Tag Archives: life

Time, Space, and Soul

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Most of us acknowledge that we live in time and space. Many of us also recognize the existence of our soul. These, then, are the three elements in which we live our lives here on earth.

We are influenced by the time of the world that is the 21st century, the time of our specific (in my case baby boomer) generation, the time of our family, the time of our physical lives, the time that is this day, this hour, this minute. Our particular presence influences all those times – some more than others.

We are influenced by the space in which we live. Our country. Our town. Our neighborhood. Our school. Our place of employment. Our home. Our presence influences those spaces as we enter, leave, and re-enter them – some more than others.

Our soul manifests in our daily life as a subtle, animating force that moves us toward compassion, peace, and authenticity often acting as an inner voice or whisper that guides our choices beyond mere ego-driven survival. Often described as the invisible subject that witnesses life’s sensory inputs, it is a shift from body consciousness to a state of peace and empathy.

People we think we know, places we are intimately familiar with, times that seem indistinguishable from one another – never once has there been a person, place, or time that’s been repeated. The river of life is constantly flowing, and we can never reenter it at the same place. The present moment never was nor will it ever be again.

People, places and times all have an effect on us. And each of us has an effect on the people, places and times where we are present in any given moment.

Have you ever approached a small group of people and encountered a sudden silence?

Do you remember the indentation of your foot on the wet sand as a small wave goes back out to sea?

Did you watch the Berlin wall fall? The resignation of Richard Nixon? The change in attire in public places over the late 20th century?

Certain times, place, and people draw us closer to Divinity, closer to the authentic valued direction of our lives, just as certain times, places and people obstruct us from this path. These realities sometimes lead us to procrastinate in our journey toward the Divine, toward our own best selves.

If only this were happening at a different time, a different place, with different people. There will be a better time, place or person. When the semester ends. When I’ve found the right partner. When we can afford a bigger house. Tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Or we can realize that every ‘broken’ time or place or personal interaction occurs for us to have the opportunity to restore, mend, repair it with exactly the resources that we have at hand in that moment. Every moment, place, or person is a half life waiting to be completed by us, exactly as we are in that moment.

We are needed as much as we need others. And we do need others. In this moment.

And this moment.

And this one.

This person, time, place has been waiting especially for us and this moment. Maybe for a simple hello, a gesture, a smile, a nod. Pulling a weed, turning on a faucet, lighting a candle.

Right now, in this moment, in this place, there is a soul that is half. Maybe it’s your soul.

When we are living completely in the moment, we are living unfragmented. We are living with the full awareness and consciousness of our own Divinity. We are forging heaven and earth into a complete circle. No magic or complex spiritual devotions. Simple and profound recognition of here and now.

There is a parable of a person walking between small villages at night through a forest. Her last candle sputters out and she’s unclear of her path forward. Suddenly there is a bright flash of lightning and the entire road ahead, leading into the next village, is illuminated.

That flash of lightning is the present moment. Clarity is not to be found in the past or the future.

How many times, when in conversation, do we find ourselves having lost the thread of the other person’s thoughts because our minds were on possible responses?

Can we trace the source of our irritation with another’s speech or slowness of movement to our concern about our next task?

Do we find ourselves avoiding people who dress or look like people from our past with whom we’ve had unfortunate encounters?

What’s so hard about being in the present moment? Once we’re convinced of its importance for our mental health, our happiness, our relationships, our successes, getting to where we want to go, just do it.

Let’s carry out an experiment.

Find a comfortable place to sit. You can add a scent you love, calm music, wear comfy clothes, or come as you are to the place closest at hand. Arrange your limbs so that there’s no pressure on any joint. Sit up straight and close your eyes.

Now, clear your mind and stay present in every minute that arises.

Uh oh, my left forearm itches. And what is that annoying noise coming from upstairs?

Back to clearing the mind.

Did I remember to buy tortillas for tonight’s dinner? Tomato sauce? Did I put the beer in the fridge?

Back to clearing the mind.

And so it goes. It’s been called mental clutter or monkey chatter or life. It’s how we get pulled back to the conversation or outing that didn’t go as planned, to the broken wine glass, to a lost opportunity, and pulled forward to the next vacation, the day we’ve finally lose that last pesky 5 kilo, the clothes that our teenager has undoubtedly left on the floor in his room…again.

What did she really mean? Why don’t they listen to what I have to say? Why doesn’t this hotel room look like the photo on booking.com? How long will it take the airline to refund my money? Will they ever refund my money? How can I convince him that he’s going about it all wrong? The solution is so simple, why can’t she see it? Again with the complaints about the food?

What’s it all about, Alfie? In mediation we call it the underlying interests. What’s going on on the surface as opposed to what’s really the motivator. We can’t hear it if we’re living in a different moment.

Lech lecha…לך לך. The Jewish forefather, Abraham, heard God’s directive and listened to it carefully. A direction not to just physically leave his location but to go inward. Go into yourself. Discover who you really are. Until we do the work the present moment will continue to be elusive.

Until we quiet the cacophony of the never ending internal voices – our parents, our teachers, our friends, our colleagues, our spouses, our neighbors, and, perhaps the noisiest of all, our ego – we cannot hear the quiet, constant, inner voice we all possess. From that inner, authentic voice comes our ability to be in the present moment. And from the present moment, the only place that life is actually lived, emerges compassion, kindness, acceptance, seeing the other, understanding the underlying interests (even our own), inner quiet, and, ultimately, happiness.

This is who I am now, in this moment. This is where I am in this one precious life, in this moment.

I’m sitting with my friend. I’ve heard everything she’s said but I want to check to make sure I’ve understood what’s really going on.

I recognize my rising feeling of discomfort from having overstayed the time my life comfortably allows for getting back to work. I’ll be gentle but honest about our time having come to a close.

He associates not being able to walk into the kitchen because the floor’s just been washed with his mother’s obsession with cleanliness. It’s fine to go over where he’s walked so that he doesn’t have to face that particular demon.

Remove annotated region only

My stomach feels fluttery. My heart is pounding. What’s going on?

Nothing is actually going on in this moment. Maybe something went on a few minutes ago or I’m remembering something from yesterday or my mother’s last visit. Maybe it’s a vestigial remnant of a past danger.

I don’t know what’s going on. But something sure is. I feel anxiety threatening to overwhelm me.

How do we bring ourselves into the present moment when our bodies are in freeze or flight mode?

The answer is quite simple. Simple like being in the present moment in general. That is, simple in theory.

Just breathe.

We all do it. We do it all the time. But – and here’s the catch – we don’t notice that we’re breathing. It’s a spectacularly huge gift we’ve all been given at the very moment of our birth. It’s free. It accompanies us in every second of our lives without our having to make an effort.

And that’s the catch.

Let’s do an experiment.

Find a comfortable place to sit. You can add a scent, some calm music, comfy clothes or come as you are to the place closest at hand. Set a timer for five minutes. Arrange your limbs so there’s no pressure on any joint. Sit up straight and close your eyes.

