What a full week! Our once in a lifetime Thanksgiving Hanukkah mash-up at Otter Creek central was a bustle of business with big meals three days in a row followed by a party that left our house bursting at the seams. Gatherings at our home are always a bit anxiety provoking as music takes so much of our time that not infrequently routine household maintenance takes a back seat. It’s times like these when we realize that it’s not entirely normal to have to instruct guests on procedures for successfully locking the bathroom door, turning off the kitchen faucet, or the need to ignore one overly sensitive smoke detector determined to curse every attempt at frying latkes or making toast (hey, at least we’ve had plenty of fire drills to ensure the Muses will escape alive if there ever is a real fire!). 

Peter was in fine form, belting out Yiddish songs at the top of his lungs while the rest of us tried to concentrate on getting everything ready. Mary reminded the kids of their Pilgrim ancestors and we recounted the story of the first Thanksgiving. As a capstone to our weekend we played for the Menorah Lighting Ceremony at the Governor’s Mansion. 

This year happens to be the 75th anniversary of Krystallnacht (a coordinated attack on Jews throughout Nazi Germany and parts of Austria at the beginning of the Holocaust).  At the ceremony we heard the moving account of Ambassador John Price (born Hans Joachim Praiss) and his memories of living through the attack prior to fleeing Germany for the United States. Later, Governor Herbert spoke movingly of his own encounters with the record of the Holocaust and his determination to pledge himself to the cause of “never again” allowing our fellow humans to be slaughtered. Rabbi Benny Zippel spoke about the vandalization of the menorah in front of his synagogue earlier in the week, and how Jewish teaching encouraged the conversion of suffering into more joy. He recounted the many offers of help from the community and his own congregation’s dedication to celebrate Hanukkah more fully and restore the Menorah more festively than before. He then presented both Governor Herbert, and Ambassador Price with Crystal Menorahs stating he wanted to transform our commemoration of the pain of Krystallnacht into something of beauty. In wrapping up, Rabbi Zippel asked Otter Creek to play the Theme from Shindler’s List. 

It was one of those rare moments in performing where you can feel every mind and heart connected to the music, where the music sings not only out of the performers, but streams out of the souls of those connected by listening as well. There was a pause after the music, as we all breathed in the beauty of the moment, the memories of pain, transformed by the courage to move on, and the light of each of our souls, flickering like the flame of the candles on the menorah, and as Rabbi Zippel pointed out, “no matter how you hold the candle,
the flame always points up,” upwards toward whatever it is that binds us all together. 

We finished out the musical program with our favorite Hanukkah song “Fayer” a rollicking klezmer tune about the cooking (and eating) of latkes, and I was struck at how perfect this mash-up of Hanukkah and Thanksgiving was. The simple explanation of almost every Jewish holiday (and especially Hanukkah) is this  “they tried to kill us, they didn’t succeed: Let’s eat!” and isn’t that really what Thanksgiving is about as well? Relishing the fact that we are here together with no intention to do each other harm (at least for one day) and enough food that we can afford to overdo it a bit. Savoring for just a moment the connection we all share across the boundaries of religion, race, and political ideology we are first and foremost all part of the human race, fellow inhabitants of this precious little pearl of a planet sailing the vast universe together on a voyage of discovery focused both inward and outward. Remembering that the soul of each person, even those we don’t agree with is a flame pointed upward toward that which connects us all, whatever it is. Pausing to notice that there is so much more we have in common than that which so arbitrarily separates us. 

That’s definitely worth feasting about!

I love rocks. As I child visiting Yellowstone national park, I had difficulty understanding why I couldn’t take a few of the more unusual rocks I had picked up home with me. My father encouraged me to ask a park ranger who explained it to me this way. “It really wouldn’t make any difference if you took a few rocks,” he said, “but we have over two million visitors a year. What do you think would happen to our park if each of them took a few rocks? How many years would it take before there were none left?” Since then I have often reflected on that question. “What would happen if everyone does this?” In fact, in many ways I’ve made it my moral compass. I try to behave based not only on what good will come of my individual actions which are often quite insignificant, but to imagine what the outcome might be if “everyone did what I am doing.”

