First ceremony .... cw

 

My cousin and I were having a phone visit recently, sharing our experience with the importance of Story when she said, “We, as the older generation are the bridge between the past and the future for those who follow.” She is in her seventies ~ I am eighty-three.

I look at the calendar and see this Sunday, Easter, is eighty years since Easter, 1941 with those early memories of my first two ceremonies. 

I don’t remember the drive from San Francisco where we had been living in a small apartment we’d lived in the four months since my third birthday and the bombing of Pearl Harbor. I’m told our belongings were packed to move later that day into the flat on a quieter street near a park where we lived until war’s end. 

My father had the day off. He’d been working in the shipyard twelve-hour days, seven days a week since the war broke with early battles devastating damage to our navy’s ships. 

We’d made the trip for my brother and I were going to be baptized that day for the pastor had retired after years ~ since Daddy had been a boy.

I remember feeling a little cheated for the babies, including my toddler brother, were held, but  I “was too big” so stood with my father while the minister’s damp fingers touched my head, ~ with my parents promises, the Ceremony of  my welcome into the Christian Church.

What I most remember is how beautiful a spring day it was and how very glad I was to hold on tight to my Grandpa’s large, calloused hand as we climbed the steps going into the church. I felt safe in the shadow of his tall form!

Stepping into the old Two Rock church, filling with its Easter crowd of people Grandpa looked down at me, his deep voice telling me, “Kisspatch, everyone here is your relative!” 

The feeling his words caused as I looked around, has stayed with me all my life. There have been so many times that I have deeply doubted that I belonged ~ anywhere ~ but that memory ~ his voice, his words, has been an undercurrent, warming me, reassuring me. “Kisspatch, everyone here is your relative.” 

That Ceremony ~ a ceremony which, throughout my life, has helped to keep me whole.

Many years later I came to see how his words opened me, opened me to learning that everyone, everywhere is my relative ~ all of earth’s creation!

So, this Holy Week of 2020, I remember.

For Kristen, cw

 

Many years later in our new home, while unpacking to organize my new office, I pull out a box and read notes from a class I took one summer. They speak of the structure of English versus the structure of Native languages ~ how “the hoops bleed” in the process of translation. I remember the grief of a friend of mine, a member of the certification committee struggling to form what is now the university’s Rural Human Services program. His frustration and grieving came about because, as the committee worked on curriculum trying to put into English those important things of his culture, he realized what was being left out. English only provided snapshots, nothing of what was around it.

 

How often Peter said the same thing to me. “I can’t say it right in English. It doesn’t mean anything that way! English is no good for what I want to say.”

 

In one of my times in that village an Athabaskan tells me about the layers of meaning in their language. He tells that while many of the older people speak their language fluently, Peter, he said, is the last one who can speak the high language, the language that speaks to the deepest symbol, the most profound meaning of things. The man telling me speaks his language and can understand much but not all of the meaning when the “high” language is spoken. His sadness came from knowing there was no way for him to learn to speak from the depth of that which he calls the “high”.

I - Arrival of the Ovines - Lasso Lilly, vw

     

 

             Two 18-wheelers groaned up Oregon Highway 203 toward Medical Springs. Local curiosity was aroused, where in the hell would those sheep be going in this ‘ere cattle country? Yeah, Jacobs’ run a range band in Keating but these trucks are carrying way too many sheep for a place up here.

             The trucks turned at mile post 26, up Blue Mountain Ridge Road, toward the old barn, corrals, farrowing houses, and granary located one-and-a-half miles down the road. The old Ringer Place. Hmm. New people there. Calling themselves Double Diamond Ranch; kind’a high faluten for Fred’s old place.

 

 It was November 1979 and fast cooling down to winter and, yes, the newcomers were bringing 400 head of sheep to Medical Springs, long-established as cattle and timber country. We didn’t know it then, but a very cold and snowy winter was hovering…. As my mother used to say, Fools rush in …. Unlanded people, 3 generations removed, attempting to return to the land. Two families, 2 couples: a Viet Nam vet helicopter pilot, a Wallowa County gal with experience growing great vegetable gardens and raising chickens, and 2 OSU graduates: fisheries and zoology.

After all, how hard could it be?

