The Bigger Picture

I got another hint today on how to get people to read your blog--keep it short--people don't want to invest more than 10-15 seconds reading anything on someone else's blog. Bottom line--I've decided to stop caring about whether or not anyone reads what I have to write. I've gone on other blogs and read their stories, often longer than mine and left comments, but no, I guess we can't expect much from people outside of our own sphere to care about anything other than the "sex, lies and sales" from a previous post. I can leave it for what it is, and move on. This blog is for me, a place to record my thoughts, stories, etc. I honestly no longer care whether anyone reads it, because it is a place for me to tell my tale.

So, here is another part to the Hopi story.

So, we move into this "rock house" on the Hopi Reservation (this is back in the late 70's, early 80's. I work at the Hopi Tribe Health Department, and my ex--goes to back to school so he can start working with the education department. My daughter goes to Second Mesa Day School--one of the only bahana's (non-Indian) at the school, and my son goes to the Headstart. We get involves with cultural activities and try to be as culturally sensitive as possible.

Amazing things happen, and as I mentioned earlier, I wouldn't trade that time for anything, although my daughter would beg to differ with me. Many things that happened to her I never found out until she was much older.


We had one of the only phones on the mesa, so we were often the stopping off place for people who needed to get in touch with somebody. One time, the family came to use the phone because their family member had gotten drunk in Winslow, fallen asleep on the train track, and had their legs cut off by a train. One time, one of the fathers of a traditional family stopped by, talked for about 10 minutes before he told me that our horse had gotten out of the corral and was running down the highway.

There were times when the dancers came to the sacred spring and we had to stay inside and not bother them. There were times when we attended the dances and were expected to visit the homes of our co-workers and "eat". Over all, I felt I had found something that touched a place deep inside of me. I never had a culture that I really felt a part of. I grew up as a military brat, moving around from town to town. Then, married another military brat who felt that if you weren't happy one place-move until you found a place you were happy. (Don't think he ever found it--but he's the ex-so it doesn't matter.) Living on a Reservation with a very culturally intact tribe makes you realize how much that can mean, and also make you realize how hard it is for those who leave that culture behind to become part of the mainstream.

I read a blog that talked about the danger of nostalgia--I'm not nostalgic, just wish that there were more places in the world to feel connected to something larger than oneself--to belong and feel a part of the bigger picture.