Just the title creates so many different feelings. Anybody who sees a blog with the title "Family" instantly considers their own and all the history and feelings that come along. Some folks call that baggage. Some folks call it warmth. I'm sure some folks are somewhere in the middle, carrying a mixed blessing of baggage and warmth. Maybe it's warm baggage.
A very dear friend wrote in her blog of a visit to family she was about to endure. Luckily, the event was more pleasant, or at least less painful, than expected. Conversing via blog on the topic this morning inspired me to create this entry. Warm Baggage. I'll think I'll go up and change the title to include that. Oh yeah, that looks provocative. Maybe even evocative. Therein lies part of my purpose. Evoke thoughts and perhaps emotions in my readers.
I love my family. How many people do you hear say that and follow it almost immediately with "but"? More to the point, I think, do you know anybody that DOESN'T follow it? I don't. Everybody has some reason why some part of the family is nuts, psychotic, criminal, criminally insane, twisted, drugged, or otherwise abnormal. Statistically speaking, unless you're an only child from a family tree of only children, the odds are pretty good that there's a nutjob in the branches. Of course, nutjob is relative, no pun intended. One person can be seen as a nutjob to one and charming to another. We should all realize this. It helps us to tolerate our nutjobs.
But what about those that aren't merely "a little off"? What about those who are mean, belligerent, downright nasty? Do their friends see them as charming? Or do they only hang around with like-minded people? If there are people who see our nasties as charming, then we have to look to the branches and determine if we're the only one who thinks they're nasties. If we're not alone, then we can guess that either our nasties don't like family or they wear two faces. We love them anyway.
My family? Scattered. No, not scatter-brained. Just scattered. Our history spans coast to coast, in one tree, since about 1720. As a result, I have relatives all over the place. Even within only the last couple of generations, the only ones I know, we're spread so far I can't even track them down. I have cousins from Alaska to Florida, Montana to Pennsylvania. As far as I know. My own siblings range from Southern California to Washington to Wisconsin and one that's only Creator knows where. Even my own offspring, and those of my soulmate, are spread coast to coast. I have daughters in New York, Fresno and Los Angeles. Her kids are in Bakersfield, Rhode Island and Fresno. Part of that is what happens when they get old enough to leave the nest. Of course they go off and make a life for themselves. Of course they start new independent lives.
In this age of instant messaging, text messaging, voice mail, email, social networking, you'd think families could stay closer regardless of the miles. My mom stayed in touch with her brothers better using snail mail than I can with my siblings and offspring. Yes, that's sad. Sometimes worse than sad. I have a granddaughter and two stepgrandchildren, from whom I rarely hear. Miles apparently do that. As do past hurts. Yes, there are reasons why I don't hear from my grandkids. Some valid, some considerably less so.
And now, as my friend has also said, my closer family is the group of people I've met through various social networks. There are several whom I love dearly. There are a few that are more significant than most of my blood family. How can this be? How do "people" who only exist as pixels on a computer screen become more "real" than those who share DNA and bonds of lineage and with whom we share common memories? Pretty simple actually. Communication. On a nearly daily basis, I talk to them, they talk to me. Maybe not directly. Maybe it's just a wall post or a blog entry. Not necessarily directed to me. If I choose, I can comment and then a dialogue, however brief, begins. I know more about some of these people and their families than I do my own.
It's a strange kind of isolation.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Remember the Path, Remember the Reason
As I begin, it is almost noon. I am eating breakfast. Breakfast used to be really important to me. I have come to realize however that I should eat when I'm hungry and then not very much. Since arriving in Fresno, I've shed 35 pounds. I'm still not anything close to svelte, but am moderately healthy. None of that has anything to do with why I'm writing today. (Or does it? Maybe it will become clear later.) Almost noon does have relevance. I have been blah. I think it's been for a while. Yesterday brought it firmly and fully to my attention. There was even a why for all the failure of yesterday. Let me recount.
A journey began a few years ago. It has been a journey I sought. And therein lies the current problem. Past tense. My focus changed. Moving here was to provide an opportunity to pursue the potential of a business based on my journey. One would think that would provide inspiration and courage and all those wonderful positive words. Finding the household bank account deficient for paying bills would also be considered encouragement in the pursuit of a business. This morning I learned that is all wrong.
Yesterday, I took my middle class America background and carefully nurtured intellect and thought to apply it to my business. I have the tools. I'm developing the skills. I can mass produce. The result was five flute blanks turned into three potential flutes. One is completely trashed. The last, if it works at all, will likely find its way into my private collection. I tried a technique that sounded good in my head for one of the processes. It worked beautifully. Once. Subsequent attempts were dismal.
At the end of the day, I was frustrated, disappointed, dejected, blah. It came to me a couple hours later. I screwed up. Obviously the techniques I was using were relatively sound, they had worked before. But there was no way that my work yesterday would be productive, at least not fully. You see, I had told myself that morning that I need to honor Creator and Mother Earth and THEN begin work. I had done neither. By the time I had come back into the house, I was cold and sore and tired. The physical manifestation of the energy I had expended only heightened my sense of failure.
I awoke this morning in my usual routine. Which is not to say it is my proper routine. I had a morning routine in Rhode Island. It had nothing to do with preparing for the work day. It had nothing to do with making money. It had everything to do with preparing my Spirit in a manner consistent with my journey. Because I made proper morning preparation, my life was more fulfilling, or at least it seems so compared to what I feel now. I heard the voice that said, "Return to the beginning." Well, this is the beginning! I was born in Fresno! No, dummy, not that beginning. The beginning where this journey started. The beginning that is where the path that led to THIS point, to THIS situation, to THIS choice started. And so, I turned on the music.
Music has always been an important part of my life. Most of the time I use it to help me relax. There are certain pieces, certain artists, that have a different purpose. I need them to focus on where Creator and Mother Earth lead me. I need them to focus on MY Spirit. My inner turmoil needed to be suppressed. No, not suppressed, calmed. In order to do that, though, it was necessary to isolate and meditate. That's what the music does. It creates a barrier to the outside world and opens a doorway to another world. It allows me to hear Mother more clearly. It allows me to run around inside my head, seeing all the different angles and the shadows of them.
