits, do we have the fierceness - in this moment of
vulnerability - to lift the gaze of our streaming eyes to look at one another,
to reach out our shaking hands, grief stricken hearts, and bleeding spirits to span the gulf
that separates us from one another?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Will we ever break free from the cycle of violence? When we look into the eyes of our fellow humans - <b>who will we see</b>? Will we
ever experience the transformational love that is possible by looking into the
eyes of those who differ from us along lines of race, gender, culture, sex,
faith, sexual orientation, etc. - and seeing
the face of God? </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-38555969229519851142015-07-04T00:18:00.000-07:002015-07-04T07:35:51.445-07:00Contemplating Freedom<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The first stirrings of this piece began as I considered a
response to a Facebook post, which queried how or if Native Americans celebrate
July 4<sup>th</sup>. As the first people of this land, as the host people
around whom colonial society grew like an invasive species – all but choking
out our traditional societies, cultures, and very existence – it would be
understandable if we took a big pass on this holiday, but most of us don’t. We
wish each other love and happiness; we enjoy one another’s company as we celebrate
and eat a range of foods from hot dogs to frybread. We also honour our ancestors and the Indigenous
and non-Indigenous warriors that have served this country in the military. In
fact according to the US Dept. of Defense, Native Americans represent the </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">highest per-capita
commitment of any ethnic population to defend the United States with their
military service.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHJRSXqTbc9vyyBrgp6AMRa5AyJBbN_AVjVsI1GbxzFi3uO-nhU1GskjLvok2oIGk2Z7lsKqcX2OiW3lp70YW9P_HauDpLcSS3h08W168b6EObV7ro5d7_20IpB4QdinIQZA0_dp_7oGA/s1600/pfc.-Lori-Piestewa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmHJRSXqTbc9vyyBrgp6AMRa5AyJBbN_AVjVsI1GbxzFi3uO-nhU1GskjLvok2oIGk2Z7lsKqcX2OiW3lp70YW9P_HauDpLcSS3h08W168b6EObV7ro5d7_20IpB4QdinIQZA0_dp_7oGA/s320/pfc.-Lori-Piestewa.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">While
that truth may seem hard to wrap our heads around, given the devastation
visited upon Indigenous North American cultures by colonialism – warriorhood is
a powerful ethic in Indigenous societies. The strong tradition of warriors as
leaders places the draw to military service into cultural c</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">ontext.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When Native American people gather for Pow Wow, the American
flag is honoured, as well as armed forces flags and the flags of tribal
nations. The colors are carried by veterans, and placed ceremonially during
Grand Entry to open the event in a good way. Veterans are respected and given
places and roles of honor – as the gathered community offers up honour songs
and dances of gratitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So yes, we do
celebrate Independence and Freedom, on July 4<sup>th</sup>, and many other
days. Personally, I hold in tension the reality of genocide and oppression that
is woven into the founding of this nation, and the reality that Indigenous
people continue to stand to defend the nation that tried to eradicate our
ancestors. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNkq9IzkKgNoR1bSdyRTuXnLOn5f29UjKDjKtX0P5UXY1jKBRMgtBv3eWBY8B2b27aevNUAweoCyuzRmyLcbVEwm__cuayJHe5Kf3ySpGjSoYACR-6hHSttkJQS-fGDM3ECrKpLClXPCOk/s1600/vet2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNkq9IzkKgNoR1bSdyRTuXnLOn5f29UjKDjKtX0P5UXY1jKBRMgtBv3eWBY8B2b27aevNUAweoCyuzRmyLcbVEwm__cuayJHe5Kf3ySpGjSoYACR-6hHSttkJQS-fGDM3ECrKpLClXPCOk/s320/vet2.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">As I reflect on personal independence and freedom – I feel
the need to delve beyond the glitter of my star spangled Facebook feed. This
holiday can be so mired in parades and traditions like the “oohs and ahs” at
the fireworks extravaganza and “please pass the potato salad” (or the frybread)
at the picnic - that we don’t talk about deep issues. Yes, the fourth of July
is a national holiday, but I think it is one where discerning and exploring
what freedom and independence means to us on a personal level – is in order.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I ponder deep thoughts in these small hours of Independence
Day. I told many things in tension. Celebrations of love and equality
juxtaposed with racial terrorism and profound denial of its causes that are so
deeply rooted in the history of this land. I see marriage equality as a good
thing, but just because two men or two women can marry each other if they
desire that – in no way means that true equality exists across the queer
community. </span><br />
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYEQ1wx6TkvpU9F81Oc0kruFbAr_yoE-BGUEB6BV7wM2xRRK832GTjdJqZe3S4I-otdz3jvDYq8QZOcCg2NPNeDqg4Fc9nDn8PGE1enexLaCJWD1dV-a3vq-sNYf39EfLij8JkLmbELOxY/s1600/two_feathers_rainbow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYEQ1wx6TkvpU9F81Oc0kruFbAr_yoE-BGUEB6BV7wM2xRRK832GTjdJqZe3S4I-otdz3jvDYq8QZOcCg2NPNeDqg4Fc9nDn8PGE1enexLaCJWD1dV-a3vq-sNYf39EfLij8JkLmbELOxY/s1600/two_feathers_rainbow.jpg" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">While the same-sex couple are joyously saying their long-awaited
vows – somewhere across town, a transgender woman is killed as she waits for
the bus, and the shelter turns away queer youth because they lack the
capacity to give every person who needs one – a meal and a bed without judgment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">As I consider my independence, I frame that as being free
from the control of others over my actions and choices, giving me the freedom
to self regulate my life, and exercise the many freedoms I am fortunate to
have; I name a few here, there are many, many more</span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have the freedom, and the luxury to chose from
the</span><span style="font-size: large;"> many healthy foods in our cabinets and fridge, to prepare my meals, while
others subsist on highly processed nutritionally abysmal “foods” – because they
are the only choices they have.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am free, to pray the day in with tobacco in my
hand, and to watch the sun set as I pray the day out – offering prayers in the
way of my ancestors. I have the freedom to enter the sweatlodge with my elders,
and to dance my prayers in full regalia in solidarity and fellowship with other
indigenous people.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I also have the freedom to worship at my church,
to lead or attend Bible study without concern for my personal safety – while
believers of other faiths or races practice their faith, knowing that they may
be doing so at great personal risk.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am free to seek medical treatment when the
need arises – while many others face the hard choice of seeking care, or
feeding their families – million live in this reality every.single.day.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large;">If I have the inclination and resources, I am
may travel when, where, and in the company of whomever I please – while others
have strict limits placed on their mobility, and access to the people that they
love – placed upon them by life circumstance, and multilayered systems of
oppression.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have the freedom to be out, to live an open
and authentic life as a queer identified Two Spirit person, </span><span style="font-size: large;">while others must
live in stealth to keep their jobs, their homes, and their lives.</span></span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">With all of these things held preciously,
I close and hope that this provides an opportunity for others to explore personal freedoms and contemplate independence on a personal level – I</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> offer
this prayer:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Great Spirit, Mother-Father God, Divine and Holy Love, look
upon us, your children that we may face the winds, and walk the good road. Help
us seek to be in right relationship with </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">one another and be responsive when the
world cries out. May we have deep gratitude for our freedoms and hold as
Sacred, the freedoms of others so that we may never disrespect them. Free us from small-mindedness, bless us with a deep capacity for Light and Love. Awake in us wisdom, courage, and understanding.
Equip us to walk this Earth as relatives to all that live within your creation
~ and to see your face in one another's faces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">~ Aho<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-60711275373738931392014-08-27T00:19:00.000-07:002014-08-29T16:33:45.031-07:00Cairns: Balance, Harmony & Holiness<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Recently I was at an event at an independent senior living
community. A group of local churches, and other organizations, lend support in
a variety of ways to this vibrant community. The event included a worship service;
my friend Carrie shared a message, which included a reflection on cairn
building.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Listening to that message inspired me to build a healing cairn. During this message, Carrie stepped into the </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">stream with me, handed me the first
rock, saying: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“trust me, it will be – amazing!”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Before I wade farther into the stream, a bit of background
on cairn building seems appropriate. Cairn building has become a popular
activity recently, but the history of intentional rock stacking is ancient.
People have stacked rocks forever. Cairns can be found on the Tibetan Plateau, on
the Inca road in the Andes, on the Mongolian steppe, series of cairns cross
deserts on three continents. The Inuit people of the North American artic
construct stone monuments called Inuksuk, these human shaped rock structures have
been built for thousands of years. Cairns of all kinds have been erected and
strategically placed for navigation, as spiritual offerings, or as remembrances.
Intentional heaps of stone occur in almost every landscape that has loose rock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Carrie talked about some of the ways in which the building
of cairns is amazing. “When you balance rocks on one another, its an incredible
experience because you can suddenly FEEL when the balance has been achieved.
You know it - you can feel it!” As I was listening, I traveled on the stream of
her words, to the stream where I would build my cairn; I saw a clear image in
my mind of this taking place. My words here will call the folks who will be
helpers in manipulating specific emotional / spiritual rocks with the intention
of balancing – seeking that harmonic congruence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Much like Carrie said, Spirit is always pushing me to look
into myself, my heart, my desires, my motivations, sometimes it takes the hand
of our Divine Beloved on my chin to gently turn my face toward the mirror. If I
can be honest in these moments – I can ask myself “what are you DOING Lynn? How
in the world, does this (the “this” of the moment) align, with who you were
created to be, with who you are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Called</i>
to be? In some of those moments, the answer is “it doesn’t… not even a little
bit!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I believe there is one path, which is experienced in vastly
different ways by different cultures. We all walk, dance, scoot, crawl, and
stumble our way along this path. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It is the path to Spirit, to the Holy Love in the Center of
All That Is. I experience this journey as a search for those moments of
congruence, that agreement between my lived experience and what Spirit wants of
me. Those moments of congruence, might be called moments of balance, harmony or
holiness. Moments that every speck of me exalts "YES!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Congruence is a state of agreement, when you are physically
building a cairn with rocks, when you place one rock atop another, there is
that moment of which Carrie spoke when you feel the congruence happen, there is
a shift from instability to harmonic congruence between the rocks – a moment
when they agree to support each other and the whole structure in this way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When I am out of balance, when my cairn goes all wobbly, and
falls into the stream with a horrifying ker-splash… then I have two choices,
scamper upstream and just look at the dragonflies – pretending that my cairn
has not just fallen into ruin… and/or that it doesn’t matter - or examine the
thing that has just happened – figure out why, mobilize the folks I need to
help, do the heavy lifting, and pray them back into balance. So what I’m doing here is recalling the words
I heard in a different sermon, in which my pastor said, “remember, there is as
much Grace in the stumbling as there is in running swiftly.” I offer prayers of
gratitude for THAT, and I get to work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">What are the things that knock us out of that state of harmony
and holiness, out of balance? For me at least, its so much easier if I can
think that what puts me out of balance comes from outside of me – all of the
crazy out of control factors out THERE!. Our culture has infused us with the
habit of mind of looking elsewhere for the cause, the source, who is to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">blame</i> for us being off balance – and to
avoid looking in the mirror. It’s so much easier, when I don’t have to look inside
myself… if I can just get rid of these things [wild gestures to something way
over <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">there</i>]… everything will be
alright. You know, if I can just get rid of that stuff, I can find that balance
– achieve that state of holiness and harmony again. Many teachings point to the
giant flaw in all of that, the truth being that <u>my</u> state of disequilibrium, <u>my</u>
inability to build my cairn, isn’t about what’s out there, what other people
do, think, feel, or bring, <u>its about what is happening within my own heart – my
own spirit</u>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">To do this work, to build a cairn that is testament to my
spiritually infused Isness, the resiliency of my spirit, my ability to hold the
tension of things that make no sense, things that break my heart, things that
make me angry, or leave me feeling inadequate, a cairn that stands as reminder
of who I am – I will need some help. This is community project <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>f’realz. I’ll need a few helpers along the
banks, y’all can cheer me on, sing your traditional songs, chant, tap out a
rhythm, or splash your toesies in the cool water… but some of y’all are gunna have
to get your happy asses in the water with me – to help with the heavy lifting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Carrie was good enough to hand me this first rock. It is
lovely, amber coloured, big, solid – and definitely a two-person rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we stand ankle deep in the water and settle
it solidly on the riverbed, four hands shift it side to side, to let it hunker
down good and solid. This rock stands for my past and the tenuous peace I have
made with it. I am the person I am, partly because of my experiences. It will
never be okay that I experienced the horrors that I have. However, being a
survivor has equipped me to be fully present with folks going through or reliving
trauma, to offer an ear and a shoulder, scope out resources, help pick a path
through the gnarly undergrowth, or “go all Southside” whatever Spirit asks of
me in that situation. Thanks friend, for the good solid start here. I wander
upstream, feeling for rocks. It’s not so much of seeing the right rock for this
spiritual cairn, but of feeling it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The next rock, is rather blue/burgundy with a vein of quartz
running diagonally across its face, as soon as my foot touched it, I felt the
energy there and knew it to be the next piece. I worked quite a little bit to
pull it free from the riverbed. This rock is much more than meets the eye on
first glance. I finally heft it out of the stream, as crawdads skitter away
from underneath. I feel the dual nature of this solid piece of the Earth
element. This is a Two Spirit Rock if ever one existed. The thin vein of quartz
that twists across the rock’s flat edge, is not a solid line, but dashed. Delineating
a distinction, but not a barrier between the two aspects that coexist therein. A team of Ninjas - scampered from the banks unseen (hello - Ninjas) and were zipping around as this rock was approached and identified - and lifted from the water. Arriving at my foundation rock, I say prayers of gratitude for this aspect of
me, this next component of my cairn (and for my Ninjas). Setting the Two Spirit rock atop the first
one, I gently scoot it around letting the rocks get to know each other, and ask
them to tell me, where their fulcrum of congruence lies. Oh! There, slightly
off center, is the balance point they have agreed upon. Two essential pieces,
past and identity are in harmony. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;">[Note: My way of representing this rock draws from an actual rock I lifted from Mother Ocean]</span>.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0loBlNgwEPlnLhMPI3moA5W3B9yD7VqoxOvhnlR5iGZdpT3tPK1oPhzSZ5f4Ct2vzkf7o-0enFQ5E3osmwyAu2pYA7yFaYGshCw7MaPJfwFYGAOcVOdhnpaA2Tp88NC_3_p1DgxIGmtU/s1600/photo+(12).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0loBlNgwEPlnLhMPI3moA5W3B9yD7VqoxOvhnlR5iGZdpT3tPK1oPhzSZ5f4Ct2vzkf7o-0enFQ5E3osmwyAu2pYA7yFaYGshCw7MaPJfwFYGAOcVOdhnpaA2Tp88NC_3_p1DgxIGmtU/s1600/photo+(12).JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My spouse has been exploring the banks, and calls me over.
