Are We Better Off?

The primary question of this election season is “Am I better off in 2012?” Jogging my memory back to the years between 2004 through 2008, I remember President George Bush neglecting one war, and, without true provocation, getting us into another war. Bush started his first term with a debt-free budget, and at the end of his second term, we were at least a trillion dollars in debt. Being the proud parent of a lesbian daughter, I never felt that a welcome mat was placed outside the Bush White House for her. Our LGBTQ soldiers were fighting in these wars for a beloved country who told them to keep their authentic selves hidden. Discrimination towards women in the work place was being ignored. Broad tax cuts were initiated for the wealthiest Americans while ignoring the right that all our citizens have access to health care.

When Obama was elected President I told my daughter: “Now I can give you a future.” But change is rarely a snap, especially when a country is going through economic hardship. True change takes time. But despite a mountain of political obstacles, Obama has kept many of his promises: He has gotten us out of the Iraqi war and will get us out of Afghanistan during his second term. He has given our LGBTQ soldiers dignity and respect by getting rid of Don't Ask Don't Tell. The White House welcomes my daughter as a treasured American citizen with all the rights of every other American citizen. One of the first acts Obama signed was the Lilly Ledbetter Act against discrimination in the workplace for women. Obama tackled the economy through financial regulation and auto/teacher/fireman job saving and job creation. He managed to pass a Health Care Law that needs some revision but will guarantee all a healthier life, including my 23 year old daughter.

Here in Oregon I travel by men and women working daily on our highways and bridges; I see construction workers revitalizing our downtown; I applaud the Occupy Movement for waking us up to our homeless/poverty problems and their drive for more permanent homeless transition camps and low cost/free health clinics. Obama knows that as a country we have a long way to go politically, economically and morally: The rich absolutely need to pay their fair share; we need to decrease poverty and homelessness; our economy can't take a new war in Iran. I'm not sure Romney gets it. Am I better off? With an intelligent, thoughtful, compassionate President who is fighting for my daughter, myself, our soldiers, our lower and middle classes, our children, you bet I am. Please vote!

© 2012

What the Thieves Left Behind

On returning home from a lovely early evening celebration of my husband's birthday, I entered the kitchen and noticed the door to our daughter's attic room ajar. Hadn't that door been closed when we left? Then I heard Dan's voice from our bedroom: “We've been robbed!” Clothes were strewn haphazardly on the now askew bed, drawers were open, my lap top and cover were missing. In the front room, Dan's lap top plus power cord was also missing and in what we call the Star Room, our DVD's had been ransacked. The television, however, was intact and on the floor were the rejected DVD's. Why hadn't the thieves taken “The Big Lebowski” (too edgy) or “The Hours” (too femininely painful and dramatic) or “Prairie Home Companion” (too senior nostalgic)? Their fine taste, however, robbed us of our “Lord of the Rings” and “Harry Potter” collections and my all time favorite romance for English majors, “Possession.”

We were in shock. I could feel myself reacting from a deep place of calm numbness. Nothing appeared to be ruined but our bedroom screen and our privacy. But slowly we discovered the pervasiveness of this theft. The fire proof yet unlocked strongbox at the bottom of the attic ladder was missing. Inside were our passports, our birth certificates, my financial statements and possibly my social security card. Our dear daughter, who gave us her undivided long distance support via telephone, asked us if our marriage license was also taken. Gratefully, the marriage license remained snugly tucked inside the marriage photo album. “Don't touch anything,” stated the police dispatcher. All I wanted to do was clean up the mess and rid the house of the invasive vibes. But instead we waited and we waited and we talked and talked.

What does it mean to lose a lap top? I forget that the virtual world of my writing is not as real as I make it out to be. I see the words flowing on the page and think they will always be there. I've made hard copies of my essays in the past but here is where procrastination plays its evil music. I hadn't backed up my online journal recently or some of the essays not published on my blog. Words lost. I mused that this only meant my daughter would have less ramblings to read upon my death. To be honest, one of my yearnings for a daughter was to bequeath her my journals. Who else could I leave them to? Who else might be willing to read or skim them?

