Frank is Emptiness

March 15th, 2018

When is spending money an actual waste?

The answer to that question differs from person to person. It was also varies according to the situation. I know people who can’t spend their cash fast enough. I know people who are still hanging on to their lunch money from 3td grade. When do you hold on tight, and when do you let go?

While I was walking through Washington State, our youngest son, Stefan, bought himself a used Suzuki Marauder. Did he need a motorcycle? Probably not. Does the bike make him happy? Most definitely. He uses the painting equipment at the body shop to  customize the Suzuki. It is going to look sweet when he has it all done.

When I visited the girl that we love on Sunday, I told her about Stefan’s new bike. She frowned and asked,

“Why is Stefan buying a motorcycle when he should be saving up to move into an apartment?”

I gave her a noncommittal answer. Yeah, Stefan probably should be saving his pennies to get a place with July. That would be the prudent thing to do. On the other hand, the prudent thing isn’t always the right thing.

When we arrived at Hans’ house two days ago, he showed me his new Savage MSR-15 (AR-15). It is basically the civilian version of the rifle he carried on Iraq. He spent $800 on it.

My initial reaction was not exactly positive. I thought to myself,

“Really? I just sent you money, and you pissed it away on a fucking assault rifle?”

Then I looked at how pleased Hans was with the rifle. He wasn’t depressed any more. He was excited about trying it out. He asked me if I wanted to help him zero the weapon on the weekend.

I shrugged, smiled, and said, “Sure, why not?

I had remember that I gave Hans the money. He had spent his money. It wasn’t mine any more. I had given it to him freely, and a gift is only a gift if there are no strings attached.

I pissed away my money so that he could piss away his.

I’m good with that.

March 13th, 2018

We just finished chanting vespers with the monks. The sun set a few minutes ago, and now there is clear, dark sky over Subiaco Abbey. It’s going to be cold tonight. We may be in the middle of Arkansas, but it still feels like we are in Wisconsin. There will be frost on the car windows when we get up 5:00 AM to go to lauds. I expect that I will be able to see plenty of stars in the sky when Karin and I walk from the retreat house to the church.

Karin and I have been coming to Subiaco for years. The abbey is located in the Arkansas River Valley, west of Little Rock. The Ozarks rise up on both sides of the valley. The terrain is rugged, and often wooded. The monastery is 140 years old. It has massive stone buildings, and a peaceful atmosphere. The abbey is nearly midway between our house and Hans’ home in Texas. It makes for a good rest stop when we travel to visit our son.

The abbey was founded by Swiss monks 140 years ago. Arkansas is almost overwhelmingly Protestant; most people being Baptist or some flavor of Pentecostal. There is a thin strip of Catholics along the Arkansas River near Subiaco. These Papists are descendants of German immigrants who decided to become neighbors of the Calvinist locals.

There is a cemetery at the abbey that dates back almost one hundred years. Some of the tombstones go way back. The oldest markers are written in Latin. For the word “born”, they used “natus”. “Ordained” is “ordinatus”. “Died” is “mortuus”. The graveyard is a solemn place, but not depressing. The men who are buried there gave their lives for a cause. Their  lives meant something.

Besides the Benedictine monks, there are usually visitors at the abbey’s retreat center. Most of these folks are older. Monasteries tend to attract a more mature segment of the overall population. However, there is also a prep school located at Subiaco. So, there are scores of high school kids on the campus. To be honest, I prefer to hang out the young folks. Karin and I ate some of our meals in the cafeteria with the students.

I am not sure why all these boys are here. (By the way, the Subiaco student body is entirely male.) Some of the young men are from the local area. Many of them are from overseas, from China in particular. I get the impression that some of the parents just don’t want these teens at home. Nothing says “I love you” like sending your son thousands of miles away.

The Chinese kids are probably at Subiaco because the parents have business interests in the U.S., and they want the young lads to learn English and become familiar with the American culture. These parents also want to ensure that their little boys don’t get into trouble. God knows that there are not many opportunities for mischief around Subiaco. The closest town is Paris, AR. That burg can boast of having a Dairy Queen and a Dollar General store.

I observed the students in the cafeteria while we dined with them. The scene reminded me of my time at West Point. A lot of the boys were wearing their school colors: blue and orange. Some were dressed in tan-colored slacks, white button down shirts, Navy blue blazers, and fluorescent orange ties. It occurred to me that school uniforms and prison uniforms are similar in many ways, and perhaps serve the same purpose.