I was reminded by my daughter that "outside" is required. I haven't done nearly as much outside as I should. I have difficulty justifying the expense of gasoline when I provide no income. Outside in this apartment complex is less than stimulating to my Spirit. I could get on my bike and go to a more natural setting, but even the parks in this area feel artificial. No, I know a few places where I know I can reconnect with Creator and Mother. Two are California State Recreation Areas. Three are National Parks. I have annual passes to both the State Parks and the National Parks. I've barely used those passes. It's time I figure out how to optimize my expenditure and gain greatest benefit.
I was reminded by a national writer of articles, whom I respect, admire and care about, that I still have, "humor, insight and soul". I had replied to an article she wrote and one of her status lines at Facebook this morning. I guess parts of me still function. Oh yes, those would be the parts that were given to me as gifts by Creator and Mother Earth for the benefit of others. REVELATION!! I am at my best when my focus is outside myself.
That was the problem yesterday. I was focused on me. Maybe not specifically, but subconsciously. I have to make money. I have to build these things. I have to make it all work. While those things may be true, they're not the REASON. I had told myself several months ago that I needed a mission statement for my business. I then embarked on creating a stock of inventory. I still have no mission statement. How can I possibly develop a viable business if I don't know why I'm doing it? There are still things I need to do. I have photogrpahs to take, product to create, web site to create. I realized this morning that none of that will ever work the way it should if I don't know why.
I played my music. I lit the incense. My inner turmoil subsided. I realized I need to put these thoughts in a place where I can be reminded. The title of this entry is that reminder. I can look back at the list of entries and see this one, and remember the why. I am on a path. That path is a journey. It doesn't have a destination, but a purpose. That's the reason. That's the why. I am not here for myself. I am here for others.
Blessings, Love and Peace,
Laughing Bear
A journey began a few years ago. It has been a journey I sought. And therein lies the current problem. Past tense. My focus changed. Moving here was to provide an opportunity to pursue the potential of a business based on my journey. One would think that would provide inspiration and courage and all those wonderful positive words. Finding the household bank account deficient for paying bills would also be considered encouragement in the pursuit of a business. This morning I learned that is all wrong.
Yesterday, I took my middle class America background and carefully nurtured intellect and thought to apply it to my business. I have the tools. I'm developing the skills. I can mass produce. The result was five flute blanks turned into three potential flutes. One is completely trashed. The last, if it works at all, will likely find its way into my private collection. I tried a technique that sounded good in my head for one of the processes. It worked beautifully. Once. Subsequent attempts were dismal.
At the end of the day, I was frustrated, disappointed, dejected, blah. It came to me a couple hours later. I screwed up. Obviously the techniques I was using were relatively sound, they had worked before. But there was no way that my work yesterday would be productive, at least not fully. You see, I had told myself that morning that I need to honor Creator and Mother Earth and THEN begin work. I had done neither. By the time I had come back into the house, I was cold and sore and tired. The physical manifestation of the energy I had expended only heightened my sense of failure.
I awoke this morning in my usual routine. Which is not to say it is my proper routine. I had a morning routine in Rhode Island. It had nothing to do with preparing for the work day. It had nothing to do with making money. It had everything to do with preparing my Spirit in a manner consistent with my journey. Because I made proper morning preparation, my life was more fulfilling, or at least it seems so compared to what I feel now. I heard the voice that said, "Return to the beginning." Well, this is the beginning! I was born in Fresno! No, dummy, not that beginning. The beginning where this journey started. The beginning that is where the path that led to THIS point, to THIS situation, to THIS choice started. And so, I turned on the music.
Music has always been an important part of my life. Most of the time I use it to help me relax. There are certain pieces, certain artists, that have a different purpose. I need them to focus on where Creator and Mother Earth lead me. I need them to focus on MY Spirit. My inner turmoil needed to be suppressed. No, not suppressed, calmed. In order to do that, though, it was necessary to isolate and meditate. That's what the music does. It creates a barrier to the outside world and opens a doorway to another world. It allows me to hear Mother more clearly. It allows me to run around inside my head, seeing all the different angles and the shadows of them.
I was reminded by my daughter that "outside" is required. I haven't done nearly as much outside as I should. I have difficulty justifying the expense of gasoline when I provide no income. Outside in this apartment complex is less than stimulating to my Spirit. I could get on my bike and go to a more natural setting, but even the parks in this area feel artificial. No, I know a few places where I know I can reconnect with Creator and Mother. Two are California State Recreation Areas. Three are National Parks. I have annual passes to both the State Parks and the National Parks. I've barely used those passes. It's time I figure out how to optimize my expenditure and gain greatest benefit.
I was reminded by a national writer of articles, whom I respect, admire and care about, that I still have, "humor, insight and soul". I had replied to an article she wrote and one of her status lines at Facebook this morning. I guess parts of me still function. Oh yes, those would be the parts that were given to me as gifts by Creator and Mother Earth for the benefit of others. REVELATION!! I am at my best when my focus is outside myself.
That was the problem yesterday. I was focused on me. Maybe not specifically, but subconsciously. I have to make money. I have to build these things. I have to make it all work. While those things may be true, they're not the REASON. I had told myself several months ago that I needed a mission statement for my business. I then embarked on creating a stock of inventory. I still have no mission statement. How can I possibly develop a viable business if I don't know why I'm doing it? There are still things I need to do. I have photogrpahs to take, product to create, web site to create. I realized this morning that none of that will ever work the way it should if I don't know why.
I played my music. I lit the incense. My inner turmoil subsided. I realized I need to put these thoughts in a place where I can be reminded. The title of this entry is that reminder. I can look back at the list of entries and see this one, and remember the why. I am on a path. That path is a journey. It doesn't have a destination, but a purpose. That's the reason. That's the why. I am not here for myself. I am here for others.
