Today an associate at work sent me a message from the Potawatomi author Robin Wall Kimmerer about the alchemical potential in this time of darkness. Kimmerer invokes the principle of wetiko/windigo, which I've written about extensively. I thought I'd post the message here, since it will probably resonate with many of you. Also, from now on, I'll be referring to the current president as the Windigo-in-Chief.
Dear Readers—America, Colonists, Allies, and Ancestors-yet-to-be,
We’ve seen that face before, the drape of frost-stiffened hair, the white-rimmed eyes peering out from behind the tanned hide of a humanlike mask, the flitting gaze that settles only when it finds something of true interest—in a mirror. Cruel eyes, a false face and demeanor of ravening hunger despite the unconscionable hoarding of excess while others go without. The spittle quickly licked away from the sly “fox in the henhouse” smirk that sends chills down your spine, a mouth that howls lies pretending it’s an anthem.
Americans keep acting surprised by the daily assaults on American values once thought unassailable. I can’t speak for all Native people, but we’ve smelled that carrion breath before. We know who this is, the one whose hunger is never slaked—the more he consumes, the hungrier he grows. We’ve met him on our shores, at the Thanksgiving table, at the treaty table, at the Greasy Grass, on the riverbank at Standing Rock, and in the courts. His mask does not fool us, and having so little left to lose and all that is precious to protect I call him the name of the monster that my ancestors spoke of around the winter campfire, the embodied nightmare of greed, the Windigo.
We know him. Perhaps this is why he has taken special efforts to poke Indigenous peoples in the eye, because we see him. He has proven himself an equal-opportunity offender to people black and brown. But with the spite of bullies everywhere, he has sharpened his stick with special vindictiveness for Native people from the first days of his administration, by reversing the glimpse of justice we held for one shining moment at Standing Rock, to dishonoring the Code Talkers, to undermining treaty obligations and threatening termination for our people, to casting Pocahontas’s name as a slur that manages to taint every stereotype across a range of Indigenous identities, to denying protection for Gwich’an livelihoods, to sending drill rigs to penetrate sacred land.
Americans are called on to admire what our people viewed as unforgivable.
He is the obscene of the Anthropocene, the colon of colonization, the grinder of salt into the original wound of this country, but lest I spend any more words on cathartic name-calling, let me say that Windigo is the name for that which cares more for itself than for anything else. It shrieks with unmet want—consumed with consumption, it lays waste to humankind and our more-than-human kin.
Windigo tales arose in a commons-based society where sharing was a survival value and greed made one a danger to the whole. But in a profit-based society, the indulgent self-interest that our people once held as monstrous is now celebrated as success. Americans are called on to admire what our people viewed as unforgivable.
The particular weapon of the Windigo-in-Chief is the executive pen, used against what has always been the most precious, the most contested wealth of Turtle Island—the land. With the stroke of that pen, he has declared that “oil is life” and that protecting the audacious belief that “water is life” can earn you a jail sentence. The same pen gutted the only national monument designed by Native people to safeguard a sacred cultural landscape, the Bears Ears. In opening those protected lands for uranium mining, he triumphantly claimed that he was re- turning public land to the people.
From his origins as a real estate developer to his incarnation as Windigo-in-Chief, he has regarded “public lands”—our forests, grasslands, rivers, national parks, wildlife reserves—all as a warehouse of potential commodities to be sold to the highest bidder.
Let us remember that what the United States calls “public lands” (and, if the truth be told, all of what the United States calls private property as well) are in fact ancestral lands; they are the ancestral homelands of 562 different Indigenous peoples. A time-lapse map of North America would show the original lands of sovereign peoples diminishing in the onslaught of colonization and the conversion from tribal lands to public lands, some through treaty-making, some through treaty-breaking, some through illegal sale, and some through what were termed “just wars,” by executive action and “encroachment.”
Not only was the land taken and her people replaced, but colonization is also the intentional erasure of the original worldview, substituting the definitions and meanings of the colonizer. That time-lapse map of land taking would also show the replacement of the Indigenous idea of land as a commonly held gift with the notion of private property, while the battle between land as sacred home and land as capital stained the ground red. Of course our ideas were dangerous to the idea of Manifest Destiny; resisting the lie that the highest use of our public land is extraction, they stood in the way of converting a living, inspirited land into parcels of natural resources.
