Heather Lende's Blog

“A person’s way of being human is the most authentic expression of their belief or unbelief. A person’s life speaks more about their faith than what they think or say about God.” –Tomas Halik

I am part of a Juneau-based group of women called the ReSisters, which basically means I receive daily emails curated by a new volunteer every week with actions we can take to save the world. I have made a lot of calls to my congressional delegation. Sent emails to state government. Written checks to good causes. But am I engaged? Not really. I am, to be honest, kind of overloaded by all of it.

Then this week, an old acquaintance, a woman I admire, hosted the ReSister thread, and she began with a poem. I perked up —and then read all of her posts and did the best I could to live them out. That, my dears, is why poetry matters. One poem moves the heart more than a hundred Action Alerts. Claire also asked us to laugh at ourselves, and do the good we could, where we could. Of course I know that, but sometimes, especially when its gray and raining snow and dark (7 hours and change of so-called daylight) It’s a challenge.

Still, with the fresh snow, that silver sliver of silent light is beautiful, isn’t it?

Claire wrote:

Per the Tuesday Action item request [To laugh at ourselves] —I laughed at myself for not only dashing into the wrong condo for a hospice bereavement visit but even going so far as taking off my shoes until I looked around and thought, “Uh-oh, wrong home!”

And this:

I think standing ‘at the margins’ is more than handing out food, donating money with a QR code, praying for ‘them in church’, or dropping off donations— it means that if we are with them we sit down together for a meal, strike up a conversation at the grocery store, and make eye contact.

This summer I started noticing women hunched over their shopping bags in bus shelters with the rain pelting right on them. Fred Meyers, Foodland, Safeway. I started to pull over and ask if they needed a ride. I would introduce myself. They all accepted the rides, to their apartments, Forget Me Not Manor or to work. They were all ages and races. Our conversations were mostly about the weather. I carry some cash with me when the person in front of me seems short of funds. These are not earth-shattering actions. But we create community one step at a time.

Oh– and the poem Claire shared  that caught my attention?

For When People Ask
by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

I want a word that means
okay and not okay,
more than that: a word that means
devastated and stunned with joy.
I want the word that says
I feel it all all at once.
The heart is not like a songbird
singing only one note at a time,
more like a Tuvan throat singer
able to sing both a drone
and simultaneously
two or three harmonics high above it—
a sound, the Tuvans say,
that gives the impression
of wind swirling among rocks.
The heart understands swirl,
how the churning of opposite feelings
weaves through us like an insistent breeze
leads us wordlessly deeper into ourselves,
blesses us with paradox
so we might walk more openly
into this world so rife with devastation,
this world so ripe with joy.

.

“If you don’t find God in the next person you meet, it is a waste of time looking for him further.”- Mahatma Gandhi

I missed sending you a Sunday’s Thought (and a blog of the rest of the week’s thoughts too) for all kinds of good reasons. Facetime with one daughter, long distance texts to my son, a long chat on the phone with my soon to be 94-year-old mother-in-law, Grandma Joanne who lives on her own still in Florida. Actually, she is not alone. There is her dog, her neighbor’s dogs- and her neighbors- her daughter and her daughter’s dogs live nearby and everyone visiting with or associated with all those people (and dogs) gather on her shady patio every evening and a lot of afternoons.

I fretted over a trip to a wedding this weekend. I’m traveling with three of my tween granddaughters. I don’t like to fly and I don’t have fancy clothes. Luckily another daughter helped me shop and picked out dresses and shoes, a pashmina! (Who knew?) I will wear them like a costume.

Speaking of Halloween. Do I tell you about the witches’ paddleboard in the harbor on Saturday? The haunted aisles at the lumberyard on Friday? Or just the song Kay played on her radio show on my way home from buying Dramamine and a mini-toothpaste? The kind I sang along with as the the windshield wipers flapped in time —the one that made me laugh out? Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers’ Atheists Don’t Have No Songs. Listen to it. Laughing is good.

Also, why did my step feel so much lighter after the election news? It’s also good to notice what I hold in my body and what it feels like to let it go.

What I want to be sure to tell you before I board the plane in Juneau is a story from the All Saints Day homily at Saturday mass, which I attended with my friend Teresa. She is back from a wedding in the Lower 48 and a trip to Italy and both look good on her, if you know what I mean.

The visiting priest from Juneau, who is originally from India, talked to us about saints, both canonized and not, them and us, and how we are all connected as spirit ancestors. Both by blood and community. Family and those who influenced us. The people we have loved and admired. The ones we miss. They support and protect us even though we can’t see them. Some in small ways and some much greater.