Blessings, Love and Peace,
Laughing Bear
Monday, November 15, 2010
One of THOSE Moments
I wrote this long, rambling post. I got my coffee. I came back to log into my Flickr account. Flickr has one of those customized greeting lines. Today, mine read:
Hej LaughingBear Ventures!
(Now you know how to greet people in Danish!)
My first thought was that the stupid computer had changed my base language, until I saw the small gray text. Instead, it was an OMG moment. When I got my DNA test results back, the primary marker in my blood is, wait for it, guess at it, DANISH. Yes, I've already heard the jokes. I'm a pastry. Well, at least my shape suggests that I've certainly had my share of them.
Just struck me as odd that Flickr would choose that particular language. Today.
Hej LaughingBear Ventures!
(Now you know how to greet people in Danish!)
My first thought was that the stupid computer had changed my base language, until I saw the small gray text. Instead, it was an OMG moment. When I got my DNA test results back, the primary marker in my blood is, wait for it, guess at it, DANISH. Yes, I've already heard the jokes. I'm a pastry. Well, at least my shape suggests that I've certainly had my share of them.
Just struck me as odd that Flickr would choose that particular language. Today.
Pause to Reflect
I have a feeling this post may ramble a bit. I'm sitting at my desktop computer, not the laptop. Normally, this hour of the day is reserved for catching up on Facebook games. For some reason, this morning started out differently. Brian and Amanda had left before Annie got up to check on Seth. (There you have the list of people with whom I share this apartment.) The boy had apparently managed to get ready for school this morning without the usual drama and fustication. Annie's back is tweaked so she didn't want to get out of bed, and I reset the alarm to accommodate her. I had stayed up a bit late last night working on the web site for LaughingBear Ventures. There's a chill in the air. Nothing like the cold of Rhode Island, for which I am so grateful you can't imagine.
I brewed my pot of coffee. I have to have my coffee. I get cranky if I don't. If a Laughing Bear is cranky in an empty house, does anybody know it? No. He just becomes sullen. Anyway, I looked at the setup in the bedroom where the laptop lives at the end of the bed. I looked at my desk in the living room with the chair I've had for years. I'd much rather be in the chair. But the windows at that end of the apartment leak pretty badly. It'll be less than pleasant for typing fingers. Still, better to be overall comfortable.
Fully intending to visit the stupid games, I start the computer. Many of my Facebook friends are people I have actually met. Some are in other parts of the country, other parts of the world even, and I know them only through the persona they project on the internet. There are a handful whom I am proud to call friend, so much so that I refer to them as brothers and sisters.
One of my sisters, I realized yesterday, reminds me of another very close friend, at least in appearance. Neither of these women are the picture of physical perfection that modern society defines. I describe them as the embodiment of the mother goddess. In my opinion, women are supposed to be soft and have curves. Nature, it seems, agrees with me. For if a woman does not strive to the ideal of Madison Avenue, her body takes on the dimensions of motherhood - slightly wider hips, soft curves in the middle, breasts that are not pointing at the stars. I remember a study that showed a variety of silhouettes images of female bodies to a group of men and the softer bodies were the most popular. The primary question of the study was, "Which shape appeals as your potential mate most?" What does it mean? It means that bodies that look like they can carry and produce offspring must be inherently more attractive to males whose basic drive is to procreate. And there I go rambling.
That ramble started with the visual appeal of my friend. To be honest, I think she's beautiful. She has an amazing smile and is soft in all the right places. She makes me think. One of the things I love about her is that she makes me think not only about the primal urges she inspires, but also about some much deeper issues. Through her own words and the sharing of words of others, somehow she manages to reach into my head and stir me to the very core. Mind you, she's not the only one. All the people in my brother and sister list have that effect. At one time or another, I've hated each and every one of them for revealing to me the shortcomings I see within myself. But because I've developed a spiritual relationship with my Creator, I also realize that those people have been journeying with me for a reason. It doesn't take long for me to change my initial emotional response to something a bit more positive. I love them. (I could SO go off and ramble again.)
So today I scan down the hundreds of posts that appear on my Facebook home page. It's how I start before going to the games. While I may spend the majority of my time at Facebook in the game applications, I do actually read what my friends have to say or share. Sometimes I find their posts worth sharing with my list of friends. If you've read my posts, you may have come to realize that I'm not very focused. I have a lot of interests. It sucks. I want to be able to do all these things and there just aren't enough hours. It's been over an hour and a half now since I sat down and started reading and then writing this. I spent some of that time reading a few blog posts. Each one reached inside me, grabbed hold of something and shook it. Each one got hold of something different. Each one made me take a hard look in my virtual mirror. Each one made me realize I have a lot of work left to do on myself.
Time for my second cup of coffee. Time to unload the dishwasher. Time to empty the sink. Time to find my focus again.
I brewed my pot of coffee. I have to have my coffee. I get cranky if I don't. If a Laughing Bear is cranky in an empty house, does anybody know it? No. He just becomes sullen. Anyway, I looked at the setup in the bedroom where the laptop lives at the end of the bed. I looked at my desk in the living room with the chair I've had for years. I'd much rather be in the chair. But the windows at that end of the apartment leak pretty badly. It'll be less than pleasant for typing fingers. Still, better to be overall comfortable.
Fully intending to visit the stupid games, I start the computer. Many of my Facebook friends are people I have actually met. Some are in other parts of the country, other parts of the world even, and I know them only through the persona they project on the internet. There are a handful whom I am proud to call friend, so much so that I refer to them as brothers and sisters.
One of my sisters, I realized yesterday, reminds me of another very close friend, at least in appearance. Neither of these women are the picture of physical perfection that modern society defines. I describe them as the embodiment of the mother goddess. In my opinion, women are supposed to be soft and have curves. Nature, it seems, agrees with me. For if a woman does not strive to the ideal of Madison Avenue, her body takes on the dimensions of motherhood - slightly wider hips, soft curves in the middle, breasts that are not pointing at the stars. I remember a study that showed a variety of silhouettes images of female bodies to a group of men and the softer bodies were the most popular. The primary question of the study was, "Which shape appeals as your potential mate most?" What does it mean? It means that bodies that look like they can carry and produce offspring must be inherently more attractive to males whose basic drive is to procreate. And there I go rambling.