I am soooooo glad that I am not their age. They all had that look that told me they were simultaneously cocky and terrified. They have all sorts of things ahead of them, and they have no fucking clue. Sadly, their mentors at the school probably don’t have a clue either. I have already made most of my decisions: worked a job, found a spouse, built a house. As for raising our kids, that is still a work in progress. However, I have played most of my cards in life. Hopefully, most of the drama is in the past.

The church at Subiaco is an impressive Romanesque structure. It contains beautiful stained glass windows. Most of the windows somehow refer to the founder of the order, St. Benedict. Across from each other are two large rose windows: one depicts St. Benedict, and the other shows his sister, St. Scholastica. Under the image of St. Scholastica are three windows that display the three members of the Holy Family: Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The three windows below the image of St. Benedict show the three members of the Holy Trinity: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I like that balance.

Karin and I prayed the psalms with the monks four times a day. The monks used Gregorian chant. There is an ancient harmony and beauty to those chants. The voices reach back across the centuries. There is a sense of continuity in the musical tradition.

It was good to be there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

March 10th, 2018

Karin and I were in the courtroom a bit early. Room 205 is not terribly imposing. It looks like most any other office, except for the fact that it has the elevated judge’s bench. People were already busy in the courtroom when Karin and I arrived. The assistant DA was scrolling through documents on his computer screen. A couple of lawyers were in the room, alternately advising and ignoring their clients. Clerks were shuffling papers and sipping Starbucks at their desks. Everybody seemed to know everyone else in the courtroom. It felt like any other work place. It was all business as usual.

I heard an odd sound from outside the courtroom. It was a jangling, metallic sound. It reminded me of the noise that the chain on dog leash makes. Then it occurred to me: it was our loved one coming into the room.

She was wearing handcuffs and leg shackles, just as she did during her previous court appearance. The girl looked grim as she sat down. Her public defender sidled up to her, and started talking with the loved one. The lawyer smiled as she explained things. Our young woman nodded and looked at the attorney with an unblinking stare.

The judge came into the courtroom. We all rose. We all sat down again. The judge lost his reading glasses, and the process stalled until he found them again. Then he started hearing the cases before him. There was a routine and ritual involved with proceedings. Each person working in the courtroom played a familiar role, and they all knew their lines. Only the defendants seemed to have stage fright.

There were several cases on the docket. The girl we love was not at the top of the batting order. The first case involved a young woman who had been busted repeatedly for driving with a revoked license. Her lawyer asked for leniency because the young woman had to care for little daughter and a elderly grandfather. This woman had been in front of this same judge just a few months ago, and he had given her probation. The judge was no longer amused by the situation.

He told her, “I am not impressed that you are here again.  The last time you were here, I gave you probation. I guess you weren’t impressed by me either. Maybe a month in jail will impress you.”

Our loved one listened carefully to what the judge said to this other girl. It got her attention.

When it came time for our girl to plead her case, the judge patiently and thoroughly explained her rights. He made it very clear as to what would happen if she pleaded guilty. She did plead guilty. They had her dead to rights. The only real option for our girl was  to cop a plea and hope for mercy from the court. The DA wanted her to get put away for a year. Our girl accepted that deal, rather than a potential three year sentence.

The judge ordered a pre-sentencing review of the case. The public defender and the DA will give the judge any pertinent facts regarding the young woman’s AODA history, work record, academic degrees, and anything else that is needed. The judge will sentence our loved one on May 10th.

The thing that struck me most about the whole process was how mundane it all seemed. For most of the people in that courtroom, the events were nothing unusual. Our loved one was just part of an endless parade of offenders going through an impersonal and heartless system. For our loved one, the brief procedure was profoundly life-altering. It also radically changed my life and the life of my wife.

How can a single event be simultaneously inconsequential for some people and incredibly intense for others?

 

 

March 8th, 2018

We were staying at the Lucky Eagle Casino and Hotel in Chehalis country. The Chehalis tribe put out the red carpet for those of us who were part of the Longest Walk. They gave us rooms in the hotel, and they paid for all of our meals in the casino restaurant. On our first night there, we were given a private dining room. and we were allowed to graze freely at the dinner buffet.

I have some issues with casinos, but that’s just me. In my limited experience with casinos, I have to admit that they have amazing buffets. A person can eat almost anything at the buffet. The possibilities are practically endless. I’m a carnivore, so I focused on filling my plate with a variety of meat dishes. Even after two helpings, there were still things I had not sampled. However, I was full, actually overfull. I was ready to call it a night and waddle back to my room.