 

One truck pulled in to the rickety old chute loader. One of the Ringer boys had built it at least 2 decades before as a 4H project. The green paint was peeling off the wood sides but the big old fat tires had just been aired up. It would do the job! It took a good 20 minutes to maneuver the livestock trailer, with a number of location adjustments of the loader, into what we hoped would be a good UNloading alignment. The men were ready at the trailer and the chute. The women were ready at the corral to direct any renegades back into the main flock body. The doors were opened; everyone tensed for the stampede. But …     not one white body was evident at the open door of the trailer.

Driver #1 took over, climbing up into the trailer. A big commotion was heard, the driver yelling, the stamp of hundreds of cloven hoofs moving from one end of the trailer to the other. Then, finally, the first ewe appeared … hesitated … and was forced by her followers, pushing her into this new world, where who knows what would be waiting; this strange new land, smelling of cows, pigs, turkeys, dust, dogs, and 4 strange humans … tensed and staring at her with sheep staffs in hand.

One-by-one they came and when the unloading ramp was filled with sheep and the bodies were finding space in the corrals, the dam was broken. Running ovine were streaming off the truck in a gushing rivulet. Don’t get in their way! Find a fairly safe place to stand that would still hinder escape from the leaning old corral that was meant to hold them! It seemed they would never end! Oh My Gosh! The corrals were filling up; did we really buy that many?

 

Sure enough, one old gal broke free in blind panic, found a hole and headed down the road, back to where they had come from. About 20 more followed her before we could plug the hole. The 2 men took after the run-aways and got them turned back to their imprisoned compadres.          All but one.         She was both the best sprinter, and long-distance runner. She looked like she was bent on running back to Idaho, coyotes and wolves notwithstanding.

But the men in the pickup had another tool at their disposal, a lariat. And one of them (to this day I don’t know which one) succeeded in lassoing her. They got her in the bed of the truck and, with one of them in the back holding her front legs and setting her up (which is a common position to work an individual sheep), drove back to the corrals.

 

As the weeks slipped by, she started slipping too! When a sheep gets sick or very stressed, they will often slip wool. Lasso Lilly’s wool started coming off in trailing streamers. Being a Rambouillet, those streamers were long and trailing the ground like a bride’s train. Her pink skin showed bare in patches, but she was queenly in her persona, long legged and graceful. She would walk along, head held high, trailing her garment behind her and would stamp in defiance if you came too close. Even in that cold winter ahead, she remained healthy in her short new growth of wool and delivered lambs in February with the rest of her sisters.

Lasso Lilly was the first sheep (remember, in the beginning they totaled 400) that distinguished herself with a name, though several exceptional such characters were to follow. These individualized themselves, being brave enough or, perhaps, unfortunate enough, to be caught in unique circumstances which marked them for life.                                                             

Shepherding: Introduction vw

 This January, I took a writing course through Fishtrap, a wonderful non-profit. It is based in Wallowa County, OR and is dedicated to "... promoting clear thinking and good writing in and about the West." This was a virtual class that gathered about a dozen students. Our teacher was Corinna Cook. Wow! She and my classmates were all amazing with encouragement and kindness, and each person, an original in their subject matter and interests.

If you are interested, Corinna has a web site; you can probably find her with Google.  She works closely with the University of Alaska. If she doesn't surface let me know; I be happy to assist. I  recommend that if any of you have the interest, don't miss an opportunity to take a class with this knowledgeable, sensitive, and considerate instructor.

So, that explains how I was prompted to taken up my posting again to the 2 Old Women Blog, I like to begin by posting my final essay from our class, "Writing as Mapmaking" in my next blog. I hope to do a series on our lives shepherding in Medical Springs through 35 years. My dearest hope is that I can improve my writing with practice, employing techniques learned in these classes. My goal? Turn out some kick-ass essays!

Your comments are so welcome. Constructive criticism encouraged. Support for the series would help me to keep going.

Thank you, Vicki

I Worry .... #1, vw

 

I  just finished filing the Fishtrap writing course that I took virtually throughout November. We had one last assignment to finish after course closure. I think it might be a fitting post for the last day of 2021 in our Old Women Blog.

The final assignment was to write an essay, using one sentence about "your worry/whatever you are struggling with". We had arrived at our individual "prompt" through various writing tools presented during the course. My one sentence ended up being:

I worry about death and all the myriad details that comprise my departure from this beautiful planet.

