Shaking Hands...

 Pádraig Ó Tuama

Shaking Hands

Because what’s the alternative?
Because of courage.
Because of loved ones lost.
Because no more.
Because it’s a small thing; shaking hands; it happens every day.
Because I heard of one man whose hands haven’t stopped shaking since a market day in Omagh.
Because it takes a second to say hate, but it takes longer, much longer, to be a great leader.
Much, much longer.

Because shared space without human touching doesn’t amount to much.
Because it’s easier to speak to your own than to hold the hand of someone whose side has been previously described, proscribed, denied.
Because it is tough.
Because it is tough.
Because it is meant to be tough, and this is the stuff of memory, the stuff of hope, the stuff of gesture, and meaning and leading.
Because it has taken so, so long.
Because it has taken land and money and languages and barrels and barrels of blood.

Because lives have been lost.
Because lives have been taken.

Because to be bereaved is to be troubled by grief.
Because more than two troubled peoples live here.
Because I know a woman whose hand hasn’t been shaken since she was a man.
Because shaking a hand is only a part of the start.
Because I know a woman whose touch calmed a man whose heart was breaking.
Because privilege is not to be taken lightly.

Because this just might be good.
Because who said that this would be easy?
Because some people love what you stand for, and for some, if you can, they can.
Because solidarity means a common hand.
Because a hand is only a hand; so hang onto it.

So join your much discussed hands.
We need this; for one small second.
So touch.
So lead.

Pádraig Ó Tuama is leader of the Corrymeela Community, a poet, theologian and mediator. He has worked in conflict resolution in Ireland, Africa and the Middle East.

"Because it takes a second to say hate, but it takes longer, much longer, to be a great leader.
Much, much longer."

     It's been a long time since I've shaken hands with anyone.  The students in "my" Thai school know that Americans shake hands so they would line up to shake hands with me. I much prefer the Asian wai 🙏. Every teacher would wai me the first time we met each day. If I forgot that I'd seen her and would initiate a wai at a later meeting she'd embarrassedly wave me off. Shaking multiple sweaty hands throughout the day wasn't pleasant to I taught the students to fist bump. This was very amusing to students and teachers alike.

     Do I miss shaking hands now? Not so much but I miss what it represents. Tuama writes "...it takes a second to hate." There's a good test for ourselves and others "Does it serve love?"  Or "is it in the service of hate?"  We join hands if only figuratively.

Takk for alt,

Al

                                A picture of 6th grade from "my" Thai school.

Terror in the night! or at least worry.

 

How Many Nights
by Galway Kinnell

How many nights
have I lain in terror,
O Creator Spirit, maker of night and day,

only to walk out
the next morning over the frozen world,
hearing under the creaking snow
faint, peaceful breaths...
snake,
bear, earthworm, ant...

and above me
a wild crow crying 'yaw, yaw, yaw'
from a branch nothing cried from ever in my life.

 

     Reading this poem it struck me how different things look at night compared to how they look in daylight.  Insomnia is a not much of a problem for me. (Martin Luther said that insomnia is an opportunity for intercessory prayer.) However, I am awake enough at night to know that issues which may seem insurmountable at night fade to insignificance with the breaking of day. It reminds me of the story of an elderly women who said to her pastor "I've had many problems in my life and most of them never happened."

     What will winter bring to my life in The Little House on the Prairie?  It's a snug little house, and though I don't like cold, I'll test the Norwegian saying "there's no bad weather, only bad clothing."  It isn't as if I haven't experienced cold before. Traveling to Thailand doesn't look feasible and I will miss that as I will miss teaching at Noble Academy. Those are small sacrifices compared to what so many people are suffering.

     Sleep well my friends and if night time finds you awake remember what Luther said.

Takk for alt,

Al

PS Also remember what President Lincoln said: "Don't believe everything you see on the internet."  

Worth reading...

