My Native Blood

I have some native in me.

I didn't want to make a claim that I had native blood without knowing for sure. So I had a DNA test done. Overall I'm a mutt, pure and simple. But mixed in there is something ancient. Something tribal.

I have some native in me.

I come from a people that followed a herd. The animal gave them everything. Food, shelter, tools, lessons about life. In the old days, before the dominant society took away their freedoms, my people were nomadic. Now they ranch. Live in one place. But still retain the connection to their four legged, furry relatives.The old ways aren't completely gone.

I have some native in me.

I come from a people that, in the old days, lived in lodges made of poles connected at the top, and widening into a large circle where it meets the ground. Tanned hides were used for the coverings, until lighter materials were brought by the encroaching settlers. They were easy to set up, easy to take down, perfect for a nomadic life.

I have some native in me.

In days long before my time, my ancestors roamed free across a land unmarked by borders. Soon, strangers came. At first they were welcomed, traded with, occasionally fought with, but tolerated. Later, a flood of these strangers started building fences. Dividing up the land. Making my ancestors way of life harder and harder. But they adapted. My ancestors fought back, and they died. There were too many invaders. They couldn't stop the tide.

I have some native in me.

Eventually the land was gone. Claimed by people that didn't respect it. Didn't respect the creatures of it. Didn't respect the sacred sites. Not to long ago my ancestors were forced to assimilate into the dominant culture. Children as young as two or three years old were taken from their parents and sent to boarding schools. They were stripped of their traditional clothes and given clothing of the dominant society. They were punished for practicing their ceremonies, punished for speaking their language. They were taught to fit in with the masses. When they were returned to their parents seventeen years later, they no longer knew the old ways. They could not speak their language. They no longer knew their culture. The dominant culture did everything they could to assimilate my ancestors, make them forget how things were. Make them forget who they were.

I have some native in me.

But some of my ancestors held on to the old ways. They believed that everything around them that the creator had given them had a soul. That everything was interconnected. They believed in many different spirits. Moon, Sun, Ice, Fire. All of the elements had a spirit. They hid their drums and their flutes and their sacred relics. They practiced their ceremonies in secret. Remembered their sacred songs. They persevered. Even when the dominant society collected their drums, clothing, sacred items and tools and burned them in great, flaming piles. My ancestors persevered.

I have some native in me.

In more recent times, in just the last fifty to a hundred years, my recent ancestors fought for recognition from the governments that had tried to destroy them. They fought and were recognized as a sovereign nation. They formed governments of their own and work hard to preserve the language and culture of the people. They are still discriminated against. Still marginalized. Even though their ancestors...my ancestors...were the first people to live in those lands thousands of years in the past, they still fight for the rights of that land, air and water. They fight to bring back the herds that provided so much. They fight to bring back the culture because they know it was a better way to live on the planet. With respect. With honor. With culture.

I have some native in me.

As I learn more about this culture, I am filled with pride and curiosity. I want to know more, learn more about this part of my heritage. I want to learn to play the drum. Sing the songs. Carry the culture forward for my children. I want to track down which tribe I am from, because although there are different languages, traditions and cultures, all the tribes are all lumped into one ethnic group.

I have some native in me.

Though I live in a dominant culture now, I am being awakened to my genetic makeup. In the past, some of my ancestors would deny being native. To pass in the dominant culture because it was easier than facing discrimination and teasing for who they were. I'm guessing that is why I never knew that I have some native blood.

But I have some native in me. Truth.

Probably not what you expect. I am a descendant of people of the Sami tribe. The first people in the far north of Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia. They followed the reindeer herds and like the Lakota in America, used every part of it. They were there before the Vikings. They lived in Laavus, which looked like tipis. They sang chanting songs called joiks. (Pronounced yokes) They lived with nature, and so believed in the animal spirits, the lessons they could learn from them, and saw similar attributes in themselves.

The biggest difference between the Sami and the Lakota seems to be location. Otherwise the history and the cultures are very similar.

So yes. I have some native in me. First Nation blood from across the Atlantic. I wonder if there is genetic memory? That would explain the connection I feel to the Lakota people specifically. Of course, my paternal line is still being traced, and may end up with some First Nations of Turtle Island as well. But a genetic memory would explain a lot to me. Why I feel connected to a group of people with traditions not my own.

