Peace Theater, Peace Blog

Please join me at birdperson.wordpress.com

2011-09-07T19:57:00.003-05:00

Hello, Friends and Readers,

This is my invitation to you to join me at my new blog site, which I have fondly named birdperson. While I still love peace and theater and the both of them together, birds have started talking to me (literally, actually).

The blog began with a 5-day-old starling (who talks) and a nestling sparrow (who loves almonds -- and my hair). So far, titles have been...

* Top 10 (or 11) Reasons Why Life with Stari (the Starling) is Waaaay Better than a Carnival or a Festival (or Even Disney World)

* A Turtle. At My Door?

* Doug? Or...What to Name This Unintended Bird?

I would love for you to join me.

Peace,
Karen

Top Six Reasons You Shouldn't Leave Our Country, and Instead, Should Move Promptly to North Dakota: An Open Letter to Progressives Beyond North Dakota

2011-03-09T12:30:00.031-06:00

Dear Progressives in Other States,

The last time I took the train to Oregon, I gathered a bit of knowledge. It had nothing to do with nude beaches or jasmine flowers or drumming on the city lawn. Not exactly.

It began at the locally-owned market in the vicinity of the local, organic berries of all kinds.

A casual acquaintance said to my long-time friends something about the Pacific Northwest seceding from the Union. Body language told me, this was common knowledge among my West Coast friends, this idea that Washington, Oregon, and maybe even California should simply strike out on their own. They're so ahead of the rest of the nation, why should they hold themselves back? I began to wonder if people on the East Coast harbor such views. Do both of our coasts dream of leaving us?

I wanted to holler...something. I should have hollered...something.

But, being Midwestern, I smiled.

Now, many months later, I have finally gathered my thoughts. I call them, the "Top Six Reasons You Shouldn't Leave Our Country, and Instead, Should Move Promptly to North Dakota: An Open Letter to Progressives Beyond North Dakota.”

1) You want to make a difference in the world, a really significant difference in the world; you know your life is inseparable from the world, from our planet. Where you live, Halliburton is cursed for its role in the devastating Gulf of Mexico oil spill. Here in North Dakota, we are faced each day with unchecked oil and gas development at the hands of Halliburton and other out-of-state companies - with oil spills, oil well fires, hydraulic fracturing chemicals leaking across the land and into the water. Yet the director of our Department of Mineral Resources, our only regulatory agency, is also charged with oil and gas promotion in North Dakota. He testifies each week to the North Dakota legislature on behalf of oil and gas developers; he speaks excitedly about "Oil Can! Day," which celebrates the industry, even supplying Halliburton catalogs for the event. Our world, in North Dakota, could use your help.

2) You love food. Local food. Organic food. Sustainable agriculture. These are words you wear like talismans. If you lived in North Dakota, you could support our budding organic food movement, our efforts to nourish community-supported agriculture, our longing to have access to the many foods that are grown here but then shipped out of state. Indeed, did you know both U.S. Senators from North Dakota sit on the 21-member Agriculture Committee? That's where the national Farm Bill lives and breathes – or doesn't. That's where the fate of our food gets decided. If you lived in North Dakota, 10% of the Ag Committee would be (to some degree) beholden to your views on farms and food.

3) You want a more peaceful future. You have bumper stickers that say, “Bark less, wag more.” It pains you to see so many young people getting sent into desperate wars at their peril. But did you know that 45% of military recruits come from rural areas, areas like North Dakota? We lose too many of our young people before they get a start. All the while, we look to you for alternative ideas, alternative points of view; “alternative” is your very way of life. Maybe you could help us dream of alternatives.

4) I have noticed that many of you, whether Native or otherwise, draw hope and direction from Native teachings and traditions. (I first learned of the sacred work of the “Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers” out in Oregon, for instance.) If you come to central North Dakota, you will find yourself surrounded by land, culture, and history that is deeply rooted in traditional Native ways of life. You could also give your muscle to Native struggles.

5) We often hear that North Dakota's stable economy (a rarity in our time) is the result of the oil and gas development I mentioned above. Does it make you a little curious, then, why Pennsylvania, Colorado, Texas, and other states with massive gas development don't enjoy the same prosperity? After reading the insights of many economists, I believe our secret is the Bank of North Dakota, the only state bank in the country. North Dakota's revenue is safe from subprime lending, derivative markets, and other imaginary methods of money exchange. As Dr. Stuart Jeanne Bramhall reported last April:

"Currently there are five states (Massachusetts, Illinois, Michigan, Washington, Minnesota) with bills pending to explore the creation of state owned banks or lending institutions. In addition state candidates in eight other states (Florida, Oregon, Illinois, California, Vermont, Idaho, Hawaii, Virginia) are running on a platform that calls for the creation of a state owned bank as a way to stem the hemorrhage of state funds to private banking institutions."

If you come to North Dakota, while there's much to teach - there's also much to learn.

6) If seceding is in your blood, we have a few secessionist bills of our own.

So, catch the Empire Builder Amtrak any day of the week from Seattle or Portland - or connect through Chicago's Union Station.

If you're still bent on seceding, please just take the rest of the country along.

Senator Berry Calls the "Initial Language" of the Peace Resolution "Offensive to the United States of America"...and more

2011-02-24T16:00:00.000-06:00

February 24, 2011

Dear Senator Berry,

I was sitting in the North Dakota Senate balcony Tuesday when you spoke about SCR 4015, North Dakota's Peace Resolution. As you might imagine, I was disturbed by your report to the Senate on the testimony you heard in the Senate GVA Committee.

Tuesday afternoon, I heard you tell your fellow Senators that "much of the testimony" on SCR 4015 involved people "apologizing for being American and pointing out the fact that the United States appears to be a great Devil."

I was frankly shocked by your report, as I was in attendance at the entire hearing. As you may remember, I was one of 15 North Dakotans who testified in support of the Resolution, and one of more than 40 North Dakotans who attended the hearing in support. Some of those who spoke were long-time friends of mine, and some were total strangers. While I did not personally agree with every statement made by every North Dakotan who testified, I did not hear the sort of testimony you describe.

I would like to pose three questions to you:

1) Here is a list of the fifteen North Dakotans who testified in support of SCR 4015. Would you please identify which of these individuals referred to their country as a "great Devil" and, as such, "apologized" for being citizens of such a country? Please keep in mind your assertion that "much of" the testimony on SCR 4015 reflected these statements.

* Sister Kathleen Atkinson, OSB, Annunciation Monastery, Bismarck
* Sister Maris Stella Korb, Sisters of the Presentation, Fargo
* Joseph Richardson, entrepreneur, Fargo
* Verle Reineke, retiree, Bismarck
* Jeff Skjelver, retired Marine, two-time veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom, Rugby
* Tammy Hathaway, mother of U.S. Airforce recruit, Bismarck
* Senator Tim Mathern, co-sponsor of SCR 4015, Fargo
* Tom Disselhorst, attorney at UTTC, Bismarck
* Herb Wilson, WWII veteran, retired physician, Bismarck
* Christopher Dodson, lobbyist, North Dakota Catholic Conference
* Dawn Archer, associate pastor, United Church of Christ, Bismarck
* Hannah Balaban, mother, Bismarck
* Eric Thompson, retired counselor
* John Jacobsen, lobbyist, North Dakota Veterans Coordinating Council
* Karen Van Fossan, spokesperson, North Dakota Peace Coalition, Bismarck

2) If you were concerned about the character of the testimony you heard during the hearing, what was your reason for withholding this concern at the time, and instead, reporting it on the floor of the Senate? I am certain that the faith leaders, veterans, parents, and other North Dakotans who testified would have welcomed the opportunity to clarify their intentions. Unfortunately, when you spoke to the Senate, we had no opportunity to do so.

3) If your primary concern was that some of those testifying challenged -- or even criticized -- U.S. policy in Iraq and Afghanistan, I wonder if you could explain to me the correlation between criticizing the policies of one's country and declaring that country to be a "great Devil." In other words, would someone who criticizes U.S. policy on healthcare, taxation, or oversight be equally guilty of such a declaration?

I look forward to your response. If for some reason, I misheard your statements or intentions on the floor of the Senate, I would welcome a clarification. In addition, if there are any words of apology that you would like me to convey to the veterans, faith leaders, and others who testified in support of SCR 4015, I would be glad to do so.

Sincerely,

Karen Van Fossan

Why I Support SCR 4015, North Dakota's Peace Resolution

2011-01-27T13:51:00.013-06:00

by Karen Van Fossan, for the North Dakota Peace Coalition
Statement made to the press on January 27, 2011

I have spent nearly ten years of my life speaking, writing, protesting, organizing, even singing and dancing for an end to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

I could quote statistics:

* 20% of Americans who die from suicide each year are veterans.
* More than 4,000 troops have died in these wars.
* There is documentation of more than 100,000 civilian deaths in Iraq -- a country we were told we were liberating.
* The cost of these wars now totals more than $1 billion for North Dakota taxpayers alone.

These statistics are not new information. The cry for peace is not a new movement. It occurs to me this morning that I have nothing new to add.

So I'll tell you what others have said.

Jeff Skjelver of Rugby, ND, says this: "When the North Dakota Peace Resolution was previously introduced 4 years ago, I was deployed for my second time to the Al Anbar province in western Iraq. It was clearly obvious to me by then that our presence in Iraq was not to the benefit of the people of the United States, nor to the people of Iraq. Iraq had no involvement in the attacks of September 11, 2001. Weapons of mass destruction were not in Iraq. The people of Iraq did not hate us for our freedoms. Nothing we were told by our leaders about why we had to attack and invade Iraq turned out to be true. In short, the contractors, and those working for contractors, were and have been the only beneficiaries of the US invasion and occupation of Iraq."

A 12-year-old student from Mandan, ND, grapples with a world at war: "I wonder if the world will ever be peaceful...No war in the world? How can people imagine that? I know I can't."

A 12-year-old North Dakota girl cannot imagine peace in our time.

Her peers in Afghanistan, from the Afghanistan Youth Peace Volunteers, would like us to imagine just that. They have asked U.S. and allied forces to leave their country, so they may pursue their own work for sustainable peace.

In this spirit, SCR 4015 not only calls for an end to these wars and occupations -- it holds up nonviolent alternatives that work.

From building schools for children to reestablishing agriculture to preventing violence against women, these alternative programs make a difference -- supporting people to use their own wisdom to solve their own struggles.

My grandfather, a veteran of bloody battles in WWII, tried to explain to me once why he became a proponent of peace. He paused -- and then he said: "I don't like to kill anybody."

Who does?

My Favorite Angels

2010-12-16T20:13:00.019-06:00

© 2010 Karen Van Fossan

There is a story of angels I long to tell you.

I could begin with Matthew Shepard,
a young guy looking to meet another young guy
or two.
I could begin with Fred Phelps,
a civil-rights attorney, turned God-Hates-Fags
pastor.
Or maybe Romaine Patterson,
just a girl from Wyoming, she says,
who found herself – or put herself –
at the center of debate
about the most publicized
anti-gay hate crime
in our history.

But I am going to begin 10,000 years ago,
when bison and
prairie dogs could see themselves for miles,

when all of our ancestors
were indigenous,
and theater wasn't theater.

It was life.

People gathered,
as some do today,
at the heart of their communities,
to make art with their bodies
to make prayers with their bodies.

And so –
when Matthew Shepard
was tied to a rancher's fence,
and Rev. Fred Phelps and his followers
stood outside the funeral
to tell the world that Matthew was
rotting in hell
for being gay –
Romaine Patterson had 10,000 years
of history
whispering at her feet,
whether she knew it or not.

As the trial of one of Matthew's murderers approached,
Rev. Phelps and his group were expected
once again,
brandishing their usual signs about God
and fags,
along with special signs about Matthew.

Romaine met with her friends.
How to protect Matthew's family?
How to honor the memory of their beloved?
They gathered together plumbing supplies and long swaths of fabric.
They cut and stitched, measured and sewed.

They turned themselves into angels,
meditative angels,
who didn't go to war with Rev. Phelps and his associates,
waging battles of good versus evil,
each side claiming the good.

Instead, they made a circle.

They surrounded Phelps and his group,
bringing silence to the moment –
facing outward,
with their hearts toward Matthew's family.

Together,
wing to wing --
they reclaimed Matthew's story,
rewriting
Phelps's metaphor of Hell.

Romaine, with her supporters,
transformed the living moment,
through an embodied act of theater in the round.

Their action had – and has –
no given name.

Transgender Day of Remembrance

2010-11-21T22:25:00.031-06:00

© 2010 Karen Van Fossan

I have read in Time magazine about man make-up. I have seen the man purse, proudly worn. I know women who feel sexy in a nice, snug pair of men's jeans. Gender-bending seems to have inspired our mainstream sense of fashion, if not our deeper sense of who we are. And still, transgendered people – those who cross gender lines by cross-dressing, cross-identifying, or reassigning their biological sex – have reason to watch their backs.

Transgender Day of Remembrance is a day, or sometimes a week, to mourn and remember those who have been killed because of anti-transgender hatred or prejudice. The first commemoration was held in 1999 to honor Rita Hester, a transgender woman who was stabbed to death in the Boston area on November 28, 1998.

In commemoration of Transgender Day of Remembrance, there are stories I want to tell, hundreds and hundreds of stories. These are just a few that I have learned...

AZRA
Izmir, Turkey

Azra lived and died in Izmir,
one of Turkey's largest cities,
along the Aegean Sea.

She was a founding
member, the first member,
of the Black Pink Triangle LGBTT Association,
which works for
Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transvestite, and Transgender
rights.

Turkish officials,
including the Minister of the Interior
and the Governor of Izmir,
tried to close Black Pink down.

They claimed:
Black Pink violates
public morality
and Turkey's family structure.
They took Black Pink to court.

But the Turkish judge replied:
“Like other citizens,
lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgender people
have a right to create
associations.
This case is dismissed.”

With Azra's help,
Black Pink won the right to agitate.

But that same week,
Azra was shot
and killed, probably by a serial killer,
known for murdering women.

At a vigil in her name –
and the names of
other loved ones –
people wore
pictures of Azra
on their hearts.

BRENDA
Rome, Italy

In the city of the Sistine Chapel,
the Vatican,
the Tiber River, the Colosseum,

Brenda made her living
on the streets.

Maybe she intended it,
or maybe she didn't intend it –
but she found herself
at the center of a scandal.

Piero Marrazzo,
former governor of the Lazio region,
was rumored –
or maybe known –
to seek the services
of transsexual women
in Brenda's line of work.

There was media attention.
There were accusations.
There were illicit videos,
revealed.

In the midst of this,
Brenda died in a fire
in her apartment.

Authorities found
a couple of packed
bags
in Brenda's home.

VICTORIA CARMEN WHITE
Maplewood, New Jersey, USA

The County Prosecutor's Office said:

“On Sunday, September 12,
at approximately 5 a.m.,
Victoria Carmen White, 28,
of Newark,
was fatally shot at a private residence
located at 159 Jacoby Street
in Maplewood.
Information released immediately following
the shooting identified the victim
as James White.”

Long Island Channel 12 reported:

“The family of a woman
killed in Maplewood
believes her murder may have been
a hate crime.
Investigators say they are searching for two men
White and her cousin had met
earlier at an Irvington night club.
Relatives now wonder if the men she met
reacted violently
after somehow learning
Victoria was a transgender
woman.”

A friend named “Hortense” said:

“Are you sure that police spokesperson got her facts correct?
From what I understand,
Carmen didn't go out with her two cousins
and was home on the couch asleep when they returned home.
Her cousins brought those thugs up in the house.
Carmen didn't date that element of man.”

A friend named Alanna Carter said:

“I've never met a more radiant
soul.”

UNIDENTIFIED TRANSGENDER WOMAN
Jakarta, Indonesia

She was found in
the Kalimalang River.

Her body was not
in one piece.

No one
alive
seems to know
her name.

.......

In honor of Transgender Day of Remembrance, there are also poems I long to make, write, scream, sing, demand. Here is the first.

(If you're a regular reader of this blog, you may have seen it before in an earlier form.)

It is...

Dedicated to my transgender friends, relatives, and students
who are very much alive.

Dedicated to the people around the world
who are commemorating Transgender Day of Remembrance this week.

Dedicated to the 150 transgender people
who were murdered in the United States this year.

Dedicated to Roy Antonio Jones III,
a 16-month-old baby who was beaten and choked to death
for acting like a girl.

Dedicated to Azra from Turkey, Brenda from Italy, Victoria Carmen from New Jersey.

Dedicated to the unidentified transgender woman
whose body was found, in pieces, in the Kalimalang River.

Also, this is dedicated to you.

STRANGERS
by Karen Van Fossan

There was a woman
whose name I have never known.
The syllables of her name
might have been sharp against my tongue,
had I ever tried to pronounce them,
which I did not.

The woman was not my friend.
Her sisters were not my friends,
nor her brothers, nor her fathers, nor the mothers of her heart.

I never washed my clothes
knee-deep
in the Kalimalang River
with her.
I never heard her humming
as she combed her tangled hair.
I never knew her favorite things,
the nightmares that made her
gasp for light,
the person or the people
who put her torso,
then her legs,
then her head inside the river.

If I could walk from my river
to hers,
from the mud of my Missouri
to the mud of her Kalimalang,

I would find the pieces of her.
And I would hold the pieces of her.
To each and every piece,
I would
whisper,
It is all right.

There was a woman
whose name I have never known.
The syllables of her name
might have been sharp against my tongue.

And yet, I miss her.

.......

May we remember those who deserve to be remembered.

May we find a more just and loving future.

Peace to you,

Karen

Top Ten Reasons I'm a Pagan

2010-11-05T15:15:00.000-05:00

© 2010 Karen Van Fossan

In honor of Lunar Samhain (Halloween on the Lunar Calendar), I have made a short list of the top ten reasons why I practice earth-based spirituality, otherwise known as paganism. According to Samhain traditions, this is the new year, a good time for letting go, cleaning up, making plans, and maybe even making lists. So here's mine...

Top Ten Reasons I'm a Pagan

10) The earth is cool.

9) The stars are cool.

8) The sun is cool.

7) The moon is cool.

6) The dark is cool.

5) The dirt is cool.

4) The ocean is cool.

3) We are cool.

2) Life is cool.

1) Freedom of religion is really cool.

Home Is Where...

2010-08-05T14:50:00.000-05:00

© 2010 Karen Van Fossan

It used to be, back when my dad worked as a minister, his pad of yellow paper was never hard to find. He scribbled down his Sunday sermons just about every Saturday night of my youth.

Today, finding his yellow paper took some doing. But here it is – a page of it anyway. And a pen from PNC Bank, which must have, like his insurance business, sprung up after I moved to North Dakota. The yellow pad was hiding. No, not hiding. Waiting. Taking a rest. Under a stack of catalogs for cars and parts of cars.

