Northerners

We are a strange people
We in the north
Sitting on overturned buckets
To stare through holes in the ice
Wearing shorts in December
Along with parkas and scarves
Because fishing and shorts
Are for summer and we are
Defiant in the face of winter.
We in the north.

Brats grilled in January
Taste as good
As tailgating is fun
Regardless of windchill
Both worn like badges of honor

Bring on the snow!
We blow it, shovel it,
And shovel again when the plow goes by.
We clear our sidewalks,
Our driveways, and roofs.
If there is not enough snow
We make our own.
We play in it.
And celebrate it with festivals. 
Give us ice, we carve it.
We are northerners.

The Glass Cutter

January, cold and bleak, the shore again imprisoned,
The lake, the house, the memory, the dream I once envisioned.
Neither animals nor I ever heard the metal snap,
Crimson blood on pristine snow, fooled by my father’s trap.

There were schools, Father said, down in Thunder Bay.
If he didn’t bring me, they could take me anyway.
I am métis, from the North, I am neither here nor there.
I didn’t understand their laws, and I didn’t really care.

He ignored my mother’s pleading cries,
Made it clear there was no compromise.
Family had become a burden, his was a trapper’s life instead.
He harnessed up the dogs, filling me with dread.

Father took me to the boarding school and told me to obey.
They would teach me to be white, to read and write and pray.
Cardinals appear to us when a loved one passes o’er,
I saw the Cardinal that day in all his red-robed splendor.

I learned his Catechism, I learned to read and write,
And what the Cardinal prefers when he calls for me at night.
I was scared and broken.  I hid the fear and bleeding.

I looked for solace in the moon, as my ache began receding.

Star shine danced upon the snow and it beckoned me with light,
The flakes like fractured bits of glass called me forth into the night.
Winter into spring, then with summer on the way
I said a word to no one, I just walked away one day.

Many nights the sky was graced by northern lights displays,
A Superior reflection all the way to Grand Marais.
Electric hues that lit the sky, arching pinks and greens
Like a whispering collection of colored figurines.

I came to stay in Grand Marais, a quiet little place,
For in that pine-draped sleepy town, I found my saving grace.
A man of silence, skill and sight, a man whose name was Kirk,
A glass cutter by trade, he explained to me his work.

Church window panes, he said, as he cut and cracked the glass,
As he soldered the lead, to make it worthy of High Mass.
He fused the light together, he captured colors of the sun.
He created brilliance, love, and beauty, for the Father and the Son.

Colored hues inside me bled, like a prism in my veins,
Planted where a flame had fed, then purified by rain.
There must have been a reason our lives had intertwined,
For when colors come together, white light starts to shine.

Through Kirk I came to see small shards of redemption.
Patterned after love and hope, and nurtured with attention.
Like a cathedral calls us home, Kirk had shone a light,
And my dark and withered soul found colors in the night.

           

White Blanket

Snowflakes fall like gentle tears
A blanket that muffles my grief
A soft, comforting snow
White, like your whiskers were

This is a time for comfort food
Like the soups you used to make
To warm and nourish

I sit, wrapped in quilts
A mug of soup warming my hands
As my grief settles under a healing snow

Riverbed

I cycle along paths
Where water flows
Through cool hollows
Shaded, musky

This chain of waterways
Gives birth to my spirit
Carrying me through a
Juxtaposition of time and space


Fluid from the hips
I have abandoned time
And try not to drown
















There was a great stretch of bike path that ran along the creek between Harriet and Nakomis that, if you came up to it fast enough and weren't slowed down by anyone in your way, you could coast for half a mile or more as you dropped down lower and lower into the creek bottom. It was cool and dark and green, fragrant with the humidity that comes from lushness. I would ride this stretch with a sense of abandon that was good for my soul. I loved the feel of the rushing air against my skin and in my hair. In my high school summers, on almost a daily basis, I would ride around Lake Harriet, head over to Nakomis, ride around that lake, and head back home. At least a ten mile jaunt. Of course when there were friends at the beach, or places to stop at along the way, all the better, but it was the rush of freedom of the ride I was really after.

When I went to work at Camp Tamarac, I pushed to be assigned to the out-of-camp bike tour, and finally was the last session of camp. I was thrilled to go on my first cross-country bike trip. We averaged about 20-25 miles a day on that trip, easy for me to do. And along the way I learned everything there was to know about bike maintenance - necessary when you're on the road that far from everything. I learned how to repair or change a flat tire. I learned how to true a bent wheel, how to take apart, fix and put back together a bike chain. How to adjust seats, handle bars, and derailleurs. How to adjust or fix brake cables. I also learned how to pack light. If you have to carry all your own gear, including tent, sleeping bag, clothes, food, and water on your bike, you travel even more lightly than you do backpacking - because backpackers aren't lugging a bike on top of everything else. And so we biked from Hinckley, MN to Madeline Island, WI and back, a round trip of about 320 miles.