That ramble started with the visual appeal of my friend. To be honest, I think she's beautiful. She has an amazing smile and is soft in all the right places. She makes me think. One of the things I love about her is that she makes me think not only about the primal urges she inspires, but also about some much deeper issues. Through her own words and the sharing of words of others, somehow she manages to reach into my head and stir me to the very core. Mind you, she's not the only one. All the people in my brother and sister list have that effect. At one time or another, I've hated each and every one of them for revealing to me the shortcomings I see within myself. But because I've developed a spiritual relationship with my Creator, I also realize that those people have been journeying with me for a reason. It doesn't take long for me to change my initial emotional response to something a bit more positive. I love them. (I could SO go off and ramble again.)
So today I scan down the hundreds of posts that appear on my Facebook home page. It's how I start before going to the games. While I may spend the majority of my time at Facebook in the game applications, I do actually read what my friends have to say or share. Sometimes I find their posts worth sharing with my list of friends. If you've read my posts, you may have come to realize that I'm not very focused. I have a lot of interests. It sucks. I want to be able to do all these things and there just aren't enough hours. It's been over an hour and a half now since I sat down and started reading and then writing this. I spent some of that time reading a few blog posts. Each one reached inside me, grabbed hold of something and shook it. Each one got hold of something different. Each one made me take a hard look in my virtual mirror. Each one made me realize I have a lot of work left to do on myself.
Time for my second cup of coffee. Time to unload the dishwasher. Time to empty the sink. Time to find my focus again.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Tuesday Was Good
A very long time ago, over half my life in fact, I was in high school. We were unique. A Catholic high school, populated only with boys, that was a combination high school and junior college. What does that mean? Well, it starts with the entrance exam. In late spring of 1972, hundreds (it seemed) of us gathered to take a test to see if we could get in. Anybody going had to know it was going to be an ordeal because they advised we bring a lunch. I could be wrong but I remember it as an 8 hour test. That test, I believe, also led to our placement in our respective homerooms. What makes the school really unique is that the incoming freshmen had the opportunity to choose a field of study in which to major, much like attending college. In a five year program, we would receive the typical four year high school diploma and at the end of the fifth, an Associate in Science degree. The majors then were: Electronics Technology (me), Photolithography, Mettalurgy, Mechanical Technology, Building Technology, Automotive Technology and Drafting and Design Technology.
The school day started at 8am and ended at 4pm. Very much like going to work, so we were not only prepared in a career field, but also ready for a work day. For the first two years, we spent the morning in our academic classess and the afternoon in "shop." Third and fourth year, flip that. Fifth year was a kind of hodgepodge of scheduling because we participated in a cooperative work education program with some of the biggest names in our industries. As a result, I've never worked at McDonald's or Sears or any establishment like that. My first job was with the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena. If you haven't heard of or don't recognize JPL, think Viking lander on Mars. We worked on the project. Not a bad way to start life, I must say.
Less than three years after graduation, I got married. This first time. My best friends from school were my wedding party. I honestly don't remember much of the ceremony itself, nor the reception. My wife and I, and our families missed most of the reception because we spent what seemed like two hours taking pictures. The lack of organization was staggering. At the end of the event, my wife and I, my sister and her boyfriend, packed up the presents in our cars and headed to our apartment in North Hollywood. We unwrapped and noted everything. I know there were duplicates but that was thirty years ago, don't ask me to remember which. Once everything was sorted and stacked, we decided to look through the guest book. That proved thoroughly depressing for me.
There were dozens of people that I had no knowledge of. Friends of hers, church members past and present. What made it depressing was the number of names I saw from my high school. Guys I had spent most of five years with and I didn't even know they were there because we were practically sequestered.
Ok, why that story? Because not too long ago I found one of my classmates on Facebook. Then I started looking for others. Found two guys I had gone to elementary school and high school with. A week ago or so, one of these guys decided to start a group. Not sure if he meant it to be for just our class, but it's certainly growing that way. The guys are appearing out of the woodwork of Facebook! We've learned of the passing of two of our old friends. We're renewing old friendships. Many of us haven't had any contact in the intervening 33 years. Tuesday was one such day for me.
I spent the better part of the morning chatting with one of my mates from Electronics. Since high school, I've lived in California, Georgia, Texas and Rhode Island. He is now in Colorado and has lost touch with most of our group, too. As new members appear in the group, they bring with them connections to others, ones that we hadn't thought of or forgotten. The group went from five to 39 in about a week.
I pulled what may have been a dirty trick. I scanned the pages from our freshman yearbook. I posted them in the group. Then I scanned our fifth year pages and posted them. One term that showed up in reply was "pathetic" freshman. I think we all had a laugh. It has been amazing to discover where everybody ended up, whether or not that stayed "in industry" and what their families have become. Reliving memories of those frightful days under the watchful gaze of the Salesians and having a good laugh over them.
I am reminded that I am alone. Aside from those I have found on Facebook, there is nobody from my past in my circle of friends. In fact, here in Fresno I cannot say that I have any friends. Yes, I have a portion of my family. But that's it. Ouside this apartment nobody knows me. Nobody in my real world associations has been part of my youth. Is that perhaps why finding my spiritual source had become so important? Maybe.
Here's to old friends and renewed acquaintances. |_B
The school day started at 8am and ended at 4pm. Very much like going to work, so we were not only prepared in a career field, but also ready for a work day. For the first two years, we spent the morning in our academic classess and the afternoon in "shop." Third and fourth year, flip that. Fifth year was a kind of hodgepodge of scheduling because we participated in a cooperative work education program with some of the biggest names in our industries. As a result, I've never worked at McDonald's or Sears or any establishment like that. My first job was with the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena. If you haven't heard of or don't recognize JPL, think Viking lander on Mars. We worked on the project. Not a bad way to start life, I must say.