When David, my younger brother, was three years old or so, the church ladies asked him, “What does your daddy do?”

Without hesitation, David declared – “Work on cars.”

This gave the United Methodist Women's Group no end of joy in the retelling. And, though I've never been a United Methodist Woman, I take some joy in recounting it myself.

Anyway, here I am, in United Methodist country. The middle of Illinois. I would know it with a blindfold and both hands – with piece of yellow paper – tied behind my back.

The cicadas seem to eat the air itself in this place. The birds sing wet songs, songs that sound like water, like there's nectar in their throats. The green things elbow each other, entwine each other, dance, out-do, reaching for the ever-heavy sun.

I wonder, am I of this place, where people squeeze the produce in ways no one seems to dream of in North Dakota?

As soon as I return here, my fingers itch for a pen, a scrap of empty paper, a story of my own to add to the stories I used to hear – the tales of stolen watermelons, long red fingernails, the black dog of death, the pig who squealed.

Inside that house, through two sets of doors, there is, as my dad puts it, “a living room of stuff.”

Grandma and Grandpa's stuff. The storytellers' stuff.

Today, and then tomorrow, I will wade through that stuff, making minute decisions of great weight. A bag of Grandma's shoes. A humidifier. A wheel chair. The touch-me, singing reindeer that could only have come from Uncle Darrell and Aunt Suzanne.

How many pairs of Grandma's shoes – Grandpa's hankies, knick-knacks, long-forgotten photographs – will travel on the train with me to the quieter, dryer place I now call home?

Home is where the heart is, they say.

And sometimes – home is where there's yellow paper.

Two Mommies

2010-07-01T14:58:00.002-05:00

© 2010 Karen Van Fossan

When I was a little girl, but not so little anymore, I saved my parents thousands of dollars in childcare expenses. Being about five years older than my brother, I was, by force of destiny, the babysitter. Each day after school until 5:14 p.m. (or so), and then all day in the summers, I had two lives in my hands.

When the neighbor boys picked on Davy, I was on it. When Davy wanted to go see a friend, I gave the final OK. I did my best to make sure he was fed, loved, and sometimes entertained.

And it was tough to let this go. From 5:14 onward, not to mention weekends, I found myself suddenly kicked off duty. When my brother made a misstep, I sometimes forgot my parents were home, and I rushed to correct him. My mom developed a catch-phrase for these tricky situations. “Karen,” she would say, “he doesn't need two mommies.”

Being the substitute mommy got my goat. Couldn't I clean a skinned knee, or give sound counsel when my brother had to tell our dad he'd broken the kitchen light? I'm sure my mom wanted to give both David and me a reprieve; Mom could be his mom, and I didn't have to.

Even today, motherhood isn't so easy, especially when two mommies are involved. I was horrified to read these party platforms from the Texas GOP:

Homosexuality tears at the fabric of society, contributes to the breakdown of the family unit, and leads to the spread of dangerous, communicable diseases.

Homosexuality must not be presented as an acceptable 'alternative' lifestyle in our public education and policy, nor should 'family' be redefined to include homosexual 'couples.'

We oppose the recognition of and granting of benefits to people who represent themselves as domestic partners without being legally married.

What's more, the Texas GOP has specifically declared that gays should not have custody of children. Luckily, I suppose, I don't live in Texas.

But here's what I've experienced in North Dakota:

When I first moved to the Peace Garden State, I was barred from being a foster parent simply by virtue of my relationship. When the rules finally changed, Kris and I contacted two foster care agencies. One hadn't heard of the rule change, but promised to call back – and never did. The other, after a grueling 7-month application process, needed more evidence that our 15-year relationship was stable.

In the meantime, I'm proud to say, we got adopted. Our unofficial, honorary, off-the-books daughter has claimed us as her own. This child has been through more hell in her short lifetime than a girl her age should be able to imagine. But what a blessing she is! She reminds me so much of my grandma, I sometimes have to wonder where this good-natured spitfire actually came from. Though she lives with us only on occasional weekends, she has a safe and secure place here, with her name on her bedroom door, two loving (honorary) parents, and a bevy of ornery creatures to adore her.

I am proud to say, after proving the stability of our commitment, Kris and I are now the first same-sex couple to be licensed as foster parents in this region.

I'm also proud to say that my mother taught me plenty about being a mom, how to listen, how to nurture, how take interest.

Today, she agrees – some kids do need two mommies.

Anyway, mine does.

**************

Newsflash (and it's good news!):

The U.S. Department of Labor has just clarified the definition of 'son and daughter' under the Family and Medical Leave Act (FMLA). This change ensures that any employee who parents a child has the right to receive family leave -- regardless of the legal or biological relationship. As Hilda Solis, Secretary of Labor puts it, "No one who loves and nurtures a child day-in and day-out should be unable to care for that child when he or she falls ill...All families, including LGBT families, are [now] protected by the FMLA."

This is good news for moms, dads, grandparents, beloved aunts and uncles -- and especially our kids.

Authentic Community: Left, Right, and Center

2010-04-28T11:54:00.005-05:00

© 2010 Karen Van Fossan

True Confession Number One:
My father appears to have turned Republican.

True Confession Number Two:
In 2004, my brother argued that John McCain might make a good president.

Final True Confession:
I feel hurt and angered by many of the platforms and practices of today's Republican party.

Should our family shy away from discussing politics? If that's the only way to prevent heartburn at holiday meals – certainly. But what if we could discuss such things authentically? What if our communities could do the same?

To answer this question in my own life, I am inspired by the practice of Authentic Movement, as put forth by Mary Starks Whitehouse, Janet Adler, and Joan Chodorow. In the practice of Authentic Movement, we have three distinct phases.

First, there is a Mover and a Witness. The Mover essentially moves, in any way she or he sees fit. The Witness simply witnesses, sees, offers a presence. Second, the Mover and Witness switch. Witness becomes Mover; Mover becomes Witness. And finally, they speak about their experiences – and only their own experiences.

This third part is the part I'd like to emphasize. Let's say my Authentic Movement partner had raised her arm during her movement time. If I wanted to speak about this experience – I would not say, “Why do you always raise your arm?” or “Arm raisers are evil,” or “Isn't that like a Republican/Democrat/liberal/right-winger?”

I might say, “When I saw you raise your arm, I felt afraid,” or “When I saw you raise your arm, I worried that something bad was going to happen,” or “When I saw you raise your arm, I got angry enough that I wanted to raise mine.”

So, when my friend Don expresses his personal joy that Barack Obama was elected – even though I was never a big Barack Obama enthusiast, I can honor Don's celebration. Or at least I can be willing to hear it – because Don is speaking for himself. We do not steal each other's voices by speaking with our own.

I'd like to see our community overflowing with full, diverse voices – where we do not mute ourselves, but take responsibility for our speech. It's not that we must silence ourselves on the controversial issues of our time, but that we can speak authentically when we speak.

Fifty million years ago – or so – I attended a workshop on conflict resolution through the Conflict Resolution Center at UND. At the time, I was surprised to learn that compromise is not the preferred method of managing conflicts. In a compromise, we look at our opposing goals. I give up a little something, you give up a little something, we attempt to meet in the middle, and possibly neither of us is satisfied.

In the conflict resolution approach, we look at deeper needs, and find ways we might be able to meet those needs expansively, through consensus. It could be, in the end, you get all that you wanted, or I get all that I wanted, or we change what we wanted. But the conflict is resolved if we've managed to meet the needs that brought us to the conflict.

For instance, it used to be that I wanted something that my partner didn't want. My goal was to move to the east and join an intentional community. Kris's desire was to stay here in Bismarck. Had we simply compromised, we might have chosen a spot in the geographic middle of these places – somewhere like Detroit.

What did I need? Community. What did Kris need? Community.

It has taken us years to manage this conflict, but we are able to do so, as long as we look at what is needed, rather than what goal – or position – can be bartered or achieved. It's not that we both deserve a certain outcome to this argument. What's important is that our needs are valued in the relationship. I believe the same is true in families and even this community.

The question I hope we can ask ourselves is, “What is needed in this community of ours?” When we take responsibility to speak from our own experience and voice our authenticity, we help create a culture where authenticity is nurtured – and we are all more likely to get what we need.

So – some examples of authentic speech.

Instead of saying, “That's stupider than stupid!” – we might say, “I didn't like that.”

Instead of saying, “This is the most boring blog I ever read in my life!” – we might say, “I wanted to feel inspired, but I didn't.”

Instead of saying, “George Bush is an evil, low-life scum bag!” – we might say, “I am outraged at the former president, and I would like to see him held accountable.”

Instead of saying, “Did you see those Mexicans? They should be sent home!” – we might say, “When I see footage of immigrants at the border, I feel scared there won't be enough resources to go around.”

If we can do this, if we can further invite authenticity into our speech, our expression, our means of resolving conflicts – we aren't just welcoming discussion at family dinners, we are more fully welcoming ourselves.

District #30...We Need a New Representative...Now

2010-03-30T12:10:00.001-05:00

© 2010 by Karen Van Fossan

“District” is another word for neighborhood, for community, another way of saying, This is my home.

Plenty goes on here, in district number 30. An elderly woman falls, but rejoices that she hasn't harmed her eyes. A mother and son argue about suppertime, a car ride. A couple of wild-tomboy girls stop to pet my wild-tomboy dog.

We live here – in district number 30, neighborhood number 30, community number 30.

And so does Nicole Weiler. In March of last year, her husband assaulted her – in our district, out in public. Arrested and charged, David Alan Weiler pleaded guilty. Then, in March of this year, the Weiler case again made local TV. Nicole had called the police, filed a report, claimed her husband had beaten her again.

Strangely enough – David Alan Weiler works for me. He's one of my Representatives in district number 30. His job is not to thwart the laws, but to make them and refine them, particularly laws that protect us from personal violence. And so, his violence becomes my violence in a way, mine to address, mine to rectify, mine to interrupt.

Some say Nicole Weiler will drop the charges. Some say Dave will heed the public outcry to resign. By the time you read this blog, the story may have grown in many ways.

But there's still domestic violence in my community, there's bullying in my neighborhood, no matter how this story twists and turns. In neighborhood number 30, if we're paying close attention, we know this:

In March of 2009, David Weiler assaulted his wife, Nicole, by his own admission.

Based on decades of research, the Duluth Model teaches us, “If a batterer does not have a personal commitment to give up his position of power [over his partner], he will eventually return to the use of threats or violence to gain control.”

Sadly, I see no evidence that David Weiler has a made this personal commitment. In the year since his first arrest, I've heard him voice no regret, no remorse, no commitment to personal change. I would like to see him make this commitment. If I am wrong about his willingness to practice nonviolence, I look forward to being corrected.

But who has asked Dave to make such a commitment? The courts gave Dave a suspended sentence. The leaders of his party gave him a promotion – a chairmanship of an interim committee. The voters of District 30, like myself, gave him little flack. For one full year, he has lived within a paradigm almost free of accountability.

This is the type of atmosphere in which bullying takes hold, where bullying can thrive, where a person can assume the right to bully.

For all of these reasons, I am working to recall David Weiler. If we gather enough signatures, if our petition is successful, the voters in District 30 could have a chance to vote again. A new election could happen. The people of this district could hold Dave accountable, by voting to replace him – if we choose.

Which brings me back to my neighborhood. The other day, as I biked along Hillside Park, I passed two brothers taking turns spanking their dog. They were young, they were worn out, they didn't know how to handle a pulling puppy. I stopped and showed them what tricks have worked for me with pulling dogs. I let them know I understood how tough it is. For their own sake, these children needed a sense of being accountable, being seen, being challenged to pursue another option.

Violence becomes possible in fractured, broken communities, where the network of relationships does not keep us safe. If we can create vibrant, true community together, maybe we can stop domestic violence – for the sake of Nicole Weiler. For the sake of all our children. For the sake of Dave Weiler, if you like.

Even here in neighborhood number 30.

I Didn't Die – Or Did I?

2010-03-17T22:40:00.003-05:00

© 2010 Karen Van Fossan

I went ahead and did it. I rode my bike on Boulevard Avenue, in spite of the risks.

Risk 1: Splatter myself with mud.
Risk 2: Splatter myself with slush.
Risk 3: Tempt fate and die.

It was Risk 3 that nearly kept me off Boulevard Avenue forever.

According to one source, Boulevard Avenue was where I would meet my death. In fact, according to this source, I already had.

My dear friend Ferne – who's just about 101 and isn't prone to confusion – recently told her daughter I had died. I'd “been killed” was how she put it. Killed riding my bike on Boulevard Avenue.

Luckily, she was wrong. At least so far.

True, I didn't die on Boulevard Avenue. But just a few weeks ago, I began my own dance of dying.

In a good way.

(Sort of.)

Here's how it began:

I received a letter, which said that the North Dakota Board of Counselor Examiners had refused my application for licensure as a counselor. According to my graduate school, my professors, and myself, I am trained and ready to serve as a counselor. I'm a Dance/Movement Therapist, yes, but also a bona fide counselor.

The Board was unconvinced.

So I had to ask myself, “What next???”

I could...

Move away,
Go back to school,
Learn an alternate trade,
Hire a lawyer,
Count my blessings,
Ride in the middle of traffic on Boulevard Avenue.

In my mind, I found myself running from one idea to the next. And I hated all this running from one idea to the next. Pick a plan and stick with it. That was my general stance.

But suddenly, as I walked beneath the foggy spring sky, I saw my path.

This is it. This running from one idea to the next – this is my life. Today, this is my life. My own real life. My life isn't waiting for me in the answers to my questions. My life is taking place as I grapple with these questions. My life is happening now. My life isn't waiting in the well-plotted future. This is it.

And so, can I dance with this? Can I follow the rhythms and gestures of this dance? Can I be present and alive, letting myself experience my actual experience?

My dream of being a counselor – at least for now – is dying. This is a dance I have witnessed. I have sat with those who are dying. I have seen the stops and starts, the fits of life, the letting go, the ecstasy and the panic.

Today, this is my dance. Will I go here or go there? Will I stop, or will I start?

I don't know.

The knowing isn't now. Today, I have only to dance.

Maybe even up and down Boulevard Avenue.

A Note: Much gratitude to my teachers at Naropa University who helped me learn the dances of living -- and of dying.

How to Make a Play (a Really Good One)

2010-02-28T21:57:00.001-06:00

© 2010 Karen Van Fossan

You should have been there! Or maybe you were.

“How to Make a Play (a Really Good One)” has profoundly influenced my life. I am left with a sense of true joy and ongoing inspiration.

The play itself – “How to Make a Play (a Really Good One)” – came as the capstone to a very brief theater residency with kids, teens, and adults, many of whom experience some type of disability. We wrote the play ourselves, or, more aptly put, we wrote it together.

The show included hand drumming, cats with many ears, a monkey who’s really a spy, cops who look like wolves, bad guys who wear disguises (and sell bananas on the side), a Donald-Duck-Elmo combination, and much more.

We told the story of all the things people like in a play – from music to costumes to mystery to a little imagination. In the end, we revealed the only two things we really need for a play: “Us” and, of course, “you,” the audience.

For the grand finale, the audience joined us as the body of a dragon in a twisting, turning, roaring Dragon Parade.

To this minute, many minutes since the play’s final curtain, I feel overcome with a sense of human possibility for genuine transformation of our world. This feeling is not new exactly; what’s noteworthy for me is how consistently I’m transformed while working with groups of folks who experience disabilities (as well as those who don’t).

Had none of the people in this recent group had any developmental disability, the show would certainly have been different – in ways we can only guess. But it would not have been better.

To have suffered a brain injury or complications at birth – surely these factors change a person. But can we say the person is reduced? Just as those who experience blindness are often renowned for their acute sense of hearing and kinesthetic awareness – so, too, could those who experience developmental and other disabilities be renowned for their keenly developed complementary skills.

I don’t mean to deny hardship or struggle, but to honor the resiliency and personal excellence that exist beyond and even because of this struggle. In this group in particular, I witnessed, among other things, courage, transparency, patience, profound creativity, and extraordinary improvisational spontaneity. This is how the bodies of eight performers could conceive of and construct the shape of one gobbling turkey, for instance – and how, even during the show, performers could invent new and hilarious lines and interactions.

In this group, I also saw a longing that I see in every class I have ever worked with – the longing to be a star of one’s own making, be that funny or dramatic, quiet or unhinged, wordy or succinct.

The performers were stars, each in their own right, not by muting their personal excellence, but by putting it in service of the collaborative whole. By being generous with each other, we could be generous with ourselves. In giving each player the chance to be a star, we co-created a culture in which we all could be stars. The gift we gave was returned to us, something like love – in fact, exactly like love.

Our ways of bringing love to the world may differ, one to the other. But the willingness to love may well be the greatest ability we possess.

As far as I’m concerned, that’s how we make a really good play.

Censored in Fargo

2010-01-20T14:00:00.002-06:00

© 2010 Karen Van Fossan

It's not the worst thing that ever happened to me – or “The Group That Opened the Box,” as a matter of fact.

Still, the girls in “The Group” were shocked. Disappointed. Angry.

They had planned to share pieces of the play we wrote together. They had planned to tell stories of teenage sexuality, BFFs, pregnancy, and sexual orientation – all with a glimmer in their eyes.

But then I got the call.

Our interview on “The Flag,” AM 1100, had been cancelled.

In fact, all the guests who'd been invited to reflect on women's lives and women's struggles – they were uninvited, too. No more show on women's issues. No more show on girls' desires.

Cancelled. Uninvited. These are euphemisms I use for the real situation:

We were censored.

By now, this is old news. It happened last Friday night, the evening before The Group's rousing performance at MSU-Moorhead.

I'm late getting the word out because of an unrelated event.

Our beloved family cat, Butterfly, died on Sunday morning. I mention Butterfly now, not because I'm asking for your compassion (though, if you have some, we would welcome it). I mention this because her death has shown me the nature of censorship itself.

In mourning the death of Butterfly, we long for many things – to feel the sweet coarseness of her fur again, to see her mottled face again, to hear her scrappy voice again.

Because our cat has died, we can no longer hear her voice.

To the living at least, the dead appear to be voiceless.

When we hear each other's voices, we affirm that we are alive. But when we are censored, when our voices are made voiceless, something within us dies.

“Ignore it, and it will go away,” as the saying goes. Ignore us, and we die, at least a little.

It is long past time for girls' voices to be revived.

Ode to the Unhappily Employed

2010-01-13T11:04:00.005-06:00

© 2010 Karen Van Fossan

I just decided to apply a little grade school math to my adult life. The math problem:

If 15 million Americans are unemployed, and the unemployment rate is approximately 10%, how many Americans are currently satisfied with their work?

Maybe that's not a fair question. Second try:

If 15 million Americans are unemployed, and the unemployment rate is approximately 10%, how many Americans are currently wondering what the meaning of life could possibly be?

Not fair, either. Last try:

If 15 million Americans are unemployed, and the unemployment rate is approximately 10%, how many Americans currently have employment?