You, right now, can choose to set aside the mindset of the colonizer and become native to place, you can choose to belong.
Native people have a different term for public lands: we call them home. We call them our sustainer, our library, our pharmacy, our sacred places. Indigenous identity and language are inseparable from land. Land is the residence of our more-than-human relatives, the dust of our ancestors, the holder of seeds, the makers of rain; our teacher. Land is not capital to which we have property rights; rather it is the place for which we have moral responsibility in reciprocity for its gift of life. Here is the question we must at last confront: Is land merely a source of belongings, or is it the source of our most profound sense of belonging? We can choose.
Our ancestors had a remedy for Windigo sickness and the contagion it spreads. Those who endangered life with their greed were banished from the circle of what they would destroy. They were cast out from the firelight and the bubbling stewpot, from care and community. You colonists also have that power of banishment. Will you use it? It’s not enough to banish the Windigo himself—you must also heal the contagion he has spread. You, right now, can choose to set aside the mindset of the colonizer and become native to place, you can choose to belong.
Colonists, you’ve been here long enough to watch the prairies disappear, to witness the genocide of redwoods, to see waters poisoned by the sickness of Windigo thinking. The Windigo has no moral compass; his needle swings wildly toward the magnetism of whatever profit beckons. Surely, however, the land has taught you differently, too—that in a time of great polarity and division, the common ground we crave is in fact beneath our feet. The very land on which we stand is our foundation and can be a source of shared identity and common cause. What could be more common and shared than the land that gives us all life? Rivers don’t ask for party affiliation before giving you a drink, and berries don’t withhold their gifts from anyone.
The moral compass guiding right relationship with land still remains strong in pockets of traditional Indigenous peoples. The sharp stick of the bully in the White House only hardens our resolve. The needle still points faithfully north, to what we call in my language Giiwedinong, the “going home star.” When we acknowledge the truth that all public land is in fact ancestral land, we must acknowledge that by dint of history and time and the biogeochemistry that unites us all, your dust and your grandchildren will mingle here. They will know what you do here, they will reap the consequences of whether you choose to banish Windigo thinking. You could follow the “going home star” and make a home here grounded in justice for land and people.
Colonists become ancestors too. The question is, What kind of ancestor do you want to be?
Sincerely,
Robin Wall Kimmerer
The world's mythological stories have a lot to offer in this chaotic time. One trope in mythology that I'm interested in now is the figure of the marginal hero. In marginal hero stories, a beast or evil spirit is wreaking havoc across the land, and the popularly appointed saviors - the warriors, the chiefs, the king and queen - are helpless in the face of such ferocity. Out of this vacuum, though, emerges someone who is usually overlooked; the village fool, or maybe an outcast orphan girl. Using their cunning, insight, and their willingness to follow advice from a council of helpers, our marginal hero does battle with the beast but does not kill it. Rather, he or she tames it and integrates it back into the web of creation.
The Nordic story of the Lindworm Prince is one well known marginal hero myth. Last fall, though, I came across a Lakota marginal hero tale while reading Coyote Healing: Miracles in Native Medicine by Lewis Mehl-Madrona. I knew I had to share it with this community. It speaks to our experiences as empaths and light workers on so many levels. I can't find it anywhere online, so I transcribed the whole thing. Here it is, the story of the One Birds Love:
Two sisters sat outside their dwelling place dreaming of stars. One of them wondered what it would be like to be married to a star. The next morning, she was gone. Her sister cried and cried for the girl who had vanished from her bed. Days passed and nothing had been heard from the girl. Warriors searched near and far. No enemy had been seen for days. How could anything have happened to her without the sentries detecting something? Magic, people whispered, was the cause.
One night, the remaining sister dreamed that her missing sister came to her. “I am married to a star,” said the sister. “When you wish to marry a star, sometimes they hear you and bring you up to the land above. Go outside and long for me. If you wish hard enough to be married to a star, maybe we can be together again.”