Less than three years after graduation, I got married. This first time. My best friends from school were my wedding party. I honestly don't remember much of the ceremony itself, nor the reception. My wife and I, and our families missed most of the reception because we spent what seemed like two hours taking pictures. The lack of organization was staggering. At the end of the event, my wife and I, my sister and her boyfriend, packed up the presents in our cars and headed to our apartment in North Hollywood. We unwrapped and noted everything. I know there were duplicates but that was thirty years ago, don't ask me to remember which. Once everything was sorted and stacked, we decided to look through the guest book. That proved thoroughly depressing for me.
There were dozens of people that I had no knowledge of. Friends of hers, church members past and present. What made it depressing was the number of names I saw from my high school. Guys I had spent most of five years with and I didn't even know they were there because we were practically sequestered.
Ok, why that story? Because not too long ago I found one of my classmates on Facebook. Then I started looking for others. Found two guys I had gone to elementary school and high school with. A week ago or so, one of these guys decided to start a group. Not sure if he meant it to be for just our class, but it's certainly growing that way. The guys are appearing out of the woodwork of Facebook! We've learned of the passing of two of our old friends. We're renewing old friendships. Many of us haven't had any contact in the intervening 33 years. Tuesday was one such day for me.
I spent the better part of the morning chatting with one of my mates from Electronics. Since high school, I've lived in California, Georgia, Texas and Rhode Island. He is now in Colorado and has lost touch with most of our group, too. As new members appear in the group, they bring with them connections to others, ones that we hadn't thought of or forgotten. The group went from five to 39 in about a week.
I pulled what may have been a dirty trick. I scanned the pages from our freshman yearbook. I posted them in the group. Then I scanned our fifth year pages and posted them. One term that showed up in reply was "pathetic" freshman. I think we all had a laugh. It has been amazing to discover where everybody ended up, whether or not that stayed "in industry" and what their families have become. Reliving memories of those frightful days under the watchful gaze of the Salesians and having a good laugh over them.
I am reminded that I am alone. Aside from those I have found on Facebook, there is nobody from my past in my circle of friends. In fact, here in Fresno I cannot say that I have any friends. Yes, I have a portion of my family. But that's it. Ouside this apartment nobody knows me. Nobody in my real world associations has been part of my youth. Is that perhaps why finding my spiritual source had become so important? Maybe.
Here's to old friends and renewed acquaintances. |_B
Monday, November 1, 2010
Are You an Indian?
(This one is going to be a little long. I'm combining a couple of different subjects.)
I have been asked, "Are you an Indian?" I have been asked, "Are you Native American?" I'll address the second question first.
Are you Native American?
Depending on who is asking, I usually reply with, "Well, let me ask you, where were you born?" If I read my questioner correctly, I'll get an answer like, "Here in California" or maybe something a little more specific like a city in the United States. To which I always say, "That means you're an American and since you were born in America, you're a Native American!" This response often garners a puzzled look. Before they can find a way to confuse themselves further, I'll say, "You see, it's like asking someone who speaks French if they are a Native Frenchman." So the term "Native American" applies to probably hundreds of millions of people.
Are you an Indian?
This one is more fun. "No, I was born right here in Fresno!" Or when I was traveling, "No, I was born in the United States." Quite often I get that same puzzled look. "Indians are born in India." That gets them to the "Aha!" moment of what the word means.
Most of the time, after getting my rather confusing, cryptic or thought-provoking replies, the next question is, "So what should you be called?" If I'm in a playful mood, "Mark!" If I'm in an instructional mood, I launch into my soapbox speech, as follows.
Indian is a label. It does have a proper usage. It describes people from India. That label was placed on the indigenous peoples of this continent by an Italian explorer who was lost. He thought he had found a new trade route to India in order to procure the riches of that wonderful land. So calling us Indians is to fail geography, and to many, it's insulting.
Native American applies to anybody born in this hemisphere since the name was applied to the two continents. How did that happen? Another Italian, Amerigo Vespucci drew maps. I'll admit that's quite a feat for coastlines as convoluted and extensive as North and South America. It's also presumptuous. Europe, Asia, Africa, for whom were they named?
As to what to call us, each of the indigenous peoples, often referred to as tribes, have a name they call themselves. Sometimes, the name you hear is not the name the people use. The story goes that a Settler (borrowing a term from someone I recently debated) asked some people in the Arizona area, "Who are those people over there?" indicating to the east. The reply was, "Apache." Now, that was most likely not the name those people called themselves for in the language of the responder the word means "enemy." But it stuck! I can't say if the responder was Navajo, Hopi or Pueblo. It's a legend after all.
While we're at it, Navajo is not the name those people call themselves. Their name for themselves is Dine. (The e is supposed to have an accent mark above it. I could put the appropriate web code in to use the right font, but not everybody has it.) That name does have a translation to English. It means "people." In fact, many tribes simply call themselves "The People". Some are a little more detailed. "The People by the Swift Water", "The People near the Red Rock", and so on.
"Native American" became popular when this country decided to become "politically correct". Don't offend someone by calling them a name they don't like. Did anybody ask the indigenous population what they wanted to be called? No. Why would they? "Those" people have been shuffled off to their reservations, which resemble little more than interrment camps and left to fend for themselves. The Canadian goverment uses the term "First Nations" to refer to their indigenous population. I can get behind that. It at least acknowledges that we were here first.
Now, if after this discourse, I am again asked what to be called, I gently prompt, "Try asking if we're of a First Nation, then ask which one." A wry smile accompanies this advice and a grin of appreciation usually appears.
Why is any of this important to me? Those who know me a bit understand. For those who don't, here's the story.
I grew up in the Los Angeles area. L.A. is without a doubt one of the melting pot communities of the U.S. There are communities within communities of as many different ethnicities as you can count. On a side note, I think this is a good thing. It makes it easier to develop a sense of acceptance for those different from oneself. Growing up, my sister and I were told, or at least I was, that we had Apache and French Canadian blood. I never really thought a whole lot about it. I was raised Catholic and attended thirteen years of Catholic schools. I married into a non-denominational Protestant church. I learned more about the Bible and Christianity. I moved to Georgia and experienced racism that I thought was dead and gone in this country. I moved to Texas and saw less of it, but it still existed. I moved to Rhode Island and began a work experience that was literally to change my life.