That one, I can answer. Approximately 135 million Americans have jobs.

I don't know, though, how many of them like these jobs or contemplate the meaning of life on a regular basis. What I know is this:

Since joining Facebook, I've noticed that a good number of my Friends (quite justly) grumble about their daily work situations.

Their complaints:
Coworkers are getting on their last nerve.
The work is boring.
The work takes them away from their cute, little kids.

So, while approximately 10% of us are unemployed, many of the rest of us are unhappily employed. Does this seem like the American Dream to you?

Anyway.

Having worked in many settings, in many cities, I've realized that the workplace can be one of the most difficult places to put our dreams into action – or, as Mohandas Gandhi once said, to “be the change we wish to see in the world.”

The workplace seems conspiratorially designed to put your morals to the test – like an undercover cop trying to sell you drugs. But in this case, it's an undercover cop annoying you, boring you, and keeping you from your children.

Unfortunately, I don't have any solutions, not really. “Follow your bliss” is great, but it's too self-absorbed for me. I vote for something more like, “Let's support each other to follow our blisses.” (If blisses is a word.)

All I have to offer is this:

A translation. The translation of our ideals into workplace realities. The translation of what we hold dear into what we face at work.

Ideal Number One:
“Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

Workplace Translation:
“If you want something done right, you got to do it yourself.”

Ideal Number Two:
“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

Workplace Translation:
“Two can play at that game.”

Ideal Number Three:
“The arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

Workplace Translation:
“I live for weekends.”

Ideal Number Four:
“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched.”

In Workplace Translation:
“You break it, you bought it.”

If you have more translations, please feel free to share them.

Until then, let's keep dreamin'.

The Piano Dog, Technology, and Telepathy

2010-01-05T12:30:00.001-06:00

© 2010 Karen Van Fossan

Before I sing the praises of modern communication technology (which I'm just about to do), I want to make a confession. Or maybe two.

I am a born optimist. In fact, in high school, I wrote an entire paper arguing for an optimistic reading of Lord of the Flies -- that vastly depressing book. (I got an A.)

I also know that I gravitate toward the outlier's position. It's not that I'll call the sky red if you call the sky blue. But I am behooved (I've never known quite why) to see many perspectives on an issue. The closest I ever got to discarding my deeply-rooted feminism, for instance, was during my first Women's Studies course in college. (My feminism is safe and sound today.)

In other words, after hearing much talk -- and much wisdom -- about how modern technology drives us apart, it's as if I can't help seeing the ways it pulls us together.

First example:

My dear friend Julie is away. Just this very minute, I got an email message from Julie. “Miss you!!!!” it said. Of course, I felt happy and connected, reading her message.

Second example:

The Adventures of “Piano Dog”
by Us

Once upon a time, there was a dog who loved pianos. The only problem was, he had two left feet. Now this created a few problems, namely problems with rhythm. He would try to practice arpeggios, but only to find that he didn't know what they were. He needed someone to help, so he went on a quest, and on the way, saw another dog – and he had two right feet! Except this dog loved to play the triangle. And so, under the full moon, the first dog and the second dog set out in search of a fun-lovin' coyote [KY-oat] who lived in the Sonoran Desert in Arizona. This coyote lived in a silver bullet trailer, and inside of it, she kept a recording studio and scissors for left-handed dogs – as she had been an orthopedist in a previous life, and she collected prosthetic dog legs in various sizes, shapes, and colors. Imagine the faces of those two canine vagabonds when they realized all this potential for making a band! All they needed was a really good band name. But that would have to wait because out of the sky came a...a...a...Could it be?...well...Maybe...or no...I think...wait! Wait! Yes...definitely...it's a...

The story isn't finished, because we haven't finished writing it -- we being “Us,” a combination of total strangers and long-time friends. I posted the first sentence or so on Facebook. From there, the story was picked up by Marilee in Bismarck, Debi in Mandan, Lisa in Fargo, Laura in Chicago, Sara in Georgia, and so on.

Third example:

My partner's distant cousin Ryan (who found our family through electronic networking) recently asked this question on Facebook: “When you were in high school or college language class, were you forced to pick an authentic name to be called in that class? What was it?”

So far, the responses have been Ana, Chloe, Renee, Ursula, Anya, Anja, Juliet (that was mine), Noel, Elena, Heidi, Jeanne, and Perla.

Suddenly, my strange and vulnerable experiences in high school French class became the stuff of connection across the miles.

Fourth and final example:

A couple of weeks ago, I posted a poem to my blog. Maggy in Chicago posted a poem in response, Kathleen in Oregon posted a reply to Maggy's poem, and so on. Using modern technology, we engaged in an age-old art -- telling our life stories and getting feedback.

Having lived in the Western world all my life, these exchanges are as close as I've ever come to sharing winter tales around a fire. Never having lived in a such a circular culture, I relish any coming together of our stories. I see this as a return to our human (narrative) roots.

In my field, Dance/Movement Therapy, there is a belief that humanity (and perhaps other species as well) need to be witnessed -- seen, heard, noticed, and acknowledged. We need this even more than we need to be understood. Not only that, we need to let others know we've witnessed them.

So, when my old friend Michele posts, “Thanks for a super fun NYE!” – my instinct is to reply, “That was one of my favorite New Years Eves ever!” She lets me know she has seen me, I let her know I have seen her. (In the world of Facebook, we also know we are seen by other loved ones and friends.) In these ways, we co-create community.

Really, though, I'm not singing the praises of technology, as much as humanity itself. Like chimps, baboons, gorillas, and bonobos, we thrive when we are connected to one another. While technology drives us apart, we also turn it around to pull us together.

Now for my secret theory:

Generally, people in indigenous cultures say they can rely on psychic communication more than people in technological cultures do. But could it be that telepathy and communication technology have something in common? Both are forms of sharing information across great distances, the transfer of information takes place in largely invisible realms, and the more you think about it, the more incredible it seems that it actually works.

Is it possible that communication technology is like training for telepathy? Soon, even before I check that email, post, or comment – I'll know my friends love me. And they'll know I love them, too.

Strangers of War

2009-12-16T13:23:00.002-06:00

© 2009 by Karen Van Fossan

Strangers of War

There was a woman whose name
I have never known.
The syllables of her name would have been sharp against my tongue,
had I ever tried to pronounce them,
which I did not.

The woman was not my friend.
Her God was not my friend –
nor her sisters, nor her brothers, nor the children of her home.

She rose from soil I have never seen,
singing a prayer
I will never sing,
wiping the hands of children I do not recognize.

The secrets in her eyes will never
flash upon my eyes –
holding hope, like laughter,
in our throats.

The woman was not my friend –
nor her sisters.

Her brothers held their arms against
my brothers.
My neighbors sent soldiers
across the sea
to fight her neighbors.
We were enemies, they said.
She was my enemy, they said.

Never, not for a moment, did I believe them.

The syllables of my name would have been sharp against her tongue.

And yet –
I miss her.

Thank You

2009-12-14T20:12:00.004-06:00

Thank you for all the kind and hopeful words I've received since posting my letter to President Obama. Since my last post, CODEPINK Women for Peace picked up my letter and ran it on their Pink Tank blog. (Somehow, I got the whole thing down to 600 words.) The comments on Pink Tank are pretty interesting, and you might be interested to read them.

Peace to you,
Karen

Dear President Obama From a Neighbor

2009-12-07T11:28:00.002-06:00

Written upon the President's Announcement of Another Surge of Troops in Afghanistan
December 2, 2009

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

Dear President Barack Obama,

You may not be aware of this, but you and I have plenty of things in common. True, I've never been elected president of the United States, and you've never been elected president of the North Dakota Peace Coalition. But I do hope your tenure as president will be as informative as mine was.

In any case, I'd like to list just four of the things you and I have in common:
1)We have each devoted our time, energy, and heart to the people of Chicago.
2)We have each spoken openly about our vision of a nuclear-weapons free future.
3)We each opposed the Iraq war and occupation from the beginning.
4)We each hold to “hope” as an ideal in the world.

Certainly, you and I don't agree on all political and social matters. I felt immense relief when Chicago's bid to host the 2016 Olympics – and bear its subsequent hardships – was eliminated. Also, when I heard you speak here in North Dakota last April, I was the lone voice boo-ing as you called the war in Afghanistan “the good war.”

I would be mortified if an audience member booed at me, so now, as I write this letter, I feel some compunction to apologize for booing at you. The trouble is, I was not then – and am not now – certain how to be heard by the leaders of my country.

I have called the White House innumerable times to register my concern about your Afghanistan plans. During the weekdays, the phone lines were invariably busy. Over the weekend, the message stated that your mailbox was full. When I did break through the White House telephone traffic, the on-hold message told me that the volunteer operators would answer as soon as they were able.

While on hold, awaiting a volunteer operator, I had time to consider many questions: Why does our White House have so few phone lines? Why does our White House have such limited mailbox space? Why does our White House rely on unpaid volunteers to respond to calls from the American people?

Frankly, I wanted to boo all over again.

And frankly, there are endless reasons why the war in Afghanistan should never be called “the good war.” As you must certainly know, these reasons have names, and these reasons have faces.

Unfortunately, I don't know their names, and I don't recognize their faces. So their stories aren't mine to tell.

What I can tell you is a story of Chicago.

In 2001, my partner and I moved from Chicago's Hyde Park neighborhood (on the south side) to the Rogers Park neighborhood (on the north side). In the middle of this move, on September 11, the World Trade Center in New York was attacked by self-proclaimed terrorists from another country – or countries.

As I was grieving this event, the radio news told of another tragedy. A young girl had been shot to death in the lobby of her apartment building, caught in Chicago's gang crossfire.

I spent many nights hollering into the wind, over gangs and war and violence.

Today, I still grieve, though on December 2, 2009, I have a bit more clarity.

The child who lived on the south side was murdered by a gang. Let's just say this gang was from the north side, where I lived. Certainly, someone in the south-side gang might have known this child, might have grieved for this child. The south-side gang might have declared war against the north side.

This isn't fair, of course. I had nothing to do with the shooting. In fact, I abhorred the shooting. Just because a gang sought refuge in my neighborhood didn't mean that I was giving refuge. I didn't want the gang in my neighborhood. And I certainly didn't want gang warfare.

Similarly, there is a gang known as al Qaeda. Their leader has claimed responsibility for the attacks of September 11. They entered the United States' neighborhood, and they killed people. In doing so, they represented no particular government, no particular country, and hence, no particular people. To attack the country in which they have taken refuge – to harm the innocent people who are their neighbors – is to behave as a gang.

For more than 8 years I have wondered – Is the United States behaving as a gang or a government?

A government could make use of a police force, trained in precision, to find the alleged attackers, bring charges against them, and serve the greater justice. You and I both know that the government of Chicago doesn't have the best reputation, and neither does its police force. But a government, unlike a gang, has a degree of public accountability. By design, it represents the people.

Thankfully, the south side never bombed the north side, no matter whether we harbored an enemy gang. But let's just say the south side had attacked us. Let's say they'd been attacking us for 8 or more years. Let's say, all the while, the south-side folks were growing weary of war.

Then – a voice. A south-side visionary. A person who declares, “Yes, we can!” – even if he borrows that phrase from Delores Huerta of the United Farm Workers.

This south-side visionary speaks of hope, the audacity of hope, a future of promise for the children. He offers the people renewal – of the economy, the environment, international relations. He rails against his predecessors' warring predilections. In the mean time, yes, he does call the north-side war “the good war.” But nobody's perfect, and here is a person who's poised and ready to listen. A leader like this would never drown his people in endless war.

And so he's elected. Of course, he's going to listen. Of course, it will make a difference that 55% of his people want to end the war – win, lose, or otherwise.

But suddenly, this leader's phone is busy. Suddenly, his mailbox is full.

Has he forgotten we're all neighbors?

Has he forgotten “Yes, we can”?

Does he think he was elected to kill people?

This is my greatest fear:

The audacity of hope has truly become an audacity – especially for the children of Afghanistan.

Sincerely,
Karen Van Fossan,
a neighbor

Women & Spirituality (A Quiz)

2009-11-20T15:58:00.003-06:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

Quiz time! Well, not yet.

First, I should tell you, I recently returned from an energizing (and overwhelming) adventure at the Women & Spirituality Conference at Minnesota State University in Mankato. I traveled there by van (and satellite car) with a group of spirited friends.

As the keynote speaker and beloved leader in the global sustainability movement, Dr. Vandana Shiva linked women's traditional wisdom with the modern cry for sustainability. Here are just some of my favorite quotes from her:

“Across cultures, women have been the seed-keepers – which they have regarded as a sacred duty.”

“People invented this thing called 'the food chain,' with man at the top of the pyramid.” Dr. Shiva smiled and said, “They forgot that the microorganisms get you at the end!”

“Today, women's agriculture produces far more food than industrial agriculture.”

“The womanly way of farming has been through diversity.”

“In the U.S., there are more people in jails than on the land.”

“Industrial agriculture is a system for creating scarcity, a system for creating hunger.”

“The earth is a much more generous employer than Wall Street will ever be.”

“We feed the soil organisms – and they'll feed us.”

“Each day, Gandhi prayed, 'God, make me more womanly – make me more feminine.'”

Now – it's quiz time:

1. In the Trance Dancing workshop, facilitated by Ella Davis-Suggs and Linda Deer Domnitz, participants (including myself):
A) Breathed in unison.
B) Moved to ancient rhythms.
C) Pressed our foreheads and bellies to the floor, for insight.
D) All of the above.

2. With Paula Kramer as our guide, participants in the “Feeling, Seeing, & Psychically Reading Auras” workshop:
A) Journeyed through all the layers (three) of one another's auras.
B) Made colorful drawings of other people's auras.
C) Gave “aura hugs” (or maybe that was just my group).
D) All of the above.

3. In Amy Leo Barankovich's workshop, “Dancing Your Own,” participants:
A) Danced with the floor.
B) Danced with bells.
C) In one case, danced with her nose.
D) All of the above.

4. During the “Introduction to Shamanism” workshop by Rhonda Steele, participants:
A) Journeyed to the lower world.
B) Met their power animals.
C) Made animal movements and sounds.
D) All of the above.

The best thing about the conference was:

All of the above.

(Next year, maybe you...with your aura and your power animal...will join us.)

Insomnia

2009-10-27T12:26:00.008-05:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan, written at 3:44 a.m.

Once, not long ago, there lived a rosy, young woman. She loved nothing more in life than her apple tree. In Spring, she pressed her cheeks to the sweet, tender blossoms. In Summer, she danced in the moonlight with the shadow of her tree. In Autumn, she gathered bushels of the red, nourishing fruit.

In spite of her love of apples – or perhaps because of it – one particular Autumn, she couldn't sleep. “Crud!” she said, again and again. “It's 3:44 a.m., and I'm awake.”

At about the same time, there lived a purposeful, middle-aged woman. How she loved to run! In Spring, she liked to sprint among the tulips along her walk. In Summer, she went jogging between the tall and reaching daisies. In Autumn, she hurdled playfully over the asters.

In spite of her love of running – or perhaps because of it – one particular Autumn, she couldn't sleep. “Shoot!” she said, again and again. “It's 3:44 a.m., and I'm awake.”

At about the same time, there lived a powerful, elderly woman. She had been making pictures since she was three or four years old, and she had no intention of stopping now. In Spring, she filled her canvas with sweet, tender apple blossoms. In Summer, she painted lanky clumps of daisies in the garden. In Autumn, she put the final stroke on a portrait of herself.

In spite of her love of painting – or perhaps because of it – one particular Autumn, she couldn't sleep. “Glory!” she said, again and again. “It's 3:44 a.m., and I'm awake.”

I wonder, dear readers – can you help?

It's almost time for "Shhhhhhhhh!"

2009-09-11T19:27:00.008-05:00

Can't wait! It's almost time for Shhhhhhhhh! -- a very original play by truth-telling teens in the heart of North Dakota.

Join us at 7:30 PM on Saturday, September 12th in the Sidney J Lee Auditorium at Bismarck State College. The show is rated PG-13. (Well, make that PG-12.) And it's totally free.

"But what is the play about?" people ask.

Just about everything that anyone's ever said, "Shhhhhhhhh!" about.

The Group That Opened the Box is ready to talk.
You'll laugh...you'll cry...you'll renew your hope for humanity.

Find out more on URL Radio with Stacy Sturm, on the KFYR Morning Show with Anne Kelly, in the Bismarck Tribune article by Karen Herzog, and at the Culture Pulse website.

Here's a peek at some of my favorite scenes:

"Sarah"

written by Rachel Patrie (age 17)

How did this even happen?
Sarah wanders up and down the closest Walgreens to her home, filling a basket with odds and ends. Some Easter decorations. Light bulbs. New mascara. Pregnancy test?
Her hand shakes as she reaches for the box.
Bonus! Free Additional Test Inside!
"Awesome!" she thinks. "Sounds great!"

Is Sarah pregnant at age 16? Find out Saturday night.

"Only She"

written by Caitlyn Taix (age 15)

Lately we're inseparable.

She's the only one that finds happiness in a garden.

We just drive. We don't complain, we just listen to a better time,

preferably Cat Stevens,

and drive on a long gravel road

to nowhere.

Only she finds peace in that...

Who is "She"? Find out Saturday night.

"Matthew and Me"

written by Michaela Miller (age 16)

So in love. So in love, I don't

care who sees me with him.

So in love, we don't care

who judges us.

So in love, I'd kiss him in the middle of

downtown New York City.

A lot of people are watching, spectating.

It doesn't really make sense...

Why are people looking? Find out Saturday night.

"Daisy & Pierce"

written by Megan Isaak (age 14)

I'm in the doctor's office. I cut too deep, I need stitches.

I hear the door ring, as a tall man steps in, wearing a fedora, Mexican sunglasses,

and a big trench coat...

"Daisy?"

I look up at the sound of my name being said. It's the man with the fedora.

I remember, Pierce used to wear his fedora all the time.

No, don't think about him. He's gone!

Or is he? Find out Saturday night.

"Buddha"

written by Alexis Hellman (age 18)

I am Buddha.

Rub my tummy

for luck.

That's what I need --

Luck...

Why does Buddha need luck? Find out Saturday night.

We hope to see you there.

"Shhhhhhhhh!"

2009-08-26T09:55:00.006-05:00

You've heard of Jesus Camp. And Posse Comitatus. And that ghost town article in The National Geographic. But do you know the newest news, here in North Dakota?

If you answered, "Shhhhhhhhh!" -- then give yourself a point!

A don't-miss opportunity is coming soon to central North Dakota -- a theatrical event like you've never experienced before. Guaranteed: You will love it! Here's what you need to know...

A very original play called, "Shhhhhhhhh!"

Written and performed by "The Group That Opened the Box" --
a group of truth-telling teens in the heart of North Dakota

Saturday, September 12, 2009, at 7:30 PM

Sidney J. Lee Auditorium, Bismarck State College, 1500 Edwards Ave.