Dan and I continued to wait up for the police. Finally, around midnight, we climbed the rickety wooden ladder to our daughter's futon bed. Just as we lay our heads upon the pillows, the phone rang downstairs. I rushed to answer it. On this Friday evening at the start of a city wide celebration the police had been preoccupied with an abundance of crimes. So tomorrow morning we would report our theft again.

In the morning things don't look brighter after a break-in, they just look clearer. We listed our tasks: contact credit bureaus, cancel passports, talk with insurance agent, write down missing items and monetary amount,replace screen, assess and further secure house, etc. Most people have dealt with thievery at one time or another. Dan and I both admit our negligence in leaving windows and blinds open on a warm summer evening. We were home by 7:30 p.m., but obviously these thieves were watching. For the first time in probably twenty years both houses on either side of us were without their residents and we were sadly without our aged dog, Lacey. The downtown celebration was loudly booming, while neighborhoods were naively quiet. Hindsight is golden.

It has been nearly a month since this robbery and as I sit here writing on my new lap top, I feel awkward and strange. I've avoided writing even on paper. Is there a lingering fear my words are meaningless and will be swiftly taken away? Or does it also have to do with a daughter's wish? Just before the break in, our daughter drove down for a combined celebration of what we call “Birthday Season.” She, Dan and I all have our birthdays a week a part. After a moment of unusual for her intimate candor, the daughter tells me she wants to share more in the future but she doesn't want me to write about it. I can't explain how my writing has more to do with me than her. But I promise to uphold her wish.

I discover silence is more harmful than loss. I tell friends about the events of the 24th of August and I state that for me and my writing it will be a new beginning. I don't miss easily replaceable stuff. But I do miss my source of personal creativity.

I vow to close the windows and replace worn out screen doors; we will add deadbolt locks to the back doors. But I will not close my heart. After thoroughly and ritually cleansing my house, I find I have also cleansed my compassion. These possibly drug addicted thieves were desperate, even taking the upstairs penny jar. Are their lives so sad and dependent upon such wrongful acts? Dan and I live simply and yet we know our culture applauds wealth and constant accumulation of material goods. What the robbers couldn't take is my gratitude for all that I have: a bed to sleep in, a roof to stay dry and warm, a garden to munch on. They might have erased thousands of words, but what they have gifted me with is a release of the past and a focus on the present; they have given me a restart, a revising of my creative pursuits. I will continue to open the windows when it is warm. I will continue to have new thoughts and imaginings. And I will promise myself to express these thoughts with new words.

(c) 2012

Mountain Lion Eyes

Growing up with a spontaneous, moody, tall tale talking father made my childhood both rich and uncertain. For example, in early elementary school, I came home one day to find my dad had procured a kitten. This was no ordinary kitten. My father told us her name was Haywee and he had been given Haywee as a present from an “Indian Chief.” At this time my father worked for the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. Out on an isolated stretch of land far up the Angeles Crest Highway, he had come upon this authentic “Indian Chief.” They talked as two open-hearted men might, my father sharing in loving detail about his three small children. Taking an immediate liking to my handsome, gregarious, six-foot father, the Chief wanted to give him a present for his children. Thus, Haywee became a part of our household.

As a self-employed landscaper, the love of nature and gardens was in my Dad's blood. Our great grandfather was the director of the Hamburg Botanical Gardens in Germany. One of our traditional, unplanned weekend excursions was to La Canada's Descanso Gardens. These acres of groomed yet wild public terrain had once been privately owned. Dad would throw together a bag of cheese, bread and fruit plus an added sack of duck food and off we would tramp. The gardens were free and entering by the main gate, we would make our way first to the small duck pond. From there we hiked through large, towering trees, open meadows and spacious rose gardens to enter the sumptuous former residence on the grounds. As we kids crossed small man-made bridges, sneaked in an out of bushes, Dad would spout his natural wisdom, never failing to point out this bird or that squirrel. Dad loved taking us off Descanso's beaten paths. But one visit brought us in contact with poison oak. Though we showered immediately upon coming home, we all broke out with the dreaded itchy rash. Mom railed and Dad felt slightly contrite, but further adventures continued.

