On the Cusp of a New Year

In 1831, a storm uncovered a store of hidden figures on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides. They seemed at first to be "little people" buried in the sand. But, they were chessmen carved from walrus ivory and whale teeth, some stained red. It's thought they were carved in 12th century Norway and traveled to Lewis by ship. Most of the collection is in the British Museum in London. Some are in the Royal Museum in Edinburgh.

During the summer of 1995, there was an exhibition of Lewis Chessmen in Stornoway. The chessmen had, in fact, come home for a short time. I saw them there in a small museum where signs and Mac computers offered explanations in Scots Gaelic. I was captivated by the gloomy Chessmen -- the queen with her "O, my god" expression and the rooks, biting their shields like Viking "berserkers". I brought home a stone-carved King and Queen and they have been on my desk ever since.

Today, I have a full set of Lewis Chessmen, a gift of the season. They are now my companions and Muse for the year to come as I write a story with them, about them, inspired by them. They will captivate Maddy Tucker, a restless teenager who tags along with her biologist father on his latest research project in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland. I hope you will be captivated, too.



On this New Year's Eve, these gloomy medieval faces fit our troubled world. But, as ever, I am the determined optimist -- writing a novel, writing for change, challenging those who would keep us silent and at war. Tonight we burn away the old year.

What shall we bring to the New?

MERRY CHRISTMAS

Here's one of Barry's photos to mark the season. For the past few years, we have set our Christmas tree on the deck where it serves as shelter to red squirrels, birds and an occasional mouse. One year, the tree became a nesting site for two mourning doves and we watched that miracle of small eggs later hatch into a new brood.

I am thinking about Winslow Homer who said: "In the end, what matters most is the Sea."

I'm asking myself, "In the end, what matters most is _________" and I don't know, yet. Ask yourself this question and send me your comments.

Peace.

Aggie's Footsteps

It was a hot, dusty day -- just one more in that long line of hot, dusty days. There had been no rain for at least a year, maybe more, it was hard to say. Harder still, Kina thought, to remember the feel of a soft, gentle rain when she turned her face to the sky.

Kina perched at the edge of the village, surveying the length of rough road that led out of the park to the long track through open land that eventually reached Isolo. She knew once there in the city, she could find her friend, Aggie. Aggie had left this very spot last spring, before she could be married or bartered off. Kina had stayed to watch the bright figure in blue disappear into the bush.

Aggie had said many times she wouldn’t be able to stand not choosing her own husband. She refused to wait for the old chiefs -- old goats she called them -- to make that choice for her.

The other girls were shocked to hear Aggie speak that way about the elders, but not Kina. Kina knew exactly what Aggie meant. Kina lived the no-choice every moment, but especially at night when she entered the small dung and hide-covered hut she shared with her husband.

“Tourists!” The call echoed through the village. The young men had waved in two white minivans full of tourists -- plump, white tourists -- of different ages.

Kina sighed and hurried to her hut. She wrapped a colorful striped cloth around her body and slipped on her grandmother’s heavy bead necklace. The rows of red and
white clay beads rubbed her neck. She quickly brushed back her hair and joined the line of women ready to perform the Welcome Dance.

The young men brought the guides to Kina. She was one of the few Samburu women who spoke English. She had been to school longer than the others in her age group. She would have stayed but for her marriage, her lack of choice.

“Americans. Canadians. Swedish,” said the guide.

Kina knew him, Peter. He often brought groups to their village. She knew the thing to say. “Ten dollars each one. Okay photos and a tour.”

Peter nodded. “I’ll be sure they buy things from the store. These people are okay.”

She watched Peter return to the vans. The white people pulled out bills and cameras. They approached the line of colorfully dressed village women, almost shyly. Then she heard the cameras and the foreigners talked excitedly among themselves.

Kina took a deep breath. This is the last group I dance for, she promised herself. Tonight, when my husband sleeps, I’ll be gone. Gone to find my friend Aggie.

She clapped her hands and turned her face to the sky. Her clear voice rang across the dusty scrubland. Weaverbirds in the acacias startled and rose above the parched landscape like a dark cloud. Kina called again, and the village women answered her with the welcome chant. They moved forward, stirring the dust with their feet.

Kina’s words soared over the line of women. Like a great fish eagle on the wing, her song of freedom flew north, following the rough track through the bush and beyond.

Author’s Note: Kenya, again. This time I took a photo from our visit to the Samburu National Reserve and turned it into a writing prompt. This is my favorite way of writing and finding out what I’m really thinking.