FREE. Donations gratefully accepted.

Directors: Dr. Kathy Blohm & Karen Van Fossan

Special Features:
* Larger-than-life photo montage by Kristi Rasmussen
* Original scenes by Karen Van Fossan & Kathy Blohm
* You can stick around after the show for a chance to appear in a film.

What “Shhhhhhhhh!” is All About:
Life, longing, and love in the heart of North Dakota

Co-Sponsors:
North Dakota Women's Network, Cinema 100 Film Society, Dakota West Arts Council, BSC Theatre Department, Chambers & Blohm Psychological Services, and Dragon Jane Theater Company

You'll laugh...you'll cry...you'll renew your hope for humanity. If you have any questions, you can email karenvanfossan@gmail.com or call 701-258-6667.

Train Sweet Train

2009-08-12T19:27:00.000-05:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

Finally, I counted. I had to. Twenty-seven here. Eighteen there.

This summer, I spent nearly 100 hours on the train. I'm not bragging, not complaining. But, as much as I long to tell you about the places where I went, rather than how I got there, all I can hear in my head is that cross-country train.

Years ago, I used to get a couple of seats to myself. When gas prices hovered at $1 or so a gallon, when airlines kept their financial woes to themselves, when "green" was a word no self-respecting CEO would say -- the train was my little secret.

But now, I've entered R.E.M. sleep with so many random strangers, I've lost count.

This summer, as I traveled the country, I contemplated the meaning of life, and language, and the train. I realized that the passenger train is almost entirely lacking in cliches.

We've got the high road, the fast lane, who's in the driver's seat; we talk about "paving the way."

But how about Amtrak cliches?

Here's my first try...

1) When the trip is just beginning, and your heart is full of adventure --
Train sweet train.

2) When you find yourself leg-to-leg with a dude who has Restless Leg Syndrome --
Fuel efficiency loves company.

3) When you miss your bathtub so much, you wish you'd brought a picture --
Cleanliness is next to impossible.

4) When you start to wonder how many times the family across the aisle can watch that same, freaking, boring DVD --
Good boundaries make good neighbors.

5) When you're startled awake by a chorus of frogs...or bears...or who-knows-what? --
If you can't stand the snoring, get out of the train.

6) When the nighttime lights keep streaking by --
All that glitters is not easily blocked by your eyelids.

7) When you can't help but question the Self and notions of private property --
Home is where that little-tag-placed-above-your-seat is.

8) When your seatmate wakes up chatty --
Bloom where you and your random seatmate are planted.

9) When a person has to be neighborly, even on the train --
'Tis more blessed to give up your window seat to a married Amish couple, than to receive.

10) When the engineer cranks the emergency brakes --
You can lead a train to the mountains, but you can't make it climb (unless a couple of freight engines come to haul it).

So, the next time you're on the train, save me a seat. Because...

A friend in the train is worth two in the bush.

Words to live by.

Bird Lessons

2009-07-10T06:38:00.007-05:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

So I'm sitting at the dinner table, minding my own business, glancing out the window from time to time. From my designated chair, I can see walkers making their way, the local rabbit's favorite path, and our clunker -- with the windows down -- waiting in the drive.

Suddenly, I hear myself blurt, "There's a robin in the car!"

In seconds flat, Kris and I leap from the table, and out the door.

Sure enough, a baby robin squeaks inside the car, in her young and speckled glory, in the midst of a first flight. She bounces along the back dash, back and forth, around and around, trying to push through the window, which looks like open air, but is a trap.

High on the neighbor's roof, the mother robin, or father robin, hollers with all her might, calling with all his heart -- Come here! Come here!

We throw open the door to the car!

But the baby stays inside, hopping around on the back dash, pressing toward the window.

We run into the house and grab the enormous log we keep for the cats. We prop it on the back dash, making a bridge to the grass.

But the Mama-Papa-Auntie robin continues to call from the roof. The baby continues to panic.

We back away to give the baby space.

But the baby doesn't need space. The baby needs the window to turn to air.

At last, we resort to fear.

We knock on the back window, making a terrible racket.

She scurries away from the window.
Down from the dash.
Down to the seat.
Out the door!

And suddenly, I'm face to face with questions --

Are there obstacles in my life it would be wise to turn away from?

Are there times when the thing I fear the most can help me find my path?

Maybe so...

The End of the Story

2009-06-30T09:00:00.002-05:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

Thank you, dear readers, for all your creative vision in helping me find an ending to the Ogre, Rat, and Princess story. Since my last post, I've been chewing on your ideas.

How will the story end? I've wondered. Of all the delightful suggestions I heard -- as posts to this blog or otherwise -- which will I pick?

Will someone prepare an inviting Greek supper? Will we hear each other's stories? Will a faithful dog bring us, mostly, together? Will the Ogre and the Princess fall in love?

This morning, as the alarm clock buzzed, I suddenly got my answer...

Once upon a time, there was a terrible, angry ogre. The ogre didn’t like me, the ogre didn’t like you, and most of all, she didn’t like herself. “Self!” she hollered. “You’re terrible! And you’re angry! And you’re an ogre! No wonder I don’t like you.” The ogre picked up her house. And she tossed it to the ground.

Well, the ogre happened to live next door to a frightful, fearful rat. The rat didn’t trust me, the rat didn’t trust you, and most of all, she didn’t trust herself. “Self?” she whispered. “You’re frightful! And you’re fearful! And you’re a rat! No wonder I don’t trust you.” She scurried away, as fast as she could, far across the prairie.

Now, the rat happened to live next door to an undiscovered princess. The princess was bored with me, the princess was bored with you, and most of all, the princess was bored with herself. “Boring!” said the Princess -- while she smiled for the camera.

But the princess happened to live next door to the writer of this story. The writer looked around. “Ogre? Rat? Princess?" she said. "I’m trying to write a story. Could you help me?”

The princess yawned. The rat kept hiding. The ogre stomped her foot. Then they hurried home and locked their doors.

So the writer dialed a pay phone. "Help!" she said to the reader. "What should I do?”

The reader scratched her head. Or maybe he drummed his fingers. The readers said to the writer.........

"I think you should cook them a Greek meal."

"It so happens that the writer lived next to a loyal, loving dog."

"I think the Ogre, the Rat, and the Princess should go on a photo safari."

"The ogre was so fully loved by the princess, and the princess by the ogre..."

As the writer sat and listened to the readers tell their tales, she found that there was a moral to the story after all:

Ogres will be ogres. Princesses will be princesses. Readers can be anything they choose.

The Ogre, the Rat, and the Princess

2009-05-30T11:29:00.004-05:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

Once upon a time, there was a terrible, angry ogre.

The ogre didn’t like me, the ogre didn’t like you, and most of all, she didn’t like herself.

“Self!” she hollered. “You’re terrible! And you’re angry! And you’re an ogre! No wonder I don’t like you.”

The ogre picked up her house. And she tossed it to the ground.

Well, the ogre happened to live next door to a frightful, fearful rat.

The rat didn’t trust me, the rat didn’t trust you, and most of all, she didn’t trust herself.

“Self?” she whispered. “You’re frightful! And you’re fearful! And you’re a rat! No wonder I don’t trust you.”

She scurried away, as fast as she could, far across the prairie.

Now, the rat happened to live next door to an undiscovered princess.

The princess was bored with me, the princess was bored with you, and most of all, the princess was bored with herself.

“Boring!” said the Princess --

While she smiled for the camera.

But the princess happened to live next door to the writer of this story.

The writer looked around. “Ogre? Rat? Princess?" she said. "I’m trying to write a story. Could you help me?”

The princess yawned. The rat kept hiding. The ogre stomped her foot.

Then they hurried home and locked their doors.

So…
The writer dialed a pay phone. "Help!" she said to the reader. "What should I do?”

The reader scratched her head. Or maybe he drummed his fingers. The reader said to the writer.........

(Reader, could you help me? What did the reader say???)

White Folks and the Dandelion

2009-05-25T22:31:00.002-05:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

Some of us who read this blog are white, no doubt about it. As we white folks know, being white is nothing we like to talk about.

But I’ve been observing white folks for a while now.

There appears to be an enemy among us, a ubiquitous kind of enemy. It seems to be our duty (judging by our actions) to eradicate this enemy once and for all.

In 1492, it was Savagery.
In 1593, it was Witchcraft.
In 1954, it was Communism.

As Colin Powell has stated, "What is the greatest threat facing us now? People will say it's terrorism. But are there any terrorists in the world who can change the American way of life or our political system? No. Can they knock down a building? Yes. Can they kill somebody? Yes. But can they change us? No. Only we can change ourselves. So what is the great threat we are facing?"

Colin Powell suggests our greatest threat is our own fear.

But when you look around –

You can see us white folks, facing a threat which statesmen rarely mention:

Taraxacum officinale.

Otherwise known as Dent de Lion (which translates into Lion’s Teeth).
Otherwise known as Priest’s Crown.
Otherwise known as Swine’s Snout.

In other words, the Dandelion.

Of course, you’ve seen what’s happening: You can spot us white folks, struggling across America – doing battle with the enemy. For some, it’s a daily endeavor; for some, a weekend mission. Some will even hire a private contractor.

And, yes, we have supplies. We have weaponry. We have strategies – keeping abreast of the battlefield. There we are, on the front lines, year after year after year.

Together, we stand. Divided, we fall. When one of us, even one of us, in the neighborhood drops the fight – well, the rest of us have to fight harder.

Still – if there’s anyone who should understand the dandelion, it’s us.

Six Things We American White Folks Have in Common with the Dandelion:

1) We were imported from lands like England and Germany.
2) We love to take root in American soil.
3) When we can, we spread as far and wide as the eye can see –
4) Which causes us to get in the way of indigenous growth.
5) But, under proper management, we can be fairly useful –
6) Even though our best potential has largely remained unknown.

So, white folks, what do you say? What if we dropped the fight?

What if we found compassion for the dandelion?

No more noxious spraying. No more funky nitrogen pellets. No more disposable Chemlawn flags at the corners of our lawns.

Of course, it wouldn’t be fair to let dandelions take over. History shows that it doesn’t work (and isn’t working today) for foreign plants to occupy indigenous lands.

But, seeing as the dandelions are here, seeing as they’re everywhere, seeing as it’s impossible to send them back to England now – maybe we can find another solution.

What if we found a balance?

Native grasses. Perennials. Some clover for the bees.

And – the common dandelion.

I have a friend who soaks the roots in apple cider vinegar. My partner and I fry the leaves with lots of onions and garlic. Even the USDA proclaims its value.

As a tea, tincture, extract, or food – dandelion has been reported to…

* Dissolve kidney stones.
* Cleanse acne.
* Assist in weight management.
* Prevent or control diabetes.
* Stop cancer.

Perhaps, like the dandelion, we white folks have something to offer.

Maybe, hating the dandelion, we’re only hating ourselves – the invaders who haven’t found a place of balance.

Of course, unlike white folks – dandelions have nothing to apologize for. They never enslaved a nation or dropped an atomic bomb.

But maybe, when we find what we can love about the dandelion – we can stop our fighting.

We can stop our battles.

And maybe we can turn our history around.

Play, Play, Plays

2009-05-12T21:29:00.000-05:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

Well! Since the last time I wrote to you, I've celebrated a dear friend's 100th birthday, heard carrots sing, seen shoes dance, roared like a dragon with hundreds of Devils Lake school children, listened to grown adults make prairie sounds with napkins, and generally exhausted myself to the core.

But, as Jeanne said last fall, after the St Paul peace protests, "I am going to burn out, rather than rust out!"

During the past month, as an artist-in-residence in Bismarck, Mandan, and Devils Lake -- I wondered once in a while if I would burn out. But, before I had much chance to devote myself to burning out, Tracy tuned to a radio show on "play." The spirituality of play, as a matter of fact.

There in the extended-stay Devils Lake motel, as the radio listed the merits of play, Tracy designed a life-sized calculator costume, and I painted a child-sized refrigerator box. While smearing paint on my PJs, I learned some curious facts:

Play is any non-competitive activity in which you lose yourself, while losing a sense of time.
Play is pointless. You enjoy it so much, you can do it without a goal.
Physical play is crucial to children's development of empathy.
In a study by the National Institute for Play, none of the murderers interviewed had ever engaged in play.

So I saw, as I taught dramatic arts with Ramona and Tracy, that the children were certainly playing -- inventing rhythms, creating skits, rolling from on-stage fireplaces, leaping from on-stage windows, designing a group dance.

But was I playing?

I quickly glanced at the clock. Wow! Where had the time gone?

I had no idea. I'd been playing.

Fur in the Flood

2009-04-10T18:13:00.000-05:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

You probably know my number. If you watch WDAY in Fargo, you certainly do.

When Kris Kitko told the media:

Foster homes are needed for animals in the floods --

We had no idea our number would be famous. But it scrolled across the screen at a regular clip.

Here in Bismarck-Mandan, KFYR announced it all day long.

What I learned...

1) Over 50 people offered shelter and help in the Bismarck area.
2) More than 70 people offered shelter and help in the Fargo region.
3) Sometimes it seemed like those 120 people were calling all at once.
4) We got zip, zero, zilch, nada, not a single prank phone call.
5) If you happen to be a mouse, rabbit, rat, hamster, gerbil, ferret, guinea pig, bird, lizard, snake, iguana, llama, cow, horse, mule, dog, cat, fish, dragon, or special needs pet of any ilk -- and you get displaced by North Dakota floods, there just might be a spot for you.
6) There's a lot of interesting animal stories waiting to be told...

One caller offered to shelter "just about anything but a snake!"
Another said, "Snakes please!"

(By the way...did you know that garter snakes look like they're shedding their skin when they're giving birth? Then there's all this black stuff. And then -- the little darlings.)

One caller specified -- puppy if possible.
Another said an old, old, old dog would be great.

One could only take healthy pets.
Another could help with special needs pets.

Callers included a zookeeper, animal boarder, equestrians, vet techs, rescue volunteers, and more than 100 kindred spirits.

A few callers said, "We can also house people."

Since Kris started "Fur in the Flood," lots of people have asked me, "How many animals have you rescued?"

Part of me wants to regale you with stories of knee-high waters -- rabbits in my arms, birds on my shoulders, and herds of horses splashing close behind me.

The truth:

"Fur in the Flood" is a simple emergency measure. If dikes break, sandbags don't hold, Humane Societies run out of room, police departments can no longer help, and family and friends have no more space -- "Fur in the Flood" is there.

Though I check for news of floods each day -- I'm hoping I won't get to be a hero.

True Life

2009-03-23T12:01:00.003-05:00

A Scene from True Life

Setting: Not quite the standard nursing-home bedroom.
One of the decorations reads, "War Is Not The Answer."

KAREN: Hello, Ferne! It's Karen.

Ferne (at nearly 100 years old) lifts her chin from her chest.

FERNE: Yes.

Karen improvises a weather report, giving the shapes of clouds, the progress of the birds. Soon, Karen will read to Ferne from progressive magazines. But first, they chat about peace. An idea --

KAREN: I wonder if you have any words of wisdom to pass along to the next generations of peacemakers...?

Chuckling --

FERNE: I doubt it.

After a thoughtful pause -

FERNE: I think peace has to start within oneself.

Ferne's roommate, Marilyn, makes a giggling sound. Karen turns and smiles.
Marilyn says to Karen --

MARILYN: You have...real...nice...teeth.

End of Scene

Marilyn has a knack for this kind of humor.

Her impression of daytime soap operas:

"Do you love me? Yes, I love you. No, I don't love you! Is anybody dead? No, nobody's dead. But let's talk about it first!"

Not as comedic as Marilyn, Ferne's wit tends toward the profound:

"We always prepare for war, when we should prepare for peace."

I gather their words of wisdom.

And (I confess) I gather yours. For instance...

"My wish for you is to see wild horses."
Julie Huwe, peacemaker

"I'd rather sit down and talk with a pig than eat one."
William Glen Van Fossan, my grandpa

"Let your life speak."
Tim Mathern, North Dakota Senator (adapted from the Quaker saying)

“We aren't the best looking, the richest, or the smartest – but we're the ones who live here.”
Winona LaDuke, founder of Honor the Earth

"I like crocodiles!"
Student, Head Start

"I like snakes!"
Harley, my young cousin

"I eat until I'm full."
Connor, first-grade friend

"Through my moving body I discover my multiple names."
Louise M. Pare', women's spirituality author

"It's not a haircut unless you regret it. And maybe cry."
Ramona Redding Lopez, artist

"Love delights to surprise you."
Lisa Bassett, poet

Setting: True Life

Being Brilliant

2009-03-10T12:55:00.001-05:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

The motto of my life has finally appeared.

It all began (like much of my life) at the Seeds of Hope thrift store -- with Ruth Hauff, Eva Hartnett, and "Mrs. Walter Ell."

As far as I know, I've never actually met them. But at 50¢ a piece, their artwork is now on proud display in my office. They signed their work on the back (in Palmer-style script, of course), complete with Minot addresses.

How their art journeyed from the Minot City Art League to a thrift store here in Bismarck -- I can't begin to guess. But it brought me to my motto.

Eventually.

First, the "Celebration of Women and Their Music" in Fargo.

I saw Susan Phelan surf her upright bass, Brenda Weiler ache for her sister, Angie Stevens cast a spell of enchantment on every one of us, and Kris Kitko make us laugh our pants off.

Pants or not, I was getting closer to my motto.

Then there was today. Well, last night.

Lately, my nighttime ritual has been this:
1) Read passages from The Chalice and the Blade by Riane Eisler.
2) Imagine myself in an ancient culture of peace and art and equality, where art by women, music by women, is everywhere and everything, the joy of life itself.
3) Cry myself to sleep. (Sometimes literally.)

Last night, as I did all this, I anticipated today -- and the adolescent girls' Creative Writing Group.

As their co-leader, what could I offer?

Respect? Yes.
My training? Sure.
But what did I hope they might learn?

The girls wrote powerful pieces today, bravely giving them voice. And I was able, at last, to say these words:

We do not try to be brilliant. We try to be authentic.
In being authentic, we are brilliant.

My new motto.

The Great Turning: From American Empire to...Drag Show?

2009-02-20T09:39:00.001-06:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

It was at a Drag Show, of all things. My introduction to Professor Hal Bertilson's peace ideology came at a Drag Show. I didn't actually spot Professor Bertilson in the Drag Show aisles (or on stage in a sequined dress). But on Sunday morning, as I listened to him speak (in tweed coat and trousers) at the Unitarian-Universalist Fellowship, I kept sensing the connection. What did Saturday's Drag Show have to do with Sunday morning's service? That's what I intended to figure out!

