Pine Ridge- first look

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In the seven years I've live in South Dakota, I've put off going to Pine Ridge. I didn't want to be another do-gooder, white  and clueless American woman. I was nervous about going, reluctant to offend, unsure of my safety.  This past week I went to the reservation for a cultural immersion program and it was powerful.  We joined with a group from Colorado because only three of us, including our new pastor, wanted to go from our town just two hours from the rez. Sadly many South Dakotans want little to do with Pine Ridge- they've had years of frustration and many have washed their hands of the "situation". 

Once before I drove north from Nebraska on to a bit on the rez- it was windblown, brown and desolate. The housing is substandard to say the least and I remember lots of chain link fences around all the government offices.

Maybe it's all the rain we've had this summer but as we drove south and east from the Black Hills, the rolling hills as far as the eye could see were still green.  By September almost all of the west is dry and brown in an average year. The green is unusual but it felt like a sign of hope. Despite the obvious recent damage of a hailstorm, the whole ride had a feel of expectation, not dread.

There was the hard, bitter reality of the rez. It's in the poorest county in the United States and it looks like it. The shabby mobile homes looked even worse the closer we got to the town of Pine Ridge. A month ago,  golf ball size hailstones tore the siding off the north and eastern sides of most structures. It was all I feared- sadness, hopelessness, drunks and poverty.  

But we also met amazing artists like Joe Pullman who is maintaining the traditional art of leger painting on old ledger pages from the Army days and the Bureau of Land Management.  We heard elder Basil Braveheart say the most important duty was forgiveness and shared how he integrates traditional Lakota ways and his Christian faith. He has healing circles for addicts and vets with PTSD. Kevin Poor Bear sat in a wheelchair, his legs missing from the knees down.  As he told stories that made us laugh, he drew beautiful pictures with charcoal. He attends a gospel church and proclaimed his love.  Will Peters taught us games and laughed as we struggled- he teaches math at the high school. He started a flute group and they were just nominated for their first Native American Music Award.  Valerie wove porcupine quills around leather strips and told wild stories of storing dead porcupines in her apartment!  We played with children and they let us dance with them at a nursing home.

EVERY adult Lakota we talked with this week is a recovering alcoholic and told that part of their story with a dignity that comes from overcoming.  I have never met such resilient and ultimately hopeful people. Despite the despair and tragedy, I left Pine Ridge in awe of the people.  I have a deep respect for their need for healing in their own way, in their own time.   All our speakers honored their grandmothers and spoke with passion of protecting the next generation. It was powerful and full of hope for the future, despite the outward appearance.

I can't wait to go back and I'd love to take any and all who would like to join me. 

https://www.aaanativearts.com/pine-ridge-indian-reservation

 What are your thoughts and feelings on Native Americans? Mistreated or looking for handouts?  I'll add more stories of my week and let's see what we can learn together. Blessings, Kathryn

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In the end.... the words of Love

I never considered myself a feminist- I was trying to fill out a bra when other women were burning theirs. But recently I came face to face with patriarchy in all its assumed power and I was really pissed off. My intuition and research and thoughtful words spoken into a touchy family issue of elder care were all dismissed. After a quick one-time visit, the men in the situation were convinced that all was well. The man in charge has it well in hand, his records are orderly, the apartment is clean- "Butt out, sister". In this case, it's more "butt out, cousin", because I am not actually a daughter or a sister. I was informed that even if I were a daughter-in-law, I "wouldn't get a vote". Just writing that paragraph gets my blood pressure up and my stomach in a twist.

Informing me in this particular confrontation is my knowledge of the history- family disputes, alcoholism, greed, cognitive decline and the like- all quite irrelevant to my heart's response. I was hurt. I was dismissed. I was not valued. I was put in my place. And I dug into past occasions of being dismissed- by my father ("Learn to type, at least you could be a secretary.") and my husband ("You don't know anything about fiances. What will you do after I'm gone?"). I'm not enough, I'm not one of "them", the powerful, the knowing, the competent.


In my new writing discipline, I examined  my thoughts as they flow out and I write on the emotions under the thoughts.   For this entire week I kept writing- "Did I do enough? Could I have said it in a more winsome way? Do I have any rights to be part of the solution?" Why aren't my thoughts and points valid even if I'm only a cousin. Why should these dysfunctional men have all the rights even if they're the sons?"

