Kneeling

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A lot of thoughts are going through my head and the feelings are deep in my heart as I join the nation in mourning the passing of Mr. George Floyd who was murdered by Minneapolis police yesterday.

The murder wasn’t simply the killing of man. It was part of a generations long action to hold down people of Color. It was one of million acts of fear by White folks, afraid to give up their power, afraid to live in peace, and solidarity with our brothers and sisters.

One of the things that I find myself thinking about is the uproar caused by Colin Kaepernick kneeling during the anthem. A man kneeling as a statement, calling for justice for people of Color and thousands cried out claiming he was some sort of anti-freedom heretic. Yesterday, another man knelt. He knelt on the throat of a fellow man who pleaded to be allowed to breathe.

So many men and women in this country have fought and died in the name of freedom. I pray that we are wise enough to recognize their sacrifice and to know that freedom lies in our ability to speak, not in the ability to crush the speech of others.

For all of those who kneel to reach the heavens, I hope that you will do so. All those brothers and sisters, like Mr. Floyd, need whatever it is that we each do so that they might breathe.

When Will We Be Able to Breathe Again?

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The Minneapolis police murdered another Black man last night. Mr. George Floyd died, his airway crushed under knee of racism.

I watched a press conference this afternoon about the event. It was gathering of mostly African American leaders with a sprinkling of other people as well. I was struck by an elder standing near the mic. I didn’t catch his name. I think it might have been Frank something. He was Native. I don’t know his tribe. He wore the AIM uniform, an AIM t-shirt, jean jacket, and cowboy hat. His look reminded me of a hundred other friends I’ve known along the way and of a story.

I was reminded that we all come from around the same fire. Someday, if we are to survive we have to come back together be that new people.

This man died because he couldn’t breathe through the hatred and fear that held him down. Not his hatred, not his fear, the hatred and fear that is white and monied. The hatred and fear that chokes the life out of all of us.

It’s been over 500 years now. It’s long enough. It’s time to step out and celebrate the beauty of our differences. We are more than black and white. I know we’re still social distancing, but in whatever way you can, hold each other in your hearts, raise up the beauty, celebrate the strength, honor the struggles. Do whatever it is that you can to make it possible for all who are being crushed to breathe again.

Taking Care of Self

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It’s been a few weeks. It feels that I should write something, but I’m not sure what. Life continues to present its challenges, encouraging me to reframe and seek the gifts.

I am continuing to look for a new job. I’m thankful to still be working at UMM, but it’s not the place for me. Maybe I’ve spoiled in my life in grassroots nonprofits, but I’m not interested in the hierarchy or pettiness. There are a lot of good people and I will always be thankful for having had the chance to meet and get to know them. I am thankful too for the opportunity to get to see the university from the inside at this point of my life.

We all know it’s not a good time to be looking for work. I am thankful for all my experiences and for not being held in any one place. I feel confident that I will find a great new adventure where I will be able to take my skills to make people’s lives just a little bit better.

My body remains unimpressed with something. It’s continuing in what is now the 3rd week of a rash that seems to probably be a reaction to my medication. It reminds me how much my body has to work with, how much I need to care for myself. It is a good reminder of the importance of my meditation, time away from the screen, time to play music, to cook, to be outside, to eat good foods with plenty of vegetables, all these things to show myself love. The doctors will give me medication. They will do their roles in providing care. But, it is my role, it is each of our roles, to give our bodies the best care we can. They are the only bodies we’ll have after all.

We all have these times. All we can do sometimes is just take some time off. Today I baked bread and attempted to make dandelion jelly. The bread worked. They dandelion jelly turned out too thin to even be syrup. But, it was an afternoon in the kitchen, just relaxing, doing something different. It was good. How are you taking care of yourself today?

Being Thankful in Challenging Times

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Okay, so it’s been a few days since my last post. I got sick. So far it seems, I am very happy to say, that I haven’t gotten the coronavirus. I am still waiting for results though. What I did get was a reaction to my seizure medication and a recurrence of my DRESS Syndrome.

It’s a fascinating time to be figuring out a minimally known syndrome like DRESS. It’s basically a nasty allergic reaction to a medication that causes my body to start fighting itself and could start doing some major damage to my internal organs. It showed up a couple months ago and reappeared last week. Hopefully, it will be cleared up in the next few weeks to never return again.

Here’s what makes it interesting to me. It reminds me that I really don’t understand what sick means or maybe more accurately I don’t identify with it in some way. I feel it and I am frustrated by it, but I look at it and don’t quite recognize it. People remind that I’ll make it through, that everything will be okay and I think, “Well, obviously. This is just a bump. It isn’t something insurmountable.”

It’s a strange thing. I’ve been given these things, these gifts in some way, epilepsy and DRESS to help me look at the world and come to know myself. There’s a good chance that for the rest of my life I’ll be taking medication to try to prevent my brain from doing internal lightning strikes while using medication that may suddenly push my body into attacking itself. It’s a good chance, I suppose, to let go of that need for control, to instead reach into that deeper being to find trust and balance, to know that I’ll keep breathing until it’s time for me to be done and with any luck that will be a long way down the road.