A Drag Show, as you probably know, often features both Drag Queens and Drag Kings. Generally, Drag Queens are men who dress and entertain in an exaggerated womanly fashion. I'm told that the term "Drag Queen" comes from early-20th-century English slang, where "Drag" meant clothes and "Queen" referred to the affected royalty of the performers. By extension, a Drag King is usually a woman who dresses and performs in exaggerated manly (kingly) fashion. Saturday night's Drag Show in Bismarck offered an array of North Dakota Kings and Queens, lip-syncing, dancing, and displaying on the Civic Center stage.

That was Saturday night.

Fast forward to Sunday morning and Hal Bertilson. Title of his talk: The Great Turning -- Evolution of Community. His purpose: To share insights (and hear ours) about transforming our Empire into an Earth-Based Community. Quite a big topic. (Almost as big as Miss Janessa's hair on Saturday night.)

A special guest from the University of Wisconsin-Superior, Professor Hal Bertilson has studied and taught Peace Psychology for much of his career. A quote from Hal:

"One of the tenets of Peace Psychology is that there is both Direct Violence and Structural Violence. Structural Violence includes conditions where people do not have adequate food or shelter, inadequate health care, degradation of the environment, and the hierarchical domination by a few in a society of the many -- something that Riane Eisler in the Chalice and the Blade...calls Domination and David Korten, in his recent books, calls Empire."

Like David Korten, whose work Hal Bertilson teaches, Hal believes that we, as members of Earth's most recent Empire, can indeed turn away from Empire toward true Community. And we must. As the economy, the environment, the supply of natural resources, all face potential disaster -- the lifestyle of the Empire, the culture of over-use and under-responsibility, must be changed.

We can "build a culture of love and peace rather than hate and fear," he says. "We are living in the Empire where life is hostile and competitive, power is loved, the masculine is dominant, and order is imposed via a dominator hierarchy. We have a choice. We can choose instead Earth Community where life is supportive and cooperative. Humans have many possibilities. Order is imposed through partnership. We cooperate, love life, defend the rights of all, and ensure gender balance."

Hal mentions the work of Riane Eisler, who has shown that people co-existed in peace-loving, Earth-loving cultures for many millennia. Surely Earth Community is within our reach as human beings.

But what's stopping us? How do we interrupt our own intentions? Hal sees mega-corporations, perhaps more than any other entity, as purveyors of the unsustainable Empire.

His recommendation for Wall Street? Let it collapse.

"Spending trillions of dollars trying to fix Wall Street is a fool’s errand," says Hal. Let us build our economy at the local level. "Our economic system has failed in every dimension: Financial, environmental, and social."

He quotes from David Korten:

"Our hope lies not with the Wall Street phantom wealth machine, but rather the real world economy of Main Street, where people engage in the production and exchange of real goods and services to meet the real needs of their children, families, and communities, and where they have a natural interest in maintaining the health and vitality of their natural environment."

So what can we do? According to Hal, David Korten "offers concrete suggestions for people in community working together for...a 'political turning.' A move toward local, human-scale enterprises, by entrepreneurs who are members of the community in which they live, who care about their communities. Local food production. Open political processes. Citizen participation. Direct election -- one person, one vote. Open debates. And so much more..."

That's quite a list of recommendations.

Still, Hal didn't mention Drag Shows. If we'd had a little more time, maybe he would have.

Since last weekend, I'm convinced that Drag Shows can model peacemaking in our world.

Jonathan Schell, Peace Fellow at the Nation Institute, writes about peacemaking all the time. In a recent article, he discusses the combined crises of the economy, environment, nuclear weapon stockpiles, and others. "All the crises display one...common feature," he says. "All have been based on the wholesale manufacture of delusions. The operative word here is 'bubble.' A bubble, in the stock market or anywhere, is a real-world construct based on fantasies. When the fantasy collapses, the construct collapses, and people are hurt."

So here's what I love about North Dakota Drag Shows:

Bubbles collapse all over the place. The bubble in which women look like "women." The bubble where men act "manly." The bubble that separates local folk from the glitzy, sparkling wealthy, our modern-day royalty. The bubble that says only famous equals good.

Before our very eyes, Drag Shows toy with deception. They call our own delusions, as members of this Empire, into question. In so doing, they surprise us, and they delight us. Sometimes, they make us laugh. As we watch performers playing with the bubbles of our Empire, we find that we can live without our delusions.

Here's what I love the most:

It's fun.

When we turn away from Empire, it doesn't have to hurt.

"Women's Lobby Day" or "Is It Time for You to Run for the ND Legislature?"

2009-02-15T14:29:00.001-06:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

I probably never mentioned this, but my career in politics started early.

At age 16, I found myself in Springfield, Illinois, a member of the "38th Session of the Illinois Youth Legislature." We deliberated in the chambers of the real, live capitol, which, as we said at the time, was totally awesome!

The first (and only) bill I ever cosponsored would have (had it passed) created a committee in each school to evaluate the competency of high school teachers. I had hoped that the next generation would get a fair shake at a good education.

Apparently, I'd had enough of the chemistry teacher who named the two smartest boys on Day One and henceforth ignored the rest of us -- as well as the history teacher who blithely joked that Amendments 18 and 19, Prohibition and Women's Suffrage, were just one mistake after another.

Sadly, my high school foray into politics (not to mention chemistry and history) was less than rewarding. But I never quite gave it up. As an occasional lobbyist and forever activist, I've been called everything from sinful to anti-American to a "kook" -- by legislators themselves.

For the above reasons and more, I loved Women's Lobby Day, or Women Empowered Rise, which the ND Women's Network sponsored this Wednesday. The North Dakota capitol felt like home to me that day. I could just about taste the urgency and the hope, a potent combination.

Eight Joys of Women's Lobby Day:

1) Being one of over 100 eager women crowding the halls of the capitol.

2) Hearing women legislators urge all 100+ of us to run for office.

3) Getting newsflashes about bills to better our lives.

4) Listening to Kris Kitko's rousing rendition of "Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves."

5) Chatting with hungry legislators in the lunch line.

6) Sitting on the Senate floor as a special guest.

7) Sharing smiles with both Republican and Democratic legislators, whom I hadn't seen since last session.

8) Being the official photographer of the day -- and having license to put my nose in other people's business.

Half as Many Heartbreaks:

1) Feeling dismissed by my legislator when bending his ear.

2) Hearing the Senate's prayer of the day, in which the guest Pastor praised the North Dakota Senate for being "conservative" and "Bible-believing," and then asserted that in our time, "the consequences of sin" no longer appear to be what they should be.

3) Watching Senator Tim Mathern's bill -- to provide health insurance to 100% of North Dakota's children -- die on the floor of the Senate.

4) Seeing a woman legislator do her part to kill it.

The death of this bill, and the process by which it died, would have shocked me more at age 16 than it did this past Wednesday.

But I can't help believing the next generation will get a fair shake -- one of these days.

On a Scale of 1 to 10, I Give "Milk" a 100

2009-02-02T19:15:00.004-06:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

The only reason I'm not watching Milk right now -- it's not currently playing in Bismarck. As my brother said, "This is the kind of movie you wait for." Someday, someone may try to convince me that Sean Penn is not Harvey Milk II, but I will never believe it.

In college, my friend Shashi had a certain fondness for Harvey Milk, but it took me until now to catch on. In addition to inspiring my favorite movie on earth, Harvey Milk's life also inspired a documentary (which Shashi brought to our college), a book, and even an opera.

Some curious facts about Harvey Milk:

1) He began his work for social justice when he was...
A. In his 40s.
B. In love.
C. A camera-shop owner in San Francisco.
D. All of the above.

2) During his career, he...
A. Joined the service.
B. Worked at an insurance company.
C. Served as the first out gay man elected to public office in the U.S.
D. All of the above.

3) He gained prominence in San Francisco by speaking out against...
A. The anti-union stance of Coors Beer.
B. Dog poop.
C. Proposition 6, which would fire all gay and lesbian teachers in California -- as well as any teacher who supported them.
D. All of the above.

4) As a member of San Francisco's Board of Supervisors, Harvey Milk received...
A. Death threats.
B. Come-ons.
C. The loyalty and respect of thousands.
D. All of the above.

5) True or False. Harvey Milk often compared politics to theater.

See you at the theater! Or maybe at the legislative session...

(Oh. And the answers... Everything's true.)

Teenage Strangers

2009-01-20T12:11:00.000-06:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

If you've never been called a b**ch by random, teenage strangers, you don't know what you're missing.

Naturally, I was minding my own business when the whole thing took place.

Location: Corner of 16th Street and Avenue F in Bismarck, ND.
Time: Not long after the local high school let out.
Temperature: Zero degrees Fahrenheit, not including windchill.
My activity: Standing on the curb, waiting to cross the street.
My wardrobe: Suitable for Zero degrees.

Have you pieced it all together?

It took me a while to piece anything together. When the guys yelled out their SUV window, "Nice scarf, B**ch!" I was shocked. Furious. Vengeful. Thirsty for their blood.

What I wasn't -- was clever.

My own teenage years did nothing to prepare me for scarf-related harassment. What's a witty comeback for “Nice scarf”?

Takes one to know one! OR At least I know how to use it! aren't going to cut it.

Then, of course, there's the “B**ch” part. I considered an obscene gesture. But my fingers got it all jumbled up with the hand sign for Peace.

Anyway, as you might imagine, the whole thing raised my temperature quite a bit. I barely needed a scarf anymore.

Even a nice one like this.

Who's Back There... (or The Meaning of Life)

2009-01-08T11:10:00.007-06:00

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan

Ever have an encounter that revealed the meaning of life -- or at least put your own life into perspective? Here's mine:

I'm walking through a parking lot in Boulder, Colorado. Ahead, I spot a van -- a 60s-style van, painted in pastels, back end covered in bumper stickers. The van is in my path, in the direction I'm already going, so I head that way. Come to find out, the van won't move. The passenger leans on her open door, trying to walk the van forward.

Then, all of a sudden, a tidy-looking sedan pulls up. A tidy-looking woman gets out. She doesn't say a word. She just steps to the rear of the van. And she pushes. Together, the three of us push. Nothing.

So -- out pops the driver. She pushes at the front, leaning on her open door. The driver says to the passenger, "We can do it. We are strong women!" We keep pushing. We push some more. And can you believe? We get that van moving. All four of us, working together.

But as soon as we're done, the driver and the passenger jump up into their seats. Ready to go. They never tell us thanks. They never even wave. Then I understand -- Never once, this whole time, did they ever turn around. They never knew we were helping them. They never knew there were two strong women at the rear. What I'm trying to say is...

I'm saying a person can never be sure who's back there.

"Cold Enough for Ya?"

2008-12-22T18:23:00.001-06:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

"Cold enough for ya?" asked Ralph, as I blustered into a holiday party on Sunday. Shivering in my boots, I said, "Just about!"

Of all the winter traditions, this brief exchange (Cold enough for ya? Just about!) might be my all-time favorite.

A couple of years ago, a friend from Arizona landed here in February. She turned to me with wide eyes. "Is it possible that my nose hairs are freezing?" she asked. "Oh, yes!" I said.

I used to describe the cold to my Illinois grandpa. "As long as I keep blinking, my eyelashes don't freeze together, and I'm OK."

Sometimes Ferne (age 99 1/2) will ask me for the weather report, so I give it to her in layers. Lately, we've had Ski-Mask-Plus-Hat-Plus-Scarf Days. So far, those are the coldest.

A student of Kris's just got frostbite on his face. Ooops! Playing in the snow, he couldn't discern the kill-you cold from the really-kill-you cold.

Facing the really-kill-you cold, I go for a walk with Jasmine. As Jasmine (part Siberian Husky) leaps into the snowbanks, I have an urge to ask her, "Cold enough for ya?"

She kicks up snow with her snout. And I can almost hear her -- "Just about!"

Oh, That Governor of Illinois!

2008-12-12T15:00:00.002-06:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

I don't go around thinking I'm an expert on Illinois politics. But being born, raised, and corn-fed in the Land of Lincoln -- I feel a certain privilege to speak on the subject.

That Governor Rod Blagojevich! What was he thinking? people ask themselves. Trying to sell Barack Obama's Senate seat?

Honestly, I'm surprised no one thought of it sooner.

1) Kids from Illinois -- like Governor Rod Blagojevich (D) -- grow up with a skewed sense of heroics. I was arguing over Kant in my dorm room before it occurred to me that Al Capone might have been a bad guy. My dad had friends who lived in one of Al Capone's old houses, strategically tucked along the Kankakee River. Going there was the coolest thing on earth when I was a kid, what with all the hiding places and tricky ways to escape. Groping for identity, halfway between Hollywood and New York, we took to Al Capone like flies on honey. He was our Midwestern claim to fame.

2) Like Al Capone, the first Mayor Daley of Chicago captured the public's attention for scandalous reasons. As far as I know, he never bootlegged. But when he was getting elected, even dead people managed to give him their vote.

My favorite joke ever:

The Pope, the President, and the first Mayor Daley are on a boat. The boat starts to sink, of course. There's room for just one person on the raft. The Pope says, "I should get the raft. I'm the leader of the most powerful religion in the world." The President says, "I should get the raft. I'm the leader of the most powerful nation in the world." The first Mayor Daley says, "I should get the raft. I'm the leader of a really important city. Well, anyway, let's just take a vote." All three cast their ballots. The results come in --
Pope, one vote.
President, one vote.
Mayor Daley, five.

3) It's pretty much a tradition for Illinois Governors to get themselves arrested. When news of Blagojevich's arrest was announced, a North Dakota friend, David, was eager to discuss it. But I just couldn't arouse myself. "Yeah," I said, "I heard. He's not the first." As it turns out, Blagojevich is the sixth Illinois Governor to face arrest. The most recent ex-Governor, George Ryan (R), went to prison for his own ingenious scheme -- selling phony truck drivers' licenses.

So you see, in Illinois, you can buy just about anything: A truck driver's license. A vote. Bootlegged liquor.

Even a U.S. Senate seat.

Or maybe not.

What Do I Like Best about the Night?

2008-12-05T13:52:00.007-06:00

Some say winter begins at the end of December. The way my eyes see it (peeking over two scarves and under two hats), winter is upon us. In honor of these long nights, I'd like to share a short celebration of the darkness, "What Do I Like Best about the Night?"

It comes from my CD of children's poems, Toenails, Teeth, & Tarantulas. Kris Kitko's musical accompaniments will enchant you! Soon, you can hear more music and poems through CD Baby. But in the mean time --

Happy winter. Happy darkness. Happy long, long nights!

To listen:
1) Use the player on the left.
2) Turn up the volume on your speakers.
3) Imagine yourself as a kid again. (This is for the child in your heart.)

Shakespeare and Lefse

2008-11-27T19:02:00.001-06:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

You may not have noticed this, but the stuff that Shakespeare and I have in common is uncanny.

A quick review:

William Shakespeare and I both...
A) Have ancestors who were lured to North Dakota in the 1870s (or so) by promises of its Norway-like mountains.
B) Have an age-old family tradition of making lefse with our Norwegian ancestors here in North Dakota.
C) Grew up knowing what "lefse" was, that it existed, and that it's pronounced, LEFF-suh.
D) None of the above.

(See what I mean?)

Much like William Shakespeare, I spent years and years of my life completely ignorant of lefse.

What I didn't know was:
A) Lefse is a flat bread, much like a tortilla.
B) Unlike tortillas, lefse is made with potatoes.
C) Also unlike tortillas, lefse came to America from Norway.
D) All of the above.

So, while preparing for the lefse extravaganza at Julie's, naturally I had some questions:

Q: Do we really have to peel this mountain of potatoes?
A: Yes.
Q: Is it fun to put potatoes in a great, big, giant garlic press (AKA "ricer") and squeeze them out like spaghetti?
A: Yes.
Q: Are there lefse-making songs?
A: No.

I didn't tell Julie this, but as far as I'm concerned, lefse cries out for lefse-making songs. Something familiar, something popular, something everyone can sing. Here's what I have so far:

A) Bridge Over Troubled Lefse.
B) I've Been Working on the Lefse.
C) From This Lefse They Say You Are Going.
D) Star-Spangled Lefse.
E) I Wanna Hold Your Lefse.

And my personal favorite:
F) Girls Just Wanna Have Lefse.

Anyway, back to Julie's. For some reason, in spite of William Shakespeare's total ignorance of lefse, we decided to watch Shakespeare at the lefse extravaganza. Before long, after boiling, peeling, ricing, chilling, flattening, cooking, flipping, and storing lefse -- William Shakespeare's words got kind of jumbled with the potatoes. Even William Shakespeare was all about lefse.

Shakespeare's most famous quote:
"All the world's a lefse."

Shakespeare's most famous play:
Romeo and Lefse.

Shakespeare's most famous character:
Lady MacLefse.

All in all, after toiling in the kitchen with my lefse-making friends, even though I didn't learn a whole lot of Shakespeare, I did learn a little something:

Potatoes get peeled faster with many hands.

Happy Lefse!

Legalize Love. Protest H8.

2008-11-18T22:46:00.000-06:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

A string of good luck leads me to Minneapolis on Saturday. To a protest of California's Proposition 8. To a banner that reads, "Legalize Love," and a sign that says, "Shall I vote on your marriage?"

My good fortune:

1) My aunt Janet rescues me at the train station in St Paul (has a little trouble finding me, as I snap pictures of graffiti in the bathroom).

2) This nice couple, Dennis and Brian (together for 27 months after falling in love at a volley ball game -- opposing teams, of course) open their hearts and car and let me hitch from St Paul to Minneapolis.

3) The protest grows so large that even though we arrive an hour late (long story), we make it in time to join the burgeoning march.

In chorus with hundreds of marchers, I chant:

Out of the closets and into the streets! (A classic.)

1-2-3-4. Love is what we're fighting for!
5-6-7-8. End the violence, end the hate!

Gay, straight, black, white --
Marriage is a civil right!

What do we want? Civil rights!
When do we want 'em? Now!

I peruse the signs and posters:

No more Mr Nice Gay!

Shall I vote on your marriage?

Legalize Love

Focus on your family!

Marriage = Heart + Heart

Stop H8!

Marital Status --
Married?
Single?
Discriminated!

Love Love Love

(This one is Brian's sign...)
So you want me to marry your daughter?

As the march snakes along Nicollet Avenue to Loring Park, I watch people watching us. Construction workers, speechless. A cab driver, cheering. Passers-by, waving and honking. A homeless man, shaking his styrofoam cup in time with our chant.

On street corners and city benches, the homeless guys watch us, study us, discuss us as we march. One man smiles broadly, toothlessly, marveling with a friend. Another jostles a shopping cart, crammed with his worldly goods, toward the street to let us pass. Many men beg with empty cups.

As we watch each other, I wonder, what is the meaning of love?

"Legalize Love," the banner reads.

I wonder, if we legalized love, how would my life be different?

How would yours?