The adventure that gave our family the happiest moments was the only vacation my father could organize and afford to take. It was this camping trip which brought us in contact with the mountain lion eyes and initiated us into the “Koch Warrior Tribe.”

Dad bought a huge burlap tent, outdoor cooking utensils and stove, plus five flannel-lined sleeping bags. These items were loaded into the back of Dad's Chevy pick-up truck, we were squeezed into the cab and off we went one summer to Sequoia and Yosemite National Parks. Nearing Sequoia we drove our car right through the hollowed trunk of a gigantic redwood. We found a camp site on the edge of Sequoia's mountains, forested by further towering, ancient redwoods. It was our first camping adventure, but Dad seemed to know what to do. Mom became the primary cook and keeper of our camping quarters. Dad was the “scout leader.” Within hours of our arrival we were back in the truck, driving the rim of Sequoia's wilderness. For every animal/bird we spotted Dad paid us a dollar in spending money. We saw a family of quail waddling along the highway, chipmunks scurrying towards the tree tops, innumerable birds and eventually bears!

In the dark pre-morning, bears arrived at our site looking for food. While Dad and Mom slept in the tent, we children cuddled in the back of the pick-up. Lumbering down from the forest, two bears began creating an awful racket with the metal garbage cans. “Bears,” Mom nervously exclaimed, shaking Dad's shoulder. Groggily replying, “Uh Huh,” Dad rolled over and fell back asleep. We children sucked in all possible breath and sound and with no food left on our picnic table, the bears departed. When we went to cook breakfast the next morning, we found two plastic drinking cups with teeth marks on their rims. We kept those souvenir cups for years.

On our final Sequoia evening, Dad took us on a flashlight walk. As we hiked along a dusty road, we begin to hear strange noises. Our imaginations made these noises into growls and the growls into fierce human eating prey. “Quiet! Turn off your flashlights,” Dad suddenly warned. He led us to the edge of a small cliff, pointing down into what appeared to be a dark, redwood and fern lined cavern. To this day we swear we saw two bright yellow glowing eyes staring up at us. Dad said those were mountain lion eyes and we had hit the jack pot! Not one gasp of air escaped our little bodies as we stared and stared.

If we thought Sequoia had been an incredible adventure, Yosemite proved to be beyond belief. This was the mid-fifties, when camping was allowed right in the heart of the National Park and “fire falls” was the evening entertainment. Our camp ground formed a circle around this huge, lush meadow. Once the tent was up, we wandered over to the lodge to see what activities would entice us. Dad booked us on a half-day donkey ride and I remember wishing I could stay on my donkey forever. We hiked, we roasted marshmallows; we played with our neighboring campers. This was a kids' summer paradise.

During our first day, Dad repeatedly mentioned there would be a special evening ceremony. After supper, as twilight colored the meadow, Dad gathered us around the camp fire. He told us we had been extremely brave when the bears visited us in Sequoia; he added we had become expert animal watchers and outdoor enthusiasts. It was time for our initiation as Tribe Warriors.

We entered a darkened tent one at a time and met Dad's loving, flashlight glowing face. Sitting cross legged, speaking a strange native tongue, he placed a twine roped wooden, glazed medallion around each of our necks. This Sequoia medallion had a carved black bear face on the front. With this necklace we became initiated into the KOCH Tribe. We each received an appropriate name: I was Dancing Girl; my father was Chief Meat and Potatoes; my sister was Singing Princess; my brother was Chief Droopy Drawers; and my mother was Laughing Maiden. We treasured these medallions as if they were made of gold, and slept proudly that night.

Like the climax to a fairytale, on our final camp evening, sunset brought deer down from the hills. One young stag with new budding antlers walked into our camp site. Dad signaled us to step softly. The deer showed no fear as we cautiously surrounded him for a memorable photo. I remember being mesmerized by his elegant beauty and loving deer ever since. As darkness descended all the human families gathered to sit on blankets on the open meadow. The sky was pitch black with no flashlight or lantern lit. Our eyes strained towards the top of the monstrous, jagged mountain peering down upon us. There as if on a high wire were tiny men arranging the “show.” In an instant we saw chunks of fire streaming down the mountain, becoming a falling fountain of fire.

