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.

puzzles.

i've never seen so many puzzles in my life. completed ones adorning the hallways. unfinished ones covering the coffee tables. images of houses. and scenery. and animals. and television stars. and i've never really been an avid puzzle person. just not that spacially gifted, i guess. but there are many of the elders at the senior center who are devout puzzle constructors. crowding around the puzzle table day after day until every piece is in its place. and the whole puzzle is taken upstairs to be glued together. and the fragments of a new picture are scattered about for the next challenge.

and as my eyes pass by these puzzles. day after day. sometimes i grow slightly envious of the pieces. and how they've all found their place. and how they're all dwelling where they fit. in union with all the others. apart of something greater than themselves. contributing to something that is whole. and beautiful. each part a little different than the next. yet significant to the community. each community incomplete if one of its pieces is missing.

and i'm envious because i don't know where my piece fits. or if it ever will. or if its even meant to be glued down. and sometimes i wonder if i'm looking at it backwards or upside down. blind to its beauty. confused of its true form.

and then part of me morns for the puzzle pieces. when they get glued down. and stuck. like that's it. no more wandering about. it seems kind of boring being in the same place all the time. surrounded by all the same pieces.

so i can't decide if each puzzle piece finding its place is beautiful. or tragic.

and conversely, i can't understand if each puzzle place not knowing its place is tragic. or beautiful.

and i yearn to have a place. where i am harmoniously contributing towards something whole. yet part of me also knows i can't just be glued down. there's too many other puzzles to see.

so this puzzle piece will continue her wandering. and wondering. uncertain if she will discover her place to fit. or if fitting in is really the point.

or if there's a puzzle out there that exists for all the pieces that can't seem to figure out where they're supposed to go.

the place i've felt most in my element these days has been making peanut butter cookies and sledding with geneva. an eleven year old girl i've started to mentor. spending time together seems to give us both a sense of belonging. a place to fit.

and geneva makes me think of azaria. my eleven year old, craft loving, baking expert that i dearly miss from those moments in grenada. those moments in grenada. where so many days i questioned my purpose. and so many days, i seemed to fit.

so perhaps all i can do in this moment is apply those grenada lessons forward. and live one day at a time. not worrying so much about fitting in. or not fitting in. but just being who i am. and embracing freedom. and continuing this journey towards something that is whole. and finding solidarity with those other pieces that might not quite fit either.

a different sort of beauty.

i knew it when i gazed out the plane window in anchorage. the sunsets are different here.

lingering. in no sort of hurry. dancing on the horizon as long as they please.

and i remember those sunsets over the bay in grand roy. the ones i would rush to see. for fear of missing them. one of the few things in grenada that was quick. the sun would sink so abruptly. then inspire a unique splash of colour in the clouds. each sunset different. reminding me of fleeting beauty to be embraced. a sacred celebration as the light disappeared into the sea.


but on those days that are clear in nome, when our hearts give thanks for the sunshine and the blue skies, we don't have to hurry to see the sunset. she lingers. she stays around a while. don't worry, she whispers in the quiet stillness. there is beauty in abundance. beauty that lasts. you must only open your eyes to see.


and the sky gradually transforms. as day and night trade places. and during these winter months, darkness lingers much longer than the sunsets. but folks tell me not to worry. the sun visits us more and more each day. and summertime will hold an unfathomable magic.


but we can't just live during summertime. so we breathe in the cold winter air. and marvel at the snow. and open our eyes to the present beauty. and trust in the beauty that is to come.


and only on my third alaskan sunset, my wonderfully eccentric, compassionate, worldly coworker issac, let me tag along behind him on a pair of borrowed skis. as the sunset tarried in her simple glory. and we carved out a path on the frozen sea. in awe of the vast beauty unraveling before us.


and i slowly and awkwardly ventured on. my first time on cross country skis. falling flat on occasion. yet somehow finding a certain rhythm. lost in all of this. another set of "i live here?" moments. like i would have in grenada. just surrounded by a different sort of beauty this time.


and in skiing over the sea, everything seems so open. so wide. and there is no path. you just go. and find your way. stride by stride. and there's not a right way. or a wrong way. the way just evolves in time. and you just wander. and trust in where you're going.


and i feel like i'm wandering. from place to place. with no clear path before me. making it up as i go along. yet somehow caught up in the beauty of it all.


and i don't know where i fit. or where this path is taking me. but i'm on it. and it may go in a straight line. or a circle. or just meander around. but i must trust that its taking me where i'm going. so perhaps i'm a nomad in nome. in search of something i'm not quite sure of. but searching still the same.


and there is beauty to be held in this place. but hopefully, as in grenada, i will discover the people that give this place its true beauty. i will discover the spirit that dwells here. the spirit that lingers.