I was born and raised in St. Louis and I grew up appreciating all that the city had to offer. My grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins were nearby; involvement in our church was the center of our lives and the source of many deep friendships; recreational and cultural activities were abundant. The St. Louis Zoo, the summer Municipal Opera in Forest Park, Shaw's Garden, the downtown historic area, Cardinals baseball games; department stores and theatres, Mississippi River cruises on The Admiral are a few of the many activities residents and visitors enjoyed. After high school graduation, I left for college. A year after college graduation, I married and moved to South Dakota. Here I found a home, a place, that satisfied a longing that I didn't know I had. I felt settled. I loved the slower pace of smaller towns, open spaces, ready access to lakes and forests and mountains.
People here were different than city people. They were easier to be around and appeared more relaxed and open. They seemed as natural as a thunderstorm, as much a part of nature as snow and wind. They were resilient and hearty; they seemed to accept whatever came next and to help each other meet unexpected challenges. They seemed to be old souls, wise and steady. They were settled.
In time, I came to know people who had deep roots in the Dakotas. They are ranchers, farmers, small business owners, neighbors whose ancestors have been here for generations. They embody a sense of belonging that I have come to know. They are made of the dust, the rains, the sun. They struggle and persevere. They know the seasons and signs as intimately as they know their own spouse and their children and the neighbors down the road. All of the elements of life are present here, inseperable. The land and sky, the climate, the seasons that shape us, inform us; it is difficult to distinguish people apart from place. It's hard to describe and perhaps easier to feel; it is a sense of belonging, of peace, of deep satisfaction. Kathleen Norris, in her book, "Dakota, a Spiritual Geography," captures that essence that seems too large to define. A very good read!
South Dakota Magazine published my poem "dust of creation" in the March/April issue this year. I wrote it to honor a rancher who lived on the land his grandfather homesteaded. He was of the land. His wife grew up on a nearby ranch and she, too, was of the land. Today the land is loved and worked by a son and grandson. Though ranch life has changed, those who are "of the land" have not. My poem is dedicated to one rancher. And it speaks of a way of being of many who have chosen Dakota as home.
People here were different than city people. They were easier to be around and appeared more relaxed and open. They seemed as natural as a thunderstorm, as much a part of nature as snow and wind. They were resilient and hearty; they seemed to accept whatever came next and to help each other meet unexpected challenges. They seemed to be old souls, wise and steady. They were settled.
In time, I came to know people who had deep roots in the Dakotas. They are ranchers, farmers, small business owners, neighbors whose ancestors have been here for generations. They embody a sense of belonging that I have come to know. They are made of the dust, the rains, the sun. They struggle and persevere. They know the seasons and signs as intimately as they know their own spouse and their children and the neighbors down the road. All of the elements of life are present here, inseperable. The land and sky, the climate, the seasons that shape us, inform us; it is difficult to distinguish people apart from place. It's hard to describe and perhaps easier to feel; it is a sense of belonging, of peace, of deep satisfaction. Kathleen Norris, in her book, "Dakota, a Spiritual Geography," captures that essence that seems too large to define. A very good read!
South Dakota Magazine published my poem "dust of creation" in the March/April issue this year. I wrote it to honor a rancher who lived on the land his grandfather homesteaded. He was of the land. His wife grew up on a nearby ranch and she, too, was of the land. Today the land is loved and worked by a son and grandson. Though ranch life has changed, those who are "of the land" have not. My poem is dedicated to one rancher. And it speaks of a way of being of many who have chosen Dakota as home.
dust of creation
he writes each morning,
this poet who says he is as old as dirt,
up before dawn
pulling on cracked leather boots
caked with red mud
stuffing weathered hands deep into pockets
of tattered brown sweatshirt
hood pulled up tight against the chill,
slowly he walks the windrow
stooping now and then
plucking a blade of grass
calculating the season
by the rising of the river
the budding of the willow
with each measured foot fall
dust clouds rise up in his wake
salutations to the morning sun
his life the poem,
permanence of the land,
these fleeting days
- for RA, 1923-2006
pab © 2017
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