This Labor Day weekend also happens to be the Cherokee National Holiday in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. 

My great-grandmother, who died just a couple of months before I was born, was Cherokee and spoke the language (which you can hear in the intro to the site above).  She spoke little English and was fond of calling my mother “cookie.”  The only Cherokee I ever learned was a curse word or two.  My grandmother didn’t want my mother speaking the tribal language so didn’t teach her.  Once my grandmother took me to visit her aunt.  For the entire visit they spoke in Cherokee.  The only word I understood was my name.  It was like listening to music.  From the tone of their voices you could gather the sentiments.  I have a sense now that maybe she wanted to teach me a bit of the language but still refrained. 

Being white was so ingrained in her.  I have no idea the prejudices she tolerated, the injustices she experienced.  She was one of those bussed to an Indian school.  She became a nurse.  She married a very tall, white man.  But she had a Bible in Cherokee.  She had high cheekbones, beautiful salt and pepper hair and a beautiful, tan complexion (which my mother and brother were blessed with — not I).  She had untold stories that I believe you could see if you looked deeply into the darkness of her eyes.  She was sassy and funny, but is there a deeper sadness I sense, even if it’s been over a decade since she passed?

Her story is my mother’s story, my story.  At the cellular, emotional and physiological level, we are intimately connected.  And as we go this weekend to experience a celebration of culture and life, even if it’s one we don’t participate fully in, we know it is a part of our being, and I’m sure our souls will rejoice.

My mother wonders if the hospital she was born in and her grandmother’s house are still there.  My mother was born by c-section and my grandmother sterilized, supposedly because of Rh incompatibility.  I wonder how many stories I can absorb.  I wonder what my brother will feel.  I remember on the bus one time that he was crying.  I asked him why.  Another child was calling him “black.”  Our identities are so fragile.  If we were African-American, maybe it wouldn’t have been a big deal; I think the issue was that he was different.  Would he have cried had he been called “red” and I explained to him that’s what inconsiderate folks called Indians?

When pregnant with my second child, I started reading “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee.”  About a third of the way into it, I had to put it down.  The images were too clear to me.  My dreams were living them.  I was one of the women tortured, corralled.  They say in pregnancy the veil is thin, so maybe it just wasn’t the time.  I’ll try again soon — to read, not to be pregnant!

I’ll share my experience next week.  Today, I’m just sharing a part of my story.  I’d be glad to hear yours.

Several of the topics covered in the past month on this handy blog have come up in conversation between my husband and me, especially the one on canning and make-ahead meals.  So give it another look.  Subscribe to it if, like me, you can use a few good tips.

Cinderella.  The frog prince.  Angels in disguise.  Tragedy turned blessing.  All our lives we are given the lesson that things are not always what they seem.  Be not quick to judge, for you do not know what lies within or ahead.

Last fall as news of deaths and stress of life seemed to be our daily lot, I never dreamed of spending Thanksgiving in a beautiful house on the beach. Yet, there we were.  It was almost eighty degrees Fahrenheit, and while I’m partial to my chilly weather and general November dreariness, it was itself a blessing.  Be ye of good cheer.  Enjoy life.  Revel in the source of life, of energy.  The clouds came, the wind and cooler temperature.  Even so, standing on the beach with my toes in the sand, I was grateful for life, for the moment.

It was sunset, and the clouds left a window to assure us of as much, though to the southwest we could see the rain.  The light, the wind, the chill, the laughter — everything was right.  Everything was and is beautiful.  After our summer trip to the beach down the highway, I wasn’t expecting it to be so lovely.  I certainly didn’t expect to see the stingray jumping in the distance.

The next day the ashes of a loved one were released to the ocean, our reason for being there, but I don’t think that means we weren’t to enjoy ourselves.  If our aunt were with us, she would have been having a ball, too, enjoying the place but even moreso the family togetherness, the tradition of food, the sincerity of our lives.

Maybe we like being surprised.  We act with disbelief when something truly good or beautiful presents itself.  Sometimes, even, we blatantly deny or ignore it.  We do not expect to find beauty abundant.

Rather than hoping for a surprise party, we can search for the treasures we know are there, excavating the golden moments or the silver linings.

I didn’t have my camera with me to capture the smiles and sunset on the beach (photos are from my mother-in-law’s camera).  All I could do was breathe in the salty air, taking it all in as deeply as I could.  For that Thanksgiving, I was grateful, as ever, for the abundance of beauty, in all its forms, in our lives.  May I go forward expecting to find and experience beauty, even though I do love a pleasant surprise.

I prefer not to use food coloring.  I keep the stuff on hand for Easter and the occasional cake decorating.  Apparently I kept it a little too accessible, and wandering hands found it in a kitchen drawer.  In this case, pictures speak louder than words.  I took them after I cleaned up the width of the kitchen — thank God for laminate floors!  As for the table, I’ll have to wait for it to fade away, much like the dye on her skin and toes!

Is she remorseful?  I don’t think so.  She did it again an hour later.  I took the hint and moved the coloring.  Lesson learned.  Amazingly enough, the pajamas weren’t ruined. 

