There is but one web.

And on it, we are all interconnected. Even when we forget. Even if it was kept in a dusty, near-forgotten storage box.

And we forget way too often. THAT, or we choose not to remember.

There is a difference.

“…in the end we go to poetry for one reason, so that we might more fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them, and that if we more fully inhabit these things, we might be less apt to destroy both.”

~ Christian Wiman

Amen.

And, amen.

I aspire to read poetry every day. At least one poem every day. The other day, I read a poem that stopped my world.

I’ll circle back to poetry in a moment—that one specific poem being the entire motivation for this post. But as setup:

As part of the Alchemy that makes a life, a life on this very human Journey, we acknowledge we are descendants of ancestors. Ancestors, for most of us, long forgotten to the ages from which they came, and through whom, from whom, we’ve arrived to take part in our own drama of living on this planet. If we are wise, we understand soon enough we will become one among those forgotten ancestors ourselves within the not too distance future of generations to come. (Yes, a warning that!)

If one is fortunate, stories of our ancestors remain a part, to at least some degree, of the family narrative and lore. If one is not so fortunate, maybe one might come across artifacts that have been kept in almost forgotten and dusty boxes, say upon the death of a parent, when it became apparent “stuff” had to be “gone through” in order to be gotten rid of. It’s just taking up space after all.

This happened to my brothers and me as we “went through” some of those dusty boxes we stored in the attic of Trevor’s shop/garage when we moved Dad out of the final house he owned and lived in with mom. “We’ll go through it sometime. We don’t need to keep ‘junk.’” There are still things to go through, but Trevor brought some things down as we were in the in-between of Dad’s death and burial—a time ripe for memory, memories, stories both fiction and non (but if fiction we make believe they are non), pictures, and artifacts of a life lived, and lived well.

“THIS we didn’t know.”

The artifact we found that was perhaps among the most astonishing was actually from mom’s lineage. Made astonishing because those stories of ancestors past weren’t really spoken to, or shared with, my generation. At least to me and my brothers; at least from mom. We don’t know why those rich stories didn’t persist but one reason may be related to the fact my mom was the last child of Anton and Mary Mitzel, the last of 14 children! Anton and Mary, my maternal grandparents, were likely WAY TOO TIRED to talk about their past (I’m certain Grandma Mitzel was!). Besides, as we knew from the pieces that were shared with us, Anton and Mary intentionally left their own birthplace to come to America, but for reasons uncertain. And like many among that generation, that proud generation, it was more important to live in the present and for the future, and to leave the turmoil of the past to the past never to be conjured forward into the present. “We don’t talk about that anymore. Get back to work. We’re here now; that is all that matters. Das ist genug!”

My brothers and I grew up “knowing” Grandpa and Grandma Mitzel were German by ethnicity but “from” Odessa, Russia. (Side note: both my grandpas died before I was born; Grandma Mitzel died when I was about 6 years old and I do retain memory of this very proud, Germain matriarch—who spoke zero English. Remembering especially some of the ethnic, traditional German doughy foods she made. Can YOU say YUM!?!) I remember asking mom how it could be that her mom and dad were German but from Russia. But mom either didn’t know or chose not to tell. (I don’t think she really knew—but I don’t know that for sure). And I wasn’t curious enough to keep asking or do any form of serious research. Until…

…when rummaging though one of those dusty boxes in April 2023, in Trevor’s kitchen as we were gathering photos of Dad, we discovered this:

The Declaration of Intent to become citizens of the United States of America from Anton and Mary Mitzel. Just a CRAZY COOL document and artifact that, prior to April 2023, we, I, had NO IDEA existed.

On the document, we discovered when and where Anton and Mary were each born; when they married (in 1913: Anton was 26 and Mary 17!), and where (Rugby, North Dakota); when (1909) they entered the US and where (Anamose, N. Dakota); and the birthdates and place of each of my mom’s thirteen siblings. Anton and Mary applied for citizenship when they lived in Yakima in December 1942. An incredible time to be of German/Russian descent in America. Amirite?

So, obviously, Anton and Mary had a BIG story to tell. Because they LIVED that big story! And just a mere two generations later, that story is lost to silent history. It took the finding of an almost discarded document for at least THIS (read ME) through-line branch of the Anton and Mary lineage tree to learn a little more about his past.

The fact that the document indicates both Anton and Mary were from “Strasburg” Russia, posed a perplexing conundrum: “Wait, we’re of Russian descent? Not German? I thought we were German? My mom was a Mitzel afterall, right?” We are fortunate to live in the age of the Internet where research into such things as lineage can help clarify some things. And the research is FASCINATING!

The entire, fascinating, article from which came this excerpt can be accessed here

My maternal grandparents, who practiced Roman Catholicism, were a part of a group of peoples called “the Black Sea Germans.” A large contingent of whom emigrated to the US in the early 20th century to avoid potential persecution under the region’s “liquidation laws” and from the soon-to-be occupying forces of Romanian, German, and even Soviet troops—for Anton and Mary, they emigrated just prior to WWI. Many “Black Sea Germans” settled, en masse, in a region that resembled closely their homeland—namely, the Dakotas of the upper American midwest. Mom was born in 1933 in Ipswich, South Dakota. As farmland became scarce in the Dakotas, the Mitzel clan up and moved, with a sizable contingent of fellow Black Sea Germans, not to Canada, but to the Yakima valley, where, you know already, was found some of the most fertile agricultural land in the entire country. The Mitzel clan sought for gold in the form of promise, possibility, work, and the fertile soils and clay of the Yakima landscape.

