LL-L "Remembrance" 2008.01.27 (09) [E]

[Lowlands-L List]

L O W L A N D S - L  -  27 January 2008 - Volume 09
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From: Jacqueline Bungenberg de Jong <Dutchmatters at comcast.net>
Subject: LL-L "Remembrance" 2008.01.26 (08) [E]

Re: Raven poetry; Thanks Ron. That is some stark imagery. If only mankind
would learn. Jacqueline

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From: foga0301 at stcloudstate.edu
Subject: LL-L "Remembrance" 2008.01.26 (08) [E]

How long do ravens live?

Greetings all,

     I'm deep into my thesis these days and silently enjoying your many
thoughts. While the ice grips the ground outside, remembering buttercups
becomes a way to resisting the absence of gentleness in our world. Not sure
about the redness that comes from touching such flowers. I'll ask my
botanist (expert) friend. Those flowers grow only in the wet mountain
meadows here. And way back when, there were no yawns of green grass outback
of houses either (not where I'm from).  I remember butter as the farm
produce that must have been less in demand after margarine was invented. The
last members of my family to live in Germany must have been selling butter
at that time.  I was told margarine was invented in the late 19th century.
Could my family have been the losers of that deal… and more likely to be
forced into emigrating because of it?  They also resisted being drafted into
the army. We have stories that speak of being treated poorly while serving
as foot soldiers even to the point of fearing death as a result of minor
infractions that injured only an officer's pride.

   They say here (the Native Americans) that Raven sees into the heart, and
also that what you really see when you look at a raven is the reflection of
yourself in their shiny black eyeballs (the truth about yourself).  So what
is it that buttercups do?  What does it mean to love butter?—To have
sensitive skin?  To become the raven is to cultivate the ability to see life
more as it is. When we witness to a dream that others have done harm to, we
open up the possibility that this dream will thrive again someday.  Another
person's dreams come to live inside us… In this way [perhaps only in this
way] they also refract back into the world.  So the skin turns red if you
like butter?  Hum.  Okay.  The dream is shared.  What's the next move?

     In the Wyoming mountains high up near a beautiful lake I stumbled upon
a hidden patch of "sweet grass" which is a sacred herb for the natives
here.  This grass usually only grows in the lowlands.  At this elevation it
is a tiny, tiny plant out of its normal range.  I was told that it marks a
holy site nurtured by the ancients—now long silent and trodden on by
tourist.  Let us remember the many native peoples whose lives have been
nearly rubbed away.  How long does Raven live? What's the next step for us
all?  How do we imagine a love strong enough to grow little arms and legs
after so much frost and chill?—to imagine dreams coming to life again is to
believe in spring.  This is the raven's business.

So I'm told…Gael Fonken

Ingmar schreef:

On me the genocides during the recent or still ungoing civil wars in African
countries such as Rwanda, Sierra Leone, Sudan (Darfur) and Congo have left a
no less deep impression. And what about the injustice in Iraq and Palestine?
So let's remember yesterday but also today!
Ingmar

Reinhard schreef:

January 27 is Holocaust Memorial Day. So please spare a few appropriate
thoughts and remember that unfortunately genocidal activities are not yet
things of the past.

Below please find one of Waltrud Bruhn's Low Saxon poems on the subject,
followed by my translation.

Regards,
Reinhard/Ron
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From: R. F. Hahn <sassisch at yahoo.com>
 Subject: Remembrance

Folks,

Let me just add to my epistle that early in life, after ever having left
home, I had already met Holocaust survivors.

One of them was the Jewish owner of one of our neighborhood's bookstores. He
had chosen to stay in the country but apparently had been given back only a
part of his property. I only remember him being a bit monosyllabic and
looking over his reading glasses.

Another was a man in our street who was a well-known communist. He was still
being harassed, for the Cold War was underway ...

Another was a middle-aged man who for a little while rented a room near us.
I remember him sitting on a bench playing his mandolin. We were fascinated,
but grown-ups told us he was "different," and we should stay away from him
... I only understood this year later.

And there were a couple of local Sinti ("Gypsies") who had made it out alive
but had lost families and friends, and I saw them often. (Sinti are usually
sedentary.)

Regards,
Reinhard/Ron
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