We never went camping again. In our teen years we once did a spontaneous weekend excursion to Sequoia/Yosemite, staying in cabins, but it wasn't the same. We grew up and Dad grew older. His stories became rants and sermons. As his adult children left, he didn't know how to hold onto us. Despite my father's dysfunction; despite my fears of him; despite our later conflicts during my college years, I want to remember the magical education he provided. I want to remember his youthful heart and yearning for a close, loving family. I want to remember his serene face whenever he was in a garden or a forest or a meadow. I want to remember the wisdom he shared with a then unresponsive teenager. And most of all I want to remember forever those yellow, glowing, mountain lion eyes.

© 2011

Simple Joy

(Published in Chicken Soup for the Soul Think Positive, 2010)

There are times I have sat in my small yet cozy home and wished for a larger living room, a tiled kitchen floor with a stainless steel glass top stove, and a new couch with matching chair and ottoman. But I have come to realize through raising a child and having family and friend gatherings that what matters is not the furnishings of my house but whether love seeps into every corner.

Over the years the hair shedding dog has slept on the couch in my absence, the latest kitten has repeatedly clawed the corners of the chair and cat pee and spit-ups have been cleaned up a thousand times from rugs, floors and down comforters. With an only child and the raising of home day care children for eight years, my house has that lived-in look. I admit I went through a period of railing against the universe each time I cleaned up the next mess: Why can't I have anything nice? All I want is simple elegance! Little did I know then that the lessons I needed to learn were just around the corner.

As the recession hit, we have felt lucky our small home is paid for. We have felt deep gratitude for our jobs and for our ability to save money for our daughter's college, although out-of-state tuition was killing us. Then our daughter recently decided to move back to Oregon to live with her then girl friend who was studying in Portland. Suddenly, my year of constant saving made me rich.

After going through a clothing and shoe shopping spree, I began reading, meditating, walking, writing. With my daughter gone, my small empty nest loomed large, surrounding me with mothering memories. Tears filled the corners. I had to begin again. I had to reinvent myself. I felt overwhelmed by my wants and needs. Yes, let's hire this guy at my husband's work to tile the kitchen floor. Let's redecorate the bathroom. Let's dig up the side garden and put in a new lawn. The house projects became endless and my self contentment diminished with each new décor I envisioned.

We made a visit to Portland, to see our daughter's new living space. We parked across the street from the five-story red brick building. There was an old fashioned broken buzzer by the locked front door, so we pulled out a cell phone to tell her we had arrived. She came downstairs and led us up to their studio on the second floor.

We entered their combined living room/bedroom which had a bed and a shelf for the non-functional television and their modest DVD collection. “Remember those large pillows in your bedroom that grandma made? They might be great for your floor in front of the television.” Her face lit up, “Yeah,” she replied. On the left side of this one open space was a narrow kitchen, capable of only one person cooking at a time. They had a small, square card table, but no chairs. On the right side was a decadently large (in comparison to the other dimensions of their studio) walk-in closet with two tall dressers and one long wooden rod for hanging their clothes. Going through this closet, one got to the tiny bathroom which had the usual wall sink, toilet and claw-foot tub with a removable shower device. Our daughter absolutely praised this bathroom because she had lived in a college dorm where the only bathroom on her floor seemed miles down the hallway.

Her girl friend had spread out a simple lunch for us of cheese, crackers and fresh fruit, plus goblets of mineral water. We had wanted to take them out to lunch, but this thoughtfulness touched us. “We don't have chairs,” they laughed as we sat on the bed or the floor to eat. The walls were covered with their own drawings; I recognized our daughter's batik cloth print covering one window shade; the vase of flowers I brought now added color to a shelf by the stove.

Memories floated to the surface of when my husband and I had first met. He stayed with me in my small studio, even smaller than the one we now ate lunch in. We clicked glasses and made toasts. I swallowed their every loving glance; I drank in their oozing of contentment, their bubbling of gratitude for simply being together.

