Paradise

They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot.
~Counting Crows

The other day, I drove through Riverside, Washington and noticed a string of beautiful blue flowers growing in ditches and lining a chain-link fence near a trailer park. On closer examination, I realized the flowers belonged to the brown camas plant. Of course, the camas root holds a central role in the customs and traditions of the local tribes, and yet no one seemed to recognize its value before bulldozing the entire field.

Then just today, I found myself hiking in the wooded area behind Whitworth University and discovered a small patch of sage behind the water tower. It felt like a happy discovery, though I couldn't help but think how rarely anyone seems to notice the small wonders of nature. The landscape surrounding Whitworth supports a remarkable variety of sacred and medicinal plants, but as the university expands, native vegetation surrenders to concrete and monotonous, water-needy fields of grass.

This model is totally unnecessary. We can learn to protect sensitive areas and to cultivate more native plants in our homes and public spaces. The human race has built up a multitude of faith traditions based upon a longing for paradise, and yet we fail to recognize the Garden of Eden all around us.





Arrowleaf balsamroot.

Jon Young

Twin Eagles Wilderness School hosted Jon Young for a weekend retreat to explore the connection between cultural mentoring, ancestral traditions, and community building. Throughout the weekend, participants shared meaningful experiences and personal healing. We had gathered for a series of lectures, but somewhere beneath the surface, our spiritual connections of both the earth and other people began to grow.





Some magical connections formed around the campfire.



Campfire sparks escape to the night sky.





Spontaneous music punctuated every session.

Surreal

Surreal, (sə-rē'əl), adj. Having an oddly dreamlike quality.

At the end of the day, I walk outdoors and pause beneath a tree. Work-related anxiety still clutters my mind, but the sudden beauty of living creates an odd stillness within me. Tree branches tangle upward, like black ink strewn against a cool-blue canvas. Something about that moment feels like a dream, both wonderful and surreal.

Rising

Ever since my surgery last Monday, I have not felt like the same person. For the first couple days, I just slept and hardly even opened my eyes to look around at the world. The nausea affected me more than the doctor predicted, and by the third day, a secondary virus settled into my throat. Overall, I've been in a pretty sorry state.

Sometimes recovery inches along at its own miserable pace.

But today I woke up feeling somewhat happy and clear. I survived the previous twenty four hours without any pain meds and my appetite reached a near-normal level. By early afternoon I told the kids, "We've been cooped up in this house for almost a week. Let's go for a hike." They all agreed, so we ventured off to our customary hiking grounds by the Little Spokane River.

We must have really needed some time outdoors, because no sooner did we reach the usual trail when my children began to make faces like Christmas morning, with wide eyes and all the accompanying oohs and aahs. Whitney voiced our common feeling at least a dozen times, "It's so beautiful!"

And indeed it was.

All the new leaves and blades of grass pressed through the gloom of last year's foliage, painting the world in brilliant shades of green. Meanwhile, the sky seemed to divide itself into halves. A massive purple thunder cloud hovered just to the north, while the sun dominated the southern sky. The contrast of light and dark increased the presence of vitality and beauty.

The opening photograph captures a fleeting moment of perception from our hike. It reflects the color and light of the upper world, while still revealing a shadow of the lower world. A single branch reaches upward from the water, reflecting my feelings of recovery. Like the branch, I'm rising above the murkiness of my recent experience and returning to a place of joy and strength.



We got some wonderful photographs of my children. In this picture, Dakota stands near a pond. A small stream feeds the temporary pool before it continues toward the Little Spokane River.



A dark thundercloud looms behind Whitney.



McKenna surrounded by water and green grass.



The girls by the Little Spokane River.



The sun reflected through water and trees.



By the pond's edge.

The Party

Whitney celebrated her birthday with friends this afternoon. Nowadays we observe birthdays at least twice, once privately with family and once with friends.

Native Plants

Last Friday, Anthony and I went to Wellpinit. During the drive, we passed a familiar stand of ponderosa pines, when I happened to notice a cluster of tiny white flowers growing on the forest floor. I'm not even sure how I saw them from my car, but they practically reached in and compelled me to stop. Once I took the time to observe them up close, I recognized them right away. Their scientific name is Claytonia lanceolata. Some people call them spring beauties, but I learned to know them as Indian potatoes, because of their edible, potato-like tubers. They represent one of the traditional foods I have only tasted on rare occasions.