This weekend we’ll be performing our new song Bidder 70 at a benefit concert to raise funds for Peaceful Uprising’s new complilation CD Folk Songs for Climate Justice. The song tells the story of Tim DeChristopher who was sent to prison for disrupting an auction of Oil and Gas leases near Utah’s National Parks that had been rushed through without proper review at the tail end of the Bush administration.

Listen to “Bidder 70” or read the lyrics.

Both Mary and I have been fans of Tim since his act of civil disobedience however I have found that rational people certainly disagree on whether his actions were warranted or admirable. I did a lot of soul searching while writing the song. I read, re-read, and read again Tim’s statement at his sentencing. His story, and what he was trying to tell the world is in many ways too large and too complex a subject for a simple song of three verses. In the end, I settled on a phrase he uttered at his sentencing: “I’m not saying any of this to ask you for mercy, but to ask you to join me.”

The power I find in Tim’s story is not defiance, it is his love. What if everyone loved the planet so much they were willing to go to prison to defend its future? Whether or not I agree with his actions, his story inspires me to ask myself that question. That is the cause our song and Tim’s story is inviting you to join. It is not always in our nature to ask ourselves this kind of question and add to our workload, or tolerate the discomfort of knowing we are contributing to a potential disaster. Our nature has primed us to seek comfort and it is easy to trade an uncertain amount of disaster in the future for the satisfaction of happiness in the present, but our nature has also gifted us with foresight in the ability to want a safe and secure life for our children and our grandchildren, and that safety and security can only come from examining the long term impacts of our daily actions.

For me, this means I ride my bike when I can instead of driving. I make sure we use most of the plastic bags that come through our home at least twice before they are discarded. Sometimes I take a little extra time to separate out recycling from trash. I use my own coffee mug instead of disposable cups when possible. None of these small actions is particularly significant on its own. I’m well aware of that. Yet when I am tempted to do differently, that question is always lurking, “what if everyone does what I am about to do?”

I do things too that I’m not proud of. I sit with the discomfort of knowing that I’m mowing my lawn with a very dirty gas mower instead of trying to use a people powered option. For that matter, I probably have more lawn at my place, and use more water keeping it green that is wise. I’m not overly fond of riding public transportation and don’t always use it when I could. I’ve found that allowing that discomfort, over time, moves me to take small actions I might not have considered in the past.

I’m not asking anyone to do anything they disagree with. I know reasonable people can completely disagree on what action is needed, possible, and useful. I know people have vastly different ways of expressing their love for the planet. I’m simply asking you to join with me in this one question, “What if everyone does what I’m about to do?” I wrote Bidder 70 not to suggest we all do what Tim did, but to suggest we love our planet, and our progeny the way he has demonstrated, with a passion, intensity and devotion great enough to risk prison. His closing words were “this is what love looks like, and it will only grow.” I’m “asking you to join” in growing that love, wherever, and whatever it looks like for you.

You can start by coming to hear 14 different visions of that love at the benefit concert as some of our favorite local and national songwriters including Ann Kelly, Cambriah Heaton, Chris Orrock, Dana Hubbard, Jen Hajj, John Paul Spehler, Kristin Erickson, Marv Hamilton, Otter Creek, Raven Spirit, Shaney McCoy, Steve Bassett, The Hollands!, and Utah Slim play their songs that will be included on the album.

Let us know what your love looks like by posting about it below!

By Mary

When I was a kid my favorite place to go was to my grandma’s house in Castle Dale, UT.  Grandma would pack a picnic in an antique basket her family used when she was a girl and we would head out for the San Rafael Swell where she would fascinate us with tales about riding her Indian pony around the desert when she was young.   A lady from Hawaii once told Grandma she couldn’t stand the thought of “living in such a barren place.”  Grandma retorted that it was much better than Hawaii because she didn’t “have any of those darn trees blocking the scenery.”