And when camp was over, a friend and I went on another trip, this time from Stillwater, MN to Copper Harbor, MI which was about 700 miles round trip. Most days we went about 80 miles or so. One day, with a terrific tailwind at our back, we were bound and determined to do 100 miles in one day. I think we only did about 97 simply because we ran out of road, reaching our destination. But I remember parts of that trip... The day when it was raining and so we set out to bike to the nearest down for breakfast since a campfire was pointless. And biking uphill for many miles with no calories to burn and so we were burning sheer muscle in our legs and the pain of it, but having no choice but to push forward. Grim.

Pair that with the downhill ride with the tailwind, and the glorious feel of freedom you can experience only when you cycle through this great country of ours up close and personal. When you smell September wheat drying in the sun. When you see the steepled, whitewashed church in the middle of nowhere. When you hear small children laughing and playing in the municipal park. When you see railroad cars full of goods and graffiti. When you meet people who are proud of where they come from and the work they do.

Many Rooms

She understood
The many rooms in Father's house
Did not make a mansion
The many rooms were an omen.

Walking through the rooms 
Was a different journey each time
Different people, furnishings,
Books, memorabilia, all different.

At first she found the dreams unsettling
But over time she willed herself
To stay with the dreams
As if she were visiting someone.

She learned to walk slowly
To look at the pictures on the walls
The books on the shelves
And the trinkets on the tables.

She learned to pay attention 
To the people in the rooms
Most importantly to the person
Who wandered from room to room.

The house itself never varied, 
Only the things in the house changed.
They documented a life lived.
They told a story.

John had gone on ahead
To prepare a place
For the one who wandered.
And she was watching.

Morocco

A flight to Casablanca and on to Fez.
A driver leaves my daughter and her
Companions outside a hotel at 3am.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, so little Arabic.

The promised plans do not materialize.
This is not only culture shock,
It becomes a fight for survival
Where to stay, where to get food.

I was frustrated having to take home ec
When I wanted to take shop instead
This was before Title IX, before Ms.,
or Sally Ride,  or Sandra Day O'Connor.

"I can't do this," she says.  "I'm coming home."
I panic.  She is strong-willed enough
To try to strike out on her own
In this rugged desert country.

She grew up mucking in ponds
Taking karate lessons, using tools.
She has never known fear,
Racial or gender discrimination.

So much has changed from
My mother's generation to mine
To hers, that has brought her
To this place in Morocco.

She was so excited we let her go.
We did not let her go.
We only held our fears still, and
Made sure she found food in Morocco.

Midnight River

No one understood how deep the darkness was. 
This darkness was not the redeeming darkness of night.   
It was a darkness that crept across the page, between words. 

River water ran through her blood.
It renewed her soul, flowing both deep and muddy
in places, and rippling with sparkles in others.  
She looked for redemption in these waters of contrast.   
She tried to let water wash the darkness away but it was too heavy.  
Words and water alone were not enough this time. 
This was a darkness she fought with everything she had.

The road she followed was not others’ road. 
Hers was a solitary journey, of discovery, of quietude. 
She stood for moments in silence, just breathing,
absorbing the energy and history people left behind.
It’s what made places holy.

She wanted to fly. 
To spread her arms and take flight,
bending her fingertips to catch the breeze and glide,
to follow her heart without blinking,  
to feel weightless again, but open cage doors

are of no use to a bird with a broken wing.
Though glass birds sparkle in the sun, they shatter when they fall.

She knew some paths were meant to be lit by the sun
while other paths were better lit by the moon and stars.

Moonlight changed her when she breathed it in. 
It seeped into her veins and silvered her soul,
awakening her anew to the wonders of night,
helping her see things she couldn’t,
helping her understand things she didn’t.

She inhaled the night like a bouquet,  
Taking comfort in landscapes darkness hid, 
 glaring imperfections of a man-made world
overtaken by soft purple shadows of dusk
and even softer grays of moonlight.  

She wondered what was out there.
Nervous but aching to fly. 
Because when she felt the wind in her face,
she could see, she could create, she could be.

She looked for rain to wash down on her,
baptize her soul with color.
So she would always have an artist’s eye,
a musician’s ear, a poet’s soul.

Her poet's voice urged her to write,
inner fears held her back.

Voices within argued over her pen.
She wrestled between opening her heart
and keeping it safely closed, protected.