“Honey! check this out” she says, and points to an exquisite rock with many colors and
splotches. "whaddya think?" Flakes of mica catch the light like tiny mirrors, reflecting the
dappled sunlight. Together we lift the relationship rock in place and working
as one, find that spot of alignment, of sacred agreement and the rock stands
shining waiting to see what comes next. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The next rock was so surprising, wide and sturdy, looking
remarkably like a turtle tucked into its shell. This one called to me, and
commanded attention, insisting I pick it up. This is the rock of my Call – shaped
like a turtle, a symbol of Creator, this rock, nearly laid herself on the
cairn, the pull to the place of congruence was magnetic, unquestioned, solid. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Alright… you over there – swatting and cursing at the “cloud
of a million gnats” and pointing at a rock – roll up those dockers, and come over
and help me - wouldja?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This one, is <u>ours</u> to
manage. Initially we work in lovely companionship, taking this rock whose
oddball shape, and wild colours drew your attention, and I eagerly agreed on this choice. We
talk and we laugh as we look for the sweet spot, that balancing place, and
suddenly, all I see is a retreating form. In my distraction I feel the full weight of the rock in my hands, the rock slips, slices my hand as I try to prevent the
dislodging, it bashes my knee a good one as it splashes into the stream. So
many points of focus at once, on the unbelievable sight of the departure, on my
throbbing knee, on the drops of blood swirling into the stream. Initially, I
just cry, and massage my hurt places – but before long – I’m also angry. I
shout up the riverbed - “Hey! You <u>said</u> you were in this for keeps - you <u>said</u>…
“no matter what!” My voice trails off and in the silence that follows, I
realize I have to do it myself… the best I have is what I learned of rock
lifting from this amazing guy - there's been much learning from this fabulous creature who sparkles with what I’ll call holiness – and
pray like crazy that I can find the place of congruence in all of <b><u>THIS</u></b>, and
hope I haven’t seen the last of this unique person from whom I’ve learned
so much, this person, I recognized on sight, this person I love dearly. I take some calming breaths as I hold in one
hand the gift of having that in my life for a time, and the hurt and anger over
this stupid gaping hole in the other. I get the bless-ed rock to into its place
of harmony with the others, but feel so off-balance inside. I just keep
looking at it – hurting and angry and bruised, muttering. There’s a hole, in
this work I am doing now, and a vacancy on my team of healers that is shaped in
a very particular way, and that… friends and neighbors – sucks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I thank our Divine Beloved for this interesting piece I am
putting at the top of this particular cairn. It is singularly beautiful in its
defiance of the expected, one hardly ever sees a rock that is shaped like this,
not chiseled or shaped by people hands, but <u>by its very nature</u> it is formed
defiantly different. I am grateful for the solidity of this one’s shape, for
the heft of it, and for the way that even though the rock beneath is so
differently contoured in comparison, it seems eager to find balance with its
peer. Somehow the contours of this rock, fit my scraped up hand – and paired
like that… we get the job done. I offer grateful prayers for the presence and companionship of this one. After the crazy effort and emotion of the
previous rockwork, finding and settling this one in place with such ease and
comfort, helps achieve that harmonic balance, of which this whole cairn was to
be the embodiment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">As I stand and look at the water swirling around this piece,
one of many cairns I am to build… I feel a sense of peace that no matter what
actions or emotions played into the placement of any one rock… the whole is
supported by the harmony, the congruence, the agreement to coexist, that the
constituent pieces have achieved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I love and embrace each piece of this work; I see the
outrageous beauty of each rock – and the beauty in the unbelievable agreement
at which they have arrived. I see the rocks that have scraped me. I see the
ones that are healing stones. I must believe in the integrity of the whole – or
this living work of harmonic holiness will splash into the stream, denying that
harmony amoung such diversity is even possible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I believe in the radical power of Spirit to guide me as I
build cairns to serve as monuments, spiritual markers, and guideposts on my
bold journey towards Grace. I believe that it WILL be amazing – every time. I
believe that each moment of balance – is holy. I believe that no matter what…
when I am battered and bruised and collapse to the ground – I’ll receive
comfort and encouragement, and when the voice says “now get up” – I will get
up, and resume the work I have been Called to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">~ Aho ~<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">P.S : </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">There are so many cairns to be built... but this work is a solid beginning. Alive, aware, and motivated - the work continues.</span></div>
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Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-78302412516247513182014-08-10T14:56:00.005-07:002014-08-10T14:59:54.922-07:00A "Brautigan"<span style="background-color; color: #e06666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In other words, a poem in the style of Richard Brautigan, not by him:</span><br />
<span style="background-color"><span style="color: #e06666;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><b>Rage</b></span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">Rage is an ill-planned vacation</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">Nothing to pack</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">Nowhere to go</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">The </span><span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 13px;">train</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">Has already left</span></span></span></span>Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-68536778868426967042014-08-02T22:33:00.000-07:002014-08-02T22:38:39.369-07:00Ode To The Best Dog Ever<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCGEsWTIvqOQWLTzD-OhlEr4beDpX6ffgS01BDVsD0NEn3EYUpFap2FHLQh3Y00JRxSbv6bVkR4OoMExSsUcE5ySwzdDMFtMGnBohLxv8-aeN8PeFXN9akssEOcmS22kXx8mCNYeAjdwr/s1600/Chief3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCGEsWTIvqOQWLTzD-OhlEr4beDpX6ffgS01BDVsD0NEn3EYUpFap2FHLQh3Y00JRxSbv6bVkR4OoMExSsUcE5ySwzdDMFtMGnBohLxv8-aeN8PeFXN9akssEOcmS22kXx8mCNYeAjdwr/s1600/Chief3.jpg" height="138" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Chief was born on our farm almost 15 years ago (Sept 19th). His parents were farm dogs ~ HE is a farm dog. Chief is catahoula / lab mix. Chief's mom, Dixie, was pure catahoula, his dad, Bear, was a lab mix - but looked like every pureblooded black lab you ever saw. When this litter was born, my spouse, Jen selected Chief as a pup she wanted to keep. So when the pups were weaned and adopted out to other homes, Chief stayed. Chief was not a chained dog, he was a dog that lived outside, had an enclosure he slept in at night and was free ranging for most of the day. We worked with him to learn his boundaries and he was a quick study. He loved tagging after us as we went about life on the farm. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We live on a 29 acre farm, so there's a lot of investigating, a lot of patrolling that needs to be accomplished in the course of a dog's day.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> One day, Chief wandered in the wrong direction, crossed his boundary, and found himself in the road, and was hit by a pick up truck. He was rushed to the vet who told us he would live, but may well lose his left front leg. He </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">could not extend that foot enough to get the pads on the ground, therefore he </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">dragged the top side of that foot on the ground. Chief had a crack in his shoulder blade, and possible neurological damage to the leg. The vet gave us options ranging from taking our boy to Purdue (we live in Indiana, huge Vet school at Purdue University) - and maybe they could save his leg. We looked at each other knowing we could not afford the Purdue vet school surgery bill, and asked about other options. The other option was, take him home, crate him, keep him calm and immobile for a while, only out of the crate for food and potty breaks. We were so sure, that Chief would 100% hate this, he was a bouncing off the walls ball of energy (If you know Chief - stop laughing, he really WAS). The crate seemed the most viable option, and against the odds, Chief recovered quite nicely, he was able to use his front paw again, and walked with a limpish gait for a while. He never did regain fine motor control over that leg though, if he is playing with you, its rather like a club he wields</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">, than an actual living appendage as far as control is concerned. During his convalescence - Chief became a house dog, and a housedog he has remained. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGM1CTo4zzD5FtJvCEw4nwlCtNEze_ojHRBoUBZVznrcrzhjiE2owHOAF-OphO295itYRyUATcv_ahOGdMBh2kBBLeW6u7-EgLVUG8Tm56ju7clKvsub2NKhak3bbsznk7Rl2qWODHL1C/s1600/chiefy_snownose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSGM1CTo4zzD5FtJvCEw4nwlCtNEze_ojHRBoUBZVznrcrzhjiE2owHOAF-OphO295itYRyUATcv_ahOGdMBh2kBBLeW6u7-EgLVUG8Tm56ju7clKvsub2NKhak3bbsznk7Rl2qWODHL1C/s1600/chiefy_snownose.jpg" height="215" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Chief loves his life on the farm, he absolutely must help with whatever we are doing, fixing fences, digging in fenceposts, moving animals around, landscaping... he is right there, helping. Of course to the casual observer, it might look like the dog is totally crashed out in the grass near the job site, but rest assured, he's helping. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZFu-d-DwdtxBMUGewryFwaT1025ASmtZH_qi_Z3MYcG3Wi3zqiiz7c5j3sTofZ3k5jjKTbCbKCaj0JCdg2bSPo0GGWylDioQtIXQNPOY6dLxhIBOZWDBO9IsAsBFNUk_1jhZvgfAsUSgp/s1600/AyaChiefSleep2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZFu-d-DwdtxBMUGewryFwaT1025ASmtZH_qi_Z3MYcG3Wi3zqiiz7c5j3sTofZ3k5jjKTbCbKCaj0JCdg2bSPo0GGWylDioQtIXQNPOY6dLxhIBOZWDBO9IsAsBFNUk_1jhZvgfAsUSgp/s1600/AyaChiefSleep2.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Chief has always been fantastic with the kids, the grandkids, and visitors to our home. He lets the kids lay all over him, dress him up, put barrettes in his hair - actually clipped to his skin. One dress up episode he had a row of tiny claw clips running over the top of his head, he totally looked like a Klingon! He just looked at us while his beloved Ayanna inflicted this on him - as if to say "really? geez make her stop would ya?" Never a snarl, a snap, or a growl. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Chief has so many fans, people who know him personally, people who have walked with him on charity event walks, and, people who have only seen him on Facebook. He is a dog of many names. Chief, Chef, Chiefy, Weefy, Weefles, The Chiefster, Sparky, and The Original Log Dog. Chief's temperament is amazing, he has seen so many animals come and go from this house... dogs and cats that have been fostered or nursed back to health. Hedgehogs and birds that have lived here... a fawn that lived in our house for a couple of months and swore Chief was its mother. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJ6F13M8GrFlQvEtpw4p8x96avXT1DRx9Al93fzXwOSxzIL7Eq7LS_EtXAU8X7xDuMXjD5tDaJCmvsUXxWFwApNQPIe2kGEGFQEB1EzrZCfSurQ3rk0hbZeDmVyjW9SkQ8zeP58LeJSBB/s1600/1909546_1119090174604_7235315_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJ6F13M8GrFlQvEtpw4p8x96avXT1DRx9Al93fzXwOSxzIL7Eq7LS_EtXAU8X7xDuMXjD5tDaJCmvsUXxWFwApNQPIe2kGEGFQEB1EzrZCfSurQ3rk0hbZeDmVyjW9SkQ8zeP58LeJSBB/s1600/1909546_1119090174604_7235315_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Baby goats who came in when they needed TLC after a rough entry to the world. Down in our barn, we have rabbits - as in - we raise rabbits. Every now and then, a kit will get out of its cage, and be aimlessly wandering around on the floor... Chief picks it up in his mouth, very gently, and brings it to us - unharmed - all dog slobbered up - so we can get it back where it belongs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Over the past year or so the old boy has really slowed down (that's why I started calling him Sparky in truth). He's having more and more trouble getting up, his hind quarters are not very sound any more. Chief is rather lumpy in his old age, with growths of various sizes in multiple locations. The vet says they are fatty tumors and removal would be more traumatic than helpful. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Our sweet boy is getting grumpy, he and the other dog, a 5 yr old pug named Olive, were having words almost every night over nothing. There are times, when you look in his eyes, it just looks like no one is at home there. I think that doggie dementia is setting in. He has meds to keep his pain under control, but about 2 weeks ago, he just stopped being cooperative about pilling. We tried it all, cheese, hot dogs, liver sausage, mixing in his food. He just would.not.take.them. If we tried the bit of pushing it down his throat, even though the pill really went DOWN... he tried like the devil to hack it back up. He did.not.want.it! So we kept on with the liquid med that he doesn't mind, and just stopped the pills. We could see his pain level increase. His tolerance for Olive, and the feline housemates, went to near zero. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The vibrant bouncy 90 lb ball of exuberant loyalty, was fading out and the situation was untenable. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A week ago, we made an appointment to have our devoted companion euthanized... that appointment was cancelled earlier this week, due to a death in our human family. Saying goodbye to both of these beloveds at the same time was more than we could deal with. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Its been interesting, since the appointment was cancelled, I happened on a way to pill him that is working. Now Chief seems more present with us, he looks like he is "at home" in his eyes, and the nightly quarrels with Olive have ceased. I had him outside with me yesterday as I was doing chores and he kinda scampered part way to the house.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx2JlJhyJSJai2KgHbs-hAfJSl8BIsgTVEI5l5BcNcW0nEMWnVLrSDp8xH9cZueX1H5kPhVFVKxlfUPVUi-iqIv4OwtWSAm4CeVK9ToagzoI-7TCWP81sLvtLLFN32UJH7oge3Zsh7IMLp/s1600/chiefy_selfie2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx2JlJhyJSJai2KgHbs-hAfJSl8BIsgTVEI5l5BcNcW0nEMWnVLrSDp8xH9cZueX1H5kPhVFVKxlfUPVUi-iqIv4OwtWSAm4CeVK9ToagzoI-7TCWP81sLvtLLFN32UJH7oge3Zsh7IMLp/s1600/chiefy_selfie2.JPG" height="182" width="200" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It is so hard ( #impossible ) - to know when it is truly time. My spouse is so bonded with this dog, and he to her... that I know it will be a devastating scene, this parting. I love him too, he's been with us his entire life and he seriously is THE BEST DOG EVER. He was born on this farm, and when it is time, he will be laid to rest here. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> As I type, the old boy is crashed out on the floor, and I wish that he could just go peacefully in his sleep... sparing us the decision, and sparing him the trauma of loading up and traveling for that final vet visit.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I guess the point of me doing this writing ~ is to stand as witness to the life of an amazing dog, an amazing friend. I have no idea - how we will do this when the time comes. no.idea.whatsoever.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-31542548514817767462014-05-28T11:01:00.003-07:002014-08-10T14:28:35.315-07:00Shared Spirit / Parting GiftsThis is a Re-Posting, by request:<br />
~ ~ ~ ~ ~<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">I
used to be on the writing staff of a blog called <u>Our Big Gayborhood</u> – <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote a piece about Cindy, But that blog is
no longer online, so I couldn’t send you a link – I have the document in my
archive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">My
relationship with Cindy is unique there is shared spirit, shared knowing that
isn’t really explainable, and an ability to feel what the other is
feeling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That sounds – and is wonderful,
but wonderful… isn’t all it ever is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">When
I was eight years old, I received an unexpected gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her name was Cindy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Aunt June had passed away 2 years
previous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Uncle Les married Aunt
Arlene, Cindy and her brother John, joined our family. Cindy and I were the
same age. From our first meeting, we just clicked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t take long before we were co-spirits.
Cindy had five brothers, no sisters and always wanted one. Although my given
name is Linda, and am Lynn to my family and friends… Cindy dubbed me “Lindy”
creating the dynamic duo of “Lindy and Cindy.” No one before or since, has ever
called me Lindy. As we grew up we remained confidants, co-conspirators and to
say we were close is such an understatement! We shared spirit. Our family had a
tradition that amoung the three families of cousins, we could take turns
staying in pairs at our Grandma’s house, but the rule was <u>never</u> could it
be two from the same household.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
always… Lindy and Cindy that paired up. During one such visit, we forgot to
shut the back door and a blackbird got in the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grandma chased that bird from curtain rod to
windowsill, upstairs and down throughout the Chicago bungalow with a broom, as
we laughed and we laughed and we laughed!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Normally our little Dutch Reformed Grandma was pretty reserved, but she
was LIVID! She would quit the chase - every so often - long enough to chastise
us - enunciating “ sit on that couch… it’s not FUNNY, stop LAUGHING” which only
made the situation MORE hilarious – we collapsed against each other on the
couch and just dissolved into each other’s laughter! For the remainder of our
lives “remember the bird” was sure to reconstitute the moment and a guarantee a
retelling of the tale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we were 15,
my father died unexpectedly. When Mom remarried, my family moved to Indiana
while Cindy’s family remained in suburban Chicagoland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even with the changing family dynamics, our
bond was unchanged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We stayed in close
contact, but didn’t see each other as often as we would have liked. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This of course was before cell phones, before
email… we would send each other long letters, or silly cards and clippings,
sometimes just one or two liners, quoting favourite lyrics, usually the
Beatles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">As
we reached adulthood, we were there for each other through marriage, Motherhood
and divorce, through celebration and despair. Cindy was there for me through
the devastating loss of my Mother, and called me every December 27<sup>th</sup>
to give me a long distance hug and let me know that it mattered to her that I
was hurting that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was there, when
her beloved brother Butch died of AIDS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
Cindy’s son Zach got into a little bit of trouble, she made the difficult
choice to send him to live with his Dad, because she felt Zach needed a male
influence… she thought she would just die without him at her side each day. I
stood with her and we breathed together and cried together and tried to figure
out the next right thing to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I
divorced and later came out, Cindy was by my side and she embraced Jen as if
she had always been in my life. That is who she is in her innermost being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we</i> are.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">There
would be days… that one or the other would just stop – in our tracks “Oh! Gotta
call Lindy / Cindy – she needs me!” and we would – and it was a lifeline
moment. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of those moments November
2005, I was furiously packing for an emergency trip to California – my son Josh
had been in a horrible accident and I had planned to call Cindy from the
airport. She called with “what’s going on… is Josh okay?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I nearly lost my son to that accident, and
Cindy was an amazing source of support. That is who we have always been to each
other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Cindy’s
hadn’t been feeling herself for some time, but had kept it from me because of
Josh’s situation… she continued to work full time at a low paying job with no
health care benefits. Uncle Les had a sudden stroke in December 2005, and
although she was increasingly certain that something was amiss with her own
health, postponed pursuing answers because in her words “this is Dad’s time.” At
the funeral, I made her promise she would go to the doctor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One look told me things were not right with my
Cindy. When the dust had settled after the funeral, she went.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember the call, and hearing her tell me
“it’s ovarian cancer Lindy, stage 3, they need to do surgery, then I need to
get on public assistance. I don’t have any insurance and the treatments are
really expensive.” Cindy employed the tenacity of a bulldog and the patience of
a Saint cutting through the bureaucratic bullshit, and she got it all arranged.