      When the download of Erik Larson's The Splendid and the File wouldn't play  on Kindle, Larson's Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of the Lusitania was immediately available. Copious archival material was available to Larson much of which had been long classified.

     There's plenty of blame to go around in this tragedy of the sinking of a passenger liner on May 7, 1915.  The German government had posted ads in American papers warning that sea travel to The British Isles was not safe becasue the waters around the Isles were a war zone. Almost no one paid heed to those warnings. The British Navy knew that a German submarine was operating in the area that the Lusitania was to cross. Yet, the Navy only gave a general warning to the ship and provided no destroyer escort for protection. Winston Churchill had spoken of his hope that the sinking of a ship carrying Americans would bring America into the war. British knowledge of the submarine's location, the one that fired the fateful torpedo, was kept secret so that Germany would not learn that Britain had broken Germany's secret code. After the fact the British Navy tried to blame Captain Turner, skipper of the Lusitania, for the sinking. Turner faced three enquiries and was found blameless in all three.

     The ship was sunk by one torpedo from the German submarine U 20, skippered by Schwieger, who died later in the war. The torpedo struck a vulnerable spot, broadside, and killed many of crew who were in that area sorting baggage for their landing at Liverpool. A second explosion, likely caused by the rupture of the steam lines, rendered all systems inoperative. Because the ship was moving fast lifeboats could not be immediately lowered. It could not quickly stop because the propellers could not be reversed. The ship quickly listed so severely that few lifeboats could be successfully lowered. Many of the crew who would have lowered the boats were killed in the initial explosion.The ship sank eighteen minutes after the torpedo struck. There were 1959 passengers and crew, plus 3 German stowaways,  1198, which included the stowaways, died and 123 were Americans. 600 were never found. The dead include many children becasue this was a passenger ship. Many drowned because they incorrectly used their life jackets.  Given the communications of 1915 many families did not learn for months the fate of their family members. Many who could not be identified are buried in a common grave in Ireland. 

     Larson spends much of the book presenting biographical data on passengers and crew.  Then he follows many of them through the sinking, in the water, rescue if they were, and some much later in life. A helpful factor was that it was sunny with calm seas, though if it had been foggy they wouldn't have been torpedoed, because it took rescue boats two hours to reach the survivors. Water temperature was 55 degrees so hypothermia was an issue.

   America did not join the war for two more years. It took the sinking of many more ships, and a purported German plan to involve Mexico in a war against the U.S., before America declared war. Larson includes some fascinating detail about President Wilson's status and thinking during this time. 

While it's morbid it is also a fascinating read.  

   On a much more mundane subject: it rained last night with precipitation in the .6" to .75" range. Very welcome!

Takk for alt,

Al

"My life goes on....

      The song says "My life goes on in endless song..."  My life goes on in daily repetition. Frequently I have to check my watch to see what day it is...not that it matters much. Most mornings there's an outside project that provides exercise and diversion. This morning it was a walk on prairie pasture in pursuit of pests. (The native grasses return. 😊) Frequent walks keep me in reasonable shape. News papers come online. Investing too much in their success I wait to see if the Lynx win and if they do I watch the replay. Readers of this blog are well aware that books are an important part of my routine. Phone calls fill my people bladder daily. All in all it's a very pleasant life and I feel blessed and grateful.

Laura Kelly Fanucci

When This is Over

When this is over,
may we never again
take for granted
A handshake with a stranger
Full shelves at the store
Conversations with neighbors
A crowded theater
Friday night out
The taste of communion
A routine checkup
The school rush each morning
Coffee with a friend
The stadium roaring
Each deep breath
A boring Tuesday
Life itself.

When this ends
may we find
that we have become
more like the people
we wanted to be
we were called to be
we hoped to be
and may we stay
that way — better
for each other
because of the worst.

Takk for alt,

Al

A poet speaks.

  My friend, Peter, had this poem published in Midwest Quarterly Summer 2020. 

