Protest from the Roof of the World

The recent headlines I read about the turmoil in Tibet, take me back almost twenty years. In May 1988, I was in Tibet and witnessed demonstrations myself. It was a little easier for the Chinese to control the news then… they just confiscated cameras and film and forced all foreigners to leave. Now the eyes of the World are upon them with the upcoming 2008 Summer Olympics. Will that make a difference? I hope so. The cultural annihilation of Tibet has gone on long enough. But even as I write this, the Tibet story has slipped from the major news outlets. I had to go to the Radio Free Asia website to find an update. Also, according to the official website of the Central Tibetan Administration, Chinese authorities have now stepped up what they call a Patriotic Re-education campaign, particularly within monasteries. We know what that means. And today, Tibetan exiles protested in front of the White House. Following are a few notes from my 1988 travel journal:

TIBET
May 1988, Travel Journal

Today we drove to Ganden Monastery, an hour’s drive from Lhasa. It is a monastery that was totally destroyed during the Cultural Revolution. Now Tibetan people living nearby, plus a few old monks, are slowly rebuilding it from the ground up. The peasants come on the only day they have off each week. Crowded into the back of old pickup trucks, they come by the same dirt road we took today, snaking up a steep mountain in a series of treacherous curves and switchbacks. It is a road that was specifically built by the Chinese People’s Liberation Army and Red Guard, for the sole purpose of destroying the huge monastery that once housed thousands of Buddhist monks.

After looking at the few rebuilt buildings, we join Tibetan pilgrims making their clockwise circumambulation around the Gompa (monastery); it is similar to the Catholic Stations of the Cross. On the hillside along the trail there are small shrubs with a purple blossom. I could see bits of wool and animal hair placed within the branches. For a culture that does not believe in killing, it is a way of asking for a good reincarnation for the souls of animals that have been slaughtered for food. Incense burners are positioned along the path, and I watched as pilgrims place a pungent herb into the juniper wood-fed fire. I also see them pick some type of plant that grows along the path and throw it into the air.

At the backside of the mountain, I sat beside the pilgrims walk to rest and quietly absorb the beauty of a wide green river valley framed by snow-capped mountains. The sun is warm on my back. I put a tape of music into my Walkman. Two little boys have been watching me, so I motion for them to come over. I give them the earphones and their faces light up in wonder. An elderly, bald-headed Tibetan woman approaches, and I let her listen too. Then she begins talking to me in her own language – I think she is telling me about her ailments. Does she think I have special powers? Music coming from a mysterious box must seem like magic to these people, and at that moment I wished I did have the magic to make her well. As she leaves, she bids me goodbye in the traditional Tibetan way, by opening her mouth and sticking out her tongue. I am honored.

~

This morning I visited the Jokhang Temple. It is the holiest place in all of Tibet, and within its walls lays a Buddha statue created during Buddha’s own lifetime, over 2,000 years ago. The Temple is open to pilgrims today, and in front of the temple many of them arrive doing continuous lengthwise prostrations of their bodies. Holding a block of wood in each hand, they flatten their body to the ground with arms stretched before them, placing the blocks of wood to mark where their hands touch. Then they stand on that mark, pick up the blocks of wood and repeat the process. By slow measured body-length movements they move towards the sacred shrine. This is how once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimages are made, to gain religious merit; it may take days or weeks over rough terrain to get from the pilgrim’s village to the Jokhang Temple in Lhasa. Yesterday as we traveled the main road to Ganden monastery, I had seen a man doing this measured prostration along the river plain, on his pilgrimage to the Jokhang.

A steady stream of pilgrims enters the Temple; slowly they wind their way into and out of the many side chapels. They bring traditional offerings of yak butter or tsampa, a roasted barley flour. As I mingle with the pilgrims, one will occasionally smile and flash the victory sign to me; in Tibet, the two-fingered V means “Free Tibet.” I am a foreigner and the Tibetans want me to take their message to the rest of the world.

A young Tibetan monk who speaks excellent English becomes my guide. Dressed in his maroon robe, he takes me to the Temple’s rooftop where we can speak openly, without fear of being overheard. We have already been told of Chinese spies within the ranks of Buddhist monks. The young monk tells me a little of his background. He was educated (re-educated or indoctrinated would be better words) in China, as are many of the Tibetan youth. He has been a monk for three years. To become a monk he first went to a lama, (teacher monk), and then he had to obtain permission from the Chinese to begin training. He says many boys would like to become monks but are not allowed. Some dress as monks even though they are not, which is dangerous for them because they can be imprisoned for being ‘illegal.’ According to him, “The Chinese hold the strings.” His mentor left Tibet for a visit to India. Later the older monk sent a letter to his young student, saying that he might not return, and if the young monk wanted to leave also, the older monk would help him. According to this young Buddhist monk, many monks are leaving Tibet. “It is not good for us here.” When this monk returned to Lhasa from his education in China, he enrolled in an English school that had recently opened. But when demonstrations broke out in October of last year (1987), all foreigners were forced to leave Tibet, including his English teacher. (He had been in the classroom at the English School when the demonstration occurred.) His fellow monks took refuge in the Jokhang Temple, locking themselves in. The Chinese broke down the locked doors and dragged the monks away, including a friend of his. No one has seen or heard from the monks since that time, nor do they know where they are - or if they are alive. The demonstration I saw yesterday in front of the temple was a protest by nuns and monks asking for those who are missing. Demonstrations take place almost weekly, with the participants usually hauled away and never heard from again. Many injuries and unofficial deaths. Note: (What I saw went unreported.)

Although a book of fiction, "Bone Mountain" by Eliot Pattison gives the reader an excellent picture of what has been happening in Tibet. It is amazing that the Tibetans survive, but they are a resilient people. But they also need our help. Learn how you can STAND UP FOR TIBET.

... P. L. Morningstar

Yu-Ling... In Memoriam

We have recently been asked about Yu-Ling, which has prompted us to make this difficult posting. It has taken us this long before feeling comfortable enough to share online the loss of our beloved companion.

Yu-Ling died Tuesday, 11 March. We played with him that morning, by afternoon we were digging his grave. He gave no signs of illness or distress. He had been to the vet only a few days earlier. I was carrying him into the cabin when he suddenly cried out and died within moments. Both of us were with him, trying to comfort him as he lay there, but it was like trying to hold water in your cupped hands – we could feel his life slip through our fingers. At least it was quick, a heart attack I think. Yu-Ling was only 11 months old, but his breed has known congenital heart problems. We know so little of his history since we got him from the shelter. At least he did not live these last three months in a cage. He was beautiful, funny, intelligent, energetic and a constant companion in all of our activities. We miss him deeply and will honor his memory. The candle that burns the brightest burns the quickest.

Bob and Morningstar
.

A Fashion Statement

It wasn’t hard to pack for this trip south. Over the past decade my wardrobe has been whittled down to what is necessary rather than what is fashionable. High heels and fancy dresses do not do well on a sailboat, and a long, flowing skirt is only a frivolous nuisance when I wade through two-feet of snow to get from the log cabin to our Jeep. The clothes we wear now are practical, durable, and well worn… so well worn that they are almost threadbare. Buying some new clothes was high on our agenda of things to do while in the U.S.