I prayed for insight and skill on the part of the doctors, for energy and
healing for Cindy, and for an understanding of what I could do to help her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">After
the surgery, while she recovered, we talked constantly, and I took on a new
role.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She turned to me to research
treatments that were being proposed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cindy didn’t have a computer and proclaimed herself to be
technologically illiterate. It was easier for her to have me find stuff and
funnel it to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when the doctors
would propose a new chemo cocktail, she’d get the names of the drugs and call
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d search out the most accurate and
up-to-date information I could find and get it to her via fax or snail mail. It
helped her to know what to expect going into her treatments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It helped me to feel like I was helping her
walk this difficult path in some way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cindy confided in me how long and boring the infusion sessions were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I offered an iPod, but Cindy thought it sounded
complicated, so I bought her a personal CD player and commenced making CDs of
music that she liked to help her pass the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I combed by digital collection for songs that spoke of life and love,
songs from the profound to the silly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
compiled an assortment of musical journeys to help her pass the time and to
help her feel my presence during her treatments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Over
the course of three years, hope waxed and waned. What a blessed gift the summer
of 2008 was! Cindy got to share some great adventures with her son Zach, even
tooling around on Zach’s bike a time or two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She LIVED for that boy, that they had this wonderful time together was so
awesome!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was feeling good, and her
counts were in a good place. My prayers at this time were those of thanks for
the healing and the good times Cindy was experiencing with her son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Zachary was her life, she would move Heaven
and Earth for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">From the time of her
diagnosis, Cindy asked me to be there for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“You’ll know what I need, when I need it… you always do” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I sure didn’t always feel like I
knew, looking at it now, I suppose I did. As various treatments did not bring
about the result we all prayed for, she called on me again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Lindy” she said “I can’t talk to Zach about
this – I don’t want to hurt him any deeper, and I don’t want him to worry, and
I <u>don’t</u> want him to feel he has to come home!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Zach was in Austria as part of a prestigious
international education program.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
continued “I can’t talk to Bill (her fiancé), I can’t talk to Mom… they won’t
LET me talk about death, and I really, really need to, can you come?” We made a
date and I went.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Driving to Chicago I
prayed, I asked for Cindy to be blessed with healing, but if that was not gunna
happen, I prayed for more good days than bad, and minimal pain. I prayed for
days of sunshine, and the physical ability to be out amoung her flowers. When I
got there, we talked about death, we talked about fear, we talked about faith,
and we talked about love. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She asked me
to help with some household chores, changing throw rugs, and scooping the cat
boxes and stuff, and then she asked me to do a very difficult thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cindy asked me to help her get out her
jewelry boxes, and to pick out something for myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside I was screaming, part of me wanted to
run from that apartment, get in my car and drive far away from all of it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that was not what she needed; so we went
into her room, laid stuff out on the bed and lounged around together as we
picked out a turquoise and coral ring that she called “twisted sister.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said “Look Lindy, I’m the turquoise,
you’re the coral, and we are all twisted together.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hugged and we cried and cried. She said
she was going to wear it for a while, load it up with her energy, and then tag
it for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I assured her that I was in
NO hurry and we laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We actually
laughed… in relief I think, that even this… could not keep us from being the
giggle twins that you see in the picture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then she asked me to look at what she had picked out as her funeral
clothes. [internal scream “RUN – run from this place!”] <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She held up the swirled blue and green skirt
and made it swish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I always felt like a
butterfly in this, I know it’s too big now, but they’ll make it work.” I told
her it was beautiful and perfect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We put
everything away, and went to grab some lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was exhausted by that point in the day, but wanted to get out into
the sunshine and fresh air, so we hit the drive thru at Taco Bell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will carry, all of my days the spirit
memory of her leaning over as we waited in line to pay and go, and saying “Thank
you for today – for always being my Lindy. I’ll ALWAYS be with you Lindy!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Over
the next several weeks Cindy’s condition continued to deteriorate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We talked on the phone often and Jen and I
went to see her at the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m so
scared Lindy” she whispered as I hugged her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She didn’t want her Mom, my Aunt Arlene who was sitting at the foot of
the bed, to hear. “Me too Cindy” I replied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We held each other and cried so hard we shook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aunt Arlene said “what are you girls laughing
about NOW” which did make us laugh and we cried in unison “the BIRD!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hospice came in and Cindy went home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wanted to be at home amoung her flowers,
and with her beloved Bill, and with her cats. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those last days, Cindy and Bill exchanged vows;
they were never able to marry. Bill was self-employed, with no benefits, but
his income would have made Cindy ineligible for the assistance that paid for
her treatments and for hospice care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">One
Tuesday afternoon Cindy called with an update.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She said that the hospice nurse was concerned about her rapid weight
loss. “I’m a stick, Lindy, and I hurt so bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m just so scared Lindy, don’t tell Bill I said that, he worries so
much as it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re going to try a
different medication to help with the pain, so give me a day to let that kick
in, then call me on Thursday… we’ll schedule a visit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You give Jen a big hug for me and tell her I
love her for making you so happy… I love you Lindy!” I told her that I loved
her and assured her that I would call on Thursday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My prayers shifted again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I prayed for it to be over, for her suffering
to end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked our Divine Beloved to
take my Cindy home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt like a shit
to be praying that… but it seemed to be what she needed and I had run out of
prayers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I called again on Thursday
evening – I was on my way home from teaching a night class – I often called on
the drive home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bill answered. I was alone
in the car, on my cell and driving. I asked him how he was, he mumbled
something I couldn’t even make out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
asked “hey is Cindy awake, can I talk to her?” “Honey, Cindy’s gone, she died
this morning” he blurted out. “I’ve been on the phone all day, I thought Mom
called you” was his reply. That call on May 28, 2009 changed my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">I
don’t remember the rest of the drive home. I could have been teleported home
for all I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I walked in the
door, Jen took one look at me and knew something was wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told her about the call and we clung to
each other as we each poured out our grief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I walked into the funeral home a few days later, Aunt Arlene
accosted me, and said “I have something for you, Cindy made me come and get it
near the end – it was SO important to her, if I forget to give it to you,
she’ll kick my ass!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was of course,
the twisted sister, with a little paper tag hanging from it that simply said
“Lindy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I had bariatric surgery 3 days after we said Toksa
Ake (until next time) to my dear co-spirit. This pic is from one of our last
visits, Cindy was very sick, so was I, just differently so. When I admitted to
the hospital they asked how I was doing, the usual questions. I didn't tell
them I was emotionally and spiritually devastated. I didn't want any of my
medical team to think I was too unstable for the surgery. I realize now that
the buttoning up I did at that time was not without repercussions. Of course I
grieved for Cindy in those first days, I mourned my loss, I cried and I wailed,
I wrote and I raged right up until the morning of surgery, but then I had to
just bottle it all up and put it AWAY, at least until I came home. Once I was
home, it hit me hard! My loss, the endless well of grief related to her passing,
the feeling of having part of my spirit yanked out – were not great tools for
healing from major surgery. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">All of those
emotions are still.right.there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">There are times that
I cannot make my brain REALLY comprehend that a world exists without Cindy's
physical self in it. It hurts my heart... daily. At the most unpredictable
times, it just wells up and bubbles over and leaves me as hollowed out as a
jack-o-lantern.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">I
cherish the twisted sister, and have it on always, but the gift I cherish more
is the gift of walking alongside Cindy as she faced her biggest challenge, and
helped her meet her death, on HER terms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That is a rare and precious thing, and a thing that changes those who
walk that path… forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">When
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flew away with her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt;">“Blackbird
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life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-71772589095193529952014-01-20T08:07:00.002-08:002014-01-20T08:14:02.093-08:00What Does It Take?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0AWDxBWbzxwq0WvZWCnKJYoa7qwes4Z0q_aATXqIhOwZBtRcR3879H9Ji0wGuw63cVv6ulsRNcyYNE5h8Wn7P_C8Av7i7HNP9GAyg_yR_IkNxh84F1hisaszHFfCMy8cPy4PRcIqrO7Gk/s1600/hands-around-the-globe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0AWDxBWbzxwq0WvZWCnKJYoa7qwes4Z0q_aATXqIhOwZBtRcR3879H9Ji0wGuw63cVv6ulsRNcyYNE5h8Wn7P_C8Av7i7HNP9GAyg_yR_IkNxh84F1hisaszHFfCMy8cPy4PRcIqrO7Gk/s1600/hands-around-the-globe.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Today is day 3 of the 30 Days of Love campaign. This is a space of opportunity, by <a href="http://standingonthesideoflove.org/" target="_blank">Standing on the Side of Love,</a> where people are reflecting, contemplating, writing and harnessing our passion to bring about peace, justice, and reconciliation by mobilizing the tremendous power of love to bring about change. Todays topic of reflection is considering a <span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: center;">world where the human family lives whole and reconciled. I have been journaling each day, but wanted to lift up todays reflection here. Today is the Martin Luther King Jr holiday. A day when we remember, and lift up the myriad ways in which Dr. King lived into the possibility - and affirmed the inherent nature of the human family. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: center;">The human family is - in my belief - whole and reconciled by nature. It is how we are made... we are unified in that we are of the same Source. The Holy Love in the Center of All That Is - is the taproot of the human family, and all of us - ALL of Us - have sprouted from this root and are nurtured by it. In this reality - we are whole - we are reconciled. When I live in this truth, when I am able to breathe in the peace of that and connect to my human siblings, known to me and not known to me - I am uplifted, I am encouraged. There have been so many people, places and events that remind me that this is so. Living in wholeness and reconciliation with the kaleidoscopic points of brilliance embodied as my human family - is connecting in the most basic yet the most beautifully complicated way. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: center;">There is another perspective that comes to me in this contemplation, and it bears examination. Watching the news, or scanning my social media feeds can be like being steeped in toxins. There is never a shortage of stories of suffering, division, and dysfunction in the human family. It is easy to become jaded, to be cynical and to believe that we are built for conflict, that turning upon our sacred siblings - is just what we do. Mayhem and chaos are at the center of what the media and our fellow beings serve up for our consideration. Detailed accounts of shootings, trafficking of people and substances, imbalances of power and privilege, and the obscene extremes of wealth and poverty form the core of the information stream with which we are bombarded.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: center;">I examine each of these today - these two seemingly polar opposite views. As I hold the tension of knowing that each is real - the question emerges - "what is the essential difference between the two?" </span><span style="text-align: center;">For me the difference is a matter of what we do with our armour.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: center;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: center;">Woven into the fabric of the human family, are threads of conflict, strife, anger, hatred and fear. There are two ways to respond to that reality - either by "perfecting" our ability to armour ourselves - or by doing the very hard work of creating, nurturing and growing spaces into which we can step with all our vulnerability, and set aside our armour.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: center;">The history of the human family has often brought us into violent interaction, a dynamic where we hurt one another. In an effort to avoid being hurt we have woven a complex fabric of defenses - we have been trained towards - and equipped for - battle. By donning thicker, tougher, and more sophisticated armour and by wielding a numbing arsenal of weapons - blades, guns, resources and privileges - </span><span style="text-align: center;">we lock ourselves into a certain dynamic - where we stand in our armour - and brace for the conflict. When we take this position, </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: center;">we find ourselves at a place of great separation from our sacred siblings, and</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: center;"> work in opposition to reconciliation. </span></span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When our arms are full - of the things we have been trained to believe - keep us safe - we cannot pick up tools that forge relationship - we cannot open our arms to embrace. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I believe that our common connection to the Source - the All - is imbedded in the very core of who we are. Are we bold enough, to actively look for that in others - to see that Presence in their faces? Can we access our innate fierceness - and unfold? Not if we are standing in full armour, weapons in hand - daring the world to strike. I think we can be fiercely loving of one another. I believe we can be wildly inclusive and work boldly together. I know we can, I've seen it, I've experienced it. If we desire wholeness and reconciliation, we must have the ability to move, and arms that are open. We must be vulnerable, and find ways in which, we can set aside the armour, and open our arms to the reconciliation and wholeness that only openness and lovingkindness can achieve.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">~ ~ ~</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Will you let your armor crack, and let the light shine through, can you see it streaming out, as well as into you?" (Terry Gonda)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: center;"><br /></span></span>Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-24428608162073459802013-11-25T09:30:00.003-08:002013-11-25T09:35:35.764-08:00Contemplating the West...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial; text-align: left;">As I prepare my spirit-self for a ceremony that
will take place in the spring, I have been mentally attending to various
details, unfolding… relaxing into the open space within me and just seeing what
comes. These contemplations have tended to align with the earth elements, and
medicine wheel teachings, and how each one of these will manifest into the
ceremony. To call this contemplation, isn’t quite right. This is free-flowing
introspective practice, which opens the channels of insight. It is really a way
of being - with each of these aspects.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; text-align: left;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; text-align: left;">I envision them as points of light, like sparks – around which energies,
understandings and knowings – gather. For me it is a process of opening myself
– growing quiet and seeing what shows up. It’s about listening, watching –
waiting - and feeling the vibrations as connected things engage one other.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; text-align: left;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; text-align: left;">It’s about how knowings come to me. One point
of light around which there has been much activity has been the Western
direction on the medicine wheel.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinNuVKr9YhISvR0AqCkMHSkTYlmkKPx2H-ZqhEeNWQfK-wN6qPMp6kJvKOAnaDgqEtmtgWngcCtqwDTRACdlBVazyTTCF8PU9ZOQ7dNaonNzpd-vyjRy4BKJc1Z3b5fTuecF6n7pLvIax4/s1600/yin-yang-earth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinNuVKr9YhISvR0AqCkMHSkTYlmkKPx2H-ZqhEeNWQfK-wN6qPMp6kJvKOAnaDgqEtmtgWngcCtqwDTRACdlBVazyTTCF8PU9ZOQ7dNaonNzpd-vyjRy4BKJc1Z3b5fTuecF6n7pLvIax4/s320/yin-yang-earth.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The directional door through which our beloved
departed ones pass on their journey to the ancestors, is in the West.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">I have a hard-hard time with these passings.
