Day of the Dead

Dia de los Muertos is such a beautiful holiday that the indigenous peoples of the so-called Americas  celebrate, taking time to honor the dead and also find humor in life and death.

It is that type of humor that I think will carry us through. It is not the self-centered sadness that presumes that this is not a deeply universal human experience. It is also not just about having fun and dressing up like skeletons, ghouls, witches, mummies and all the various kinds of Halloween costumes. (Although I love Halloween and there's lots more to say about that.)

Since the holiday lasts through November 2nd, more thoughts on Day of the Dead tomorrow, a celebration that thousands of people participate in throughout these lands on tomorrow.

 

A Year and a Half

I am just now getting to this blog post... somehow appropriate since it is now Day of the Dead.

The beauty of blogs are that you can bookmark dates and then write as though you were writing from that date, only at a later date. I have no idea why that is important other than I wouldn't want the 18th to pass by without having written from that vantage point. Strange and stupid, isn't it?

I have had several dreams about my brother. In fact, I woke up on the 18th having a bizarre dream that I was carrying his body on my back. He wasn't alive and had shrunken in size, almost like he was at a younger age in life. His eyes were closed and I was to register his body with some kind of office. This would allow me to carry him around with me and have him close to me.

There was another woman who was also carrying a loved one on her back. We were like medical students studying the dead, only we weren't going to dissect the corpses; we were only to have them close to us and somehow learn from them for a time.

The year and a half felt for me like a milestone of sorts. The first year was definitely the hardest and going into the second year is hard in a different way. There is pressure to be normal in an already abnormal society. There is pressure to move forward in a society that denies death, funds deadly wars and at the same time attempts to deny us the ability to connect with the history that brought us to this present.

This is what we have to take the time to do. This is what will keep us moving forward.

Playtime with Shaan

Got to spend a little time with Shaan.  Bouncing balls. Petting the cat named Boo. Watching him jump into the pool over and over and over. He's coming into his own. Can you see transformation from baby roundness to lean and mature?  

He recently told his mom that he was mad at Dada because he never came back. Vicki explained that he didn't mean to go away and that he would understand when he got older.

This child is wise beyond years and thanks to the bold, strong love that brought him into the world and raised him for the critical first years of the life and the strength, care, love and passion that his mother has so tremendously carried forward through her grief and mourning and through the daily struggles of being a single parent, he will grow into an incredible man like his father. I am so thankful to be a part of it.

We missed our sister this weekend and her family. We missed Grandma too and sometimes I have to remind myself how recent that this monumental loss has been. Our hearts have been torn inside out and yet we carry on sometimes as if life didn't burn and sting us down through our core. 

Thank you Shaan for your incessant energy and lightness that you bring. You propel us forward. Pun intended.

Eagle Poem by Joy Harjo

This poem has been one of my favorite's in the past. 

I went to a Yoga class today (one of my prizes from the Poison Apple Pie benefit) and the breathing and movement in the class reminded me of this poem. Of course, being a person conscious of her relationship as an indigenous to this land, Harjo has a special attention and connection to the earth and its beings.

Here is for  our strong remembrance of  Ned, on the eighteenth of the month, the day (17 months ago) that perhaps he joined the birds in the sky.

Eagle Poem

 

To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can't see, can't hear
Can't know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren't always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River.  Circles in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon, within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.

 

~ Joy Harjo ~

 

Me and Shaan

On Today, the 18th

This time I only had an hour to get to my quiet destination and I chose to run down the Big Trees Trail for fifteen minutes before turning around and climbing up the wet, red brown earth shaded by redwoods. 

This time I found a soft mossy stump in the middle of a small circle clearing. The quiet chirping of birds and gentle breeze in the foreground, the hushed roar of the city below like a strong, continuous wave that never hits shore.

There's that electric buzz again of an unnamed insect and an airplane perhaps taking off from the Oakland airport.

Last night (no joke), I had a dream that I was stationed at the front of a small airplane. I was holding onto part of the wing that had come undone.  I had seen a nut and bolt drop to the ground just before landing. It was as though I knew it was going to happen and prepared for it. Only in a dream....

Last week (Aug 13th) Jasmine and I met Logan who took us to meet Kathleen Cunningham. It was good to make this connection with her.  She wanted to see pictures from the crash site, some images that I had never seen, the little plane unrecognizable, collapsed floaters into wings into front propellers, like a busted up toy on the mountainside.

She appreciated getting together and she is part of the Ned family that has grown from this terrible loss of Ned and her husband Dave. 

Dave took 90 pictures before and during their flight on that fateful day and the camera survived. There are pictures of the flight Ned took with Mike Schneider, then of the flight Ned and Dave took together. The stream of pictures end when the terrain turns from the lower to the higher mountain, the granite below dotted with redwoods. 

Logan presented Kathleen with a picture of the plaque for Ned and Dave. Last month Logan led a pilgrimage, this time with Dan Rau and Henry Diaz to the crash site, this time able to cross the riverbed, now dried up from the rains and snowmelt and put the plaque in its proper place. 

Ned's friend Alisa Hagerty went up at the end of July into what she called "Ned country" one week later to pay her respects to the site, to Ned and to the wondrous beauty of the Cherry Lake area.

This place in front of me now - calm and cool with the tree shelter above and roots below in the rich warm earth reminds me of the dust that we are, stardust, particles of energy engaged in an extravagant dance on this earth for a short while. (Thanks Cat Stevens).

It's filled with our family and our family is as large as we want to make it, can include entire communities of people, earth spaces, flora and fauna. (We can't forget that big fat dog Klaus that was everywhere Ned was.)

As always, thank you Ned for this gift you have given us. We hate not seeing you and not having you here with us but we love the memories that you gave us. They are as real and present as ever.

July 18th Prayer in the Redwoods

Sometime in the future I will make the pilgrimage up to Cherry Lake like the June 7th crew and like the many dear friends who will go there, ongoing to remember Ned. But saving on gas, time and money, I drove a few miles up the hill from where we live.

It took 45 minutes to get to the service and the whole thing only lasted 25 minutes. 

However, these are the thoughts I noted from the moments under the shade of the redwoods up at Joaquin Miller Park in the Oakland hills.

Today I am blue water flowing forcefully around rocks and branches of trees. I am blue dreaming like the sky peeking through the redwoods as I lay on the red brown dirt.

This place is heaven. This place is a temple, a church, a prayer service smelling of oak, sequoia, eucalyptus and earth. This electric buzz of insects, the intermittent chirping of brids, the distant hush of cars on Skyline Blvd are all a part of it.

This green canopy protects me, preserved in my mind's weakness like a shield. 

I am this, not just part of it, not just connected to it through sun and air, but I am this thick gnarl of branches and spiral of limbs feathered in green, the silence and the stillness when I stop to listen.

The vast range of redwoods and then the climb to the hard granite beds, those same elements embraced that fallen plane, looked upon the metal, bones and flesh as one of its own, sat in stillness after the loudness, the rush of wind hopefully softening to watch the wreckage break, the strange lack of motion on the sharp sunlit slope. 

Today is a day of prayer at Vicki's, a prayer for the continuation of life, an appreciation for the sun and planet, a prayer to recognize the strength of Vicki and Ned's son and help make harmony where there is turmoil and discord.

I chose to find my own place of quiet appreciation today and after less than a half hour on the Big Trees and Sequoia Bay View trail, I found a place I will visit again, a place that transports and then grounds me in a way to be in the world, keeping my brother with me all the time. I am stronger as a result. 

Thank you blue water tears. Thank you blue sky. Thank you earth. I am still angry at you, wind, but I will learn to respect and accept you in time.