Sunday afternoon at Bellingham’s Bellis Fair Shopping Mall, Bob and I walked into the upscale Abercrombie & Fitch store. I wore my frayed, ten-years old oilskin Outback jacket, and my equally beat up leather hiking boots that had traversed so many trails and rocky islands, that little tread remained. All eyes were upon us. Was it our age, or the faded and battered patina that our clothes exhibited? The electronic beat of rap music played in the background, and a young thing that was busy refolding T-shirts, asked, “Can I help you?” Bob always quick on the uptake, says, “I don’t know. Can you?” Then he points to a beautiful wooden canoe suspended from the ceiling, “How much for the canoe?” She is startled, then looks surprised, as if it is the first time she has seen the canoe. She stammers. I chuckle. Bob quickly says, “Just joking.” Relieved, the clerk returns to her task of refolding T-shirts.

As we looked around the store, we couldn’t believe what we were seeing. Beautifully displayed on the tables and racks were stack upon stack of faded, frayed, holey, beaten-up clothing. Twenty-nine dollars for a tattered, paint-spattered baseball cap, ninety-five dollars for a pair of jeans that looked like the ones I finally threw out because I had slid down too many rocky cliffs on my butt, and it showed. I was in style, and here was everything needed for the twenty to thirty year-old wannabes to look like they were living on the rugged edge of wilderness adventure, climbing mountains, fording rivers, fighting off bears, and taking the road-less-traveled. Indiana Jones reborn. Golly gee. I guess I wasted the last ten years of bumps and bruises, hard knocks, storm-tossed seas, peeling logs, camping in tents, melting snow over a fire, chopping wood, etc. etc. I began to wonder how much someone would be willing to pay me for my frayed oilskin jacket and patched jeans – the real thing? Maybe I should check out e-Bay.

All joking aside, walking through the store I couldn’t help but feel a little sad. The canoe and well-worn appearance of the clothing tells me that the desire for adventure is obviously part of this new fashion statement. It is a desire I know well. But looking like you have just spent the last few years living in bush country doesn’t make it so, and THAT is the great loss. There is no substitute for getting out there and doing it yourself. Every mile I have walked is written on the soles of my worn-out boots, and every tatter and patch of my jacket tells a story.

... P. L. Morningstar

In Search of Solitude

I wasn’t looking to buy a boat. I didn’t even know that I wanted one. But the moment I saw Båten, it was love at first sight. A 20’ wooden supply boat designed by Jay Benford, it had been built for two women living on Crane Island. When it was launched in 1978, the Friday Harbor newspaper headline read, BÅTEN LAUNCHED AT JENSEN SHIPYARD; JUST RIGHT FOR 2 PEOPLE AND A COW. (It was the last wooden boat built at the Jensen Shipyard.) Marilyn Anderson and Rachel Adams were retired military women who had decided to farm on tiny Crane Island, which had no ferry service. So they needed a boat for transportation and hauling supplies… including a “nice little Jersey milk cow.” Years later they decided to give up the farming and move to Orcas Island… and that is when I saw the photo of Båten in the Boats for Sale classifieds. To this day, I have no idea why I was looking there! Båten became mine in January 2004, and she was everything I could have hoped for – she transported me safely to remote islands in search of solitude, and brought a smile to the face of all who saw her. Now it is time for me to pass the happiness along to some one else. I will say goodbye to Båten by remembering my first solo outing. (Båten is Swedish for ‘The Boat’ and is pronounced Boaten.)

In Search of Solitude (first solo passage with Båten)
18 February 2004, A Journal Entry

BÅTEN snugs up close to the dock. I throw the stern line around the tie rail and secure it with a double half hitch. Moving forward, I do the same with the bowline. Then I reach into the pilothouse and turn off the idling diesel engine. Instantly I am struck by the absence of sound. Båten, Bustopher (my cat), and I sit alone in the winter stillness of Reid Harbor (Stuart Island).

I left Roche Harbor at eleven this morning with my feline crew. Releasing the bowline and waving goodbye, Bob yelled, “Have a fun trip Morningstar.” A brisk breeze was coming out of the southwest and I had very little to do to back out of the slip, the wind and current did it for me. I was so focused on starting my first solo adventure with my new boat, that I forgot to tell Bob when I was coming back!

As I left the entrance to Roche Harbor, I took a 315° compass heading towards the Danger Shoal marker. I needn’t have bothered---visibility was excellent and I could see the buoy with my naked eye. There were no small craft advisories in effect, so I was surprised to encounter a sea of whitecaps and large swells when I started across Speiden Channel. The rollers came from Haro Strait to the west, hammering Båten abeam. Bustopher decided that the floor by my feet was the safest place to be. I just rolled with the rollers and thought to myself, “If I’m going to do this alone, this is a good initiation. Be prepared for anything.” …and I had not expected this. Another part of solo boating is trust in your boat. On that point I never had any doubts that she would take me safely wherever I wanted to go.

After making my turn at Danger Shoal, the new heading gave me a following sea, which swiftly pushed Båten into Reid Harbor and its relative calm. The sun made a brief appearance, casting a mirror bright spotlight on the empty bay, before clouds firmly packed together again to form an overcast winter sky.

The moment I tied up and turned off the engine, Bustopher was off the boat, onto the dock and heading towards the ramp. This was the moment of truth. Could I trust him not to escape up the ramp? I followed closely behind. He stopped to nibble on a small clump of grass growing under the ramp, then placed paws gingerly on the ramp’s metal grillwork and started up. As usual Bustopher’s curiosity wins out over fear---we have a whole list of memorable stories that illustrate that unfortunate trait---so I nabbed him and took him back to the enforced security of Båten.

Setting up “camp” was first on the agenda. Arranging things, putting items away, filling the new yacht lamp in preparation for nightfall, putting food and water into Bustopher’s dish, fixing lunch for myself. Busy work. “Preparing the nest.” I’m glad I decided to stay for two nights. It takes me at least a day to loosen the reins of routine, and to feel myself expand into the ebb and flow of Nature’s rhythm.

A brief rainstorm passed through and when I stepped outside I could hear a chorus of frogs coming from the head of the bay. A double crested cormorant balanced on a nearby mooring buoy, his sinuous smoke-black shape in sharp contrast to the lifeless plastic float. A pair of hooded merganser paddled by followed by a flotilla of buffleheads. I was not alone.

4pm - The late afternoon sun draws to a close with the gathering of clouds. The first raindrops tip tap on the pilothouse roof. The air quickly cools. I place a wad of paper towel under a few sticks of cedar kindling in the Skippy woodstove, strike a match and watch the little flame bloom. Snap! Crackle! The scraps of mill ends that I found on my hike today have caught fire. It sets the teakettle dancing on the cast iron surface. An orchestra plays in my pilothouse; their symphonic music magically flows from the tiny jade green and black battery-operated radio, with only an insignificant sputter of static to mar the beautiful sounds snatched from the ether.

6pm – I am nestled in feathers and wool, snuggled into the v-berth with a purring cat at my side. Through the pilothouse windows I can see a sky of palest blue pearl; one bright star sparkles like a precious jewel. At the moment it is a solitary star, but when twilight shadows fade into darkness, I know the light of a million galaxies will join it stretching as far as the eye can see. I have found solitude. But it is a strange thing… in my small, insignificant aloneness, I feel part of something much bigger.

Give me solitude—give me Nature—give me again,

O Nature, your primal sanities!