Lech leicha – go into yourself.

Follow the breath rising in the middle of your body with your natural inhalation and descending in the middle of your body with your natural exhalation. After three breaths start counting slowly for the duration of your natural inhalation and a new count for the duration of your natural exhalation. After three breaths, if the count is unequal, add to the shorter of the two to equalize your inhalation and exhalation. If they’re equal add one count to each.

Let your belly pouch outward with the inhalation and draw inward with the exhalation. Let your chest rise slightly at the end of the inhalation and return to its natural resting place during the exhalation.

Feel your deepening breath.

If it suits you, hold your breath at the end of the next inhalation, releasing it when your body invites your exhalation. Remain at the bottom of your exhalation until your body asks for new air.

Now, just breathe.

Paying close attention to your inhalation, the holding of breath, your exhalation, and the stillness of your body momentarily emptied of breath.

With the sound of the timer, slowly open your eyes.

Do you feel calmer?

Nothing has changed. You’ve simply allowed yourself to return to the present moment. The very definition of anxiety is the fear of something that hasn’t happened. It might happen. It might not happen. Anxiety is amorphous.

As Mark Twain once said: “I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened.”

Anxiety feeds on imagined future scenarios rather than present reality, but our bodies experience them as quite real. Our conscious breathing brings us back to the present moment where the causes of our anxiety are somatically recognized as non-existent.

Living in the present moment is not a fad. It’s not New Age. It’s not woke. It may be all those things but it’s also none of those things.

Living in the present moment allows us to be in touch with the spirit of Divinity that resides in each and every one of us – believers, agnostics, and atheists alike.

Living in the moment reduces stress and anxiety, brings greater joy and contentment in simple everyday activities, improves our health and mental clarity, improves our relationships with others and with ourselves.

Letting go of the need to control everyone and everything around us. (and, truly, was there ever a more unrealistic goal?) Acknowledging and accepting that our way isn’t the only way; sometimes not even the best way for ourselves!

The obstacles can be troublesome:

ego

sloth

ill will

restlessness and worry

doubt

These hindrances, if not managed, lead to unskillful actions and unhappiness – exactly the opposite of living in the present moment. Paradoxically, perhaps frustratingly, they are managed through meditation, mindfulness, breathing and cultivating opposing mental states such as lovingkindness for ill will.

No one said having a calm life would be easy.

But so worth it.

It’s a lifelong process.

The Green Cane

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In this week’s writing class our teacher offered us a poem called The Green Cane by Fran Gardner. The poem is from an anthology called Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature. Ms Gardner is an award winning artist and professor emerita of art and art history at the University of South Carolina Lancaster. She paints and draws with traditional materials, but also with the sewing machine, layering her work with rich texture, color and mark-making. She writes critical essays about art, leads retreats, teaches workshops, and judges and curates exhibitions.

She also has MS

Dealing with Polymyalgia rheumatica (PMR), an inflammatory disorder causing severe stiffness, pain and reduced mobility, for the past three and a half years, and having had a hip replacement four and a half months ago, and maybe just being blessed with 73 years on this earth, these words had a profound affect on me. I don’t even remember what our teacher’s prompt was.

My mind embraced Gardner’s situation – an artist whose hands might not be consistently trustworthy – and my thoughts tumbled on from there. Of course I thought about the effort I exercise every morning to get my body moving and the mind over matter it now requires to keep my joints oiled during the day. Of course I did.

I instantly identified with the question of the worthiness, the significance, the raison d’etre of a life with decreased mobility and, perhaps, one day, much more compromised mobility. Of course I did.

My mind swirled on from there.

I flashed on the many times I walk, slowly, carefully, often painfully, and notice younger people around me walking, climbing stairs, seemingly without noticing their movement. I used to be like that. I don’t think I appreciated it nearly enough.

But my thoughts didn’t stop there.

They began to inspect the word ‘stumble’ like so many smooth stones in my hand, making a soft clicking sound, here smooth, there a slight roughness.

There are many ways we stumble in our lives.

In our relationships

In our speech

In our memories

And, yes, in our bodies

In my conversations with my students, my grown children, my grandkids, my young friends, I listen to their indecision, their parenting issues, their anxieties, their stumbles and feel empathy and also deep gratitude that those kinds of stumbles are no longer mine.

My memories, always as selective as everyone’s invariably are I suppose, are far gentler and kinder in their stumbles. I care less when asked if I remember a shared experience, a place, even a person, when the answer is ‘no’ often followed with the pleasure of an old memory becoming a new/renewed experience.

Stumbling can be scary. Relationships damaged, bones broken, feelings hurt, tangible productivity diminished.

Who are we when those results show up in our lives?

I didn’t mean to take that tone with him…again.

Surely that wasn’t me she’s remembering on that beach trip.

He just wouldn’t have fit in with the other people I invited.

I wish I could still volunteer for food distribution to families in need.

Who are we when our life becomes just being and seeing? When we just stumble somewhere as we walk through our lives?

What is the inherent value in a human life?

Judaism sees life as a mission to bring divine light and compassion into everyday existence, transforming the material into something spiritual.

Christianity claims the primary purpose of life as glorifying God and preparing for eternal life.

The Dalai Lama says that his religion is kindness.

Nietzsche argued that human existence is only eternally justified as an aesthetic phenomenon. Art making life life bearable by transforming suffering into beauty.

Oscar Wilde, saying life imitates art, defined the meaning of life as treating our days, choices and identity as a work of art – a living masterpiece of self-expression.

Sometimes attributed to Osho is the thought that yoga and meditation are not Hindu but ‘undo’; the benefit in learning to cherish and breathe in our one precious life, as the poet Mary Oliver had described our time on earth, not by doing.

Can we inhale the fragrance of being?

It’s harder than it sounds.

Going Over, Around, and Through

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I used to think my family was exceptional in its dysfunctionality. I would often tell people that I grew up in a dysfunctional family. It never really impressed anyone, not even me. It was becoming a common description even back then, forty-five years ago. It took me a while, but I finally internalized the fact that it would be tough to find the family that wasn’t what I was calling ‘dysfunctional’.

And then, just the other evening, I heard my youngest son say the same thing.

He said that for many years, well into adulthood, he thought his family (the one I raised!) was exceptional in its dysfunctionality, but he’s come to realize over the past decade that our family is quite normative in its beautiful dysfunctionality. And, in fact, that we may even excel in our normalcy. In a good way.

There’s no lack of quirky personalities among the now 24 of us, three having become disconnected by divorce as they were once connected by marriage. And the divorces themselves only serve to make us more the norm than the anomaly we’d be these days if all five of our offspring (and we ourselves) were still married. But, as he said, each and every one has chosen professions to do good in the world in one way or another, and each excels in that chosen profession. Each and every one married and brought children into the world. In spite of very different parenting styles, all the grandchildren are thriving, each with her or his own wonderful talents and quirks. All our grown children have an active, close social life together and are there for each other.

