A Few More Sentences – 24
Binaakwe-giizis (Falling Leaves 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 TWENTY-FOURTH EDITION! of the monthly sentences. That makes this edition the two year anniversary of when I decided to start posting them! That’s wonderful. And for the second month in a row, most of these are from the road, as I was gone a lot this past month.
For those of you new here this monthly edition, where I post the 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 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.
If you enjoy these monthly sentences, or you enjoy anything about this newsletter, please consider a paid subscription. Your support is more important than ever….
2024_1001: Headed north to the storied and so-called “Gateway to Montana” I encounter, in locations miles apart, three different lone coyotes, a relative I’ve not seen nearly enough of lately, and my spirit sings.
2024_1002: Mildly hungover from the smug arrogance of the Old White Guy who hears, out of a tremulous and traumatized chorus of thousands, one dissenting voice that echoes his own ignorant perspective and he latches onto it as unassailable fact.
2024_1003: Autumn has arrived but summer seems reluctant to leave.
2024_1004: In a room full of wealthy “philanthropists” who claim a commitment to “conservation,” the choices for main entree in the buffet line are bison and salmon, two relatives all but eliminated in the pursuit of, within a few degrees at least, the very fortunes these people recline in.
2024_1005: If the proliferation of yard, fence, and homemade signs are any indication, come November Democrats in Montana are, once again, doomed.
2024_1006: The crunch of tires over gravel in the still, early morning darkness.
2024_1007: Three vigorous miles under heavy weight cannot be overestimated as a boost for the laboring spirit.
2024_1008: The calendar six months out is already beginning to bulge.
2024_1009: Working after hours against the deluge of unending admin tasks leads to a collision with another intrepid spirit working after hours in opposition to the deluge of unending admin tasks, and we miraculously resolve the negotiation of a task that wasn’t on the to do list in the first place.
2024_1010: Migizi soaring with what seems only the slightest of effort over the twists and turns of the Yellowstone as I make my way to Livingston.
2024_1011: Tears and snorts to accompany a shared belly laugh.
2024_1012: The wind off the Backbone ruffles the fluffy coyote’s pelt.
2024_1013: A chance encounter in the most rural of places magnifies the delightful smallness of this magnificent world.
2024_1014: Always careful in my responses to people I don’t know, taking a chance for a meet-up out on the prairies of North Dakota leads to what will almost certainly be a life-remaining blessing of community and relationship.
2024_1015: “What even is that?” asks the server when the wine is ordered.
2024_1016: A guided tour of the Turtle Mountains provides unanticipated revelations about land and community that I might never have arrived to if I’d only remained in the vast openness of my more familiar surroundings.
2024_1017: An elder reminds us not to forget “the little yellow bird” at the closing of the language conference.
2024_1018: Empty Highway 89 north onto the Red Lake Nation through mist and forest feels like a return of sorts, a traverse across centuries of familiar memory.
2024_1019: Damp with mist, the north woods and the highest reaches of Gichigami are hard to leave behind.
2024_1020: Putting down tobacco at the site of the concentration camp.
2024_1021: Unexpectedly reminded how ill-fitting generic one-size-fits-all masks are against the bulbous landscape of my wheezing face.
2024_1022: Literal last minute overnight success emerges triumphantly in Duluth.
2024_1023: A kind of joyous homecoming with friends, most of whom I’ve never met in person before.
2024_1024: More glitz, more glimmer, more desire to sink back down to the bottom.
2024_1025: I will never stand at a lectern more mighty than the one I did today emblazoned with the seal of the Red Lake Nation College Migizi.
2024_1026: The OWL perches in her seat oblivious to the flex of her own privilege of ignorance.
2024_1027: A flag flies from a pole near the border of Minnesota and South Dakota that proclaims, “Jesus is My Savior, Trump is My President” and I can’t for the life of me understand how anyone can possibly juxtapose those two names in any way other than in direct opposition.
2024_1028: What heartache to recognize the most beautiful of occupied landscapes breed the most loathsome of performative political bluster.
2024_1029: Falling into step with the old man in a cowboy hat on our way into the Miles City Murdoch’s, he tells me, “We just sold the last of our cattle, we’re getting out of the ranching business,” and, despite the unlikelihood of much else in common, not to mention the dark history of this land and the town’s namesake and what it means to the fortunes of me and my ancestors, the hurt in his face and eyes evoke every bit of compassion I would find for anyone.
2024_1030: On the tenth anniversary of my father’s passing the gravity of his story weighs heavily, and I worry about my irresponsibility in telling it.
2024_1031: The Stellar’s jay perched on the edge of my porch chair seems as flabbergasted as me at the appearance of a sudden swirl of snowflakes.
Looming Imminently This Week!
Some public events to fill the gaps between private events, all of which I am very, very stoked for….
Portland Book Festival, November 2nd
This is exciting! I am part of a discussion called, “Indigenous Identities: Sasha taqʷšəblu LaPointe & Chris La Tray.”
It’s from 3:45pm – 4:45pm at the Portland Art Museum: Miller Gallery.
All the details HERE!
Sasha and I were on a panel together a couple years ago and it was fun.
Bigfork, MT, on November 8th, 4PM – 6PM!
Condon, MT, on November 9th, 2PM – 4PM!
Your 2024 1004 comment got me thinking about how the word conservation is a figure of speech used frequently by groups where I live with conservation in their name but missing in action and silent on developer applications threatening the place we live and supportive of a recreation industry that has become the prominent exploiter of the West.
A small group of us recently opposed the expansion of a marina on our lake, which is the sole source of our drinking water. We opposed the expansion because the overwhelming science and water studies pointed out that power and wake boats are inland lake killers and are experiencing water quality issues. We made a case for eight months and a bunch of hearings and even hired an attorney after three of the five city council members voted to approve the marina expansion. The three counselors were fearful of a lawsuit by boaters and the billion-dollar boating industry instead of fearful of destroying the quality of our water. The silence of so-called conservation groups was disappointing. The small group we started is starting to grow, and we will not give up the fight to protect our water, but it was a heartbreaking loss. In 1949, Aldo Leopold wrote," A system of conservation based solely on economic self-interest is lopsided." My activism and this recent loss leave me wondering how our species will break the trend of our destructive ways. "...the very fortunes these people recline in." Thank you for your sentences, Chris La Tray.
"2024_1029: Falling into step with the old man in a cowboy hat on our way into the Miles City Murdoch’s, he tells me, “We just sold the last of our cattle, we’re getting out of the ranching business,” and, despite the unlikelihood of much else in common, not to mention the dark history of this land and the town’s namesake and what it means to the fortunes of me and my ancestors, the hurt in his face and eyes evoke every bit of compassion I would find for anyone."
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK
The beautiful poetry of that single sentence. The heartbreak and the empathy.