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We are part of sacred work of which we may never see the ending. -Oscar Romero, Bishop of El Salvador.Outspoken advocate for the poor. Assassinated 1980. I have a friend who lives on the Pacific Coast of Washington State. For over forty years he\u2019s worked in various capacities as a non-Native with a small, vibrant Native American tribe, most significantly as part of their Treaty Protection Task Force. He\u2019s engaging and intense, skilled in navigating the complexities of cross-cultural interactions. One early morning along a rocky shoreline trail on Puget Sound, I remember him emerging from the cold waters near […]<\/p>\n <\/div>\r\n <\/div>\r\n<\/div>
A small group of us gather in a circle in the lobby of an old historic Inn on the edge of the Huron Mountains here in Northern Michigan. Among us are three social workers, a retired physician, a writer, a nurse, a retired firefighter, four clergy. We\u2019re exploring our various experiences of being personally lost over the years. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. There\u2019s plenty to talk about. As our point of reference, we\u2019re using the insights of Lawrence Gonzales. In 1989 he published \u201cDeep Survival.\u201d The author was fascinated by why some individuals find their way out after being lost in […]<\/p>\n <\/div>\r\n <\/div>\r\n<\/div>
Recently, a respected, beloved musician in our community invited me over for a visit to her home. She graciously gave permission to share a portion of our conversation with readers of this newsletter. That particular afternoon, she, her husband, and I sat in the living room of their modest home not far from the shores of Lake Superior. A few steps away was the entry to her music studio where, over the years, she taught students lessons on a beautiful grand piano. It\u2019s a cherished piece of craftsmanship; one upon which she\u2019s practiced classical music from Bach, Beethoven, and Chopin […]<\/p>\n <\/div>\r\n <\/div>\r\n<\/div>
I\u2019m a bit behind in preparing for the winter that\u2019s now descended upon us. I should have known better. A 17 ft. kayak with a broken rudder is still outside on the trailer. It needs, among other things like bags of soil and large garden pots, to be carried inside and placed in their proper spots in our yet-to-be-cleaned-out basement. There\u2019s tending to be done. One of my friends works as a janitor in a local nursing home. Tending. Not just facilities and things, but also the subtle needs of residents who now call that place home. Bob is a […]<\/p>\n <\/div>\r\n <\/div>\r\n<\/div>
A hard time for the planet. A brutal war in Ukraine. Rising inflation around the globe. The pandemic. A climate reckoning that is bringing unexpected, devastating changes to every corner of Mother Earth. Centuries ago, an itinerant carpenter, a healer and prophet roamed the Middle East during another troubled time. The countryside was occupied by an iron-fisted foreign empire. Peoples and tribes were divided along bitter divisions of ethnicity, race, religion, and social class. The wandering prophet raised unsettling questions about perception. \u201cLet those who can see, see,\u201d he said. \u201cThose who can hear, hear.\u201d Then he attended wedding celebrations, […]<\/p>\n <\/div>\r\n <\/div>\r\n<\/div>
In Northern Michigan, mid-winter days are known by traditional Anishinaabe peoples as a \u201cTime of the Starving Moon.\u201d Evenings are occasions for story-telling. Family memories and personal recollections are shared. But also, narratives of sacred myths that, over centuries, have shaped indigenous communities\u2019 self-understanding. Joan Didion, one of America\u2019s finest journalists, wrote, \u201cPeople live because they tell stories.\u201d She proposed that the stories we choose to tell one another, to live by, are as essential as food, shelter, air and water. Stories offer meaning, courage, hope. They intend to show healthy ways of navigating our world. If Didion\u2019s right, these […]<\/p>\n <\/div>\r\n <\/div>\r\n<\/div>
A sliver of tomato falls from my sandwich onto my shirt. I\u2019m in the parking lot of a mall, about to pull out unto the highway. One hand on the steering-wheel, the other holding a fast-food sandwich which is disintegrating in my hand. This isn\u2019t looking good. I see a parking space, turn and stop, shifting the transmission of my 2005 Jeep Cherokee into park. Taking a napkin from the sandwich bag, I dip it into a cup of water I\u2019ve purchased from the drive-thru, to see if I can remove the stain. It\u2019s not working. The stain spreads. Making […]<\/p>\n <\/div>\r\n <\/div>\r\n<\/div>
Circles of caring. Formal and informal. We need them both – those who are trained and compensated – medical professionals, clergy, therapists, and social workers – but also others who provide another level of support, less visible, less recognized. Before time runs out for each of us and we wonder what happened, especially at the end of our lives, it might prove helpful to do some sorting out. A conversation from a couple of summers ago lingers in my memory. A longtime friend and his wife visited from the Pacific Northwest. My friend\u2019s wife works as a front line social […]<\/p>\n <\/div>\r\n <\/div>\r\n<\/div>