        Do I worry about “death”, or “dying”? Of course. I’m not looking forward to dying; I can’t imagine the horror of struggling for that last breath. But do all living beings struggle for that last breath? My mother didn’t struggle to breathe at her death.

        No. I don't really worry about death. I will have no control over the time or th circumstance. Rather, I worry about the myriad details that require living to the end. I've found physical aging is all they say it is, except "golden years." I saw a T-shirt in a catalog yesterday that said, "I can't believe I'm the same age as old people." Yes, I'm trapped in this body that is obviously deteriorating. And the word is "trapped"; not my word, but a very good one.

        My worry: that this body may not carry me to the end in a manner acceptable to me. Every day I wake up sore and stiff. Now I take 5 prescriptive pills, whereas formerly I needed only an occasional antibiotic or a couple of Tylenol. I find myself staggering along. Can this be me? I straighten up as far as I can and rest my neck muscles by looking down. Ye gods, when did my hair get so thin?

        But enough whining and lamentation. I still have my mind, or most of it anyway. I have more time to direct and develop my thoughts. Maybe it's time to live like the John Prine song, "... (to) live down deep within my head. Where long ago I made my bed ...." I think of the things I enjoy. There are so many good books yet to read; so many awesome winter sunrises to watch from behind the double glass doors, cozy in my warm house. So many good visits with my daughters and family, friends to share with, and delightful acquaintances yet to meet. Many more occasions to enjoy the antics of my animal family, my "pack". Time to feel and love the earth around me.

        Are these blessings filled with enough joy to comprise "gold"? Then fill my years with them and I will try to walk forward with courage. 

... the Mystery Be #2, vw

         A few days ago, a friend brought up my last post (can it, really, have been over 2 months ago?).

         She stated that she had been thinking about Stephen Hawkins’ hypothesis (reference April 4 – Think I’ll just let the mystery be...vw). That post considered the question as to why technology has leaped so far ahead of our ability to create heathy sustainable ecosystems on our planet. She reflected that “something is missing in Hawkins’ response.” How exciting to me that someone else out there also wonders ….

“Something is missing ….”

I agree with Hawkins’ statement that, emotionally and spiritually, we have evolved very little while there has been considerable change in the physical and intellectual aspects of our existence. But the huge question is “why”.

 Last year my daughter loaned me a book which probed into the existence of “consciousness”. Galileo’s Error by Philip Goff, is a preliminary scientific and philosophical probing into Foundations for a New Science of Consciousness. It is well written, i.e., both user-friendly and intriguing.

In (very brief) summation, Goff explains the “error” and the 3 basic theories that currently revolve around the question of how scientists are dealing with the concept of consciousness, both human and universal. The book doesn’t directly deal with what’s missing in the Hawkins’ response but it certainly opens a door to further, and deepening, questions. [… and it definitely clarifies the problem brought up in Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, which criticizes the current inability of science to address the very real existence of consciousness in the interrelationships of the Whole].

 My friend is right. There is something missing. There’s a lot missing. The whole reality of psychology and the paranormal are largely ignored in the current scientific establishment.

 Hawkins’ statement is over-simplified and I think we would have to extend our readings of his writings to see if he’s simplifying for brevity’s sake. Has he more deeply probed this question elsewhere? Goff concludes that the reality of consciousness lies a step beyond the immediate realities of the physical world, i.e., "hard" science. These realities are much more outright, and thus more accessible to theorization and experimentation. (… and this does not discount the fact that “hard” realities, themselves, can be infinitely complex to human understanding.)

            I hope, this winter to reread “Galileo’s Error.” Things usually make more sense to me the second (and 3^rd J) time around and this subject is just too interesting to “… let the Mystery be!”

... the Mystery Be #3kg

 love your musings.

 I think part of the problem is equating technology and human consciousness with biological processes, and viewing all evolution as a process of "betterment". This highlights for me another issue of poorly defined definitions! It's one of the same problems that has gotten created in the school of Evolutionary Psychology that tries to distill the complex processes of psychology down to the harder science of biological processes. It causes smart, scientific people to make stupid, unscientific extrapolations.

