"Shhhhhhhhh!"

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 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 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 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 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 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 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.