Allowing herself to be loved was so much work.
She wished she did not understand...
   - what it felt like when a heart stops beating
   - that love cannot conquer everything
   - that the night does not hide everything
   - that she could not fly like a bird.

Grief

I would rather walk alone
But grief follows me
An unwelcome companion
Who makes me weary
With the weight of his emptiness

Grief murmurs in my ear
Breaking my concentration
And keeping me awake at night
Last words are as difficult
As words left unspoken

Grief paints haunting pictures that
Bring tears to my eyes when
I come across them unexpectedly
Where colors are not quite right and
I stare at them, numb and wondering
What's going to become of them

And then I begin to wonder
Will I remember the pictures
If Grief leaves my side.
Will I still hear the echos?
Or do I need to befriend Grief
To keep you with me?

Pine

Darkness drips from every trembling pine needle
Knots that never untie hold me
To this ancient place now hidden
I wait until they come knocking
These thoughts that lie buried so deep,
Waiting to be used, and try to capture them
While a thousand choking words float away,
Unused, still within the river of my soul.

Papa

The night sky watched through the windows as I sat with you.
Your breath rattled heavy in your chest
I stroked your whiskers, so white, so soft
People who didn't know you would whisper, "Santa Claus"
Your eyes would no longer open, your hand could no longer squeeze
But you could still hear and so I sang to you
You told me once when I was young not to sing
That I didn't have the voice for it
I have been self-conscious my whole life, not wanting to sing in front of others
But that night, song was one of the last gifts I could give you
So I sang Amazing Grace
And stroked your soft whiskered cheeks 'til you passed.

I Wept

How many times have I held your hand? Hugged you? Kissed you?

But the first time I ever held you in my arms it almost dropped me to my knees.

Instead of caressing your soft white whiskers, I was running my hands over polished oak.

Instead of rubbing your broad shoulders, there were only square corners.

And I wept.

Connections

Water drips
from darkened clouds
looking for rivers
to return home.
While

Saltwater seeps
through a lifeline
seeking a vein
to call home.
While

Silent tears spill
from my heart
searching for hope
you'll come home.
While all the while

You lay connected
to leads and monitors,
catheters and feeding tubes.
Your blank eyes turn
to me when I speak,
flat eyes close in weariness.
Your voice gone silent.
But one hand still reaches out,
to fidget with your gown,
the sheets, grasp my hand,
and not let go.
It is your connection,
your voice, your heart.
And so I stand for hours
holding your hand
letting your heart
speak to mine
in your world of silence
where the water drips.

Shelter

White canvas tents
sheltered black soldiers
fighting to free
their southern brethren

while white soldiers
fought to preserve
their factories, their
way of life.
States versus Union.

He bought canvas
cornering the market
indifferent to sides
selling to both and
making a fortune
because armies needed
tents for shelter
while waging war.

With this fortune
he created an unbreakable
trust fund.
A financial shelter
for extended family.
A brother became a doctor,
nephew became an artist
others attended college.

War divides countries
brother against brother.
Fortunes divide families
father against son.
Decades and generations
we carry on
battles long over.

Where are the shelters
for the brethren
we know today?
For the black man
stopped by police
shot in his car? 
An officer so afraid
he shoots?
For the riots
in our streets?
Where is trust?

How can we
build it, and make it
unbreakable?

Many truths
have misunderstandings
and all truths
meet on middle ground.

We have given
decades and generations
to these battles.

Surely we can
find the time
to create shelter
for middle ground.
To the place
where the paths
of truth meet.

Little by Little

He first noticed
signing his name.
Bold fluid strokes,
still bold but
no longer fluid.
They quivered.  Then
his glass began
to rattle against
his teeth as
he drank, but
only he noticed.
It wasn't until
his fork shook
and food spilled
that he began
tucking his napkin
at his collar.
He used to 
shake a leg
to get things
done.  He was
not used to 
shaky hands that 
slowed him down.

He fell asleep
beside his beloved.
Hours later, asleep
one moment, and
rolling out of
bed the next.
Knowing in that
split second he
was going to
hit the floor
and thinking, "This
is not how
one is supposed
to fall. One
is supposed to
fall in love."

He entertained with
stories that began,
"I've often said."
Which, over time,
became simpler: "Have
I told you?"
Over time those
dropped away to
stories and snippets
repeated and repeated
often daily, filling
the void left
open by things
he couldn't remember.
First just words,
then entire memories
often mismatched or
missing, gone, or

Enjoy This Life

I do not curse the rain because it hides the colors,
ruins my plans, dampens my spirits.
I thank the rain when it cleans the air,
washes away my mistakes, and helps renew me.