Since their apartment happened to be located in a lovely neighborhood, a walk seemed natural. There was the bustling, trendy Hawthorne Boulevard to our right as we walked out the main entrance. We strolled the opposite way through Victorian style houses towards a meridian circle rose garden. I was captivated by the lushness of this garden which apparently was one of four, one at each corner of the tic-tac-toe-like crossed streets. The surrounding homes were a combination of well-worn two-story mansions and more modest one-story residences.

Across the garden was one such mauve-colored Craftsman. They were having a garage sale out front and there prominently displayed were a pair of chairs. My daughter and I simultaneously quickened our stride and were practically running to sit in those chairs. Each carved wood chair had a music staff design on the back and deep rose colored tweed cushions. They were perfect; my daughter and her girl friend are musicians. “We want to buy them for your apartment,” my husband and I said excitedly. The asking price was $35 for both chairs! What a bargain, we thought as we wrote the owner a check.

We proudly carried the chairs through the rose garden, down the neighborhood streets, through the halls and up the stairs to their studio. We placed the chairs by their table and Aspen and her girl friend immediately sat down in them. “We can dine elegantly now,” they teased. I have rarely felt happier than I did at that moment observing the glow on my daughter's face. It is all really so simple, I thought to myself.

When my husband of thirty years and I first met, we packed up all we owned in his van and my station wagon and drove north to Eugene, Oregon. When we rented our cozy one-bedroom duplex, we only had my childhood rocking chair and his childhood bureau drawers. We slept on a foam pad. I bought yarn and braided a rug. We found a used kitchen table and chairs plus a two person couch. My husband made my desk by copying one I wanted at a furniture store. I don't think I have ever felt more fulfilled than I was during those early years. We filled our lives with friends. We filled our lives with family. We filled our lives with love. Sitting in my daughter's Portland studio, watching her radiating happiness, I remembered and reminded myself to treasure the simplicity in my own life.

© 2010

What's for Breakfast?

Every morning when I wake up, I tiptoe around the house and open the curtains, turn on the heater, and fold up the futon bed. In the dusky silence I listen to my three year old daughter Aspen's breathing or hear her small voice trailing down the hallway, “Mommy, I want to nurse. What's for breakfast? Where's Daddy?”

We cuddle together on the green rocking chair as the sun slowly filters in through the windowpanes. “Look, Mommy, it's the morning light.” I dress myself and then help Aspen. We make sure to go potty and then she sits at the kitchen table with her stuffed friend f the day, waiting for her juice and cereal and Mommy's company.

A mother's life is full of simple, ordinary tasks, I think to myself. Many days I love opening the house to light and these daily routines. At night I ceremoniously draw the day to an end by closing the curtains, turning on artificial lights to continue the warmth and glow of the sun, and putting away the remnants o the day's activities.

Evenings bring quiet times: reading or acting out stories, building huge towers or other magical Lego structures, treating ourselves to popcorn or ice cream, listening to our favorite music. Again, simplicity.

Is this life, I mean the very essence of life? IS washing dishes, doing laundry, wiping a runny nose, hugging away pain, hugging in joy, reading stories, telling stories, licking each other's faces like slimy slugs, cooking, IT? Is this the warp that holds the fabric of life together?

Put on pajamas, brush teeth, give good night kisses and hugs, tuck ourselves in for another dream-filled sleep. Where is the deeper meaning of why I am here on this earth? It seems like I've been searching all of my life for something more, something that's really important that I'm supposed to be doing.

I wake up in the middle of the night next to the rhythmic breathing of my husband. The house radiates a humming quiet until I hear Aspen cough. I crawl across the bed and move toward the entrance to her room. I peer in and see her round, innocent face framed by her cloud-like pillow. Her arms are cuddling her brown stuffed horse. A halo of peace and contentment surround her. I want to crawl into her bed and hug her tight. I want to crawl into her bed and become three years old again.

“Where does the sun go at night, Mommy?” Nothing is simple or mundane to Aspen. Everything is wondrous and totally new.