.... Leaves of Grass

Walt Whitman

... P. L. Morningstar

Truth Tellers

The fifth anniversary of the invasion of Iraq has come and gone with scarcely a ripple in the consciousness of the American people. The President marked the milestone with a speech at the Pentagon, defiantly defending the Iraq war. “The battle in Iraq is noble, it is necessary, and it is just.” Cheney is still working hard to connect Iraq with the events of 911. Truth? Hardly. Just more lies and deception.

But a Truth Teller did stand up this week, where you would least expect truth to make an appearance… in a national political campaign. Speaking of Barack Obama’s March 18 speech, Drew Westin, Huffington Post, said. "The pundits were clearly stunned. They knew they had witnessed something extraordinary, a moment when time seemed to stand still and a politician in the midst of a withering electoral storm did the unspeakable: he spoke the truth. The unspoken, unspeakable truth. He told the nation that he understood what was happening in white barber shops and black barber shops, around white water coolers and black water coolers, and that we are neither free from our prejudices nor merely prejudiced in our respective grievances, and that in both our prejudices and our grievances, we have more in common than we know." It was extraordinary in every way. The New York Times editorial said… "There are moments — increasingly rare in risk-abhorrent modern campaigns — when politicians are called upon to bare their fundamental beliefs. In the best of these moments, the speaker does not just salve the current political wound, but also illuminates larger, troubling issues that the nation is wrestling with… he not only cleared the air over a particular controversy — he raised the discussion to a higher plane."

We need to seek out the Truth Tellers. Let them tell us what we do not want to hear but must acknowledge if we are to return our nation to the ideals upon which it was founded. You can find some of these truth tellers on a website called Americans Who Tell The Truth - A collection of portraits & quotes. Robert Shetterly’s artist statement: "I began painting this series of portraits --- finding great Americans who spoke the truth and combining their images with their words --- nearly three years ago as a way of to channel my anger and grief. In the process my respect and love for these people and their courage helped to transform that anger into hope and pride and allowed me to draw strength from this community of truth tellers, finding in them the courage, honesty, tolerance, generosity, wisdom and compassion that have made our country strong. One lesson that can be learned from all of these Americans is that the greatness of our country frequently depends not on the letter of the law, but the insistence of a single person that we adhere to the spirit of the law." I encourage you to visit this website for inspiration and affirmation that one person can make a difference.

My final note of optimism on a day when I had become disheartened, was a comment made on a posting by John Nirenberg (March in my Name). He had asked the question, “What Are You Most Proud Of About the USA?” Disheartened himself by the lack of response to his march for impeachment, he could find little to be proud of. Linda Morselli posted this answer:

.

I am most proud of people like yourself (John Nirenberg), who remind us of what our duties are as citizens.

.

I am most proud of places like Brattleboro who because of its courage made a stand against this President and Vice President.

.

I am most proud of congressmen (albeit very rare) like Dennis Kucinich and the other 26 co-signers of HR 333 who are not afraid to allow the word impeachment roll off their lips.

.

I am most proud of Cindy Sheehan who in the face of personal tragedy managed to rally a movement against this war.

.

I am most proud of the American Soldiers who are now standing up and speaking out against this illegal war and occupation.

.

I am most proud of organizations like United for Peace and Justice, Code Pink, the War Resisters league and too many others to name here.

.

Do not lose hope, while we still have life and breath in us there is something to be proud of. Let us not define ourselves by the so called “leaders” of our nation. Let us define ourselves by the few brave souls that dare to speak out. These brave men and women will change the hearts and minds of the rest who have fallen asleep to the hypnotic sounds of political propaganda. When that is accomplished we will be proud of so much more once again.

.
Good words for us all to remember and for me to close on. Dare to speak out.

...PLM

Not My Father's War

During World War II, my father joined the Navy right out of high school… he didn’t even wait to attend his own graduation. He was the youngest son of Sicilian immigrants. He had not been in service long when he volunteered for a secret mission that I never knew of until near the end of his life. Haltingly, he told me the story. Under cover of night, he and another sailor helped row Navy frogmen to a small German U-boat that had been discovered off the New Jersey coastline. (I have not been able to find any information concerning this event, so I can only guess at the accuracy of details.) With explosives it was blown up. They watched the explosion from a safe distance, but in the oily debris that floated to the surface, they also saw the human body parts and personal belongings of those whom had died… family photos and letters… it was a sight my father never forgot. He realized that those German sailors had wives, and children, and parents who would grieve for them, the same as for any American family. After my father’s death, I found his Bible. On the front page he had written these words, “Aug. 15, 1943 - May God forgive us for what we had to do today.” But this was World War II… he knew he was fighting for a just cause, and he served his country proudly.

It was pride in my father and other men like him that always brought tears to my eyes when I heard the drumbeat cadence and watched a color guard as it passed by during parades. My right hand instinctively covered my heart, and I felt the same pride in country as my father had before me. In the intervening years since World War II, we have been involved in a number of conflicts, none of which can claim the moral high ground of World War II. The pre-emptive invasion of Iraq was completely unjustified… a unilateral act of aggression. There was nothing noble or honorable about it. Even before the Iraq invasion began, there were well-documented predictions of what the likely outcome would be. A 2002 report published by PSR (Physicians for Social Responsibility) warned that the aftermath of a US-led attack could include civil war, famine, epidemics, millions of refugees and economic collapse. The report went on to state that, a 'pre-emptive' attack would exacerbate the disastrous levels of death, disease, disability and despair already present in Iraq. At the same time, it would weaken the United Nations, weaken international law, weaken efforts to reduce terrorism and weaken the United States itself.

I knew none of the 2,752 people who died in the tragic attack on September 11, 2001, at the World Trade Center. But I know that on that same day, and every day since, 35,600 children around the world have died as a result of hunger and starvation. I know that my niece’s military husband has missed the births of his children and all their “first time” moments. My niece will find that the man who comes home to her will not be the same as the one who left, and there is always the risk that he will not come home at all. I know that approximately 4,000 American troops have been killed since the start of the war, between 23,000 to 100,000 injured. , there have been a minimum of 151,000 Iraqi civilian deaths by violence (many sources say that number is in the millions), and many millions displaced.

(AP Photo/Anja Niedringhaus)

Five years after the US-led invasion, Iraq faces a major humanitarian crisis. The International Committee of the Red Cross highlighted the plight of millions of Iraqis who still have little or no access to clean water, sanitation or health care. “The humanitarian situation in most of the country is among the most critical in the world,” the Swiss-based agency said in a report issued yesterday. Add to that, the destruction of archeological sites and antiquities, destabilization of the region, and unprecedented environmental damage. And for what? To fatten the pockets of war profiteers like Haliburton, KBR, Blackwater, Shell, and BP? World domination? Christian Fundamentalist’s efforts to bring about Biblical prophecies of the Rapture and the End Times? Donald Rumsfeld described the Iraq invasion as a “catastrophic success.” U.S. Vice-President Dick Cheney, during a surprise visit to Iraq on Monday declared the 2003 US-led invasion of Iraq a “successful endeavor”. With “enduring” U.S. military bases established in Iraq, and an embassy in Baghdad the size of the Vatican City, there appears to be no end in sight for the U.S. occupation of Iraq.

