Letter to Elon #5

March 25, 2025

Dear Elon

Such exciting news! I know you will be very pleased – and impressed, I hope. Last night was the first meeting of the “5-things-i-did” group. My friends teased me, saying that you were pulling up in front of the house in your Tesla, that you were actually going to join us. I was pretty sure it couldn’t be true, but I also couldn’t help but glance out the window just in case. I know how busy you are, but maybe you’ll take a swing through some western states and we can meet. I have some important messages from folks in the southwest that I’d love to pass on to you.

Anyway, back to the gathering last night. Fifteen like-minded people came to write postcards and talk about all the great “5-things” they did last week. Just think, 5 things x 15  people = 75 things! And that’s just in one week from one little group out here in the sticks. I know there are other “5-things-i-did” groups springing up all over. You better get a bigger inbox for the avalanche of postcards you’ll be getting.

I shared all the things I’ve done since you inspired me, and everyone added to the list. We now have dozens of places to put our money, our energy and our support to be sure that we can hang onto our democracy. We’ll be meeting again in a month to talk about more things we can do. I would love to put one of my postcards on a billboard on the interstate, giving you credit for the idea of course. Wouldn’t that be fabulous? You’re probably sick of hearing it by now, but I am forever grateful for your genius idea to report five things we did each week.

And before I go, please take care of yourself. The recent pictures of you look a little pasty. I think I see bags under the eyes, and you don’t seem to be combing your hair in the morning. These can be serious signs of stress, depression and bad diet. Be sure to eat healthy. I’ve got a good tofu recipe I’ll pass on.

Have a nice day!

Lucy

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Letter to Elon #4

March 20, 2025

Dear Elon –

I’m getting rather fond of our correspondence, albeit rather one-sided. I wonder if you are seeing my letters. I mustn’t expect too much from someone as busy as you are. Every day in the paper I see where you have been doing something newsworthy. I wonder how you can be in so many places at once. I’m glad you’re not wearing your little son on your shoulders anymore – it could be quite dangerous for him with you darting in and out of doorways at such a rapid pace. Not to criticize your parenting, but those pictures really did disturb me. One bang to the forehead and you could lose a progeny, although I understand you have many more so maybe that’s not a worry for you.

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Elon Update

Hello Blog Friends —

I have been busy this month and I wanted to check in before my regular first of the month posting. Below are my weekly letters to Elon. I’ve gotten quite inspired, thanks to his actions, and am raising hell in my small way. Below are letters #2 and #3, also posted on Facebook and Bluesky.

Letter #2

Friday, March 7, 2025

Hi Elon –

It’s me again, Lucy. Before I list the five things I did this week, I just want to thank you again for the great idea. I never would have thought of it – documenting the good work that we do each week. It gives me much pleasure and I have heard from others that they are doing the same thing. You’ll be hearing from them, too, I’m sure. So, you see, you really started a movement!

  1. I wrote 40 postcards to voters in Wisconsin urging them to vote for Judge Susan Crawford. She is a wonderful candidate. You should get to know her.
  2. I contributed to VoteVets. It’s amazing how many groups there are doing terrific work. And they have T-shirts and stickers you might want to check out….well, maybe not the one that says “Fire Elon.” I know how sensitive you are.
  3. I sent a letter of apology to the Ukrainian Embassy in Washington, DC. I’m sure you agree that President Zelensky was treated very disrespectfully. Do you have their address? It’s President Volodymyr Zelenski, Embassy of Ukraine, 3350 M Street NW.
  4. I was so embarrassed by the rude and disrespectful behavior of our leadership in the oval office, that I sent a critical letter to our president telling him so. I’m sure you’ll want to do the same. Or, better yet, you could just mention to him next time you see him how upset I am. I would appreciate that.
  5. And, I know you’ll be pleased with this last one. I went public with your “I Did 5 Things” concept. There are now people on Facebook and Bluesky signing up, embracing the idea, and spreading the word. You should be so proud!

