strength

HERITAGE JOURNALS: STORIES COLLECTED BY 6TH GRADE STUDENTS OF JAQUI EICHER, 2002

Written by: Weltha Jo Goin Johnson

“My Dad’s family, the Goins, came to Oregon in the late 1850s by covered wagon. They first settled east of Jefferson near Green’s Bridge. In about 1898 my grand dad, Alfred Goin, bought the property north of Jefferson that my husband and I live on now. My dad was born on the farm in 1903 and died there in 1993. My children, Kari and Blair, and their families, including Danielle, live on this same property. That’s five generations to have lived on this property. The farm used to go from Danielle’s house all the way to the Jefferson Middle School, but most was sold.

“My dad went to school at Jefferson. So did I, my children and now my grand daughters. My dad walked 3 miles to school and home. Sometimes he rode a horse or drove a buggy on the dirt or mud road, but it was too much trouble to take the horse to livery stable downtown Jefferson in the morning and pick it up after school, plus the horse was ‘barn sour’ and really didn’t want to be taken to school. So my dad just walked or jogged. Our neighbor says he was the original ‘jogger’ way back in 1916.

 

Wind Work

To be is too much work.

I crave the wild and wistful wind;

Some days my edginess creeps

in so far — there’s nothing

for it but to go out and let

the wind do its work:

soul building

grace restoring

dust clearing.

The stronger the wind, the longer

I linger. I lean on its breath.

Then, when the world again is

still and the creatures return

to industry, I feel myself moving

through and through the trees;

around and down the river,

into open meadow green and

I am as free and wild again

as the zephyrous wind.

Algebra

Afraid of life, she listens to

them tell her how different

she is; she takes it to heart

at first. Watch her try, try

try to be like them but

no matter how hard she tries,

she is not like them.

Somewhere along the equation

she realizes that different than

is not less than;

it is equal to. Sometimes (maybe

mostly) different than, plus

different than equals a sum

far greater.

The Enclosure of the Heart

Like a sprouting seed, love climbs

the enclosure of the heart

that has at last allowed

the light of grace to reach it,

tendrils — fragile and leggy —

pull it up and out

of its dark place,

deep in the dank ragged

edges of loneliness

until it flowers, spilling

all its fragrance and color

on any one who will stop and listen.

Up From the River Smiling

A friend once told me she met

her future husband just after

a turbulent river tossed

her out of her small kayak.

My friend, being who she is, showed

up from beneath the icy water

laughing — her bright smile stretched

across her triumphant face.

The man, knowing his own need,

asked, “who is this woman

that came up from dangerous

water smiling?”

He asked to meet her on dry ground.

They loved well and married,

carried out to the sea of life

by that river-smiling moment.

I wonder how I, being who I am,

could meet another who is able

to come up from the river smiling.

I’m familiar with icy water, dangerous

and turbulent; I watch it carefully,

hopeful to someday see the one

who comes up from the river

with a smile on his face.

Listen

Listen to me,

Since you are willing to risk all,

Though the earth dissolve,

What have we to fear?

All power on earth can be overcome

By the will of Love,

Which is so soft that it melts

at a touch.

So splendidly beautiful that

the embrace will forever be

rooted far down into the earth.

The Color of Your Heart

(Written for my art students at Howard Street Charter School, 2012)

The color of your heart is deep and wide–

It gathers all around me

And fills my days with laughter rich

And teaches me to be

More colorful myself, spilling all

My deepest hues

(Those I tend to hide inside)

Instead of showing them, like you.

Together we can paint the world to

Create a masterpiece

Of love and harmony and then

Our world can be at peace.

Silent Boy

IMG_8568_2After leaving my two-week teaching assignment in Cambodia (which is after I left my 17 year teaching assignment in Oregon), I neglected to write about The Silent Boy,  though his story continues to weave itself through my own being ever since meeting him. Just yesterday, at the fragile point of tears, I thought of him again and his immense strength; I wished then that I could have borrowed some of it.

In January of 2016, our small team of 5 adults taught English at a Cambodian public school for almost a week before we travelled to an orphanage in the Southwestern part of Cambodia. We were thrust into this day and tasked with “making the students speak English as much as possible.” I jumped into this task with as much enthusiasm as any introvert could and found myself at the outskirts of conversation as my team members, who knew more about the orphanage than I did, tried their hardest to dive into conversation with everyone.

The January climate in Cambodia is mild, if you are from Cambodia. If you’re from the Willamette Valley of Oregon however, it’s quite  hot–90 degrees F with killer humidity. As initial  bursts of conversations died down, we gathered under the gazebo in the center of the lawn. I found myself watching a very young boy (5 or 6 years old) who was walking by himself out in the lawn. “Who is that little one,” I asked. An older boy answered, “We call him Silent Boy. He doesn’t talk.”