Healing 

 

I echo you echo me 

but I cannot in this  

be with you any closer 

than a bird's shadow 

racing along the river far 

below her solitary flight 

close as fear, as far as laughter. 

After the operation you must live  

for a time on water only   no bread 

no solid anything   the tube of your throat  

that feeds you that IS you torn   needing  

like a crash like the young needing hope  

like a bucket needing more  

than the usual repair 

sustenance a fix mostly air. 

Under the mirror river 

water-supple leaves like the wings 

of an unseen bird rise from their rest  

spread out then dart lower disturbed 

as what we cannot see moves  

into deeper water. Some roiled emotion. 

Healing is a miracle that approaches  

like a cluster of cats who drift along  

somewhat together in the woods  

a herd of patience  it hurts 

there's not much I can do  

no matter what I wish. 

Yet if we wait on the bank 

longer than slowly  

the unseen returns no less  

mysterious for its journey 

an unclenching of the fist 

around the throat 

so experienced voices 

reassure us.

 

P M F Johnson

    When Peter sent this to me it brought to mind the fourteen surgeries Joanne endured. Of course there were moments of tedium while I practiced my skills at caregiving. Perhaps my weakest area was conversation. That's when I appealed to Joanne's friends as she was confined in the proximity of a monosyllabic introvert. Now I wish I could do more.

     Wishing for comments, as I do, I cut and pasted what opens when "Comments" are clicked at the bottom of my post (see below). Please give it a try and report your experience to me.  Thanks!

Takk for alt,

Al

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      RE: Commenting on www.negstad.blogspot.com    This is what open with a click on "Comments" at the bottom of the page. Write your comment, Choose and identity and strike "Publish Your Comment" and it should appear in the blog..

Big questions to ponder?

    "My" egret is still working the far corner of "my" pond from sunrise until sunset. Watching it, and other herons, working the shorelines to find frogs and minnows a wondering came upon me. Given their practice of walking shorelines what happens if they accidentally step into a deep water drop off? Can they swim? This is just one of many deep questions to ponder. Do you have an opinion on this subject? I assumed they could given their life related to water. (Pheasants can swim until their feathers become saturated.)

      When in doubt go to Google. This is what Google says: "It also does several other things that most other herons typically do not, including hovering before dropping (feet-first) to pick prey off the surface of the water, and swimming in deep water (yes, herons can swim)."  Evolutionally it makes sense; those that can swim would be more likely to survive and reproduce.

     With my switch from CaringBridge to Blogspot I'm missing the "hearts" and "comments" I treasured on CB. If you scroll to the bottom of the Blogspot page you will find "Comments". If you click on that a panel will open on which you may write a comment.

     Dry, and now hot, weather prevails. When I took Trygve outside, when it was 95 degrees, to play fetch after his second retrieve he trotted to the door of the house and waited to return to air conditioning. Smart dog! 😊

Takk for alt,

Al

There are moments....

 Ashes of Life

BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike;

Eat I must, and sleep I will, — and would that night were here!

But ah! — to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike!

Would that it were day again! — with twilight near!

Love has gone and left me and I don't know what to do;

This or that or what you will is all the same to me;

But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through, —

There's little use in anything as far as I can see.

Love has gone and left me, — and the neighbors knock and borrow,

And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse, —

And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow

There's this little street and this little house.

      Ashes of Life, is nearer my earlier experience of grief. Still there are moments when I feel as St. Vincent Millay expresses. The last line, "There's this little street and this little house."  does describe The Little House on The Prairie which is on a street 4 blocks long.

       St. Vincent Millay is the poet who gave me the phrase "the presence of absence" which has been an accurate description of the experience of grief. Joanne often appears in my dreams. The appearances and dreams are nothing dramatic, we're just doing ordinary things. While my life is constantly in her absence there are times in which that absence is particularly acute. 

        Grief aside, I realize how fortunate I am and I remain deeply grateful.