My first conclusion is this isn't worth it. I'm going to quit trying, Maybe I'm wrong anyway, maybe I didn't see what I thought I saw.  I'm going to keep my thoughts to myself next time. I'm going to protect my feelings.

I doubt myself so quickly. I'd rather be blissfully ignorant hiking in my Hills than attacked and emotionally wounded. Clearly I'm not articulate or I would have been listened to. Why can't I defend myself?

Can you see my thoughts spiraling down, down? I can think myself right into a dark hole. A hole of self-doubt and regret and anxiety. I wasn't sleeping- my thoughts were dominated with what happened, why, and more why. When I'm down and out and confused, I need someone who can hear my heart, I need my sister. My sister- the rational voice into my jumbled thoughts. The brain of my heart. As usual she cut to the crux of the matter.

"He doesn't deserve anymore of your energy.

This is an emotional pinball machine and he's pulling all the levers.

Take your ball and leave."

Wisely she asked,  "What was your intent for the visit? Did those people hear your voice, need your words?  Did you support another woman  who was also trying to help?  The important message was the word of Love and you spoke it."

Yes. Yes. Yes. I spoke love and concern and "I'm on your side. I'm here if you need me." I supported the other woman even closer to the situation than I am. To her my words and actions said, "I support you. I see your heart. I know your intentions."  To my elderly cousins- much loved, more like a dear aunt and uncle, I'm the daughter of their heart since they only had boys- those two dear ones know I love them, know I care, know I am watching and cannot be dismissed. My words were heard, my message was received.

The patriarchy can continue in my extended family, the men can think they know best and make the best decisions.  But I know- words and actions of love and compassion trump any attitude of dismissal. I wasn't dismissed by the ones I went to love, I wasn't ignored or demeaned.  I was loved in return, I was heard and I heard them.  In the end, the ones who dominate and determine can continue their ways, I stand strong and more confident than ever that the word of Love wins in the end.

Talking to Myself

Proprioception, from Latin proprius, meaning "one's own", "individual," and capio, capere, to take or grasp, is the sense of the relative position of neighbouring parts of the body and strength of effort being employed in movement. You say it- prō prēəˈseptiv

My daughter sprained her foot and ankle at age seven and continued to "turn her ankle" for years. In college she ended up at a orthopedic clinic for yet another injury and they discovered her ankle no longer "talked" to her brain. The connection was lost by stretched ligaments and torn nerve endings. She had physical therapy and eventually, her ankle was once more connected to her brain. Amazing.

Turns out our feelings and emotions can be disconnected from our bodies as well, we bury feelings and refuse to feel that hurt or that betrayal or that rage. Then we too are constantly "turning our ankle". Unexpected anger trips us up, spikes of betrayal without true provocation surprise us and moments of pain overwhelm us. Just a flash, a glimpse and our self-protection jumps in and slams the door to our emotions closed. We are disconnected from our own interior.

In my daughter's sore ankle there are wounded ligaments receptive to physical therapy and healing. In my soul those spikes of emotions and flashes of pain are calls to wholeness and healing for my inner life. I can train my emotions to release, I can exercise with tools that strengthen the pathways between my past experiences, my emotions and my body. For it's my body that reflects all those buried injuries. It was clear Abby's ankle was the injured member; my elusive soul would rather hide behind the walls of self-protection than be exposed- even to myself. But only with risk and vulnerability will there be healing. Otherwise I'm just coping, just getting by, just "Doing fine, thanks."

The newest tool in my soul toolbox is Proprioceptive Writing- I'm linking to a blog site that gives a long and lovely explanation. Why write what someone else has written so well? I will add the pronunciation- prōprēəˈseptiv

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http://morenewsfromvg.blogspot.com/2015/04/proprioceptive-writing.html

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When I do my Proprioceptive Writing, I find some Baroque music on my computer- usually a slow cello piece, light a candle and set my phone to twenty-five minutes.  As I write, I ask myself- what do I mean by that word?  Now what does THAT mean? and wander off with my thoughts and emotions. It's harder than I imagined. I want to edit, I want to "get to the point" or find a take-away. But this isn't writing for an audience, it's writing for me. It's designed to expose me to my own thoughts and think about why those thoughts come up. I'm reconnecting my ankle to its ligaments, so to speak.

