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feralfae

Hi. It's me again. I recently lost my mother.

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My mother died a while ago, after being previously ill for several months following a significant stroke. 

I know I will have more to share, but for today, I will say she was 95, had a troubled life due to worst child abuse for a young girl of 12.  Since 1983, I have been involved in efforts to have laws on reservations strengthened to give tribal police the same rights as white police, to pursue criminal charges and arrests when off the reservation. Right now, the laws are very out of balance, and so there is not equal protection under the law.  

I am sorry she did not live to see the signing of an Executive Order creating Operation Lady Justice to reduce abductions and worse of reservation women. I am celebrating  this Order as a gift to all  from my Grandmothers.

And especially from my Mother, who came to me while I was crying, and she was a laughing young woman, writing equations in the sky, clouds streaming from her fingertips forming the symbols. Equations.  

For equality.  *<twinkles>*

Peace to all our hearts,  

feralfae

 

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I'm so sorry for the loss of your mother...I lost my own mother five years ago, she also lived into her 90s, although she had stage 4 dementia.

It sounds like your mother did all she could to overcome her childhood, and only hope she can see it signed with her spirit.  My George was also Native American and put a stop to his dad's abuse of his mom when he was 16 years old.  

Your mom sounds like a wonderful woman.  We never stop missing them.

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2 hours ago, feralfae said:

I am sorry she did not live to see the signing of an Executive Order creating Operation Lady Justice to reduce abductions and worse of reservation women.

That's too bad that she didn't live to see this very important legislation.  The violence against Native women is under-reported but widespread, but people are finally starting to become aware of it and actually talk about it, which can only help.

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So good to see you here again, dear one. We miss your *<twinkles>* (and sprinkles of fairy dust) as well as your beautiful writing.❤️

I'm glad your dear mother came to you in such a magnificent and meaningful way, and I'm sure she is extremely proud of her daughter's efforts to bring about the passage of this Executive Order protecting reservation women. Blessings of peace and love from our hearts to yours . . .

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Thank you everyone. She left on September 25th, after being very ill for a few months.

We have held a traditional ceremony for her in private for members of the clan, and plan to have a memorial service next Spring.  

Thank you all so very much for your kind words. Thank you, Kieron, for your understanding. You too, Kaye. 

I must say a special {{{hugs}}} and hello to Kaye and Marty, old friends. My mother's generation was the last of our family born on a reservation. The best thing my grandparents ever did was move us back to our early land purchase in the foothills of the Ozarks, out of Oklahoma. I have a lot of sadness for my mother in many ways, but seeing the Order signed was a great spot of joy in my life and yes, I am sure she knows, and was trying to tell me when she came to me and wrote the equations with the clouds. She was a brilliant mathematician. Very troubled, but brilliant. I have some good (and bad) early memories of her, and I am focusing on the good ones. We used to plant trees together on the home place. Thank you again for your caring words. *<twinkles>* 

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My cousin called again early this morning. She keeps checking on me, and every time we talk, she shares more memories with me of being with us at the home place one of the summers we were all there, the whole tribe of youngsters, free and doing what we wanted other than chores. We talked a lot about my mother teaching us all to braid horsehair into ropes, or lariats. She made us be very precise about dividing the horse hair strands equally. I still have one braided horsehair hat band, but not from my mother. I wish she had been healthier.  I'm glad she is free of all the pain of those long-ago memories.  

Sunday, I took out a little box of things she had sent to me about 20 years ago—cards, letters, photos, my childish art work and some early papers I wrote and sent to her, hoping she would be proud of me. For so long, I held out hope that she would get better. Her occasional periods of lucidity and teaching would give me hope, but then she would slip back into mental illness again. It was always a disappointment to go visit her when she was better, and then watch her slip away again. I am slowly coming to terms with that cycle of hope and disappointment, knowing now that there will be no resolution, but that at least she is free and happy now. I am writing this with tears in my eyes for all that might have been, but was not. I know it is going to take a while to reconcile all of this.  *<twinkles>*

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I guess this is going to be one of those days.  I pulled out some photos of my mother from when she was graduating college, from when she received an award, and also one of all of us from when we visited her while she was institutionalized when I was an adult living in Evanston.  In many ways, her life was quite remarkable. She survived a great deal of challenges, and some of the time, she functioned at a significantly high level. And although she was at times very confused and unable to live in society, she also had times when she was lucid, high functioning, and able to teach for two terms at the university level. I think her sporadic periods of being lucid often confused us, because of course we wish for anyone we love that they should be well and happy. But it never lasted. 