Gandhi, for example. (This is where I perked up. A Hindu saint.) He spoke of the  great, peaceful leader’s  assassination, but said the pain was brief and forgotten as soon as he was embraced by St. Peter, Jesus, Mary, Joseph and St. Michael and all the Angels at the gates of heaven as a good and faithful servant. He said Gandhi took his place in that long and growing line of holy greeters that welcome new arrivals.

Walking down here in the rainy wet has been a challenge. Chip and I decided to hike in the woods, where we wouldn’t be as exposed. Dashing through puddles along the cove before cutting up the old logging road it felt like I was being sprayed with a cold strong hose. It was so awful all we could do was laugh.

In the deeper woods, behind the cliff, it was still raining but not sideways. The tops of the spruce and hemlock trees swayed. Their intertwined roots keep them from falling. Hold the forest together. Hold their community together. Keep them all standing tall.

Before I could think too much about that, a beam of sunlight from a crack in the storm clouds shown bright as a flashlight on a tree, stopping me dead. Father Blaney, an old Boston priest who is now with the angels, told me that when God taps you on the shoulder, pay attention.

You know me, I can make a lot out of all of this.  I probably will someday, but I’ll need more time to think. Right now I have a wedding to get to, and you have a weekend to pay attention to that tap on your shoulder. (And a few things to ponder, too.)

( Forgive my typos. I don’t usually type for publication in airports. This may be a first.)

Every atom of oxygen in our lungs, of carbon in our muscles, of calcium in our bones, of iron in our blood – was created inside a star before Earth was born.
– The American Museum of Natural History

The new Quick Shop building is going up next to the lumber yard and post office. It’s a lot bigger than the one that burned down last year. We’re lucky that Mike, who already has a grocery and liquor store to run on Main Street, decided to re-build. He’s old enough to retire. It’s such an optimistic choice. Our future is bright.

The other day I noticed a bird, a hawk maybe. Actually it looked like an owl, up on one of the new gable ends. You don’t see that every day. Last fall there was a Great Horned Owl in a tree by my sister’s house for a week. I don’t know what became of him.

When I told Chip about the Quick Shop owl, he said they are fake, that they’re decoys to scare  the crows and gulls and keep them from messing with -or on- the roofing materials.

They?

I only saw one, and I swear its head turned.

The next time I drove by I pulled over and looked more closely. There were more owls in strategic locations. Like gargoyles. I feel better knowing that at least one birder pulled out her binoculars for a closer look.

This morning, the sky was navy blue and packed with stars. They were everywhere. I haven’t seen so many in a year.

Even though the deck was frosty and I was in my pajamas I stood there, looking up for a long time. The pull of all those lights is strong. The mystery  mesmerizing, and comforting.  Once, at a funeral someone said that stars are all the people we have loved who have died. That would  be nice, wouldn’t it? There a lot of them. Well, there are a lot of us. Humans don’t last very long compared to tortoises, or comets.

I don’t know much astronomy, but I love a starry sky. I recognized the dipper of course, I’m Alaskan, it belongs to us– and Venus, bright morning star. I can identify Orion too. A handful of lights in what, a trillion? A friend named her son Orion so I learned it. His sister is named for a star in his belt. Rigel will help me win a trivia contest someday, but I can’t identify precisely which diamond in the belt she is.

I was sorry to see a satellite blink.

I wanted my view to be as old as time. Ancient and eternal, and all that. I found the thing  with the binoculars, wondering if maybe it was the space station, if we still have one. I haven’t heard about it lately. Turns out it was a rectangular cluster of bright and dim stars, billions of years old. Ten billion? Four billion? I don’t know. Older than dirt, as my brother-in-law Norm would say.

I wish I took more science classes in school. I wish I knew more about stars and planets. Clouds. Birds too. I’d like to know more about birds. Owls in particular

I do know that me, the dogs, the last yellow leaves on the cherry trees, the sand on the beach and the gull in the wind are made from the same stuff as those stars. It’s true. That means our ancestors really are twinkling down on us.

I tell you what—we live in a miraculous world — and I don’t understand the half of it.

Hold On, Keep Going, Trust and be Trustworthy. 

At the Sacred Heart Catholic Church last week, at the Saturday evening service, the priest said a few things that I have been thinking about. I sometimes attend the five o’clock mass  with my friend Teresa, but she is in Italy going to church with, well, who knows? The new pope, maybe? A  baroness?  (Teresa can smile her way into just about any place), so I was there alone this time.

Not exactly alone. There were about eight of us.

The regular priest is a missionary from South Korea. He is away for back surgery. The fill-in priest was from Juneau. He had a strong Indian accent and an even joyfully stronger way of delivering his homily, clearly aware that it was a challenge for some of us to understand every word of it.