Blizzard Conversations in Bismarck

2008-11-09T21:05:00.001-06:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

Conversation One:

A birdhouse changed me. Months ago, I paced the sidewalks of Bismarck, rehearsing the reasons to leave this place. And then I saw it. Up there, hanging from an evergreen. Made by loving hands, no doubt about that. The walls, maybe, were pieces of a long-ago barn. The roof, almost thatched, sloped to keep the snow from piling up, come winter. And you could peek inside, that was the thing. As if the hands that made this house, the hands that hung this house, were ready to love whoever might move in.

Then came today. Jasmine, honorary coyote, loves a blizzard. So we walked those same sidewalks, Jasmine stretching the leash to its furthest reaches, me doting behind. And there it was. The birdhouse. I peeked up, up. A creature had built a nest in there. And what was nestled inside? No! A squirrel?

Up ahead, I spotted someone tinkering with a snowblower, turning cranks or screws to get it to work.
"Does your squirrel have a name?" I asked.
He twisted around to face me. "No." Big smile. "I haven't given him a name."
I said, "Looks like a pretty good buddy."
He stole a glance toward the birdhouse. "Yup."

Conversation Two:

Young guy shovels the longest sidewalks you'd ever care to see: Getting there.
Me: Yep.
Guy: It's not so bad out.
Me: It's beautiful really...
Jasmine approaches the Shoveling Guy, sniffing, curious.
I nod toward Jasmine: Especially to her.
He scratches her like dog lovers do: Yep.
Then Jasmine and I head east again.
Shoveling Guy: Have a good one.
Me: You too.

Conversation Three:

Ferne's friend, Marilyn up at the nursing home, is eager to meet my mother ASAP. It started a few days ago, as we peeked out the window for signs of the rumored blizzard.

"If there's a blizzard, nobody'll come and see me," she said.
I grinned. "Someone will."
She looked at me uncertainly. "Who?"
"Me!"
"Oh, no. You're so cute and sweet, you'll fall over. Stay at home with your mother. She needs you."
(How I wish I could stay at home with my mother!)
Today, Marilyn asked, "How's your mother?"
"She's good," I said.
"Is she clearing away...? You know."
I clarified, "Is she shoveling the snow?"
Marilyn nodded. "Yes."
This line of questioning led me to explain, "You said you used to live in Rockford, Illinois? My mom lives in Homewood, Illinois."
"I want to meet her... I'm so fond of her daughter."
"Thank you! I'll tell her you said that. That will make her proud."
"I'm proud... I want to meet her!"
"Yep, that's a good idea."
Marilyn nodded vigorously. "I'm in love with it."

99-Year-Old Woman Lives to See It: Barack Obama to the White House

2008-11-05T18:59:00.002-06:00

That's Ferne at age 21. She remembers 1920, and her mother's fierce pride over casting her first ballot. She remembers the mid 50s, when children of all races could sit in her classroom. She even remembers hearing of this person, Barack Obama. As a matter of fact, she thought I'd said his name was Iraq Obana.

A presidential candidate named Iraq? Didn't bother her. Neither did Hussein. Neither did the notion he's a Muslim. Many times, Ferne has said, I'm glad I grew up in a family where there wasn't any discrimination. Today I asked, Did you ever think you'd live to see this day? Ferne said, No, and laughed.

"Sarah Palin" to Liberal Voters: "Just Don't Vote!"

2008-11-03T09:00:00.000-06:00

"Sarah Palin" just came out with a short, sweet video. It's addressed to you and me. Her message to peace-minded voters: Just don't vote!

You can click on the YouTube video link to the left. Or you can see us (I mean, Sarah) at www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfWEjGTgYcQ.

See you at the voting booth, if you haven't been there already...

Let's Play...Founding Mothers

2008-10-26T21:22:00.004-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

I haven't had a really good pet peeve for ten years. Maybe twenty. It's been a long time since I've let myself get full-scale annoyed by other people. Mostly, I just bumble along, getting annoyed with myself. But lately, that old annoyance is creeping back.

List of current pet peeves:
1) The rampant, free-flowing use of the term Founding Father.

OK. I guess I have only one pet peeve to date.

And before we go any further, don't get me wrong. I have been graciously hosted by the Father of Bluegrass Music in North Dakota. I've had my picture taken next to Mister Shelterbelt of the Great Plains' tree. Though I've never met the Fathers of Perfumery, Canadian Rodeo, Modern Sabre Fencing, the Yellow School Bus, Fourth Generation Warfare, or the Compact Disc, the Internet assures me their contributions have bordered on the extreme.

Honestly though. No matter what I'm told, I've always been pretty sure that history was (and is) full of women. Still, do I know who my mothers are? Not very many.

So, in case you're as pet-peevish as I am, I'll invite you to play a short game. Founding Moms. The object: Guess who said what and when. Are you ready?

1. The rights of the individual should be the primary object of all governments.
A) Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1939.
B) Abraham Lincoln in 1860.
C) Mercy Otis Warren in 1805.

2. How long shall the fair daughters of Africa be compelled to bury their minds and talents beneath a load of iron pots and kettles?
A) Martin Luther King Jr. in 1968.
B) W. E. B. DuBois in 1909.
C) Maria W. Stewart in 1831.

3. Wall Street owns the country. It is no longer a government of the people, by the people, and for the people, but a government of Wall Street, by Wall Street, and for Wall Street.
A) Paul Wellstone in 2000.
B) William Jennings Bryan in 1908.
C) Mary Elizabeth Lease in 1890.

4. Establishing lasting peace is the work of education; all politics can do is keep us out of war.
A) Erik Erikson in 1969.
B) Jean Piaget in 1955.
C) Maria Montessori in 1949.

5. I want to be remembered as the person who helped us restore faith in ourselves.
A) Barack Obama in 2008.
B) Gordon Brown in 2007.
C) Wilma Mankiller in 1993.

Doesn't it feel good to have some Moms?

I'll admit, Founding Parents isn't catchy. It's only true.

(P.S. Click on the Comments for little-known facts on these Founding Moms.)

Sarah Palin and Yours Truly

2008-10-20T12:16:00.002-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

It all started when Kris declared, You should go as Sarah Palin for Halloween! Before this crucial moment, it never occurred to me that Sarah and I might have anything in common. But upon further investigation, I found...

Sarah Palin and I:
1) Are women with bangs.
2) Were both completely unknown as of August 29, 2008.
3) Can see a foreign country from within our home state.

Looking at this list, naturally I ask myself, Well, what do I have in common with Joe Biden? More than it may seem...

Joe and I:
1) Are not married to Elizabeth Edwards.
2) Are not married to Bill Clinton.
3) Have never been mistaken for Kathleen Sebelius.

So maybe I should go as Joe Biden...?

Wisdom (Not My Own)

2008-10-13T22:15:00.003-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

I used to be a wild-eyed collector. In 1978, when my family moved from Chenoa up to Bourbonnais, Illinois, my collections had to go with me. We carried my brother's effects (hardly any) to his brand-new room. With sweat dripping and muscles popping, we hauled my stuff (endlessly endless) to mine. Dad discovered my rock collection, in two giant boxes, hiding among the others marked Karen's Room. Long story short, he almost sent me back to Chenoa.

I don't collect rocks anymore, from other people's parking lots. Now I collect their wisdom. Here's a little I gathered this past month:

On the Empire Builder train out of Minot, North Dakota, I met a florist named Bonnie. Her advice...
Let the flowers speak to you.

On a stroll through the Illinois woods, my seven-year-old cousin turned to me, and she said...
I like snakes.

While visiting my dad, I did some research at the Kankakee Public Library. Shock of the world, I spotted an old heart-throb at the check-out counter. As the heart-throb said...
Time marches on.

In Chicago, my mom and I found ourselves at the Freedom Museum. Here, I first learned about America's founding mother, Mercy Otis Warren, who once said...
Every domestic enjoyment depends on the unimpaired possession of civil and religious liberty.
In other words, we're only free in the home when we're truly free in our country.

On the Empire Builder back from Chicago, I met a political scientist named Maggy. We talked and shared our souls from Chicago to Minneapolis (eight full hours). World-wise and shrewd, Maggy reminded me...
There's only one remedy for a jellyfish sting.

This Bag Is for Peace

2008-09-21T20:29:00.015-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

I've been away from home now for nearly two weeks, and it occurs to me that I'm living a double life. Back in Bismarck, I would have spent today, the International Day of Peace, knocking on neighbors' doors (for peace), drumming through the streets (for peace), or circling the state capitol with bubbles (for peace).

Instead, I spent today, the International Day of Peace, in the presence of my mother and an unusual paper bag. We (my mother and I) attended an inspiring peace celebration in the south suburbs of Chicago. Sponsored by Generations for Peace, the celebration included a bass guitar, a couple of maracas, fresh water, a DVD, a dog-eared book, and the unusual paper bag.

A few specs on the bag...

Current location: Flossmoor, Illinois
Future destination: Tehran, Iran
Purpose: World peace

Essentially, we were all invited to write notes to the people of Tehran, Iran, and then drop our notes in the peaceful paper bag. The contents of the bag were unknown to me, mostly. All I could spot were scraps of white paper, earnest notes written by earnest peacenicks, addressed to the people of Tehran.

I'm told they celebrated the Day of Peace in Tehran today. Maybe they pounded drums, surrounding Azadi square with bubbles of peace. Or maybe they did as Generations for Peace did today, right here in Illinois. Sing loudly for peace. Dance circles for peace. Extend the hand of friendship to would-be enemies.

Some of the Illinoisan peaceniks wrote volumes; I watched them fill their paper scraps with inky, reaching words for the people of Tehran.

I wondered, what did they say?
We don't hate you...
Please don't hate us...
We don't want to drop bombs on you...
We're sorry for what the USA might do...

My note was brief.
We wish you lasting peace.
From a mother and daughter in the U.S.

Simple words, far from profound. What could I say to someone I do not know, and I do not hate?

Maybe next year, I'll send bubbles.

P.S. People of Tehran, Iran, held a candlelight vigil this morning in honor of the Day of Peace. In Afghanistan, NATO forces and Taliban forces agreed to a day-long ceasefire, enabling transport of crucial medicines. I am not aware of an official response to the International Day of Peace in Iraq.

Were You at the RNC?

2008-09-07T21:44:00.003-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

Dragon Jane was there. Maybe you were there. There's so much I want to tell you about the RNC in St. Paul.

The thrill of being inside a giant peace dragon, blowing bubbles from her mouth, seeing The Wall Street Journal, CNN, and countless others taking footage of this mythology in the making.

The rush of getting a standing ovation for our peace performance at the Lowry Theater in St Paul.

The promise in attending Ripple Effect, an enormous downtown peace festival, where we received free art, signed petitions, met activists from all over, planted magic seeds, laughed at a puppet show, and heard lots of pulsing music, some of which we liked.

The shock at having our luggage searched right there on the sidewalk in the city.

The fear at seeing riot police in riot gear refusing to let anyone (even pedestrians) cross the streets.

The disappointment at spotting a vandalized police car, windows smashed, tires slashed.

The panic at hearing stories from our friends of tear gas, pepper spray, billy clubs, maybe even rubber bullets, wielded at nonviolent protesters and bystanders, more than 800 of whom were arrested throughout the week.

The worry over a baby shrew we found in a city park.

The sadness over seeing a reenactment of Guantanamo.

The hope that comes from seeing good friends (new and old)...Lizzie, Baba, Cam, Hillary, Rae, Laura, Julie, Jill, Melissa, Nicholas, Ariel, Jeanne, Gerry, Diane, and more.

The joy of eating Afghan food, and Thai food, and a pita.

The gratitude toward our anonymous patrons for making this trip possible.

A deep concern and adoration for humanity.

P.S. This is all I can say about the RNC for now. More soon...

North Dakota Big Foot

2008-08-19T23:18:00.005-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

I can't be the only one who's disappointed that Big Foot turned out to be a hoax, that money changed hands, that a rubber gorilla suit was to blame. Maybe it's just my disappointment talking, but I'm inclined to think there's more here than meets the eye. Maybe it's not that Big Foot doesn't exist. Maybe the Sasquatch searchers just searched the wrong state.

If I were Ms. Big Foot, looking for a state, I would settle down...

1) Where the human population is one of the lowest in the nation (about 47th would be best).

2) Where I'd have over 70,000 square miles to call my own.

3) Where there is no registered chapter of the Sasquatch Information Society.

4) Where the winters can get so brutal, everyone looks like a Sasquatch.

5) Where the name of the state means North Friend.

6) Where black bear, wolves, and mountain lions are rumored to make their homes, but it's so easy to hide, almost no one ever sees them.

7) Where UFO and alien encounters are on the rise, especially near Tappen, diverting people's attention away from Big Foot.

8) Where, if people are into bigness, they can just take pictures of Salem Sue.

9) Or Tommy the Turtle.

10) Where, if worse came to worse, I could find my portrait along the hallway of the capitol, one more famous North Dakotan.

Yes, I've decided. If I were Ms. Big Foot, I'd settle down right here. After all, Sasquatches have been sited at least twice in North Dakota (in 2000 and 2007).

Someone ought to tell those North Dakota Sasquatches, You got to be more careful! Take a cue from your buddies back in Georgia!

Mosquitoes and Why I Love Them

2008-08-10T21:53:00.005-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

Today is the day I began to love mosquitoes. I mean, don't they love me after all? Don't they get all jumpy and expressive when I come around? They treat me like a rock star. So today I decided I'd love them back.

Ten real reasons I love mosquitoes:

10) I like to play connect-the-dots.

9) They don't know the difference between a president and a prisoner.

8) They give strangers something to talk about at the bus stop.

7) They're not as bad as chicken pox.

6) They're friendlier than some of my neighbors.

5) They help me keep up my speed on the 50-yard dash.

4) They remind me that small can be powerful.

3) They teach me that each creature exists for its own ends, not mine.

2) They keep me on my toes with my anger-management skills.

1) They rhyme with burritos.

There! Maybe tomorrow, I'll love Dick Cheney.

One Big Surprise at Bismarck's PrideFest

2008-07-29T13:25:00.008-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

The surprise? This Saturday, from 50 feet away, I heard someone call out to me, I care about you.

Do you remember the last time you heard, I care about you?
I'm more accustomed to hearing, I love you, from my brother, for instance.
Love, love, love, from Dragon Jane.
I like you, from Ferne's roommate, Marilyn.
I'll miss you over the weekend, from Ferne.
Be a good girl, from Grandpa Van. To which I always replied, You too.

The only time I recall hearing, I care about you, was this Saturday at the North Dakota Capital PrideFest. The words came flying across the road from a scripture-quoting protester. I care about you. Then he elaborated.

Like the other 1,099 PrideFest goers, I was quickly bound for hell.

I didn't give this statement a lot of thought at the time. I mean, there was a merry-go-round, after all. And a campfire, a live band, shared snacks, good friends, loving kids, the stranger who gave me a Mardi Gras necklace, someone's gentle hand to hold, not to mention a love-infested Dragon Jane performance.

I wonder, though. Had I given these words, I care about you, any thought at all, what might I have said?

Well, then, come on over! All kinds are welcome here.
Even me.
Even you.

"And We Saved the Tree"

2008-07-21T12:05:00.002-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

Tree-hugger is one of those terms I wear proudly, like a Girl Scout badge. There's worse things to hug in this world, I'm pretty sure. And (no offense to all the huggable trees out there) there's one tree I especially love to hug. I gaze on my friend, this 60-year-old elm tree, from my window every day.

I turn to this tree when I get the news...
Polar bears may be extinct by this summer.
Wolves being shot to death in Idaho and Wyoming.
Hundreds of bison needlessly slaughtered in Yellowstone National Park.

Even when I cannot bear to read this news, I feel it. I can tell my world is suffering from a distinct loss of the wild. I know I don't hear bison thundering on the plains, or listen to the wolves calling to the moon, or live in a stable climate that can nourish cold-weather species for very long. So, because I need to, I gaze on my tree each day.

This living, nurturing, mama tree reminds me there is wildness. The squirrels climb, with braiding tracks, up and down her trunk. Birds of many kinds, every shade of prairie color, stop here for a moment. This tree is my place of peace, my wild refuge.

But then, just before Earth Day, I see two City officials circling my tree, with an ominous piece paper in their hands. In my best June Cleaver impression, I bustle out the door and ask, Can I help you?

My tree will be chopped down, they say. Something to do with water pipes. That's all I understand. My tree will die this summer. There's nothing they can do; they seem sorry.

I concoct schemes:
1) Become a full-time tree sitter.
2) Chain myself to the tree.
3) Invite my dad to Bismarck and chain him to the tree.

Soon I become...
1) Depressed.
2) More depressed.
3) Even more depressed.

Then, weeping under my tree one night, I ask myself these questions...
1) What if there's a way to save my tree?
2) What can I do in my lifetime?
3) What if City officials love trees too?

I call all kinds of people and make some curious additions to my vocabulary:
1) Curb stop.
2) Water valve.
3) Water main.
4) Service line.
5) Service connection.
6) Directional drill.
7) Splice.

Many times, Kris and I talk to...
1) The city.
2) Contractors.
3) Subcontractors.
4) The work crew from Geo E Haggart, Inc.
5) Friends and family (for good measure).

How all of the above decide to help us, I don't know. But on Thursday, July 17, 2008,
our water line is moved, clear around the tree.

At 4:30, I ask, Are you done already? Yes, they say, they're done. One crew member tells me, We didn't tear up the concrete. He gestures toward the elm. And we saved the tree.

Tree-huggers, every one.

My Life Is a Game Show

2008-07-13T09:06:00.001-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

Did you ever think your family was on TV? Somehow, I happened upon an episode of the Dick Van Dyke Show when I was a kid. After that, I knew: Somewhere, somehow, my life (like Dick's) was being broadcast over the airwaves. How my mother ever convinced me otherwise, I don't recall.

Little did I suspect that in my lifetime, my childhood notion would become reality (TV) for so many. Strangely enough, this leaves me feeling...inspired? But I'm not going to make my life a reality TV show. Mine's going to be a game show. Or, anyway, questions for a game show. Want to play?

1. Please note the top photo. This is not a blemish or a bruise. It's a tattoo. OK, it's not a tattoo anymore. But it used to be (sort of).
Anyway, what do you suppose it said? And who do you suppose put it there?
A) I love Barack Obama, put there by Jesse Jackson.
B) I love Barack Obama, put there by Bill O'Reilly.
C) Urban Harvest, put there by Tracy.

2. What did Ramona call me as I was hauling Urban Harvest gear to the truck, carrying a potted plant on my head?
A) Courageous.
B) Karen.
C) Butchy Poo.

3. True or False. After hugging city trees with Katy and me, Aria (age 6) became a tree herself (or at least she looked like one).

4. True or False. At Carol and Fred's house, I did my impression of Grandpa Van's rooster-navel joke (for no reason).

5. Why has Connor (age 5) chosen black as his favorite color?
A) I don't know.
B) Frankly, I find black to be exponentially superior.
C) Black is very dark.