We are no longer the ‘good guys.’ In recent polls conducted around the globe, when asked to name the country that represents the most danger to world peace, the United States is listed as number one. I am glad that my father did not live to see the loss of honor that has befallen the country he risked his life to defend. When I see the American flag draped over the coffins of young soldiers, I feel grief and anger at the heedless waste of their lives. What have they died for? To the rest of the world, the flag that is folded and placed in the hands of grieving loved ones, represents lies, torture, aggression, greed, corruption and the abuse of executive power. How can we be proud of that? Now when I hear a drumbeat cadence and see our star-spangled banner, the tears that fall are tears of shame.

We must impeach Bush and Cheney. And we must move forward to embrace peace. The preamble to the Earth Charter states, “To move forward we must recognize that in the midst of a magnificent diversity of cultures and life forms we are one human family and one Earth community with a common destiny. We must join together to bring forth a sustainable global society founded on respect for nature, universal human rights, economic justice, and a culture of peace. Towards this end, it is imperative that we, the peoples of Earth, declare our responsibility to one another, to the greater community of life, and to future generations.”

... P. L. Morningstar

"It's a Dangerous World"

Day Nine: There is nowhere that you can go to escape the reach of war; it is like a metastasizing cancer that spreads to the farthest corner of the world. So even in our remoteness, without telephone or television or newspapers, it finds us. The difference is that here at our cabin in northern British Columbia, I can strike a balance. The chaos caused by the human species is tempered by the natural order of things. And without distractions, we can see global events with greater clarity, putting them in their proper perspective. Never was that more apparent than on an August day in 2006 when I turned on the radio to listen to the morning news.

“IT’S A DANGEROUS WORLD”

Eight o’clock Friday morning,
I sit with a cup of coffee in my hand,
Listening to CBC World News
“Alleged plot by terrorists foiled by U.K.
Causes havoc at airports,
Increased security, long lines.”

Through the window I watch
A black bear pull at a leafy branch
Strip dark purple haws with his teeth
He ambles
Through the high meadow grass
Drops of dew sparkle
In the morning light

The bear stops at the woodpile
Looking for a tasty bug
Crosses the driveway
On his way to the crab apple tree,
A tree he climbed last night
Shaking it with all his might.

He snuffles
Under the tree
Finding tiny nuggets of fallen fruit
Red and green apples
No bigger than a bite
He stands tall on hind feet
Jumps to grab a branch
Stretching, pulling,
Bending limbs
To reach his mouth.

The radio dirge continues,
Three more Coalition deaths
In Afghanistan, killed
By Taliban extremists
“It is a dangerous world”
George W. Bush says.

A leaf hangs from the corner of his mouth
As the black bear retraces his steps
To the hawthorn tree
To the clusters of fruit
Ripening in the August sun
Berries, apples, flowers, bugs
He must eat a lot to fatten up
Before the snow flies

The threat alert is elevated to
Red, its highest level.
It is a dangerous world
That we have made.
I turn off the radio, drink my coffee
And watch the black bear move
Into the woods
At a gentle pace.














... P. L. Morningstar
.

The World is Falling Down

Day Eight: Split This Rock Poetry Festival (March 20 – 23) calls poets to a greater role in public life and fosters a national network of activist poets. “The festival will explore and celebrate the many ways that poetry can act as an agent for change: reaching across differences, considering personal and social responsibility, asserting the right to free speech, bearing witness to the diversity and complexity of human experience through language, imagining a better world.” Soapbox Poets for Peace is issuing a NATIONAL CALL TO ACTION for Poets of conscience to come to D.C. on Wednesday, March 19th, armed only with poems of peace, witness, truth, mourning and outrage. Since I am unable to take part in these worthwhile events, I will share with you my rant poem “The World is Falling Down,” written in March 2006.

The World is Falling Down
(The Other Voices)

Alert! Call your Senator now
Donate to save ANWR
Click here
Add your name to Impeach
Delete Delete Delete
Condemned to cyberspace purgatory
Out of sight
Out of mind

Well, not quite

There is still that little
Voice that nags
Guilt guilt guilt
Quitter

If not you, then who?

Out damn spot!
Shut the fuck up.
I’ve done all I’m going to do,
All I can do

To change the world
To change minds
To change the course

It ain’t going to happen
Got that?
Nobody is listening
Nobody cares

The world is falling down

Do you get it?

Deaf and dumb
Dumb and dumber
Life begins at birth
No, life begins with conception

Life is sacred…
As long as you are white
Christian
Heterosexual
Gainfully employed

Forget the poor,
They’re just bloodsucking losers anyway

Torture prisoners?
Hey, they get what they deserve
They attacked us first
And they’re just brown-skinned
Raghead heathens
With evil in their hearts,
Thugs and killers.

The environment?
Don’t expect me to listen to
Those bleeding heart
Granola eating
Tree-huggers
I got to make a living don’t I?
Who gives a damn about an owl,
The porcupine caribou,
Or trees?

We’re talking about
God-given rights here
Our dominion over the world
Right?

Who reads petitions anyway?
Our Prez says he
Doesn’t read newspapers
Doesn’t pay attention to polls, and
Isn’t impressed by protest marchers
‘cause they’re just defeatists anyway
Worse
They’re anti-American traitors.

Anybody care?

The World is falling down

I’m leaving.


(In July 2006, we moved to our cabin in Canada)

... P. L. Morningstar
.

Where is the Outrage?

Day Seven: As we approach the March 19th fifth anniversary of the Iraq War, we continue our series of thoughts, and words written between 2003 and 2008. With the reelection of George W. Bush and his Inauguration in January 2005, my dismay turned to disillusionment about politics and the possibility of change. The President in his inaugural address proclaimed that he had been given a mandate from the people, and that he was the ‘War President.’ People like me were called defeatist, pessimists, and worse… traitors. Meanwhile the attitude in America was “Don’t worry. Be happy.”

In the pursuit of pleasure and the almighty dollar, Americans turned a blind eye to the use of torture, one of the gravest violations of human rights and American ideals. They believed the intentional lie that Iraq had ties to Osama bin Laden and Al-Qaeda, and that the real reason we attacked Iraq was to free the Iraqis and bring them democracy. When the so-called “patriots” weren’t busy waving flags and being optimistic, their brains were paralyzed by fear. No one seemed to care about the issues of poverty, environmental degradation, global climate change, or the death and destruction that we perpetrated upon another sovereign country. One afternoon I sat down and let loose… the words just poured out… not pretty words, but words of passion. I could not believe the denial, and complacency that seemed to pervade the American culture… the acceptance of the unacceptable.

WHERE IS THE OUTRAGE?
Written one day in 2005

I alternate between outrage and numbness.
I sign petitions, join letter-writing campaigns,
make phone calls to Senators, and Congressmen,
send letters, and e-mails,
participate in quick votes and polls,
contribute,
protest,
read,
learn,
and cry.

The In Box for my e-mail is filled each
morning by news sources and appeals;
AlterNet, MoveOn.org, True Majority,
Code-Pink, Act for Change,
Environmental Defense, NRDC.
Send money, contact your Senator,
Alert your friends.
When will it stop?
Where will it end?