The sister remembered this dream upon waking and pondered it all day. She was not happy with her life on earth. Her parents had plans for her that didn’t include her wishes. They wanted to marry her to someone she detested. Marrying a star had to be better than what was in store for her.
That very night the woman went outside the dwelling place and longingly looked up at the stars. She dreamily imagined the joy of being married to a star. Each night she continued, until she fell asleep on the fourth night. Her last waking thought was her desire to be a star’s wife. When she awoke, the surroundings seemed strangely different. Her sister greeted her. “Where am I?” she asked.
“You’re in star country,” replied her long-lost sister. “Your dreams were answered. The stars heard you and brought you here.” They were together in a beautiful teepee. The furs were fluffy and white, like the underside of clouds. Looking out the front flap, the star people’s world looked a lot like the world of the regular people, except that it was cleaner and fresher. The grass sparkled, as did the water. The star people looked like earth people, except that they were taller and thinner and their faces reflected light.
As the sun headed towards the western sky, the shadows deepened and the newly arrived sister met her future husband. It was love at first sight, and they lived happily ever after. Over the course of time, three children arrived, and all were welcome. One, however, was always getting into trouble. Her parents called her Never Stops Moving. “Don’t pick the blooming turnips,” her parents admonished. Did that stop inquisitive child? No; her parents were always stopping her just at the fateful moment. “Don’t you know that you will fall to earth if you pick the blooming turnip?” said her mother. “I was born on earth, and trust me, you don’t want to go there. It’s much nicer here.”
“What’s earth?” replied the child.
One day, Never Stops Moving encountered the wild blooming turnip when there were no older children or adults around. She pulled and pulled and tugged and tugged and tugged until the blooming turnip burst out of the ground, and she found herself being sucked through the hole in the sky down to earth. She lay helplessly on the ground, just like a newborn baby. Her weight seemed massive. She could barely move her head. The pressure was immense. She was defenseless.
The birds noticed Never Stops Moving’s fall to earth. They came to see what had landed. They took pity on her, especially the meadowlarks. They brought her food to eat when she was too weak to raise her head. They dragged her to shade. They fanned her with their wings. Slowly she grew stronger. She learned how to raise her head. She began to lift her arms. Eventually she could sit up. Star people didn’t need such strength. They didn’t have to work so hard for every movement. But she was getting stronger and stronger.
Before many cycles of the moon had passed, she was running with the birds, almost as fast on her feet as they were with their wings. She found food for them. She sang with them. She learned their language and their customs. She was the One the Birds Love.
Over time she grew to be a strong woman. She missed her sisters, her parents, and her other relatives terribly. At night she gazed up at the stars, singing songs she remembered from the now distant past. When the word were missing from her memory she invented them. Sometimes she saw other stars fall to earth, but she never found another star person, no matter how hard she tried.
One day as she wandered in the forest, she came into a clearing and saw an entire village of creatures that looked just like her. She was shocked to see arms where feathers should be. The creatures’ legs were so thick—just like hers! These creatures reminded her so much of her dreams of the star people. Then she remembered that her mother had come from earth. Perhaps these were her mother’s people.
Slowly she walked into the clearing. The people stopped what they were doing as they noticed her. The birds fluttered overhead, obviously concerned and protective. After a few uncomfortable minutes, children began to approach her. Then a warrior approached her, spear outstretched, and threw a skin at her. He gestured for her to put it on. She felt ashamed at how they looked at her. She couldn’t understand the strange sounds coming from their mouths. She tried making bird sounds, but the people only laughed. This flustered the birds even further. Finally a prune-faced, white haired woman hobbled stiffly to One the Birds Love, firmly took her hand, and led her into the village.
The old woman took her past the gawking people and shuffled toward a dwelling place at the far edge of the village. The old woman pulled her into the small opening and motioned for her to sit down. Then she began to untangle One the Birds Love’s hair. This took hours; her hair had never been untangled. The birds had not thought it important.
The old woman took something hard and wet and began to scrub it over One the Birds Love’s body. The sensation was both pleasant and rough. She had never been cleaned like this before. She had learned to clean herself with her teeth, mimicking the birds’ use of their beaks. She had learned to dip herself in water and shake dry, but no one had ever scrubbed her like this.
