Archives for posts with tag: family

North Star

I wonder what I’m doing out here,
alone with squiggles on an old map,
exploring a desert without roads or trails
with letters from those I love alongside?
Perhaps love is known best in what’s past.

Evening summons,
a red-orange alcove invites me
to find my worn, wooden recorder
and play to an upwelling in my soul.
The music of Sufi mystics brings
my daughter’s voice in letters I brought,
written years ago on the windy slopes of Mt. Kenya.

Under a starry sky she wrote
of her remorse over the death of a beloved pet,
a dog kenneled by her absence.
In the unique reality of a dream
her dog had spoken his forgiveness,
and said they would continue together.

Half a world away from her family,
her tears lasted through the day.
She returned to the Masai village hut,
slept in her host family’s fire-circle,
their feet around the pit’s lingering warmth.

I fall asleep with these images,
awaken with the coals
of my fire-pit at my feet,
look up at the same stars
that now look down on her.

“We are not absent from one other,”
her letter continues. “Even in death,
grief’s pain binds loss and love together.
As long as one lives, both live.
All good things end, but we can go on,
past our physical closeness
if love is lived so it is there,
lived like beating drums
that proclaim without restraint.”

The wisdom from her days of grief
evoke awe of this young woman.
I’m wandering in my desert
searching for a direction,
finding her words as my North Star.

Last Days
(winner, 2013 Chaparral Poetry Forum)

A rusty pick-up camper slows,
backs into the next space.
An older man unbends from the cab,
sparse grey hair filtering the sun.
We nod. He eyes the nearest restrooms,
measuring the distance
between need and satisfaction.
A gust of wind staggers him.
His shirt flaps like a crossbow-kite.

He sits and sips a mug,
stacks a few dead branches.
As dusk settles, he invites me over.
“Name’s Jim,” he offers.
The campfire prods,
flickers on our life’s adventures.
“Ain’t much time left. Wife’s gone now, but
I got me some nice grandkids,” he says.

Early morning, a motor-home
dwarfs his truck. His campsite alive,
he and his grandchildren rig fishing poles,
laughing over mistakes. The parents
herd their kids to the lake and their cruiser,
leaving him to himself.

The evening sounds are fresh with childish wit.
Grandpa retires with the children.
I invite the well-lubricated parents over.
His son slurs the big picture.
“The old bugger clings to life, for what?
He’s no good to anyone,
sits on a pile of money he’ll never use.
The longer he lasts the less we get.”
I plead fatigue, leave them to themselves.

Next day they’re gone.
Evening frost in the air, I’m leaving, too.
I see the old fellow sitting alone
on the lake-shore, twilight waters
rippled by the stir of a faint breeze.

image

This is a picture of Stephen in the arms of his maternal grandfather, William Hardy.
Incidentally, both Stephen and I had maternal grandfathers named William. 

From our grandfathers’ Bill, we each learned a bit of naughty. When grandma was in the other room, Steve’s Grampa Bill taught him how to make “Mormon coffee” (with lots of cream and three table spoons of sugar, like candy). From mine I learned that there’s always time to stop for Baskin Robbins ice cream, even when we’re on the way home and late for grandmother’s dinner.

Both Bills’ daughters (our mothers) were cracker-jack wordsmiths. And we both believe we can spot grammatical and punctuation errors at twenty paces. One might wonder if having wordsmithy mothers influences us against using the quaint but frowned upon “ain’t” in everyday speech. In point of fact, it ain’t so. It may even encourage usage of such words in “proper” company . . .

Steve, here, thinking about etymology: ‘Cult’ and ‘Cult-ure’
Wiki defines culture as “An integrated pattern of human knowledge, belief, and behavior that depends upon the capacity for symbolic thought and social learning . . or “a set of shared attitudes, values, goals, and practices that characterize a group.” These things have been much on my mind recently.

Last year we moved part-time to St. George, Utah; nominally a Mormon (LDS) community. Awhile ago, Elizabeth and I heard a term suggesting two types of Mormons: “Mormals” and Mormons. The “Mormals” were Mormons who related to the rest of us in normative ways: for example, they talk openly with everyone and go to many social functions besides their own.

In St. George, there’s been an influx of wealthy “gentiles” from across the country, substantially diluting the dominant Mormon majority. Now there seem to be pockets of Mormons, Mormals and the rest of us (whose faith, or lack thereof, doesn’t seem relevant).

When you travel perhaps 35 miles to Hildale/Colorado City, (a twin-town that straddles the Utah-Arizona line, the bastion of the FLDS church), you find it is virtually impossible for a non-FLDS to find work or become included socially without becoming FLDS. They live together under one concrete, socially intertwined set of beliefs and rules established by one leader. Outsiders are not welcome or comfortable, and are regarded with suspicion. For example, because they believe in plural marriage, there are a number of “lost boys” who cannot marry. They live on the margins in their community, which also has the world’s highest incidence of mental retardation. I believe this is not only genetic, but also fostered by their sequestered group and highly censored communication with the ‘outside’ world. But I expect there are “lost boys” in other cults.

In St. George, my wife doesn’t seem as affected as others are by the aloofness characteristic of many Mormons. She is just as happy participating with them musically or socially whenever she is invited into their wards; however, with the FLDS, I think even she would have a hard time.

When a culture (like the Mormons), through a family dynamic perhaps, becomes ‘cultified’i.e. damaged by the psychological powers that dominate that family, the larger culture of Mormonism begins to morph into a cult. They become suspicious of those not in their family group and wall off cross-cultural input. This isn’t new and is described by many who are more educated than I.

Partly I pursue this because in my own family, my father was more a ‘cult-Mormon’ and my mother was “Mormal”, one who lives with doubt. When my brothers and I entered adolescence, our minds opened, and the threats began. Doors closed and the windows were boarded to seal off the outside from a threat which was inside. Our minds were at their most open, our thinking most fluid. To my father the threat was the devil in the culture: my non-Mormon friends, the school’s teachers, the library. Ironically, in my case, it was as a missionary for the Mormon church to England that led to a weakening of my cult-mentality. Although we were told by those holding the highest authority that we were “sent to teach, NOT to be taught”, I had the good fortune of serving under Marion D. Hanks, a Mormon leader who preached from Shakespeare and Wordsworth more convincingly than from the Book of Mormon.

My dearest friends from “other” cultures, both in my family and outside it, could only hope and wait to see whether I would grow beyond my cult-boundaries, knowing I might then be able to use an evolving, more encompassing culture which offered more real kinship with the family of humanity. Now I watch the church, waiting to see what direction it will take in today’s increasingly polarized American culture. I see signs of hope and will end with one such sign, a quote from the recent LDS General Conference. “Wise parents must weigh when children are ready to begin exercising their own agency in a particular area of their lives … if parents hold on to all decision-making power and see it as their ‘right,’ they severely limit the growth and development of their children.”
Elder Larry Y. Wilson

I hope they are listening.

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