“When we try to pick out anything by itself we find that it is bound fast by a thousand invisible cords that cannot be broken- to everything in the universe.” – John Muir
I bought a new flashlight for my dinner date last night, since even though it was early—5:30, it is so dark now and my head lamp doesn’t light beyond my boots. With only about 8 hours of daylight, the clouds and without snow it feels even darker. Sunrise hardly lived up to the name today.
Their cabin is down a long, steep trail to the beach, and a good light was definitely required to reach it. I walked with two other friends and their puppy, so that was helpful. I carried a bag with sliced pears, cheddar and crackers (I had asked, what can I bring? Appetizers, they said), slippers (leave your boots at the door), a bottle of wine (of course…)– and a copy of Sherry Simpson’s book The Way Winter Comes. It’s a great book that not a lot of people, even Alaskans have read.
Anyway, before dinner we five friends (all between 49 and 76) held hands while our host said a blessing. It has always been easy for us to say grace when there are children present. Chip and I have kept the nightly habit since the kids left home. But with company – especially mixed faith or no faith company, how do you do it? I mean, Jesus said that you don’t pray in public, you go into your room and close the door and talk to God.
The blessing turned out to be Joy Harjo’s poem, Remember.
He read the whole thing. It was such a brave and intimate action. His voice waivered a couple of times — and we squeezed hands tighter. It’s hard to voice your heart. That was something so good to do. It matters. It makes the world a better place.
I did not grow up holding hands and reading poems at the dinner table. But, oh, I am so happy that I can choose to do it now, and that I am around people who encourage such things. It’s a way to do good. A smile for a stranger. Like the tiny puff of a breeze from those butterfly wings that blows around the world, or the ripples from a stone dropped in the ocean. Like John Muir’s cords that bind us to everything in the universe.
The meal with friends was a gift too, and no, we didn’t really talk about the election. Instead we talked about local history, Native traditions we admire, and fishing ( we were eating salmon the fisherman in the group caught last summer), the Chilkat River, and dogs, what with the puppy and all—
The New York Times obituary writers have been hitting them out of the park lately, too. Yesterday’s included Ella Jenkins (100!) who made a life writing and singing lovely songs for children, and Kenneth Bronstein who founded the NYC Atheists group. Their motto is “You don’t have to believe in God to be a moral and ethical person.” Race car driver Bobby Allison survived the death of both of his sons, and said of his profession, which was pretty dangerous., “My feeling about life and death is this: life is a gift and death can come at anytime.”
Remember
By Joy Harjo
Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star’s stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother’s, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
are you.
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.