Over time, she learned the language of the people. Never had she been so unhappy. She wanted to return to the bird people but felt compelled to master the ways of her kind, no matter how hard it was. As she learned their language she came to understand their ridicule of her. They ridiculed her for her appearance, her lack of knowledge of their customs, and her lack of manners. No one except the old woman appreciated her knowledge of the bird’s language.
One the Birds Love was attracted to the strong young men, but none were attracted to her because of her coarseness. The women disliked her because of her haunting and wild beauty, which she didn’t even recognize. Her only family was the old woman and a wild coyote, who slowly approached her as she sat alone outside the village one day. Over time she learned to speak coyote, for it was not so different from bird. The coyote’s face was he familiar friend as she took long walks through the forest and the rocky cliffs where she communed with the birds.
The third winter that One the Birds Love lived with the harshest that any of the elders could remember. Deep snowdrifts covered the rocky cliff lines and blew across the meadows. Game was scarce. The eagles flew far to find even small mice. Famine stalked the people. Buffalo could usually be found where the tall pine trees gave way to the great prairies, yet no buffalo could be found. There was only blowing snow for as far as the eye could see. Hunting party after hunting party came back empty-handed. Massive chunks of ice floated down the great river. The last of the people’s food supplies were disappearing. One the Birds Love asked the eagle where the buffaloes were hiding; she climbed to the top of the highest icy cliff where the eagle circled overhead.
“A huge monster to the north is hoarding the all the buffaloes,” said the eagle. Her shadow skimmed the snow.
One the Birds Love returned to the old woman she had grown to love. The old shaman of the tribe was sitting inside her dwelling place. One the Birds Love burst into the dwelling place, talking rapidly before she recognized the healer. Dogs sat outside as if expecting food.
“Sorry,” she muttered, clamming up immediately. She circled the dwelling place to keep as much distance as possible between her and the healer. Grey fox skins hung above her head.
“No, child,’ said the old woman, “tell us what you know about the buffaloes.” The healer motioned for her to continue. She stammered. He was one of those who had ridiculed her strange mannerisms. She could see the moon through the smoke hole.
“Tell us,” he said. “I have wronged you in the past and am sorry. Your grandmother tells me you are a good child. Tell us what you know of these times of trouble.” He took a long drink of the sage tea the old woman had prepared and offered the young woman some.
“The eagle says that a great monster from the north has gathered all the buffalo.” The poles of the dwelling place rose toward the moon. She said no more. The old coyote howled outside.
“What else do you know?” said the healer. The sky darkened.
“The eagle will show me the way,” she said. She felt a lump in her throat as she thought about how they would want to exclude her from this journey.
“Tell the warriors how to travel,” he said “and they will find those buffalo.” One the Birds Love’s heart fell ten feet.
“No,” she said. The coyote howled. “Only I can speak to the birds. I will go with them or they will not go.’ Her heart raced like the hoofbeats of a wild mustang.
“A woman does not hunt buffalo,” retorted the shaman. One the Birds Love bristled like a wild horse corralled.
“I hunt buffalo, she proudly replied. Night had fallen. The shaman sighed. He stiffly rose from the floor of the dwelling. His face was as lined as the old woman’s.
“Then you will go,” he said resignedly. He shook hands with the old woman. “Be at my lodge at sunrise,” he said. “I will explain to the hunters that they must allow you to guide them.” Dogs snorted outside.
One the Birds Love finally breathed as the shaman’s bent frame passed through the front flap. She was still nervous about what the old woman would say.
“You acquitted yourself well,” the old woman said. “Show those hunters who is the strongest and bravest. It will be you. Before sunrise I will paint your face blue.” The old woman’s joints creaked as she rose to hug One the Birds Love. The moon cast its light along the dwelling-place floor.
The next morning the young woman was ready. The eagle circled proudly overhead, talking to her all the while. The coyote stood on one of the near cliffs outside the village. The snow was brightly white and the sky deep blue. The hunters stood grumbling before the shaman’s lodge. As she approached, she heard one say, “We will not travel with a woman. Who are you to say she will be our guide?” The shaman was wrapped in a chokecherry red blanket.
