footprints in the snow.

we all had a story of how we got there. every story a bit different. but oh how i loved listening to glimpses of those stories. as words flowed out. in between bites of spaghetti and sips of hot cocoa. as we sat around the table. where there was a place for everyone.

and those couple of hours passed quickly. and soon it was midnight. quiet time. quiet except for that musical snoring in the corner. and the wind howling outside. and the guests who showed up a bit later than the rest.

and folks stretched out on their cots. and covered up with blankets. and rested until morning. that is until the pancakes inspired the smoke alarm to sound. and after breakfast, everything was straightened up. and put back in its place. daylight was coming. and it was time to venture out in the cold again.

there's no current permanent shelter in nome for people to escape the frigid temperatures and biting winds. but a team of folks is striving to put something in place. at least for the last bit of these winter months. so that all people will have access to a warm, dry, safe space to sleep. we opened a temporary emergency shelter up two nights last week in the nazarene church down the street. and generally, there was much thanks expressed. i was able to volunteer the first night. some of most meaningful moments i've been a part of here.

and its not perfect. so many details to still work out. and the small base of core volunteers is exhausted. and burning out. and honestly, the shelter should be open every night during the winter in nome. but they say we don't have the human resources to maintain it every night.
they say folks are used to surviving in these conditions. but something in me says they shouldn't have to.

we're not giving up. just trying to reorganize. to do the best we can with what we've got at the moment. and expand what we've got to give. and look towards sustainable efforts. towards long term solutions that deal with the underlying causes. striving towards empowerment. and justice. and honour. and dignity. things just take time.

and the story doesn't end here. and maybe stories don't end. maybe they always flow on.

we all had a story of how we got there. and our stories continue. as our journeys continue. as we leave our footprints in the snow. and i offer thanks for those moments. even so brief. when our footprints merge as one.

fry bread.

something in me yearns for interconnectedness. for a continual journey. where experiences and people and ideas are all related. one thing leading to the next. each moment meaningful in itself. yet interwoven with what was. and what is to be.

often these days, its a stretch to see how this sojourn is interconnected. in this leap from grenada to nome. in these polar opposite sort of places.

so whenever a parallel surfaces, my heart does a little dance. considering sunsets over the sea. and story listening. and fry bread.

they call it fry bakes in grenada. but its pretty much the same thing as the fry bread eaten up here. flour and water and salt. mixed and kneaded together. fried in hot oil. variations certainly occur. with yeast. and honey. and such. its all terribly unhealthy and wonderfully delicious.

learned to make them as patties in grenada. memories of fry bake lessons with glenda. and aj. and azaria. delicious with fried jacks or fish. fresh from the bay. and azaria would always remind me not to let the frying pan handle extend off the stove. else someone accidently knock it over.

in nome i've observed more doughnut shaped fried treats. but the same sort of idea.

and recently, geneva and i decided to add a little fry bread twist to the process. making good use of cookie cutters. to create fry bread in the shapes of hearts, snowpeople and bunnies. they turned out pretty ok. even though we forgot to let the dough rise.

and the experience reminded me of those delicious grenadian fry bake moments. especially when geneva pointed out the need to keep the frying pan handle from sticking off the edge of the stove. else someone accidently knock it over.

and i apprecitated the time to chat. and sing. and laugh. and create something to share. the plan was to bring the fry bread over to the potluck at regional conference.

they probably didn't need our little contribution of fry bread. in light of the abundant spread of food prepared. but as always, its a joy to be able to offer a little something to share. and to join in the potluck experience. where a variety of gifts are offered. where there's enough for everyone. a place for everyone. and potlucks remind me of college. of a community i appreciated. a community i belonged to.

this potluck was a part of a series of events centered around the theme of cultural sustainability. folks from all over the bering strait region traveled to participate in it. a reunion of sorts. expressing culture. learning about culture. embracing culture.

and geneva and i well enjoyed ourselves as we embraced the food aspect of native alaskan culture. mukluk (whale blubber), fish eggs, dried fish, greens, baked salmon, various berries, musk ox, an assortment of other traditional and nontraditional foods. and of course, fry bread. i think the kind i consumed was a bit fluffier than our humble contribution. but hopefully, someone appreciated our offering. at least the bunny shapes.

and we shared this meal with a gym full of people from the community and the region. probably one of the largest potlucks i've ever expereienced. and it was beautiful. enough for everyone. interesting local foods. thankful to be a part of it.

and when the meal was over. the tables were cleared. and space was created for the last night of eskimo dancing. geneva suggested we sit on the floor. front and center. so we sat there amidst the children. as they watched in awe. mimicing the movements. in rhythm with the drums. anticipating the invitations to join in the dancing.

and as drummers kept the beat in the background, others offered complimentary movements. mostly arm motions. telling stories and experiences. with their dancing. as chants were offered in native languages of inupiaq or yupik, depending on the village of the performers. and it looked simple. but i sense it is much more complex than i comprehend. and i wished i could understand the language. and the stories. and i tried to listen with my eyes. and my heart. but it was often beyond me.

but i did see people come alive. elders who were celebrating their culture. their identity. the stories that are a part of them. the traditions that have shaped them. and youth who were honouring their roots. the places they come from. intentionally preserving this culture. that they proudly claim as their own.

and it made me wish for those deep cultural and spiritual connections. harmony with the people and the stories i come from. a harmony i will never really know. but still i celebrate alongside. offering thanks for cultural richness. for cultural livlihood. with hopes that this beauty truly will be sustained.

offering thanks for random connections. for soul connections. for potlucks and eskimo dancing and of course. fry bread.