Blackfoot Creation Myth

It all began, as it does sometimes, with a vast body of water. The Sun, or Old Man as we refer to him, was afloat a raft with all the animals in existence. And they were content.

As time wore on, they all realized this raft was entirely too small for all of them. Utterly crowded, Old Man had enough. He had an idea and sent the beaver to the bottom of the water to collect mud.

Beaver was unsuccessful. So, he asked the loon to dive. Loon wasn't successful either. So, he asked the otter. And otter was also without success.

Finally, Old Man called on the muskrat.
"Muskrat, dive to the bottom of the water and bring me mud."

Little ol' Muskrat was happy to oblige. He dove and swam and swam, finally reaching the bottom. There, he grabbed a small amount of mud and swam back to the surface. With this, Old Man dried out every spec Muskrat brought to him and spread it over the water, creating land.

Old Man ventured across his creation, adding mountains and valleys, rivers, and plants: trees to the hills, grass to the plains.

Before long, Old Man became lonely. He decided to form a woman and a child from the clay found in the land. After crafting them perfectly, he buried them and covered the spot with his robe. Four days had past until his newest creations were in full human form. Old Man was so pleased, he created many more sons and daughters; they also contributed to populating this new land. He taught them how to make weapons, hunt, and maximize the use of the buffalo.




**While looking for a photo of our little muskrat friend, "muskrat love" came up as a popularly searched term. Curiosity got the best of me and I clicked. This is what I found:

                                                                                                         :).**

The Immortal Memory

I remember, vividly, the first time it happened. My mother and I had moved back to Bozeman, after a 9 month hiatus in the Black Hills, and I was adjusting to our new apartment and my new preschool well. At the young age of four, I was middle-of-the-road shy with strangers but once we were well acquainted, watch out. Boy, could I talk. The subjects in which I entertained my audiences are more difficult to recall, however. I can only imagine what a 20 year younger version of myself would ramble on about; probably something about my project on arts and crafts day or learning how to spell my name at school. My mind has always one that pays attention, something that hasn't faded with age.

Temperature is a funny thing. 

I tend to run on the warmer side, but I remember this day being very cold. So it must have been mid to late January. The apartment complex where my mother and I lived happened to be across the parking lot from my Preschool; the sound of snow pants swishing with every toddler step fills my ears now. My gloved hand was gently placed in the bare one of the only person to have ever provided for me: Mom's. We walked the 30 yards across pavement, opened the bright red door, and I began to shred the layers I dressed myself in just minutes before. A new teacher was there to greet us, introducing herself as Mrs. H. The face of the woman didn't appear unfamiliar; she had been dating my uncle for as long as I was alive and they planned to exchange vows within the next few months. Mrs. H must have felt the need to carry on some kind of charade. As I placed each piece of my winter-wear in my tiny cubby, she knelt down to my level and, with a smile, asked, "What's your name, kiddo?" 

Let me pause here and ramble a bit. 

The more I think about it, the more I'm realizing now that this particularly frigid day in the middle of winter brought two firsts. Looking this woman in the face, I can tell you I had never felt pure annoyance until this point in my life. Really? Even with the limited knowledge I possessed, I understood who this person was, how she was soon to my aunt, and that I wasn't going to receive any special treatment at school because of her relations to my family. And yet, here she was, right in front of me, asking me my name. (Talking to my mother about this memory shed some light on my appearance in this moment; apparently, irritation became visible on my face instantly.) This feeling must have blinded me momentarily as I cannot recollect finishing the removal of what winter clothes remained.

But this. This I do remember.

Mrs. H asked me again, "What's your name?" And instead of the fluid, cohesive response I had practiced for half my life, out came this choppy, elongated, taxing version of my name. Confusion instantly struck me. Why did I sound like that? The expression on my mother's face, and also on Mrs. H's face, confirmed any emotion I felt. In classic four-year-old fashion, I began to cry. 

That's my last bit of clarity. 

However, I can tell you what happened in that moment of choppy, elongated, taxing spew of an attempt at my name. I stuttered. As I aged, its development was a gradual thing; first with my name, then other common words, and, as my vocabulary grew, most sentences contained a hang up or two. My Elementary years were filled with Speech Therapy and lots of practice; I spoke constantly. In Junior High, I quit therapy and took up reading. I read anatomy and biology books, books with many theories of origin, books without any real answers. Even now, in our information-at-your-fingertips generation, there aren't any solid answers as to why a person would have trouble with pronunciation, enunciation, articulation, fluency, timing, and delivery. And, not so surprisingly, there isn't a dang thing that said person can do except work it out.

So that's what I do.

Have you ever heard anyone say, "Think before you speak?" Well, let me tell you, I practice that every day. Every day! There are particular words, mostly those that begin with consonants, followed by a vowel sound, that to this day trip me up. See, these words are dangerous simply because of their phonetic makeup. I regularly switch entire phrases to avoid the problem, and sometimes what's actually said sounds slightly odd. But keep in mind, this isn't a constant thing. When I'm in a comfortable situation, with people I know, at a spot I've been to before, doing something that isn't new--I'm just fine. Stick me in a room with 40 people I've never met, in front of a podium, telling a story for three minutes--I'm just not fine. But I work it out.

I don't tell jokes.

Usually the punchline is so funny, I can't spit it out fluently. 

Comedy ruined.

I can't hide emotions.

When I'm upset, about anything, anyone can tell.

Its annoying.

I won't be defeated.

Eventually, what I'm trying to say will come out.

Be patient.

For light reading: http://www.asha.org/public/speech/disorders/stuttering.htm

Seems, heavenly, doesn't it?

When I Met My Muse

I glanced at her and took my glasses

off--they were still singing. They buzzed

like a locust on the coffee table and then

ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the

sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and

knew that nails up there took a new grip

on whatever they touched. "I am your own

way of looking at things," she said. "When

you allow me to live with you, every

glance at the world around you will be

a sort of salvation." And I took her hand. 

William Stafford

"Sing in me, muse..."

Fact: we all are different. There are not two of us that are exactly alike, even if we have similar interests.

When looking further into the Nine Muses (thank you Wikipedia), I couldn't help but notice like characteristics in myself and others close to me. This discovery wasn't necessarily a surprise; after all, I did ask any one of the Muses to inspire me to write something interesting and perhaps even amusing. 

It seems as though the further I went down the Muse Lineup, the more their specialties and traits overlapped. Which makes sense, since we as beings might be passionate about a sole subject, lifestyle, or purpose…but are ultimately made up of multiple interests of various degrees. For instance, I found myself identifying with Calliope mostly because of my writing habits and love of literature. However, at times I could also see the serious and pensive traits of Polyhymnia in my behaviors or even the upbeat and musical traits of Euterpe. The list certainly does not end there, and I suppose I could find parts of all nine of these lovely ladies in my personality and actions at one time or another.

I'd be very shocked if someone said they couldn't relate to any of The Nine. I mean, come on. We all have that Terpsichore in our lives: the multitalented musical friend that has tunes and beats oozing from their pores. Or an Erato that has members of the opposite sex pining after them, a Clio chasing enough men to make anyone blush, a Melpomene dressed in death and tragedy but seeming surprisingly upbeat. 

So here's to calling on all Nine Muses throughout the semester, for whatever we might need. Maybe you will continue to use them for the year, next, or over the course of your life!