listening.

the beauty of the trees,
the softness of the air,

the fragrance of the grass,

speaks to me.

the summit of the mountain,

the thunder of the sky,

the rhythm of the sea,

speaks to me.

the faintness of the stars,

the freshness of the morning,

the dewdrop on the flower,

speaks to me.

the strength of fire,

the taste of salmon,

the trail of the sun,

and the life that never goes away,

they speak to me.

and my heart sours.

~chief dan george

learning to listen. as nature speaks. as she sings.

wandering amidst mountains. and valleys. and tundra. and wildflowers. searching for a waterfall. journeying in communion. reflecting in solitude. sharing in awe. discovering beauty. resting by the rushing waters. as summer sunshine bathed our faces. and creation's music overwhelmed our hearts. receiving permission. from the earth herself. to be. to simply be. abandoning all else but this very moment. this very space. inspiring memories. of warm beaches. and coconut trees. where amidst uncertainty. there was peace. where answers were unnecessary. because the moment was all we knew. the moment was enough.

wandering amidst grains of sand. and rhythmic waves. and beach glass. and driftwood. in barefoot bliss. questioning the pieces of driftwood. as to their origins as to their stories. curiously wondering where they began their journey. somewhere far away, no doubt. to settle in this treeless land. wondering how they came to abandon their roots. and what their travels were like. wondering how long they had rested on these shores. and how much longer before the whim of the sea carried them off again. wondering what purpose each had in this space. to become a piece of firewood. to serve as a fish drying rack. or a walking stick. or a bench by the sea. and how many would find no other purpose than stillness until they drifted away once more.

wondering if i too am driftwood. somehow uprooted and far from home. inspired by something greater to rest on these shores. with an uncertain purpose. for an uncertain time. depending on the whim of the sea. to leave me be. to carry me away. a restlessness within. wondering where i might drift to next. wondering what journeys are ahead. yet somehow finding peace. to simply be still in this moment. amidst the music of the sea. and the warmth of the sunshine. trusting in where i am. for where i am is enough.

and nature continues to speak. in ways i still don't understand. yet i must seek openness. listening carefully to the wisdom dancing all around. to the wisdom dancing within. as my heart sours.

offering thanks.

offering thanks. for moments together. for a family who loves me more than i realize. enough to travel to the end of the world to see me. once again. this time in the opposite direction. to experience the subartic summer solstice.

offering thanks. for moments together. listening to alaskan bluegrass. hiking on the tundra. walking along the beach. jumping in the bering sea. sharing amazement at the extended daylight. laughing at the characters of nome. playing with our puppy. picking greens. eating salmon. learning about culture. riding through the beautiful countryside of southern alaska. spotting wildlife. seeing glaciers. hiking amidst the forest. walking through street fairs. enjoying local ice cream. appreciating each others' presence.

offering thanks. for moments together. especially when time seems fleeting. but perhaps time is always fleeting. so perhaps we seek continual mindfulness. for the moments we have. for the people we have. for the beauty we have.

offering thanks. for moments together. for images of those moments. preserving memories. reminding us of beauty. just in case our hearts grow forgetful.

offering thanks. for moments together. even now, as we are far apart. yet somehow closer than before.

abundant light.

before you go to alaska. everybody has to tell you about the time they went to alaska. or the time someone they knew went to alaska. apparently everyone's got some connection. everyone's got some story. and many of the adventures recounted to me six months ago, as i stepped off the plane from the caribbean and somehow tried to make sense of my own upcoming journey to the far north, tend to run together. my apologies for not taking better mental notes. but at least one of such shared memories must have stuck with me. as it resurfaced in my own consciousness just the other day.

with his jovial chuckle, gary recounted the time he and his buddies took a trip up to alaska. gliding along the rivers. with no sense of time. enjoying each others presence and the surrounding beauty. floating along in the daylight. then realizing it was four o clock in the morning. and still daylight. and that maybe they should stop and camp. and then gary laughed some more as he offered the memory. nostaglically breathing in those good old days. picturing in his mind a scene that seemed so unknown. so unreal. eternal daylight. endless days.

and then the other night. when i was the one drifting along an alaskan river. gary's story made sense. kayaking along the docile nome river. amidst mountains. and tundra. and willows. and birds. continual blue skies and sunshine. that discourage any sort of prediction of the time. so one simply floats on. not worrying about time. knowing there is more than enough daylight. there is no need to hurry. one can simply float on.

