Going Ancestral, Part Two: Dear Tūpuna

Honoring Tangaroa- god of the sea

*E kōrero Māori ana koe? (Do you speak Māori?)

I don’t either. But I’m learning. So here’s my attempt at honoring this culture by using Māori words in my post. I only hope someday to fully understand the meaning of their words. Forgive me, friends, for possibly butchering your language. I mean no disrespect. Feel free to correct me!

I’ve just returned home from a thirty-five day trip to the USA. Traveling to New England and then on to the Midwest was A LOT. My e tama (son) did surprisingly well even if we were short on sleep. Still, I can’t say I want to do it again anytime soon. But, the depleted energy was worth it because we got to see many whakahoahoa (friends) and whānau (family) we miss on a daily basis.

In the Midwest, I was able to see some cousins I hadn’t seen in awhile. I have always considered myself close to my cousins, largely because my grandparents owned a kōphua (small house) on a popular lake chain. When my immediate family moved there, it was the ideal spot to visit family members during their summer vacations. When the matriarch of our family passed away almost 10 years ago now, the kōphua was sold and with extended family spread all over the country, we lost touch. Until, of course, social media reconnected most of us.

Every year that I’ve been back to visit my parents, I make it a point to visit my grandparents’ rua tūpākapu (grave). My grandfather passed away when I was very young- only five or six years old. My tipuna tāne (grandfather) owned a newspaper in Iowa. He was a businessman of the time: a WW2 vet, married to a young wife, worked hard during the day, smoked, drank too much, and in his later years became a quiet (or just hard of hearing?) and loving grandfather. I like to think of him as progressive- a man who stood for social reform. He gave my great-aunt her own column to write back in a time when wāhine (women) were  ‘settled’ into their routines at home. He also helped turn the city dump into a park and he made sure his tamariki (children) were set up with what they needed to be able to provide for their own families. He was mārohirohi.

My tipuna wahine (grandmother) and I had a playful bond. I would stay with her almost every weekend while I was a little girl. She would pick me up from school and whisk me away up north where there was just a bit of sunlight available to take a swim before dinner. She taught me whakangā. I often credit her with helping raise me.

This is what I honor when I visit their graves.

While visiting the US, I also got to visit my 88-year-old maternal grandfather. My e tama (son) got to talk with him and show him his dinosaurs. My grandfather, although physically weak, didn’t miss a beat and was pulling out his best whakanene (teasing) for my son. He inquired about my son’s schedule, eating habits, and friendships. It was probably one of the best visits I have ever had with him. I left feeling so grateful for all he has taught me as well; lessons he didn’t know he was teaching, and lessons I preferred to ignore or didn’t understand about my family for many years. He taught me kaha.

While in America, I felt the presence of my ancestors. Since I’ve been back in Aotearoa I continue to have whakawhetai (gratitude) for my grandparents’ guidance in my life- for helping me to get to where I am today, which in turn will guide my son.

Standing before the sunlit lake in Minnesota, which has now become an ocean in New Zealand, I say a prayer of thanks to let the tūpuna (ancestors) know their lessons will never be forgotten.

*Ka maharatia tēnei i ahau e ora ana (I shall remember it as long as I live).

*Line from “The Bone People” by Keri Hulme, p. 57 & 347. Joe Wellington gave me a copy of this book in 1998.

proof Joe Wellington is real

Going Ancestral, Part One

Whoa.

I feel like that’s all I am able to write about my experience on ancestry.com after joining a fourteen-day trial to search specifically for Joe Wellington. And there is a lot of information on there. Since I know you’re all waiting to hear if this trial search has reconnected me with JW, it wouldn’t be considerate of me to leave you with just a “whoa”.

Signing up for this trial was actually a bit funny. I couldn’t sign up as myself because I have previously used their database, thus I wouldn’t qualify for a “free” trial. So I had to make one up. Oops. I know, I know, this is not good karma to be dishonest to the Internet gods but hey- sometimes it’s okay to tweak things a bit. Besides, I wasn’t looking for my ancestors.

Let’s get to it.

I typed in ‘Joseph Wellington’ and estimated that in 1998 (when I met him) he must have at least been twenty-one. So that means he would have had to be born in 1977 or earlier. Pretty confident he was born in New Zealand and male.