6. It was so hot this week (in between not being hot at all), Corinne had to peel what off of Roberta's back?
A) A tarantula.
B) An admirer.
C) Roberta's backpack.

7. True or false. Did I actually catch Bonnie saying, Well, yeah, my toes go numb. But they don't fall off?

8. How old are some of the people I've danced with this week?
A) Three.
B) Six.
C) Eleven.
D) Nineteen.
E) Thirty.
F) Sixty-nine.
G) All of the above.

9. In working with city engineering to save our boulevard tree, the engineering department has been genuinely...
A) Friendly toward tree-huggers.
B) Helpful toward tree-huggers.
C) Willing to hug a tree when no one's looking (maybe).
D) All of the above.

10. On the way home from an enchanting hike with the Badlands Conservation Alliance in the North Dakota Badlands, Kris and I happened upon the Belfield Quasiquicentennial (125th) Celebration. The crowds craned their necks to the sky, awaiting the parachute jumpers, who were getting outsmarted by the wind again this year. Last year, where did the parachute jumpers land?
A) By the bank, as planned.
B) Upside down in a juniper tree within the proposed Badlands Wilderness Area.
C) Next to the railroad tracks, as a train was approaching.

11. On the Badlands hike, I spotted a horned lizard (a.k.a. horny toad), which earned me an A for the day from a retired minister's wife and a college professor. It never crossed my mind to pick the lizard up. Good thing. Had I been so foolish, what might the lizard have done?
A) Started singing La Bamba.
B) Turned into a princess.
C) Intentionally squirted blood from the corners of her eyes for a distance of several feet.

12. True or False. I won the Eco-Kids Project raffle! And now I have a marvelous original children's painting, Zoo Zingers, by Gwyn Ridenhour. (If only those guys in junior high could see me now. I am a winner.)

Go, team, go! Thanks for playing.

(For the answers, click on comments.)

Celebrating Sister's Day...

2008-06-30T14:09:00.006-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

Since as early as I can remember, June 24th has been a profoundly important day in my life. We celebrate Mother's Day, Father's Day, Grandparents' Day, Veterans' Day, Administrative Professionals' Day. But for me, June 24th has always been Sister's Day, the day I became a sister for the first and only time.

I have often wondered, How do you actually be a sister? How necessary is a sister to a brother? He has a mom who does all the mom things, aunts who do the aunt things, grandmothers, a girlfriend, et cetera.

What's my actual purpose in this setup? He's long past needing a babysitter, fashion consultant, chauffeur, advice-giver, book-reader, shoe-tie-er, song-singer, note-writer, snack-saver, or playmate anymore. So who am I?

I flatter myself sometimes as being the person who knows him best in all the world. I knew what made him cry out in the middle of the night, what made his heart open wide, what made him so angry he just about pummeled me to the ground. And I still do.

Maybe I am the keeper of the memory, as the sister. This, I remember well:

My little brother hurts.
I see bleeding on his head.
I'll die if my brother should die.

The doctor stitches him up.
There's no anesthesia for him. So there is none for me.
Let me in that room! Let me stop the needle that makes him scream.
I scream because he screams.
We are screaming.

My mother takes me away. She carries me down the hall, as far as we can go from my brother’s screaming.
Dad is with your brother, she says. Davy will be fine.
Down the hall, I can hear him still. I can always hear him.
I will always cry, if he must cry.

Whew! Thankfully, that's not all I remember:

Talking through the heating vents when we're supposed to be sent to our rooms.
Plotting a doorway from his room to mine.
Taping a box of paper clips inside his Christmas present, so that shaking it would give him false clues.
Watching Perry Mason for real clues.
Finding artwork and notes on my door, Good job!
Dancing like Bo Jangles in the kitchen.

Being a sister, it's not what I remember really, or even how well I know anyone. Mainly, it's how I feel. Love you, bro.

Number Thirteen

2008-06-23T13:10:00.010-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

Who's counting? OK, I am. Never one to avoid the 13th floor or the 13th camping spot, I'm ready to celebrate this 13th blog entry. (A definition of celebrate: share quotes, news, and updates.)

1) Love & B.S. (all about Grandpa V)
One of my favorite Grandpa V quotes...
I'd rather sit down and talk with a pig than eat one.

2) The Umbrella & the Runaway Horses (written by Grandma Z and me, sort of)
More about Grandma Z: She remained a devoted pianist until her final days, forgetting words, names, places, and faces, but never In the Garden.

3) Fascism, Ferne, & the Ten Commandments
Holding steady: The Ten Commandments still adorn Hillside Park. Fascism still bedecks the monument, though the graffiti appears to be melting these days. Ferne turned 99 two months ago.

4) Uffda! Barack Obama + Hillary Clinton = North Dakota?
Still seems possible, doesn't it?

5) The Orange Thingy...for Earth Day
One of the neighbors (who had refused a free, CFL, Earth-Day lightbulb from Sierra Club) stopped by the other day. I noticed you're natural types. I thought you might have a use for this lawn sweeper. I'm not using it.

I've been merrily (and freely) sweeping my yard (more weeds than grass clippings) ever since.

6) Nothing in Life is Free, Except this Piano
And this lawn sweeper...?

7) Four Things I Did Not Do With My Rebate Check
1. Frame it.
2. Blow it all on Red Hots.
3. Fold it into an origami tanker.
4. Buy a Barbie.

8) One Quick Recipe for Peace
Another ingredient: Talking to trees, talking to birds, talking to spinach.

9) Top 10 Reasons to Stay in Bismarck, ND
Three more reasons: Trees, birds, spinach.

10) Listening for Voices
For visiting ancestors, I have better luck with dreams than electronics. If anything should change, I'll let you know.

11) Surprises at Fargo Pride
Here's a surprise I neglected to mention: At the outdoor Pride festival, I (subtly) chased after a woman wearing a paper-bag sign attached with clothespins to her back. What did the sign say? “Old woman wearing shorts. Deal with it.” This was, of course, well worth the (subtle) chase.

12) 10 (Sort of) Fun Things to Do With Food Scraps
As Sara said the other day, while discussing whether tarantulas eat people or just bite them, If I had venom, I'd eat humans.

13) Number Thirteen
Thanks for celebrating!

10 (Sort of) Fun Things You Can Do With Food Scraps

2008-06-16T15:06:00.002-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

When I say food scraps, I mean pits, peels, seeds, stems. The stuff that gets pushed to the edge of the plate, plunked into the garbage, tossed from the window of the car. The stuff that doesn't inspire us, interest us, or nourish us.

Or does it?

1) If I were Kristi, I'd co-create food-scrap art with Karen (who wouldn't be me anymore, because I'd be Kristi). Then I'd nickname it Chipper. See photo.

2) If I were Julie, I'd take elegant photos of food-scrap art, as co-created by Kristi and Karen. See photo credit.

3) If I were Ursula, I'd bury food scraps (i.e. potato peels) in my garden. Then I'd accidentally grow potatoes.

4) If I were Tracy, I'd feed food scraps to a seething mound of worms and then show it off to a class of awe-struck first graders.

5) If I were Bill (at age 3 or 4), I'd stick food scraps up both my nostrils, purely as a scientific experiment.

6) If I were Jim, I'd go ahead and eat the apple core.

7) If I were Brian, I'd go ahead and eat the strawberry stem.

8) If I were Grandpa Z, I'd go ahead and swallow the red grape seeds.

9) If I were Buddha, I wouldn't have any food scraps, surviving on but one grain of rice.

10) If I were me, I'd blog about my food scraps (of course) and then run off to peek on them in their compost bin.

Surprises at Fargo Pride

2008-06-09T14:15:00.004-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

OK, I confess. I wasn't anticipating Fargo Pride with the full force of enthusiasm that's kind of my trademark. For one, I've attended a lllllllllllllllllot of Pride-type Events in my lifetime. To name a few...

Madison, Wisconsin in 1988.
Michigan Women's Music Festival in 1995.
Chicago, Illinois in 2002.
Bismarck, North Dakota in 2006.

How much more Pride did I need? I mean, really. But you know where I'm going with this. Fargo Pride knocked my socks off. Or something. Here's a sampling of Fargo Pride surprises:

1) The Fargo Police Department had a booth there, staffed by their real, live GLBT liaison, who was giving away (yes, giving away) totally free Junior Police Officer stickers. (See photo.)

2) NDSU had a representative there, who was giving away (yes, giving away) totally free NDSU Pride bracelets. (Rainbow style, of course. Wearing mine now).

3) Barack Obama had a booth at Pride, supporting GLBT folks. Since I didn't see him there in person, I went up to ask, Does he know you're doing this? Sure enough, he does. The Barack Obama Pride pamphlets are paid for by his campaign. (Really?)

4) Two Fargo City Commissioners and one hopeful County Commissioner spoke at the Pride celebration. (And none of them fell into a faint.)

5) Unlike Chicago Pride, none of the floats (as in zip, zero, nil) advertised beer.

6) Two young men stepped off the sidewalk to join our float, hoofing behind us, smiling widely, singing along. (In an alternate universe, I'm pretty sure I'm their mom...)

7) Brandee (age 11) tossed candy from our float with all the exuberance any parade deserves.

8) Though the size of the crowd was nothing like Folk Fest in Bismarck, and though unclaimed candy littered the street, some folks did turn out to watch the parade going by.

9) Rainbow flags decorated the lamp posts up and down Broadway. (This was not guerrilla pride. The City of Fargo OK'd this.)

10) We had a bona fide float (thanks to Lola, Carlie, Ella, Julie, and Brandee) with rainbows streaming everywhere and Kris singing (and singing and singing) into the mic. Now, get this: Our float won second prize!

First prize winners...just you wait 'til next year!

Listening for Voices

2008-06-02T13:08:00.003-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

In between sips of Mystic Mayan Cocoa tea, Jan makes this casual declaration: I like my gray hair. I'm sure she's not the first person to utter such subversions. Mama Lola (as she's known to many) has said the same herself: I like my gray hair. I earned every bit of it.

I jump to three conclusions whenever I see a woman with gray hair. She has...
1) Wisdom.
2) Reached the last decades of her life.
3) Enough of #1 to face #2.

Visiting Ferne at the nursing home, sometimes I want to blurt out, But I'm not ready! I'm not ready to be 99! Then I realize I'm not 99, and I feel a little better.

Still, I have to admit, sometimes I fear for the future. For one, I've kind of gotten used to having Mom and Dad around. A phone call, an email, a hug. I'm a sucker for the stuff that parents can do when they're alive.

Annette (from Dragon Jane) has written a piece for her grandmother that simply tears my heart out. (If you'd like to join me in that, please read on...)

From Dear Grandma by Annette Martel:

...Now that you're gone,
I worry about losing my parents.
The hardest thing I've ever done in my life
was to watch my mother
watching you lie in a hospital bed during your last days...

...I remember,
For a moment, I stopped breathing,
When I realized someday,
That would be me standing next to a hospital bed,
Saying good-bye to my mom.

Like Annette, I'm not ready. I'm a thousand miles from Mom and Dad, and even that is too much. After losing all my grandparents, and a friend, and the loved ones of my friends, and various beloved pets, I'm ready to dig my feet in the ground and cry, No! We're not ready!

But, ready or not, Kris and I make our regular hike to the cemetery. This past Memorial Day, we took flowers to Helen and Fred senior. And that's not all. We also carried a tape recorder. (This is true.) Some people promise you can record voices from the afterlife, voices you can't hear until you play them back on a tape recorder. So we spoke our greetings and offered our flowers. Then, with curiosity bumping into skepticism, we shamelessly pressed record.

I wondered what Helen and Fred might want to say. We love you? Kris, tell your dad there's a million bucks hidden under the floorboards? Next time, bring your fiddle and guitar?

Later, we listened back. And what did we hear?
Traffic. Wind. Our footfalls. No voices.

Which leads me to three conclusions:
1) Maybe recordings of the afterlife are a lot of wishful thinking.
2) Maybe Helen and Fred would rather be silent.
3) When it comes to recording, maybe Fred and Helen just aren't ready.

Top Ten Reasons to Stay in (Move to?) Bismarck, North Dakota

2008-05-18T23:47:00.006-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

Are you ready? I'm about to reveal the top ten reasons to stay in (move to?) Bismarck, North Dakota. This is not a joke. Really. A few years ago, I would have burst out laughing at the title of this piece. Top reason I stayed in Bismarck in the mid-90s? I couldn't get a ride to the train station.

But isn't that how I've always been? As a teenager in Kankakee (KANG-kuh-kee) County, Illinois, I had a favorite nickname for the County: Skank-akee. (Skanky meaning something I didn't like...not interesting, not progressive, not vibrant enough.)

And I admit, Bismarck does have its share of skanky aspects. (I can hear certain voices enumerating them right now.) Still, I choose to live here, and in this place, I have a beautiful life.

As a matter of fact, I have moved to Bismarck three times already. This last time, it's as if I was running by, and Bismarck reached up and took me by the ankle. Nearly five years later, here I am. Which brings me back to my Top Ten list. In all honesty, these are only my reasons. (Feel free to comment with your own.) But if you're anything like me (a quirky, tree-hugging, peace-loving type), these reasons may apply. Here we go...

Number Ten:
Last winter, someone put smiley faces of snow on all the tree trunks in Hillside Park. (I've never found out who.)

Number Nine:
If there's such a thing as reincarnation, I plan to come back as the North Dakota Badlands.

Number Eight:
I like the dirt in my garden, and I'm convinced it likes me back.

Number Seven:
If there's such a place as heaven, it's streaming with rivers and kayaks.

Number Six:
As long as I have comfortable shoes and bicycle grease, I can hoof and pedal almost anyplace. And usually, a driver will stop and let me cross.

Number Five:
Does Welcoming Congregation mean anything to you? It does to me. (Thanks.)

Number Four:
There are these crazy, generous people (like the Archibald Bush Foundation, NDCA, and DWAC) who actually place value on the arts in North Dakota.

Number Three:
Urban Harvest has tossed me a life-line to the places I would move to, but now I don't have to.

Number Two:
Dragon Jane Performance Art Company pushes me to the edges of who I can be. (And somehow, I like that.)

Number One:
My North Dakota loved ones and friends nourish my wandering roots. And can you believe? Some of them read this blog!

One Quick Recipe for Peace

2008-05-11T22:01:00.003-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

I've heard it said a dozen times, a hundred times, a thousand times. As Cookie (age 7) said the other day, A million times. A google. Pretend I just said infinity. In other words, I've heard it said an infinite number of times:

Imagine peace. But I've never known for sure, what do other people imagine? Buffalo storming the prairie once more? Voices always singing? Streets remade into long community gardens?

Probably, we all have our recipes for peace. Christian's (age 10) goes like this:
1. Join the peace gang.
2. Stop mean people.
3. Love!

Most of the time, I use recipes for something yet to come, a dish I plan to make. Something in the future. Still, sometimes a recipe will be rooted in the past. I'll prepare a dish first; then I'll try to figure out how it happened. So here are some of last week's ingredients of peace...

Sunday:
Casting the only no vote in a roomful of yeses, and still feeling heard.

Monday:
Brushing my furry dog (very!). Watching wisps of fur fly. Imagining birds who will claim it for their nests.

Tuesday:
Gathering up the compost. Stink!

Wednesday:
Laughing nicely about being nice girls while pushing each other (nicely of course) at Dragon Jane rehearsal.

Thursday:
Reflecting on words of wisdom I've gained from Ferne (age 99). Then hearing Ferne ask me, What are your words of wisdom?

Friday:
Shaking a maraca in the Band Day Parade with Urban Harvest. Being a Sky Fairy with Aria (age 6), bringing enchantment from the sky.

Saturday:
Waking up to purring cats pressed against my side. Feeling as if my own body is purring.

Sunday:
Having this phone conversation...
Happy Mother's Day! I say to Ramona.
Knowing I want to adopt but don't have the funds yet, Ramona replies, Happy Mother's Day to you, too!
Thanks, I say, laughing, I think.
Then Ramona says, We're all mothers, aren't we?

I like to see my week written down this way. It makes me want to ask you, How was your week? What was your recipe for peace?

Four Things I'm Not Going to Do with My Rebate Check

2008-05-05T00:10:00.002-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

Four things I'm not going to do with my rebate check:
1. Frame it.
2. Blow it all on Red Hots.
3. Fold it into an origami tanker.
4. Buy a Barbie.

You couldn't mistake me for a Barbie fan, not anymore. Judging by the news, I'm not alone on that. Barbie sales have fallen 12% in the US. Where did I hear this? From Mom. The same mom who wouldn't let her daughter have a Barbie.

This rule, which inspired plenty of stink eye (behind her back, of course), also gave me a glimpse of something way beyond Barbie. I learned, or at least I sensed:
1. Barbies don't look like women.
2. Women don't look like Barbies.
3. It's fine if I don't look like Barbie,
4. Because I can't.

Still, I was a child of the space age, forever awash in aphorisms proclaiming the human potential. School assemblies, pep rallies, graduation ceremonies, all taught me this: Aim high! You can do it! Be whatever you want to be! All you have to do is put your mind to it.

OK, that sounds bitchen! (I never really said bitchen. Not very much.) But who should we aim to be? At pep-rally age, my friends and I dreamed of being Barbie when we grew up. Interestingly enough: Breast augmentation is now the most popular cosmetic surgery in the nation. That's this year. In 2006, liposuction topped the list.

What would life be like, being Barbie? Can we do it?

Women with breast implants are three times more likely than the rest of us to kill themselves. (Not only that, they're three times more likely to die of alcohol and drug abuse.) Could it be that they've had cancer, and suicide seems like the only way out? Well, no. Women who get implants and kill themselves later aren't any more likely to have a history of cancer. The main difference between them and me is...tell me again?

Mom always hoped I'd have a healthy image of my body. I guess she never heard: You're supposed to set attainable goals for your kids.

Her no-Barbie policy (unaltered by the stink eye) was accompanied by others, equally as trying for a three-year-old:
1. Don't just run off to Danny's house. Ask your mother first.
2. Try to eat popcorn without plunging it down your throat.
3. Politely say, More milk, please? Don't slam your cup on the table.
4. No guns, ever, of any kind.

The first rules, though challenging, were doable with practice. But Rule Number Four! Mom, why?
1. Guns aren't toys.
2. Killing isn't a game.

Oh.

I've heard it said that a nation is like a family. The federal budget is a checkbook for the entire US-family, all 300 million of us. I recently went to a program by WAND, a national women's peace organization, that came to Fargo and Bismarck. This is what I learned:

In the US-family checkbook...
For every $1 for education, 7 goes to weapons and war.
For every $1 for ag and the environment, 8 goes to weapons and war.
For every $1 for health, 9 goes to weapons and war.

I suppose the weapons are there so we feel safer. But I don't.

Maybe I'd feel safer with a Barbie.

Maybe not.

