John

John, Omak Stampede, August 2016

I am naturally cynical, pragmatic, logical. I do not believe prayers move a diety to action. 

I found myself 'praying' last night as I scrolled through pictures of protestors and recognized someone else - John. 
I met John at an event this summer. I was interviewing a young lady and John sat quietly nearby, intently listening. When she and I were finished, John stood up and held out his hand. He firmly grasped my hand in both of his and told me a story. John is disabled, his speech is garbled, but that does not stop him from interacting with everyone and being his friendly self. I had no idea what he was saying, but I loved every word as he animatedly emphasized here, raised an eyebrow there, and laughed heartedly at a punchline that only he knew. Awhile later I felt a tug at my elbow. John had changed into his dancing clothes and was going to drum that night. He motioned to my camera and then proudly mugged for a few shots.
John is unable to talk, but in the brief evening I spent with him he communicated volumes with his smile, hand gestures, drumming and dance.
As I scrolled through images from the NoDAPL protests, I recognized John. He was held in an embrace by another - someone who I know was arrested. His face was buried in the other man's chest. I wondered, was he hurt? was he scared? was he arrested too?
He can't talk. Was he one of the ones with a number written on his arm instead of a name? Was he one of the ones held in a dog kennel?
He can't talk. Were the police patient or gentle with him? Did they recognize someone who has special needs and act appropriately?
I worry and I pray.
Me. Praying.
For his safety, for everyone's safety. And a quick end to this brutal attack on peaceful protesters who are standing ground on their own treaty lands that were never ceded.

Ladybug Hiberation

 Where ladybugs slumber deep
Through winters long dark keep

A seasonal and silent gathering

Bodies cluster wing to wing

On rocks and logs and leaves
On stems, the ground, the trees

Cold and clear flows the creek

A watery lullaby for them to sleep

Ladybugs settling down to rest

The moment before snows drift

Monday - A Deconstruction

I decided to start the day off right, by getting up early to exercise, eat a healthy breakfast and pack a slimming salad for lunch. Here’s how the day transpired:

• 5:30 a.m. Bounced out of bed, unrolled exercise mat and assumed plank position.

• 7:30 a.m. Woke up face-down on the floor mat, dog licking my face. Vaguely remember doing one pushup. Now running late for work, no time to pack lunch or eat breakfast.

• 8:00 a.m. Stop at Carlton General store for a coffee, muffin and freshly made turkey sandwich on croissant for lunch. The store and parking lot are packed with out-of-town hunters. One of them holds open the door (nice) and says, “Morning, baby girl” (not nice).

• 8:10 a.m. Now slightly irritated and running late, I forget that I placed the cup of coffee on top of the car. The man who mistook a grown woman for a baby jumps in front of the car, waving his arms and yelling, “don’t go anywhere baby girl!” Remembering the coffee, I retrieve it, while the man continues to instruct me as if I were an infant, “buckle up, baby girl!” 

• 9:00 a.m. I arrive to my job as the office administrator at the Bear Fight Institute, where scientists conduct research and publish findings on geological formations within our solar system. An airmail letter from Britain is in the pile of unopened mail. Marked “Private and Confidential,” the letter looks important. I email the scientist it is addressed to; he was out of town that week. He replies that it may need immediate attention, so I open the letter to find a handwritten note requesting a professional opinion on the existence of Loch Ness. A self-addressed stamped envelope is enclosed.

I take a long sip from the still-hot Carlton General Store coffee that I had earlier refrained from throwing on someone, and decide not to reply to the letter. Although I truly want to say, “Dear Sir, as a research institute located in the Pacific Northwest, we can only speak on issues relating to Bigfoot.”

The rest of the work day passed quickly without further incident, until the drive home, when a Methow Valley-sized traffic jam of cows took a leisurely stroll across the Rendezvous Road. The behooved “cow-moot” resulted in a dinner idea.

Beef stew ingredients browned in a pot on my stove later that evening. I grabbed a carton of beef broth and shook the contents vigorously before pouring into the pot. Then I reached for the can of Guinness and, without thinking, also shook it vigorously. I’d like to believe most of the Guiness dripped down into the pot after exploding all over the kitchen ceiling. I’d also like to believe that my ceiling was relatively clean.

Find my beef stew recipe here :)