November Light

The woods stretch for miles, unbroken and unspoiled. I stop at the old stonewall, a last outpost of industry, covered now with lichen and leaves. Once the boundary for a farmer’s field, this rock wall still marks the edge of the wilderness at the place where someone long forgotten drew the line between civilized and wild, familiar and unexplored.

The house and barn lie safely at my back, and late afternoon sun slants through the forest before me. The landscape turns gold and rust and brown. Only the firs are softened by green. The other trees stand plumb and square, stripped of their autumn finery.

It’s November and I can see far into the woods to where the ledges rise and where lightning split the big pine.

People around here tend to curse this time of year. “Depressing month,” they grumble. “Think of what follows,” they warn.

But I sit on the old stonewall with a secret: I love November. I wait for a day like today when the sunlight cuts clean to the bone and exposes things usually well hidden.

Behind me, the garden rests under its winter dressing of leaves and aged goat manure. It still yields kale, leeks and carrots, but the main harvest is done. My pantry overflows with jars of jam, relish, juice and shell beans. The woodshed hugs its four cords of red oak and maple, cut and split and dried and stacked, and the barn is crammed with hay and cornstalks.

Even the root cellar rivals King Solomon’s mines. Its shelves glitter with the colors of rare jewels. In place of golden chains, I hang braided onions and rather than rubies, I pack apples in straw and beets in damp sand.

From where I sit, summer no longer lingers and there is a pause, a silence, one quiet but full moment suspended between seasons.

My path to the woods touches the pond. No ripples today, just that hard black clarity, prelude to ice. In the distance, Cardigan Mountain looms big and barren. Some mornings, she dresses in startling white and on others she wears her usual grays and browns. The late autumn sun sharpens her features and reveals new majesty.

Here is why I come to the edge of the wilderness in November. It’s too easy to be lost in the mist of a September morning or lulled to sleep by July’s lush green.

The October sun plays on golden aspen leaves, and its light shimmers and dazzles, as if on water. Come January, snow alters the landscape and I’m awed by the blues and whites of deep winter.

No, it’s this rich, warm brown of dried pine needles that carries my vision farther and farther into woods where life has been pared.

Another shaft of light cuts through, and I see ancient stumps, logs and, everywhere, bare trees.

Illusions shatter in November light. Illusions about love and loyalty. Permanence and loss. Delusions of judgment. Control. Questions of right and wrong and who’s to blame. Like so many leaves they drift to the forest floor and turn, eventually into good, dark compost.

Sitting here, watching and waiting, I find this a deeper harvest to reckon. There can be no root cellars for dreams or storage boxes for promises. My garden will not yield up truth, and canning jars do not preserve hope. Instead, I’ll measure the distance between heart and deed and count my wealth by the peace that comes when what I say and what I do are one.

Warm sun falls on the rock wall and I look at the old stones and wonder. Why stop here? Someone years ago set these markers for their world, not mine. Yet I have believed in these walls, these borders, these safe limits and kept well within their lines.

The air is rich with the smell of wood smoke and rotting leaves. Afternoon moves slowly towards dusk, and the woods fade to gray. But for me there’s light enough -- and time.

From the stonewall I walk first to the ledges, then to the big pine struck by lightning, and then to the horizon beyond. The quiet moment suspended between seasons is over, and I’m moving on.



Author’s Note: “November Light” appeared in Convergence Magazine, Winter 1992 issue. I read it again and love it still. I am also very moved to know that these words and images touch others as well.

Today, the pond is gone, but the rest -- garden, barn, Cardigan Mountain, stonewalls, me -- thrive.

What can we tell these young monks?

Burma

Aung San Suu Kyi: Noble Prize Winner. Rightful leader of Burma.

I feel so small and so humbled by the tens of thousands of Buddhist monks marching for peace and political change in Burma. Where have we all been since the last uprising in 1988 when the democratically elected leader, Aung San Suu Kyi, was arrested.

World leaders know how brutal and inept this military government is. We need more than economic sanctions. We need someone with the will to stand beside the monks and the Burmese people and say, Enough. The military junta is over.

But, I live in a country that is waging war in the Middle East. Our government has started a relentless campaign to war against new countries, like Iran. We have squandered moral will and basic principles. We have our own junta. We just don't acknowledge it yet.

In my heart I am marching and marching and marching.

End of a Summer

It's time to reflect before moving into another school year. This image of the East Inlet in late August settles me. I'm feeling satisfied, ready, pleased to have had two months of challenges and community among writers and teachers. I'm already doing different things, like leading writing workshops. It's time to put new skills and new insights about myself into action. It's Praxis in the true meaning of the word -- reflection and action together to create effective change.

So, read Paulo Freire. Nel Noddings. Mary Pipher. Pema Chodron. Kids' writing. Canoe the East Inlet at dawn. Wander off the path and come back to this blog from time to time...