Nothing in Life is Free, Except This Piano

2008-04-27T21:51:00.007-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

We thought you were giving away your piano. If we were wrong, please let us know! Thanks!!! Signed Karen (first name only) with my number.

I have to admit, Kris and I have unearthed more than our fair share of nifty home furnishings from alleyways, curbs, and even those industrial-style dumpsters. A rattan couch, pap san chair, cat post, monocular, greeting cards, fresh flower bouquets, sturdy Zenith television (with a handy knob to press for a color picture).

But never, ever had I seen such a funky, glittery, Free-Love era, 64-key piano, with plush blue bench. Until last week.

Standing there after dark, at somebody else's curb, tinkering at this sparkling piano, I suddenly heard this voice inside my mind: Art imitates life, it said. And then another voice (which sounded like Woody Allen's) replied (inside my brain): Life imitates art.

Honestly (though I've considered myself an artist for many years) I'd rather aerate the lawn than contemplate this question: Does art imitate life or life imitate art? If I need more to think about, I'll just gaze at my navel.

But now, with this funky piano in my living room, life and art are colliding something fierce. If I'd been asked to write a play about, say, a piano, I'd be thrilled to dream up ideas like these:

1. Have character (Karen) find piano on curb on garbage pick-up day. (Check)

2. Make piano funky beyond compare, with parts covered in vinyl. (Check)

3. For intrigue and suspense, be certain no one is home at piano-house. (Check)

4. Include loving characters with interesting lines. (Check)

For instance...
JULIE after helping haul piano:
Thanks for inviting me to be a part of the fun.
DAN after helping lift piano:
Oh, that's what friends do for each other.

5. Include teasing characters with funny lines. (Check)

For instance...
KRIS after seeing piano on curb:
You don't think it's haunted, do you? What if it starts playing at three a.m.?
CORINNE after hearing news of the piano:
So you put it on your bike and brought it home?
WAYDE after hearing news of the piano:
Oh, good! You found that piano I lost!
MOM after Karen has moaned about not having picture of piano on curb:
You could take it back outside and get a picture. Like a...reenactment...It could be an annual event!

6. To heighten suspense, have Dad issue warning about taking other people's discards. Have Karen return to piano-house and still find no one home. (Check)

7. Send Karen downtown on bicycle, on windiest day of year, to get piano books. (Check)

8. Close on a cliff-hanger. Will Karen ever really learn to play? (Check)

The Orange Thingy...For Earth Day

2008-04-23T11:00:00.000-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

This is an ode to the orange thingy. Probably, you've seen it, or one like it. You have to admit, it's orange. Painted that way. Spray paint most likely. Not a thingy, really. More like a place, a spot. A section of the sidewalk that was wrecked by some type of accident. And now, this location, this dangerous location, has been carefully painted orange. (For my protection. Your protection. One person looking out for the next.) Maybe by someone who was hurt there already. Tripped, fallen, skinned their knee. Or maybe this person's auntie. She doused that spot in orange before the next set of knees came skipping past. Or it could be Parks and Rec. A worker from Parks and Rec, with grandkids of her own who walk, skate, bike, tease, and loiter on this sidewalk. She arrived at the scene with a can of paint and a purpose.

So I'm watching the cars (and bumper stickers) sputtering past the park. If you can read this, thank a teacher. That's one. Freedom isn't free! That's another. And all of a sudden, everything comes together. The orange thingy, the bumper stickers, my life. It all makes sense.

For me, it comes down to lightbulbs. Saturday morning, I'm strolling around my neighborhood. Not too far from the orange thingy. Doing my best to give away free lightbulbs. Compact Fluorescent Lightbulbs. CFLs for short. The kind that reduce carbon emissions and help stop global warming. Courtesy: Sierra Club. And I'll be perfectly clear. The bulbs are 100%, no-money-down, no-questions-asked, entirely, totally free.

But the woman across the street, she can't come to the door, isn't dressed, she says. The guy up the block, well, CFLs won't fit in any fixtures in his house, garage, or camper (now or forever). Someone else has heard something (she can't remember what) that she doesn't like about CFLs; somebody else can have it.

Maybe it's my spiel. Would you like a free light bulb for Earth Day from Sierra Club? Maybe they're uncomfortable with stuff like planet Earth. Maybe they think we'll sneak back after hours and...plant a tree?

Or maybe it's...me!

Everybody will tell you, don't think this way. Rid yourself of distractions. Focus on the lightbulb. But as soon as I start to think, You know, maybe this is about me, everything changes. These people, these unwilling people, they're my neighbors, you know? My neighbors. They live here. I live here. We live here.

So I'm knocking on your door to give you a lightbulb, yes. But I'm knocking on your door to knock on your door. I'm your neighbor just down the block, I say. I live just over there. Nice to meet you.

Do the lightbulbs move any faster? Not in particular. But I meet the friend of a friend. I admire a little sidewalk art (hearts and flowers mostly). And maybe I make someone's day. This is my lucky day! he says. It's not every day you're walking along and get a free lightbulb!

Then I meet a neighbor whose best friend in the world has passed away. My friend was an only child, she says. It devastated her parents. Fifty-five years, we were best friends.

I listen, saying little, indulging myself in the smell of her home. Exactly like Grandma Z's used to be.

There's not too much I can do, she says. I'd like to make a donation or help you out, but I just can't. Still trying to get myself together.

I tell her, That's OK. The lightbulb's...free.

We talk a while. Her best friend, her health, the environment. You're a lovely person, she offers. I can tell.

It's maudlin, I know, but I tell her, So are you.

She talks some more. And I listen.

Well, if there's one thing I can do, she says, looking in my eyes, it's change my lightbulb.

So whatever you're trying to do, teach a class, defend a country, protect a kid, save the earth, I think I get it.

We don't always agree. We wouldn't pick the same shade of paint every time, the same cause, the same purpose. But I believe you did it out of love. And just in case you're hoping someone would notice: Somebody did.

Uff Da! Barack Obama + Hillary Clinton = North Dakota?

2008-04-17T15:00:00.005-05:00

© 2008 Karen Van Fossan

Obama T-shirts! Made in America. Hillary's are made in Mexico! So the vendor calls, walking the line, peddling Obama-ware to a merry crowd. I mean that. Merry. This line, these 17,400 people or so, compose not only the largest line I've ever been in, but the merriest. We have braved the Grand Forks wind, walking this line for an hour. Maybe two. So what's another hour among 17, 399 friends?

Some have come to hear Barack Obama. For instance, the child who carries a giant, orange Obama poster. Which he, not his brother, has made; he assures me of this. Some have come for Hillary Clinton. For instance, the women who sport Hillary buttons as large as strawberry pies or maybe circular saws. And some (like my friends and I) have resolved to cheer for both, and also for each other as much as possible. In this spirit, we throw ourselves into a game of 20-questions, which is record-breaking both in length and complications. My turn.

Person, place, or thing? Tracy asks.
Does it talk? That's Spencer.
Does it have a spine? That's Ramona.
Somehow, these are tough questions. A thing? Sometimes? Depends?

Then Tracy spots a long row of plastic bottles, there inside the window. Uff da! she cries. Food and drink aren't allowed! So the four of us scarf down water, apples, cashews, marveling at the delightful combination.

And we're in! We move through the security contraptions. The officers let Spencer (and his key chain) through, at last. Two of our apples (Uff da!) are confiscated. Then we see the time. 5:45! Obama was to speak at 5:30. Say it isn't so! The four of us scale the stairs, two, three at a time. We tear through the Alerus Center, past fancy renovations we barely notice.

Can we make it? Yes, we can! (Sorry.) Obama hasn't started yet. Only Senator Conrad (D-ND). Ramona finds us the best possible spot (at the farthest, farthest reaches of the Alerus Center). Just in time to hear Conrad proclaiming Obama's Midwestern values. No chance to wonder what Midwestern values might be, or what his dad's opinion is in Kenya. Here's Barack Obama! And what's the first word he speaks? Uff da!

We cheer, applaud, jump to our feet, dance together. And before we know it, we've found a brand new spot, and now we're doing the wave for Hillary Clinton. Former Governor Sinner introduces her, asking the pulsing crowd, Have we confronted our gender bias?

Too soon, the Obama and Clinton shows are over. Still, I'm as merry as ever. (Except for the couple of times I had to boo. I admit it.) All along, I've been taking notes. On an envelope, a wrapper, a receipt. This is history in the making, and I'll be taking a little to the folks back home. But suddenly I'm flustered and befuddled. Maybe it's running into my partner's ex. In a crowd of 17,400 no less. Or that terrifying game of 20-questions. Or doing the bump with my friends. But I've dropped my notes to the floor! Hillary wrappers here. Obama receipts there. I can't seem to sort them, one from the other. They're sticking together, clinging together. They almost seem to be running together! I gather what I can, my mismatched bits of paper. And this is what I've got...

CLINTON: I didn't know there were this many Democrats in North Dakota!
OBAMA: It's the party of tomorrow!
CLINTON: Let's believe in ourselves.
OBAMA: This is our chance to start over.
CLINTON: We stand on the cusp of a new beginning.
OBAMA: That's why I'm running; that's why you're running.
CLINTON: The Bush Administration has used fear to divide us and fatalism to discourage us.
OBAMA: They have destroyed generations of goodwill and understanding with the rest of the world.
CLINTON: Since when did America become the can't-do nation?
OBAMA: Theirs is a party that uses religion as a wedge and patriotism as a bludgeon.
CLINTON: You wish they'd just apologize.
OBAMA: With Bush's tax cuts, you're on your own. Ordinary people, most of you here today, you can just fend for yourself.
CLINTON: If you listen closely, you can almost hear the sound of the moving van backing into the White House.
OBAMA: We'll bring a new kind of politics to Washington.
CLINTON: And take that money away from the corporations.
OBAMA: The arc of justice doesn't bend on its own.
CLINTON: Here in North Dakota...
OBAMA: Right here in North Dakota...
CLINTON: We will once again enjoy peace and prosperity.
OBAMA: I am my brother's keeper. I am my sister's keeper.
CLINTON: Give us the child to learn, the people to work, the veterans our care, this country to rebuild.
OBAMA: Every child is our child.
CLINTON: For me, this is no longer debatable.
OBAMA: I love this country not because it is perfect, but because we've always been able to bring it closer to perfection.
CLINTON: God bless you, and God bless America.
OBAMA: Uff da!

Someday maybe I'll get my notes in order. Someday maybe Clinton and Obama will be president. And if I have a chance, maybe I'll even ask them 20 questions. For starters...
1. Who got the apples?
2. Did you hear us in the crowd? (We were the ones going, Uff da!)
3. Where are Hillary's T-shirts really made?

Fascism, Ferne, and the Ten Commandments

2008-04-09T11:22:00.010-05:00

© 2008, Karen Van Fossan

I shouldn't start this story with Ferne. I should start with the vandalism. The crime. Impeachment. No offense, Ferne. But 98-year-old women don't make headlines very much. Anyway, I have to start this story with you. This story is all because of you – your habit of living uphill. See, mostly, I'm a bicycle person. I'd rather be a boat person. But you and I live in Bismarck. You, at the top of the highest hill. Me, at the bottom. Which brings me back to my bicycle. I am not in love with uphill biking. As far as I'm concerned, it sucks. (Have you heard that expression?) It sucks so much that sometimes I don't bike – I walk.

And that's where it started. For me anyway. I was scaling Hillside Park. On my way to you, Ferne. Finding every shortcut I could find. Squeezing past fences. Winding around the springtime trees. Darting through parts of the park I otherwise wouldn't have known.

And that's when it happened. Bam! I was face to face with...something. At first, I thought, a gravestone. But, Ferne, do you know what it was? The Ten Commandments. And I don't mind telling you, I gaped. I gaped hard.

But that gape was nothing. Compared to this. By now it was winter, the coldest day of the year. Huffing and puffing, my eyelashes freezing, my fingers turning stiff in my gloves, I wound my way through Hillside Park – making my visit to you.

And here we go. Another bam. The Ten Commandments, vandalized. Footprints on the ground. Spray paint on the monument. One simple word. “Fascism.”

So I ask you, “What does 'fascism' mean to you?”
You lean forward in your easy chair. “What?”
“Fascism,” I answer.
“Oh,” you say. “Fashion?”
I inch myself closer. “Fascism. You know, the political term. Does it mean anything to you?”
Yes, it means plenty. Italy. Heads of state. World War II. Even Bush.

“Now, why hasn't he been impeached?” you like to say.

Then I read you the news. The hardest news we can get. So you can go, “Oh,” with 98 years of compassion in your voice. And later when I'm gone, say a prayer.

People say that nursing homes are lonely, Ferne. People don't want to hear what elderly women have to say. But if you could meet the person who did graffiti on the Commandments – I guess I'm just wondering. Would you and she have plenty to discuss?

The Umbrella & the Runaway Horses, 1921

2008-03-31T18:57:00.005-05:00

From "Ruth's Fables"
By Ruth Shoger Zurbrigg and Karen Van Fossan, her granddaughter
In memory of Grandma Z

Would you like to hear the story of the runaway horses? It began (like so much of my life) with piano lessons.

I had a very fine piano teacher when I was about eight years old. She was Mrs. Wernicke, a German lady. Before I took these formal lessons, my mother had taught me to play hymns from the old pump organ. But after my father presented my mother with a new piano, arrangements were made for me to take lessons from Mrs. Wernicke! I hummed all day when I heard the news. (I still had to do chores, of course, but couldn't I hum a little while gathering eggs?)

Well, naturally, I was quite insulted when Mrs. Wernicke had me start in the Beginners Book. It was much too easy for Ruth Shoger! But she taught me more about technique, keeping fingers curled, and other important matters. With her persistence, I was able to finish Book Number One during the first summer (thank goodness).

My younger sister Lucile and I took lessons from her for several summers. Since Mrs. Wernicke lived in Aurora, Illinois, and we did not – our dear Aunt Carrie opened her house in Oswego for lessons one day a week. Also, we studied with others, one being Mrs. Marshall Updike. We were fortunate to have so much music in our lives. (At least I thought so.)

Sometimes I had to walk two miles to the house where the lessons were being given – and several times walk home, too. Many bushes and weeds grew on either side of the gravel road. I walked as fast as I could. I could just imagine all the slippery snakes, waiting among the grasses for my ankle.

Mrs. Wernicke herself often walked through our little town of Oswego, in order to take the street car back to Aurora. One afternoon, she walked past our home, carrying an open umbrella. Umbrellas were not only for rain in the 1920s. Umbrellas could keep out a little heat and a quite a bit of sun.

At this particular time, my father happened to be on the road as well. He drove a team of horses, Bell and Switchtail, in the opposite direction – in the direction Mrs. Wernicke was coming from. They pulled a small cultivator up, up, up the hill.

Well, Bell and Switchtail saw this lady and her strange umbrella. And oh, my! They ran ahead, willy nilly – the cultivator clanging and clashing behind them. Panicked, my father chased behind them up the hill. He was certain Mrs. Wernicke would be flattened beneath their hooves.

Poor Mrs. Wernicke!

Well, thankfully, no one was hurt – not even Mrs. Wernicke's umbrella.

But the horses! Where had they gone? Had they been bitten by a snake? Caught on a lonely fencepost? Run over by the cultivator?

No, indeed, they hadn't. After such commotion, Bell and Switchtail finally stopped at the water tank. They stood there, with their front feet soaking in the water.

The moral of the story? Everybody feels the heat sometime.

Love and B.S.

2008-03-10T19:56:00.004-05:00

From "Hospital Memoirs: Love and B.S."
In memory of Grandpa Van (Feb. 22, 1923 -- Nov. 29, 2006)
By Karen Van Fossan, copyright 2008

January 2, 2005
My grandpa's life may pass at any moment. I know this, and so does he.
Once a merciless teaser, he strains to lift his head and even speak.
“I hope you can sort out the B.S. from the love,” my grandpa says. He drops his head to the pillow. He turns to find my eyes.
I say, “I can.”

February 2, 2005
Sometimes Grandpa speaks. Sometimes he only mouths the words, and I am left to read lips. The words I've learned so far: Orange juice. Water. Carmex.
The ventilator dries my grandpa out. But any liquids could choke him. So Carmex is as close to satisfaction as he can get.
He moves his crackling lips.
Ever diplomatic, I ask, “Would you like a little Carmex?”
Could be, he's fallen asleep again. I wait, ever waiting.
He mouths the words, “I'd rather have a beer.”
His eyes dance. And I throw back my head. And both of us are laughing.

February 8, 2005
Grandpa opens his eyes, and I look up.
“Grandpa, I'm going to send a note to Patty. You know – Patty. Is there anything you'd like me to say?”
He motions with his head like, No, not really.
We're quiet a while.
“I just don't feel that I've lived a full life."
“You're ready for more life?” I ask.
“A better life," he says.
He drifts again. I watch the geese preening out the window.
“There's so much I know now that I didn't know before,” he says. “I could live a much better life.”

February 8, 2005, Later
“I'm trying to get better,” he says.
“You're getting better?” I ask.
He says, “Trying to.”

February 10, 2005
When he speaks, he pushes air with each sound, pushing hard to be heard. He could ruin his vocal chords, the medical people tell him; he oughtn't try to speak.
But life, to my grandpa, is conversation. So here it is.
“Do you hear that?” Grandpa says.
“Yes,” I say. I wait.
The ventilator hums and rumbles and, lately, has started revving.
“What's it sound like to you?” I ask.
“A mo...” he says. “A motorcycle...It gets me up and gets me started.”
I ask, “Ever think you'd be riding motorcycle at age 81?”
Grandpa is grinning.

February 10, 2005, Later
Grandpa peers around, but does not see me.
“I'm here beside you, Grandpa,” I say.
He asks me, “Size what???”
“I'm beside you,” I say. “I'm with you.”
“Well, good...You better hurry.”
“I'll hurry,” I say, “if you hurry.”
Grandpa smiles wide. I see his toothless gums. He says, “Bless your heart.”

Seven Working Principles of Peace Theater

2008-03-09T20:50:00.009-05:00

Peace Theater happens in kitchens and kayaks, cross-country trains and street corners, wherever people tell an honest story and allow these stories to transform them. Peace Theater is an invitation to wholeness, a reinvention of the ancient traditions in our blood. It is a sacred and a literal place to gather – like the village green or tribal dance, an opportunity to see and be seen, to create and be created.

1. Roots: We are rooted in our community, our ancestry, and history.
2. Longing: We speak to, and from, our collective desires for connection, meaning, and presence.
3. Authenticity: We tell truths as we know them, writing within the real-life contexts of body, river, soil, and air.
4. Compassion: We find how to love each character we present, even though that character may challenge us to our core.
5. Voice: We honor the voices around us, attuning to the mysteries within them.
6. Vision: We offer transformative art, a re-imagination of the stories of our lives.
7. Surrender: We surrender the drive for success, devoting ourselves to the sacredness of the creation and the creating.