We had a long, friendly chat about the whole question of normative and dysfunctional, and how we view the difference between the two. The examples from our own family, and some from friends’ families who are close enough to be like family had us laughing, but affectionately. Not in a judgmental way. Those who populate our lives are, after all, funnier than most other areas of our lives, although almost everything can be pretty funny in retrospect.

There was also more serious talk, though, each of us sharing our thoughts about the ways our closest and dearest have navigated and continue to navigate the challenges, obstacles, tragedies, and near-tragedies in their lives. Like, as it turns out, most families, we’ve encountered it all, and we’re not only still standing but flourishing. Not an easy task considering that seven of our grandchildren are teenagers at the moment.

So why is it that some of us find joy, gratitude, fun, passionate interest, adventure, empathy, emotional strength, and good humor in the face of all the craziness, noise, dissonance, disappointments, and failures, and others of us…not so much.

I’ve been participating in a wonderful writing workshop for the past few months. The stated theme is loss, and we’ve come at it in many different, and mostly indirect, ways. This week one of the prompts was to take five minutes to write a list of sentences starting with ‘What if’. It wasn’t an immediately easy prompt for me, and I realized that was because I rarely think about the ‘what ifs’ in life. I managed to write a list of fifteen or so ‘what ifs’ in the end. Some were a little silly, like ‘What if I were five inches taller?’ or ‘What if there were more natural light in my home?’, but there were some more serious ‘what ifs’, too, like ‘What if my husband hadn’t agreed to move to Israel?’

Looking over them while listening to my colleagues’ ‘what ifs’ I realized that one thing each of the ‘what ifs’ on my list had in common with the others on my list was that I didn’t really care. The outcome of each as is in reality is just fine with me. I’ve adjusted. I’ve accepted. I’ve received. I’ve reframed. Even the one that read ‘What if all five of my kids were happy in their marriages?’ I trust my children to have made the best decisions for themselves and their families.

As I looked over my list, I heard the lilting lyrics of a song called “It’s Okay” by a talented young woman who called herself Nightbirde. She had terminal cancer and, since her appearance on America’s Got Talent, died from the disease not long after her appearance on the show. With her pixie post-chemo haircut and big beautiful smile she sang about her situation with a refrain of ‘it’s okay’ and ‘it’s alright’ and I think we all believed her.

It’s not that bad things don’t happen to all of us. Nightbirde’s cancer was certainly a bad thing.

Bad things happen in life; the inevitable first arrow piercing each of us. But some of us don’t loosen the second arrow toward ourselves; the optional second arrow of suffering.

We feel the loss, the challenge, the pain, the tragedy to its fullest. We internalize, perhaps interpret, then put it in perspective and, when the time is right, we let it go. It might be a minute or a day or a week or a month, but the intensity lessens, and we find the joy again. The pain doesn’t turn into suffering.

It doesn’t control us. We don’t get swept away.

We live our lives recognizing that the hard things may make up ten percent of our lives, regardless of how painful they may be, and the other ninety percent of the time our lives are neutral – okay – interspersed with magnificent.

I think the difference between normative and dysfunctional is that recognition; that acceptance. That authentic voice inside saying hello to another day with optimisim. That unspoken belief that in spite of the challenges, and some of them are doozies, or maybe in a way because of them, our lives are amazing in their unpredictability and surprise.

Just yesterday on my daily walk I had a talk with myself. I said ‘Self, everything physical that you do is an effort. It all entails discomfort or pain. But it’s okay. It’s alright. Luckily, none of it is going to kill you. So you just need to get on with it.”

Keep walking. Keep traveling. Keep growing. Keep changing. Keep loving.

It’s not a spectacular thought.

It’s normative.

But Nobody Died!

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Our youngest son, Rafael, moved with his family to New Jersey last night. We don’t know how long they’ll be there. We don’t know why they moved.

Neither of their excellent jobs requires the move. They have a beautiful house here that they renovated just 5 years ago to their exact specification. Their garden is flourishing, as are their kids. All four kids have many friends and are happy here. They have an active social life with friends and with their siblings/cousins. The other grandparents live a 15-minute walk away, are retired, and are always happy to have the kids over, pick them up, and take them places.

The given reason is that they get itchy when they’re in one place too long. They seek adventure (in New Jersey? 😂) They seek a challenge when things are too settled and smooth. Our son fears getting stodgy (he’s 42). At 40, having made partner at the most prestigious law firm here, he quit to do something else. He didn’t want to get stuck in a rut.

I sort of get it. I was that way myself. But once we had kids, I reframed my need for change into something more compatible with having first one and then, within 7 years, five kids. I changed professions six times; just about every 2 or 3 years. I wrote a few books. Once the kids were a bit older we traveled…a lot.

And, of course, the biggie – we moved from the US to Israel.

Rafael and his family moved to the US once already. They spent 5 years in Silicone Valley. He’s a hi-tech lawyer so that made sense. It provided him with the lift he needed to become one of the younger partners in his law firm. We missed him. The 10-hour time difference and 16-hour flight were brutal. But it made sense. And once was enough.

This move makes less sense to us.

Of course, we’re ten years older.

My in-laws were devastated when we moved our own young family to Israel. My mother-in-law literally keened and wailed when we parted at the airport. But, we felt, we were moving toward something. It was an ideological move. It was living our dedication to Zionism. We still feel that way.

What kind of ideology could possibly warrant a move to New Jersey – the state Americans love to mock? Clearly (to us) they are moving away from something and not toward something.

I get that, too. Living in Israel is not for the faint of heart.

Although it has one of the strongest, most stable economies in the world, wages are relatively low, real estate is ridiculously priced out of most young families’ reach, and many families struggle to get through the month. None of this applies to Rafael, who is blessed with financial stability.

Israel has been at war from the moment the state was established in 1948. Sometimes the war is more volatile and sometimes less, but it’s a constant threat. Our neighbors make no bones about hating us and have consistently made clear their goal of destroying our state and killing us all. The past two years, since the atrocities of October 7th, have been traumatic for every single family in Israel, and continue to be so.

Hard times, however, seem to strengthen Israelis’ resolve, not weaken it.

The divisiveness in Israeli society over politics and religion seems to be more of a factor in people leaving Israel than the war. The exaggerations and fears on each side lead to a lack of tolerance that feeds on itself.

For those of us who left comfortable lives in the US (or other Western countries) to live in Israel, we take a dim view of those who leave. It would be more accurate to say that many of us look upon it as betrayal of an ideal; betrayal of the country. In addition, given the current ugly anti-Semitism in the world, we believe that Jews should be aware today more than ever that Israel is the place for Jews to live.

We worry about our children and grandchildren’s safety. We worry about our grandchildren being taken out of a place where they are like most everybody else – it’s not an issue – and put in a place where they are ‘the other’.

We believe that our son and daughter-in-law have a tremendous amount of talent and skills to give to our country, and that our country needs people exactly like them.