I didn’t leave the dining room. I was sitting next to Yamada, one of the Japanese walkers, and we started a conversation that lasted for about three hours. Everybody else left, but Yamada and I sat at the table, sipping coffee and discussing all sorts of things. The conversation lurched from topic to topic. I found that Yamada’s experiences were fascinating to me, and he apparently thought that my stories were worthwhile too.

Yamada was a Buddhist monk. Actually, he probably still is. He’s just a very reformed Buddhist monk. His encounters with Native American spirituality have shaped him in profound ways; just like my experiences with Buddhists and Jews have changed me. Yamada is no less of a Buddhist because of the events in his life. Likewise, I’m just as much of a Catholic as I was before I went to the Shul or sat Zen meditation. Yamada and I both see things from multiple perspectives. We have that in common.

Yamada told me his story. He, like Senji, has his roots in the Tandei school of Japanese Buddhism. Tandei, as I understand it, focuses on the Lotus Sutra. Monks study the extensive contents of the sutra, and they do quite a bit of chanting. That is certainly the case with Senji’s particular sect, the Nipponzan Myohoji. I am not so sure about what Yamada’s tradition entailed. He did tell me that for five years he engaged in a very severe form of practice, and he said that for a time he was in charge of a temple in Tokyo. It sounded to me like Yamada was a serious and devoted Buddhist.

At some point, maybe ten or fifteen years ago, Yamada was introduced to Native American spirituality. This changed his life. He somehow went from being a strict monk with a shaved head to a wandering minstrel with long hair and a beard. Senji met Yamada years ago, and he remarked to me that the man had changed quite a bit, all for the better. Yamada gave me a CD of his music. The CD is called Songs for Nature, and it is from the 7 Generations Band, in which Yamada sings and plays guitar.

So, what happened? Why the transformation?

Yamada told me that he found light in Buddhism (as in “enlightenment”). In the Native American traditions he found power, a kind of earth-centered, dynamic energy. Yamada said,

“I try to balance the light and the power. The two go together.”

Yamada wasn’t the only Japanese person on the walk. Ikaeda was with us for several days, as was Senji. Makyo, a female singer, walked with the group. As she was getting ready to leave, Koko, another Japanese woman, arrived to join the walkers. There seems to be a connection between the Native Americans and the Japanese that goes beyond just Buddhism. Several of the Indians have walked in Japan. I know Bobby went there, and so did Wounded Knee.

So, what is this all about? Senji commented to me that the Japanese have a very disciplined culture. Yamada described the Japanese as being precise. I know as little about the Japanese as I do about the Indians. However, I do know something about the Germans. Senji told me more than once that the Japanese and the Germans have many similarities. This tells me that the Japanese, like many Germans, have a certain rigidity. They don’t often cut loose. The Japanese push themselves hard, and have very high personal standards. This indicates society with a lot of stress. It is also a very urbanized and technologically advanced society.

From what little I have seen from the Native Americans, they have a more relaxed lifestyle than the Japanese. They tend to be much more flexible. They are nature-centered. They are intuitive. In some ways, the Indians are all that the Japanese are not. The Japanese, at some point in their history, had the the natural rhythms of the Indians, but those things got lost along the way. I get the sense that the Japanese hunger for some of the attributes of the Native Americans. As Yamada says, they look for “balance”.

There might also be some deeper connections that I don’t know. The two peoples click in odd ways.

I remember that it snowed during the night when we were staying with the Nisqually tribe. I went out on the balcony the next morning. Big Pete from the Pit River tribe was already there. It was starting to warm under the sunshine. Pete looked at me and then at the snow on the balcony. He smiled and said,

“May your thoughts be as the melting snow.”

That was totally Zen.

 

 

 

 

 

March 8th, 2018

I left the walkers a week ago today. It feels longer than that. We had been staying at the Lucky Eagle Casino/Hotel on the Chehalis reservation near Olympia, Washington. Last Thursday morning we got ready to move on. Some of us were going home. The rest of the group was heading to the Shoalwater Bay reservation.