Takk for alt,

Al

Digital imperfections!

     After reading many novels I get hungry for history. The Year 1000, has been highly acclaimed so I placed a hold on an electronic version, readable with Kindle, from the Hennepin County Library. When, after weeks of waiting, I could finally got it, it downloaded but wouldn't open. So, I returned it, signed up for it again, and, after waiting weeks again couldn't open it. Finally, after weeks of waiting I got Erik Larson's The Splendid and the Vile.  It opens but every few pages the page goes blank and I have to restart it. So, it also was returned.

      Perusing the history section of the library I found Erik Larson's Dead Wake:The Last Crossing of the Lusitania, immediately available. Life is good with a good history book to read. When I was at Zion Lutheran Davenport, one of the members Henry Schafer, who grew up in the Amana Colonies when they were still a colony, had strong feelings about the sinking. He thought that Germany was treated unfairly in that affair. Now I'll see what Larson thinks.

    Temperatures have been reaching the 90s these days. That is stressing the crops as there has been a long, persistent dry spell. Harvest yields will be significantly reduced this fall.

    News media brings reports of student, pro-democracy demonstrations in Thailand. The army re-wrote the Thai constitution after it overthrew the elected government. The new constitution gives the army effective control of the government. Young demonstrators are seeking a new constitution and restoration of freedom of speech and press. A new element in these demonstrations is that, for the first time ever, there is criticism of the king. He took over two years ago after his father's death but he doesn't cast a benevolent mein. Every actions he's taken since his elevation has been to increase his power. He spends most of his time in Munich, Germany, where he quarantined with 24 young women.  Criticizing, even discussing, anything royal publicly is illegal and punishable by 15 years in jail. Many critics of the government disappear and later are found dead. While I credit the students this will likely not end well.

Takk for alt,

Al

                                    Sunset over the Chao Phraya River, Bangkok. 

Melancholy

        Sometimes I'm surprised by how much sadness has receded into the background even as I pedal through the land of grief.  Spending a weekend with Lisa, and Lars' youngest daughter, Sella, was delightful. At 8, Sella is a trooper and very good company. Bird watching, feeding the neighborhood critters, spending time at the cemetery, riding bike, playing games, coloring were all so much fun.

       The fun of the weekend reminded me of what I've lost by not being able to spend an evening a week with the girls. Then, also, it was exactly the kind of time that Joanne would have reveled in, and she missed it and all the other delights of seeing the girls grow and blossom. Joanne was totally delighted in being a grandma...and now she's already missed over two years of grandma experience.

      It is that reality of life in the land of grief that the happy, delightful times are shot through with the sense of loss. It creates for me a feeling of sadness and melancholy that blessedly are more rare than in those early days in the depths of grief. Blessing and loss mingle together in strange ways.

Takk for alt,

Al

                                                                               Sweet!

Trees and Poetry.

 



Elegy for a Walnut Tree
by W. S. Merwin

Old friend now there is no one alive
who remembers when you were young
it was high summer when I first saw you
in the blaze of day most of my life ago
with the dry grass whispering in your shade
and already you had lived through wars
and echoes of wars around your silence
through days of parting and seasons of absence
with the house emptying as the years went their way
until it was home to bats and swallows
and still when spring climbed toward summer
you opened once more the curled sleeping fingers
of newborn leaves as though nothing had happened
you and the seasons spoke the same language
and all these years I have looked through your limbs
to the river below and the roofs and the night
and you were the way I saw the world

Trees

BY JOYCE KILMER

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

          Grass and trees are one way to understand my relation to this land. The grass on both native prairie and land that's been tilled gives me joy and satisfaction. However, the harsh winter climate has led me to follow in my grandfather's and father's footsteps planting trees, an estimated 10,000.

           There's a large Chinese elm behind the garage that needs removal. It threatens power lines and buildings. It's too big, with obstructions nearby, for me too tackle. Time for professionals.