…Searching…

91,000 results in all categories.

Whoa.

Excited, I filter the search to only look up electoral rolls for New Zealand.

Several results for a Joseph Wellington with residence in Whangerai in 1978. He wasn’t old enough to vote in 1978 or 1981 so I’m going to toss those aside.  

Hmph.

New search of census, birth and death certificates.

…Searching…

Only 9 results from the 1900s census lists… The most current names are Joseph Henry Wellington or Joseph Andrew Wellington. Both results are from 1981 listed as an adult.

So, nothing.

“Are you kidding me?!” I say out loud as I shake my fists dramatically to the cyber gods.

Moving on, I read a newspaper result that seems to be an obituary of someone who passed away in May 2013 in Auckland. It wasn’t Joseph who died but a sibling named ‘Jo’ is highlighted as the search result. I figure it doesn’t hurt to take a look so I click on the link and the web site opens only to say “this obituary is no longer available online.” I could restore it for a fee but since I’m not feeling confident this is the right lead, I close the tab.

Unwilling to admit defeat, I once again type his name into a search only this time I change the filter to “sounds like or similar”. I’m not certain his last name is/was Wellington to begin with, so maybe this will lead me in the right direction?

…Searching…

‘Frederick J. Wellington’? ‘Heather J. Wellington’? Surname ‘Williams’… this does not seem to be the right path.

 Several surname Wellington’s come up for US public records. To get the world package I would have to pay extra. Not interested.

My head beginning to ache, I skim info on family trees containing the name Joe Wellington. Sooo much information I can’t keep up with all of it. Nope, he’s not from the 1600s. Nope, he didn’t die in 1996. Nope, pretty sure his first name isn’t really Lester. Also pretty sure he wasn’t born in Jamaica. Really?

Now the trial is over. And I’m not any closer to finding Joe Wellington. I think I have to concede that his last name isn’t Wellington. So now, I feel like I have to start all over. Actually, I don’t even know where to start.

I will keep writing this blog and I hope you’ll all continue to follow. Remember that if you hear of anyone named Joe Wellington, ask if he is from New Zealand and if he was in San Francisco in 1998. For now, that’s about all the searching I can do.

Unless… wait a minute… what’s this thing called Twitter?

…Searching…

…To Be Continued…

www.facebook.com/whereisjoewellington

Father White Pine

My family's favorite lake

My post from June 2014 (Mother Earth) about Jane Goodall was one of my favorites. There was much I wanted to add to that post but didn’t get a chance. One mention I didn’t get to include was who inspired me when I was younger to respect Mother Earth.

That person is my father.

My father has been one of my best friends in my life. I realize that might seem odd to some- but it’s very true. And I think that is why I find it difficult to write about him, even now. Too much emotion.

From as young as I can remember, my Pops (aka ClarkGriswold) would take us hiking in the woods where we could explore, whistle with the birds (he’ll have tough competition in NZ), determine proper scat identification, and hug trees. He was the one taking photos of the flowers: little bluebells, pink lady slippers, lilacs or the fresh dew on the tree leaves. Occasionally, if we were extra quiet, maybe a photo op with a deer (before “selfies” or “ussies” were that cool). And at night, my dad often reminded us to look up at the sky and imagine what might be out there. He put into perspective how teeny, tiny, small we are in comparison to the light of the stars and moon.

I just came back from a trip to the USA to see family and I learned that my father’s favorite tree is a White Pine, which pretty much sums up my dad’s character quite well. The Iroquois in North America refer to the White Pine as the “tree of peace” due to a Peacemaker telling all the warriors to bury their weapons under a planted White Pine. A very tall and tough tree, I’ve also heard it is the symbol of wisdom and longevity. 

A sturdy White Pine

My dad also loves grey wolves and has perfected their howl. The Native American symbolism that I’m aware of, and forgive me for not doing my research, is that the grey wolf represents a deep connection with your intuition. Again, I think this sums up my dad pretty well. He’s always been a quiet, humble, and private (he will probably be embarrassed by this post) man. Some might say he’s shy or an introvert, but he’s always been someone who honors his instincts, stands up for his rights if necessary (someone has to chase the chipmunks out of the garage!), and allows forgiveness where there sometimes should be none.