OK, that’s it for this week. Again, thank you so much for your inspiration. I’ll be following you closely to see if there are other bits of genius I can act on.

Have a nice day!

Lucy

And letter# 3:

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5 Things I Did This Week

Dear Mr. Musk

I heard that you were asking people to list 5 things they did last week, and although I didn’t get a personal request from you the way so many did, I want to be a good citizen. So here are my 5 things. And I might add that I really appreciate your asking because it has cheered me up quite a bit to realize how productive I have been.

#1 – I went online and doubled my monthly contribution to Democracy Forward. I’m sure you’ve heard of them. They are filing dozens of lawsuits and are winning some. You like winners, so I’m sure you’ll understand my wanting to be on their team.

#2 – I sent a donation to Tomorrow’s Women, a wonderful non-profit committed to building relationships between young Palestinian and Israeli women who have experienced so much of the same violence and terror in their lives, and who want to break the chain of hate and retribution and find peace through friendship and understanding. This non-profit has lost one-third of its funding due to the loss of USAID support. Oops, now I’ve gone and used several bad words in this paragraph – women, peace, relationship, friendship, non-profit and the killer, USAID. I don’t mean to upset you, but please keep reading and I will try to redeem myself.

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The Peacemaker is not so Peaceful

I have spent over 40 years mediating disputes, small and large, local, regional and national, mostly about environmental and natural resource issues. I have loved being a peacemaker – not every minute, but most minutes. I never doubted that I was on the side of good, helping people find that elusive common ground. Surely, it’s good to bring people together, help them negotiate, compromise and find a mutually acceptable solution.  

So, how can it be that I no longer have an appetite for making peace, especially when we seem on the brink of war, civil or otherwise? This is how I see it:  The big issues are not to be mediated into a nice solution. No one should be asked to negotiate away their constitutional rights, their safety, their livelihood. The common ground is charred and barren. Today’s most critical conflicts need judicial and congressional action, and I am praying that the action is swift and just.

And where does that leave the former peacemaker? As I said last month, I am focusing on local needs, and I’m adding to the noise – sending money to causes I believe in, making phone calls to Washington to stop the madness, cheering on leaders who are speaking out. That’s all good, but the administration’s “move fast and break things” strategy — so destructive, here and abroad — has already touched me, my family members and close friends. Not only have I lost faith in peacemaking, I confess I am drawn to the dark side. Even from my position of privilege, I feel the anger and the fear, the helplessness, and I want to fight back. I have fantasies of taking revenge.

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You Can’t Stop Me

I suspect this will be short and sweet… or not so sweet, depending…

My post-election reaction was different from many of my friends, who were running around like Chicken Little, shouting the sky had fallen, the world was over, the impossible had happened, we all had to run, hide, or just keep shrieking until we were hoarse.

I was calm, not hysterical, not even shocked. I confess to muttering a lot, however, and this is what I heard bubbling from my core: “You can’t stop me,” over and over. Who was I talking to and what couldn’t be stopped? I was talking to the president-elect, and I was telling him that neither he nor his enforcers could stop me from doing what I do, from being who I am. I would continue working for what I believe in. I would keep up a flow of support for important causes. I would not be stopped from helping out locally in any small ways I could.

Self-care gurus advise not to take his threats, his promises personally, to try to disengage, remain sane, and focus on productive tasks. I understand that it is best not to fall for his predictions: the immediate deportation of millions, invading Panama, declaring war on civil rights, making the French fry the national vegetable… ok, I’m over the top, but you know what I mean. How easy it is to find your pulse racing in anger and disbelief, as words spew out of your mouth that would shock your grandma. On the other hand, to try to stay objective and disengage is asking too much.

So, I do take it personally, very personally. I imagine the president-elect trying to stop me, Lucy in Santa Fe, from being me, because he thinks I am exactly what’s wrong with this country – liberal, gullible, introspective, thoughtful, and caring. I like to picture him fuming, red-faced, tiny hands flailing the air. “How dare she, the little #$%&#%$*!? Wait til I get my hands on her scrawny neck!” But he would never find me because I would just be doing what I’ve always done, turning up the steam a bit, but keeping a low profile. I would be too little, too local to be a target. But there would be more and more of us, bubbling up, doing daily good in more and more creative ways.

