my indigenous uncle jeff

Uncle Jeff is one of my Dad's six brothers. Story-teller, makes you laugh, kooky, sentimental, says-hi-to-absolutely-everyone-everywhere, cry-easy, risk-taker, wild-man Jeff.

Some of my favorite memories of him growing up were his bearded haka-dance (ancestral war cry of the Maori people) after his mission to New Zealand, the proud guided tours of his backyard garden and rabbits, one time he sitting at the piano singing loudly to descending octaves bar chords - with his shirt ripped off from sheer energy, demon snow-mobiling up dangerous snow banks and zigzagging telephone poles racing us in the pick-up, and canoe trips.

Now he's had multiple heart surgeries. When his heart rate lowers dangerously, a pacemaker resets it with a punch "like a donkey kicking me in the chest," he smiles big. I'm not that comforted. He's more gentle with his thinner body. He eats healthy. I'm surprised by the crow-feet wrinkles of his thin facial skin and the redness. His voice doesn't boom as loud. Still it barely contains his zest. Eyes twinkling. Body tired. Soul wild. Eager to say hello and chat a while.

I remember him teasing me in college, where are the girlfriends? Why are you bringing your roommate over for dinner, where's the girl? Damn he's ugly. Playful.

And later him struggling with Andrea. We estranged cousins talking on the phone lamenting our family's judgments and awkward loving. A few years later I was tickled to hear that he motorcycled cross-country with her. Dad and daughter. I leapt inside at the news. Parallels to my own journey and distances covered.


Now I reflect in grad school on philosophical underpinnings. What animal(s) am I like? How close or far am I from the cycles of nature? How did my childhood influence me, and where do I go from here? Who are my people, my culture? What dream figures awaken? Where is my home?

I muse at how I revel in the sky patterns, notice expressions and animals, touch a tree (and even steal a hug when I think no one is looking), cry at a silly commercial, dance like a mad-man to electronica and city beats, write and tell stories, run to feel better, connect more wildly than I ever dared before.

And I think of my Uncle Jeff, noticing the elk or deer on the horizon, pointing out the eagle nest, glorying in the Snake River, looking at his cows standing there looking back at him. Then something in me remembers that this memory or awakeness is not entirely my own. These fondnesses are not just mine, my Uncle Jeff's, or remnants in my genetic line. They are the DNA-affections of millions of my kind.

Modern rhythms deafen. Clamor. But if I unearth some stillness, see the plants reaching up from sidewalk cracks, smell the crisp air, notice flocks swooping to catch the sunset insects, then I come home to a way, a manner that is in my blood, a music-making poetic eloquence that is the way of our collective us.