With gray in my hair, there are more
years behind me than ahead.
Shadows lie in wait, not formless
wings of death, but shades
of a soulless nation held in bondage,
linked together by cell phones
and text messaging,
in a lock-step march to WalMart,
buy, buy, buy…

surrendering freedom - yours and mine -
for security at any cost… “It’s okay,”
I hear them say, “Whatever it takes
to make us feel safe. Just don’t scare us
with talk of climate change,
or the need to change our lifestyle,
or the fact that Americans are hated
around the world.”

The talking heads tell me there is
an ‘obesity epidemic’ in the USA,
while I read that thousands of children world-wide
die from starvation
every minute of every day.
Where is the outrage?

The world reeks of death and loss.
Oceans are dying, icecaps melting,
unspeakable acts of genocide, and war.
Who will speak for the innocent,
the child, the salmon, the indigenous,
the coral reefs, the elderly,
the homeless…
when death silences my voice?

Will outrage die with me
and others like me?
Or will you carry on?
Can you scream in outrage,
resist, dissent, reject, say NO?
Or will you meekly bow
in obeisance to power
and greed
and false security;

imprisoned
behind concrete walls,
and armed border guards,
with a ‘virtual’ fence of sensors
to guard what once was the longest
undefended border in the world.
Who is the prisoner?

Before it is too late,
ask yourself this question,
“Do I want to be safe,
or do I want to be free?”

Where is your outrage?


... P. L. Morningstar
.

Resist in March

The Unknown Rebel - This famous photo, taken on 5 June 1989 during the Tiananmen Square Massacre depicts a lone protester who tried to stop the PLA's advancing tanks. It is our turn to stop the machinations of war. Check out the Resist in March website for events planned to Resist the U.S. Occupation of Iraq, Oppose New Wars, Demand Impeachment.

State of the Union - 2004

Day Six: As we approach the March 19th fifth anniversary of the Iraq War, we continue our series of thoughts, and words written between 2003 and 2008. Shortly before the 2004 presidential election, I reflected upon the “State of the Union” and the urgency I felt to do something about it. I also began to contemplate leaving the country of my birth.

State of the Union
October 2004

My ancestors arrived in this country in the 17th and 18th centuries, becoming active participants in the history of our nation, and fighting wars for sovereignty and individual freedoms. For most of my sixty-five years I have been proud of that history, and proud to be an American. That is no longer true. The values and ideals my country once stood for have been corrupted by corporate greed and political gain. Money is power and it is what dictates policy decisions by this administration, not what is best for our nation or what is best for the world. The Patriot Act robs me of the freedoms that my ancestors fought for. Fear is used to control public opinion. The rest of the world sees my country as arrogant and dangerous, and so do I. Global warming and ecological damage is ignored so that the powerful can make a profit. Pre-emptive war, unthinkable only four years ago, has now become a national policy. And our president lampoons his failed search for weapons of mass destruction to get laughs at the Radio and Television Correspondents Association dinner. How have we come to this? This is an America I no longer recognize.

While I have always voted, it is only in the past four years that I have become a political activist. I do so grudgingly, for I am a peaceful person. I would rather read a good book, take a quiet walk in the woods, or row my dinghy on the lake. But given the current political situation, I do not have that luxury. Future generations depend upon what we do at this crucial time. Another four years of George W. Bush would be a disaster. To continue the course set by those now in power, we risk losing everything we hold dear.

So with the time I have left, I will enter the fray. I will fight for my country, as have my ancestors before me. But I will wage the battle non-violently through my art and the written word. They are the swords of my outrage. And if we lose this battle, if Bush is re-elected for another four years, I may leave the country that no longer represents the values I believe in, and move to Canada.

... P. L. Morningstar
.

Why We Stand In Vigil

Day Five: As we approach the March 19th fifth anniversary of the Iraq War, we continue our series of thoughts, and words written between 2003 and 2008. In September 2004, Bob and I took part in a candlelight vigil to mark the milestone of 1,000 American Military Casualties in Iraq. That number now stands at 3,987 (13 March 2008). Support our troops… bring them home. NO MORE WAR!

WHY WE STAND IN VIGIL
9 September 2004 – Journal Notes

8 pm candlelight vigil to mark the milestone of 1,000 US military deaths in Iraq. Courthouse lawn. Windy and cold… partly cloudy… some stars visible. Small group, maybe thirty people, all ages and pretty evenly divided between women and men. Hard to keep candles lit. For 45 minutes to an hour we held our candles and talked quietly amongst ourselves about the state our country is in. I sat in a deck chair because of my ailing back. Bob and I took turns holding the poster we had made earlier in the day to show that we also mourned the 10,000 Iraqi civilians who have lost their lives. People would walk up and look at the 3-sided poster.

A dog came by, put her nose in my lap. The flame I carefully shielded went out. At the other end of the dog’s leash was a man carrying a plastic shopping bag. He profusely apologized, wanting to light the candle again for me, but he discovered he didn’t have his lighter with him. I told him it was okay, it had gone out many times already, and Bob relit the candle for me.

The man looked at my poster and then began to talk, haltingly, with a slight tremor, searching for the right word. He explained that he was a Vietnam War veteran, 52 years old. He was #3 on the last year of the draft, so he volunteered and became a medic. He flew in a chopper and took grenade fragments to his head when a grenade was thrown at the chopper blade. He showed us the scar running from nose to the top of his head, between his eyes. He said he was lucky because he didn’t lose his eyes. His dog ‘Sally’ is a trained aide-dog, and helps him get around, helps him up when he falls down. She is part golden lab and part blue heeler.

As he talks to us about the insanity of war (he lost friends and two cousins in the First Gulf War), he struggles to hold back tears. “Why do we do this? Why do we think we have to be the policemen to the world? Why don’t we just stay at home and take care of ourselves?” Good questions. He thanked us for being there tonight and then continued walking home with Sally leading the way. Bob and I looked at each other, knowing what the other thought. This man who still carries the wounds of war, this man who needs an aide-dog to guide him home, it is for this man and all the young men and women fighting in Iraq right now, that we stand here in quiet vigil.

... P. L. Morningstar
.

"The Earth Is Shaking Under My Feet"

Day Four: As we approach the fifth anniversary of the Iraq War, we continue our series of thoughts, and words written between 2003 and 2008. In April 2004, U.S. forces laid siege to the Iraqi city of Falujah, and I sent an e-mail to President George W. Bush. As usual with this administration, public opinion and the advice of experts was scorned. A city and its people were destroyed. Now the war drums are beating again, bringing us ever closer to what could be another disastrous decision. Tuesday’s resignation of Admiral William Fallon, head of the U.S. Central Command was apparently forced upon him by the George W. Bush administration because Fallon is opposed to plans to attack Iran. We can do no less that Admiral Fallon. We also must voice our dissent. NO MORE WAR!

“The Earth Is Shaking Under My Feet”
April 2004

For weeks now my country has held siege to Falluja, a city of some 300,000 Iraqi citizens. The operation was begun on 5 April, to “pacify” insurgent fighters responsible for the death and mutilation of four security contractors. A fragile truce was agreed upon while attempts to negotiate a solution took place. The rest of the world and I waited. Members of Iraq’s US-appointed governing council condemned the early US military operation in Falluja. The U.N. senior adviser Lakhdar Brahimi visited Iraq and before leaving described the siege as unacceptable collective punishment of Fallujah’s people for the misdeeds of a few. (Seattle Post-Intelligencer, 25 April 2004) He also said the US had to learn how to live with a world in which it was the only super-power. “There are lots of other people on this planet,” he said. “They (US) should make an effort to learn how to live with them.” (BBC News, 23 March 2004).