And I have one more challenge for the president-elect. Not only can you not stop me, you can’t make me. You can’t make me do what you want. I will not turn on my immigrant neighbors and friends. I will not seize my neighbor’s backyard because I want their vegetable garden.  I will not spew hate and fear. You can’t make me be someone I’m not. So there.

My muttering response to the election has worked pretty well. I’m surprised how powerful I feel, in a quiet, conspiratorial way. I am hoping it will last.

May 2025 bring you power of your own kind.  

You can’t stop her (Lucy, age 5, Seattle)
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Open Heart

“Your stress test indicates that we need to look a little further, Mr. Gallegos”, said the cardiac surgeon. “It’s a simple procedure.” The procedure was a coronary angiogram which involved stuffing a tiny camera into a vein in his wrist and shoving it all the way to where the mass of veins and arteries come and go, in and out of the heart. The camera peeked at all the plumbing and found the culprit, an artery 100% blocked. When a surgeon says “simple procedure” I must remember that it’s all relative. And indeed, what followed was very complicated.

On the last day of September Dr. Yassin performed a miracle. He “unzipped” my husband’s chest, split open the sternum, found the slacker artery, did some snipping and sewing and attached a new stretch of healthy artery. Then he rejoined the sternum halves with wire and sewed him shut. Now two months later, we are both recovering well, he with his zipper scar, me with a few more gray hairs.

Roberto with friend he held tight when he had to cough

This is something that happens every day to hundreds of lucky people in this country, but not all are so lucky to be treated at the Raymond G. Murphy VA Regional Medical Center in Albuquerque, New Mexico. There are those that were surprised by Roberto’s choice. The VA? Isn’t that a substandard, problem-plagued system? Why wouldn’t you go to a “real” hospital if you were able? I can understand this reaction, given that the only time you hear about the VA, it’s bad. But I am here to tell a very different story.  

Roberto is a Viet Nam combat veteran and his medical provider of choice is the VA. It’s where he feels he belongs and is understood.  It’s where he can ride in the elevator and know that he shares something significant with the person next to him. I’ve seen those subtle nods between them. The clinic in Santa Fe and the hospital in Albuquerque are also efficient, well-oiled machines. The care is excellent and the paperwork, records, orders, schedules, test results, prescriptions – all is handled behind the scenes, seamlessly as far as the patient in concerned. Roberto has a Veterans Administration card with his number on it. He presents it wherever he goes in the system, no co-pay, no deductible, nor forms to fill out. Blood drawn, x-rays taken, counseling session, dental cleaning, hearing aids, and yes, open heart surgery, they are ready for him. Prior to checking in for surgery, he had blood drawn, echocardiogram, x-rays. We went from one department to the next, showed the card, and bingo, it happened. I hardly had time to get a cup of coffee at the Starbucks in the lobby.

Raymond G. Murphy VA Hospital, Albuquerque

As soon as the surgery was over, the surgeon’s assistant, came to report to me that everything had gone very well, and I would be able to see Roberto in intensive care soon. He asked if I had any questions, and I had many. He spent a long time with me, educating me on the workings of the heart, preparing me for what to expect, reassuring me that the future looked bright. I, of course, cried with relief and gratitude, and he dropped the professional role and gave me a big hug.

This compassion and caring were typical of our interactions with all VA staff, from maintenance workers to the techs, the nurses, and the doctors. In the ICU, it seemed that there was nothing that surprised the nurses, nothing that upset or angered them. They could handle anything, they were unflappable. A hard-to-find vein, a malfunctioning monitor, a dropped lunch tray, nothing fazed them. I wondered if they were veterans themselves, or simply had absorbed that “we can do this” attitude from their veteran patients. Most that we met had family members who were veterans and had a very warm spot in their hearts for those who have served.

