Connecting

I can hold the expanse of night in my arms
When I stand in the cloak of the moon

My heart can connect with yours across
Two thousand miles or more uncharted

With the barest of breezes I am gone
Swallowed by stars of another world

Walking in Words

I can only tell my own story
With its joys and frustrations
Its surprises and cliffhangers
Its dreams and heartbreaks

I can only see through my lens
Know the words I heard
Or wanted to hear
Or didn’t

I want to know your story
I want us to walk in each others' words
But your story is no longer mine
As much as I want it to be

My story is my own
And yours is yours

A Mark on my Heart

these things have left
a Mark on my Heart
like watercolors
on a wet page

intoxicating lilacs
fragrant pines
pungent fallen leaves
infusing my senses

surgical pain that does
not fade over time is
laced with heartaches
both real and raw

but laughter blurs
everyone together
my mother, my daughters
the Marks on my Heart

The Mists

Trees disappear into mist
The road winds into fog
I fall, off-kilter, into both
Not knowing where I will land

Dream-like allure
Can only beckon so far

I grab for your hand
Bare branches that break
Snapping off like icicles
Cold, rigid, brittle

Where is the color?
Quests for palettes of satisfaction
   
Every time I find my way
To the sun, the color,
I'm mesmerized by the mists
And let them draw me back in

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.