I always assumed Indian potatoes were scarce or difficult to find because hardly anyone serves them anymore. But there they stood in great abundance all around me.

The human spirit is nourished as we become acquainted with the roots, flowers, and medicines growing in our midst. The landscape comes alive in unexpected ways, our knowledge expands, and our gratitude deepens. More important, our connection to nature assumes greater meaning in our lives. I looked at that plot of land for the last 39 years, and I only ever saw the trees, but then, like passing from darkness to morning light, the little meadow under the pine covering burst forth into brilliant colors. Those little flowers opened my heart, making me just little more awake and alive.







We also visited the serviceberries near Little Falls as the flower petals were just beginning to fall in preparation for the emerging fruit. I have a special affection for this particular tree because my auntie Thyra Moses brought me here several years ago when I was trying to learn to recognize this plant. I thought they might be hard to find, but once I saw them, the world opened and serviceberries spontaneously appeared all around me. It was like I had been sleeping and then awoke to find more beauty than I previously imagined.

The scientific name for serviceberries is Amelanchier canadensis.





These yellow flowers belong to the Oregon grape (Mahonia aquifolium), and they live in my back yard. We don't have to go far as we seek to deepen our appreciation for nature. We can learn the names, properties, and uses of plants growing in our own neighborhoods.

In our race to build ever-expanding housing developments and strip malls, I would ask people to pause long enough to see the beauty of our natural landscapes. Even on an individual level, I would encourage people to grow native plants in their homes and gardens. Native species reduce water consumption, increase natural diversity, and promote a deeper human connection to the land.

Stinging Nettle

This afternoon I had an unusual opportunity to visit nature instead of going to work. Our department convened this morning for a thing called Program Development Day, meaning that we did not have our normal class schedule in the evening.

When I left the meeting, I felt tired and sick to my stomach. As many of you know, I'm preparing for gallbladder surgery on Monday, but the sun was shining and the plants were singing. I've been under so much stress lately that I just couldn't pass up my chance for a little nature therapy. I called my friend Adam and asked him to meet me for a plant-finding hike.





Adam suggested we visit a little spot along Hangman Creek where stinging nettle grows in abundance.

I've wanted to learn more about nettle ever since this plant cured my cold symptoms a few years ago. Nettle has some great medicinal properties and appears occasionally in the oral tradition of our Salish ancestors. I feel a kinship with the nettle plant and a calling to deepen my awareness of its character. By the way, this is a great way to observe Earth Day.



Adam was my hiking companion and plant guide.



Golden currants in full bloom.



A service berry tree blooms along the banks of Hangman Creek.



We followed the train tracks to get to Adam's nettle patch.



Hangman Creek.

Eleven

Eleven, originally uploaded by sulustumoses.

Today our family celebrated Whitney's 11th birthday. All the grandmas joined us for a family lunch and shared this special occasion. I can hardly believe how fast our baby is growing up! It seems just the other day we brought her home from the hospital, and now she's almost a young woman.

In these few short years, Whitney has grown to be a very thoughtful, caring, spiritually-minded person. She loves her family and shows great respect for all people. As her father, I feel very proud of the person she is becoming.

White

In the midst of my daily errands and personal anxiety, the trees came alive with beauty and white flowers. They interrupted the mental clutter and reminded me of a reality beyond distress. Cars passed all around me, filled with people rushing to work and talking on cell phones, while I stood alone by the roadside breathing in the simple communion. Did anyone else see the smiling faces on each flower petal? Did anyone else even notice the trees dressed in white?

Roots

Only a few of us gathered roots this year. Those who stayed home must have had other things to do, or maybe they went out another day. I don't really know. But those who did gather made me happy. Their presence sheltered me from the loneliness seeping into edges of my mind.

For maybe an hour or more, I wandered the prairie alone with only the company of a song bird singing an odd melody, a horned lizard watching from a nearby stone, the sage brush bending in the wind, and of course the root people looking into my heart. For a maybe an hour, I lost myself in the timelessness of tradition and spirit and earth; the sky opened and my sadness lifted.