My work made it necessary for me to travel. Extensively and often. The existence of indigenous people is much more noticeable in Rhode Island than anywhere else I had lived. I had been thinking about my spiritual future for a few years. As I traveled and saw more of the world, my curiosity grew. I began to wonder what the spiritual beliefs of the First Nations were. It seemed logical that I should explore my own heritage. Going on what I had been told, I started researching Apache culture and beliefs. Using only the Internet, the Apache are an elusive people! I was making little progress. I looked in the direction of the French Canadian my mother had mentioned. There I found the Ojibwe. While there is a fair amount of information about the people and their travels and travails, there is little about their spiritual beliefs.
There is, in fact, a surprisingly (at first) small amount of information about the spiritual belief systems of the First Nations. Surprising at first because eventually I learned that First Nations people are not disposed to share their beliefs, their rituals, their ceremonies, with outsiders. They are not given the "directive" to go out and convert people. In addition, what little information I could gather seemed to indicate that there are great similarities and few differences from one Nation to the next.
I'm not one to give up easily. But I won't pursue something to the point of obssession. I continued with my life and let my spirit sit in the back seat, going along for the ride. I continued to travel, of course, and see more of the wondrous differences in culture and similarities in people. Whenever possible, I would try to learn a little of the local language. I had to at least be able to say, "Excuse me. I'm an American. I don't speak your language well." I have found that this simple phrase can alleviate much of the distaste other people seem to have for Americans. I digress. During what was I believe my second trip to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, I felt the urge to renew my search. I found a marvelous bookstore. I love books. I love bookstores. I would thoroughly enjoy spending a month exploring the Library of Congress. In this Canadian bookstore, I found a book that triggered my metamorphosis.
I began a journey into the "weird," the "spooky," and all those other words that most Americans would associate spiritual connection to the world around them. The more I learned, the more I studied, for now I had found the way to discover information, the more I could feel something deep within me stirring. I was now hungry for more. I carried as many of my books with me as I could when I traveled. I bought new books. I could feel the "Indian" rising.
I knew I had no right to call myself and "Indian." I was raised by a couple of seriously white folks, in a Catholic household, in middle class suburbia. I knew of the hardships, on the surface, that were the norm for those who live on reservations. And yet, part of me kept saying, "Those are your people." My travels continued and I saw more of the world. I have been so blessed to have found my way to that situation. One of my trips took me to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada. Yep, it's a mouthful. Geographically, it's about like going to Kansa in the United States. It's really flat. There's a lot of farming. And some genuinely warm people.
By this time I had begun to display affectations of being "Indian." Since this wasn't my first trip to Saskatoon and the course I was presenting was less than a day, I asked the guys in the class what there was to do in the area. One, whom I call friend, looked at me and said, "You're into that Indian suff, right? There's a place just ouside town you might like. I can't pronounce the name though." I grinned to myself and we proceeded to look in the phone book. We found it. The Wanuskewin Heritage Park sounded like a great place for me to visit.
I went back to my hotel and changed my clothes. The drive was easy enough. The Park was easy to find. I won't go into details other than to say they have a museum, a gift shop and a lot of land. On that land are also archaeological sites. One of which is a living area and another is a medicine wheel. Both are dated at over 3000 years old. Of most importance for my story are the trails. Wanuskewin is owned and operated by the Cree. In order to preserve the site and any potential discoveries, they have laid out several trails, including distance and walking time markers. I chose to walk until closing. At times I would find myself in locations where no sign of "civilization" could be found. I would look around and see this land as a place where people lived, loved and survived. I felt an odd sense of home in this place. It was comfortable to be there. I took that feeling with me back to the hotel.
Not long after, I found myself in Phoenix, Arizona. This trip was for a week and a half, so I had a weekend to explore. I much preferred the trips that lasted at least that long. A single week trip afforded me no opportunity to explore wherever I found myself. With a weekend in Phoenix, I could take the rental car and head north. I-17 heads north from Phoenix to Flagstaff. I had driven through Flagstaff in the middle of the night on the way from California to Georgia. I also knew I could detour on the way back to Sedona. I had heard so much about Sedona that I wanted to see it for myself.
On the drive north, I detoured. Off into the desert that sprawls around Arizona. I got out of the car and wandered among the scrub, finding wild sage here and there. The aroma of it filled the air and my spirit. Once more I got that feeling of home. It was peaceful, quiet, comforting. I got to Flagstaff, got gas and headed down 89A toward Flagstaff. What a beautiful drive! I never expected to find a mountain road, complete with accompanying river in Arizona! I arrived in Sedona, on a Saturday, and felt like I had rolled into an outdoor mall. There were too many people! They all looked like tourists looking for that special gift. I wasn't getting that "spiritual" vibe I had expected. I continued through town and headed back toward I-17. Yet again, I was drawn to pull off the main road and explore. Of course, that sense of home and belonging overcame me once I did.
The following day, I decided to explore a little closer to Phoenix. In fact, there is a park just northeast of the airport. I went there. To most, it's nothing more than sand and a large rock formation. I climbed it. I'm an old fat guy and it was hot that day. I probably shouldn't have done it, but that would have been the logical white man thing to think. I was again drawn. It was like an oasis of nature in the middle of the concrete jungle. I found a ledge upon which to sit and reflect on the mountains I could see in the distance. Ok, you probably already guessed, and yes, I was home.
Returning to Rhode Island, I found myself needing to find out for sure who I am. We discovered there were powwows held in New England. We started attending. A flyer we saw told us of a place in Connecticut called the Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center. One of their events is the Winter Festival. At this festival was to be a performer named Robert Mirabal. His instrument of choice is the Native American Flute. I've heard them and thought the sounds enchanting. We went. Both days. After the concerts, we talked with Robert and I was then completely hooked on the flute. I had grand hopes that it would be part of my heritage.