Blessings on Mt. Batur

In Bali, the spiritual realm and the physical world intertwine. At times, it's hard to tell where one stops and the other begins. There are flowers, temples, offerings of sticky rice and spices, and everywhere, the reminder of what we owe to the unseen.

This small deity on the side of Mt. Batur has an impish look. I 'm grateful for its presence and memory in my life. I too honor the place where spirit and body meet - with flowers, small statues, stones, and sayings-reminders of what is known and unknown, half a world away.

A Time for Peace

This is a crazy time in the school year. I will be writing reports, one a day, over the next fourteen days. As part of my save-my-sanity strategy, I decided to post my favorite photos, especially those that give me great peace.

June 2002. Machu Picchu. Peru.

It's Looking a Lot like Vietnam

In my work this past week, I have met two boys whose older brothers are going to Iraq. One brother is in the Air Force, the other is a Marine. The younger boys are solemn and worried, although they don't say that aloud.

The high school now has a highly polished granite marker/ gravestone in the front of the building to honor graduate-soldiers who die in Iraq. There is one name carved on the stone face -- with plenty of space for more.

Watching Goats

We're in the midst of a major snowstorm here on the east coast. We can expect anywhere up to a foot of snow, heavy rain and dangerous winds. We have had three big snowstorms in the past three weeks. Not your typical April -- even for New Hampshire.

Despite this, the goldfinch turn bright yellow and the chickadees collect bits of thread and string for nests.

Half a world away in the Masai Mara, young boys watch over their families' goats and cows. It rained there longer than usual this year. Tourists had been stranded in their minivans in mud. Two weeks after that, we enjoyed sunny weather under brilliant blue skies. Not your typical March -- even for Kenya.

Despite this, humans argue among themselves and make pitiful bargains that will not change anything. Who do we think we are, anyway?

Learning Curve

Fear makes us stupid,
shuts minds,
closes doors.

Stupid makes us fearful,
spawns the mob,
no dissent.

I think that's the way
some people
like it.

What Was Once and Now...

At the edge of the vast plains of the Masai Mara in Kenya, I felt as if I stood at the beginning of Time. In all directions there was the savannah and herds of different animals. It was a powerful but bittersweet image, this vision of time before humans, before the fall.

Before I Sleep in Africa

Before I sleep in Africa, I set aside Mau Mau.
Zulu. Saturday matinees where Tarzan meets
Jane and reasonable men in pith helmets,
crazed by heat and quicksand and the lion’s roar,
tame a dark continent. “Dr. Livingstone. I…”
but, you know the rest.

Before I feel African sun, I let go stories
from years gone by. Hemingway. Lessing.
Dinesen and Van der Post. Teddy Roosevelt,
our very own Great White Hunter. Adventures
on the page, on the screen, in the flesh,
but mostly, in black-and-white.

Before I walk African soil, I shed my leather
shoes. Trace the steps of Jane Goodall. Dian
Fossey. Albert Schweitzer. My generation went
into Operation Crossroads. The Peace Corps.
Here I am, dogged visionary from the ‘60’s,
still hopeful, still yearning.

Before I hear the voices of Africa, I think Nelson
Mandela. Biafra. Rwanda. Soweto.
Somalia. Darfur. Chad and De Beers.
Soldiers in black boots with automatic weapons.
Ordinary people in everyday life. Will I hear
children, laughing?

Before I go to Africa, I ask, what went wrong
in this place where humanity has lived longest?
Malaria. AIDS. Water. Refugees. I wonder
if – after Africa – will I come to know poverty
and colonial legacies and maybe, just maybe,
glimpse why we are here at all.

Thoughts for the Day

THOUGHT FOR OUR EVERYDAY LIVES
FROM THOMAS MERTON


“There is a pervasive form of contemporary violence [and that is] activism and overwork. The rush and pressure of modern life are a form of violence. To allow oneself to be carried away by a multitude of conflicting concerns, to surrender to too many demands, to commit oneself to too many projects, to want to help everyone in everything, is to succumb to violence. The frenzy of our activism neutralizes our work for peace. It destroys our inner capacity for peace. It destroys the fruitfulness of our own work, because it kills the root of inner wisdom which makes work fruitful.”

No More Troops

The New Year inspires me to think carefully about my life -- past, present, future. It's always been a marker. We celebrated the end of 2006 with a bonfire in the garden. Burn away the old year. I like that image. It seems pagan and elemental. We stood under the dark sky and watched flames illuminate the pines at the edge of the field.