Are we the sum of our parts? Is there genetic memory that can call to me from across the years, making me want to learn the cultures of a people that are my blood descendants? Mysteries. Every question I learn an answer to holds more mysteries. 

The thing is, we all come from somewhere. Whether you want to look far into the past and see where your ancestors lived thousands of years ago, or if you only want to believe where your people came from in the past few generations. The truth is, we all came from somewhere else. Native or Non-Native. Full bloods or "breeds". Black. White. Yellow. Red. Brown. Purple. Green. Doesn't matter.

We are all of one race. Human. There will always be those with minds closed and no ears to hear that believe that their skin color defines them. That where a person is born defines what group of people that child can identify with. The closed mind will believe that all others who are different are bad and out to get them. The closed mind will build walls, real and imagined, to separate themselves from the "others". The closed minds will continue to oppress and be oppressed, because they cannot see past skin color.

But I believe we can do better as a species. We are capable of higher thinking. We are capable of seeing not just skin color, but the ideas of the minds and hearts contained within. We are capable of determining who a person is based on their beliefs. But it is hard to do. Harder for some than others. It takes time, patience, and an open mind. But the rewards of taking that time, having that patience, far outweigh the trouble of the process. Will there still be racism and bigotry? Yeah, probably. Because that is how we are wired. Visual clues show different colors. But I still hold out hope for humans, even against the obviously overwhelming odds we face, that we can come together as a people, and as Sitting Bull, Leader of the Oglala Lakota, once said, see what sort of future we can make for our children.

Last Year

At this time last year, I was asleep.  I was sleeping on a couch in the room next to Mom's room.  Dad was in her room sleeping on the pull out couch. Steph was next to her keeping vigil, probably catching a few winks here or there.  At this time last year, I was beyond exhausted.  So you would think I would have been sleeping soundly.  But I tossed and turned a bit that night.  At this time last year I was dreaming of a place I often visit in my dreams.  A city, out of which runs a dirt road that goes past a small, grass strip airfield lined with hangars full of my favorite airplanes.  A few miles beyond the airport is a solitary house in the middle of wide open fields.  Iowa fields. Flat, beautiful farm fields.

The house is the same one my grandparents retired to after they had spent a lifetime farming.  In real life, that house is in a little neighborhood.  In my dream, it stands alone.  When I dream of my city, I seldom get a chance to go visit that house.  Often when I find myself on the road, I get distracted at the airport and end up going flying.  Occasionally I'll remember that I really want to go visit the house, and I'll float on past the airport, running with glee to the house.

When I get there, it is always a delight.  Because when I open the door and step inside, the interior is identical to the old farmhouse where my grandparents lived.  Opa is in his chair by the stairs, Nana in a chair next to him, the other room filled with relatives I never knew because they died before I was born.  After my aunt Bobbi died, she appeared there, always sitting on the couch with various critters she loved.  Mandy, Muffin, Tuck and others.  

Last year on this night when I walked in they were all smiling brightly.  I stood in the entry room, and waved.  I seldom get to chat with anyone.  Most of the time it's just a wave and a smile and I wake up.  On this night I didn't.  After I waved, two men came in with another big, plush chair and set it beside Nana's chair. I furrowed my brow and wondered what that was there for.

I looked over at Bobbi with a question.  

"Just getting ready." She said. And my heart hurt to hear her voice again. "It's almost time."

Around this time last year I awoke to my sister gently shaking me awake.  The nurses had been in to re-adjust Mom, and Steph thought her breathing sounded weird.  I rose quickly and went in to look.  Mom's breathing was not right.  We agreed that it would probably be a good idea to wake Dad.  He stumbled over and took Mom's hand. I held her other, and was trying to feel a pulse.  I was waiting for her to take another breath.  Her breathing, in medical terms, had been agonal.  Not painful, just long, long breaks between breaths.  I couldn't feel a pulse.  I waited for another breath. As I waited the slow realization of what had just happened started to sink in.  There wouldn't be another breath.  Steph had silent tears.  Dad looked stunned.  Everything slowed down into one horrible moment of realization.  Mom had died. I looked at the clock.  5:59 in the morning.  I called down to the nurses station and asked them to come check her.  Verify what I already knew.  The nurse had a pink stethoscope. I borrowed it after she checked and listened for the familiar thump of a heartbeat. Strained to hear just one more.  Waited.

