On Other People's Land

Includes Summer 2019 Approximately-Reverse-Chronological Catchup, Pt. 4, sort of.

Hello everyone. How’s it going? I’ve missed you. I’m back.

There’s something about living in the country, perhaps. Since I’ve moved out here, I’ve written less here than ever before—now a little over three months since the last time I mentioned anything about my life here. In large part, I think, that’s because around here I find it so much more interesting to actually live my life than to write about it. The summertime is here! The strawberries are already done, the raspberries are passing their prime, and soon we’ll be all the way to blueberries, which will carry us straight through to September.

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No Quarter

My partner Misty is moving up to the Chequamegon Bay. The news here isn’t that we’re getting back together—we never entirely broke up—but that Misty is moving house in the middle of a global pandemic.

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Rundown

Deep Island: Table of Contents

Back in August, when I started recounting my summer here, I was playing a little trick on myself. Since summer of 2017, I had been meaning to write something about the traditional Ojibwe fast that I went on that May. But at the time, I found it just too big a project to tackle, and I punted it. This past May, I went on another fast, and I knew that if I promised to tell about my entire summer, I would eventually force myself to write about the summer’s fast, which in turn would make me tell about my fast in 2017.

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Doing the Work

Deep Island, pt. 12

Today is February ninth. On this morning bright with sunlight off the snow, I put on my boots and coat and carried my wooden turtle out to the woods behind the house I live in now. I walked over the narrow, handmade bridge over the creek, my feet elevated a foot and a half above the deck on hard-packed old snow, and sat down on one of the stumps that serve for steps on the far side.

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Back for More

Deep Island, pt. 11
and
Summer 2019 Approximately-Reverse-Chronological Catch-up, Part 3: Late May

Anything that might be called “spiritual development” in my life proceeds slowly and haltingly. In the year after I spent those couple days under the pines with my name in May of 2018, I had moments that approached transcendence, like some of the days I spent bicycling around Lake Superior. I also had long periods of just muddling through, like the month I spent in a limbo between places to live, humping my big hiking backpack around Minneapolis to crash on friends’ couches and under bridges, frankly baffled as to the point of being alive.

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What the River Said

Deep Island, pt. 10

If I hadn’t been looking for the sign, I probably would’ve gone right past it—a little brown one by the side of the trail that said walk in campsite. I slowed to a stop and took my bike by the handlebars down off the pavement and into woods that fairly sighed with spring.

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Lost and Found

Deep Island, pt. 9

Once the jiisakaan was taken down, all we fasters picked up the warm blankets we’d huddled up in to watch, and got on Pebaam’s boat. With the help of Stacy and a snazzy million-candlepower light he’d just gotten, he took us back through the enclosing darkness and a drizzle that muted conversation, to all our various islands. He dropped me off last. “Got a light?” he asked.

“Nope!”

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