            With the spread of the emerald ash borer...not here yet...I regret the green ash I planted.  I should have planted more cedar, even though they go rogue. They provide wonderful wildlife cover, in the right places, for wildlife. Pheasants will roost in them in the winter out of the frigid wind and safe from ground based predators.

Takk for alt,

Al

                             The grass is taller than Sella.

Company

     Living the solitary life at The Little House it's always a special day when company comes. Today it's Aunt Lisa, known to the girls as Te Te, and Sella. With Sella we visited some special neighbors of The Little House. The Pictures tell the story.

Takk for alt,

Al

Imagination...

 “You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”
― Mary Oliver

    Oliver writes "the world offers itself to your imagination,".  Perhaps this pandemic is an invitation to imagination. So much is so different now. Very little is "same old, same old." This is an invitation to creativity born out of necessity but also an opportunity for imagination. Perhaps rather than neurotically wishing things were as before we could ponder the new possibilities in this changed world. What is "our place in the family of things?"

       Lightening and thunder today brought us .2" rain...better than nothing but more is needed. Stress on the corn is now visible. Hillsides and places with light soil reveal corn struggling. The stalks are shorter, lower leaves are brown and yields will be reduced.  Beans hide the stress and have more capacity to wait for moisture. Pastures and lawns are turning brown.

Takk for alt,

Al

Pandemic opportunity.

 Lynn Unger

Pandemic

What if you thought of it
as the Jews consider the Sabbath—
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now,
on trying to make the world
different than it is.
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down.

And when your body has become still,
reach out with your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)
Know that our lives
are in one another’s hands.
(Surely, that has come clear.)
Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,
where we cannot touch.

Promise this world your love–
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
so long as we all shall live.

      Unger profoundly speaks the opportunity of this pandemic.

Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,

where we cannot touch.

    This period of confinement has reminded, or perhaps taught me, the power of a phone call. The delight when one is called unexpectedly bears witness to the significance in Reach out your words. While death and suffering abound for many,  some of us, only lightly effected, have opportunity to make a difference. Typically when disaster or tragedy strike we respond by doing something. How different now, when the best thing we can do, is stay home. But we have telephone, internet, letters and cards that can Reach out.

Takk for alt,

Al

How did I miss it?

    This is the same question "How did I miss it?" that MJV asked herself. Then she emailed me only to discover that I'd missed it too. Taking personal responsibility for ending my ignorance she sent me a copy of The Color of Water: A Black Man's Tribute To His White Mother, James McBride, 1996.  In and Afterword to the 10th Anniversary Edition, 1995, McBride writes it's sold over 2 million copies and has been translated into almost 20 languages, New York Times Bestseller...Yes, the depth of my ignorance.........

     Alternating chapters tell the story of Ruth McBride Jordan, born Ruchel Dwajra Zylska, Jewish, in Poland in 1921, and author James McBride. Both of Ruth's husbands were Black and she totally identified with the African American community. After her first husband died she remarried and with the two husbands birthed 12 children. Two emphasis made her life: religion (Baptist), though in old age she would attend a Lutheran Church when she wanted to get out in an hour, and education. All 12 children graduated from college and most have advanced degrees.

     As a child McBride was aware his mother was different. She would say "I'm light skinned" and change the subject. When McBride would ask where she was from she'd say "God made me" and change the subject. Asked what color God is she said "God's the color of water" and thus the title of the book. Finally he prevails on her to tell her story and so the book. It's a staple of diversity education in high schools and universities. Both Ruth and James are remarkable and their lives are well told.

It's a marvelous story of life lived, family reality and the power of love.

Takk for alt,

Al

More reading.....

      Lisa spottend an Iris Murdoch book in the bookcase at The Little House on The Prairie. Likely it belongs to Lars as I have no previous recollection of it and it was near his collection of Steinbeck books. So, what was I to do but read it?