Thus began a year of firsts.  

First holidays without a mom.  First birthday without a mom.  First spring. First summer. First autumn and first start of winter.  So many bittersweet firsts.  So many thoughts of "Mom would have loved that". And now, in this early morning, a first year completed since my Mom died.

It has been a year of remembering a great many things she did for me.  A year of trying to figure out how to be without a mom. A year of trying to help Dad find his way in this completely new world.  A year of ups and downs, highs and lows, mostly good times but still lots of not so good times.  A time to think that from now until my time comes, all I have left are memories, pictures, videos.  And while it is nice seeing her in videos, I would do almost anything to hear her voice in real life again.

I am so thankful to still have Dad. I know he is grieving, and I know that I cannot know the depths of his grief. But he knows mine. Almost exactly.  He lost his Mom to renal failure when I was in boot camp for the Marines.  He went through everything that I am now going through. Even though I knew then that he was grieving the loss of his mom, I couldn't fully understand it until last year at this time.  Now I recall how he has lived his life since then and I am thankful for such an amazing role model for these days.

Last year on the 26th of December, I heard my mom say her final words to me.  At this time last year, she was gone.

I miss my mom. 

Deep Dark Holes

I spent a long summer and lots of the autumn in a deep hole of depression.  Scary deep.  Scary dark.  But I have clawed my way out again.  Without the support of my family, without the assistance of medical professionals, without the time and resources to do so, I probably wouldn't be here anymore.

I invented a new term.  Suicide by apathy.  I didn't really have any drive to do anything.  Even eating, drinking and sleeping left me feeling... Meh. I just didn't care to be living anymore.

But with lots and lots of help and love, and lots of incredibly hard mental work, I am through the tunnel.  I don't ever want to fall back in that hole, but unfortunately, it will probably happen again and again.  Nothing to do but keep doing the work I need to, and keep relying on others for support, which is really, really hard for me.

I like to believe I am self sufficient.  Able to face anything that comes my way.  To a certain extent I am, but I have come to realize that nobody is able to be completely independent.  It is part of the human condition to need other humans.  We are all programmed thusly.

So let me tell you from first hand experience... You are not alone.  It is so very, very hard to ask others for help, but do it if you need it.

It is hard to see out of that deep, dark hole sometimes.  Sometimes it doesn't seem worth it to even try.  

But please try.

Reach out.  You'll be surprised at how many people will be there to help.

Fly Away

PTSD sucks.  It sneaks up and takes over, making it hard to function.  When it hits hard I can't do anything. It is hard to get up in the morning. Hard to do anything but sit and stew in my own thoughts.

What really, really stinks though, is reaching a point were I am doing good.  Feeling good. Getting things accomplished. I feel like I am over the whole PTSD thing. Past the crippling depression.

Then it hits again. Bringing to a crashing halt all of the projects I may be working on. I let people down. I let myself down. And it is easy to spiral deeper and deeper without realizing I'm heading down.

Fortunately I have a wonderful wife who can recognize when it's happening. She supports me doing whatever it takes to climb out of that pit.

Well. It hasn't been a very good few weeks. I bottomed out and had a few people pretty worried.

Go do something fun. They said. Even if you can't find enjoyment in it, and even if you usually did get great enjoyment from it, do something. Anything.

So yesterday I did. It was ridiculously hard to gather materials, get things set up to build. This time I used a kit, so everything was already cut, and all I had to do was put it together. I had to force myself to do it.  It sounds stupid, I know. How lazy do you have to be to have something like this be so hard?  And unless you've had severe depression or PTSD or both, it seems like a totally reasonable question.  But I'll tell you something. It is so, stupidly hard to get motivated to do anything!  And if you are like me, you will beat yourself up even more for it being so hard.

But I did it. Powered through an airplane build. Something I usually enjoy.

And, ya know what?  By the middle of the build I was so engrossed in what I was doing, that I started feeling better. I wanted to finish. To get the electronics in (scavenged from another plane). The weather was OK and maybe, if I got it done, I could even take it out for a flight.

By mid afternoon, I had put the last touches on it.  It was ready to fly.  The kids and I headed down to our local farm field to give it a try.