“It is the only way,” he said. His front flap was open despite the cold and the wind. “Only she speaks to the birds, who know where to find the buffalo.” His face was long and downcast. “it is not our way and she is not of our people, but you must follow her if you want to find food to keep the people from starving.” The hills glittered from the morning sun. The men muttered and complained. They talked quickly, heads together. The hunt chief stepped forward. His facial muscles twitched, betraying his great struggle.
“We accept,” he said grudgingly, “this one time. But never again.” The ice on the river sparkled. One the Birds Love approached the hunters. “Show us the way, bitch,” said the hunt chief. “And never think you will go on the hunt again.” The young woman said nothing, spun on her heels, and trotted off toward the north, in the direction the eagle flew. The coyote followed alongside upon the ridge. His breath made smoke in the air. Crystal swirled in the air with each step.
They followed the eagle the whole day. Coyote showed One the Birds Love a warm cave for their sleep at night. She followed Coyote to another nearby cave. Snow-laden clouds were forming overhead. The men made camp, ignoring her. She made her own camp in her own cave. Snow began to fall lightly. The men lit a fire. She didn’t bother. The snow fell harder and harder. Coyote came inside to comfort her. She curled up in his fur.
Well before dawn, the eagle landed before the mouth of the cave and awoke One the Birds Love. “Come now,” the eagle said. “We don’t need these men. We will get them when then buffalo are loose. They would only be in the way.” She and the coyote quietly slipped away from the caves toward the north. The blowing snow covered their tracks.
By midday they had crested a great ridge, and below stood hundreds of buffalo. A narrow entrance led to where they stood. It was filled with boulders. Before that entrance stood a giant. His hair and beard were long and tangled. He wore scrap hides and held a large club. Her heart sank. How could she defeat this giant? Only the strongest of the strongest could stand against such a beast.
“Never fear,” said the eagle. “We know you are from the stars. We birds know things that you do not yet know. We know that you have great powers. You can use these powers against this monster. All star people have magic. Stop trying to be an ordinary human. Claim your birthright as a star person. We will circle over his head and pull out a hair. You take this hair and make a club with it. Walk right up to him. He will laugh and not take you seriously. Touch him with this club and all his strength will be gone. He will not be able to even move his great bulk. Then you will use the club to knock away the boulders and let the buffalo out. Then we will tell you how to finish things with this monster.”
Fallen trees lay across the path into the valley. Tall grass stood above the snow by the river. A blue hole in the clouds stood to the north. Once One the Birds Love entered the valley there would be nowhere to escape. Daylight had not yet begun to fade. She imagined flying across the gap between her and the monster, and there she was, standing before his great pillar of legs, sweating and afraid. Like Eagle had said, the giant could hardly find her below his great beard. When he saw her he chortled like a loco horse.
“What have we here?” he laughed. “A mosquito with a club.” Eagles circled over his head and yanked out a hair, dropping it to our heroine. She wound it around the club and touched his ankle. The ground began to tremble. Buffalo snorted. The giant looked surprised and perplexed. His knees began to buckle; his legs were giving out. He could not support his bulk. He cried out and dropped his club. The sound of the buffalo hooves was loud. One the Birds Love touched the boulder with the club and they fell apart as if struck by a great force. Out fled the buffalo, running south towards where the hunters were camped. Coyote began to chase them, guiding them towards the hunters. The giant was just beginning to recover his strength as the last of the buffalo ran out the gateway. Eagle landed upon One the Birds Love’s shoulder. “Now you must flee,” he said. “You have use all of your powers for now. Follow me, and let your strength rebuild itself. You must rest before the final confrontation with the giant.”
They climbed the ridge. In summer it was grassy and green and looked down upon a beautiful buffalo-grazing meadow. One the Birds Love could see Coyote driving the buffalo towards the hunters. The first buffalo fell. The people would eat well. They would survive. She wondered if she would ever go back. For now she had to concentrate on defeating the giant and whatever that would bring.
From the ridge One the Birds Love could see the giant shuffling back to his lodge. She would have to confront him there. Snow began to fall again. The giant lifted his hands, and the snow fell harder. He waved his hands and great circles of wind blew the snow round and round and round. He lowered his arms and the snowfall became massive. She realized he controlled the snow. Who was this giant who could destroy the people so readily? She would have to do battle with him like only a star person could.