I spent time walking the halls, to give myself and Roberto a break, and to enjoy the nature photographs on the walls. I was admiring a bear when a youngish woman in scrubs came by and stopped to chat. She was a doctor and had come to the VA for her residency and knew that she would never leave. Her grandfather was a World War II veteran, and she grew up knowing that he was a hero and sensing that he had suffered considerable trauma. She was drawn to veterans.

One of dozens of wildlife photos in the hospital halls

“I want to hear their stories, and I have some from my father to share with them. They like that. They trust me. They know I understand.” She confessed that she could make a lot more money at any other hospital in Albuquerque, but it wouldn’t be worth it. “I want to be a doctor, and here I can do that. I can spend time with patients, I can treat the whole person. I couldn’t do that anywhere else.” With a big smile she told me that she had a patient in intensive care who had been there 3 weeks. No one could figure out a diagnosis. “This morning I finally solved it! It’s a very rare disease, and he’s got it. Now I can help him. Where else,” she added, “could a hospital afford to keep a patient that long, or could a doctor take the time to figure it out?”

One evening just when the shift was changing, three emergencies came in at once. Magically, everyone was taken care of, squared away in a room, clean sheets and gown, vitals taken, hooked up to the right things, relatives calmed, doctors briefed. The off-duty nurses stayed late to help the next shift, no one complained, not even a sigh or a groan. It was understood that they support each other, work together to handle the next crisis.  They were professional and compassionate, committed and caring, not only to the patients but to each other.

Roberto was medically ready to be discharged after 5 days. He was a star, all the functions running smoothly…enough. We were nervous, not feeling ready to leave for Santa Fe, after such a major event.  Assuming that the bed was needed and he would be wheeled to the curb for me to pick up, imagine our surprise when the doctor said, “But of course you can stay until you’re ready to go home. It’s important you feel ready.” We didn’t abuse the privilege, staying just two more days.

I think about our experience with open heart surgery at the VA. Dr.Yassin, with humility and expertise, performed a miracle, bypassing that artery and giving Roberto another chance, and for that I am very grateful. But there is another miracle we experienced, and that is the “open heart” of those who cared for us. I tear up remembering the kindness, the encouragement, the good humor that we received from those loving, open hearts.

One of many peaceful spots on the VA hospital grounds, this one near the counseling building
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Going Home: A Story of Rematriation

I live in a remarkable community. Seton Village is a few miles outside the Santa Fe city limits and was founded (haphazardly) by Ernest Thompson Seton, conservationist, artist, writer and educator, who moved here from the east coast in the late 1920s. Apparently very charismatic, Seton attracted followers from the east and elsewhere who joined him, first in tipis, later in box cars, and finally in poorly built shelters that eventually became the houses we villagers are in today. The “Chief,” as he called himself, came to the southwest to learn the “Indian way.” He and his wife Julia believed that if we all lived more like Indigenous people, we would be healthier and happier and our communities would be more cohesive and caring. To spread this belief, he developed a program on Native American culture that included folk lore stories, songs and dances, and bits of Native sign language which he had learned from tribal communities in Canada and the northeast.

Ernest Thompson Seton

His interest was sincere and well-intentioned. He hoped to educate and enlighten fellow Whites to the humanity of the “Red Man” (a novel idea at the time) and the superiority of the Native way of life. He hoped to contribute to a shift in the way people lived and how they related to nature and to each other. An early co-founder of the Boy Scouts, he came to see that effort as hierarchical and militaristic, and abandoned it in favor of his Indigenous-based movement which he called the Woodcraft League. The Woodcraft League had minor success in the US, but flourished in Czechoslovakia, Japan and Brazil, where there are avid followers of the Chief to this day. Seton’s life was a story in itself – from trapper to animal advocate, for instance – which is told beautifully in Ernest Thompson Seton: The Life and Legacy of an Artist and Conservationist by David Witt.