After I write, I answer three questions-
What thoughts did I hear but NOT write about?- that one always throws me.
How do I feel now?- that's helpful, I can assess just what the emotional effect has been. I like that.
What larger story is this Write part of?  Marriage, community, depression, transition.
What ideas do I now have for future Writes? I usually have more ideas I want to explore.

Simple, yet hard. Short but thought provoking. It gets my pen to paper- no computer work here, just my thoughts and my body.

I had a stressful trip out of town and this has really aided my processing of the events and people I visited. I came home emotionally drained and this has recharged my batteries.  I'll write more about a specific topic for the next blog- for now, this is the introduction. As for me and my body, we talking just fine. Thanks!


http://pwriting.org/?page_id=2905  Another web site- the back story of and official website of Proprioceptive Writing. 

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On the road again...

Finally, a road trip! A wander with a camera and some blessed time with no agenda. It's been a busy season.

In the last twelve months, I've been in Minnesota, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Connecticut, back to NJ, back to Ohio (and all the states and cities in between those destinations). All that on a road trip to and from the Black Hills for two wonderful graduations. That was last summer; the winter was a wander from the Hills to Southern California via Bismarck, ND.  There was a lovely three weeks in Tucson with my ever gracious brother and his wife. Then three months in Southern California to romp with grands, interrupted by a month long teaching trip to Oaxaca, Mexico.  Throw in couple flights from San Diego to Rapid City and Austin, Texas.  Oh, a train ride from San Marcos back to Austin because I locked myself out of my niece's home.  (Another story full of fun and mosquitos and the more memories with a dear friend.) 

Finally back to my own home and overgrown yard with just a month before the local garden club meeting at my house.  Oops-add another short road trip to Denver and a family reunion with my 90 year old mother. And three days before the garden club showed up, I fell UP a flight of stone stairs, split open my forehead, bruised my ribs and slept for two days. Thank God for my sister- who always holds down the fort with our mom AND cleaned my house and spruced up my yard.

To the next person who says, "It must be nice to be able to do whatever you want to do and travel so much....", I'm going to deck them.  Actually, I only think about hitting people and being nasty. I usually just go off and sulk and vent to a few people who know me and then, laugh with them. All the travel is fun AND exhausting; the grands are grand AND exhausting (and the SoCal ones are still waiting for Daddy to return from Afghanistan); the jaunts to Mexico ( I forgot to include the first one last September) were great experiences of creating curriculum and teaching AND also, exhausting.  Hmm- a bit of a pattern showing up.

SO... I am always so grateful to come home and drop into my own bed and rest. 

For thus said the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel, 

“In returning and rest you shall be saved; 

in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.” Isaiah 30:15

And my soul says, "Amen."


I'm grateful for stamina and good health; for friends and family who support and encourage me; and for quiet times in the Black Hills to recharge.  And a small wander with a camera does wonders for my soul as well.

Let me share my recent trip to St. Onge, South Dakota, settled by Danish immigrants in the1880's. They built ranches, a town and at least one church that still stands. I had to backtrack and criss-cross the county- if there had been ANY traffic, I would have flagged someone down and asked for directions. But I found it or it found me.

I love the delicate stone carving - it's on both sides
but the wind has scoured off the north side. 

What an imagination- surrounded by prairie, a fanciful city is carved on the headstone.
Hope.

Resting, forever a child.

Little Dane Church
St. Onge, South Dakota

History is the Stories of the people who came before us- we look back at their accomplishments and perseverance and wonder at our own character.  What will the future generations think of us? It's easy for us to judge the settlers in light of what we now know of the indigenous people already here.  We may forget that many families were leaving poverty and lack to come to the West and make new lives. 

Will our descendants marvel at what we consider modern accomplishments- many which will be obsolete before our death?  Or will they judge us for divisions and incivilities, wars and inequalities?  

My prayer is they learn a lesson on the value of a small wander, the renewing power of wonder at creation- God and man's, the need to be still and know God in the midst of change and tumult?  I see the eternal in this country church and its prairie graveyard and I trust. 

in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.” Isaiah 30:15

Blessings, Kathryn

For some more information about St. Onge and rural life. 
http://www.bhpioneer.com/local_news/little-dane-church-gets-facelift/article_621df504-b9cf-11e2-a73d-0019bb2963f4.html

https://rapidcityjournal.com/news/local/barn-near-st-onge-stands-as-a-monument-to-south/article_f8aa5a3c-99c6-5c13-aa5b-e993ecdc0bfc.html

Nothing new under the Mexican sun

 I  loved Greek ruins- all those unique key designs.... what? They're in Mexico as well?? 
 Yep.  