Ten days later, I feel ageless, wandering in that strange been-here-before fog. How can our country allow more troops to be sent to Iraq? Who is George Bush? WHERE is the outrage? Refuse him and remove him.

I read today on Common Dreams that Richard Nixon ran this course before in 1970 when Vietnam was already lost. He authorized the bombing of Cambodia. He escalated the war. Killing, despair, devastation continued for five more years.

There was a huge student response -- and out of that protest came Kent State where the Ohio National Guard shot and killed four students. Remember this.

Over the weekend we saw a brilliant movie: "Children of Men". It's not such a far-fetched view of the near future. Many people we tell about the movie say they won't see it --"too much violence. Too depressing." Don't be squeamish. Go see it and be outraged. That may be the only way we pull ourselves out of the mud.

Happy New Year.

Taipei Afternoon

We were surprised by the beauty of Taipei. It was definitely one of those trips full of paradoxes. Here, in the early afternoon, homing pigeons are called back to roost. We saw homing pigeons everywhere we traveled around the island. We were also very lucky to see the mountains surrounding Taipei. They are too often hidden by clouds or mist.

One Small Victory

We visited our friends in Taipei in February 2006. As always in travel, we met people from all over the world, doing amazing things to make this a better world.

We took a city tour of Taipei and our one companion on the tour was a woman who worked for an organization that improved labor conditions in southeast Asia. She talked about projects like microcredit banking where people can borrow money -- the equivalent of twenty-five, fifty, maybe a hundred dollars -- and turn that loan into life-changing projects. Women buy a flock of chickens or a cellphone or sewing materials and create a local business. With their earnings they send their children to school, improve their homes -- and pay back the loans.

She talked about the struggles and successes. We shared our frustrations over world politics and especially over the damage done by U.S. policies railroaded by the Bushes and company. That damage is so deep. We (U.S. citizens) have lost and squandered and damned ourselves by allowing this government to wage war on the world in our names.

But today I celebrate a small victory. John Bolton, the Bush representative to the UN who was rammed into place by political maneuvers, has resigned. I know this will be great relief to this woman in southeast Asia, nevermind to the rest of the UN and to thinking, caring people worldwide.

I sent her an email in the spirit of the season -- miracles do happen -- especially when we keep faith, speak out, vote, think, listen, and don't cave in to despair.

Pandagaran, Java

On the southern coast of Java, we stayed at a local fishing village. Everyone goes to the beach at sunset to watch the thousands of fruit bats (flying foxes) fly from the forest to the fruit plantations across the bay.

These young men were fishing in traditional ways. They walked chest deep into the sea and seined. This time they came in with two small fish, a collection of plastic bottles, a shoe, and other debris. Someone told us they used to fill their nets and sell to the big cities inland.

Fishing and tourism have been important in this area. However, Pandagaran was heavily damaged in the May 2006 earthquake that hit nearby Yogajakarta. I call this photo, "Two Fish" to honor the catch of that day.

Bogor, Indonesia

This morning I listened to the BBC news report on George Bush's visit to Indonesia. My initial reaction was to apologize to the Indonesians (and the world). The global community and America desperately need better-than-Bush. Now!

But beyond politics, I was drawn to the report because I have been to Bogor. In February and March 2001, Barry and I visited our good friend who was teaching at the Jakarta International School. It was my first time in Asia and the experiences changed me forever.

Here's the Bogor I remember: We saw flying foxes (tropical fruit bats) hanging in huge trees. The Presidential Palace is a large white mansion, a remnent of colonial rule. There is a wide main thoroughfare, vast lawns, high fences, and roe deer roaming the grounds. We walked through botanical gardens and saw a raffesia (corpse flower) well beyond its bloom.

We were the only people from a western country in the gardens that day. Two men approached us, one selling postcards and one selling small silver spoons with figures from Indonesian puppetry. The two men spoke English and we spent the next few hours with them as they became our guides.

One man had been a teacher and the other, an engineer. When the Asian markets crashed in the late 90's, these men lost their jobs and like so many others now sold souvenirs. They told us few tourists came to Bogor those days, especially after Suharto was driven out and the American businesses fled.

We rode back to Jakarta on smooth highways. As we approached the city center, there were tall, western-style skyscrapers, emblazoned with the names and logos of American banks and insurance companies -- and all were abandoned. There's a river/ canal that also runs through the center and along its banks were cardboard huts where families lived and ate and washed. I watched an elderly woman dip water from that brown sludge that carried the refuse of 12 million people to the harbor and on to the Java Sea.

It wasn't all poverty and stereotypic images -- not at all. There were trees and vibrant markets and everywhere, families together. We visited museums along with multiple school groups, all dressed in different uniforms. We visited the largest mosque in Southeast Asia. We were a great curiosity and that created so many memorable, thoughtful conversations.