Example of Seton’s artwork, at the Academy for the Love of Learning

Seton died here in 1946, and in 2003 the Academy for the Love of Learning, a nonprofit committed to revitalizing learning for both teachers and students, purchased the property from Seton’s daughter, Dee Barber Seton. The Academy folks have been stellar neighbors to the roughly 20 families that live in Seton Village, opening their facilities to us, sharing in their programs, and respecting our needs. In addition, their Seton Legacy Project stewards and cares for a portion of Seton’s vast collections of books, music, artwork, and Native American textiles, pottery, and other culturally significant items which came with the property.

And here it gets interesting.  Aaron Stern, Academy founder, and others on the Academy team, soon realized that Seton’s legacy was complex and that as partial stewards of this legacy they and their board and staff needed to carve a path that honored Seton and his efforts, while also being accountable to the reality and impacts of “cultural misappropriation” on Native people and communities. Difficult questions arose:  What if cultural misappropriation was committed in an era before the term and the concept existed? What if the intentions of the cultural appropriator were well-meaning – does that make a difference?  What if the impact of the Native appropriation was beneficial, educating people and raising understanding and respect for Native people?  

The Academy wanted to be proactive, address the issue and make amends in some way. They hoped the Academy could be a model for other organizations in the same situation. But what to do? Wisely, they asked a group of local Native leaders and scholars for guidance. They generously included me as a representative of Seton Village which sits on the sites of the settlement of Seton and his followers, and of the earlier Indigenous communities back hundreds of years. The group of 12 has met for the past three years, pondering Seton, his legacy and the responsibility of the Academy. The conversations are rambling yet amazingly on point, always with a profound, if not final, conclusion. And in the process, we built our own community which we all treasure and hope can continue indefinitely.

We eventually narrowed our focus to the Seton collection’s “creations” and this word was carefully chosen to describe the great wealth of these collections. The terms “Artifacts” “Objects” “Items” “Crafts” were too cold, too lifeless, too disrespectful. Each creation was created, given life, by an Indigenous artist/craftsperson, and each needed to be treated as an individual being, even in old age when broken, worn or ridden with moth holes. These creations needed to be returned – or “rematriated,” as we said — to their communities of origin, if possible and if desired by those communities.

The Academy took the message seriously and hired two outstanding young Native women to staff the rematriation project. Laura Elliff Cruz and Ash Boydston-Schmidt have developed a process for identifying the tribal origin of over 50 creations in the Seton collection. They reach out to the leadership of those tribes with photos and offer to return the creation. If there is no response, they persist, write, email, phone, seeking out someone at the tribe who might be interested. And if there is a desire to have the creation returned, the Academy offers to bring it to the community, following instructions on how to handle and pack it in an honorable way. Or, if tribal members prefer to come and pick up the creation, the Academy will pay all travel expenses for the trip here and back. To date they have successfully rematriated 26 Indigenous creations. The experience has been thrilling and emotional both for the community recipients and for Laura and Ash.

The Academy for the Love of Learning website has a section on the Rematriation Project where they share their story of returning Native American creations to their cultural homes. They express the hope that the process developed for the return of creations “will inspire other organizations and private collectors to undertake a similar journey of reflection, learning in community, and intentional action.” They are suggesting three practices: “1) the collective questioning of cultural misappropriation; 2) the thoughtful addressing of harm, and 3) a shift in how organizations and institutions view stories — from one lens to many lenses, from narratives of colonization to indigenous lived experience and history.” They also recommend a thoughtful examination of structural racism within the organization, and partnering with local Indigenous communities for guidance and reconciliation.

Ash and Laura, who have made rematriation a reality for the Academy for the Love of Learning

These insights could have enlightened discussions in a meeting I facilitated between Tribal leaders and National Park Service curatorial staff on the eve of the passage of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA). The Act intended to mandate federal agencies, like the Park Service, to seek ways to return Indigenous collections in their possessions. The discussions were heated. Many NPS staff were passionate about preserving culturally significant creations, believing that only they could care for them properly. Did a tribe have climate-controlled facilities? Would they protect the creation from a child’s sticky fingers? Or heaven forbid would they bury it, returning it to the earth, promising certain destruction? Tribal representatives spoke equally passionately about tribal sovereignty and the tribe’s right to handle, preserve or dispose of any item that originated there. There were cultural and religious beliefs and practices that had priority, they said, over non-Indian ideas of preservation. It was a fascinating conversation with no consensus. And today I would guess the same is true. NAGPRA passed in 1990, and there have been successes. But often the efforts fail, due to lack of commitment, lack of a clear process, or perhaps the belief that the item is better cared for by the agency.