Despite the boys’ bickering noise and the monkey brain I was having yesterday during our priest’s sermon, I managed to listen to most of his message.  One thing he said shined through the rest.

Even today, it makes me sigh, not as in “oh, well, there’s no use,” but in an “okay, full speed ahead” sort of way.

At first I thought of all my activisms — mother-friendly birth, women’s spirituality, sustainability and such.  These struggles are huge and up against great walls of consumerism and ego.  The chances of me doing anything significant are small, almost infinitely so.  Now, as part of the larger organizations I’m associated with, our chances are much greater.  I’m inclined to be more daring, more hopeful.  Now I find another meaning in the words.  I can live with my intuitive, brash hope in these ideal causes because I know they are good ones.  I also know I will fail, my ego will be dissolved in the effort, especially if the obstacles are overcome.  Life is just ironic like that.

But what about my life as a whole?  Two stories came my way yesterday.

One was as I shared this bit of the sermon with my husband.  He said, “Yeah, (our friend) said his wife devoted her life to activism, and then she died.”  Was I to take this as a sort of dramatic foreshadowing?  Or could it be emphasis to the point I mentioned earlier?  Would I change my lifestyle, do anything different if I knew I wasn’t to live much longer, or would I live even more brashly?  (When I think of “brash,” I think of it more as without shame.)

The second story came from a woman in my writing workshop class (yes, I made it to another one!).  She said that us younger women needed to write while we were young and full of passion, that opinions grew less potent as we age.  She said that a friend told her once she reached 57 that she wasn’t as full of fire as she had been when she was younger.  “Write now.  Write while you have these strong opinions.”  Was she really telling me this?

It felt like a long weekend, and to receive so much in one day leaves one much to consider.  So here I am, writing, sharing, learning and hopefully growing.  I continue in my activism, and my activism is fueled by my intuition.  With a deep breath, I go forward from here.  I’ll consider it a blessing to have my ego die, and when it comes the day for my body to die, may it be said that I lived with “intuitive, brash hope” that good would prevail.

Can your friends and family see you coming from far away just by what you’re wearing?  As soon as you start talking on the phone, does the person on the other end of the line know it’s you?  Do people feel comfortable in your home, if for no other reason than because you are comfortable there?

You can take style surveys all day, but when it comes down to it, only you know what speaks to your soul.  You know what makes you comfortable, what makes you feel like a queen, and only you know what makes you feel like . . . well, what makes you feel really badly.  So, why waste your time?  Rather, let’s take some time to find what echoes the sentiments that is the music of our being.

How?  Here’s an example.  Go through your closet.  Are you really going to lose weight?  Would you even wear that if you did?  When’s the last time you wore it?  If you didn’t wear it last season, you’re not going to wear it this one.  Does it make you feel loved and beautiful?  GIVE IT AWAY!!!  You have to give to receive, and the more you do it, the easier it is.  Now, when blessings and opportunities come your way, fill your closet only with what you truly need and only with items (from undergarments to clothes to shoes) that make your heart sing.  Now, when you wake up in the morning, you’ll have lots to choose from, and you’ll be dressed in a style that suits you . . . if you’re honest with yourself.  No one but you knows if you’re being truly honest, but everyone will know if you’re comfortable and confident.

When I was in high school, I bought Levi’s at a thrift store and packages of white pocket T-shirts.  Jeans and T-shirts and Birkenstocks.  That was my favorite outfit.  Four kids later, I still love jeans and a white T, but jeans right now fit a little too snug at the waist.  I feel more beautiful in a flowing skirt and pretty shirt, and I have a few other outfits I love.  Comfort for me is key to my style, not fashion.

What about accessories?  For me, I only have a few pairs of earrings, each with their own meaning and an energy they give me for that day.  Every necklace that I’ve had and worn because it meant so much has broken or been broken.  I figured I was too attached, and it was its own lesson.  Everything we wear carries a message with it, offers a window into our being, even if on some days the meaning isn’t very deep (i.e., “these were on sale at the store and match this shirt”).

As for your personal life style, you know your disposition.  Are you optimistic?  Sincere?  A pessimist?  A cynic?  Do you prefer Victorian or contemporary?  Intelligent?  Practical?  A ditz?  (I know, some days vary!)  Do you reflect this in your voice, your expressions?  I don’t have to ask if this plays into your relationships.

I’ve asked a lot of questions, but really there’s only one here.  How well do we know ourselves?  Our true self.  The one that when you come to end of all your days, you know that this is who you are, who you’ve really been in every moment.  May you live fully into that being.  Can we be so honest with ourselves?

It was only a couple of weeks ago that my seven-year-old watched closely (and I do mean right at my elbow) as I fried up some eggs.  The next two days, he was doing it on his own. 

The older kids are back to school now, and I’m slowly adjusting to an
earlier morning routine.  Very slowly.  This morning, however, I was
delightfully surprised to smell eggs cooking.  My two sons were hungry
and determined to have egg sandwiches.