and just when my eyes had nearly forgotten the colour green. they are joyfully reminded. as the landscape gradually transforms. and the mountains come alive. polka dotted by tiny wildflowers. perhaps inspiring a revival of the soul. during those moments when my soul recognizes its unity with the earth. with the river. with the sky.

and so i offer thanks. for long awaited renewal. for indescribable beauty. for endless days. when time seems abundant. when hurry seems irrelevant. and i offer thanks. for the soon approaching chance. to share this beauty. this light. with folks who've only heard second and third hand tales. of alaskan adventures.

a glimpse of the sea.

a glimpse of the sea

seems to awaken my soul
as winter dissolves

a week of blue sky sunny days. light that seems neverending. snow still very present. but the hope of spring in the air. roads closed all winter cleared bit by bit. allowing a new freedom of exploration. on a friday afternoon. we load up the big white bus. and the old gray aerostar van. with fig newtons. and coffee. and tea. and elders. the plan is to drive as far as the road allows. and see what we see. i get to drive the old gray aerostar. which is pretty rockin.

down the east coast. speckled mountains to the left. thawing sea to the right. and as we sojourn on. with the eccletic local radio in the background. occassionally interrupted by observataions and memories. what was a thin line of blue on the horizon closer to town. grows in its scope. gracing our eyes. with more and more blue. and the white still seems to cover most of the sea. but there is evidence of melting. and hope of more to come.

and my heart danced a little. to see the sea. as if it had forgotten. as if it had doubted that the sea really exists. blanketed by depths of ice. since our hello.

and my soul retreated back. to moments of joy. surronded by the sea. twirling in its calm waters. feeling safe. at peace. a part of something bigger than i could comprehend. yet allowed to move amidst it. allowed to float. and be. and dance. and how it all connected me. to that which is holy. to that which is inconcieveably greater. to that which is intimately close.

and i don't know what potential to twirl in the sea there is in these parts. but simply the image. of distant and growing blue waters stirred a sense of hope. that this long awaited summer is on its way. that there is new beauty to discover. beauty my eyes have yet to see. yet eagerly anticipate.

and its still an inbetween time. the season uncertain of its own identity. this gradual transformation taking place. slowly. bit by bit. before our eyes. if our eyes remain open.

and we turn around just after mile fourteen. the snow too slushy for the big white van to handle. and we park at a lookout. and share out the fig newtons and coffee and tea. and soak in the view. and listen to water running down the hill. and look forward to days. when we can drive even further. to see what there is to see. and we celebrate this beauty. with hope that more beauty awaits. just around the corner.

palms.

traditions seem to evoke memories. even in this transient lifestyle. commonalities still surface that stir reminders of what was. things like palm leaves.

this morning, the worship space was simply adorned with palms. and everyone was given one to wave. little amber wandered in late. uncertain of where to go. and she found a seat by me. innocently whispering quandaries throughout the service. about palm leaves. and prayer. and communion bread. and potluck after church. and she asked how these leaves could be alive. green plants are certainly a rarity in nome these days. and i said they must have come from a warmer place.
and my mind wandered to warmer places. where palms do grow. where palms dance in the breeze as a natural expression of praise. creation shouting its own hosannas. and i thought of moments sitting in mass in grand roy. as children showed me how to plait palm leaves. carefully weaving each blade. and i remembered how i saved my plaited palm branch. and it dried. and i brought it back to north carolina. and now it rests somewhere in my room.

and so i tried to plait my palm branch this morning. but the blades were too spread out. the weave was too loose to hold. and it came undone. and i mourned for that which has unraveled. for moments in grenada. for children. and palm trees. and vibrant beauty. knowing that folks had gathered today. had sang their hosannas. and waved their branches. and plaited their palms. and waited for the ice cream truck. and ate their sunday lunch. and plaited hair in the shade to get ready for school tomorrow.

and tears spilled out. to consider it all. all that was. all that seems undone. all that seems disconnected.

and even like little amber. as i question. and fail to fully understand all of this. i must continue to be present. and find beauty in the palms that are here.

i did manage to find a use for the unplaited palm branch. little mukluk and madison, our temporary guest, appreciated the gift. my apologies if such a decision breached palm sunday etiquette. but those two were irresistibly adorable with their new toy.

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.