He smiled a lot and repeated his three main points at regular intervals. With hand signals. “1.Hold On, 2. Keep Going, 3. Trust in God.”

The Trust in God part is the hardest. Especially if you are doubting God is paying much attention lately to the big picture, not to mention your brother-in-law’s new medication complications.

Trust in God, the priest said, and then explained why.

Call it coincidence if you want to, but I’ll choose providence: this time I clearly heard him say that when our prayers—pleas for help, peace, a cure — aren’t answered the way we hope, that makes us more compassionate and more empathetic towards all the people we know and don’t know whose prayers are dashed daily.

I’m not a priest, so I can’t really explain why that matters intellectually , but my heart  knows it’s connected to love and kindness, and not being a jerk on Facebook. No matter how you phrase the lesson,  teaching our children ( and ourselves)– one or eight at a time– to better care for each other and this world we share, dearly, kindly and a lot more bravely, can save it.

Hold on. Keeping going. Trust and be trustworthy.

Chip and I went to get covid and flu shots yesterday.

It’s hard to know what to do now that vaccines are a choice.

I asked the nurse for help and she said it was my call and went to get the vaccines for Chip, who had no concerns.

Recently, I took the dogs to the vet in Juneau for their checkup and because Jeff was limping. He’s okay, just arthritis (he’s nine) and we got some pain pills. Jeff and Trixie were due for vaccines– rabies, kennel cough and something else that I didn’t catch. Never mind that they have never been to a kennel, there’s been no rabies in Haines that I know of in the 40-plus years of living here with dogs, a cat, chickens, Patty the Ratty, guinea pigs and a rabbit.

As I waited my possible turn, the nurse (of course we know her, like her and have for decades) told Chip that Covid is going around again and that the shots are recommended for people over 65 and we are. But not much, I thought.

I want us to live to be a lot older. He got one. I am already here.

I have friends and family– and friends with family and friends– that have health issues, are elderly. I’m flying to New Orleans in two weeks for my niece’s wedding. I don’t want to accidentally make anyone sick. Especially the new relatives. I relaxed both arms and took a jab in each. I couldn’t even feel it.

I did not want to ruin a perfectly good Friday evening imagining how sick the shot would make me feel the next day, especially a cozy late October Friday evening before the snow falls, when the firewood is stacked, lamps are lit and the World Series is on TV.

So, I invited two friends for dinner. Casual. No biggie. Just to see each other. I picked bouquets of yellow and red leaves, thawed halibut (that my friend’s husband caught and gave to us. We give him deer.) Made a cabbage salad and roasted potatoes and carrots. Filled a pitcher with water and lemon slices. (The nurse said to hydrate.) Set the table. The gals brought wine, cashews, a cake for dessert and a dog.

We three talked in the kitchen while Chip chimed in from the living room with the Series’ highlights. It was a rout. Meanwhile, I learned about an 82-year-old accordion teacher in Anchorage whose band plays for polka dances. I also learned from my accordion playing friend that some accordions have buttons, some have piano keys and that a young guy that I thought I knew pretty well ( we share books) is a dance instructor. No way! Yes! He could teach the polka, swing, and line-dancing this winter.

Speaking of dancing, we sashayed right into the stunning demolition of the Whitehouse to make way for a giant ball room. We didn’t linger. Those thoughts are bad for our souls. Instead, we discussed the river of Alaskan typhoon refugees flooding Anchorage and the first-hand accounts by Jeron Joseph. The devastation is unbelievable and the people caught in the evacuations from remote rural villages to Alaska’s largest city – Los Anchorage is what some call it–are remarkable.

‘A whole new concrete jungle’: A typhoon evacuee lands in urban Alaska.

As dinner was served, we tacked away from current events to summer plans and bike trips, winter plans and boats. Dogs and how cold Alaska used to be. Husbands and late husbands, mindful that the storms of life can strike at any moment. Which is why we held hands and I said grace before we ate, why I scooped Chip’s homemade ice cream on the banana chocolate cake, why at the door we said — I love you guys and Thank You, That was Fun—Text when you get home– and why this morning, when I woke up sore and queasy from the shots, I was grateful.

I was anxious about the Haines No Kings rally but determined to go. It was a chance to say that what is happening is wrong. But Haines is a red and blue small-town where we need each other. It helped that my husband said he’d come. Chip does not attend national protests lightly. He has a lumberyard to think of. Threats of boycotts over local politics are brutal enough. But everyone knows I’m an old lefty. Chip calls me his Eleanor.