And so we blocked access to the city’s main hospital (BBC News 23 March 2004), forcing makeshift clinics to be set up with medical supplies scarce. We flew in AC-130 gunships and high-flying bombers, dropped 2,000 pound bombs on insurgent sniper positions, and answered Muslim prayers with barrages of heavy metal rock, part of a psychological operations campaign to goad the insurgents into a fighting frenzy. (Pamela Constable, Washington Post Foreign Service, April 27, 2004). Pacify with force.

After watching the eleven o’clock news, filled with violent images of war and a president saying “America will never be run out of Iraq by a bunch of thugs and killers,” I went to bed with a sense of foreboding. This morning I woke early, a letter to the President already composed in my head. I wrote this e-mail:

A LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT
27 April 2004

Mr. President -

Since I became eligible to vote in 1960, I have seen many administrations come and go - some good and some bad - but I have never felt the alarm that I feel today. You and your long-reaching policies have so affected this nation that I fear we will never be able to recover. The middle class is disappearing, rights and freedoms guaranteed by the Constitution eroding, the environment permanently damaged, global warming a certainty, and our nation has been led into a course of war that has become nothing more than a modern day "Crusade." The Iraq War - a preemptive strike - was an act of aggression. An unlawful act of aggression that I protested against then, knowing it was morally wrong and would only lead to what has now occurred - an inflamed Islamic region.

We are now fighting the Iraqi people - the very people you say we are setting free. Saddam killed thousands of innocent people. How many have we killed? On the one-year anniversary, the death toll for Iraqi civilians is estimated to be from 8,865 to 10,715. And through bullying, insensitivity, ignorance, and disregard to world opinion and the wise words of other people, our young men and women have been put into a no-win situation. Whatever is done in Iraq now will have disastrous results making the world even more dangerous, not safer. Indeed, it is far more dangerous now than when you entered office and embarked on your "War on Terrorism" - or "Good Vs. Evil."

Osama bin Laden was responsible for 9/11. You and your administration are responsible for Iraq - the death of thousands of innocent Iraqi civilians, the destruction of their homes, businesses, hospitals, and mosques - and very soon, the lives of thousands of American soldiers who mistakenly believe they are sacrificing their lives for my freedom. It is an irony that while they die for my freedom, the so-called Patriot Act is taking that freedom away from me. And you have the audacity to say that God is on your side? You carry God's message to the world? Nonsense! If you were a private citizen, I would defend your right to believe that. But as my President, the stakes are too high for you to use your personal beliefs to govern and lead this country. That is very dangerous ground.

I am an American citizen and it is my patriotic right and responsibility to voice my dissent. You are the President, and it is your responsibility to listen to, and consider all views of this citizenry - not just those who agree with you. You like to say, "You're either with me or against me." Well... I am against you, but that is because I am FOR my country and all that it once stood for.

P. L. Morningstar
Friday Harbor, Washington


I hit SEND NOW, feeling satisfied that at least I was doing something, not standing by in silence while my country moves from one blunder to another, leaving death and destruction in its path. My satisfaction was short lived. By afternoon, a Reuter’s headline announced, U.S. FORCES BLAST FALLUJA TARGETS AFTER DEADLINE. “I can hear more than 10 explosions a minute. Fires are lighting the night sky,” one witness told Reuters, “The earth is shaking under my feet.”

A deserted street in the western part of Fallujah, Iraq,
Saturday, Nov. 13, 2004. (AP Photo/Anja Niedringhaus)

U.S. patrol of Fallujah, 2004. (AP Photo/Anja Niedringhaus)

Time is Running Out

Day Three: March 19 marks the fifth anniversary of the U.S. invasion of Iraq. We continue our series of thoughts, and words written between 2003 and 2008. With each peace march and candlelight vigil, we had hoped our voices would be heard and the violence ended. But the killing goes on. As if the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan aren’t bad enough, our administration is now intent upon attacking Iran. We must not let it happen. Please stand up and let your voice be heard. NO MORE WAR!

Days before the attack on Iraq - 2003

I find it very difficult this week to work on anything. There is tightness in my chest, tenseness in my body. Each morning I vow I will not listen to the radio, watch TV news, or click onto CNN.com. I commit myself to peaceful activity…Tai Chi, burning incense, and my artwork.

All of my resolutions dissolved this morning when I opened my e-mail to find an urgent alert from MoveOn.org. “Emergency” was on the subject line. “Send this letter to your friends asking them to sign a petition to the UN. Time is running out!”

So I copied, pasted, looked up e-mail addresses, composed letters to six relatives and friends. How could I not? Time is running out. We will soon be at war, perhaps by next week. One more try, one more petition, six more e-mails, and another day too disturbed to be creative. We are all under Bush’s guns.

And what happens the morning after the bombs fall? Do we all shrug and say, “At least we tried to stop the war?” Or do we use our common desire for peace in the world to send a different kind of message than the one that the Bush administration has chosen? We must continue to seek positive and peaceful ways to change the world. We can make a difference. We cannot, and must not revert to silent acceptance of a “done deal.” We must keep the promise; our commitment to peace.

Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.

….Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.

... P. L. Morningstar
.

Winter Soldier

Candlelight Peace March

Day Two: March 19 marks the fifth anniversary of the U.S. invasion of Iraq. Many events are planned throughout the United States, and the World… vigils, peace marches, and non-violent protests. Over the next days, we will be using this blog to add our voices to the growing crescendo, calling for an end to war and a return to peace and justice… the thoughts, words written, and events we have attended over these past five years, while tens of thousands of men, women, and children have met their death through no fault of their own. Stand up and let your voice be heard. We must end this violence.

Candlelight Peace March - 2003

Saturday, January 18, 2003 marked a day of massive antiwar demonstrations in this country. Perhaps a quarter of a million people in Washington D.C., 200,000 people in San Francisco, and 30,000 in Portland Oregon. My heart was in those places - I yearned to be a part of a bigger-than-life event such as these. To be surrounded by thousands of other people who feel as I do. But it was not to be, so I prepared candles for our Friday Harbor, Washington Peace March instead.

We arrived at dusk as the last rays of sun colored the sky west of the Courthouse with broad strokes of pink and orange. Dressed warmly with heavy jackets and wool knit caps, we rounded the back corner of the Courthouse to see only a handful of people standing near a picnic table on the lawn. Bob asked the questions. “Are you sure this is where we are supposed to meet? Is this the right day?” My heart sank. “Just once I would like to be a part of something bigger than myself,” I bemoaned. Bob reminded me that even this handful was more than either of us had had with us when we protested the First Gulf War. He was right of course, but I had hoped for more.

In the next five minutes our small group doubled in size. A man sat on the picnic table bench quietly strumming a guitar. A slender, bearded father in his forties stood nearby with his 10 to 11 year old son, a couple in their fifties waited quietly under a maple tree, a single grey-haired gentleman arrived with a big smile. Small groups of two to three joined us. By now it was dark enough to light our candles - and the numbers grew. We counted 80, then 150. And they continued to come. I recognized other artists; a Quaker who had purchased one of my botanicals, and Joe, a gentle man dedicated to helping others. Three teenage girls crossed the street to join the crowd, and a mother pushing a red canvas stroller. Families. Little children bundled up for the full moon night. A striking young woman arrived dressed all in black. She had painted a black oily tear running from her left eye. More musicians arrived - another guitar and a man carrying a harmonica and ukulele.