A very.hard.time.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">When one of my beloved
people pass through the western door, if we have shared a close bond. The hole
left by their Westing – is like a vortex into which energy is drawn, into which
thought patterns flow like the cataract of Niagara. Very recently, with the
guidance and perspective of a beloved friend – immersed in his work, a wondrous
enlightenment shone through my previous experience with death journeys. Three losses
that have been devastating to me, my cousin, my Mother, and my infant
Grandson - I am experiencing them anew. Now in addition to the very real sorrow
that lives in the memory of each passing, a sense of wonderment also resides.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-size: large;">By relaxing into this open space in the West –
and feeling the vibrations as connections are made - I have this beautiful,
amazing energy flowing, the strings are thrumming with vibrations. I feel the
life-rhythms. It is totally wonderful to me, that the act of Westing, passing
away, walking on, crossing over - is a process by which our dear ones,
encounter the moment when the trappings of this Earthly existence slide away.
Societal rules, morays, constructs, and value systems are just not important
any more and we are <u>gifted</u> – with unfettered, unconstrained existence as
our essential selves. Our Isness, our Spirit gets to burst forth and move and
work and flow in ways that are simply not possible when Earthbound, and clothed
in the gift that is our body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We move
and engage in delightful entwinement with our Divine Beloved, how amazing is
that?! So the West is a totally amazing spiritual launchpad, so that’s one
aspect - I’ll call it Yin. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-size: large;">To balance the ethereal Yin – there is a very
physical, very grounded, very substantial Yang. West is where the Earth element
resides. Solidity, stability, nourishment, endurance, the sustaining force – all
of this is embodied by the Earth element. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><span style="font-size: large;">Everything.everything.everything.everything is
reliant upon Earth. This is true of each element - but Earth, especially so. Earth
is richly adorned with traces and pieces of all that has ever existed on the
planet, in one form or another. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKB7gfU1Lqgvd7vzUwYy-2RLkD4DbWAjR9uIwhU7xDAO-R8gNSZoKqOkrIElsOoa9bPlJcAerLM5h_-_DfyASgI0N2h8IriY7Ucca5UsEmpnrShn0YiK24NTJg8N-kFDNTvjjakeUtMJkP/s1600/rock_plate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKB7gfU1Lqgvd7vzUwYy-2RLkD4DbWAjR9uIwhU7xDAO-R8gNSZoKqOkrIElsOoa9bPlJcAerLM5h_-_DfyASgI0N2h8IriY7Ucca5UsEmpnrShn0YiK24NTJg8N-kFDNTvjjakeUtMJkP/s200/rock_plate.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Earth is connected to our five senses in
profound ways. If we allow ourselves the opportunity to lay very still with an
ear to the Earth, we can hear the gnawing of creatures, the vibrations of
beings in motion within, and on top of the Earth. We can hold earth in our
hands and experience through our eyes and our touch-sensing, the dampness, the
texture, the heat, the viscosity of that which we hold.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">By cradling Earth in our hands, by being
outdoors during planting or when it is raining, or as the frost is coming out
of the ground, or by digging into the rich, sweet Earth with our fingers - we
can smell the bouquet of the Earth, the complexity and the nourishment Earth
holds in her particles. We can truly smell the cycles of decay and regeneration
going on, in that moment. By chance encounters with windblown Earth, by sliding
face first to home plate, or by doing a graceless faceplant, we taste Earth.
Sometimes we taste by design – or some of us do – directly, or in particles lifted
up by tender greens and fiddleheads plucked for salad that never quite make it
to the house. Mom told me many times as a child, that we all needed a bit of
dirt to grow. Was this a testament to the merits of randomly eaten Earth, or a
witness of the life-long connection to the ground –experienced by her middle
child? I dunno. Earth is sacred to me. Truly.sacred. I always-always have a bit
of Earth – in the form of rocks, on my person, in my pocket. The lovely plate
of rocks in the picture is on my desk at work. There are rocks in each vehicle
that I drive. I have an extensive family of rocks that move in and out of my
care. It is an act of sacred connection to pass a rock that has journeyed with
me, to another beloved soul. Rocks ~ the most solid and substantial of Earth
forms, have memory.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Pebbles, stones,
rocks, boulders – carry the energy, and contain the story – of every place
they’ve ever been. The planet, the ground, the soil, the flesh of our Earth
Mother - the place where we connect to </span><u style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-large;">our</u><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"> sacred physical selves – this
is the West and it is where we all come home.</span>Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-84993858631199987522013-11-22T21:31:00.001-08:002013-11-22T21:31:27.101-08:00Early Morning Barn
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I wrote this piece several years ago: Each morning, I rise early, so many obligations
to be attended to - before even preparing for my work day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I prepare formula for Honey and Angel, the
two baby pygmy goats I am bottle feeding. They were orphaned at
three days old, we lost their Momma to a bad heat wave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a pleasantly warm bottle in the crook
of each arm my first steps outside into the new day take me through morning
mists - the morning sky holds the suggestion of an orange <span class="st">sunrise</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through my ancient choreworn sandals, my toes
are drenched in morning dew…a very good start to my day.Though sleep still clings to me, the
familiarity of routine carries the sleepwalker to the barn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Eastern and Western doors are wide open
at this time of year, so it is like still being outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the twins enjoy their breakfast, I watch
the sunrise over the distant tree line through the open Eastern door. Barn
swallows dart in and out of the open doorway - stitching flightpaths through the misty morning air. Their chirps blend with the
bleats of the big goats who would love an unscheduled meal, and the drowsy grunts of a pig rousing from her slumber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rhythmic sounds from the nursing goats another layer of sound. The sweet smell of hay, and the earthy smell of manure greet me and it is not at all unpleasant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It smells like serenity. </span>My
vantage point to greet the dawning day is an upturned milk crate, where I
sit holding goat bottles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Barn cats
swirl around my ankles, a feline interpretive dance troupe - awaiting the unlikely event… that one of the goats won’t finish her breakfast, thus blessing them with milky leftovers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The earthy smell of manure
mixes with the cool morning air and the sweet smell of hay to create the
distinct aroma of “early morning barn.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The clinking of the glass bottles breaks my reverie – the goat girls are
all done, and the barn-dancers are out of luck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They seem to sense this and wander away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fully awake and somehow refreshed, I make my
way back through the dewy grass to prepare for my work day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These two worlds - in such stark contrast - work seems mostly like I am playing a part - not written for me...</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">~ ~ ~ </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*the last line - is particularly poignant for me today*</span></div>
Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-36837119768679410862013-11-14T21:06:00.001-08:002013-11-16T21:01:52.790-08:00Prove It!<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow";"><span style="font-size: large;">Pesticide residue
carried by rainwater finds its way through the leafy canopy to the forest floor
and into the groundwater where it mixes with other compounds and has disastrous
affects on the earth’s biosphere. Similarly issues of Indigenous identity filter
down through the culture, mixing with loss of language, poverty, struggles to
continue traditional spiritual practices, and conflicts between government and
educational systems colonially imposed on tribal societies that are in direct
conflict with traditional belief systems. The cumulative effect of this toxic
cocktail is catastrophic on individuals and tribal societies. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow";"><span style="font-size: large;">Ask who is Indigenous
/ Native American / Indian, and you will get vastly different responses
depending on whom you ask. The U.S. Census Bureau, state governments, federal
government, and tribal societies all have different definitions. None of these
definitions define what an Indian i<u>s</u>, they define who is eligible for
certain services. They cannot begin to define, represent, or describe the
historical, cultural and spiritual bonds that guide me as I walk in this life.
My Indigenous identity reaches into the in-articulable parts of me. All of the
others are definitions - with an agenda.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCOySqHWoaXmFlfm-IauHHeMrkGFulWnszMvNNbkIJ6hCLXU3CLmwX6OdAJoiij_pjnkAbHFrOA43v1b-Ip4u-MvMyCQwUicXUKRSXfrXTWuun0uXKFDvqGJGrtstXz7XYeHEH-09uUIx/s1600/disappearing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCOySqHWoaXmFlfm-IauHHeMrkGFulWnszMvNNbkIJ6hCLXU3CLmwX6OdAJoiij_pjnkAbHFrOA43v1b-Ip4u-MvMyCQwUicXUKRSXfrXTWuun0uXKFDvqGJGrtstXz7XYeHEH-09uUIx/s1600/disappearing.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow";"><span style="font-size: large;">Native American / Indigenous
identity is very complex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the
purpose of the US Census anyone who claims to be an Indian <u>is</u> an Indian.
In the 2000 Census, 2.5 million people identified themselves as American
Indians, representing a 26 percent increase over the previous decade. More
people self-identify as being of American Indian descent than are enrolled in federally
recognized tribes or can prove decadence. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow";"><span style="font-size: large;">So you’ve got this
totally open concept on the census, if you claim it, name it so to speak.
However in almost any other place that you might be asked that is not the case
- you’ve got to “prove it.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s all
about having “the card.” The Certificate of Degree of Indian Blood (CDIB card).
If you are a traditional craftsperson you must have your card to identify your
goods as Native American made. To be eligible for a certain forms of financial
aid to further your education, you have to be a card carrying NDN. And only
Indigenous folks of the CDIB variety, are granted permits to possess certain
items of spiritual significance such as eagle feathers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll talk more about those feathers in a bit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow";"><span style="font-size: large;">In order to enroll
in a federally recognized tribe, you must be able to prove who you are. During
the period of Indian removal beginning in 1831 extensive records were generated
for the purpose of identifying Indian populations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These records took the form of numerous
Indian rolls (the Miller and Dawes Rolls for example).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The rolls” were used for treaties, trade, land
claims, allotments, removal, and many other purposes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During this time period there were a great
many Indian folk who were not willing to stand up and say, “yes, I’m an Indian!”