I was not the only person leaving the walk. Peter was going home to the Guadalupe Catholic Worker House in Tacoma. Senji was taking me and Makyo to his temple on Bainbridge Island. I was going to stay there for a day and then ride to Wisconsin on Amtrak from Seattle. Makyo planned on returning to Japan, via San Diego. Once we all departed, there would still be a core group on the Longest Walk 5.3. Other people would join the team. Another Japanese woman, Koko, had arrived for the walk just the day before. These walks have a transient population. That’s just how it works.

We circled up. Bobby talked briefly. Yamada brought around some smoking sage, and we all smudged. We prayed, and then we all shook hands. The is a certain ritual involved in that process. The circle breaks off and sort of swallows its tail. People turn and greet each other until there is no circle left. It’s hard to describe in words.

As I went around the circle, some people gave me big hugs. Some gave me less enthusiastic embraces. I got to Tony, the large, well-built youth from southern California. He grabbed me in his arms, and gave me a bear hug. He lifted me off my feet and laughed. Then he said,

“You’re coming back.”

It was a statement, not a question.

I told him, “Yeah, as soon as I can.”

Tony laughed again, and said, “Cool!”

At the end of the line, Bobby came to me. He had to some cloth patches in his hand. They were designed for the walk. He said,

“I have these to give to you.”

He handed them to me slowly and with a certain kind of formality.

I thanked him.

Then he looked at me, and he gave me a heartfelt hug.

Bobby said, “Hey brother! Stay strong! Keep that fire burning inside!”, as he pointed at my chest.

I was ready to fucking cry.

 

 

March 7th, 2018

Bobby gives all the presentations at the reservations. He’s good at it. He’s a gifted speaker. It’s probably because he always speaks from the heart. His words burn with a passion and a fierceness. He is completely authentic, and that forces people to listen to him.

Bobby has often told people that drugs, alcohol, and domestic violence affect everyone. This includes Bobby. This includes people that are not Native Americans. More than once he told the folks on the rez that he knows of only one person in his family who died of natural causes. After that he told everyone,

“My father was murdered.”

That’s an attention getter.

He went on to say that some of his family died of overdoses. Many of them died from the long term effects of chemical abuse. None of this stuff is theoretical to him. It is all up close and personal. He’s lived it.

Bobby usually sings a tribal song. He insists that nobody record the event. He sings and shakes his rattle. It is intense. He pours everything he has into that chant. I don’t understand the words he sings, but I can hear the power and the pain in his voice.

When I listen to Bobby, I think about my own life, and the lives of those I love. His words resonate with me. His experiences are more extreme than my own, but I think I get it. My brother drank himself to death. One of my sons has been shot, and this same young man killed people in Iraq. A young woman that is important to me is in jail for her 4th DUI. I know a young man who was abused as a child. Yeah, I get it.

I am not on the Longest Walk now. I am going to go with my wife to visit our struggling son in Texas. I am trying to help the girl we both love. The whole point of the walk is to care for the “people”. I am trying to care for my people.

God willing, I will rejoin the walkers in a few weeks. They want me back. I want to be with them. Karin is encouraging me to return to the group.

I think it is something I need to do.

March 6th, 2018

I had originally told Bobby that I would walk as long as I could. I really thought my time with the group would exceed two weeks. It didn’t. I was only on the walk for twelve days.

Hans, our redneck Texan son, texted me on the eighth day of the journey. He wrote that he was going through a really hard time, and that he wanted me to call him. I found this disturbing. First, Hans never sends me a text. He always calls. If I am not available, he never leaves a message. He just calls again later. Second, Hans never admits that he is struggling. He has that macho, military, I-can-do-it-all-on-my-own thing going. I have that too. It doesn’t usually work out well.

So, I called him back.

Hans sounded beat. He was frustrated and angry. Apparently, the company that sold the house to Hans and his friend had a clause in the contract that allowed them to sell it to somebody else if the the mortgage was not completely paid off. Hans told me that the company intentionally left a page out of the contract. I would have thought that Hans, or his friend, or a lawyer, or somebody, would have noticed that sort of thing. Basically, Hans didn’t read the fine print. He sometimes gets burned because of that sort of thing, and this time he really got burned.  Hans and his fiancee have to move out of the house by the end of March.

I asked Hans if he needed some help from Karin and me. Hans kind of hemmed and hawwed.

“Well, maybe before the end of the month…you could help me out a little.”

“How much?”, I asked him.

“I don’t know. Maybe $800. We’ll have to see how much work I get. It’s been raining all the time, so I haven’t had many concrete jobs. It’s only because I run the pump truck with the long boom that I worked at all this week.”