     The Red and the Green, was copyrighted in 1965 so it's not hot off the press. This novel is the story of 7 or 8 tense days leading up to the Easter Rising in Dublin in 1916. The uprising was an aborted attempt by Irish patriots to end British rule of  Ireland. The book jacket quotes Newsweek about Murdoch "She has the superb novelists gift of embodying her  insights in breathing , violently different characters...she is a master of stagecraft: plot, suspense, atmosphere."  She was a philosophy don at Oxford and deep moral and philosophical issues are replete in her writing. "Irish-born herself, she writes with warm notalgia for the sights, sounds, and smells of Dublin and for its beguiling and exasperating people." Book Jacket. 

     I'm happy to have read this engaging a provocative book.

Takk for alt,

Al

My father's family: Front row Grandpa Lars and Grandma Sigrid with Aunt Anna in the middle.

Back from viewer's left: Uncle Sam, Albert my father and Uncle Henry.

Patience!

 

Moonlight, Summer Moonlight
by Emily Brontë

'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.

And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.

      Yesterday, I walked again, on native prairie which has never seen a plow. Though the soil has never been turned it's hardly recognizable as virgin sod. That's because the natural cycle of burning via prairie fires has been suppressed. Regular burning every few years would inhibit the invasive plant species such as brome and kentucky bluegrass.  The prairie grasses, such as big and little bluestem, would be stimulated by the fire and make it look more like the unplowed land that it is.

     Burning is not feasible because it is hilly and surrounded by other vegetation so the fire could not be controlled.  To restore the native grasses I've employed seasonal grazing. Every spring Steve pastures, either sheep or cattle, on the grass. Pasturing begins as soon as the grass greens and he removes them by the 4th of July. This mimics the effect of fire by grazing down the invasive grasses making way for the native summer grass.

    This process has been in effect since 1993. Gradually the bluestems, and other natives, are emerging. While I pursued pests on that land yesterday I was gratified to see much native grass showing. The process requires patience, for it's been almost 30 years! but it is worth the wait.

   Emily Bronte's poem was likely written about her sister.  Every night when I take Trygve out for his final walk I gaze at the stars which show brightly here. Sinai doesn't have a huge issue of light pollution.  Not far away "Green grass...Wave gently around her (Joanne's) head."

Takk for alt,

Al

Recommended Reading

    Louise Erdrich has long been one of my favorite authors, though I haven't read everything she's written. At least one, Plague of Doves, I read twice. Her latest book, The Night Watchman, is a bit different because it's an historical novel. 

     In 1953-54 the U.S. Senate terminated 113 Native American Tribes. Native Americans lost 1.4 million acres of land and many persons were left destitute. The termination abrogated historic treaty rights. Native Americans in the Turtle Mountain Reservation, North Dakota, were the first to fight termination and they were successful. The fight against termination was led by Erdrich's grandfather who left voluminous correspondances and other documents to which Erdrich has access. That grandfather was a night watchman at the plant on the edge of the reservation which made watch bearings from gemstones.

     Because the genre is a bit different than her usual, the book is also different. The characters who show up in several of her books are absent. Perhaps the beginning is a bit slow but her gift for narrative takes over and makes a compelling and fascinating read. There is enough in the book for both the historian and the mystic. I highly recommend it.

    One of my country neighbors offered me access to his large sweet corn patch. Two cobs anchored my lunch reminding me of my mother's menu which was corn on the cob and fresh tomatoes. Here's a little sweet corn growing tutorial for city folks. Racoons love sweet corn. If a row of sweet corn is planted in the middle of a hundred acre field of commercial corn the coons will find it. Just as it ripens they will eat it all. To keep the coons at bay farmers erect an electric fence, normally used to contain cattle, around the perimeter. The fence doesn't kill the coons, just gives them a good jolt. 😁

Takk for alt,

Al

                                                  The Little House on The Prairie.