Who can blame our ancestors for being reticent? Past interactions with the
society “taking attendance,” had been marked with cruelty, inequity, deception
and suspicion to say the very least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
that time, in some jurisdictions people were arrested, convicted and
incarcerated (or worse) simply for BEING Indian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In many places self-identifying as Indian was
suicidal!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is tragically ironic that
once we were asked to self-identify and were persecuted for that, to the point
that people denied their own heritage to survive. Today our very identity is
called into question.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow";"><span style="font-size: large;">While
self-identification as Indian is much easier today, a person may be unable to
enroll if their amount of Indian blood falls under their tribal society’s blood
quantum requirements; or if the tribal society from which they descend never
attained or has subsequently lost its federally recognized status. There are
plenty of Indian folks walking around today who belong to “non-existent” tribal
societies - according to the federal government. Although each tribal society
defines its own enrollment requirements, the federal government decides what
Indian nations exist and which do not. Part of the criteria for federal
recognition is that there are membership criteria. Many tribes include blood
quantum as one of the criteria. In this system, non-Indian is the default, and <u>everyone</u>
is approaching non-Indianness. A family line can get more non-Indian, but not
more Indian. In setting up rigid requirements for federal recognition and CDIB
cards, a mechanism for defining Indians out of existence has been established.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Indigenous people marry mixed bloods or
non-Indians, blood quantum diminishes in each subsequent generation. The fewer
members with adequate blood quantum, the fewer enrolled members the tribe has,
when this reaches a certain point, the tribe may lose its federally recognized
status.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When that happens to tribal
society after tribal society, the federal government will finally be freed of
an embarrassing obligation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow";"><span style="font-size: large;">In exchange for
nearly all of the land in what is now the United States, the U.S. Government
made treaty agreements promising goods and services to different tribal
societies. These goods and services included education, health care, food and
annuity payments. Nearly all the goods and services were promised to continue
in perpetuity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A great many of these
treaties were blatantly disregarded, but contemporary tribal societies are
demanding that the federal government honour the treaty agreements and make
restitution to tribal members.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If there
were no federally recognized tribes, there would be no one to which such
reparations need be made.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow";"><span style="font-size: large;">Now, lets talk
about those feathers. Under the current laws only individuals of certifiable
Native American ancestry enrolled in a federally recognized tribe are legally
authorized to obtain or possess eagle feathers. What’s the big deal about eagle
feathers? First let me clarify that Indigenous people do not worship the eagle
or its feathers. Eagles are honoured and considered sacred. They represent
honesty, majesty, strength, courage, wisdom, and freedom. Eagle flies higher
and sees better than any other bird. Therefore, its perspective is different
and it is considered closer to Creator. Our use of eagle feathers in ceremony
is that of intention and focus – and honouring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When we hold that feather, we take our highest spiritual self to Creator
through our prayers. The way that an eagle feather is used might be compared to
the use of a prayer shawl, or rosary. The eagle feather like these other items
are tools for introspection, meditation and prayer. Have people seeking these
other items been asked to prove their identity to obtain them? I’ll bet not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nature of Indigenous spirituality is that
of interwovenness; one cannot separate the cultural from the spiritual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In demanding proof of our political/cultural
identity, we are being asked to prove that we are entitled to practice our traditional
beliefs as well.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow";"><span style="font-size: large;">In Indigenous
circles, the issue of tribal enrollment remains controversial. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thousands upon thousands of people are unable
to identify as a member of a federally recognized tribe for reasons such as
lack of adequate documentation, low percentage of Indian blood, or political
forces within their tribal government. I fall into that category.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People like me exist in a kind of parallel
dimension, walking in two worlds, the Indigenous and the non-Indigenous, in a
society that does not acknowledge or value who we are. I know my identity. I
walk a traditional spiritual path, and honour traditional teachings… as we like
to say “I walk my talk.” I am an active participant in a vibrant local
Indigenous community. I do not need a piece of paper to validate my identity, particularly one that is issued by a colonially imposed system that is contradictory to traditional views of Indigenous identity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow";"><span style="font-size: large;">I <b>DO</b> resent, that my people, the <b>FIRST</b>
people, are the <b>ONLY</b> people that when it comes to our identity… are asked to
prove it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-12602658308052691902013-09-04T18:49:00.000-07:002013-11-14T20:54:00.887-08:00By Firelight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-36454634336914784092013-07-30T21:03:00.001-07:002013-07-31T09:01:08.520-07:00Feeling the Pain... Rocking the Baby...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Today and for days to come... I am raw and grieving the loss of my beloved friend Leon. As I process this very complicated… yet very simple grief, I realize I’ve known him far longer, than I have not known him. Grieving and trying to be productive at work is a dance. I try to avoid the pain… I dance away from it... I don’t want to be a basket case there. Some of my colleagues have a “there is no crying at work” mantra. I have no such illusions, see the box of Kleenex on my desk as evidence. Although Leon and I are not “see each other all the time” friends, we are, “pick up where we left off as if no time had passed” friends. We are "no matter how our lives twist and turn, the essentials of love and friendship remain unchanged" friends. Our daughters grew up as fast friends. Leon’s wife, Lena, was my dear, close friend. Lena was, in fact the inspiration for the name of this blog (see inaugural post in 2009). She passed… way too young in the late 80’s. That decades old loss still has its own unique burning hurt. When their daughter Melissa came to be married, she asked me to sit with Leon at the wedding, and help with the giving away, in her Mother’s place. I was honoured to show up for her like that... deeply honoured. So no, there is no avoiding this pain, there just isn’t.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Many folks engaged in grief work, from pastors, other spiritual advisors, to therapists and other grief workers suggest that we shouldn't try to avoid the pain we feel at such a loss, but instead should sit with the pain when it washes over us, and truly feel it. Its about keeping company with the pain, while moving forward when we are able. In conversation with one of my most close and compassionate friends, he has likened it to holding a screaming baby, while needing to attend to other things. "Yes baby... I know... Shhh Shhh" *pat*pat* [go switch the laundry with squawling baby on our hip]. Take a moment, sit in the rocker "its all right baby... there there... I know" [oh crap there's the doorbell] and on and on it goes, being present with our pain, holding it, feeling it, talking it to it, acknowledging it, as we do what we must. When we do that, we can approach pain and loss from a place of mindfulness, a space where honouring those moments and holding the pain is what is most important.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those moments of mindfulness and authenticity can be strung together to form a path to a sense of peace and well being… as we consciously connect with the wordless Truth at the center of all that is. This takes time… this takes intentional space giving… this takes breathing and sometimes following the breathcrumbs left for us by loving others when we feel too tight to breathe freely on our own. Some days... we just don't have it in us to be and do all of that. Some days it's all we can do to breathe, and on THOSE days, taking three deep breaths, can be a blessed miracle.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I think this is what happens when we invest in being in authentic relationship with others, when we love fiercely and live fully. I know folks who spend a lot of resources shielding themselves from pain, by building walls, keeping distance, and investing minimally or not at all. I believe that this diminishes our Earthly experience, at least it would for me. I for one, am not willing to trade living fully and loving fiercely for a diminished life. The pain, can be immeasurable, but so can the wonder, and the joy of being in relationship, and sharing authentic connection.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
The heart that has been broken wide open by life, has enormous capacity for love. That seems to make no sense - but trust me - it totally does! The pain that devastates us through grief and loss, proves that our heart still has immense capacity to feel, that the lotus within us still blooms and thrives in its exotic beauty. The pain is proof that our spirit of compassion hasn't disconnected, seized up, and rusted over. It proves that we are still limber, still connected, and still willing to risk it... all over again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Probably the only time I will sign a post this way:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Peace Out ~ Lynner ~</span></div>
Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-79368273396518453082013-07-03T22:31:00.001-07:002013-07-03T22:55:10.524-07:00Reflecting... Becoming... Emerging...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPInZp7b4S9y5vRz2TrSH0X4jeBPDpGn3iMaXJz2tA8eCLupFQw9Wy22OhOJfouBNDjfMSMb3dUC7yaZN7zh_lh_9Z6pS9vEmoyb3vb2QgW8EyiiV5qlU_BBjlCVdSFV6IW5aSg5atBJwX/s851/otter_reflected.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPInZp7b4S9y5vRz2TrSH0X4jeBPDpGn3iMaXJz2tA8eCLupFQw9Wy22OhOJfouBNDjfMSMb3dUC7yaZN7zh_lh_9Z6pS9vEmoyb3vb2QgW8EyiiV5qlU_BBjlCVdSFV6IW5aSg5atBJwX/s320/otter_reflected.jpg" width="265" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tonight, my inner otter is reflecting - on my process of becoming and on what is emerging. In January... it became "suddenly" clear that I was being called to spiritual work. At that time, there were some clarifying moments, and interactions with some key people that enabled me to finally-FINALLY take my fingers out of my ears, and stop looking around the room like someone <i><u>else</u></i> was being spoken to instead of me. Surely... surely, the Holy Love in the Center of All That is... wouldn't be calling a 50 something, Two Spirit, flawed like crazy, drummer/photographer/artist... to do Interfaith Spiritual work... that wouldn't happen... would it? So in a manner of speaking, I realized that "The Call" was coming in, and that it was for me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I was so electrified at very first, so excited, and so kinda-sorta scared outta my mind, like who in the heck was I to do this work? As I spoke to my go-to people... my wife, the "Pastor Emeritus of my Heart", my best bud, my Pastor... my therapist... the reactions were all exuberant, and all "well DUH!" Certainly the ways they were communicated to me were not the same - but the support, the effusive love, the offers of mentoring - were all of the same ilk. It also seems like I was the last one to recognize this in myself. At least I was the last one to consciously see the potential to be a Spiritual Care Provider in myself and name it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have been reflecting and looking back, into past emails, into journals of the wordish variety and of the image-crafted variety and it looks like maybe, I have been trying to tell myself that something was about to, or trying to burst forth - for some time. One such example is this drawing journal entry. What I thought I was getting at with this piece, was not sealing myself up so tight in protecting myself from past trauma, that the light can't flow through. That was </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">absolutely</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIbu4q7zQa9Hl91OgwpP7e8RXUO7c0T2noE809vLUT8OQVscC14wJYjXLWtYc0zdyTxDSMVKUIkpawohXIoFszxY6BObqXu7XrBmHnQb7cWBOv1r_GQUSbnziRJCbfASjMIW7-REQNa6M6/s1600/armour_crack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIbu4q7zQa9Hl91OgwpP7e8RXUO7c0T2noE809vLUT8OQVscC14wJYjXLWtYc0zdyTxDSMVKUIkpawohXIoFszxY6BObqXu7XrBmHnQb7cWBOv1r_GQUSbnziRJCbfASjMIW7-REQNa6M6/s320/armour_crack.jpg" width="232" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">part of the work, but what strikes me now about this piece is also, how much the face I drew for myself, looks like my Mother in some ways, and how the moon is over my left shoulder (my spiritual side), how the yellow streaming in - is a representative colour of the element of fire, how the blue that is streaming out is a representative colour for the element of water. Water and fire are complimentary, or paired elements, they balance each other. The borning of this piece came from a song by Terry Gonda entitled "<u>Calls You.</u>" The pertinent part of the lyric goes "may you let your armour crack, and let the light flow through, may you see it streaming out, as well as into you, may you know that darkness, can never kill what's true, may you always be aware that love is here with you." It may not seem obvious, but to me, this is a Calling On piece. Calling on things within myself, to come forward.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So where was I.. oh yeah... the phone was ringing and I realized the incoming call was for me - got it! I was so excited by the possibilities of all this... Me right.. seriously... me? Okay.. yes... ME! I was asked by Anne, one of my amazing people, "now what?" Okay... so now I am supposed to KNOW stuff??? I asked Anne - if it was normal not to know right away and if it was normal to be a overwhelmed, excited, and scared all at the same time, and she assured me that it was. As I sat with it, and tried NOT to actively figure it out... things began to happen. One area of ironclad certainty as far as my spiritual work goes, is my call to work with folks using drumming and rhythm as tools for healing and wholeness. Opportunities to do this have almost surpassed the ability of myself and our drum circle to possibly keep up with, this is an excellent problem to have! I have had the opportunity to teach spiritual drum making, which was rewarding and amazing! Meanwhile, I have found a program of study that interests me, and that I think would equip me to better work alongside a spiritually diverse group of folks as I feel called to do. I hope to be able to pursue that sometime soon. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So there's all this stuff, right, coming forward, bursting forth in me, you would think - it would be as plain as the nose on my face - but with me, its never that simple. I have spent a good deal of my life being told in actual words, or by deeds, that I am insignificant, lesser, and someone who folks will not believe... or take seriously in one way or another. As a result of that... taking myself seriously, my talents, my gifts is not my default setting. So recently, when I was at the <a href="http://www.trans-health.org/" target="_blank">Philly Trans Health Conference</a>, I attended an amazing, and transformative Pastoral Care Workshop. I blogged and touched on this a few posts back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It was important to me, to go to this particular workshop, although by that point I was seriously conferenced out. I did want to see the presenters in action and to support them as they are my friends, but beyond that... I was impelled to go. There was talk about the challenges and opportunities for pastoral care providers as resources for transfolk, their allies, families and caregivers. After that... we broke into some all important groups. The presenters asked folks to put themselves into the group that made the most sense to them, and they didn't really explain it to death. I found out later , that in the intro they talked about the grouping that you could select a group that was the role you identified in, or you could role flip, or stretch or whatever - but I missed all that for my morning caffeination ritual at the <a href="http://www.starbucks.com/" target="_blank">Temple of the Mermaid</a>. They did an "okay move" kind of thing and I grabbed my stuff and migrated to Pastoral Care Providers without a thought. Our group had a great discussion about what we each thought we brought to the role, about the gifts we bring you might say. From earlier introductions, I think I was in the group with a rabbinical student, 2 rabbis, 2 chaplains, one man I think was Sikh, and me. This was so pivotal for me SO huge... the automatic nature of this. I DID surprise my own damn self! I feel like this was really really important in my becoming. It was as though my presenter friends held up a mirror and when I looked, I saw a Called Spirit Person lookin' back at me. Like for REAL!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So in essence... since January... the phone's, been ringing, and I've known that call was for me - but now... I have picked up the phone and the conversation... has begun.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> ✌ Peace Out My Friends ✌</span></div>
Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-17104668003534364612013-07-02T21:26:00.002-07:002013-07-02T21:33:57.351-07:00Sycamore Musings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My tree - Sacred Sycamore… symbolic tree, touchstone, warrior, testament. While young, the sycamore with her smooth tight bark, looks like life hasn’t marred or scarred her, no. Some of us start out our lives that way, looking like all is well, as it should be. While that may or may not be the case, it appears so to the world. Destructive forces chip away at us, untold physical violations, spiritual, emotional, and/or psychological erosion may be altering us, but the world sees what it wants to see. That sweet young sycamore with her tight bark, as she nears her equivalent of puberty, changes take place in her. As she stretches her arms to the sky, and she must stand against wind and climate, her smooth skin begins to chip. With each chip that falls, a space of white brilliance is revealed. Life is like that, as we begin to experience more and more challenges, sometimes they begin to show themselves on our physical form. She is a determined tree, she roots deep. She stands. The patches of light and dark are her yin and yang... she knows about the dark times, and the dark places.. but says "look at THIS!" and like a great Tree Goddess flasher goes wa-BAM - and dazzles us with her brilliant whiteness so unexpected! She is Ghost Tree... along the riverbanks, she looks haunting with her white fingers rising out of the morning mist... the spirits sit in her branches in the cool of the predawn... sharing their stories. Check OUT Lady Sycamore - Mmmm Mmmm Mmmm! Let your gaze begin at the ground and follow her form skyward. At the base and a ways up the trunk, that smooth bark of youth is tight. As the trunk ascends... follow her curves... the bark begins to get patchy, pieces fall off revealing a splendidly white, fantastically beautiful underbark. The random patterns of peeling green-grey overbark, juxtaposed with brilliant white underbark is strikingly beautiful. For the sycamore, and for me - when we seem to be falling apart, something dazzling - our Truth perhaps - shows its radiant brilliance to the world - shining out from our inner core. I have BEEN a sycamore – I know this first hand – err – branch…</span><br />
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Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-7704218258936974072013-06-23T21:25:00.002-07:002013-06-23T22:12:13.613-07:00The Re-Entry Toolkit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When human-made objects are hurled into space - crews of engineers do intentional work - in advance - to be sure that the objects can withstand the fire, and the friction of re-entry. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But somehow, we humans, or at least <i>this</i> one, hurls hirself into situations without anything like adequate consideration of / preparations for "and then what."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is something I need to work on with intention, but I don't know... how to go about it. I do not want to build my exterior so thick with armour plating that watching otters at play, or feeling the vibrations of ancient trees doesn't move me to tears. I don't want to be so "safe" that the wonderment of amazing and profound experiences has no chance to permeate into my core. Hell no... I don't aspire to be "safe." Rather, I need a re-entry toolkit. I need to be equipped, so that when I am faced with re-entering what is in most ways a much narrower world, the friction of that passage doesn't smash me to smithereens... and leave bits of me hurtling through space only to burn up or just disappear. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I recently spent 5 days at the <a href="http://www.trans-health.org/" target="_blank">Philadelphia Trans Health Conference</a>. I was immersed in a culture where regardless of how one identifies in the gender universe... regardless of how a person might express gender... in action, in speech, in carriage, in dress, couture and accouterments, or any other way in which gender might be carried by your person... that your identification and expression is not only okay, it is a cause for excitement and celebration! In this culture, your identity is seen as a brilliant point of connection to other beautiful souls - a point of contact. Even the briefest moments of eye contact in crowded hallways routinely are moments of "<b>YES</b>, I see you!" </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Beyond expressions and articulations of gender being points of celebration - no matter HOW complex those might be... expressions of Spirit are treated the same way, at what I will just affectionately refer to from here on out as "Philly." Sitting in a circle literally and figuratively with folks who identified as Muslim, Buddhist, Pagan, Christian, Native American Traditionalist, Jewish, Humanist, and on and on and on... was so exquisitely beautiful. In one specific event - when we were literally together... we sat, and had complex and authentic conversation, about what it is like to be in community with others whose Spiritual experience, expression, and practice is different than our own, sometimes profoundly so. There are moments of raw and singular beauty in that, but there are also big hairy challenges. We talked about that openly, and held the tension together as a community. We talked about the beauty and we talked about the challenges, we named them, and we held them... together. We entered into this experience as community, and we emerged as community. This is not the first time this spiritual community has gathered intentionally for this event... but due to a different vision in the planning, and some brilliant facilitation, there was a fire that was created in the realness of the conversations, that had not existed before. Relationships within this community were strengthened, and others forged anew in that fire. People saw... and experienced each other differently.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gender certainly weaves through everything at Philly - its a Transgender conference for crying out loud, but spirituality is one strand of many. There is so MUCH programming at Philly, multiple tracks, hundreds of workshop offerings, too much to address in one writing, so I will follow the strand of Spirit because that is where I am led... that is fire around which I dance.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To be in this community, where sharing space with one another in lovingkindness was the default setting, and the exploration of physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual wholeness was what we were all about was so nurturing to my Spirit. Whether I was in the role of a workshop facilitator, or participating in other ways... we explored so much together! We learned from each other, we laughed a LOT, we cried together, we drummed, we were outrageous, we sang, we shared amazing meals, we danced, we read, we waxed poetic, and experienced brilliant moments of transformation with one another. I saw it... unfold right in front of me... someone sitting on the ground wounded - lifted up by total strangers in unexpected ways. I saw people experience the Sacred in ways that were startling to them - and humbling & affirming to me. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Each of my 5 days in Philly was made of, tears, laughter, fun, conversation, insights, engagement, and realness interwoven. For me personally... more brilliant strands were woven into my Spiritual tapestry... not just some more strands, but the<b> locking threads</b>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This tapestry is woven of Earthy fibers, and sweetgrass, there are brilliant sparks woven in there too - the spark of relationship - to other folks, and to the Holy Love in the Center of All That Is, and bits of turtle shell. This year's Philly saw a change in me - from one who might carry this beautiful weaving and when the time was right, hand it up to others to use is some amazing way - to someone who knows... that this weaving belongs to them. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This fine weaving supports me - like a hammock, it allows me to relax, lean in, and stretch out. It </span><u style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">will</u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> support me. While I am supported... I can DO THE WORK! Beyond that, this powerful piece is OF me. The interplay between my Isness, and Spirit - creates an amazing potential that is more than I could be or do on my own, because... Spirit... hammock... and I are braided together. Follow me here... the three strands that I see woven together are... me, Spirit, and that which is the combined nature of Spirit and I which enabled the hammock to BE. So as I braid, Spirit, me, us... and so it goes under.. over... back.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That would be amazing enough, right... to have this and realize it is yours. But... I also got myself INTO that spiritual hammock... like seriously crawled my happy-ass in there! I now KNOW that I am, by my nature... a hammock dweller. Thanks to CP and TD for creating the space that unfolded that allowed that to happen. The experience was breathtaking in its simplicity, this automatic thing - just happened - in the words of my dear friend "you surprised your OWN damn self!" </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Yes... yes, I did and that surprise... was like - wowness! The wowiest part of all, was that as I got into the hammock, I was not like a person who was in a hammock for the first time - violently rocking and flipping myself out on the ground with a graceless thump, I was comfortable. I just stretched out, put my hands behind my head so to speak, and it was as though, I was born to be there.... gently swaying with the other hammock-folk.</span><br />
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<span arial="" font-family:="" font-size:="" large="" sans-serif="" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">One very hard thing about amazing experiences like Philly... is the leaving... physically leaving those dear friends is one part of it, yes, but one part I have struggled with each year... is Re-entry - the topic I started this post out with. It is disorienting, and agonizing, to go from this place of community, this place where a broad spectrum of expression, and identity, and walking, and of breathing... being supported... and seen as a source of wonder... to being abruptly shoved back into the wider (in geography) but narrower (in almost every other way), and quite often dangerous and hateful world. It takes me probably two weeks to be able to deal with any kind of Grace. This year - it may take longer due to the profound nature of how Philly was a becoming for me. I have recently likened this process, to birth... in the womb.. we are fed, nurtured, protected, rocked and comforted, and then all of the sudden... holy hell we are violently constricted and shoved into a place that is like a different universe, it is bright, and noisy, the rules have changed, and people are constantly poking and prodding at you, and seeing you... as <u>they</u> would have you BE. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I hope that this year's experience can help me identify some useful tools that may become a re-entry tool kit. The first tool that must be included - is self-awareness. A</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">s I have worked on my re-entry this year and tried to figure this shit out... I have tried to be fierce about self-care and self - protection, and even though the Universe threw me a big curve ball of meanness, as soon as I began, I have been largely successful I think. I have been mindful to seek out what nurtures and feeds me, and tried to sidestep old patterns of worry about being who, what, or where others expect while I am going about that work. I stumbled, scraped my knees a time or two, but I was aware enough to reach out for a hand, and I got up.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And with that, I think I am fresh out - of words.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;">~ Peace and Kindness ~</span></div>
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Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-38810889940525822652013-05-07T12:38:00.001-07:002015-07-12T16:50:38.562-07:00Whitewashed<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When I was writing for OBG (Our Big Gayborhood) this was my inaugural post - that blog is no longer online, and a few folks have asked for link, so I am putting it here to preserve it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">~ ~ ~ ~ ~</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Lakota creation story has the People
springing forth from a hole in the ground somewhere in the black hills. I like
that idea a lot. Maybe it is because
there’s a lot I don’t know about where I come from. A hole in the ground is as good a place as any;
I’m very connected to the Earth, so yeah it works. Maybe it is because my Mother’s origins are
in the Oglala Lakota people. The Lakota
are part of a confederation of seven related tribes commonly referred to as the
Sioux (except by people who are… that is). The Lakota were Mom’s people, but
she never knew that. Mom was adopted.
She was born in the early 1930’s a time of challenge, a time of great
change in our country. For the Lakota, the challenges of the Great Depression
were compounded by multiple cultural factors. At the time of my Mother’s birth,
the Lakota were only 50 years removed from their life as a free roaming people
of the plains. Indian boarding schools were still in operation. Some of
the most blatant expressions of racism in the history of our country occurred
in Indian schools. The Indian boarding
school experience was characterized by the wholesale taking of Indian children
from their families and tribal nations and thrusting them into an environment,
where they were abruptly, systematically and totally deprived of their
Indianness. The notion was to “kill the
Indian to save the man.” In other words,
slap on a coat of whitewash. If Indians
spoke, dressed and acted like white people, the “Indian problem” would be
solved. One of the most tragic aspects
of this disastrous experience is that when a child would return to their home
they were often estranged from the members of their tribe. These children were often perceived as no
longer truly Indian by their tribal societies and they were certainly not
accepted as members of white society either.
So much for the whitewashing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">With pressures such as these bearing down on
Indian communities, it is not surprising that people often faced hard choices. When a mixed-blood man raped my Grandmother
and she discovered she was pregnant, rather than subject herself to shame, and
her child to the possibility of being shipped off to an Indian school…she
ran. Grandma was “a child of
approximately 16 years” when she arrived in Chicago and gave her daughter up
for adoption… according to the paperwork.