This is just a glimpse of the bravery and gratitude that my father has passed on to me…  and now to his grandson.

So while I was listening to Dr. Goodall lecture about finding unity with the heart and the mind, I couldn’t help but to think of my dad’s compassion for all living things. And don’t worry, Dad. I’m not putting you on a pedestal. I’ve never searched for perfection from anyone. Except when playing with Barbies.

I’m very fortunate to have the relationship I have with my padre. He is my political sounding board, my music-enthusiast, my movie-watching buddy (gotta love the Back to the Future Trilogy, right?!), my camp fire supervisor, my museum-hopping seeker, my editor and my teacher, and now… he is my quiet, wise guide and my reminder of finding peace within this jungle of life. 

Lake Itasca through the Pines

I just had to say it.

And of course, he’s always cool rockin’.

The Knackered Truth

Wellington Harbour

I knew it'd be hard moving to a new country. What I didn’t consider was how hard it would be as a new mom (mum?) in a new country.

My first year as a mom in America, I was already living far away from family so even though they were a three-hour plane ride away, I felt like I could handle it for the most part. However, I was endlessly tired. Oops, I mean knackered, as they say in New Zealand (for the longest time I thought my Kiwi friends were saying they were naked which made me feel very awkward).

I didn’t think about how tired I'd be moving my family overseas. It was hard living on my own in the past and putting myself out there; making new friends, living fearlessly. Now I had to try to do that with a wee human attached to my hip. And I didn’t think about how much my son would change and how the challenges of the first year of his life were passing, only to progress into newer challenges (hellllooooo tantrums!).

When we arrived in New Zealand a little over a year ago, we didn’t have furniture for the first three months. Our house was not insulated so living without furniture made our new home a large, empty freezer. Thankfully some coworkers of my husbands pitched in a few items to help us get through but we had to get out of the house multiple times during the day in order to stay sane.

We bought the stuffed bear upon arrival. Needed something comfy!

Bought the camping chair and lamp. Wooden chair borrowed from a coworker

Driving on the other side of the road was not as hard as I imagined. At first, being on the left felt wobbly, but it became relatively easy when following traffic. It was parallel parking and turning that gave me the most fright. Only one time, and that was ten months into living here, did I make a left turn to find myself on the right side of the road. Luckily, on this usually heavy-trafficked road, there was only one car and he laid on the horn for quite awhile as I swerved. It only lasted a few seconds, but was enough to raise my blood pressure.

My husband driving our rental car upon arrival

I’ve actually really liked making my way around the city (but don’t get me started about my most-unflattering-ever NZ driver’s license photo). There are some bad drivers here who make Boston drivers look good, but for the most part, they’re friendly.

I find them to be fussier about signaling (indicating with the indicator which I often get confused with the wipers as they’re on the other side of the steering). And I find most of them to be welcoming to those of us trying to merge on to the motorway. Most offer a wave in appreciation if you allow them through, something I'm not used to seeing in the States.

Maneuvering my way up and down and around the narrow roads, I am reminded of the roads in Jamaica where people (school children, too) walked straight on into the traffic and trusted that the driver wouldn’t hit them. Here, pedestrians are diligent about cross walks, but I do see people risking their necks by stepping out into heavy traffic. This is not a “sue-happy” country. It just seems there is this unspoken trust, “you won’t hit me”. And if you do stop in the middle of the road to let them walk in front of you, they're baffled but appreciative.

So to settle us into the Wellington life, my son and I would try something new everyday. Soon we found a favorite park by the ocean, a spray pool/swim class, a local library stocked full of Hairy MacLary books, and the Te Papa museum, among other fantastic places. Te Papa is THE place to go in the winter. The best part: it’s free! Pay for parking! That’s it! And to make it even better, they have “imagination stations” set up throughout just for our wee ones to discover on their own. What a wonderful education these children are receiving, along with the inner message that learning about and exploring their world is important.

We eventually found our way to a tumbling class at the reccenter. The class provides mats, climbing structures, a trampoline, balance beam, and more for him to roam. The best part, after the class you get to spend as much time as you want in the pretend town, Tiny Town. Kiddos can maneuver their way through the little town with ride on cars and bikes, little playhouses, and a bouncy house. No need to know what side of the road to be on.