I do not curse the night because it makes me afraid,
changes my focus, colors my perspective.
Instead I look up at the stars in wonder,
reflect in the moonlight, and enjoy the silence.

I do not curse the work because it makes me tired,

silences my ambitions, frustrates my plans.

Rather, I am thankful I have work to feed me,

challenge my growth, and focus on others.

I do not curse those who frustrate or oppose me,

who slow me down, who do not understand.

I listen and try to see who they truly are,

their good qualities, in spite of my concerns.

I try to listen more than speak,

Understand more than judge,

Celebrate more than complain,

Enjoy this life I have been given.

Homesick

I have lived with a passion
for history longer than anything
else in my life as if I am
homesick for another place and
time not of this life,
as if my heart remembers.

I have search unfulfilled
working harder and deeper
then moving on to the next
big idea, project, cause.
Busy? Yes. Fulfilling? No.
Even after fifty years.

I have traveled back with
philosophers and queens, 
trailblazers and breakthroughs,
explorers, pioneers and builders,
revolutionaries and activists,
with mighty ruling kings, and
common men who changed the world.

In the end I wonder what this
life will have brought and
if I will also be homesick
for this place and time...
what my heart will remember?

Home

Where is home? she asked.
And we struggled to define it.
We'd traveled too far.
We were spread too thin.

But do you remember? she said.
We all nodded and laughed.
As we ate food that wasn't special
But it was, because it's what
We ate when we came together.
We talked about the time when...
And told our children
So they too would know,
While our parents leaned back
Smiling at memories as
A new generation learned
Family stories that made us
Who we are, made us laugh,
And got repeated every year.

We found shelter in those stories
Unmatched by any roof or walls,
A shelter called home.


 

Halfway Heart

I nest on anger and guilt
Hiding it, shielding it
My song feels empty
Knowing what is beneath me

Anger and guilt leave no room
For grace and forgiveness
In a halfway heart

Like leaves that stir on branches
In hot summer breezes
I want to reach out
But I stay rooted, unmoving
Only flutters, small gestures

Because underneath still
I am unraveled, undone

I cannot pick up my pieces
Because I do not know
What is left, who I am

My halfway heart
Tries to beat whole
With grace and forgiveness
But I am unraveled, undone

Refuge

He found a sliver of my soul

And held it in his hands

When it grew large enough for me to see

He gently gave it back to me

Moonlight

The moon fell into my heart
Its silver spilling through me
Reflecting, protecting
Its phases ornament my soul

Dark craters on its barren face
Pulled me like the tide
Revering, appearing
I wax and wane in rhythm

When its brightest glow
Warms the air I breathe
Completion, repletion
I'm satisfied and whole

Woodwinds

trees sing
in the wind

a symphony
only the forest

and those
who walk

in the woods
have heard

my heart knows
the tune

and sings
along

The Call of the Loon

Underneath the lush willow, oak, and maple,
Underneath the buck thorn and lilac bushes,
Underneath the ferns, and meadow rue, and hostas,
Stretch the manicured lawns, the paved sidewalks and streets.

Lawn mowers chug and sputter, while cars rush by.
Trucks give off their diesel smell as gears whine.
Dryer sheets, charcoal grills, and hot tar smells braid together
While basketballs thump above the noise of children playing.

Crows clatter high in the trees, laughing and scolding,
While lesser birds twitter nervously below them.
And somewhere, on a lake hidden behind houses
Is the unmistakable long treble of a single loon trilling.

And I wonder why here?  Why in the noise and clutter of the city?
Why is it not further north in a wild fir-fringed lake?
Where food is more plentiful, the lakes are quieter,
And the little loons can rest safely, riding on mama's back.

And then I wonder, maybe the loon is here in the city
To remind us that up north there are fir trees instead of paved roads,
The lakes are quieter than the diesel trucks and lawn mowers,
And we can rest safely with our family, those we love.

Walking with Grief

When I felt my mother's death rattle in my arms

It was long before I knew the word for it.

When her heart stopped beating,

It was before I knew how long ours would break.

When our throats were choked with grief,

It was before I knew how long it would take us to breathe.

But if I had not let Grief walk by my side,

I would not have been watching, listening...

I would have missed seeing my mother 

In the rocking chair at the Farm,

Legs crossed, crossword puzzle in her lap. 

I would have missed seeing her 

By the pool in her floppy hat,
 
Enjoying my daughters yet another year.
 
I would have missed her talking through me
 
To tell her favorite nephew,
 
Tom, it's me, TeeTee, it's okay to go.

It takes time to walk these places with Grief,
 
To have these conversations,

To accept his healing.