It does have me looking at this pandemic from an interesting personal light. The medication that I’m taking to clear up the DRESS Syndrome will, for the time-being, lessen my ability to ward off viruses. It doesn’t seem a great time to do that. But, if I don’t my body could beat itself up pretty badly and I’d like to keep all my internal organs in good shape.

So, I am thankful right now for the ability to work from home, the people who’ve helped me with errands and getting my dog out so I don’t need to go out very often, the masks my sister made for me, and for all the people who wear masks, maintain social distance, and do all those other kindnesses keeping others in mind knowing that even if they aren’t sick they could be carrying the illness and could impact someone who might not be able to fight it off as well. Some days I am really frustrated with my health struggles of the past few months, but mostly I am grateful for the gifts I have been given and the life I have the good fortune to have.

I hope that each of you reading this piece can find your gifts and good fortunes and that you are well and finding joy. Take good care.

The Caterpillar’s Cocoon

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It’s been over a week since I posted last. Where does the time go? Time is operating on a different speed since we went into quarantine and I still don’t quite understand it. Yet, it feels good. My days have adopted a new rhythm.

Pretty much as soon as I started working from home I turned off my alarm clock. Now my alarm is the four leggeds that live with me. It’s a nice way way to be, to wake up slowly, spend a little time just cuddling before the dog needs to go outside or the cats start getting territorial.

I work my day with the creatures telling me when I need breaks by crawling up in my lap or starting to nose at me, encouraging me to step away from the computer for a little while to fill a toy with snacks or open the door to let someone out or to just pause and pet.

When work is over there’s time for long walks, guitar practice, crocheting, getting in touch with friends and family, writing, maybe some Ojibwe language practice, or some time to read or watch a movie. Night comes and sometimes I turn on a meditation video to fall asleep with. It’s a simple life, this time quarantine, but it feels good.

I know many are struggling a great deal and I feel empathy for them. For me, however, in many ways this has been a time of healing and renewal. I find myself continuing to hope that when the quarantine ends that it may find me like the caterpillar coming out of the cocoon, ready to spread my wings and fly into a new phase of life.

Stories of a Lifetime

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My father was a storyteller.  His head held memories of a lifetime.  So much joy and some sorrow too, it seemed he never forgot anything.  He loved to laugh and share the tales of his mischievous youth and didn’t mind sometimes letting out some of the deeper stories too, those painful memories that made him.  

I used to love hearing how he and some of the other boys rigged up the firecrackers in Uncle Jake’s old farm truck, thinking that their cousin was going to be the one using the truck that day.  His eyes would just sparkle as he laughed talking about how fast they ran and hid when Uncle Jake jumped out of that truck swearing mad and ready to get whoever had played that trick.  

Sometimes there were other stories too.  I remember once Dad told me about working on the neighbor’s farm as a young man.  He’d skipped one day. I don’t remember why, if he was sick or just in a teenage moment of not wanting to work, but he skipped that day and it changed his world.  His co-worker was driving the farm truck. If Dad had been there he would have been in the truck too. The young man backed up the truck not seeing the farmer’s young child behind him.  The little one, maybe three or four years old, was killed. Dad never forgave himself for missing work that day. He always wondered if he had been there, would he have seen the child? 

Stories, stories, so many stories, they tell us who we are.  Dad is still with us, but the stories are gone or at least they are jumbled and confused.  Having a parent with dementia is hard. Having a parent with dementia during the times of COVID-19 is even harder.  

My father lives in a memory care unit and, like most facilities now, is not allowed visitors.  His recognition of people over the phone is non-existent and video calling doesn’t make sense to him, so it is as if he is both here and not here at the same time.  It is almost a preparation for his passing to have him in this world and yet not be able to reach him in any way.  

I called him for Easter.  I knew the phone might be a challenge, but I had to try.  I couldn’t leave him alone for the holiday. The staff person told me he was sleepy, but she’d take the phone to him in the dining area.  I could hear her explaining to him that he had a phone call, then explaining to him that the thing she was sharing with him was a phone. She told him to hold it to his ear and to say hello.  I said “Hi Dad, it’s Amy. I just wanted to call you to say Happy Easter and to tell you that I love you.” I hoped that hearing my voice would help him understand and that he would say something.  He said nothing.  

The staff person came back on the phone and apologized to me saying that it seemed he just didn’t understand what the phone was.  I told her it was okay and asked that she just let him know that I called and just to tell him Happy Easter and the family loves him.  

I wish I could be there just to hold his hand.  I got to hold his hand at Christmas time when he cried because he wanted to go see his mother.  It broke my heart to hold the hand of my 91 year old father and tell him that grandma wasn’t with us anymore, but now all I have is the hope that he can join her soon and leave his confusion and sorrow behind, that hope and the stories of a lifetime.