Tossing a plane into the sky for the first time is always nerve wracking.  I just spent hours building and tuning and tinkering. Now, within a few seconds it would either soar into the sky, or spiral in and crash beyond recognition.

Flight controls checked and correct. Throttle up, and give it a throw.

To my great delight, it flew.  I trimmed it out a little, making it easier to fly, and put it through some paces.  High speed, low speed, stalls, rolls, loops, I even cut the power completely and let it glide.  It performed wonderfully.  And as I flew it around the sky, I recognized that I was smiling. Happy.  Enjoying the moment I was in.

My life has become like a maiden flight of new airplanes.  It should go fine. It should just up and fly. But every once and awhile it spirals out of control and crashes.  So far, I've been able to fix it up and try flying again.  But I never can seem to tell when it's going to fly and when it's going to crash.

Someday soon, I hope I can be like the video below. The day may start out shaky, but I will end up flying away.

Enjoy this video of the very first flight of my newly built flying wing

Raptor Fan

I'm a big Raptor fan.

Not that kind of raptor.. (That would be the NBA team the Toronto Raptors for you non-sports fans...)

Actual raptors.. You know, this kind...

Hawks, owls, eagles, even vultures.  I love them all.

I am a volunteer driver for The Raptor Center in the Twin Cities. My job is to go pick up wounded birds and get them to TRC for some TLC.   Many of my transports end up being euthanized, as they are often too injured to save.  That is hard for me, as I have come to be able to tell when I am transporting a bird that probably won't make it.  So I give them as gentle a ride as I can, pray for them and call a few days later to check up on them.

Sometimes, against all odds, they survive.  For this, all credit goes to the hardworking staff of the Raptor Center.  They do amazing things with sick and injured birds.

So, the other day, I got a call to pick up a Great Horned Owl for transport to TRC.  He had already been caught and was in a kennel when I arrived.  I transferred him to a cardboard box to take North.  He was strong, and VERY vocal for the entire trip.

He spent a LOT of time clacking his beak at me, a Great Horned Owl way of telling others how fierce he is, and if I would just stick an errant finger through one of the holes in the box, he would gladly chomp it to demonstrate his ferocity.

"I AM FIERCE! DO NOT PROVOKE MY ANGER OR YOU SHALL FEEL MY WRATH!!"

I'm pretty sure he will recover. Fingers crossed and prayers sent up.

After I dropped him off, I got to take a Red-Tailed Hawk with me to be released back to the wild.  He was a young hawk, not quite ready to fly, brought in by a concerned and well meaning citizen.  Unfortunately, this meant he had been separated from his mom, so my job was to take him back to as close to the spot he was found as possible.

Fortunately, the route back to his territory passed right by my house, so I was able to stop and pick up the kiddos along the way.  They are learning some compassion for our feathered friends, and how important they are in the food chain and the whole web of life.

As I pulled away from TRC with the hawk, I told him not to worry, that I'd have him back with his mom as soon as I could.  With that, he let out a screech, long and loud and powerful.  It sent a shiver down my spine.  He let out a few more of these, and I spoke back to him in gentle tones.  Soon he was chatting away with me.  Neither of us understanding the other, but having a great road trip none the less.

Because I anthropomorphize, I like to think that the talking helped, as he soon relaxed enough to sit in the box and stare at me through the breathing holes.  He'd give me a few chirps, and I'd respond in English. 

At one point he had been silent for a few minutes, so I asked how he was doing. To my surprise and delight, he answered right back with some contented chirping.

He did most of the talking on the trip. Telling me stories and singing songs.  It was pretty phenomenal.  I recorded some of his antics and put it in a short video.  

Seriously. Listen to that voice.  Takes my breath away every time.

I have been a raptor fan as long as I can remember. But Red-Tailed Hawks are my very favorite.  

I know they are common, everywhere. But they will always be my favorite.  There are things in this world that I cannot explain. Connections that I have with animals of all sorts. Dragonflies on the wing. Buffalo grazing on wide open prairie.  But nothing stirs my soul and makes my heart happy like a red-tail soaring through the sky. I can't explain it. I've stopped trying to explain it to myself.  Every time I get to hold one of these magnificent birds, I am beyond exhilarated.  Being able to feel the heartbeat. I think mine syncs up with it.  And being able to release a healed hawk back into the sky gives me a joy seldom equalled.