Before I sound like a tour guide for Kid Friendly Wellington, I am mentioning these places because they have been a wonderful introduction, not only to being a mum to a toddler, but to the current women in my life. Without these friendships, I would not be able to live here. Truly. The women, who have become family to me, are some of the most brilliant, confident, artistic, compassionate, women I’ve ever met.

They have welcomed my family into their lives with open arms. I don’t think I could even begin to put into words all that they have taught me. One of my best friends happens to be an American who has lived here for a few years. I remember the first conversation I had with her she said, “If you make a Kiwi friend you will have one for life. They are fiercely loyal.” I have found that to be true. We share parenting stories full of tears, laughter, and sometimes a bit of whine (and wine). Any doubts I may have about motherhood, they are the perfect guides. When I'm knackered and can't go on another hour, they cheer me on. Even my good mate who isn't a mum, will be a beautiful mum someday because she's absolutely wonderful with my boy.  They are the type of women I want my son to learn from and I am so grateful he looks to them and knows he can trust them.

As I think about the trials of moving to a new country with a toddler, still relatively new to motherhood, I think about what a pleasure it has been navigating Wellington. Don’t get me wrong: I'm not wearing rose-colored glasses. I’m well aware of potholes everywhere. But so far, it feels to me like Wellingtonians look out for one another, just as we moms do. 

For now, a year into this move and two years into parenthood, I’m happy to say I've found my way.

Mother Earth

Waiting to hear Dr Goodall speak

Sunday afternoon, my friend and I attended a talk at the Michael Fowler center in Wellington. The speaker: Jane Goodall. 

As we made our way through the crowd to our seats, I was happily overwhelmed by the wide range of generations in attendance surrounding us. Some with white hair, well into their seventies; some younger generations sporting baseball caps, probably college aged, and even kiddos as young as three. The majority filling the seats were probably thirty-somethings.

After a brief greeting from a member of  Wellington Zoo staff and the mayor of Wellington, they introduced Dr. Goodall, who approached the podium. I'd only ever seen pictures of her and for some reason her signature hair was her most recognisable feature, at least from a distance: long, soft, greyish white pulled into a low ponytail. Behind her, a large screen projected her bigger for those of us in the upper levels to see.

She greeted with a Chimpanzee calling-- the way chimps announce to their pack their presence. Chuckles among the crowd, Jane Goodall smiled with lips together, not revealing teeth. This call familiar for her a sound perhaps, of her home in Gombe. 

Moving on, I don’t think there's any better way for Dr Goodall to begin than by sharing a story about her mother. As a young girl she'd bring worms into bed with her. Her mother, instead of getting upset with the dirt in bed, reminded that worms “need the earth to live” and helped her daughter bring the worms back to the dirt. For Goodall, this was the beginning of a deep understanding and appreciation of her environment and thus, led to her physical anthropologist career.

As Dame Goodall thanked her mother from the stage, I witnessed a mother in the row in front of me reach to pat her teenage daughter's hand. Her daughter returned the gesture, holding her mother’s hand. 

Dr Goodall spoke about her studies among a chimpanzee tribe, observing good mothers and bad mothers, the difference mostly attentiveness and playfulness. She spoke about how the chimpanzees care about and use their home to help them survive. Obviously we humans are more intelligent than them, so why don’t we use our wisdom to care for and respect our home as well?

While waiting for Dr Goodall, we are graced with this picture of David, I believe

 What caused me to pause and reflect was my favorite quote from the day, “When humans reach their full potential, the head and heart will be in harmony.”

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with my own hypocrisy. But Dr Goodall made it clear she wasn't there to make anyone feel guilty. She did not push her beliefs. There was no accusatory tone in her message or finger wagging. She was only there to share her observations.

The 80-year-old woman travels 300 days a year, remarking that everywhere she goes she has friends: in nature, in animals, in the people she meets. In the many children she meets, she sees anger and even violence over what has happened to their sacred home that we, the older generations have wounded. But in many of them she also sees hope, courage, and determination to make a difference. And she reports, “they are" making a difference.

