Musings

One of my wonderful publicists, Monique Muhlenkamp, gave me a nudge the other day and said, “Your biography is getting a bit stodgy. Can you update it?”

I am no lover of the business side of being an author and I do it poorly. In this world where a nine-year-old posting a tiktok video of a cat in a hula dress can get more public exposure than I have received in my entire life, it seems like a fool’s errand to post any more of my overly discursive ramblings about my work or life. But when my PR folks say, “March,” I dutifully pull on my boots and stumble forward.

So here’s my new bio. No cats in hula dresses, but a little less stodgy. Enjoy (or endure):

I’m a child of the 60’s, a son of the north, and a lover of dogs.

Grew up in a tiny crackerbox post-war bungalow outside of Minneapolis with my mother and father, two younger sisters, various dogs and cats, and a neighborhood full of rugrat kids playing outside until called in for the night.

Studied American Studies at the University of Minnesota, Religious Studies and Humanities at Stanford University, received a Ph.D. in Religion and Art in a joint program at Graduate Theological Union and the University of California at Berkeley. Lots of learning, lots of awards. Phi Beta Kappa. Summa cum Laude. Lots of stuff that looks good on paper.

But just as important, an antique restorer’s shop in Marburg, Germany; the museums of Florence; a sculpture studio in the back alleys of Pietrasanta, Italy; an Indian reservation in the forests of northern Minnesota; and, perhaps above all, the American road.

Always a watcher, always a wanderer, perhaps too empathetic for my own good, more concerned with the “other” than the “self”, always more interested in what people believed than in what they thought. A friend of the ordinary and the life of the streets.

Twenty years as a sculptor — over-life sized images hand-chiseled from large tree trunks — efforts to embody emotional and spiritual states in wood. Then, still searching, years helping young people collect memories of the tribal elders on the Red Lake Ojibwe reservation in the Minnesota north. Then writing, always writing, finding a voice and even a calling, helping Native America tell its story.

A marriage, children, a home on a pine-rimmed lake near the Minnesota-Canadian border.

Book after book, seventeen in all, ever seeking the heartbeat of people’s belief. Journeys, consolations, the caring observer, always the teacher, always the learner. Ever mindful of the wise counsel of an Ojibwe elder, “Always teach by stories, because stories lodge deep in the heart.”

Through grace and good luck, an important trilogy (Neither Wolf nor Dog, The Wolf at Twilight, and The Girl who Sang to the Buffalo), a film, Minnesota Book Awards, South Dakota book of the year, many “community reads,” book sales around the world.

In the end, a reluctant promoter, a quiet worker, a seeker of an authentic American spirituality, more concerned with excellence than quantity. Proud to be referred to as “a guerilla theologian” and honored to be called “the one writer who can respectfully bridge the gap between native and non-Native cultures”. But more honored still to hear a twelve-year-old girl at one of my readings whisper to her mom, “He’s a really nice man.”

At heart, just an ordinary person, grateful to be a father and a husband, more impressed by kindness than by power, doing what I can with the skills that I have to pay my rent for my time on earth. And trying, always trying, to live by Sitting Bull’s entreaty: “Come let us put our minds together to see what kind of lives we can create for our children.”

And petting every dog that I can.