And, perhaps most of all, I’ll miss being able to drive an hour whenever the spirit moves me and enjoy a good cup of coffee and great conversation with my youngest son. He’s the best! I’ll miss all the many special things about each and every one of those four delicious children. And, yes, sometimes, of course, I feel that strong twinge of sadness and loss in my heart.

Tisha B’Av is the day that our first two holy temples were destroyed. The date is commemorated with a 25-hour fast and special prayers. When tragedy strikes and someone is very sad we might say she has on her Tisha B’Av face.

That’s the face I see on many of our friends lately when considering our son’s departure with his beautiful family.

And, ironically enough, I want to console them.

“But nobody died! They’re only going to New Jersey!”

As hard as it is for us to imagine, they’re off on what they see as an adventure for their family. We made our choices. Some of them were great and some not so great, but they were ours to make. And if they turned out to be not so great, we readjusted and reframed and began a new adventure. Or at least I hope you all did, because we sure did. Why be stuck when life is so fleeting?

I, personally, believe they’ll be back in a couple of years. After all…New Jersey. And in the meantime, how fortunate that in this day and age there’s Facetime and WhatsApp and convenient flights.

They’re a happy, successful, healthy couple with four amazing, funny, quirky, interesting, healthy kids. We’ve had them near us for five blessed years and, G-d willing, we’ll have them near us again one of these days.

So chin up, friends, no Tisha B’Av faces, please.

Lucky, Blessed, or Something Else?

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I was reading a book by one of my favorite authors the other day (Table for Two by Amor Towles). In a bit of a digression, where some of the best of his extraordinarily expressive language lives, he took me back over 50 years to my first encounters with my husband. When I say he took me back, I mean in that instant I felt a flash of pure joy all through my body. It wasn’t just a memory of thought. It was a full body experience of the senses.

I saw him sitting with one blue-jeaned leg dangling, the other under his butt, leaning forward, crossed arms resting on his thighs. His hair was dark and long – a little under his chin all over. He was wearing a dark green, long sleeve t-shirt. His eyes were sparkling – sorry if that sounds kitsch but I don’t know how else to convey the feeling that his eyes conveyed.

I imagine the immense talent of an author to create such an event in his reader makes it all worth it.

It was a flash. No more than 5 seconds. But it started me on a journey.

My husband and I have been together for over 50 years. We thought we were all grown up, adults, when we met. We’d both been living on our own for several years. He was 23 and I was 21. Kids. It was the early 70s. We’d come of age in the 60s with all that entails: the music, the drugs, the irreverence, the belief that we could change the world.

He was the political activist: co-founder of the very first Earth Day, member of SDS (until their anti-Israel stance, an anathema to him even in those days), arrested at anti-Vietnam war demonstrations. I was the flower child, grooving to The Jefferson Airplane and Country Joe and the Fish on the grass in Golden Gate Park, selling candles at Woodstock.

We fell in love over bowls of chili at Rennebom’s Drug Store, 6 foot tall photographs of Galapagos turtles, street parties, and listening to Nixon resign the presidency where we sat in a small bar in Texarkana and the big-haired bartender cried.

We were first stunned to find out we were going to be parents and then confident that we would be able to do it all. Finish graduate school, feed and house the three of us, and continue to change the world

I had the confidence and sense of adventure to be immediately excited at the prospect of what our love had produced (how hard could it be?) and he had the concern about how we were actually going to make it work to keep us grounded. From food stamps, to married student housing, to a cooperative day care solution, our two natures combined to see him through his Masters degree, and nourish a beautiful, sweet natured little girl who constantly charmed us both.

From digging our car out of the snow to get to a pharmacy during a miscarriage scare, to meandering with my best friend, our first daughter, through the arboretum, to the shock of looking at the primitive ultrasound of our twin babies two years later we lived the roller coaster together.

As anyone who’s been lucky or blessed or stubborn enough to persevere and arrive at the point where a marriage can be labeled a Long Term Relationship knows, it’s not always smooth sailing. Plenty of drama, tears, and crises. And it doesn’t always seem worth it. Raising five children with no financial support, not having experience a good example of parenting, and doing it all in a country with a new language and culture is not a recipe for harmony.

I know that my spontaneity, sense of adventure, confidence, and love of change can be scary and downright annoying for someone whose natural need to think things through, check things out, and retain a sense of skepticism and pessimism can drive me from eye rolling to distraction.

We started our lives together as kids, believing ourselves to be quite grown up, unformed but quite sure of our opinions about and view of the world. Life is a better argument for Darwinism than the finch in the Galapagos. It molds us as we make many seemingly inconsequential decisions (as well as the obvious big ones, of course) and we evolve without realizing just how much until a trigger has us looking back at the journey as Amor Towles triggered me.

It’s satisfying for me, having gone on this journey, to realize that it’s been a good journey so far.

Sure, I would change some of my decisions and behaviors if I had it to do over again, but I also forgive myself because I remember where I started, who I was, and who I’ve become. I couldn’t have made those better decisions or behaved in those better ways before I became who I’ve become.

One very gratifying feeling is that of great appreciation of and love for my husband and partner of over fifty years. Sure, I would change some of his behaviors and decisions if someone put me in charge of such things. It’s a very good thing that no one will be doing that because I have a feeling it’s the disconsonance of our natures that makes it all work.

And, after all, he was doing yoga every morning for over a month in Rishikesh and is even beginning to be less squeamish about calling it yoga instead of exercise.

I don’t know where I’m going with this Ode to My Long Time Relationship just as I don’t know where our life together will take us from this charming old fashioned haveli lodging in Jaipur. I think I write partially out of nostalgia for a simpler time when couples more often stuck it out long enough to reap the benefits of the companionship and kindness of a Long Term Relationship. And maybe partially out of an awareness of the constantly evolving nature of love born from extended travel together.

It’s a wonderful thing and I wish it for more people even as I recognize that the Western world has been moving in the other direction.

I think this sociological evolution is the bastard child of good intentions. In my generation’s desire to change the world we went dashing down the path with little awareness of possible consequences. They’ve not all been good.

But that’s a thought for a different time and place.

Do We Really Get It?

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All told, we’ve been in India almost a year. We’ve spent over two months in Kerala, four months in Rishikesh, and a week to ten days in Hampi, Meysore, Delhi, Goa, Mumbai, Varanasi, Darjeeling, Khajuraho yogashram, Kaziranga, Puri, Shimla, Dharamshala, Dalhousie, Chennai, Pondicherry, Auroville, Bandhavgargh, Rambagh, Jim Corbett, and the Andaman Islands.

My partner has been learning Hindi off and on for 7 years. Between his Hindi and Google audio translate we’ve had many conversations with people about their lives and their opinions about many issues – geopolitical, philosophical, sociological, religious, and how they view the future.

We’ve observed familial interactions, public and less public behaviors, hygiene and eating habits, changing clothing preferences, and acceptable and less acceptable commercial activities.