Some folks brought their own signs and I wished I had thought to bring one. Then I saw a man with an armload of red, white, and blue printed signs that said “No War Against Iraq.” He was handing them out to anyone who wanted one. Another man came with an armful of handmade cardboard signs - each with a different sentiment. He leaned them against the trunk of a tree for anyone to take. Bob walked over and read each one before finally choosing one to carry.

There was the sound of laughter and of friends greeting friends. Song sheets were handed out. The guitarists strummed old antiwar songs from the 1960’s. “Give Peace a Chance.” A few voices joined in, remembering other protests, other wars.

It was dark by now and the Courthouse lawn was a sea of bright candles. We wondered when we would start the march up Park Street, and then overheard the organizer say that the inter-island ferry hadn’t arrived yet. How many peace marches wait for the ferry? It reminded us that we live in a unique place. While we waited, the newspaper photographer climbed the tree behind us to get an overhead shot of the crowd. “Hey Bob, hold your sign up so that it covers the dead spot.” Bob held up his sign.

Finally the ferry arrived and what had been only a handful of people when we first came, now numbered between 200 to 300 people. We began to move slowly, peacefully away from the Courthouse towards Park Street, a ribbon of candlelight wending its way up the hill to the Episcopal Church. “Amazing Grace” was sung, with some of us just humming. Bob and I were in the middle of the long stretch of people. I looked back at the sea of faces bright in candlelight. It brought a lump in my throat and it was all I could do to hold back tears.

This wasn’t the tens of thousands who marched in Washington D.C. or San Francisco, but these were members of our own community, young and old, who chose to come out on a raw January night to be counted; to say NO to war, and yes to peaceful resolutions.

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.

Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.

... P. L. Morningstar
.

Finding My Voice

March 19 marks the fifth anniversary of the U.S. invasion of Iraq. Many events are planned throughout the United States, and the World… vigils, peace marches, and non-violent protests. Soapbox Poets for Peace is issuing a NATIONAL CALL TO ACTION for Poets of conscience to come to D.C. on Wednesday, March 19th, armed only with poems of peace, witness, truth, mourning and outrage. Over the next nine days, we will be using this blog to add our voices to the growing crescendo, calling for an end to war and a return to peace and justice… the thoughts, words written, and events attended these past five years – while tens of thousands of men, women, and children have met their death through no fault of their own. We must end this craziness.

Finding my Voice
January 18, 2003

I was a young mother in the 1960’s, married to a recently graduated chemical engineer. He was just beginning his upwardly mobile climb in the world of giant corporations and had received draft deferment through his employment with a major chemical company. Since I had no friends or relatives in the military, all that I knew of the Vietnam War was what I read in the newspaper headlines or saw on television. We lived in the southeastern corner of Texas - not exactly known for liberalism or radicals, especially the long-haired kind wearing Birkenstocks and carrying peace signs. I still believed that my country followed a moral high ground, and trusted that my president and his administration were doing what was best for our country and the world. While tens of thousands of soldiers and civilians were being killed in a country I knew little about, and while other twenty year olds were being jailed for taking part in sit-ins and protest marches, I teased my hair into a beehive, joined a garden club, played duplicate bridge, fed babies, and dutifully played the role of career-enhancing wife.

I ironed clothes while I watched Martin Luther King Jr. on TV giving his famous “I Have a Dream” speech before a crowd of 200,000 people in Washington D.C. I was impressed by what he said, but looking back now I realize he was way ahead of me. It has taken me years to realize the truth in what he said on that day. It took almost three decades before I found the passion and the courage to stand alone in front of my local post office in 1990, to protest the First Gulf War. There were supposed to be others, but I was the only one who showed up carrying my handmade antiwar sign. It occurred to me that I could just quietly leave and no one would know the difference - but in my heart I knew I had to stay. I was there to do more than protest the Gulf War - I was doing penance for the years I had lived in comfortable American ignorance while wars and covert military actions were taking place.

With full knowledge that a corporate vice president’s wife protesting on a busy street corner might stir up unwanted controversy in my husband’s career, I stood my ground for an hour. I didn’t make the newspaper or appear on the nightly news. I didn’t get jailed. Only those folks who passed me on their way to and from the post office, knew of my silent protest. The Gulf War took place anyway; the whole world watched it on their television screens, minus the blood and horror of dying innocent people. We were Top Gun. But while my protest was not successful in deterring the war, it did make a difference in my life. I was once again that young girl who spoke out against injustice; who spoke up for fair treatment and refused to apologize for my impassioned words, when I believed them to be true. The phrase “She hath a tongue with a tang,” was written under my graduation picture in the high school yearbook because of my fiery words to a teacher in defense of another student. For too many years that tongue had been silent.

Bob and I often reflect upon our individual Gulf War protests. While I stood alone in front of the post office, he and three others stood in front of the county Court House receiving jeers and crude remarks from passing motorists. We laughingly say that we were destined to get together. Now we will join others in another protest against another war. When will this ever end?

Tomorrow’s posting will describe the January 18, 2003 Peace March.

... P. L. Morningstar
.

Spring Fever for Squirrels

Red squirrels tend to be solitary creatures, each tending his or her own territory and warning any who intrude with clucks and sputters, falsettos, tail flicking and feet stamping. Of course when mating season arrives, a little intrusion is welcomed. Yu-Ling and I witnessed such an event today. At least I think that’s what it was all about. How else do you explain not one, not two, but four red squirrels cavorting around the cabin? Chasing each other under the cabin, popping up in the woodpiles, dashing across the snow bank, up and down trees, past the window – oblivious to the cat and human - and through the wooden stoop. What a madcap frenzy. I laughed and Yu-Ling went nuts trying to keep track of the squirrels and anticipating which window they would run past next. I don’t think the Red squirrel Tamiasciurus hudsonicus – “The Steward who sits in the shadow of his tail” – is in any danger of disappearing from around here. For that we are all grateful.

... P. L. Morningstar
.

Small Wonders

Nature doth thus kindly heal every wound.

By the mediation of a thousand little mosses and fungi,

the most unsightly objects become radiant of beauty.

Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862), Journal, 1845

.

Earth and Water

I am hungry for spring to come, anxious to tramp around in the woods once more. The flocks of migratory birds that we see in the meadow tantalizes and teases me with hints of things to come. Beneath the trees the rich green carpet of moss stretches upward after months spent under the weight of snow. I feel the same, responding to the lengthening northern days. After a lifetime of living with all the trappings of civilization, I find myself at home in the natural world; my daily activities attuned to the stirrings of other creatures.

See the world as your self.
Have faith in the way things are.
Love the world as your self,
Then you can care for all things.
… Lao Tzu

I carry in my pocket a miniature copy of Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching, translated by Stephen Mitchell. In all of its simplicity, it has become my guide for how to ‘be’ in the world. Even the Swamp horsetail Equisetium sp., the scourge of gardeners everywhere, can be loved and appreciated in the right setting. It grows in the wetland and shallow water around our beaver pond. For my collage, I used the Chinese symbols for earth and water to represent those elements.

