My father is still in hospital back home in Tulsa, a bit of a relapse, though, earlier in the day, we had a wonderful conversation - I was proud to share good news from work (which I cannot tell publicly, just yet) and overjoyed to hear his laughter and congratulations.
So things are smoother, though not out of the woods yet.
Still - at the core of this, with all the joy and connection (both always there, perhaps, but hard to acknowledge) there is a raging, hot anger inside of me.
If I could, on this longest day of the year - now past, we're now into the shortest night - I'd wander off into the darkness, probably down to the seashore and vomit out my fury against all of creation.
A friend observed that "anger came easily to males". I had to disagree - anyone can be angry in the proper conditions.
Native Americans - at least in my experience - are subject to the "warrior's rage", a blind, vicious, powerful sense of emotion, force and violence. It is called up when the tribe - one's village, one's clan, one's family - is under attack and is only appropriate in defense, when justice or survival is at the stake.
Over the years I've become familiar with being angry for the sake of others - friends abused in relationships, a family decimated by AIDS (that was really hard), students who were bullied, people who came in "just looking for a dog to kick" and tearing up my colleagues (in all my workplaces), friends who poured the acid of their anger on themselves rather than those who hurt them .... but always for others, for those who could not defend themselves.
The idea that I could be authentically angry for myself was extraordinary. That I could truly be hurt and scared and furious - this is recent and new to me. I'm told, by people I love and therefore trust, that this is actually a good sign.
But I have to say I really wanted to hurt someone or something this morning. Just cut them, verbally, perhaps physically and just watch the bleeding, feasting on the pain and humiliation.
So the modesty shield of ice usually covering my darkest, most explosive feelings was rather cracked.
I wandered down to the Farmer's Market in Monument Square, thinking I had to accept this and process it, get it focussed - I was desperate for a visit from my friends The Sad Clowns but they never appear in daylight ....
... and then I saw them. Strawberries.
On every table of the market, it seemed. Box after sanguinary box of deep red strawberries.
Story time - Selu (the Corn Maiden) and Kana'ti (the first man, or, Lucky Hunter) were created one for the other, to temper each other, build each other's strength and help with each other's challenges.
But like many couples there came a point when they got so used to each other they forgot to actually listen to each other and an argument broke out, the kind that can really cut people, verbally, perhaps physically.
Selu ran from the cabin, so fast that even Kana'ti couldn't catch her. Up, up into the mountains of the Cherokee homeland - for each peak Kana'ti reached Selu passed three.
It was hopeless. Kana'ti fell to the ground and begged, pleaded with the Creator to help or his heart would break and the balance in their lives would be forever lost. The Creator told him she would help and as Selu ran seeds, then flowers and finally berries - blueberries, huckleberries, choke cherries, all began to spring up from her footprints.
But Selu kept running. FInally bright red berries, fat and sweet, beguiled her through her anger and compelled her to stop. They were strawberries and so wonderful to taste that Kana'ti finally caught up with her as she sat in the midst of a field of them.
They sat and looked at each other and realized that they had a choice - to go on with the pursuit of their anger or accept the bounty around them, created by their anger, anger transformed into something sweet and wonderful by grace - her willingness to stop, his willingness to keep trying by asking for help.
So they brought some strawberries home and from that day to this we Cherokees have always kept them close to us - in jam, in the fridge, by our computers (ahem), even in pictures on the wall.
I honored my anger - really my deep, deep love for my father, estranged though we might be - by bringing strawberries to work, sharing them with my friends, bringing them to tango.
I couldn't avoid it - I had to do it, almost as a sacred act of forgiveness to the universe - because I am a part of the universe; if I lash out at it, I lash out at myself.
The deal is I think the universe is used to being lashed as well as being loved - the universe can take it.
And you what? So can I.
Portland, Maine
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