The rally began at Tlingit Park with a grandmother. Nancy, a long-time piano teacher and community choir director lead us in song. The mood was like in church. We Shall Overcome, This Land is Your Land, If I had a Hammer. Then a retired librarian, an artist and a retired science teacher took turns reading about twenty quotes without commentary. Supreme Court judges, politicians. Dr. Martin Luther King, Ghandi and Goebbels. That’s right, Hitler’s general. He is the one who supposedly said if you repeat a lie a thousand times it becomes the truth.

As they spoke, we became kind of somber. Still smiling a little, but more concerned.

Also, while about 135 attended, each of us had at least five friends and relatives who agree with us, that didn’t, for all kinds of good reasons. I can think of about 50 myself who were at the volleyball tournament, helping with the swim team time-trial, working,  sick, out of town, who are too shy to stand up like that, don’t like confrontation, don’t want to offend neighbors or family members, are married to a Trump voter, or feel that their job requires them to stay out of politics, publicly.

A retired PE teacher gave us marching orders. Be silent, Ellen said in her gentle teacher voice.  No talking. Stay five feet apart.  Don’t engage with supporters or detractors. Stay on the sidewalk and listen to the crossing guards in the yellow vests. Silence, she said, is a powerful changemaker. Like prayer circles, it concentrates the intentions of the gathering.

This is serious business, saving our democracy.

She said three Vietnam veterans that we know well— Chuck, a leader from the American Legion, Greg the former Police Chief, and Terry, a good-natured boat and ukulele maker—would lead the way carrying American flags, just like the parade on the 4th of July. A Canadian flag was up front as well, to honor the kinship with our nearest neighbors (the border is 40 miles out of town.)

This morning, I wrote the organizers a thank you note. I admire their courage and hard work. Protests  don’t just happen, you know. I told them it hit all the right notes.

In church yesterday I visited with  a friend whose husband was a Trump voter, she is not. He  watched the march with her when it passed Mountain Market.  She said that he was impressed by the civility and the turnout. One of their  kids and a grandchild marched. Maybe he will start to re-think. I bet he already has. He is a good person and a good friend.

A catholic deacon marched too, and said he’s never done anything like this before, but was compelled to, because he said that the way people are being treated in the anti-immigration raids is a moral issue, not a political one.

I’m hoping that my friends who are  conservative Democrats, Independents, Republicans, Libertarians, Contrarians–or Whatever– will see that they still can be that way and speak out against Trump and his minions. This is about right and wrong not who is with us or against us. I have to believe that the No Kings event here- and across the country– nudged some hearts and maybe even changed a few. The tide is turning.

The post The Haines No Kings Rally and March first appeared on Heather Lende.

I already added this to the Substack version of my blog– but then realized you may be left out. This is a piece I wrote for Earth & Altar, a journal of faith.  It’s about swimming toward faith. I was at the pool this morning doing this and I realized I hadn’t linked it here.  I am trying to keep up with both blogs, but the Substack version has become my favorite because I can easily record the audio version of these posts and I love that medium– I was a radio commentator before I was a writer, and think of myself as more of  a talker than an author.  It’s still free over there, and so you may want to join. I have not added this email subscriber this to my blog there, because it’s private, so it’s up to you to do. (Again, if you want to.)– Thank you

Here is my Substack link ,  It’s called Finding the Good, which is the focus. Also, if you do sign up as a Substack  subscriber, and don’t want duplicate emails, contact me and we can remove you or you can remove yourself — there isn’t anything here that won’t be there.

The best way to help the thousands displaced and suffering because of the recent storms in Western Alaska– which is a long way from Haines, too– is right here: through the Alaska Community Foundation’s special relief fund . This same foundation helped Haines when we had our flood and landslide in 2020. My friends in Bethel directed me to this fund as well.   It’s going to be a long haul for our fellow Alaskans, and this money will be there when they need it– wherever they are– and help them return home, hopefully. Prayers are good too– but please do what you can financially. It makes a huge difference. Thank you.

“When you are in a world where people are not behaving like human beings, strive to be a human being.” Rabbi Sydney Mintz, sharing an old Jewish saying on Yom Kippur.

I am still thinking about our spur of the moment, whirlwind Yom Kippur trip to San Francisco. It’s so unlike my friend Beth and I to up and leave Haines for a big city. But… we are working on changing the narrative. I love to fly! Can’t wait to pack a carry-on, find a proper purse, find my wallet, find a phone charger… find the phone.