She gave a false name, surrendered the child and disappeared. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">As a result, Mom was whitewashed. This was not malicious on the part of my
adoptive grandparents, but that dripping whitewash brush was in their hands
just the same. Whitewashing served to rob Mom of the subtle earthtones of her
culture. It’s the esoteric things… the
patterns of speech, the body language, the oral traditions and the worldview
that were lost. These were not only Mom’s losses, but her children’s, and her
grandchildren’s losses as well. With the
adoption by people of another culture, a coat of whitewash was slapped over the
cultural gifts that were her birthright.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Every now and again, we’d catch a glimpse. We even
<i>teased</i> her about it! I can look back to when I was a kid and see
Mom, hunkered over a campfire cooking some freshly caught fish, looking so
Indian it was startling. “Hey Mom, maybe you’re really Indian!” I’d say. Her reply, “Ha, ha, ha, very funny… now quit
messing around and bring me a plate for the fish!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Everything happens as part of a larger pattern
or cycle. Cycles of pain, cycles of violence, cycles of deprivation and despair
twist together like a braid, weaving through the fabric of my People. Cycles
robbed me of my Grandmother, made her bolt in shame and rage, leaving Mom to be
raised by white people who didn’t get what it means to be Indian, what it means
to be connected… to Earth… to sky… what the winds mean. Mom grew… lived… aged and passed through the
Western Door with no knowledge of the cycle that begat her, or the identity of
her People. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">It’s rather ironic… Oglala means to scatter
one's own, and Mom was sure flung far from her own people. There is a <b>lot</b> that I don’t know about my heritage,
but what I do know… has proven to be enough.
It motivates me. I am driven to
learn everything I can about my culture, it has provided a sense of connection
that I’ve sought all of my life… it has equipped me with the tools to strip off
the whitewash and dip in to the ceremonial paint of my People.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">As I stand back to admire the result… I see a person… whose figure and essence are adorned with subtle earthtones… of Spirituality… of ancient teachings and traditions that once seemed lost… but
were there all along… beneath the whitewash.</span><!--EndFragment-->
Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-50224920028826340752012-11-23T21:17:00.000-08:002012-11-23T21:44:52.279-08:00Free Associations...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTD2QO3MRTaCx4Tl3XWD3zBuE99zmIivGEv2_Iw9ccH1xtf6qeIeursPFRIM8pjnJBfr7Qz98x5vV1yD1IPbf1riGwWrcmdnXAPPe4JfyI-QsDJGhdjdRFy374gqEBRRaQ4fgppZLiyZiG/s1600/theo-art_i-am-the-walrus.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTD2QO3MRTaCx4Tl3XWD3zBuE99zmIivGEv2_Iw9ccH1xtf6qeIeursPFRIM8pjnJBfr7Qz98x5vV1yD1IPbf1riGwWrcmdnXAPPe4JfyI-QsDJGhdjdRFy374gqEBRRaQ4fgppZLiyZiG/s320/theo-art_i-am-the-walrus.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Happy Birthday to me... seriously! Today was good... and I swear I have this weird thing going on with rhyme - and free associations all OVER the place. For example, when I wrote "today was good..." what followed in my head was "today was fun... tomorrow is another one, every day from here to there, funny things are everywhere!" (from One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish by Dr. Seuss). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My Brother called to continue our years-long tradition of singing poorly to each other over the phone on our birthdays. We exchanged some small talk, that's about it. He called yesterday to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving, and gave me some passive-agressive shit about something our Sister told him that I guess <u>he</u> thought I should have self reported about my health. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He doesn't like it much that our relationship and communications are strained since his boycott of my wedding. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Well ya know what? I don't like it either... but who </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><u>put</u></i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> the strain on it Sparky?? If the suit isn't fitting so comfortable these days, consult the tailor - or lay off the cannoli (in your case the self-righteousness that is puffing you up - and making things tight) - either way - not my doing - not owning it!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My Son Josh, and Daughter-in-law Ashley brought a birthday fiesta to the house from our favorite Mexican restaurant - (Hooray for food from Yolanda's)... since my "lotsa voices maka me crazy" and Black Friday didn't sound like a good mix. We had a nice time... and they gave me the Gift of Chai! SCORE one for the Mermaid! A little later my Son James came over with a nice pressie... lovely turtle necklace from a dear friend and local artist. Nice!Nice!Nice!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My lovely wife is busily working on her part of a team project for an upcoming ceremony - its gunna rock out loud! I need to kick my part into gear pretty-soon-quick!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I was touched and uplifted and more, for which there is no words... to be asked to take pictures for a VERY special ritual/celebration for my dearest friend =Chii Megwetch=</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">There was lots of down time, I lounged around and read, drank copious amounts of tea. I am reading a book called <u>"Lamb"</u> by Christopher Moore - and there's so MUCH good stuff there... but one phrase really touched me in the wordless center this evening: </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"... for he is thee, and thou are he, and everything that is ever worth loving ... is everything." Beautiful... right? It is... and it doth vibrate along the string - don't it Babycakes?! But also... it really sounded to me like part of <u>"I am the Walrus!"</u> How </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">ridiculous</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> and funny is that? </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Though I could be troubled by how tricksy my mind is... it makes me <u>giggle</u>! Seems like there are several </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">possible</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> explanations:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">- Maybe some mental muscles are flexing...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">- I have contracted either Venetian Verbal Virus, or Secondary Vocabularyitis (from the TV series "Bewitched") if that's the case "Dr. Bombay! Dr. Bombay! Emergency - come right away!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">- I really AM the Walrus - coo coo cachoo motherfucker!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But... on a day I have been dreading... to go to bed with a lighter head (OMG it IS Secondary Vocabularyitis!) - ya know... I'll take it!</span></div>
Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-71646609985946626772012-11-22T19:09:00.000-08:002012-11-22T19:09:05.671-08:00On the Brink...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The tree in the image, looks like a two spirit person to me, both male and female... zhe has one hand on hip... pointing down the hill.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tomorrow... I turn 55.This is terrifying. If I were all actively engaged with life, if I were healthy... maybe it wouldn't be terrifying. But this has been a hell of a past 6 months, beginning with the cavalcade of concussions, and marching through the valley of the shadow of MS. I am carrying a lot of pain - in all spheres, and uncertainly, and more than a little anger (due in part, but not entire to the steroids). My mother passed through the Western Door nearly 24 years ago. She was 55. I know in the cognitive workings that I am not my Mother and my health story is not hers. But... but... but. When it comes my turn to celebrate 56, I think I will feel differently about this alignment... but not today. In the words of my friend. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"We are not our Mothers... but we are."</span></div>
Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-41390822416875059482012-11-21T14:46:00.003-08:002012-11-21T14:51:36.387-08:00Volcanic...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color; color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Like Mount Fucking Vesuvius - it feels like somethin's gunna blow! Pressure mounting... pain fear pain anger pain uncertainty pain frustration pain fury pain. I am in big-biig pain today, the older the day gets, the more the pain is building. the fear, the isolation and the rage is crankin' up the heat. Starting round 2 of steroids today, is turning the burner up to volcanic levels. Fists balled up at my temples crying and screaming, scaring the hell out of the cats - fury! I hate the way I feel. i.fuckin.hate.it! An unfinished project - is giving me some focus and diversion at least momentarily. Focused-diverted all at the same time. A scary place.</span></div>
<br />Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-83625991089231411282012-11-20T11:26:00.002-08:002012-11-20T13:41:54.718-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbwDEJghOwt-77k1yNtrvjQZ4fWvgTaovo6UcHuTZxRIcFYubk2XagQYEb7UOZ4xWpo9dbdLzTuxO4yksyS3BsFuP942zNtJWgE0WYftgf1wuJWk68Wtq2OnohiMKLb4WTuvaO8ky81f-/s1600/conjoined-twins-turtles.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbwDEJghOwt-77k1yNtrvjQZ4fWvgTaovo6UcHuTZxRIcFYubk2XagQYEb7UOZ4xWpo9dbdLzTuxO4yksyS3BsFuP942zNtJWgE0WYftgf1wuJWk68Wtq2OnohiMKLb4WTuvaO8ky81f-/s1600/conjoined-twins-turtles.jpeg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Its a very joined day. Each having unique identity and experiences, but somehow having an all access pass to some shared space, shared energies. My "side of the shell" is not the same as the other... but, it <u>is</u> one shell. When that much "stuff" is washing around inside the shell... it affects the shell entire. See how they look at each other? Brings a whole new dimension to being a "rider along-sider."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When Roseann asked me last night how I was dealing emotionally with my diagnosis... I guess I haven't been doing much work on that front now... have I? I have opened myself up to those considerations today and boyoboy! Although I have been affected by symptoms and working on the details of getting a second and all of that... in a way that has been a distraction. It hit me between the eyes... when I was put on steroids for this damned exacerbation and then we started talking actual MS meds. I guess my most present emotions today are unreality, anxiety and worry... with a fear and anger chaser... make it a double! The rational person would be correct to point out that those things will add to my stress, and make this exacerbation more troublesome. There's a storm of energies swirling around inside the shell. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Whatever the sound of rage is... insert that here!</span>Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-89248178922426018382012-11-18T20:55:00.003-08:002012-11-20T12:05:12.183-08:00Pouring it Out...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tonight my legs feel like bundles of live wires... more like each leg is a nylon stocking with about 5 electric eels crammed in there that are WAY pissed off at each other. I tried to go to bed, but just hurt too much not to be way restless. So I thought I'd take some meds and blog a bit while they kick in. Earlier in the day, while visiting my cousins grave... I felt like a collapse was imminent. Not just physically, but emotionally/spiritually as well. I was on one knee in front of her stone, with my hand on top of it... and felt this unhinging beginning to happen. I felt myself swaying... swooning to be precise. I felt Cindy grabbed me by the elbow and say "no Lindy, NO... go to Jen... let her take care of you." About that time my Jen was just there... and when I got up - she did grab my elbow, and walked me to the car. Jen asked if my feet hurt she said I was walking funny. At dinner with 2 other cousins before that, I had some speech issues... it is troubling to hear that happen, to be aware that it is, and not be able to stop it. Troubling also to see the cloud pass over their faces when it did. I've always been at least articulate. On the way home... I had some stammers also. I dunno if that is MS talking - or if that is a throwback stress thing. When I get way stressed... sometimes that happens. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Pain and fear and anger and frustration... uncertainty and grief and fury and sadness... rage and embarrassment and futility and helplessness... physical pain and emotional pain, spiritual pain and mental pain... I pour those out tonight... within the safety of these banks... knowing that you are out there guarding my riverbanks. You let me rage and keep me safe while I pour myself out... releasing some of the pressure... and cleansing my spirit. You each know who you are... and I love you beyond measure.</span>Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2763066214925897206.post-17309808255612335582012-11-16T20:11:00.000-08:002012-11-16T20:20:57.938-08:00Mon-steroids...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Day 3 on mon-steroids. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I rage, I cry, I struggle... </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I look different, I sound different, I act different. A protruding vein on my forehead? WTF is that? I think my eyes may be pulsing like in this pic. I feel so unreal... so unME, like there's someone... pacing around in the cage of my body... fingers gripping the bars of my ribcage and peering out.. snarling and snapping... but also mourning her inability to articulate her pain. At least unable to say it in a way that she is really.truly.heard... except by the closest partners on this journey. Mournful that it seems to be of no consequence to the medical folks that I carry big-big pain every.fucking.day. My circle of support is wonderful, they understand, they want to help... but they don't know what to do to make it go away any more than I do. Of course they DO help... every single day... in little ways and big ways... their presence physically - spiritually keeps me putting one foot in front of the other. They keep me buoyant as much as I am able to be... without them... it woulda been game over a long time ago. My spirits... are sinking.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So please... can anyone tell me why it is okay to carry this... why is this not <u>important</u> enough to be an action item for the medical people? Its all so maddening and futile... the MS stuff is urgent and treatment-worthy... granted, but why not this fucking pain? Its like a crew of busy little housekeepers tidying and dusting and vacuuming and spit-polishing... all around a steaming pile of shit in the middle of the room... but not even trying to clean up THAT hot mess...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Anyone... help me understand?</span>Lynn Younghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14031166493724173937noreply@blogger.com0