Without realizing it, One the Birds Love had raised her hair-wrapped club over her head. She was waving it around and pointing it at the giant’s lodge. The snow became lighter everywhere, except over his lodge where it fell heavier. A mountain of snow began to cover the giant’s dwelling place. One the Birds Love walked toward the dwelling place without even telling her feet to do so. She stood outside the monster’s teepee, calling him out.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Why do you torment the people?”
“I am Waziya, the north wind,” answered the giant. “I have grown tired of being contained. I wish winter to be forever. I will prevail against my other brothers, the spring, the summer, and the fall. I will rule the world with coldness and starvation, and you will not stop me.”
Waziya suddenly turned into a a great white crow. His wingspan was larger than the height of the tallest cliffs that lined the village. Waziya beat his wings, and harsh winds blew south toward the people.
"Claim you power as a star child!” called the eagle. One the Birds Love imagined raising herself to the heavens and felt the power of the stars flowing through her. From her outstretched hands flew sparks and stardust. They swirled around the giant crow. She reached out and grabbed its legs, preventing it from flying away. She imagined great boulders falling from the sky upon the head of the crow and they did. Its white feathers turned gray as it collapsed upon the snow. “Return to the frozen north,” she cried, “and never trouble the people like this again. You have your season and nothing more!”
One the Birds Love imagined herself back in the village with the people, and it was so. She simply appeared in the midst of the village, astonishing children and dogs. The eyes of scorn had turned to respect. The old woman had told the people about One the Birds Love’s powers.
“Winter is contained,” announced One the Birds Love, “and will remain so as long as you are kind and respectful to strangers. Otherwise it will return.” One the Birds Love imagined herself rising through the clouds and into the sky, and it was so. She imagined her mother and her sister and her father, and they were there. They rejoiced at being united, for she had found her power to rejoin the star people.
I reread your posting of the letter of Robin Wall Kimmerer this morning after zombie visions i saw as simply another apparition of windego symbolized by the movies and tv series of zombies, vampires and werewolves that were our opportunity of a spiritual wake up call to Windego's rebirth into the minds and hearts of the colonists who do not honor Mother Earth or understand the enormity of this time of destruction.
Our ancestors had a remedy for Windigo sickness and the contagion it spreads. Those who endangered life with their greed were banished from the circle of what they would destroy. They were cast out from the firelight and the bubbling stewpot, from care and community. You colonists also have that power of banishment. Will you use it? It’s not enough to banish the Windigo himself—you must also heal the contagion he has spread. You, right now, can choose to set aside the mindset of the colonizer and become native to place, you can choose to belong.
Now, the Windego's power in the big windego-in-chief behind his false fortress of the biggest white house behind so many fences and defenses and falsehoods and platforms to raise up this false god of false good is only increasing his powers of sucking the life force out of more and more beings.
An amazing letter speaking words and energies of wisdom and truth. Even though i am an old woman i see with clear eyes the messages you carry our coyote. And my energies and gifts as i walk the narrow paths that zig zag through the thinning veil between one world and the next, will always walk beside you.
And now this:
“Never fear,” said the eagle. “We know you are from the stars. We birds know things that you do not yet know. We know that you have great powers. You can use these powers against this monster. All star people have magic. Stop trying to be an ordinary human. Claim your birthright as a star person. We will circle over his head and pull out a hair. You take this hair and make a club with it. Walk right up to him. He will laugh and not take you seriously. Touch him with this club and all his strength will be gone. He will not be able to even move his great bulk. Then you will use the club to knock away the boulders and let the buffalo out. Then we will tell you how to finish things with this monster.”
I can feel the tears of recognition and truth rising up now.
And this:
" "Claim you power as a star child!” called the eagle. One the Birds Love imagined raising herself to the heavens and felt the power of the stars flowing through her. From her outstretched hands flew sparks and stardust. They swirled around the giant crow. She reached out and grabbed its legs, preventing it from flying away. She imagined great boulders falling from the sky upon the head of the crow and they did. Its white feathers turned gray as it collapsed upon the snow. “Return to the frozen north,” she cried, “and never trouble the people like this again. You have your season and nothing more!”