My credo is: We are all just people. This is what I learned in Asia, across the length of Java and Bali, in the botanical gardens of Bogor.

I still have those tiny silver spoons. I wonder what George Bush will bring back from Indonesia?

FINALLY

This is one of the best election nights I have ever had! New Hampshire has elected Paul Hodes over Charlie Bass... and Carol Shea-Porter over Jeb Bradley. John Lynch is our Democratic Governor, and for once, I am very proud to be a New Hampshire Democrat.

Now, let's go after those miserable hypocrites in the White House.

Merry Hell, indeed!

Full Moon in November

It was a full beaver moon this past weekend and the night landscape was gorgeous -- and eerie. It was a dark silvery light, like a kind of parallel universe glimpsed only at times like these.

I often write about November. It's a transition time, before the holidays and Winter Solstice, yet beyond the brilliance and abundance of October and the harvest. I see brown fields, bare trees, and a pause between seasons.

One of my first stories, "The Goat Woman", was all about that November sense of time and mortality. This led me back to 1986, when this story was published. Twenty years ago. Guess I thought life would be different, somehow, twenty years hence.

Here are bits and pieces of that story. It's still one of my favorites.

"She awoke with the fire in her bones. Her Granny had called such pains, miseries. But Natty knew she suffered more than a misery. The devil himself poked at her spine. Every morning he tested to see if she were ripe, ready for the stewpot."...

"Outside, the morning sun crept over the brown weeds in her yard. She counted the twenty-five paces it now took her to reach the barn. She slid the door to the right and stepped into the cool, dark cavern. She closed her eyes, as she did each morning, and slipped back forty years."...

"A low bleat broke into her daydream. She opened her eyes. Gerta, the last of her French Alpine-Toggenburg cross, called. The doe pointed her long ears at Natty and tilted her head as if to say, Well now, old woman."...

"....hard to figure, said Natty. You came back alive, but Tom was dead. Cut down by his own heart right in the middle of sugaring season. Thin year that was."...

"Will Dove shook his head. 'I saw a goat. A big silver goat, mind you, running with the deer on Bridgewater Mountain. I had it in my sights, mind you. She looked just like that big doe of yours. Never saw anything like it, a goat running with deer...'."

"The Count had been Tom's idea. Natty never liked it, but she understood. So even with Tom dead she did the Count, year by year. She tucked the book under her arm and went to the barn, repeating Tom's charge:

"Count the hay. Count the goats. Count the grain. Count the goats. Count one winter's worth."...

"Your November light cuts right to the bone."...

"For supper she cooked a soup of onions, oatmeal, carrots and dried beans. She wished she had a piece of bread to sop up the broth, but things like fresh bread belonged to the days when Tom was alive."...

" ....she opened the fire and laid on chunks of maple. She washed with warm water from the bucket. She stroked her feet, legs, arms and face. She put on clean longjohns and fresh socks. She tucked dried fruit and nuts into the pouches of Tom's hunting coat. She combed her white hair and pulled on the purple hat. She checked herself for gloves, scarf, extra socks. Before she left, she blew out the lamps.

"Outside her breath showed in little white gusts. The full Beaver Moon had risen, bathing her yard with silver light."...

"Gerta bounced like a kid. She kicked her heels sideways and tugged at Natty's sleeve. Now, old woman, she seemed to say.

"Natty leaned on her walking stick, a smooth piece of hornbeam Tom had cut for her years ago. Under the light of the full moon, she pushed off and slowly followed Gerta past the maples and through the overgrown orchard. Ahead she saw the silver line where a well-trodden deer track led up Bridgewater Mountain.

"She was certain Gerta knew the way."

I'm experimenting with photos. For me writing and images are one and the same. The challenge is always to find the words to create and share the image on paper or in blogger space.

East Inlet, late August. It's one of my favorite places on earth -- a Nature Conservancy site in northern New Hampshire. That morning the mist was thick on the water. The rising sun cast a lavender-pink light that eventually broke through the fog.

On the eve of Halloween

It's a quiet night. A bright half moon settles in the southwest. I see it through dark, sketchy branches. Over the weekend we had winds that stripped the trees. Only the beeches and a few oaks are hanging onto brown and gold leaves. It's just right for Halloween.

A big brown mouse has been eating our sunflower seeds. The cats saw him first, of course. I used a flashlight and the beam caught him in the open milk jug. He ran so easily up the twine to the branch and then down the trunk. He's a fat, sassy mouse.
I expect he has a number of admirers -- me, the two cats, and maybe a barred owl or two. We'll see.