We’ve experienced the kindness, patience, and acceptance of Indians in many different situations from driving to waiting in line to communication difficulties to cultural misunderstandings.

When asked how many children an Indian has they will invariably give a number that reflects only male children. Mothers as well as fathers respond in this way. Sexist? I don’t think so. It seems that in traditional Indian families (and in spite of rapid and visible change it’s estimated that over 90% of Indian marriages are still arranged marriages) sons remain in the nuclear family home after they marry. Their wives become subservient to the matriarch who travels with them on vacations and sets the tone for parenting. Daughters move on to their spouse’s family. They are only temporarily part of their parents’ lives. I’ve come to believe that is why they’re not included in the natural spontaneous reply about the number of children in the nuclear family.

Is this belief accurate? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing I’ve learned is there’s no point in asking for clarification. Such requests are met with puzzled expressions followed by acceptance of my theory regardless of its accuracy or inaccuracy.

Here’s a much more prosaic, but much more day to day question I’ve been asking in vague euphemistic terminology since our very first visit in 2016. Why don’t Indians, especially women, use toilet paper? It’s excellent for the ecology of every country and certainly one with a billion and a half people, and yet… What’s the deal? It’s all well and good that our tushes and other intimate places are actually cleaner after that spritz from the bidet but what is it about walking around wet that doesn’t annoy them? And is it even hygienic?

They’ve learned that foreigners need toilet paper. Hotels provide small rolls of it and are happy to replenish it as frequently as their patrons allow themselves to make the request (we tend to buy our own to avoid the issue altogether). But when asked why they don’t require it themselves I’ve been met with puzzled expressions and literally no answers, They don’t understand why I do require it but accept it and I don’t understand why they don’t require it but still ask from time to time.

The nearest things I’ve received to an answer have been (1) the concept of the comfort of dry being preferable over damp is a Western concept (really?!?) and (2) you can carry a small towel to dry off, keep it in a small plastic bag all day and wash it in the evening (a nice solutionbut I doubt Indian women actually do that).

That may be similar to something an Indian friend of ours said recently. He owns an amazing guesthouse literally 50 meters from a pristine Arabian Sea beach. He’s made lots of improvements over the past few years. Indian tourists are accustomed to ordering their meals and eating in their rooms. They seem to prefer it. It might be a question of the chicken and the egg. Maybe at one time hotels didn’t have restaurants. So our friend didn’t have a restaurant but realized that the (mostly foreign) guests preferred not to eat in their rooms so he added a really nice place to eat.

His showers had no hot water. Granted it’s quite hot in Thumboly Beach and the locals see no need for hot water but others do. As a result, he decided to arrange hot water and told us he had done so. In most Indian showers there’s a shower head and also a faucet beneath it about a foot annd an half off the floor with a bucket and plastic cup below it. Turns out he set up water in the lower faucet and not in the shower head.

When we laughed about it with him he said something quite true and profound. He said that one of the differences between Israelis and Indians is that Israelis look at something and immediately start figuring out ways to improve upon it while Indians look at the same thing, accept it as is, and immediately figure out a way to live with it. There are pluses and minuses in both approaches.

And what about respect for personal space, acceptable noise levels in public places or in hotels late at night, what it means to be a couple, the relative merit of avoidance or honesty in confronting legitimate disagreement or misunderstanding; the cultural differences go in and on.

Even when we think we get it we have to keep asking ourselves if we really get it.

There’s no escaping the fact that part of the joy in being in India is the adventure of the Western shrug of shoulders or the Indian wag of the head. The humor in “I don’t know.” The puzzled expression followed by a smile.

You aren’t in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. And ain’t that grand?

Cody Nite Rodeo

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I grew up and went to school with kids who were members of the 4H club. Each one of them had a project every year so that they could enter a competition at the annual State Fair. Back then, one year it might be raising a pig from birth to market weight (300 pounds/136 kilograms or more). Another it might be growing the largest cucumber or melon.

There were pie contests at the State Fair and games and rides. But the main attraction for me was always the rodeo. I never tired of the suspense of that 8 seconds of bone-rattling ride on the back of a bucking bronco or bull ride. (the bull ride was reduced to 6 seconds this year) I always sat on the edge of my bench until the girls rounded the last barrel in the barrel race event without knocking over a barrel and cheered them on that last super fast race back to the finish. When I worked at a horse stable for a summer in my teens I imagined myself one day entering the barrel race myself.

So it’s no wonder that while making plans for our American road trip, getting tickets to the Cody Night Rodeo was high on my list of priorities. It was written right there on the site that there are always enough tickets and every ticket is good for any date during the summer. But I read it over several times to be absolutely sure. This was one event I wasn’t going to miss. More importantly, my partner wasn’t going to miss it. A New York City boy, he stutters when asked if he’s been to a rodeo. I think his not being sure is a sure sign that he’s never been. Once at a rodeo, there’s no forgetting.

The Cody Night Rodeo is held every night during the tourist season. There are thousands of people every night. People come from all over the United States and from some foreign countries. The competitors are amateurs but many are well-seasoned amateurs. There are some father-son teams for the calf roping or tie-down roping event and some siblings who compete against each other in other events. There are entries from states as far away as Texas, over 1000 miles southeast, and home-grown entries.

The American flag was flying high in numerous places around the stadium. Horses paraded around the stadium with a flag-holding rider as the stadium filled. People stood as the flag went by them. A large screen showed scenes across America as accompaniment to the poem Why We Stand by Maury Tate read with a heavy cowboy accent. Google it. It doesn’t get much more patriotic than that.

The MC called out the names of states one by one asking if there was anyone from each. People cheered when they heard the name of their state. After Californians cheered for their home state the MC said ‘ “Welcome to America, Californians!” It got a big, good-natured laugh. This was a crowd well aware of the political divide.

We chatted with the couple sitting behind us on the bleachers as we waited for the first event and in between events. They were a Minnesota farming couple; farming the land their parents and grandparents had farmed before them. Two of their 7 kids (all grown and married) work the farm with them today, and the others live close by. Turned out that the man had recently begun a process of semi-retirement so he and my partner had a lot to discuss. The women, Kim, and I shared stories of our children and grandchildren. She was used to people being surprised to hear she has 13 grandchildren and two on the way. She was just as surprised to see that I wasn’t and that we have 16 grandchildren of our own.

She talked about the degeneration of the American school system and the introduction of gender education in elementary school. All of her school-age grandchildren are home-schooled as a result of both of those issues. She expressed dismay at the schism between the woke population (which confuses her) and what she believes to be the majority of Americans who value family and remain staunch patriots.

They both expressed empathy and sorrow about the atrocities of October 7th and the war with Gaza. We’d heard that a lot so far on our trip and it sounded very genuine.