I started scouring the Internet. I found a company that does DNA testing. They claim to be able to tell you where your ancestors have been. For a little more money, they'll run an extended series of tests and tell you not only if you have "Indian" ancestry, but also from which tribes. This seemed to be the solution! I sent for the kit. I sent in my swabs and waited. The results came back on a CD. The primary portion of the test held few surprises. I knew my father's branch of the tree was Western European. This was confirmed. The surprise came when the results showed Australia as a "source" location. Ok, that actually makes some sense, too. If the Western European component of my ancestry had a slight "criminal" tinge to it, that could explain some of it ending up in Australia. After all, it was a penal colony at one time.
So here comes the "weird" and "spooky" part. My ancestry includes Cree and Navajo blood. The Cree operate Wanuskewin, remember? The Navajo covered Arizona and New Mexico at one point. Talk about an "Aha!" moment! No wonder I felt so comfortable in those places! And so began my journey.
I continue to learn and grow and expand. I no longer use the words weird or spooky or creepy. I have come to understand that these occurrences are simply my connection with Mother Earth becoming tighter and closer. All along my hunny had been telling me to stop using those words. She was convinced that I was a medicine man of some sort. I know I can't call myself a medicine man. There's a lot more involved in earning that title. I do, however, seem to possess a strong connection and keen sense of the Spirits that surround us.
I have been asked, "Are you an Indian?" I have been asked, "Are you Native American?" I'll address the second question first.
Are you Native American?
Depending on who is asking, I usually reply with, "Well, let me ask you, where were you born?" If I read my questioner correctly, I'll get an answer like, "Here in California" or maybe something a little more specific like a city in the United States. To which I always say, "That means you're an American and since you were born in America, you're a Native American!" This response often garners a puzzled look. Before they can find a way to confuse themselves further, I'll say, "You see, it's like asking someone who speaks French if they are a Native Frenchman." So the term "Native American" applies to probably hundreds of millions of people.
Are you an Indian?
This one is more fun. "No, I was born right here in Fresno!" Or when I was traveling, "No, I was born in the United States." Quite often I get that same puzzled look. "Indians are born in India." That gets them to the "Aha!" moment of what the word means.
Most of the time, after getting my rather confusing, cryptic or thought-provoking replies, the next question is, "So what should you be called?" If I'm in a playful mood, "Mark!" If I'm in an instructional mood, I launch into my soapbox speech, as follows.
Indian is a label. It does have a proper usage. It describes people from India. That label was placed on the indigenous peoples of this continent by an Italian explorer who was lost. He thought he had found a new trade route to India in order to procure the riches of that wonderful land. So calling us Indians is to fail geography, and to many, it's insulting.
Native American applies to anybody born in this hemisphere since the name was applied to the two continents. How did that happen? Another Italian, Amerigo Vespucci drew maps. I'll admit that's quite a feat for coastlines as convoluted and extensive as North and South America. It's also presumptuous. Europe, Asia, Africa, for whom were they named?
As to what to call us, each of the indigenous peoples, often referred to as tribes, have a name they call themselves. Sometimes, the name you hear is not the name the people use. The story goes that a Settler (borrowing a term from someone I recently debated) asked some people in the Arizona area, "Who are those people over there?" indicating to the east. The reply was, "Apache." Now, that was most likely not the name those people called themselves for in the language of the responder the word means "enemy." But it stuck! I can't say if the responder was Navajo, Hopi or Pueblo. It's a legend after all.
While we're at it, Navajo is not the name those people call themselves. Their name for themselves is Dine. (The e is supposed to have an accent mark above it. I could put the appropriate web code in to use the right font, but not everybody has it.) That name does have a translation to English. It means "people." In fact, many tribes simply call themselves "The People". Some are a little more detailed. "The People by the Swift Water", "The People near the Red Rock", and so on.
"Native American" became popular when this country decided to become "politically correct". Don't offend someone by calling them a name they don't like. Did anybody ask the indigenous population what they wanted to be called? No. Why would they? "Those" people have been shuffled off to their reservations, which resemble little more than interrment camps and left to fend for themselves. The Canadian goverment uses the term "First Nations" to refer to their indigenous population. I can get behind that. It at least acknowledges that we were here first.
Now, if after this discourse, I am again asked what to be called, I gently prompt, "Try asking if we're of a First Nation, then ask which one." A wry smile accompanies this advice and a grin of appreciation usually appears.
Why is any of this important to me? Those who know me a bit understand. For those who don't, here's the story.
I grew up in the Los Angeles area. L.A. is without a doubt one of the melting pot communities of the U.S. There are communities within communities of as many different ethnicities as you can count. On a side note, I think this is a good thing. It makes it easier to develop a sense of acceptance for those different from oneself. Growing up, my sister and I were told, or at least I was, that we had Apache and French Canadian blood. I never really thought a whole lot about it. I was raised Catholic and attended thirteen years of Catholic schools. I married into a non-denominational Protestant church. I learned more about the Bible and Christianity. I moved to Georgia and experienced racism that I thought was dead and gone in this country. I moved to Texas and saw less of it, but it still existed. I moved to Rhode Island and began a work experience that was literally to change my life.
My work made it necessary for me to travel. Extensively and often. The existence of indigenous people is much more noticeable in Rhode Island than anywhere else I had lived. I had been thinking about my spiritual future for a few years. As I traveled and saw more of the world, my curiosity grew. I began to wonder what the spiritual beliefs of the First Nations were. It seemed logical that I should explore my own heritage. Going on what I had been told, I started researching Apache culture and beliefs. Using only the Internet, the Apache are an elusive people! I was making little progress. I looked in the direction of the French Canadian my mother had mentioned. There I found the Ojibwe. While there is a fair amount of information about the people and their travels and travails, there is little about their spiritual beliefs.
There is, in fact, a surprisingly (at first) small amount of information about the spiritual belief systems of the First Nations. Surprising at first because eventually I learned that First Nations people are not disposed to share their beliefs, their rituals, their ceremonies, with outsiders. They are not given the "directive" to go out and convert people. In addition, what little information I could gather seemed to indicate that there are great similarities and few differences from one Nation to the next.