“What if Mom and I send you a thousand?”

Hans voice cracked. He sounded utterly despondent. “Dad, I really hate to ask you. You know I don’t like to bother you and Mom like this…”

That hurt. I told him, “Hans, don’t ever feel bad about asking us for help. We want to help you out when you need us. It’s okay.”

“Yeah, I know. I just don’t like doing that. You always taught us to do things on our own and not ask for help.”

I was felt like crying. “Yeah, I know. I wish to God I had never taught you that.”

Hans replied, “Well, you did. It’s okay.”

“Hans, I’ll talk to Mom. We will send you some money, maybe a grand. That should help a bit.”

“Dad, I’m really sorry about asking you…”

“IT’S OKAY!”

“All right, all right. Well, I’ll talk to you later.”

We ended the call.

I got hold of Karin. We talked. I told her that we really ought to go down to Texas and be with Hans for a while. She agreed. The conversation with Hans scared me. Hans has gone into deep depressions in the past, and he has done things that were dangerous. He’s a combat vet, and vets sometimes do stuff that is not healthy.

I called Hans again.

“Hey, you want Mom and me to come and visit you?”

There was a pause. “Well, I don’t want to put you folks on the spot…”

“Hans, this a yes or no question. Do you want us to come?”

Hans sighed and said, “Yeah. I just don’t want you to go to a lot of trouble.”

“I’ll go back home, and then Mom and I will drive to Bryan.”

Hans seemed to relax. “Okay, I just don’t want you all to…”

“We will come on down. I need to spend some time with you.”

“Okay…thanks, Dad.”

“We’ll see you soon.”

“Okay.”

We hung up. I put my head in my hands.

I looked for Bobby. I had to tell him that I needed an early out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

March 5th, 2018

Senji insisted on sending me home with a lunch…and a dinner…and a breakfast for the next morning. I had a ticket on Amtrak’s “Empire Builder” train that rolls on the rails from Seattle to Milwaukee. It takes about forty-two hours to make the journey. Amtrak offers food and beverages, but at a premium price. I can’t complain about the quality of the meals. They are good. It’s just that they are expensive.

Senji is a veteran of the Empire Builder. He wanted to make sure that I brought enough provisions along with me. I didn’t feel like he needed to do that, but he was adamant. He started by putting together a to-go box with rice and some leftovers in it. Then he packed up some mixed fruit from breakfast. He added a package of mini-muffins. Then he decided to boil four eggs. All these things went into a red cloth shopping bag.

I wasn’t particularly keen on carrying along a massive meal bag. I already had two other carry on bags and a sleeping bag to drag with me to the train station. Also, at Senji’s temple, and during the Longest Walk, all I seemed to do was eat. Just before Senji took me to the ferry, he fixed me a huge plate of spaghetti. That was on top of a rather hefty breakfast he had served to Makyo and myself earlier in the day. I had already purchased some fruit to take with me, so Senji’s efforts seemed a bit too much.

On the way to the ferry that would take me from Bainbridge Island to Seattle, Senji and I stopped to visit Ben and his father, Denny. Ben inisited on giving me a cherry-filled chocolate bar from a local confectionary. That went into the red bag with the other food. We only stayed with Ben and Denny for a few minutes. Then Senji dropped me off at the ferry terminal, and I rode it across Puget Sound.

Seattle has a large homeless population. The city has a mild climate, and the inhabitants tend be tolerant of the street people. I had to walk past a number of them as I trudged from the ferry terminal on Pier 52 to the train station on King Street.

I had gone a couple blocks down Marion Street when I saw a young man lying on the pavement. He was wrapped in his sleeping bag, with his back propped up against the wall of a brick building. He had that lost look, bleary-eyed and unkempt. I paused and stood in front of him.

I asked him, “Are you hungry?”

“Well, yeah man…”

I set the bag of food next to him on the sidewalk.

“This is yours.”

I walked on.

March 5th, 2018

Don liked to talk. He loved to tell stories. Even though he was loquacious, I always felt like he knew more than he said. He had this sly smile that hinted of secrets. He was the kind of man who is endlessly interesting because there is always more to him.

Some of us were sitting in a common room in the emergency response center of the Nisqually tribe. We had just eaten two large evening meals. The Nisqually ladies had cooked us a delicious fish stew and loaves of garlic bread. As if on cue, once we were done eating the stew, somebody delivered us a table full of Chinese take out. After sampling a variety of dishes from the Great Wall of the Mandarin Pandas (or whatever the restaurant was called), we sat around a very large, oval table. We listened to Don tell us tales of the Bigfoot.