The San Rafael brought out the quirky pioneer spirit of my family.  We felt particularly free to be ourselves surrounded by sandstone cliffs, cactus, and sagebrush. One trip my dad did the unthinkable, he forgot his hat.  My very bald father is of Scandinavian descent and once upon a time (before I was born) he had a full head of red hair. He still had the fair complexion associated with his lost hair, and never went anywhere without a hat.  Grandma had a solution.  She told my dad with a glint in her eye, “I have an extra bonnet."  Grandma had quite a reputation in Emery County for making pioneer bonnets.  I was very proud to know that Grandma was a girl people still wore them.

I loved all things pioneer.  Laura from “Little House on the Prairie” was my hero.  And Grandma, well, she was practically Laura.  She had traveled in a covered wagon, worn pioneer bonnets, read by kerosene lantern and done everything else a proper pioneer girl would do.  Her bonnets were awesome. The idea of my dad wearing one was not.  Dad smiled mischieviously and placed the pink bonnet with a ruffle on his head and tied a bow under his chin.  None of us kids wanted to admit we knew him.  We tried to maintain a good distance from him.  It was probably the most peaceful day Dad ever spent with us in the desert.  (In hindsight I am kind of surprised that from then on he didn’t start wearing one perpetually). Later that evening Grandma surprised us all by spreading her sleeping bag out on the picnic table instead of in the tent. I thought it was hilarious imagining her spread out there all night like some kind of feast! She let me know that if she slept on the ground there would be no getting her up, and since it wasn’t in her plan to remain forever on the ground in the desert the picnic table would do nicely.

When I began dating Peter he was a frequent guest on these family outings. One winter trip my family was given two cases of bananas on the way out of town. It was cold that night and all the bananas froze. Unable to contemplate the waste of such a resource my mom forced each of us to eat all of the bananas before we were allowed to eat any other food on the trip. Peter, who was accustomed to eating no more bananas than absolutely necessary somehow managed choke down his share. It was a testament to his love of both me and the San Rafael that he never turned down a trip with us, even after being force fed bananas.

The San Rafael Swell is rich with reminders of those who lived there long ago.  My family loved to visit an Allosaurus footprint.  It was a magical to think that we could still see precisely where this creature had stepped. There were Native American pictographs and petroglyphs which filled me a desire to connect to a people who had lived long ago.  As I looked at the art I would wonder what the people were like who made these pictures.  What made them laugh, cry, what did their pictures mean to them? 

From an early age I realized that not everyone regarded this land the way my family did. Some pictographs had been covered by graffiti and there were places where the hills and vegetation including the delicate, slow forming, erosion resistant soil crust had been torn up by newly popular ATV’s.  It wasn’t the work of someone using a trail to get to a distant location, it was the repeated up and down of people looking for a thrill.  From my earliest memory by brothers and I were incensed by this.  We could understand the excitement of the ride, but thought that we had seen plenty of ugly hills where such recreation could be done without destroying something so breathtaking and fragile, a place that seemed sacred.

In the 1990’s more attention was paid to preserving the land. Even though it meant we could no longer drive up the wash to our favorite campsite, we were pleased that the graffiti was removed from the pictographs and relieved that the hills were protected from four wheelers. 

In the years that have followed Peter and I have taken our own children to the San Rafael and watched their faces light up at their first sighting of the dinosaur print, or the excitement of finding a piece of petrified wood.  I have heard my own children wonder aloud about the people who left their art on the walls so long ago.  In those moments I feel a connection to my beloved grandma, who passed away many years ago.  In this place I feel a connection to the generations of my family, and beyond that to the desert dwellers who left their art.  I feel my connection to the creatures who roamed the San Rafael millions of years ago when it was a jungle.  In this place I feel my connection to the earth and an overpowering sense of sacredness. 

This is the basis of my environmentalism. I never want to have to say of my beautiful San Rafael, “She is gone, and we shall not see her like again.”  I have no expectation that we humans will not leave a mark on her, we are after all, a part of the world, but I do hope we will not, in arrogance, trade her beauty for a short sighted season of convenience or a momentary joyride in the history of humanity.  All of this is what Peter and I heard in Utah Slim's “Sister San Rafael.” Thanks Slim for giving us such a beautiful way to express our love for that place.