The best, most exciting bucking bronco rides are, of course, on the backs of the wildest, craziest broncos. If you’re wondering why those horses buck like maniacs, a flank strap or bucking strap is used to encourage the horses to kick out straighter and higher when bucking. The strap is about 4 inches wide, covered in sheepskin or neoprene, and fastens behind the widest part of the horse’s abdomen. But that doesn’t entirely explain why some bucking broncos are truly uncontrollable to the point where the two wranglers whose job it is to get them back in their stalls after their run struggle to accomplish the task. Some horses are just maniacs, I guess.

The barrel racing, a woman’s event added to rodeos in 1931 in Stamford, Texas, was tense. Trying not to knock over barrels and to be the fastest at it at the same time is an exact contradiction. Some of the girls were high school students. They’d probably been barrel racing since elementary school. Those girls and women could fly!

Only one competitor managed to stay on his bucking bronco for the entire 8-second ride. A clear winner. None of the competitors stayed on the bulls for the full 6 seconds. The horns on those animals are daunting. You’d think the riders would stay on just to avoid them, but it ain’t easy.

One of my least favorite events is also the one many people would like to see eliminated because it seems to be especially cruel to animals. Riding on the back of a horse or bull might be annoying to the animals or it might be a thrill for them to get back at human beings. I remember in Norway the dogs were rearing to pull the sleds – they were mostly annoyed that it took us so long to get started. Really – who are we to presume that we know the druthers of animals. But calf-roping doesn’t look like much fun for the calves. The lassoing part takes skill. I can vouch for that. The main skill of the girls’ marching group in my high school was lassoing. I never ever got the hang of it. Tying the calves’ legs as fast as you can just seems cruel.

Everyone had a great time. Lots of beer. Lots of smiles and laughter. Lots of strangers talking to each other and cheering side by side. An evening of good, clean fun. Small kids, teenagers, adults, and old folks (like us). At one point kids were invited into the ring for a quasi-treasure hunt. Dozens of them joined the game, running to and fro. The winners, a boy, and girl who looked to be about 10, couldn’t smile big enough holding up their small trophies.

A fun respite from phone screens and politics.

If you can find a rodeo to go to, do it! You might be surprised how much you enjoy it.

The big winner of the evening by far was this guy…

The Winner

The Wild Wild West circa 2024

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Moving on from the Battlefield of Little Bighorn, still under the influence of the drama of the Native American tragedy, we pulled into the town of Cody, Wyoming, population 10,224, home of the Cody High School Broncs and Fillies.

Still the wild west, home of the American Cowboy.

We found our B&B easily and were immediately enchanted by the deer in the neighboring yard who stared at us for a minute and returned to munching on someone’s lawn, and the cheerful Black Eyed Susan flowers winking at us from the yard of our B&B.

We knew we weren’t in Kansas anymore (or maybe we WERE in Kansas – another Great Plains state) upon entering the Robin’s Nest B&B. It turned out that the hosts were long-time transplants from Colorado. Robin herself greetied us.

On the wall in a strategic spot was a plaque stating clearly the values and beliefs of the couple. There were also anti-abortion bumper stickers in a pile on a shelf by the door and various books of scripture on just about every flat surface.

Robin was chatty – in a good way – and cheerful, abounding with good things to say about her adopted town and her experiences as a b&b host. She had all sorts of recommendations for our brief stay in Cody, all of which were on our to-do list. It was helpful to receive tips, though, such as devoting two days to the Buffalo Bill Center of the West Museum (we did and you really need 2 days), and parking near the exit to the parking lot at the Cody Night Rodeo.

Our room was crowded with memorabilia and equipment from the Old West. The big bed was very comfy. It was hot in the room when we arrived. The lack of air conditioning in this part of the country was something we’d have to get used to during our trip. Robin insisted that the desert cooler would suck the hot air out of the room making the room sufficiently cool for sleep. I was skeptical but she proved to be totally right.

Anyone who’s been to a classic B&B knows that breakfast is often the big attraction. Most hosts make a big effort to prepare elegant and special breakfast food. It’s a point of pride. Robin’s Nest was no exception. There were homemade pancakes with a cream cheese filling, a refreshing, thick berry juice, plenty of toast with fresh butter and homemade jams, and freshly cut fruit. What made this breakfast stand out, though, were the 2 minutes before the meal. Once the food was on the table Robin’s husband asked all six of us to bow our heads in prayer. A first for us. It was quite a nice prayer of thankfulness. The last sentence was in reference to Jesus – we could’ve done without the last part – but it was so genuine on his part, with total cluelessness and lack of concern for political correctness, and absolutely no malice – that it was like a breath of fresh air.

In general, we repeatedly ran into an unabashed love and commitment to family, country, and God during our travels in this part of the country.

Later he mentioned to my partner that they’d had two guests from Israel the previous month. He was shocked to learn that they didn’t believe in God. I wasn’t present for that conversation. I would’ve loved to have known if he thought all people in Israel believe in God or all people in the world. I think it’s the former but it could be the latter. Living in Cody one can be forgiven for thinking that everyone in the world believes in God because I venture to guess that everyone in Cody does.

And, yet, not everyone in Cody is totally as one would expect in the town of Cody we mostly experienced. We ended up in a coffee shop that was right out of California culture. Run by aging hippies, they keep laid-back hippie hours. They open mid-morning and close in the early afternoon. Dogs sleep on their floors. They serve coffee with alternative milks and offer non-gluten pastries. The coffee was great and the pastries were even better. Local artists were given prominence on the walls and the bookshelves.

The Buffalo Bill Center of the West Museum was a huge surprise to us snobs of the big cities of America. Our expectations were low but the reality equals some of the best museums we’ve explored. There are five distinctly different wings to the museum –

  1. Natural History of the West
  2. History of the West
  3. History of Guns
  4. Art of the West
  5. Native American History

We both learned a lot of new information about the American West; the pioneers’ way of life, the difficulties and accomplishments of rugged individualism, and a more in-depth knowledge of the lives of the famous (and infamous) people memorialized in tv series, movies, and songs. The central figure, of course, is Wild Bill Hickok (even the accurate spelling of his name was news to us) -Bill Cody.

We were surprised to learn that Wild Bill, a stagecoach driver, lawman, spy for the Union Army during the Civil War, scout, actor, and professional gambler, was a proponent of women’s rights and compassion for Native Americans.

As a result of learning so much about Wild Bill, we took a bit of a detour later in our trip to Deadwood, South Dakota, to see the place where he was shot and killed by an unsuccessful gambler, Jack McCall, during a poker game. The hand he was holding at the time – two pairs; black aces and eights, is known to this day as the ‘dead man’s hand’.

The first day at the museum I chose to go to the wing with art of the west while my partner, a water ecologist, chose to go the natural history wing. We were both tired and ready to leave after our three hours at the museum, each having only seen two wings. Both he and I were super enthusiastic about what we’d seen separately. We decided to take Robin up on her recommendation and come back the next day. We got there bright and early the next day and spent an additional two hours there.