As a child, I would make little cards with flowers carefully cut, petal by petal, and then pasted to a sheet of paper, and write little notes to her. She had saved some of those, and I got them back in that same box with the photos and notes—the box she sent to me when she cleaned out things at 75.  (A tradition in our family.)   I look at those little cards now and remember how I did not understand why she would only stare at them when I would give them to her. She could not understand. As an adult, I sometimes wondered what her thinking process might be. How did she see the world?  But now, I think she sees the world as a place where she used to be, and has now moved on to another, safer world. Most of the time, she seemed afraid and worried. Today, it would probably be called anxiety. 

I am taking her "visit" to heart, though, and I believe she is happy and free of all that fear now. And yes, I think she knows that now, at last, the laws may be changed and there will be justice. I hope so. *<twinkles>*

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25 minutes ago, feralfae said:

I am taking her "visit" to heart, though, and I believe she is happy and free of all that fear now. And yes, I think she knows that now, at last, the laws may be changed and there will be justice. I hope so. *<twinkles>*

I think so, too, dear one. ❤️ 

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feralfae,

Over the years I have met some dear people here, and you were one of the dearest.  I still have the dreamcatcher up that you sent me as a replacement after Arlie chewed up George's (he was also Native American).  Now both my George and Arlie are gone, my mom and sister too.  I know how it changes our lives when we lose yet another one.  Yes your mom is finally happy and free and I well imagine they have an awareness of what is going on here.  I know the Bible says there's no more tears or pain, so perhaps they only know the good or have a better perspective for handling it all, I don't worry about that, I take it at it's word, they're happy and I'm glad for that.

In my recent loss of Arlie I have cried buckets of tears...but not for him, for me, for I miss him so much.  I've written memories of him in loss of pet section in addition to my journey through his cancer and subsequent death.  But to me he will always be very much alive, in my heart.  And I know that's where you hold your mom.

Sending much love and hugs to you, dear one.

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Kayc, Thank you so much.  I am so sorry to hear that you lost Arlie. Yes, you are right.  I just wish she had been well enough that we could have had some better times together. And I know she is in a better place. When she came to me to show me how happy she was, she looked the way I remember her when I was a little girl, so alive and happy and lovely. All her years of mental illness took a toll on her, as well as on the family. I am happy to know you still have the dreamcatcher. And I too take the Bible at its word and I get comfort from that.  Thank you for your comforting words and love.  You are a dear. *<twinkles>*

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On 12/3/2019 at 10:39 AM, MartyT said:

❤️  ❤️  ❤️

 

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I went to get groceries this morning, because first Thursday is senior 10% off total bill at the grocer's.  

Sometimes, things just sing out to us. I was pushing my cart past the dairy case, when I noticed the Amish butter, wrapped in paper, big chunks of butter. It's good for making ghee, by the way.  But just glancing at it brought back a memory from when I was 5 or 6.  About 65 years ago. Back then, margarine was sold in plastic bags, with a little button of colour in the bag. The little button could be mashed into the white margarine, and with sufficient squeezing, the margarine turned yellow. I longed to squeeze the button into the margarine.  I was with my mother, and she explained that chemically margarine as just a softer form of plastic.  I didn't know any chemistry then. 

I picked up a margarine package several times so I could squeeze the little button and turn the white stuff yellow. Each time, my mother would gently take it away from me and explain again why we did not eat margarine. I had forgotten how kind and patient she could be when she was doing well.  Just a random memory, but I am building a "memory book" in my mind of my mother when she was well enough to have me with her. I remember her patience, and her beautiful face, as she would bend down to take one more margarine package away from me, put it back on the shelf, and remind me again that we do not eat margarine. These random memories seem to be spilling out often now. As I let go of the terrible memories, I am hoping that these good memories will fill the spaces in my mind from where the sad memories are being released. 

It is as though seeing my mother writing with clouds was a reminder that inside, she was this beautiful, brilliant spirit who could be fearless and happy. I am holding these good memories close, cherishing that wonderful spirit that I seldom saw for most of her life. I hope the good memories keep coming. 

Marty and Kay, I want to say a special Thank You to both of you. Your caring and compassion and understanding are a beautiful solace for my spirit as I sort through all these memories and make peace with hopes that were never realized, and with sadness that I no longer need to carry. Thank you very much. I wonder where this sorting will take me. Thank you. *<twinkles>*

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