I wish I lived closer to the Cities, I'd be volunteering at TRC all the time.  Probably good that I don't though.  My family would miss me.

Ah, Red-Tails.  You soothe my soul.

Freedom Bird

More Later

Why Being Christian Isn't Enough

     How do we make the world a better place? It's a common question amongst people that care.  There are plenty of people infected with greed and vanity. They won't care about anything but themselves, and I'll address them in another post someday.  But there are a multitude of people who care about various issues pertaining to making the world a better place. The trouble that I am having with a great many of these people is their claim that their religion can solve the problems.

     Now, before you get your self-righteous, religious ire up, let's review some stuff.

     I was sitting in on the second of three Easter services this past Sunday, celebrating the risen Lord.  The pews were packed. All three services were heavily attended.  Our church usually has two services on Sundays. One of these Easter services would probably equal a normal attendance at both services on any other Sunday.  That got me to thinking a bit.

     Why do so many more people show up for the "big" services? Christmas...Easter... Holly/Ivy Christians, I've heard them called.

     Well, lots of American Christians lead busy lives. Work the whole week long and don't want to spoil a day of sleeping in with going to church. I get it. I love the days when I get to sleep in, too. And as Christians, we do love the good celebrations of the birth and re-birth of Jesus.  I, for one, believe that God doesn't require church attendance for salvation. I think God is present everywhere, not just at His house.

     But it got me to thinking.  Lot's of people claim to be Christian. Go to some church services. Read some of the bible, and have beliefs that line up somewhat with the Christian doctrine.  Christians, on the whole, aren't bad people. Lots and lots have kind hearts and are caring people. But it seems that we still can't get things done to make the world a better place.  Why?

     I think we have the Holly/Ivy mentality.  We get caught up in our day to day lives. Bills to pay. Kids to shuttle to some practice or another. Dogs to walk. That sort of thing. So even when we have the best of intentions, we fall short on the follow through.  We do the occasional mission trip, or volunteer at an event to help feed hungry kids around the world. Give a little money to church once and awhile when we go. Then we go back to our "ordinary" lives.

     Lately I've been involved with a group out on the Pine Ridge reservation, where the Lakota Oyate (or people) live.  Many, many people out there are just scraping by, living in squalor. Kids going to bed hungry. No jobs, many societal problems. All of the "usual" things you hear or read about impoverished areas.  Re-Member exists to build and repair roofs, build and install beds for children, and sometimes adults, who have never slept in a proper bed. They skirt trailers, saving the residents money on heating during the long, very cold winters.  They build outhouses and dig holes for them at residences without indoor facilities.  In short, they Get Stuff Done that Needs To Be Done.  There is lots of work to do, and their backlog of projects grows from year to year.  Volunteers come out for a week, spend some time on those projects, and some more time on immersion in the Lakota culture to learn about the people they help.

  So what does this have to do with Christians?  Well, consider the mission trips you usually hear about. Youth groups heading somewhere to paint churches, lead bible school, preach the Gospel. Because for some reason, too many Christians believe that if they can convince the people they are helping to follow Jesus, their problems will be over.  The majority of the time, their hearts are in the right place.  But the methods fall short of actual help.

     It is all well and good to travel to Mexico and paint a church every year, but the locals can't all sleep in the freshly painted church.  It's fine to want to "spread the good news" and hand out bibles in Africa, but those locals can't eat bibles.  We somehow feel satisfied to hit "Like" and maybe even "Share" on facebook posts that will claim to feed a child for every click, thinking that we are doing our part for those less fortunate.  We feel more Christian because of these things, because "Good Christians" help those in need. We tithe our 10% to the church, although this number is often closer to 1-2%. But we feel good because we are "doing our part". Right?

     No.  Being Christian isn't enough.  Being religious or spiritual isn't enough.  When it comes to making the world a better place, religion is not a benefit, it is a hindrance.  Too many people use religion as a weapon.

     "You don't believe in my god? No soup for you!"