I congratulate the Academy for taking the initiative, tackling a very controversial topic, and finding a quiet path through all the noise and conflict. Until now, there has only been direction for the return of creations held by federal agencies. The Academy’s model inspires and offers a clear, practical and respectful process for any organization or individual collector that would like to return one or more creations. Whether it was a gift, a purchase or otherwise, there is a way to rematriate, and the Academy is showing you how. Please see more information and photos of joyful rematriation moments at https://www.aloveoflearning.org/our-work/program/rematriation 

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Gift from Down Under

For decades we hosted a party for friends who come every August to attend, or sell, at Santa Fe Indian Market, the biggest event of its kind in the country. In the old days, upwards of 200 people would show up, some we knew, many we didn’t. It was a lot of fun and a lot of work, and we retired the party a few years ago. But this year we had Maori visitors Rina and Tai from New Zealand and decided to make a small comeback.

We reduced the guest list to about 30 hardcore original partygoers, mostly Native. Navajo friends came and made mutton stew and frybread, a staple of the event. A friend brought beef from his homeland in South Dakota, and we made sure that vegetarians did not go home hungry. Rina and Tai tried making fry bread, amid much laughter, and ate their share. Here was a handful of Indigenous people from opposite sides of the world, together, as friends, sharing stories, finding so much common ground.

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Towhee, the Olympian

I caught the men’s gymnastics on TV and as usual was quite amazed at what those Olympians can do, flinging their bodies around, leaping, twirling, flipping, muscles rippling. I thought about the years and years of physical pain and emotional stress it takes to be that good. I also saw a snippet of women’s rugby and was quite taken with their rugged determination as they fought their way into a heap of bodies, scrambled out of a heap of bodies, someone clutching the ball and charging toward the end zone. No worries about a broken nail, or a broken nose for that matter. I loved their fierceness.  

Spotted Towhee (internet photo)

And then I went outside into our patio to check on another amazing feat. A spotted towhee has chosen a hanging flower basket in which to birth and raise her babies. I was about to spray the hose on the basket a couple of weeks ago when something fluttered and flew from among the flowers. I stopped and peeked and there was her elegant, sturdy nest, tucked into a hollow between the flowers. There were 3 eggs, and the next time I looked there were 4. I marveled at her choice of locations, about 4 feet from the ground, sheltered from sun and heavy rain by the branches of a large crabapple tree. It is a lovely nursery with yellow flowers to greet the babies, a gentle rocking when there’s a breeze. And the patio traffic is minimal, just me and Roberto making trips to vehicles, to his workshop, or to get the mail. And best of all our two indoor cats can only drool through the window.

hanging basket with hidden nest

Hers is a marathon event. She sits on the eggs 24 hours a day, without a coffee break, without checking her phone. Such stamina! She instantly flies into action when any danger comes near. Such athleticism, (and acting ability)! She is single-minded in her task to protect and hatch those eggs. Such focus! She gives everything she’s got to win that gold. Such dedication, such love!

And like an Olympic athlete, she has support. Her mate is always nearby, cheering her on with his perky birdsong. https://youtu.be/NuL885n0z8Y

mother on nest, tail straight up — look at that form!

And when she has completed her event, I’m sure her mate will be there with a nice fat beetle for her, and maybe a tiny bottle of champagne. OK, I went too far. I won’t even mention the tiny gold medal I am making for her….

I was hoping the eggs would have hatched by now, but rest assured, they will be thoroughly photographed grand-birdies!

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