 I do think it's true what Hawkins points out about the inevitability of specialization as regards science and technology and the glut of information. That's a sound argument. I just don't like how we start muddling up all the ideas of evolution, as though it's a process that ought to move towards an endpoint of perfection and enlightenment.

 My experience of working towards a goal of "enlightenment" is that we have to work against many of the forces of nature, most certainly the nature of the human mind!!! That's where many views of spiritual enlightenment fail, by not realizing how hard it is to evolve oneself in this direction.

 

Saga of Pye ... vw

The runt of the litter was whelped March 28^th, 2021; Echo, OR. Echo is east of the Blue Mountains, off   I-84 on the way from La Grande to Boardman. Though smaller than her sibling stockdog pups, she apparently took what she needed from the food supply because she came plump and lively.

 Pye and her siblings were weaned May 8^th (~ 6 weeks) and she began her life’s journey from “home” on the 15^th. Her littermates were gone days before she came to live with me. She was the dirtiest small puppy I have ever seen when two nice young men handed her over in the parking lot of the Elvis Bar at the Pendleton Airport. She was grey with dry cow poop and had strings of poop on her head and rump. Ryan’s comment: “… a real ranch dog!” Thus, she came by her name, Pye, derived from cowpie.

 I find I cannot do justice in describing the emotions wrapped up in this small, squirming, teething, intense, bundle of life. I only hope my energy can keep up with her and help her grow into a loving and lovable adult dog.

p

Birds Returning ... vw

 Must Mean Spring!

Well, the bad news first! I am not so happy to see the homecoming of the ~ dozen Starlings and a few House Sparrows (English Sparrows) but these species remind me of how similar they are to homo sapiens. They are very accomplished survivalists and they like to live concentrated in groups. They breed prolifically and they tolerate, and even benefit, from close proximity to hominids.

My “Home” House Sparrows (though I hate to generalize about species) are not very good nest builders. Their nests look like the dust bunnies under my bed except the building materials are larger. [Peterson’s Field Guide describes their nest as “a bulky mass”! 

My “home” Starlings amass in numbers, perching closely together to gang up on any flicker, blue bird or wren that might happen by looking for a nice cavity in our trees (or my house) in which to shelter themselves and/or their young. Peterson’s also defines them as “garrulous”! My starlings raise two clutches a year! I really don’t know about the sparrows.

Think I'll just leave the mystery be ... Iris Dement, vw

 

            A concept that been reoccurring for me revolves around a question I’ve been thinking about for a time. “Why is it that technology and knowledge have so greatly out- distanced man’s ability to build sustainable ecosystems and human societies?”

 

            Last week I discovered Stephen Hawking’s interesting hypothesis on this question. Believing in evolution, he theorizes that, because evolution is a grindingly slow process, we have progressed (emotionally and intellectually) little beyond our cave men ancestors. While accessible knowledge has grown exponentially, as individuals we can no longer access the “whole” of the knowledge available to us. He asks if we can even imagine reading, much less studying, every book in our own city’s library. It’s incredible that not more than ~300 years ago, people could do so. Thus, he observes that we have, by necessity, come to depend on increasing specialization.

 

Steven’s theorem makes sense. Though we have made astounding strides technologically, we cannot yet cope with the task of applying this knowledge. We are not yet able to cooperate and coordinate effectively to significantly benefit ecological and social sustainability. The progression of knowledge repeatedly shows us the undeniable interrelated complexity of the “known” and the “unknown.” Again, and again, we are returned to the web of inter-connectedness and the realization of how little we know.

 

But I don’t find this situation hopeless. Even though our innate human survival instincts remain dominant in our psyches, i.e., that “me and mine” prevail, I believe we are evolving in the process. [Perhaps we can hope for a widespread beneficial mutation to put us on a fast track! J! Or a worldwide epiphany? Who knows?] As things are, however, I can’t even begin to imagine how we can coordinate an effective global unification process to save ourselves!

There have been attempts ....

The universe came into being

the moment I was born

and all things are one with me.

Since all things are one

how can I put that into words?

But since I just said they are one,

how can I say they are nothing?

The one plus my words make two

and the two plus the one make three.

If we continue this way,

even the greatest mathematician

couldn’t calculate where it will end.

It’s better just to leave things alone.”

 

Chuang-tzu (The Tao)

Scholarly translation by Stephen Mitchell