Am I nervous about my seven-year-old using the stove, nearly unsupervised, with his four-year-old brother?  I could be, but I’m not.  I figure it’s another exercise in independence for him, and the fewer condescending or cautionary things I say to him about it, the better off we are.

I look forward to the days when there are at least four of us in the kitchen cooking together.  Last night, my aforementioned older son also watched the pot come to a boil and cooked the angel hair for our eggplant parmigiana.  For me, that’s one less thing to worry about and more time to focus on frying the eggplant (and I also did squash for my picky ones). The day will come when I have all hands on deck, but I also know that it will require much patience on my part.  We know it’s “easier” to do things our way, without others underfoot, but you don’t want to miss out on the chance for the kids to learn, to hear the wonderful communication between their parents, to contribute, to share their day with you through their own stories.  There are loads of lessons and joys to be had in the kitchen, and, of course, there will be lots of messes, too.

So, grab all aprons (so you don’t mess your clothes with all this fried food), bring in the young apprentices and get cooking.  Family Fun has a kids’ cooking section. Rachel Ray has a cookbook my older daughter enjoys, and there are countless other resources on the www.

Let go and have fun!

She looks like an ordinary woman, except maybe her quick smile and honest eyes.  Before long you notice her children, the whole lot of them.  Now she’s a mother, and from the looks of it, she has her hands full; she has your sympathy.  Then you start to talk to her.  She’s kind and smart.  The more you talk, though, you notice that you start to hear some of her interests but the list keeps going.  Wait a minute.  She’s a mom, right?  She doesn’t have time to be doing all that stuff.  What about being a mom, being there for the kids?

This might be how I describe a selfish mom.  At least, it’s how I might, hypothetically speaking, describe myself if I were to meet her for the first time.  How should I feel about this?  How do you feel when you realize that your commitments in the day take the focus off of the kids?  Maybe this doesn’t happen to you, but you’ve probably met women like this.

Are mothers so stereotyped that we have a guilt complex if we don’t fit the bill?  Isn’t that why working mothers often experience or receive so much grief?

I know mothers who seem like the “perfect” mom.  They have lots of kids, homeschool all of them (though some send them to school), and every moment of their life seems to be for and with their kids or the family as a whole.  I admire that . . . because that’s not something I can do.

First, I was a young woman.  Then I became a wife and mother.  Always, I will be a woman through it all.  I cannot imagine my life when I forget that I have my own being to nurture, too.  The wife and mother that I am suffers when the woman that I am is not loved, supported, growing.  Can you relate to that?

Rather than calling ourselves selfish, why don’t we just say that we’re wonderful women, and as such, we make better mothers.  Maybe then the “perfect” moms can pause and take a breath for themselves.  Or maybe they are so perfect because they already know how to do so in each breath, and I just didn’t notice, being too busy judging and all.

Let’s sit back and enjoy the day, our kids, all the shtuff we do for everything and everybody.  While you’re at it, mark a day in your calendar for a date with yourself.  Do something nice for you.  I plan to go to a writing workshop on Sunday, that will make my second one.  Indulgent?  Perhaps.  Necessary?  Absolutely.

Obviously writing is one of those things I just do, but this craft/trade/hobby/talent is not mine alone.  For those of you who share my passion or maybe are just venturing into the realm, I thought on this craf-t day I would provide some links to some literary mags specifically designed and provided for moms like us.

• Mom Writer’s Literary Magazine (not a terribly original name, but self-explanatory!)
• Literary Mama — I subscribe to their e-zine and have for years now
• HipMama
• Brain, Child — They’ve redesigned their site since last I went there.  Probably a great zine for my fellow brilliant mamas
• TheMomCrowd posted about literary magazines, too.  I thought the site was nice, so take a visit to see her comments about a couple of other sites I’ve not listed here.

Now, to actually submit some work to them.

Pick me!  I took a bold step and have my site up for nominations under Best Parenting and Hottest Mommy  Blogger for a Blogger’s Choice award.  The more votes I have, the closer my site is to page 1, and the more likely I am to reach other women who might have something to share.  Pass along my site to your friends, and we’ll see what happens!

And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see — or like a sealed letter they could not plainly  read.
– Alice Walker, leading quote to the current Literary Mama edition

Naturally, the monkey grass extends its boundaries as far as it
can, and the honeysuckle, a bush on the other side of the driveway, is generous with its seeds, too.  We have more than enough maple seedlings, but occasionally an oak will appear or redbuds.  Last summer I transplanted a wild tea rose (that’s what I’m calling it, anyway) that this summer has grown tremendously and throws its thorny stems every which way.

And isn’t that the way it goes.  Often we are given that which we’d rather not have.  Wouldn’t life be easier if my mind weren’t so open.  Wouldn’t tending to the yard be easier if things didn’t grow so rampantly?  But gardens are beautiful in their bounty and growth (even if the raspberries are weighed down now),  and being open allows you the potential to receive more than you knew was possible.  Sometimes we just have to take the seeds we’re given, let them grow, help them as we can, and enjoy the harvest.

Nurture nature and yourself, your gifts and talents.  We may just be surprised at what pops up next.