Maybe because it appealed to the teacher in me, maybe just because I love challenges, I went to him with the intent to strike up a conversation with this ‘Silent Boy’ immediately. When we first met, he was near a little flower garden, observing something. It turned out to be a giant seed of some kind. “What is that?” I asked, not sure how much English he understood. This Silent Boy looked up at me and smiled. I continued, encouraged, “Is this a seed?” He pointed across the lawn to a tree growing along the edge. “Is this from that tree?” This was enough encouragement for him to begin walking toward the tree, pausing to look back at me; inviting me to join him.

We stood near the large tree and the Silent Boy looked up, pointing to the large fruit growing high above our heads. “Is that where this seed came from?” I asked. My new friend was busy looking for a stick, which he found and was already using to try to knock the fruit down. Clearly, the lower hanging fruit had already been knocked down and he would not reach the remaining fruit without help. I asked to borrow the stick and easily knocked the fruit to the ground, which the Silent Boy immediately collected, biting into it with the clear purpose of showing me the seed inside. The same seed I observed earlier.

We walked back across the hot lawn to the cooler gazebo, and the crowd gathered there. I showed everyone the seed and the fruit, which I learned is called Jack Fruit and is delicious when ripe. My friend and I had just happened to knock down an unripe fruit, but he continued to nibble on it. The American adults in the crowd informed me of Silent Boy’s traumatic past and I marveled that he had any smile left to offer anyone. He continued to stand near me and to offer up his toys for the crying babies, held by adults who didn’t know them.

The tenderness in my heart recognized the tenderness in his and I continue to be moved to tears by his kindness and compassion. He was a child and had already learned that the world is not a kind or easy place to be, and yet he offered kindness and tenderness back. I wondered at which point in his young life he had become silent, or if he had ever been able to express his voice at all.

As our van load of adults prepared to leave, I found an excuse to go back group of children now in the cafeteria for their lunch. I wanted to say goodbye to my new friend, Silent Boy. I tried to communicate this to the servers, but I didn’t know his name. “I want to say goodbye to the one they call Silent Boy,” I said. Finally, someone realized who I was looking for and went over to the line to get him. He looked startled as he walked over, but smiled as soon as he drew closer. I said goodbye the best way I could and offered a brief and gentle hug.

I walked back to the van, full of love and I wasn’t sure why. This tender sprout of a boy had spent time communicating with me and I enjoyed every listening moment. Our tender hearts had spoken.

Often, my tender heart only wants to communicate like this, silently; words get in my way at times, but silence can be hard to understand for some.

There’s so much more to say on this subject of silence–this is all for now.

Glass From Sand

They make glass from sand, a fact I just barely believe because it is when I feel like sand that I am at my lowest, most dry moments of my life; my plainest, ugliest times–times when I feel like I am one in an infinite number and it would not make an impact at all if I slipped on out to the sea and disappeared under the weight of the ocean and the world.

What I know about the ocean floor is that they have yet to explore much of the deepest parts, and that there are fissures in the crust where edges of the earth allow molten core to escape up into the ocean–a meeting of fire and water. If my grain-of-sand self reached these dark, unexplored waters by floating unnoticed through currents and doldrums, it would be what they call a ‘non-event’.

But they make glass from sand

and if my single-grain-self rested there at the bottom of the bottom of the ocean, even though no one knows this from experience or exploration, most likely I would find myself resting among an infinite number of other sand grains, all of them ancient, some of them content–maybe–I would bring them the news, quietly (perhaps in passing): “you’ll never guess that this is true, but they’re making glass from us up there.” They’ll look at me quizzically, some of them, as if to say, “glass?”

Then I’ll launch into a big tutorial about how glass is made. Of course I’ll have to start farther back than that by describing the properties of glass: its reflective and refractive qualities allow the light of the sun to shine through. Ah! I need to start with sunlight of course. This is getting complicated. When I get to the description of how fire is used to create the glass transition no one will be buying it. “We haven’t seen fire in these depths for eons,” they’ll say. And it’s true–how could I expect these salty folk to believe in fire and glass if there’s never a chance for them to see either?

So I do what I’ve come to do: rest, without bothering the world with my plain self.

But they make glass from sand

and while I settle myself among an infinite number of other fine grains–“pardon me while I get comfortable”–I feel an undocumented rumble below. One next to me notices my startled look, “Don’t worry. We feel that every once in a while. Nothing ever comes of it.” I let it rock me and I imagine a warmth spreading, passing from on to another around me. Then I realize it’s not my imagination. What happens next seems to startle every one. Such a heat is reaching us that I curl up next to one near me, quivering.

But they make glass from sand

and I am no longer my single-grain-self but something larger altogether. Before we know what to think, multi-grain partners are becoming more common all around. Some notice what happens when more and more are joined. We are transparent; we reflect some of the fire around us, but allow protected viewing of the earth and ocean event below. We have become glass.

They make glass from sand

and an element of fire which turns out to be ingredients found at the bottom of the ocean, where I came to rest. I marvel at our combined beauty and strength. We are clear and crystal-like. Beautiful.