When the snow falls again and it comes time to set my table, the roots will remember how they lifted my heart. Maybe then they'll lift all of us again.

Grandmothers Voices

Anthony came home today.

I picked him up at 8:00 in the morning and then drove straight to the Unitarian Universalist Church. I hadn't planned our reunion in quite this time, place, or manner, but several weeks ago my good friend Francesca asked me to sing for the grandmothers at an interfaith event to be held on this very day. They say Spirit moves in mysterious ways, always leading us through sacred "coincidences."

During the service, I told a brief story about my father. When I was a young man, we used to attend gatherings and dinners on reservations throughout the region. Without warning, my father often stood and announced to the people, "My son is going to sing for you now," or "My son is going to sing for the food." In those events, I had no way to prepare; I simply had to open my mouth and sing. This was one of my earliest forms of education as I learned to be in service to the people.

Francesca asked me to sing, and continuing the tradition of my father, I called upon my son to sing with me. I'm happy to say that he accepted the challenge. He stood beside me, opened his mouth, and sang the old ways.

The title of this blog reflects the purpose of the interfaith service. Some years ago, Franceca brought forth a vision of gathering indigenous women from around the world to share in a common wisdom and purpose. Since then, Francesca has traveled with the grandmothers to various places and countries, including Spokane.

Two of the grandmmothers spoke today: Vickie Downey of the Tesuqueh Pueblo and Eva Boyd of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai.



Eva read to the children of the congregation from a book in both Salish and English. It was very touching for me to hear those stories in our old language.



Francesca lit candles for the prayers of the people.



During the service, we sang a hymn titled, "Singer of Life." The song had a somewhat irregular, haunting quality, which reflected its Native American origin. In fact, the words were inspired by a Texcoco Nahuatl poem. I was moved to see the indigenous influence in their liturgy. So few churches include the cultural or spiritual traditions of other peoples and nations.

I was so moved by the hymn that Susan, the worship leader, gifted me with a copy of the Unitarian Universalist hymnal.



Eva spoke about the traditional foods of the Spokane people.



Vickie spoke of the ways her people have struggled to gain a voice within the United Nations.



Francesca, Eva, and Vickie.



As another divine "coincidence," I met two friends from high school at the service: Eric and Todd. Eric is pictured here with his wife Tammey. Todd played the flute for the service and somehow managed to escape my camera. Actually, Todd is the guy seated in the background of this picture.

Harris Hawk

This image is a still shot from a video I took at the Desert Museum, near Tucson. It shows just how close overhead the hawks flew during the flight demonstration. A few of us felt the brush of feathers as they passed. Harris hawks are unique because they hunt cooperatively in family groups, unlike other hawks that hunt alone.

Cactus Flowers

We've been home for about a week, but my mind continually reflects on the beautiful plants, flowers, and landscapes of Arizona in the spring.

On my last day in Arizona, Ron drove me to the airport, but not before stopping to see some of the neighborhood flowers. Linda had scouted them out during her morning jog and suggested that we pause to appreciate them. These plants were well worth the detour, especially the magnificent white cactus flower shown above. Does anyone know their names? It seems a shame that I remain so ignorant of something I admire so deeply.

The Pascua Yaqui

More than the ruins at the Tonto National Monument or the Desert Museum, I appreciated our visit to the Pascua Yaqui Indian Reservation near Tucson.

We arrived just as the dancers were lining up in the courtyard by the church, each one awaiting a blessing. Some of the dancers wore long, black, purple-lined cloaks, along with black veils over their faces. Others wore a variety of masks, some comical, others grotesque. A young woman explained that the dancers represented the men who persecuted Jesus.

The Catholic symbolism was obvious, but the sound of deer toe rattles and Indian singing, along with the smell of smoke all combined to reveal something much older. It was a maginificent sight.

As much as I would have loved to share the sight with others, I was unable to take any pictures. A large sign stood in a prominant place above the courtyard advising visitors to refrain from using cell phones, recording devices, cameras, sketches, and alcohol. Out of respect for the Pascua Yaqui, I did not even bring a camera; I just felt lucky to witness even a small portion of this ceremony.