Mostly, I’m just trying to show up for people and events I care about. Plus, after we looked up Yom Kippur (we are not Jewish) and learned that the favored footwear is sneakers– to show humility- and white is the color to symbolize mortality ( death shrouds are white and we feel the years passing), and purity ( well, that ship has sailed, speaking strictly for myself, but purer thoughts are always a goal.) And since we both have sneakers and white linen shirts, we did not have to fret about clothes.

The Emmy Lou Harris tribute concert was a highlight, the best I’ve ever been to. Bluegrass in sunny Golden Gate Park was fun too. But the peaks were the three temple services and Shabbat. Two hours on Wednesday night, the mediation in a redwood grove on Thursday morning and the youth lead service Thursday afternoon. We sang a version of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah in Hebrew. (Or the kids did, I hummed along. It takes more than two days to learn Hebrew.) Friday night we prayed the Shabbat prayers and broke challah bread with the women of the Thirteenth Tribe. They treated us like cousins from Alaska. Honored guests.

Before we left Haines, Beth’s husband gave her a wad of five-dollar bills for the homeless people but they weren’t as ubiquitous as we’d been led to believe. The last morning, we finally saw someone sleeping in a doorway on our way to the Presidio Park and Beth woke him up to give him money.

The Yom Kippur services were all about repentance, forgiveness, change and a fresh start to a new year. The prayers recognize our individual and collective errors, mistakes, sins. Together we confessed, forgave, and vowed to go forth and change the world and ourselves for the better. Specifically– as in make a plan to do something real. Write letters, make the calls to congress every day. Ask your children to forgive you, even if you don’t think there are any issues. There are. Forgive the jerk that broke your heart, or at least toss the voodoo doll. Give more money, more time. Help. Stack the chairs after the meeting. Wipe the sink in the airplane loo. As my brother-in-law Norm says when he signs off on his country radio show—watch where you step and tell someone you love them. Because, As Rabbi Sydney Mintz, who is our friend, and why we were there, said in her Kol Nidre sermon: “If not now, when?”

She told the story of twins Jacob and Esau. Jacob had wronged his brother and became a big shot because of it. Esau said he’d kill him. Decades later, Jacob met Esau in the desert, figuring Esau was going to make good on the threat and that he deserved it. But Esau forgave him. He kissed him. The rabbi said: “When Jacob sees Esau’s face, he says seeing your face is like seeing the face of God.” Then she said, “We can keep reliving Cain and Abel or we can live a life where looking into the face of another human being is a wholly transformational act that invites us into compassion, into love.” She told us to turn to somebody near us, look at their face, their eyes– look, she said, really, really look at the contours of their face, “and see the face of God.”

Here’s something else: in that big old beautiful temple, there are huge stained-glass windows. They are all colored bits of glass. There are no scenes from the Bible, there are no icons with any human images– no paintings no statues. Because they believe since God created humans in his image, if you want to know what God looks like look at the security guard at the door, your mother, the Uber driver.

One of our Uber drivers was Muslim, originally from Pakistan. He has been an American since he was thirteen. He drove us from the temple to the hotel. We talked about faith and religion and how they aren’t always the same. They can be very far apart. He said, Islam, Judaism, Christianity all have the same roots, and all have extremists, but that’s not what faith in God is. Love is God, he said and hate, all hate, is the devil. He said these are hard times, but he has confidence God, Love will win.

Well, it’s been a rough day for my religion. Christians are wearing me out. What happened to love everyone (everyone) the same way you love yourself? What happened to the Golden Rule?

So, this Sunday’s Thought is from one of my very favorite traditions, the Reformed Jewish Shabbat dinner on Friday night I sometimes spend with Jewish friends and not Jewish friends—breaking bread, drinking wine, singing songs (joy!) and saying prayers for families and friends, for the world, for all those less fortunate—for peace. Good prayers. Kind prayers. It’s a holy, happy party with God in the middle and plenty of food and kids and dogs. I especially  love the blessing for the children. All the adults place our hands on their heads and recite it. (Well some can say it in Hebrew and the rabbi translates for those of us that need it.)

Maybe we all should try this tonight (or tomorrow if you are reading this on Monday where you are. I think we can do this all the time.) If you don’t have a young person near, put a hand on the head of whomever is with you, if that won’t work, and you have a dog, a cat, a parrot, chicken or a horse– even a squirrel. Okay– a plant will do– —Go ahead and put a hand on them and say this out loud.  But if you are alone, I suggest one hand on your own wonderful heart, and one on your head and blessing yourself ( just switch you to me). Feel the love. That holy spirit that lives inside you. Your light that shines.  Love is the answer folks– always has been, always will be.

May God bless you and keep you,
and may God’s light shine upon you,
and may God be gracious to you.
May you feel God’s presence
within you always –and may you find peace.