     Since long before 9/11, there has been hatred between the different religions. Wars fought over whose beliefs were better.  I once believed that modern American Christians were above such things.  But lately I have seen "Christians" cherry picking the bible to fit their views. Almost all of these views are fears of something different. Fear of homosexuals. Fear of Muslims. Fear of black people, or red people, or brown people. Fear of poor people. Fear of Jews. Fear of Liberals. Fear of anyone with a different worldview from themselves.  They use their religion to condemn those that are different. They use their beliefs to justify their behavior towards their own government.  They have closed minds, and closed hearts, yet claim to be Christians.  I don't think their sort of behavior is what Jesus had in mind for us.  I don't remember reading any part of the bible where Jesus said to his disciples to go forth and hate those who are different.

"BUT I'M ONE OF THE GOOD CHRISTIANS!!!" I hear this in my own head from time to time, and I'm sure it may be in your head too.  I respect those who believe other things, even if I don't always agree with them. As long as they don't weaponize their own beliefs, I have no problems.  You too? Great!  But still, we fall short if we just claim our religion as all it takes to help others and make us good people.

As Christians, we believe in the power of prayer. Petitioning God for things. Lot's of other religions pray as well. So what's the problem with prayer, you ask? There are even studies out there that show that prayer does have an influence on things. Don't get me wrong, I've been known to send up some pretty good prayers myself, so I am not railing against prayer.

     But, here's the problem with prayer as a way to make the world a better place.  Without action, it accomplishes very little.  God, we pray that our leaders will make good choices about the environment. We pray that the hungry will be fed. We pray for the sick to be healed. We pray for those living in poverty to have a better life ahead of them.

     I believe that God hears those prayers, but I also believe that God requires some follow up on our end to see that those things happen.  Want your leaders to make good choices about the future of our environment? Write letters. Make phone calls. Let them hear your voices. Want to feed the hungry? Forgo that Starbucks coffee for a day or two, and give that money to a food shelf, or a homeless kitchen, or some other organization that actually feeds the hungry.  Sick? Sure, pray! But go see a doctor. If God created everything, then he created medicine, too. And he created people who understand how to use that medicine, or have the skills as a surgeon to heal you.  Want to help people in poverty have a better life? Go get your hands dirty and help skirt a trailer, or rebuild a roof.  Give your 1-10% to the church, AND give 1-10% to an organization like Re-Member. An organization that actually DOES the work that needs to be done to fulfill those prayers.

     For you bible fearing Christians out there, take the time to read the second sentence of  Luke 12:28 or Matthew 25:40.  Then ask yourself TRULY, what would Jesus do?  What is it YOU are doing to make the world a better place? Holly/Ivy stuff? Or are you ready to get your hands dirty, make even a small financial sacrifice to make the world a better place.  Christians fall short of what it means to really be a Christian. That is why to make the world a better place, being Christian isn't enough.

Tanked, Part Deux

Well, after a few weeks of water changes, treatments and learning even more than I have about fish tanks and proper care and feeding, the water became safe for fish again.

This was no small thing, since Blondie, Goldie and Mr. Boney have survived the full ignorance and unimaginable high toxicity levels of the tank thus far.

Tough Guys

So, with some trepidation, I headed out after I dropped the kiddos at school to do a little fish shopping.  

After some deliberation, and talking with the helpful fish experts, I decided against rays and eels, and went with three Mickey Mouse Platy's and a Plecostamus to help keep things clean.

I don't have any good pictures of my little MM's, because they swim so fast. I borrowed this one of the net.

While I was checking out, I noticed a tiny shrimp looking thing swimming around with the pleco. I was told he was a Ghost Shrimp.

Another borrowed shot.  I can't seem to focus on these little transparent bugs.

The pleco died shortly after introduction to the tank, which had me all worried again. So I rushed a water sample off to the fish store again, was assured the water was OK, and got some money back for the poor dead pleco.

So, I started doing some research on Ghost Shrimp... because, of course I did.  Turns out, they are tank cleaner uppers as well.  So I picked up a few more the next day, and took them back to hang out with the little freebie I got.

Remarkably, thankfully, and happily, all of the fish are now doing quite well. The water cycle is doing well, and all of the tankmates seem to be getting along quite well!

One slightly tricky thing that may be needing to be dealt with later is that two of the three Platy's are female.  We've named them Mickey, Minnie and Daisy.  I have a feeling at some point we may have to deal with some little Mickey's and Minnie's.  Of course, they give birth to 40-60 babies at a time, so we could get into some deep, fishy trouble at some point.

Anyway, I'm still loving the tank, as are the kiddos. 

More Later