Don did not speak of Bigfoot sightings. No, he talked about his experiences with Bigfoot. It is one thing to hear somebody ramble on about how they caught a glimpse of Bigfoot walking through the trees while camping. It is quite another to hear Don describe how he played hide-and-seek with the Bigfoot children when he was a youth. Don went into detail about his adventures with the Sasquatch. He went on to say that he was convinced that the Bigfoot were the protectors of the land.

I listened to all of this with interest. I didn’t roll my eyes or laugh. I figured that Don was either a very good liar, or that he believed what he was saying to us. If he actually believed his own stories, then maybe some of them really happened. His words pushed me way out of my comfort zone. The world became decidedly strange.

It would be easy to dismiss Don if he was just part of some kind of Native American fringe group; a sort of Alex Jones of the rez. He’s not. He represents in some ways the mainstream Indian perspective on Nature. From what little I have seen, the Native Americans see the natural world as being both alive and aware. The living world is a sentient world, intimately connected with humans. We are not alone.

Wounded Knee would talk about this sort of thing. He spoke about us praying to the tree people, and asking them for strength and help. He talked about the spirits of the rivers. I saw him hug a cedar tree like it was a long lost brother. Everything is alive in both a material and a spiritual sense. Everything is connected in a seamless, living fabric.

The Native Americans are not alone in this way of perceiving the world. Francis of Assisi spoke of “Brother Sun, Sister Moon”. Other traditions have seen or felt the hidden reality of the physical world. It is just our modern society that is blind to it all.

Walking with the Indians has opened my eyes in unexpected ways. I perceive things that were previously invisible to me. I don’t see actual spirits, but I know that they are there.

 

March 5th, 2018

“So, what exactly is an elder?”

That was my question to Big Pete. Pete came on the Longest Walk from his home on the Pit River tribal reservation in northern California, near Mount Shasta. Pete is an imposing man. Everything about him is big, including his heart.

Big Pete sat down across from me at the kitchen counter. He pondered my question for a moment, and then he said,

“A person isn’t an elder in the tribe just because he or she is old. It’s not just because of age.”

I asked, “So, what are the qualifications?”

Pete looked straight at me and replied, “An elder is somebody who you respect instantly just because of who they are and how they act. Wounded Knee is an elder. Your Buddhist friend over there is an elder.”

My Buddhist friend, Senji, is a Japanese monk, and, yes, he definitely is an elder. Senji has a quiet dignity and presence that is very attractive. He doesn’t say much (until you get to know him, and he gets to know you). Senji is a good listener and he is quietly observant. He knows how to pay attention.

Wounded Knee, on the other hand, loves to talk. He is brash and funny…and wise. The man is seventy-six years old. He doesn’t need to impress anyone, and he makes no effort to do so. He uses his experience and knowledge to help others. Most men of his age would be satisfied to sit at home, but not Wounded Knee. He wants to walk with the younger folk, even if he can only shuffle along for a short time before he gets tired. Wounded Knee knows things. He has an integrity that few people ever achieve.

Native Americans honor their elders. Elders always eat first. They are always treated with deference and respect. Likewise, true elders treat the young with respect and give them encouragement. Respect is a two-way street. The young folks can see that the elders are wise, and the elders are smart enough to know that the young are the future, the only future there is.

In some ways, this situation is alien to me. I live in the white American culture that embraces a malignant form of individualism, where mutual respect is seen as a quaint relic of the past. I have often heard old people (and not so old people) in our society bitch about the young: “I wasn’t like these kids back in my day!” The young return the favor by mocking or ignoring the old, some secretly hoping for more laws allowing for euthanasia. I can’t really blame young people; some of the folks senior to them have grown old, but not at all wise.

I think that for the Native Americans one factor involved in becoming an elder is simply survival. The Indians have endured genocide. They have dealt with epidemics, like scarlet fever. They currently struggle with alcoholism, drug abuse, and domestic violence. The fact that somebody in a tribe even lives long enough to become old means that they have done something right. However, being an elder means that they also have the capacity to pass down their wisdom to the next generations. They have to care about the young. They have to bless those who follow them.

I am trying to think of the men and women who have served as elders to me.

Nobody comes to mind, except for my grandmother.