Meander-Greek Key  

History and Meaning

The meander motif took its name from the river Meander, a river with many twists, mentioned by Homer in  the Iliad. The motif is also known as Greek key or Greek fret.

Meander was the most important symbol in Ancient Greece, symbolizing infinity or the eternal flow of things. Many temples and objects were decorated with this motif, and it is considered that there is a connection with the Cretan labyrinth – indeed - a labyrinth can be drawn using a Greek key.

http://www.culturetaste.com/meander-greek-key-history-and-meaning-66.html

Greek 159-138 BC
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Meanders.jpg

That's your history lesson for today. Back to Mexico!

I was here three weeks ago... look at that stone work. 

Looks like a variation on a Greek key to me.  

"The main distinguishing feature of Mitla is the intricate mosaic fretwork and geometric designs that profusely adorn the walls of both the Church and Columns groups. The geometric patterns called grecas in Spanish seen on some of the stone walls and door frames are made from thousands of cut, polished stones that are fitted together without mortar. The pieces were set against a stucco background painted red.The stones are held in place by the weight of the stones that surround them.Walls, friezes and tombs are decorated with mosaic fretwork. In some cases, such as in lintels, these stone “tiles” are embedded directly into the stone beam. The elaborate mosaics are considered to be a type of “Baroque” design as the designs are elaborate and intricate and in some cases cover entire walls. None of the fretwork designs are repeated exactly anywhere in the complex.The fretwork here is unique in all of Mesoamerica."(Wikipedia)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitla

All this proves I'm not an archeologist. But it was thought provoking to see ancient stone work that looks so similar to work done years earlier in the Mediterranean,across the ocean from Mexico.

By the way- those steps are REALLY big- probably close to 18 inches. You were supposed to go down facing sideways- so your back was never turned to the king/ priest/deity. With nothing to really hold on to, the first step is a huge step of faith and gut wrenching bravery. Or you can sit down and scoot like I did.

It's hard to see but all those designs are multiple pieces of stone, fitted together. Amazing!

 And a weaver in Oaxaca made the design into a rug.  Equally amazing.

Irene Ruiz works in vibrant shades of emerald, evoking early starlight. 

She weaves virgin wool on the handloom with traditional Zapotec techniques, 

employing natural dyes derived from native plants.

Here's another rug with elements of ancient design.

My favorite rug design... now laying on my floor. 

This is the wall of a room inside a Zapotec structure. This is a larger room off an open courtyard.  

There are also tombs underground,  wet and low.  You creep, in a squat, to see the walls.  
The things we do for the sake of exploration.  Oh, never mind- these have been explored for ages!

I was fascinate how this stonework probably inspired the weaving industry.  You are discouraged from photographing rugs- designs are hand created by each weaver. Since there is no copyright protection, a photograph could be used to copy a pattern.

Tile floor in a church-

A women from Oaxaca  doing hand-embroidery on a blouse. 
Her pattern echoes the church floor.

I love textiles- the feel of sturdy cotton and felted wools, the drape of a lighter cotton in a lowly dishtowel, the filmy flounce of a gauze blouse —all music to my fingers.  Then you add color and embroidery and layers of colorful aprons over lace dresses- Mexico is a textile feast for the senses. The ancient sense of style starting with stone work a thousand years old ends with women stitching and men weaving beauty today.  A legacy of color and texture and pride.  Viva Mexico! 

Sounds of Mexico

My casita. 

I wake to the loud tick of the clock and the quiet chirp of the birds.
The lizards skitter into the lush undergrowth along my sidewalk, the cicadas buzz and more birds sing.

That "tree" is a poinsettia. It'll turn red in the winter. 

I walk to school to the sound of roosters crowing, turkeys gobbling and an occasional put-put of a mototaxi or motorcycle.  Both modes of transportation use about the same size engine but one is a taxi cab for two or possibly three (friendly) people.

The gas truck comes by and signals its presence with a series of great moos- like a tortured cow, followed by loud radio news and music, blasting from the driver's open window.