It was shocking to experience the professionalism, original and well-thought-out approach, and depth of presentation exhibited in the natural history wing of the museum. Going to natural history museums all around the world is a must for us. My partner spends many hours of enjoyment in each while I bail after two hours tops and indulge my love of museum shops and coffee hangouts. This museum, located as it is, nevertheless rivals all the natural history museums we’ve seen around the globe, including Manhattan (clearly there’s less on display but the quality and presentation are equal). Someone or several someones with deep pockets must have had a special place in her/his heart for the topic and the location.

We had purchased tickets for The Cody’ Night Rodeo almost seven months earlier. It was that important to us. I grew up in Texas where state fairs and rodeos, 4H competitions of pig raising and pie baking, were common and always lots of fun. My partner grew up in Brooklyn and then Long Island. The closest he’d ever come to a rodeo was watching Stoney Burke on t.v in the early 60s. We knew that no matter what else we did in that part of the United States, we were going to a rodeo. Cody’s Night Rodeo is famous. We actually chose to be in Cody, which turned out to be my partner’s very favorite town we visited, because of the Cody Night Rodeo.

But more about that in my next post.

Life in The Great Plains

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The Great Plains of the United States is a vast area with few people and beautiful vistas. You can drive on the open roads in Montana, North and South Dakota, Wyoming, Nebraska, and Kansas for hours and see only a handful of cars. The houses are few and far between and without exception have an American flag flying in front. Each town’s population sign boasts between 29 and 1500 residents.

On our way from the Battlefield of Little Bighorn to Cody, Wyoming, where we’d be spending the night before heading into Yellowstone Park, we stopped in for some lunch at a small diner in the town of Lovell, Wyoming, population 2320.

During our travels, we’ve come to expect quirky, odd people and sights, but so far in this part of America what’s stood out the most is the utter normalcy of the people and towns. The diner was quite ordinary. Plain tables and chairs. Around one table were four middle-aged women having a girls’ lunch. Otherwise, we were alone. The menu was also nothing special. Hamburgers, french fries, pizza, tuna salad sandwiches.

And then there was this sight –

No one seemed to think it strange. I guess man and bird are regulars.

Our teenage server was a fresh-faced, blonde girl. No tattoos. No piercings. No make-up. Just a few freckles and a friendly smile. I found myself wondering about her life. Being a teenager in a town of 2000 people in the Great Plains. The nearest city, Cody, boasting 10,000 residents, is an hour away.

After we’d eaten our sandwich and were waiting for coffee, I approached the girl and asked if she’d be open to talking about her life. She nodded with a respectful ‘yes’ and a shy smile. I started with an easy question.

“What do kids your age do for fun around here?”

She didn’t hesitate. She told me the obvious – there’s nothing to do in Lovell – but went on to say that, as a result, kids make their own fun. They sometimes build a campfire and sit around talking and telling stories. They go fishing. Most teenagers work in the summer and often after school during the school year.

I mentioned that I’d noticed the lack of tattoos, piercings, and make-up and asked if that was the norm. She replied that most families in Lovell are Mormon (she’s not), and have been brought up not to find those kinds of things attractive. There’s a strict dress code at her school, which is fine with her, but she wishes they were allowed to wear leggings. (that was her only objection)

I asked if she saw herself settling down in Lovell after school or moving to a bigger city. With a mischievous smile, she said that her dream was to go to New York City and become a cosmetologist but added that she’d likely get married and settle down in Lovell, or maybe as far away as Cody.

Interestingly enough, her parents divorced when she was 10 and after a year living with her mother in Denver, Colorado, she chose to move to Lovell to live with her father. Of course, the explanation may lie simply in a troubled relationship with her mother, but I wondered later if it was the siren call of a simpler life surrounded by stark natural beauty.

There are undoubtedly inconveniences living in a tiny town with limited options. But in the towns of the Great Plains states, there’s also the inspiration and peacefulness of being surrounded by natural beauty. The rush and tension that people love to hate in the big population centers are absent. There’s virtually unlimited space. Zero crowding on the roads, in the restaurants; no long lines in the grocery store or the post office (which each town has!). From our limited experience, no one is in a hurry. They have time for conversations with the neighbor ringing up their purchases and the customers in the diner.

At our server’s age, I was also a server in a restaurant. I worked in an Indian restaurant, wearing an elegant sari, where the choices on the menu were exotic and expensive. The restaurant was on the river that ran through the tourist area of San Antonio and was constantly packed with people. Without a reservation, people were out of luck. I saved my tip money to get the hell out of Dodge. San Antonio, a city of over a million people, was too familiar. I wanted nothing more than to strike out, on my own, for more interesting pastures.

It took me 50 years to reach the point that our server reached by 16. The point where I appreciate the empty open road, the farms where the closest neighbor is at least a kilometer away. When I can often think of nothing better than sitting in a wooden chair looking out at a calm lake for an hour or two with an unopened book on my lap.

Lubec, Maine

I used to think that living in the city provided more opportunity for connection to other people. I imagined living in rural areas to be isolating. Living in a small community of 5000 people created doubt in my mind and observing people and talking to people in The Great Plains sealed my recognition of my faulty reasoning. I now think that, while it clearly depends on the individual, living among fewer people may very well encourage kinder, more intimate connection than living in a city.

As the miles rolled by, we were finding the sheer size of the open, empty plains comforting. Neither my partner nor I being particularly stressed out or hyper people, we were, nevertheless, experiencing an inner loosening in our very souls.

I often thought of travel from Wisconsin, where I was at university for more years than I care to think about, to San Antonio, as boring. Lots of wheat fields. Lots of cornfields. they go on and one and…on.

The boredom of the 70s through the 90s is today’s meditation.

Deadly Clash of Cultures: the Sad History of the Native American

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The Z Bar Motel in Buffalo, Wyoming, is a great place for a family vacation. Yes, it’s in the middle of nowhere, but very convenient for our travels, halfway between Mt. Rushmore and the Battlefield of Little Bighorn. It’s a motel made up of small (and larger) cabins. The two men in the cabin next to ours were from North Carolina. They come every year to escape the heat. Very friendly, they sat on their front porch schmoozing for large parts of the day, happy to chat with other guests of the motel as they pass by.

Our cabin had a fridge and everything else we needed. Unfortunately, it also had a flooded bathroom later in the evening. Luckily, the water didn’t escape into the room proper. We debated whether we should ask for a discount upon check-out the next morning but decided against it. It can’t be easy trying to make a living from tourists there. There’s really not much around there for many miles in every direction.

The decision was taken out of our hands the next day when the owner told my partner that he would be refunding our payment in full. (I checked later and he had, indeed, issued a full refund) Only three cabins were affected by the plumbing problem, ours being one of them. When traveling – and in life in general – we’ve learned that the best attitude is one of kindness and flexibility. We also benefit – not always financially – but always in our hearts.

An hour and a half up the road we pulled into the Battle of Little Bighorn memorial.