With that, the audience thanked her with a standing ovation. To my left, a teenage girl accepted a tissue from her mother, both wiping away tears. It was clear this event was in honour of her mother, our mothers, their mothers, and Mother Earth.
Still appearing on the big screen, she slowly glanced at the hundreds standing before her, hearing her message. Quietly she said into the microphone, “That is enough to maintain hope”.

Afterward, I had to buy her latest book, Seeds of Hope. Not just for myself, but to give to my son as he gets older, a lover of all things nature. He’s the boy who stops to smell the flowers even if they are weeds. He’s the boy Jane Goodall refers to when she says there are future generations full of hope that we can replenish and nurture our nature.

With the purchased book in hand (after waiting in line for thirty minutes or more) my friend and I merged to a different line for a signing, which took another thirty-forty minutes. They were moving people through quite quickly, no dedications, only signing her name, so it didn’t take long. 

halfway through the line for signing

My turn to step up, I had to say something even though it felt we weren’t supposed to. I handed her the book, page open to sign, “I'll give this to my son.”

She glanced up to make eye contact- her hair no longer the focal point of recognition, overpowered by the kindest eyes I've ever seen- and in her hushed voice said, “Wonderful.”

Her assistant beside her asked, “How old is your son?”

Surprised I was spoken to and not ushered aside, I said, “Two.”

The assistant said, “Oh probably a little too young for the roots and shoots program then…”

Dr Goodall finished signing, handed the book back, and without missing a beat of conversation jumped right in and said, “Oh no, we have children that young who join… preschool age,” she said as our eyes locked.

The assistant continued to speak but I didn’t hear. I knew at any moment another person would pull me away to keep moving, so as I was very slowly walking away I just said, “He’s a helper.”

Jane Goodall smiled, “Is he?”

I continued, taking baby steps away, “He likes to pat-pat trees.” She grinned as I walked away. I managed to hurriedly get out one last “Thank you”.  She smiled and nodded again.

A very brief exchange but one leaving a lasting signature in my heart. My friend and I walked out onto the street; both of us giddy and full from Dr Goodall’s speech. Hopeful. 

Dr Jane Goodall signing copies of her book, "Seeds of Hope"

Looking into Dr Jane Goodall’s eyes, incredibly compassionate eyes maintaining the innocence of a child, inspired me not to become discouraged or hardened. She's reminded me the importance of perseverance, compassion, and hope. She's inspired me to accept the dirt in life and turn it into knowledge. She's shown me of the importance of observation- you never know what might inspire you just by watching others. Embrace warmth, know it's okay for there to be mistakes and flaws- as long as there is a desire to make it better. Hopefully my son will carry such messages, too. 

Resilient, enlightened, hopeful and caring… Mother Earth... Dr. Goodall.

I must honor her mothering spirit. 

For more information:

Jane Goodall Institute's Roots And Shoots Program

Jane Goodall Institute

What We Can Do

Pocket of Grief

I have a lot of things to be emotional about these days. Anyone who knows me knows that I have always been someone who values emotion, no matter how difficult, as it’s there to make me pay attention. While trying to process my present emotions, I keep going back to an old, private writing of mine from 2010 titled, “Pocket of Grief”.

I have this little pocket of grief that is a part of me. It’s where I hold the pain from whatever may be having an affect on me at the time; from lost relationships with loved ones to death of friends and family members. It’s there for me to acknowledge but not to let consume me. I'm not concerned about emptying the pocket as it has become a part of who I am. But right now, I feel that pocket may be overflowing.

Since becoming a mom two years ago, I can’t seem to hear or read any stories that involve the abuse or death of a child. I think this is a pretty “normal” response for new moms, but I actually weep when I hear such ordeals. This is probably one reason why my job as an addictions counselor was more stressful for me after giving birth.

The latest grief added to my pocket is about the kidnapped girls in Nigeria. I realize violence is something that occurs on a regular basis over there and I cannot bring myself to hear too much about it. I don’t think it’s choosing to live in denial, really, but I think it’s that I don’t know what to do about it. A rally was held in our city and while I wanted to go, I’m actually glad I didn’t (toddler nap time). My good friend, Patricia Sexton participated in the rally and wrote about it. And what I read from her experience, I would not have been able to stay. Her blog post was enough to bring me to tears.

