June 2021 – Stones and Flowers

This is not the blog posting that I had planned to write. At some point, I will still offer that collage of wild mountain flowers and share my longing to go hiking again. Now is not the time.

All I can think of is recent news of discoveries of unmarked graves of Indigenous children. Human history is, unfortunately, replete with similar stories: mass graves of Jewish prisoners in European forests; mass graves of victims of the Black Death; stories of attempted genocide in various lands. None of which decreases, even by one small degree, the trauma and mourning following the recent discoveries of unmarked graves. And note that for Indigenous peoples, these are not “discoveries” but confirmation, finally, of stories that they had been telling in whispers for generations.

My attention has been caught by the distinction between “mass graves” and “unmarked graves.” It’s an important distinction. Mass graves indicate death on such a scale that individual burials—along with appropriate ceremony—are not possible. There are too many bodies. Those mass graves may have been dug with indifference, certainly with great haste, and likely no suitable rituals to recognize the humanity of those who were once alive; the mass graves could also have been dug in haste but still with deep regret at loss of human life and as much respect as was possible under the circumstances.

Unmarked graves are different. They raise other questions. For sure, they imply a continuing practice, not an emergency. Given that these graves were dug beside schools run by churches, one would hope that some prayers were said. The hope seems dubious. Had there been due respect, the graves would have been marked. Almost all families, in all cultural and religious communities, name in some way those who have gone on to another world. At some deep level, we need to speak the names of the dead and honor their presence.

To live in ceremony is the greatest and truest gift we can give to ourselves.
Richard Wagamese

As someone who is not part of this story, except to the extent that I live here, in Saskatchewan on Treaty 6 territory, I do not know how to respond. I am convinced that we are all called to bear witness, difficult as that is. In two previous posts “A Lamp in the Night” and “Can We Please Make Some Anniversaries Unnecessary?” I began some exploration of what bearing witness might entail. It means not looking away or justifying the pain (or minimizing it). It means listening, carefully, to the stories, making a safe space for the stories to be told. It could include bringing food, offering handkerchiefs (actually or figuratively) for tears, providing what is necessary so that the lost children can be recognized. Perhaps placing small pairs of shoes at makeshift memorials.

Ach, it is the pictures of small shoes on church steps that nearly break my heart. Several years ago, when my husband and I toured the United States Holocaust Memorial in Washington, DC., it was the display of hundreds and hundreds of discarded shoes from the dead that brought me to weeping. There is something even more wrenching about abandoned children’s shoes. What must it have meant for young Indigenous children to have had their handmade, beautiful moccasins taken away and being given European-style shoes that didn’t love their feet?

Where and how this story will yet take us is unknown. It is yet another bitter blow to absorb after the pandemic has already shown us so many other inequalities and weaknesses. At the same time, COVID-19 has also taught us something of the extent of human compassion and shown us so much generosity. Let the tenderness that has been cultivated among us now be extended especially to our Indigenous friends in their bitter time of grief.

I’ve been considering the phrase “all my relations” for some time now. It’s hugely important. It’s our saving grace in the end. It points to the truth that we are all related, that we are all connected, that we all belong to each other. The most important word is “all.” Not just those who look like me, dance like me, speak like me, pray like me or behave like me. ALL my relations. That means every person, just as it means every rock, mineral, blade of grass, and creature. We live because everything else does. If we were to choose collectively to live that teaching, the energy of our change of consciousness would heal each of us–and heal the planet.
Richard Wagamese

Every now and then, when the times are right, previously unthinkable ideas suddenly gain a sympathetic hearing. We are, just now, in a time of re-evaluating public monuments and asking hard questions about who gets a monument and why. If it was monuments I wanted to write about this time, I would definitely begin with Percy Byssche Shelley’s“Ozymandias,” a poignant reminder that nothing remains forever, not even monuments.

I’m not sure that there is an equally apt poem for helping us ask who should get a calendar day or when we might remove a special day or whether we could demote a public holiday into just a named day only. We should consider that more often, I think.

In early May, in the week before Mother’s Day, I heard an elementary teacher interviewed on CBC Radio say firmly that Mother’s Day shouldn’t even be mentioned in the school, although she had no objection to families acknowledging the day in whatever way was suitable for them. She herself refused to ask her students to make special cards or crafts for their mothers because it was too emotionally complicated. Perhaps the time has come for some rethinking.