... P. L. Morningstar
.

With Thoughts of Spring

It isn’t exactly spring. There are no crocus or daffodils blooming. The hummingbirds have not arrived. But we can see the bare ground once again – in spots – and there are green plants pushing their way through the ice near the creek bed. It still snows, falling lightly during the darkness of night or early morning hours, but by afternoon the pristine new snow is only a memory, leaving behind the tattered remains of winter.

Looking out my window at that snow-covered meadow, it is hard to imagine a garden lush with rows of carrot tops, potatoes, lettuce, beans, and summer squash. We must wait for the spring thaw – April or early May – to prepare the garden bed. Some gardeners have started seedlings inside – a clerk at the hardware store told me she starts her tomato seeds on Valentine’s Day. I like to use organic and heritage seeds from Johnny’s Select Seeds , Dancing Tree Seed Farm, and Victory Seed Company. For anyone interested in self-reliance gardening, I recommend Steve Solomon’s book, “Gardening when it counts – growing food in hard times.” Steve Solomon is the founder of Territorial Seeds in Cottage Grove Oregon.

... P. L. Morningstar
.

Island Time - Part Four

Lewis Channel and Discovery Islands - northern tip of Cortes Island on left

There have been times in my life when a serendipitous moment has presented itself to me… something wonderful, and unexpected. Like the time I was checking out of a small hotel in the German Alps and the clerk asked, “Are you going to the cow festival?” I had no idea what a cow festival was, let alone that one was taking place… but I leapt at the chance to find out. Later I watched, and listened to the echoing clamor of cowbells as cows were being brought down from their summer grazing spots in the mountains… a great procession of herders, and their festively adorned prize cows. It was the German version of a county fair, complete with vendors selling farm equipment, a beer garden, and country folks making ribald jokes about bulls and heifers. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. And so too a February night ten years ago when we slipped through moonlit trees and found Gorge Hall.

Sunday Night at Gorge Hall

We were only going for a short walk, to get some fresh air on this Sunday evening, our last in Gorge Harbor. Instead we were transported back into another time. As we walked through the woods along a gravel road, we could hear the sound of music coming through moonlit trees. Curiosity drew us closer. Numerous cars were parked around an old wooden structure known as the Gorge Community Hall. Soft lighting spilled through multi-paned windows, and when we drew closer we could hear scattered applause.

We stepped onto a covered porch, past neatly stacked firewood and into an entry. There was no one to sell us a ticket or hand out a printed program, only the welcoming feel of warm air against our chilled cheeks, the woodsy smell of smoke, and an inviting fire in a side-room fireplace. Through an open door we could see some thirty people seated in casual rows of folding chairs, children sitting Indian-fashion on the floor or standing at the edge of a small, illuminated stage. The only other lighting in the room was candlelight. A man and woman were on the stage, each with an acoustic guitar. The man lightly joked about his Jewish heritage and his playing partner’s Catholic background. She was colorfully dressed in a red velvet vest, dark patterned pants and bright orange silk scarf wound artfully through her black hair. They began to sing a folk ballad about a friend turning in another friend to the Mounties... “Is that being a buddy? No! No! That’s not a buddy.”

We were strangers here and yet as we slipped into the room, the eyes I felt upon me were accepting. I settled into the folding chair and became one of them for a while, tapping my toes, laughing, joining in when the audience was asked to sing the chorus, “No! No! That’s not a buddy.”

There was no self-consciousness about these folks. People come and go - to have a smoke outside, to check on a youngster up front, and see to the wood stove in back. A young woman walks quietly with her baby to a long bench at the rear of the room. She leans against the back wall - her nursing child at breast - she laughs and sings with the rest of us.

To some this place is a backwater, but there was nothing backwater about these performers. They were touring professionals playing to a small, appreciative audience of oystermen in gumboots and duct-tape-patched jackets, grey-haired retirees, a young couple wearing matching Nehru-style hats, children of assorted ages, and a teenager with Rastafarian hair. This is an island of rugged individuals. But on Sunday night at Gorge Hall, it is a community.

During our month-long stay here, Scott the store manager kept pointing to the bulletin board outside the Marina General Store, urging us to attend some of the events at Gorge Hall. “It’ll give you a chance to see the island folk. Everyone comes.” Stepping out into the cold night air as we left the Hall later, Bob turned to me and said, “What a perfect way to end our stay at Gorge Harbor.” I agreed. (February 1998)

… P. L. Morningstar
.

Island Time - Part Three

People thought we were crazy to sail north into British Columbian waters at wintertime. Perhaps we were. But despite the gales and snowy docks, there were no crowded marinas, and we found it easier to be accepted by the locals. We weren’t rich yachties… we were just that eccentric couple dressed in matching yellow foul weather gear, who had come in winter with a cruising sailboat, two cats and a Japanese bonsai on deck. Almost without exception, we experienced a friendly openness that would be missing in the summer boating crush. I found it touching to discover the American flag waving next to the Canadian flag the day after our arrival at Gorge Harbor (Cortes Island). There were even better things to come. Bob wrote this piece about the marina’s general store:

The General Store

My mother has told me stories about general stores and how country life had centered on them during the Great Depression. How the proprietor was the de facto postmaster, banker, purveyor of news, and local historian. How all of that was gone now.

Then we walked into the Gorge Harbor Marina Store and met Scott. Here was this affable, thirty-something guy with urban sensibilities, running a very small but complete general store. Well-stocked food shelves, freezer, and fresh produce. Hot coffee – Starbucks!! - and fresh baked goods at a two-stool counter, one of which needed repairs - “Don’t lean back on that one, but it’s okay if you sit still.” Video rentals, fishing gear, charts, and a fax machine that provided daily marine weather reports. All very contemporary, but just under the surface was the country store. You only had to be still, and listen, and watch. So I sat on the one good stool and had some coffee.

“Sure, you can leave your mail - put it in that box lid with the others - I’ll take it to Whaletown tomorrow or into Campbell River on Thursday if it’s important.”

As I stood by the display of videos, coffee in hand, I heard Scott telling another customer - an oysterman, I later learned - “No problem, I’ll put it on your tab,” and he took out a shoe box from under the counter – a box filled with little notepads - and entered the amount, and then carefully rechecked the transaction with her. She left with produce, and pride intact.

The store had one of only two gas pumps on Cortes Island, so people stopped by throughout the day for fuel and food and news... the main topic seemed to be the clear-cut logging on Twin Islands. All sides of the argument were represented as the day went on - including the loggers themselves who came in at the end of their workday. Later two Mounties came in - everybody got polite - and quiet. There is no Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment on Cortes, so they were here on business. Outside, several people waited to use the two public pay phones. These phones are rare enough that they are marked on maps of the island.

Later that evening, Morningstar and I walked back up to the store just before closing time. Quiet now, Scott is turning out the lights - shutting it down. But he stops to tell us about local events at Gorge Hall which might be of interest and also offered to take us into Campbell River on Thursday if we had ‘city business.’

So while the country general store and its proprietor fade from my mother’s memory, I have this new set of images. And with this writing, I can in turn share it with her. And maybe - just maybe - reassure her that some of those things she found so important, and thought were gone - some of those things are still here in this place.

As he turns out the light, Scott calls to us, “Be sure to check the bulletin board by the door. I try to keep it up to date.”

… Bob (February 1998)