This morning I read about more violence by the Boko Haram group in which according to the CNN report, "Even nursing mothers had their male infants snatched from their backs and shot dead before their eyes," the local leader said. What are we supposed to do about this? Now that I’ve read this I am affected by it, my pocket of grief overflowing and I can’t do anything with this information accept cry about it.

So I write.

There are so many stories like these around the world that are untold. As we hear more about them, how do we keep our grief from overflowing?

Last night, I watched my son play with plastic milk bottle caps. He was so focused on sorting them from one cup to another. When it got too easy using his fingers, he chose to use a toy spatula from his play kitchen. I studied his face: his eyes darting from one cup to another, his lips parting and then breaking into a smile at a successful drop of the cap into a cup, then his shriek of joy in getting all the caps sorted. Tears came to my eyes as I thought of how much he has grown into a little person. My baby is now a little boy.

And then I thought of the stories of abuse I read about in the news.

The Santa Barbara killings that occurred a few weeks ago absolutely broke my heart for everyone involved. Not just sorrow for the victims, but also for the boy who struggled with a severe personality disorder and mental illness. And, for the families.

I can’t help but to think about the many stories I heard in my career; the stories of drug overdoses, of suicide. Suffering. Addicts wanting their high more than the love of their family or friends. These people started out as babies. Babies who had a mother or mother figure in their life who fought for them to thrive, who had hope that they would find peace and happiness in their lives.

Yet the baby is now an adult and the adult is in love with their addiction. And when that happens, nothing else can get in their way. They hurt and the hurt piles up because they know deep down their family hurts now, too. But they are too far gone into their addiction so they keep going… and they refuse any sort of love the family has to offer. Add a personality disorder or other mental health issue to it and the idea of help becomes hopeless.

The baby is gone just like that.

I think about the life these mothers give- the mothers of Nigeria, the mothers of the deceased in CA, the mother with a child struggling with illness- they bring a miracle into this world; they sacrifice to ensure their babies survive… and then lives are gone.

My pocket of grief overflows thinking of all the struggles that are out there in the world. We’re all searching for the answers, searching for help and trying to maintain hope. None of us really know what to do; we have ideas, but we don’t really know how to help.

I wish there was more I could offer. All I have to share is my pocket of grief.

Whether you’re in Nigeria, South Korea, Ukraine, the US, or New Zealand… I hope your pocket of grief doesn’t overflow and that you find a way to remember that at one time, we were all just babies.

Intermission

I'm in New Zealand! Where are you?

My search for Joe Wellington has come to a halt. I’m stuck. I don’t know what the next move should be.

The phone number I had for a 'J Wellington' in the region continues to ring, unanswered. And I try it frequently.

I’ve come to the conclusion that his last name must not be Wellington. Although I was pretttttty pretttttty sure (Larry David-style of sure) that was his last name, I just don’t know how it could be when I can’t find anyone matching his description with that name.

Or perhaps he just doesn’t live in New Zealand anymore.

In this day and age of technology, social media, how could he be so difficult to find? I’m open to suggestions if anyone has any of how I can continue this search.

So where does this leave me, and where does it leave this blog?

I’m not certain.

What I do know is that in my search for Mr. Wellington, I’ve uncovered some pretttty pretttttty old (Larry David-style of old ) writings of mine that have stopped me in my tracks. Moments in my life that I remember perfectly and am grateful to have that document that time in my life. While I’m all in favor of “living in the moment”, sometimes things are so eloquently said in the past that ring true for the present. 

So for now, I will stop with my search for Joe Wellington. All those men on the street I stare at as I pass them will not need to be scared of me any longer. The father at tumbling class will not need to avoid my gaze. No more crazy car chases.

It is time to move on...still open to finding Joe Wellington...

But let's get personal. 

I'm going to allow my vulnerability to create whatever it desires. In the next few months I will be sharing some more personal writings.  Some old, some new. Same blog name. Joe Wellington has inspired me to write. He has motivated me to take risks and get involved. 

I hope all of you will continue to join me during this intermission and remember... if you find Joe Wellington, you better let me know!