So what is Mother’s Day like for you? I’ve heard such a variety of stories here, and could tell a few of my own, if I chose (which I won’t). For some children, it’s a special, beautiful day with flowers for Mommy and a child-cooked meal, liberally seasoned with love. For some children, it’s an awkward day filled with anxiety about what mood Mommy might be in. Or it could be a bitter day because there is no Mommy there to honor.

For some mothers, it’s a tender day, time to smile with pleasure over the simple offerings made by childish hands. Perhaps the children are grown now with young ones of their own and the gathering of the clan on Mother’s Day is full of comfortable satisfaction of seeing traditions continued, new adventures begun, and affectionate, happy teasing passed down from uncles to nephews and nieces.

For other mothers, the day is wracked with regret, with submerged grief, perhaps overshadowed with inter-generational violence. What do you suppose Mother’s Day might mean for Indigenous mothers whose children were taken away? who never saw their children again? The fulsome compliments printed on the inside of many Mother’s Day cards can be agonizingly remote.

And I have not yet mentioned the women who are not mothers who wish they could be. It’s a complicated day, indeed.

May I suggest that it is time to readjust our calendars and allow Mother’s Day (and Father’s Day, too—all of the above observations apply) to become a matter of private choice?

Back in the early 1900s, when Mother’s Day was inaugurated officially, women were still generally assumed to have been created to become mothers. Never mind voting, never mind holding office, never mind taking up respected and well-paid careers—women were designed solely to have and raise babies. They were limited to service and work that earned little—either money or respect. Mother’s Day, with its call for gratitude, served an important purpose in its recognition of the role and work of women, even as it unfortunately raised expectations for mothers without opening up other avenues of being. Surely we have now moved beyond that stereotype, and have also recognized that families come in different forms and that nurturing is done by many others besides mothers. That observation is not, by any means, meant to diminish the importance of having and raising babies.

Herewith, I offer three suggestions for making Mother’s Day unnecessary:

One, foster a culture of gratitude through small daily rituals. Teach your children from the time they learn to talk to say a clear “thank you for breakfast” (and lunch and dinner) to whoever made the meal. Teach that ritual through modeling. If Papa baked the bread, say thanks. If Big Sister made the salad, say thanks. If Baby set the table, say thanks. Say “thanks for doing the laundry,” even though that individual always does the laundry. Say “thanks for cleaning the bathroom – it looks lovely.” Express appreciation for simple tasks throughout the household, however that household is composed. Say thanks to your roommate for tidying her room, and do it without sarcasm or judgment. Keep it simple but be grateful.

The only two Mother’s Day cards that I found in my mother’s possessions when I sorted through her belongings after her death. Both cards had been obviously chosen to evoke memories for Mom that would have been meaningful for her, and the inside of each card was blank except for handwritten expressions of specific gratitude.

While we’re at it, let’s practice those rituals of gratitude at the work place and in our neighbourhoods. Say thanks to the longsuffering individual who finally cleaned the staff room. Say thanks, often, to the night-time cleaning staff, to the boss, to the front-line receptionist. Say thank you to the grocery store cashier, the delivery person, the mail carrier. Let pandemic awareness of the services of other people continue long past the pandemic.

Two, extend the gratitude from specific tasks to states of being. Try the occasional “I like seeing you cuddled up with the dog; it makes me feel comfy”; “when I see you lost in a book, I’m pleased for you”; “your giggle is so happy it’s contagious – did you know that?” For some of us, that might take a tremendous effort of will and some practice. Given that when I was a child, I saw (and felt) far more of criticism than gratitude, it’s been a long hard course of learning for me that’s still not finished.

Three, make birthdays a big deal. Birthdays are individual days; they’re marked just on your calendar not on public calendars. Find ways of bringing joy and recognizing the unique personhood of the people who are close to you. Birthdays are not about how well someone fills a particular role (that’s what has always made me uncomfortable about Mother’s Day—those outsize expectations always left me feeling guilty). Birthdays are about the gift of being that that person has brought into the world. Celebrate that!

To put it simply, I wish we could recognize the worth and dignity of each human being, never mind special days. Practicing rituals of gratitude in our household and in our work places and in our public spaces might well undercut societal evils such as the racism that is only too obvious in recent news headlines. For sure, there is a desperate need also for structural reform, but for now, I’m thinking of the small deeds, the simple words that can spread an impact for good.

May I now say, “thank you for reading this”?

Stones and Flowers

Month: June 2021

In Memoriam

Updating the Public Calendar