#37 Family Reunion ~ Bedtime

It was a Native American pow-wow at a rural county fairgrounds in northern
Pennsylvania. Tents and trucks were scattered amidst the booths surrounding
the central circle, and participants and spectators mingled freely. It
couldn’t have been a more informal event.

The dancers presented a stunning variety of types and costumes. Some had
features that could have come straight from those old nineteenth century
Indian photographs. Others were as blond and Caucasian as anyone could
imagine. People wore skins and feathers and beads and furs. Men had fancy
tops over shorts and jeans, slacks decorated with ribbons. Women wore
dresses of deerskin, cheap shiny fabric with fringy shawls, modest cotton
prints. Hair was long, braided, short, hairdresser-perfect, wild, dyed red.
No pre-conceived notion of what an Indian looks like could hold up against
this outpouring of individuality. The deeply personal nature of people’s
relationship to their tribal background and native identity was out there
for all to see.

One drumming circle was made up of half a dozen pale-faced young men with
short hair, matching red t-shirts and backward baseball caps—the image of a
small town high school sports team. Yet here they were sitting around a big
drum, utterly intent on their task, with native music pouring out of their
throats and through their drumsticks. The second circle was older, with
native heritage clear in the faces of three of the men. In a different
context the fourth could have been anything. Here at the drum singing, he
could be nothing else.

Yet in the midst of all this diversity, there was a common thread. Everyone
in that circle of drummers and dancers claimed some relationship to a native
heritage. The tribes may have been different, and for some the relationship
looked thin, but it mattered.

Why would that elegant professional-looking woman, those working class
families, that little blond girl, those all-American teenagers around the
drum, choose to claim this identity when they had other choices available?
And why would those for whom choice would never be an issue take them in?
There was a spirit of enormous and unexpected generosity in the air. If you
claim these roots, it said, if you’ve made your regalia and come ready to
dance, then you are welcome to be one of us.

Where were the gatekeepers, the purists? How could the welcome be so
all-encompassing? For many of these people, seven of their ancestors out of
eight had to have been among those who stood by while native tribes were
decimated.

Perhaps it is like the story of the prodigal son. People want to come home.
They want to be part of a larger family. They want an identity that has
meaning beyond themselves. They want to be proud. In the midst of all their
flaws, they want their goodness to be seen and reflected back. And their
family still wants them, regardless of where they have been and what they’ve
done. In this scruffy little fairground, with no outward sign of prosperity
or success, that welcome was made manifest, and hundreds of people made a
home. It was a most unlikely and heartwarming family reunion.




Bedtime

The workshop will be on
putting your garden to bed--
all gardeners are encouraged to attend.

But wait!
My garden isn’t ready to go to bed.

Carrots, kale and swiss chard
are still going strong.
New lettuce has come in thick.
Turnips just keep getting fatter.

They are awake, alert, full of life.
Why can’t they stay up a little longer?
(And why do other gardens
need such an early bedtime?)




Some things that give me hope--

Empty lots in struggling neighborhoods planted in grass.
The simplicity and power of listening for drawing out each other's stories.
Cuba's hurricane response system and strong neighborhood ties that virtually
eliminate fatalities.
Bogota, Columbia's great network of well-used public libraries.