A Few More Sentences – 17
A Few More Sentences – 17
Onaabani-giizis (Snowcrust Moon) Edition
Boozhoo, indinawemaaganidog! Aaniin! That is to say hello, all of my relatives! Welcome to another edition of An Irritable Métis. In this case, I am happy to present the SEVENTEENTH EDITION! of the monthly sentences.
For those of you new here this monthly edition, where I post my daily, single sentences that I’ve accumulated for the month-just-ended, is based on the practice that ultimately led to my first book, One-Sentence Journal, back in 2018. It’s worth noting that that book came out on August 14, 2018, and it was August 14, 2023 that I received the telephone call from the governor telling me he was appointing me Montana Poet Laureate for 2023–2025. So there is magic to be found in the practice, if one is diligent!
It’s a simple practice and fulfilling … and also maybe not so simple as it may seem. Regardless, the practice is excellent training for paying attention to the small moments of my life, and I enjoy sharing those moments here. As always, I deeply appreciate your time and attention. If you feel compelled to offer up a few of your own observations in the comments, I would love to see them.
Do you like these sentences and anything else you see here? Consider becoming a paid subscriber! Remember that a yearly subscription of $50 through the month of April means that $25 of it is going to provide scholarships for this summer’s Freeflow workshop on the Salmon that I’m leading.
Preorders for Becoming Little Shell are going strong. I’d love you to consider that too, if you are of a mind to! I’m also donating $10 from every preorder through April to that same scholarship fund. If you care to be in support of that effort as well, you may do so HERE.
Finally, remember I’ve decided to revive an Instagram account. You may follow me HERE (and thanks to all of you who already have!) if you are into that kind of thing. I don’t post much, mostly just notices to events and such that I’m involved in.
2024_0301: Astounded in a vintage ballroom by several score of the rudest people in the state.
2024_0302: High fives, low fives, and fist bumps for some exceptional young folks amazing me with their confidence.
2024_0303: A circling pair of migiziwag over the Wye prove that even a concentration of grubby truckstops may be remade as sacred space.
2024_0304: Mishomis rises slowly from his bed beyond the eastern horizon and asks, “Have you seen your grandmother?” and I, sweaty and midway through my morning road work, half-turn and point south and west to where Nookomis glows silver, a thin fingernail of reflected light in the pale sky, and say, “She’s right there, Grandfather.”
2024_0305: Sunshine and cloudless sky and snowy crags remind me how otherworldly the Mission Mountains often appear to be, before I breathe deep and remember that they are entirely of THIS world, and how fortunate I am to be of it with them.
2024_0306: Reminded hilariously of the smallness of the world while in a radio studio at the University of Montana urging a young DJ that he absolutely SHOULD go rogue.
2024_0307: My unprecedented good fortune for excellent weather while traveling continues on a magnificently sunny driving trip five-plus hours east to enjoy the company of NDN educators.
2024_0308: Early morning road work in an unfamiliar alley in Billings leads me to hearing, and spotting, my first robin of spring.
2024_0309: The wobbly black trail of matched dragging radials tells a compelling story westbound on I-90, punctuated finally by shreds of blown tire and skid marks off to the gritty shoulder.
2024_0310: Spotted towhee out my kitchen window while trying to extend the final dregs of morning coffee as long as possible means bird season is officially on.
2024_0311: Plans change and the day fails to improve.
2024_0312: “What made you want to write poetry?” the 11yo asks and without so much as a pause for breath I hear myself answering, “Just being alive and in love with this big, beautiful world.”
2024_0313: I wish I was the moon tonight too.
2024_0314: Migizi carves sweeping turns in the miraculous sky over the superfund site while Ch-paa-qn and I gape from valley vantage points opposite.
2024_0315: The tired and battered old body showed up for me big time today and I am reminded once more of the gift that has been trusted to my care and I don’t want to let it down ever again.
2024_0316: It’s not so much the speaking without thinking as it is the damnable knee-jerk reaction.
2024_0317: St. Patrick’s Day alone can’t make this anything more than just another Sunday, and it isn’t.
2024_0318: The early phone call on a Monday morning seemed a good idea at the time I scheduled it but thank the gods for colleagues who loathe zoom as much as I do.
2024_0319: Grandfather’s retiring for the day happens all too quickly when he takes to his bed behind the Backbone of the World.
2024_0320: Reflecting on the most uncanny of connections while sauntering along a trail bordering a mucky field reeking of cow shit.
2024_0321: White lady approaching me at the conference in a crowded room where I just might be the only Indian to argue with me about how the Cleveland Indians should be allowed to return to their racist mascot, don’t forget that no matter what you say or who you cite there are untold thousands of Indians behind me who want nothing more than for me to unleash on you.
2024_0322: The morning after a day for shorts and t-shirt, the drive home from Great Falls through blowing snow over ice.
2024_0323: A cold butt on damp soil creekside doesn’t feel so bad when hunkered down in a Thin Place.
2024_0324: After years of pummeling this bass guitar, I’m astounded at the realization it operates on batteries.
2024_0325: A familiar yet unfamiliar vibe when darkening the door of an old dive not visited since before the pandemic, every face unfamiliar except the remarkable one I’m here to meet.
2024_0326: Bittersweet as ever, a final visit brings the teaching season up north to a breathless end, this year, at least, with donuts.
2024_0327: Let the tour scheduling begin in earnest.
2024_0328: The robins get their quiet morning song in before the RWBBs muster and turn the day to riot.
2024_0329: Losing an elder, a keeper of language and culture, is like a library going up in flames overnight.
2024_0330: With the arrival of the Sun after a cold, frosty night, the fields of Grass Valley are steaming.
2024_0331: Outside my window a magpie pokes around the base of the pole that a suet cage hangs from, a northern flicker hammers away at the suet, and a starling perches at the apex of the crook, and it occurs to me that if someone threw a trenchcoat over them – the pair of RWBBs cheering them on from the scraggly tree adjacent to them, perhaps – they could probably run for office.
In closing, a wonderful poem from a collection of poems from the poet laureate of Columbia Falls, Robert Love….
I always have to pick out a favorite: “2024_0329: Losing an elder, a keeper of language and culture, is like a library going up in flames overnight.”
Thanks for introducing me to the Robert Love poem.