In Honor of My Uncle, Hold On

Once I was proud of my ability to communicate. But  Uncle A's earlier departed brother, W, told me that actions counted most to him.     So, in honor of my Uncle A,  I  embrace wordlessness.  In some ways, the action of my trip North is enough. 

 

Still,  sometimes we need words  in order to create memories to share with each other.   Especially today.

While each of us in our family are very much Americans, it has alway struck me that a major course of our family's journey began in the breadbasket of Ukraine and Russia.  In fact,  Uncle A's birth father was an agronomist, a man who knew the importance of the soil (or earth).  A's mother Erna and adoptive father always kept a garden, their own piece of earth, when they made the Hudson Valley their new home. 

In honor of soil and our humble connections to the earth and to one another,  I would  like to extend the blessing from the Pueblo Indians, of the Southwest, a part of America that Uncle A travelled through during an adventuresome time in his youth.  

"Hold on to what is good even if it is a handful of earth.

Hold on to what you believe even if it is a tree which stands by itself.
Hold on to what you must do even if it is a long way from here.
Hold on to life even when it is easier letting go.
Hold on to my hand even when I have gone away from you."