Now, here comes the poem and the reason for this bit of ancestral history—additional ingredients in the Alchemy of me, my Journey:

So turns out, I’m part Russian (Anton lists his nationality as Russian—because he was). Until April 2023, I didn’t know that. And despite what is happening in our current times there (seriously, despite the tragedy of the current dictatorial regime), I think I’m kind of proud of that heritage—a part of the world rich in its own history and turmoils (just like every other country), and birthplace to the Tolstoy’s, Dostoyevsky’s, and Chekhov’s of classic literature’s Russian lineage.

But, about that “what is happening in our current times there…” part. Yeah, about that.

The other day, I read the following poem in Poetry Unbound: 50 Poems to Open Your World (compiled with commentary by Pádraig Ó Tuama, W.W. Norton and Co., 2023). Two seconds after finishing it, and the little bio of the poet, everything blurred as I heard the clanging together of multiple threads of connections, strands of the one web, from ancient chords we claim no connection to:

We Lived Happily During the War

And when they bombed other people’s houses, we
 
protested
but not enough, we opposed them but not
 
enough. I was
in my bed, around my bed America
 
was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house.
 
I took a chair outside and watched the sun.
 
In the sixth month
of a disastrous reign in the house of money
 
in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money,
our great country of money, we (forgive us)
 
lived happily during the war.

~ Ilya Kaminsky

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What caused me pause, even though the poem itself is haunting enough, was the fact that the poet, Ilya Kaminsky (b. 1977) is from Odessa…UKRAINE! Look back at that map above: Strasburg resides within the province of Odessa—part of the current country of Ukraine, but what was once under Soviet rule not all that long ago (Ukraine gained its independence from Russia in August 1991; the Ukrainian Provence came under Soviet rule in 1922 and was a part of the old Soviet Union for 70 years.)

When I read THAT in Poetry Unbound, something deep, much deeper than lineage and pride in ethnicity, clicked. Something primal clicked—like I said above, the ancient chords of the one web whose strands that I thought were forever disconnected became one again; with new connections newly discovered. And the melody that came from those connections was the sound of a melancholy dirge.

That mere mention of Odessa, on page 113 of Poetry Unbound, was what sent me into doing this bit of research and reflection. And the thing that clicked and resonated so deeply, that was sparked by this amazing poem of Kiminsky’s, was the solemn realization that we, all, belong to the same web of humanity—even when we do such inhumane things to each other. Things like invasion, bombing, destruction, and war.

The connections initiated by this poem to my lineage through my maternal grandparents, has personalized the current war in Ukraine for me. A bit. And I grew more sad. I’m finding nowadays, maybe because of my deep and innate introverted character, that I really cannot bear to listen or watch the news when the news is about war, and famine, and trauma, and intense human, animal, or earth suffering. I feel it too much. I know that about myself as an empathic human. I feel it too much.

Did you read that? From me? That came from me: “I feel it too much.” I, afterall, have on my right wrist a tattoo of the Latin phrase: “Sentio, ergo sum.” I feel, therefore I am. I know I am alive because I feel. Even when it hurts. And I should feel more. Because…

I don’t think we humans feel enough! That’s one of our problems. To be MORE human, we need to feel MORE! Instead, we numb ourselves in so many ways. But I included that phrase, in that context, trusting you know what I’m trying to convey there.

But even THAT, actively avoiding that kind of news, causes me pain—that I turn the channel or skip hitting “play” on my newsfeed—because I shouldn’t turn away from it. So, I do ask myself often, “so what should I DO about it?” And then I fight the urge to feel guilty because I know I’m not doing much—and that I should do more.

Because I am always very aware of this:

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.
—Martin Niemöller

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When we wage war, we wage war against ourselves, always. There are no victors in war—only casualties. All wars are lost to begin with. On this planet, there is only ONE web of life. But we humans, in our arrogance, even in this “advanced” technological age of the year 2023 CE, a technological age where we are now killing our fellow humans remotely by drones (insane!!!—and don’t get me started on what we do to animals and our planet), ignore that fact. Instead, we draw imaginary lines of mine, mine, mine; and I want that, and that, and that. And if you are not on my side, you are an enemy of my own creation. The current war in Ukraine, by Russian forces, is happening in my maternal homeland—waged by people with whom, on both sides, I share a common lineage.

And no matter your own lineage or homeland, YOU are not that far removed from saying the exact same thing. Because, there is only one, single, solitary, and fragile web of life on this planet. Touch just one segment of one strand, no matter how gentle, and the entire web reverberates. Always.

And yet. And still yet…

Sometimes I forget all the things in my life I should be grateful for.

Sometimes I don’t want to remember all the things in life that are happening all around me that have allowed me to be so comfortably forgetful, and to live the life available to me. Because I have so much abundance in my life. And no fear of war, here. Yet.

Tomorrow, I will go to the grocery store to buy food for the Fourth of July (I wrote this on June 30). And we will have a family BBQ at our house with nary a war in sight.

And we will be happy.

THAT’s called irony.

In the sixth month

of a disastrous reign in the house of money

in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money,

our great country of money, we (forgive us)

lived happily during the war.

This too is the Alchemy of Journey. It’s not all pretty and fun, not always rainbows and unicorns. Heck, right now, there is war in the world; there is war in Ukraine. The Alchemy is ugly at times too. And yet we forget.

We should never forget.

Ubuntu,

~ kert

Postscript: This song is maybe in my top three of my most favorite songs of all time. It may even be #1. I think it is #1. I love this song; I love this group and this songwriter/lead guitarist/lead vocalist. Because…it speaks TRUTH.

“…it’s written in the starlight
and every line in your palm:
we are fools to make war
on our Brothers in Arms.”

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There is only one way to end a war, any war. It’s the same way all wars have ended throughout all of time and the same way to end all wars in the future because sadly there will be more …

Stop fighting.