I'm not one to give up easily. But I won't pursue something to the point of obssession. I continued with my life and let my spirit sit in the back seat, going along for the ride. I continued to travel, of course, and see more of the wondrous differences in culture and similarities in people. Whenever possible, I would try to learn a little of the local language. I had to at least be able to say, "Excuse me. I'm an American. I don't speak your language well." I have found that this simple phrase can alleviate much of the distaste other people seem to have for Americans. I digress. During what was I believe my second trip to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, I felt the urge to renew my search. I found a marvelous bookstore. I love books. I love bookstores. I would thoroughly enjoy spending a month exploring the Library of Congress. In this Canadian bookstore, I found a book that triggered my metamorphosis.
I began a journey into the "weird," the "spooky," and all those other words that most Americans would associate spiritual connection to the world around them. The more I learned, the more I studied, for now I had found the way to discover information, the more I could feel something deep within me stirring. I was now hungry for more. I carried as many of my books with me as I could when I traveled. I bought new books. I could feel the "Indian" rising.
I knew I had no right to call myself and "Indian." I was raised by a couple of seriously white folks, in a Catholic household, in middle class suburbia. I knew of the hardships, on the surface, that were the norm for those who live on reservations. And yet, part of me kept saying, "Those are your people." My travels continued and I saw more of the world. I have been so blessed to have found my way to that situation. One of my trips took me to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada. Yep, it's a mouthful. Geographically, it's about like going to Kansa in the United States. It's really flat. There's a lot of farming. And some genuinely warm people.
By this time I had begun to display affectations of being "Indian." Since this wasn't my first trip to Saskatoon and the course I was presenting was less than a day, I asked the guys in the class what there was to do in the area. One, whom I call friend, looked at me and said, "You're into that Indian suff, right? There's a place just ouside town you might like. I can't pronounce the name though." I grinned to myself and we proceeded to look in the phone book. We found it. The Wanuskewin Heritage Park sounded like a great place for me to visit.
I went back to my hotel and changed my clothes. The drive was easy enough. The Park was easy to find. I won't go into details other than to say they have a museum, a gift shop and a lot of land. On that land are also archaeological sites. One of which is a living area and another is a medicine wheel. Both are dated at over 3000 years old. Of most importance for my story are the trails. Wanuskewin is owned and operated by the Cree. In order to preserve the site and any potential discoveries, they have laid out several trails, including distance and walking time markers. I chose to walk until closing. At times I would find myself in locations where no sign of "civilization" could be found. I would look around and see this land as a place where people lived, loved and survived. I felt an odd sense of home in this place. It was comfortable to be there. I took that feeling with me back to the hotel.
Not long after, I found myself in Phoenix, Arizona. This trip was for a week and a half, so I had a weekend to explore. I much preferred the trips that lasted at least that long. A single week trip afforded me no opportunity to explore wherever I found myself. With a weekend in Phoenix, I could take the rental car and head north. I-17 heads north from Phoenix to Flagstaff. I had driven through Flagstaff in the middle of the night on the way from California to Georgia. I also knew I could detour on the way back to Sedona. I had heard so much about Sedona that I wanted to see it for myself.
On the drive north, I detoured. Off into the desert that sprawls around Arizona. I got out of the car and wandered among the scrub, finding wild sage here and there. The aroma of it filled the air and my spirit. Once more I got that feeling of home. It was peaceful, quiet, comforting. I got to Flagstaff, got gas and headed down 89A toward Flagstaff. What a beautiful drive! I never expected to find a mountain road, complete with accompanying river in Arizona! I arrived in Sedona, on a Saturday, and felt like I had rolled into an outdoor mall. There were too many people! They all looked like tourists looking for that special gift. I wasn't getting that "spiritual" vibe I had expected. I continued through town and headed back toward I-17. Yet again, I was drawn to pull off the main road and explore. Of course, that sense of home and belonging overcame me once I did.
The following day, I decided to explore a little closer to Phoenix. In fact, there is a park just northeast of the airport. I went there. To most, it's nothing more than sand and a large rock formation. I climbed it. I'm an old fat guy and it was hot that day. I probably shouldn't have done it, but that would have been the logical white man thing to think. I was again drawn. It was like an oasis of nature in the middle of the concrete jungle. I found a ledge upon which to sit and reflect on the mountains I could see in the distance. Ok, you probably already guessed, and yes, I was home.
Returning to Rhode Island, I found myself needing to find out for sure who I am. We discovered there were powwows held in New England. We started attending. A flyer we saw told us of a place in Connecticut called the Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center. One of their events is the Winter Festival. At this festival was to be a performer named Robert Mirabal. His instrument of choice is the Native American Flute. I've heard them and thought the sounds enchanting. We went. Both days. After the concerts, we talked with Robert and I was then completely hooked on the flute. I had grand hopes that it would be part of my heritage.
I started scouring the Internet. I found a company that does DNA testing. They claim to be able to tell you where your ancestors have been. For a little more money, they'll run an extended series of tests and tell you not only if you have "Indian" ancestry, but also from which tribes. This seemed to be the solution! I sent for the kit. I sent in my swabs and waited. The results came back on a CD. The primary portion of the test held few surprises. I knew my father's branch of the tree was Western European. This was confirmed. The surprise came when the results showed Australia as a "source" location. Ok, that actually makes some sense, too. If the Western European component of my ancestry had a slight "criminal" tinge to it, that could explain some of it ending up in Australia. After all, it was a penal colony at one time.
So here comes the "weird" and "spooky" part. My ancestry includes Cree and Navajo blood. The Cree operate Wanuskewin, remember? The Navajo covered Arizona and New Mexico at one point. Talk about an "Aha!" moment! No wonder I felt so comfortable in those places! And so began my journey.
I continue to learn and grow and expand. I no longer use the words weird or spooky or creepy. I have come to understand that these occurrences are simply my connection with Mother Earth becoming tighter and closer. All along my hunny had been telling me to stop using those words. She was convinced that I was a medicine man of some sort. I know I can't call myself a medicine man. There's a lot more involved in earning that title. I do, however, seem to possess a strong connection and keen sense of the Spirits that surround us.
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