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Read these posts everyone. Over and over until you become as one with these truths. It is why we are here now.
This is our only real platform and we all choose what we read, what we choose to understand, and what emotions we waste our precious time and energies on when we visit this site.
When we join the Circle of Love meditation tonight . We must choose.
Do not see yourselves as falsely awake already if you waste yourselves and your gifts on false living and false principles and false dreams.
We are all elements of change. It starts with us now. How we think, how we believe, and how we act here, there beyond the veil and into our future wisdom and everywhere.
Is anyone else feeling really heavy right now? I was a lot lighter earlier in the week, first because I got a job I wanted, and then because of Kamala's nomination. But now I'm dealing with lots of the same fear and destructive thought patterns I was dealing with before. On top of that, I'm suddenly very anxious, and even sad, about the assault being inflicted on the USPS and the proliferation of outlandish conspiracy theories. It's like the vortex is moving faster and getting more dangerous the closer we get to 11/3.
It just goes to show that nothing is linear about these times. "Seeing the light" is not a clear-cut, one-time thing. I'd like to think that I'm constantly being turned around to confront my own shadow as preparation for a quantum leap forward. The same goes for the collective. Perhaps we need this catharsis of darkness in order to evolve. The process of birth can be uncertain, and I'm praying we don't fall into the abyss.
Yes Coyote, I have had similar thoughts this week.
I can't believe how riled up some can get over mail in ballots. Especially those who are in states where that has been offered for years.
I also am having a difficult time reading posts online about the horrible situation teachers are being placed in right now. I know some fantastic teachers who announced they resigned, one yesterday, because of a lack of support from their district. Some teachers know that if they resign, they could end up losing their state teaching credential because they broke their contract with their district. They should never be placed in that type of position.
I find I am needing to "check" myself online.
I also find myself re-evaluating what is important to comment on and what is better off without a comment. (not here, more on FB) I had spent a long time not saying anything but sometimes I think it is needed. Sometimes we need to stop disengaging and re-engage, but mindfully.
I'm constantly being turned around to confront my own shadow as preparation for a quantum leap forward. The same goes for the collective. Perhaps we need this catharsis of darkness in order to evolve. The process of birth can be uncertain, and I'm praying we don't fall into the abyss.
@coyote, thank you for framing this difficult week with clarity. I too feel the heaviness. The USPS debacle is the main trauma, along with the teachers (@lovendures you said it so well) being forced to risk their lives. I was feeling that heaviness, and then Thursday the website suffered a very weird glitch in which the site reverted to its 2017 content. All of the content was replaced with the site that we had in 2017. It was spooky. I was looking at a pocket in time when the awful new normal started.
I spent all of Thursday bringing the site back. It was reassuring to go through all that fear and then to be okay. I got spooked about my own shadow, so much of my own dark unhealed stuff surging up from the deep. Thank you, women friends, and community, for helping me. We need each other to walk this journey together.
We are all being tested.
@jeanne-mayell thank you dear one for all the hard work that goes into this site. You must know that through your work you provide a safe harbor for those like me. I visit daily and read what our community writes. I don’t always respond but let it wash over me like a soothing balm. In a world where violence, hatred and separation is front and center this forum provides peace, calm, support and care. I appreciate you and all the good souls who help lift each other up when we are weary and worn out. So thank you from the bottom of my heart. If there’s ever anything I can do to be useful to anyone I am in. I received so much here and never take it for granted. Peace everyone. We still have far to go but we have each other. ❤️☮️
@lovendures I am a teacher, and tomorrow is my first day back with kids. I have the BEST principal ever, and a work in a place where we are loved and supported, and there is frigging 90 proof hand sanitizer EVERYWHERE and we have school mascot masks and the works, and I am still SCARED TO DEATH. I can't imagine what teachers are feeling like in places where they aren't supported and their hard work and fears and concerns aren't acknowledged. Regardless of what we do- this virus is like glitter. It will be there, and it will stick to things and us, and we will take it home. Some teachers will take it home to people who will get very ill and maybe even die. Or- they may die. Or kids will spread it to other kids and who knows what impact it will really have, and they may take it home to grandparents, or someone who is compromised. It is just an absolute nightmare to think about what could happen because of the exposure risk. Idk. I think I am just going to have to meditate in the morning and believe that a higher power and angels are going to help me through the day. I am going to leave home with the goal of mindfulness and faith that I will just do my best for my children to build relationships with them, and pray that we are okay. It is all that I can do. Thanks to everyone who is concerned for us and for all the essential workers out there. Right back at you. ❤️
Hi Honeybee!