Many years ago, on a whim, I purchased a $10 senior pass for life to all US National Parks for myself which included other passengers in my car. At the time one of our sons still lived in the States and I figured we might even get some use out of a lifetime pass. It was the ranger’s idea in the John Muir forest in California. It came in handy on this trip. We saved ourselves over $100 and had a feeling of satisfaction. It included the Little Bighorn memorial, though not Crazy Horse since that’s a private endeavor. It would be just too cynical for a monument to a warrior betrayed fatally by the US government to be a national park.

We’d been listening to Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Brown, anticipating our visit to Little Bighorn. The book is written primarily from the point of view of and in sympathy with the Native American Nation. Having been brought up on the opposite perspective, it was interesting to learn the history of Native American/settler relations from this point of view. What became clear was that aside from the excitement, enthusiasm, and greed of the settlers, and the often apparent disregard for Native Americans as human beings by the US Army, it was a tragic clash of cultures that led to cruelty on both sides and horrendous misunderstandings with terrible consequences.

Before the explorers and settlers invaded Native American lands, the primary conflict was between Mexicans and Native Americans. Mexicans often kidnapped Native American children for use as slaves and Native Americans retaliated by stealing horses. Odd perhaps but with none of the butchery and cruelty that was eventually representative of the settlers, the army, and the Native Americans. The Mexican and Native American cultures, while different from each other, had more in common.

It took years for Native Americans to grasp the concept of hunger for ownership of land that precluded the use of that land by others. They’d always had free access to vast tracts of land – virtually any land they wanted or needed for hunting or growing food for their needs – and considered all of the land as their home, belonging only to the holy spirits. They saw no reason not to share it with the settlers, though they were certainly territorial between tribes and there were consequences when tribes didn’t respect the non-verbal, non-contractual rights of one tribe to the land on which they hunted. The White settlers and army utilized these tribal conflicts to their advantage by allying themselves with one or more tribes against others. It would be years before Native Americans realized that the rules of the game had changed. As a result, they were slow in reacting.

Once they caught up they were no less cruel than their White counterparts. Taking the worst from their experience with the Mexicans, they kidnapped women and children. Taking the worst from their experience with US troops, they butchered their enemy with vehemence and carried out indiscriminate atrocities.

Beginning in the 17th century, settlers and soldiers came well-equipped with the weapons of their time; sidearms, shotguns, rifles, muskets, and infectious disease. The Native Americans initially had bows and arrows, tomahawks, and little resistance to the diseases of the Europeans. It would be years before Native Americans obtained rifles to arm themselves. By that time their numbers had been decimated by disease and warfare. It is estimated that 80% of Native Americans were dead by the 1he middle of the 19th century as a result of White colonization. It is estimated that no more than 2000 colonists, settlers, and US soldiers were killed during the so-called Indian Wars.

(As an aside, the so-called Vietnam War is known as the American War in Vietnam. I have no idea what Native Americans call the Indian Wars. I couldn’t find such a reference. But surely they have a different name for that part of their history.)

This violent and tragic history of Native American-European relations is littered with misunderstanding of cultural differences, broken promises and treaties, and the racism of those centuries when many Whites simply did not regard people of color as human beings. Whoever does not recognize that fact cannot possibly understand the murder of unarmed Native American women and children such as the 1864 Sand Creek Massacre, ostensibly in retaliation for the murder of a family of White settlers. Verbal and written descriptions of Native Americans as being like savage dogs (Andrew Jackson), savage as the wolf (George Washington), and calls for the total extermination of all Native Americans abound (too many to list).

History has shown that the inability to see an entire population group, in this case Native Americans, as human beings, is always the precursor to insensitivity at the least and unspeakable cruelty at worst.

Which brings us to The Battlefield of Little Bighorn, also known as Custer’s Last Stand.

In 1875, after gold was discovered in South Dakota’s Black Hills, the U.S. Army ignored treaty agreements and invaded the region. This betrayal, one of many, led many Sioux and Cheyenne tribesmen to leave their reservations and join Chief Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse in Montana. By the late spring of 1876, more than 10,000 Native Americans had gathered in a camp along the Little Bighorn River.

In mid-June, three columns of U.S. soldiers lined up against the army. A force of 1200 Native Americans turned back the first column. Five days later, General Alfred Terry ordered George Custer’s 7th Calvary to scout ahead for enemy troops. On June 25, in arrogant and reckless disregard for opposing opinions, including his Indigenous guide, Mitch Bouyer, Custer decided to press ahead rather than wait for reinforcements. Many historians believe he was more interested in increasing his reputation for a run for President of the United States than in the cautious advancement of his troops.

In any case, by mid-day on June 25, Custer’s 600 men entered the Little Bighorn Valley. Word had quickly spread of the impending attack. The older Sitting Bull rallied the warriors while Crazy Horse set off with a large force to meet the attackers head-on. Custer and some 200 men in his battalion were attacked by as many as 3000 Native Americans. Within an hour, Custer and all of his soldiers were dead. According to Cheyenne oral history, Custer himself was killed by Buffalo Calf Road Woman.

Standing at the many marked locations above the Little Bighorn Valley, reading descriptions of the battle that happened 50-100 meters away was an intense experience for me. I could smell the blood, feel the sweat, hear the war cries, sense the exuberance of the Native American warriors and the terror of the soldiers. I don’t know why it affected me so strongly, just that it was one of the fiercest reactions I’ve ever had in a historical location. Standing on the steep bluffs, I could feel the thrill of the Native American warriors – finally, finally, reigning victorious. After just one hour, 268 US soldiers lay dead, and no more than 100 Native Americans.

The feeling of accomplishment, justified revenge, and taking back control, was short-lived.

The battle at Little Bighorn reinforced popular opinion as to the savagery of the Native American Nation and served as a rallying point for the United States to increase the efforts to force native peoples onto the reservation lands. Within one year of the battle, most Native Americans surrendered and the Black Hills were taken by the US government without compensation to the Lakota.

Sitting Bull was later killed by Indian agency police on the Standing Rock Indian Reservation during an attempt to arrest him at a time when authorities feared that he would join the Ghost Dance movement. He was 58 or 59 at his death.

Crazy Horse was killed by a bayonet-wielding military guard after surrendering to U.S. troops at Camp Robinson in northwestern Nebraska. He was 37 when killed.

A trail of broken treaties and US government promises, Christianity meeting Spiritualism, tribal life and nomadic life versus settlement life, differing social structure, and visions of authority all led to the tragedy of Native American/settler clashes. It might have served as a cautionary tale for other disastrous clashes of culture in far-flung locations but as George Santayana wrote, “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

Humankind has shown repeatedly that we do not learn from history.

Today there are approximately 326 Native American land areas in the U.S. administered as federal Indian reservations (i.e. reservations, pueblos, rancherias, missions, villages, communities, and others). The largest is the 16 million-acre Navajo Nation Reservation located in Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah. While there are an estimated 9.7 million Native Americans, only about a quarter live on reservations or other trust lands. The others are scattered to the winds.

On to new adventures in Cody, Wyoming.