The music doesn't bother the burros. This is the road to town, past the field behind the school. What you can't hear is the buzz of insects and what you can't feel?  The itch of mosquito welts!   That doesnt't seem to concern the burro either. 

The smell of fresh ground chocolate is much better than the sound! 

Lots of construction noise in Mitla's central square. All this dug up by hand. Took a handful of men less than a week with pick axes for the concrete and shovels for the trench. Amazing workers.

Behind my casita is a field hidden behind a screen of tall prickly pear cactus and green trees. One century plant sticks up, a flagpole topped with tiny gourds.  Somewhere in that secret field is a man with a deep, guttural cough/hiccup that he uses to signal the cattle and move them from area to area.  That took me a week to figure out. I can't see anything until the cattle are around the far side of the field, down by the laundry room. Ahh- it's a man herding cows and he's making that very weird noise.

Ok- so it's not cows. I told you...the cows are hidden. The goats are by the other fence. And they have their own sound of maa...ing.

There is usually a thrum of music except at night when the thrum becomes the throb of a full-blown brass band with Mariachi crooners.  Can't capture that in a photo!

But my favorite sound weaves them all together. From most homes and business echoes the clacking of weavers at their looms. Foot operated timeless machines create the backbone industry of Oaxaca- beautiful, handmade textiles.

This man is creating the threads for the looms. He'll wind the threads onto the rack in the foreground and feed it onto the loom in the background. There are two looms back there. All a very labor-intensive process. 

I'll miss the sights...and sounds of San Pablo Valle de Mitla, Oaxaca. Mexico.

A day in the life....

I thought I'd tell you my typical day here in Mitla.  I rise with the sun- about 6:30...unless I need to be at school early, then I sleep in and rush around like a crazy woman looking for protein to get me through the day!  I miss my phone alarm. I miss my phone....

This morning we were supposed to go to a horse ranch today and RIDE! but it rained all night and made a muck of the ranch. I didn't sleep well and the 8am phone call to cancel riding woke me up. So we had school- 9-10:30, then break for recess. We have another two hours session after recess, before lunch and afternoon classes of PE and Art (crafts).

Today it was wet but not raining so the children all played outside. This group of 2nd-8th all play very well together- lots of variations of tag, some stilt walking, some climbing, oops- "No, you cannot climb the tetherball poles!"

Usually, when I have time before going to the classroom, I head from my little casita to the office area. I can only print in color there. This is my process: lock my door AND remember the key- this one's tough, I never lock my house at home;  walk on the sidewalk under the fruited (but not ripe!) pomegranate trees! and head across the common greens for the office.

This is a jade plant in bloom!

Past the communal laundry, down a couple of small set of concrete and stone stairs and through a metal gate. Everything is gated here. Security is not as necessary as it was twenty years ago but no one is forgetting the threats from that time.

Gates have keys, doors have keys, some keys are kept inside locked doors.... arghh! I unlock the "key room" door, retrieve the "office key" for the room with copiers and relock the key room. Walk to said office and unlock it.  Oops- the copier wants bigger paper before it will print and I need to resend the print job.  Next time bring computer!

Return keys and relock doors, return home, unlock my door, get computer, return to office area and repeat.  It becomes a bit of a joke- one key opens all the exterior gates to get off the center and into the school yard, - directly across the dirt road.  It is the Puerto Primario key- Primary Gate, in English.  Nicely engraved with PP- and referred to regularly as the PP key.  "The gate's locked. Do you have your PP key?"  Followed by giggles- clearly we are suited to dealing with silly children.

Must have a guard on duty- no keys necessary right now. Hurrah!

A rare rainblow on the walk to the church.

Lots of rain means it's really green here right now. 

The town square is being rebuilt but the lovely city office building stands strong. 

The fuss with the keys is a minor complaint in a place I have very little to complain about. My casita is comfortable (and filling up with beautiful hand-woven textiles and inexpensive goodies for gifts).  I love walking into town for the market. Today we're going to the Aztec ruins a half a mile away to see the church built on the same grounds and tour the ruins. Afterward, we'll do some more mandatory shopping- supporting the local economy when there are few tourists.

This is where you buy your cowboy gear

And I have four lovely children to teach that make this all worthwhile. But that's a blog for next time!