How was your week spent teaching? I hope things went well for all. Thank you for teaching our children and for your passion for your vital profession..
How sweet of you to think of me. First of all, my students are precious, and it was a treat to be able to be around them this week. Of course everything was weird with the masks and all, but my school is pretty awesome, and if anyone can manage this mess- we can. Back to my previous glitter statement- end of the week- we find out that a faculty member DID test positive. I'm pretty sure they were with me before they left (in and out my room). Because of HIPPA and the 6 feet, 15 minutes, masks- all that breaks the contact chain- I imagine I will never know for sure- but my Scooby Doo detective skills have narrowed it down. So, I have not been contacted, and I doubt I will be- nor will the kiddos in my room. And- here we are. Frigging Glitter. Soooooo- back to work tomorrow. The kids are virtual now (so I get to see them on screen WITHOUT masks- which is nice). I am not running a fever. I am staying away from people (just in case)- but WOW. Kids going back to school right now is just NOT feasible in most places. My nerves are SHOT, but next week will be better. I love all of you guys on here. I have been crazy busy, but I come on here each night to read y'alls' posts and it makes me feel better. Love to you all.
And we love you too. I cannot imagine such a contact experience worry but am certainly "hoping, praying, wishing and dreaming" that it was indeed not enough or long enough to make for true contact opportunities.
I have 2 family members who have both had quite a few of these in the same room not contact contacts as essential workers. Both have been fine, were not notified either, and much time has passed without symptoms.
Keep thinking that the data exists for a reason and the odds are that you are free and in the clear and so shall we.
But boy what a time we live in!
Love, best thoughts, and protective energy to you in all ways!
@michele-b Thank you for the kind words. It is def a different kind of school year. Now I worry about my kiddos at home without good support systems and food and - I could go on and on. I am also lucky that my school has wonderful counselors that check in ALL THE TIME with the kids and an awesome school social worker. Again- my school is about the best it can be in this crazy situation, and we are still falling short because the situation is so dire. I can't even imagine what is going on (or NOT) in other places. It makes my heart hurt to think about it, and if I am being honest, sometimes I just try and block it out because it is too much for me to manage. Thanks to you all for caring and listening and sending love and light. We all need lots of that right now. ?
I am sorry about the exposure. I am sure the is nerve racking. Really happy you have a great school and principle. Are the kids virtual because of the staff member with Covid? Are you going into work physically for teaching next week or are you teaching from home?
My daughter is teaching 2 more weeks virtually but from school. She then will be teaching both in- person and virtually. She isn't sure how that will work out yet.
I love your glitter visual. It is so true.
@lovendures Some of the districts in my state are doing a week or so of face to face before we go virtual for five weeks. The rational was to allow us to build relationships before the kids were online. Loved seeing the kids, but holy smokes- seems like maybe the logic was a bit flawed. We are teaching virtually from school now, so in our classrooms- alone. That is better. Sending love to your daughter. It is a lot to juggle, but I am sure she will figure it all out (like teachers do). I hope she has good support at her school. My last school was a disaster, and so I guess that is why I am so incredibly grateful for the place I work now. Thank your daughter for me for being a teacher. ;-) Not easy times for this profession, but she is appreciated.
Thank you Honeybee.
Well, a nice idea to want to make conntections with the students but it might have been a bad idea.
Glitter for sure.
It looks like my daughter has good support this year and a principal who lost a parent and sibling to Covid so there is a great understanding of the costs involved. She is also comfortable speaking up when there is a need. She mentioned when they do go back to in-person classes, as a specials teacher, she needs extra time between classes to clean or else her classroom will become a super spreading location. I believe the schedule is now taking that fact into account.
So proud of her for speaking up.