I go to the bathroom. Let out the cat. Look up at the moon and notice the light reflecting off the lilac bushes. I feel a chill in the air, but buds are forming and it will soon be spring.

I crawl back into bed and feel the warmth of my partner's body. I snuggle closer to him. Have I told him lately how much I love him? How much I love being a part of our family?

Our lives are simple, we often tell each other: we parent and we work. I hear movement from our daughter's room. Little feet patter across the floor to our room. She drags her pillow and stuffed horse over the middle of our bed and places them and eventually herself between her father and me. I kiss her and tuck her in We sleep.

In the morning I quietly get up and open the curtains and turn on the heater. I let in the cat and feed her, put on some water to boil for tea and get dressed.

Looking out the front room window I notice a few people biking down the street. A professionally dressed woman walks briskly by on the sidewalk near our house. She stops for a moment to notice the flowers and vegetables in our garden. The school bus turns a corner; a few cars drive pass.

I hear Aspen's small voice in the background, “Mommy, what's for breakfast?”

And without hesitation I turn and tell her, “Life, dear heart, life.”

© 1995

My Mother's Angels

As my mother entered her mid-eighties, she began feeling more dependent and anxious. She occasionally had trouble falling asleep at night, and worried she would miss taking her daily medications at the appropriate times. My sister lived nearby, and fielded many a late night telephone call. I unfortunately lived several states away. Between us we sisters decided to give my mother a regular, evening bedtime call. I offered to call Mom four times a week. While the intent of these calls was to try to give peace to my mother, it turned out that these calls strengthened the calm, loving bond growing between my mother and me during her last years.

We began with a long, drawn out, almost comic “good evening.” I could feel my mother smile as our phone ritual commenced. At first I asked about her day, but this often led to her ailment complaints or to describing the misbehaviors of other residents, i.e., daring to sit where my mother always sat in the dining room. I started twisting this question around so as to have my mother tell me about two positive happenings and I would do the same. Weather was always a favorite topic, with her Arizona sun being too strong and my Oregon sun too scarce. Slowly, though, as I listened to my mother's concerns about meeting her schedule or having energy to exercise, I sensed what my mother needed was not a physical make-over but a spiritual lift.

My angel meditations started quite unconsciously. Instead of simply wishing my mother a good night's rest, I remembered the sleep meditations I used to do for my daughter when she was young. These meditations involved fantasy dream gardens, moon light and special stars. For my sometimes lonely mother I sensed she would love a nightly companion like a comforting, gently rocking earth mother. For my traditional mother I knew giving her her own special angels would be the best bedtime gift.

At the end of each call our routine became for me to gather my mother's angels around her bed.

“What do these angels look like,” asked my mom.”

“They're colorfully dressed in blues and greens with shimmering silver wings.”

“What about purple? I love purple.”

“You're right, Mom. Some of the angels have purple and pink flowing gowns.”

These angels would then protectively flutter their wings above my mother's bed and sing her a soothing lullaby. My mother's angels always promised her a restful slumber and wonderful dreams. Later the angels accompanied my mother during her days, giving her a contented, compassionate glow to her daily experiences. After several months of our nightly ritual, I noticed a decided lifting of my mother's emotional mood. She now easily found several positive events to relate about her day. The love between us increased as our “I love yous” became more soulful and deep.

To aid in my mother's meditations, I sent a sweet angel sculpture for her night stand. For her 90th birthday I knew a necklace with a silver angel charm would be just the thing. My mother gushed with praise and gratitude when the necklace arrived: “Oh, Vicki, it's so beautiful, it's so perfect. It's my favorite necklace.”

My mother wore her special angel necklace every day until she passed. As I sat by my dying mother's bed, I sang her favorite Broadway show tunes and shared with her that the angels were present surrounding her bed one last time. And I swear I could actually feel the presence of these comforting souls with me there in the room.

The angel necklace became my treasured remembrance of our loving last years' conversations. I have it hanging on a favorite picture of my younger, smiling mother.

© 2012

A Rabbit Story

A few weeks ago I got to participate in a drumming and story circle with a Shoshone elder. This man, living on cooperatively owned land, gave me a tour of their projects: a totally solar bathroom, harnessing the creek water for garden irrigation and as a future power source, greenhouses and outside plots growing all their food. The rough-hewn, high ceiling lodge where we met felt beautifully placed and open to the surrounding, natural world. I sat on the couch scanning the posters, books and videos. The presence of a DVD player and a computer didn't correspond to my image of old world timelessness, but this did not really detract from the experience. I continued sitting quietly, and the huge ceremonial drum, placed at the center of the room, called out to me.

Wake up and listen!

I am an impatient soul, yearning to have my wisdom given in huge bites, but I discerned that, on this day, the clock had been stilled and I would have to let go. Scattered, small conversations about movies and technology, reasons for people's absences, the introduction of the elder's new companion from Germany and his recent European adventures flowed across the room. Brought here by a dear, Native friend, she bantered and joked while I continued to observe and tamp down my restlessness.

Wake up!

Without “beginning” in the traditional term of the word, I realized after several spoken sentences, that the elder was telling this Sunday's story.

Live without expectations!

I had expected a tale but what I got was a truth. Capturing a long ago personal, historic moment, the elder began remembering the time when as a child with his parents and other Native tribal members they decided to purchase their own Nevada land.

Slow down!

Disgusted with modern world's fast paced, oblivious, destructive nature, this tribe's vision was to try and live on Mother Earth in the older ways. The more I tuned into this elder's words, the more I realized he could easily be speaking about today's America. The elder's voice wove in and out as he described how a seemingly waterless land chose them, how they built structures and gardens, how they hauled in animals and eventually found water, fertility and abundance.

Question old ways!

The key to this story's treasure, however, were the rabbits. Previously, the tribe had raised hundreds of rabbits all kept in gigantic cages. Transporting these rabbits to the land was no easy feat, and once the farm was set up, the tribal members started questioning their own old ways. Why are the sheep free and the rabbits contained? Why is a desert landscape thought to be arid and dry and impotent? And perhaps the biggest question of them all: Is success connected to the amount of money and material goods accumulated or is there something buried beneath these cravings that needs sprouting?

Overcome habits before change can happen!

The tribe opened the rabbit cages, and at first the rabbits didn't move. How often are we bound by habit and live unawares? But slowly, the rabbits ventured forth and claimed their free place on the land. The elder's story threaded his wisdom into a colorful weaving: This Nevada experiment flourished for through the tribe's hard work a plenitude of food, meat, water and shelter and a plenitude of earthly care and human love were created.

Honor tradition and when necessary break with tradition!

As the story ended, my thoughts wandered to my own family's rabbit story. Our daughter's preschool rabbits had babies and we brought a black and white one home. We named her Licorice and at first we had her in a cage. As we couldn't stand curbing Licorice's freedom, we broke with pet tradition and set her free in our side garden. Creating a fence between Licorice and our dog, Lacey, we watched as Licorice slowly adapted her habitat to rabbit country. Burrows were dug under the deck, grass was munched and her wildness added frisky stubbornness to her character.

For the first few years of her life we brought Licorice inside to our laundry room every night. Then, especially in the summer, she refused to be herded inside. We called it bunny hockey: we used a broom and all three of us tried to escort her to the laundry room. Unfortunately, it soon became easier in the warm weather to allow her to remain outside. I say unfortunately, because she died a violent death via a visiting, opportunistic raccoon. My daughter wept deeply and we wondered why Licorice was unable to escape to her burrow. But we told ourselves she lived a more natural rabbit's life.

What this Native elder's story tells, as does our Licorice story, is that we have to be willing to try something new, no matter how ingrained we might be in old traditional methods. Sometimes these new ways added to honoring the old ways bring fulfillment as with the Natives' abundant crops and animal production; sometimes in breaking with tradition the fulfillment is a matter of perspective as with our dear Licorice living a shorter but happier wild rabbit's life.

Give gratitude!

I smiled inside as the elder and the circle members whispered “Ho!” I bowed in gratitude to the elder, feeling blessed by his insightful story. Then I leaned in towards the ceremonial drum and whispered my thank you.

© 2012