A week ago today, many of us on the East Coast were already in line at the gas station, fueling up in anticipation of what eventually would become Superstorm Sandy. Memories of last year's October storm and its devastion loomed large in our minds, and we shuddered at the thought of many days and nights without power, property damage and environmental wreckage.
Sandy arrived on Monday, October 29, and I am deeply grateful to have been spared her wrath. Others in my state, particularly along the coastline, were not nearly as fortunate. The news has provided continuous coverage all week of the utter destruction Sandy left in her wake, particularly along the eastern seaboard.
An old friend of mine lost her home, out of which she runs her healing practice. She took only three items with her, aside from some clothes, when she evacuated her apartment that looked out at the sea. The items were neither large nor costly, but were dear to her heart. She is still reeling with grief and shock from what greeted her when she returned to her home on Tuesday and found it uninhabitable. Yet in the long days and nights since, as she has done the physically and emotionally grueling work of cleaning out the skeletal remains of her residence, her grace and gratitude have been unwavering. She has kept us updated with periodic posts to Facebook, and in each, she speaks with sincere gratitude for the years during which she lived happily and humbly by her beloved ocean, for her health and safety and that of her neighbors, for the power and mystery of Nature, and for the Home that lives in her heart, not in the material possessions she lost.
More than once, her messages and the stories on the news have brought me to tears. The pictures leave me agog, unable to fully process what it might feel like to stand in front of or amid the rubble that was once one's sanctuary. I think of what we build our lives upon, our attachments and dependencies, and it boggles my mind that in an instant, it can all be washed or blown or burned away. My heart aches for the people who are suffering, who have been wounded or died, and those who are faced with the task of beginning again, from the ground up.
It can be so frightening, both the idea and the reality of impermanance. How quickly our fragility and vulnerabilities can be laid bare. How quickly any one of us, despite whatever trappings we do or do not have, can find ourselves small and shivering in a great big world that suddenly makes no sense.
I think, too, of the satellite images of Sandy that filled our TV screens in the days leading up to and through the storm. I imagine that the Earth's grief is so immense that it filled a cloud nearly a thousand miles wide. I think of Sandy as an anguished mother, betrayed by children who have become lost to her, and whose heartbreak rained and howled with abandon in hopes of maybe, finally, getting our attention.
And it seems to me that our grief and her grief are still largely separate. My sense is that for the most part, we do not see what we have lost, are losing and have yet to lose, as intimately and intrinsically bound to her. Her wailing is becoming louder and more frequent, her tears more voluminous, and yet, we have not paused to listen, to hear, to heed the fullness of what is being conveyed to us. The weather is still "out there." "Mother Nature" is a colloquialism for some external set of circumstances that we have not yet fully figured out how to defend against, control, master. We have forgotten how to live in alliance with her.
I am in no way trying to diminish the loss and grief that is being borne and suffered by hundreds of thousands of people. I am suggesting that our grief is incomplete if we view it as belonging solely to us, as something that happened solely to us, without considering that this storm (and Alfred, Irene, Katrina and others before it) is indicative of a larger, systemic breakdown -- and that our losses are collective, impacting not just humans, but the system - the entirety of the planet - itself.
We can devise innovations or enhancements to the nation's infrastructure; we can build bigger levees and storm-resistant cell towers and continue to evolve our early storm detection systems. These things may be necessary, as it seems that the occurance of "unprecedented" storms continues to grow with frightening speed. And we can begin, perhaps, to ask ourselves the bigger questions about what might really be going on here, and what we are willing to give back or go without, to help mitigate the escalation -- if there is still time to do so.
If we experienced in our individual bodies wave after wave of increasingly virulent infection, most of us would want to understand the root cause. What in the system might be lacking, or occuring in excess, to tip the scales toward such aberrations? We might employ technology to help diagnose, and medicine to treat the symptoms, but without understanding the root cause, it would be difficult to restore our mind/body/spirit system to its natural state of balance. Or it might be too late. In that case, we might be forced to muddle through with a variety of band-aids that ease our suffering, but which allow the illness or disease to percolate beneath the surface, laying dormant or in wait to strike again. We might be forced to live lives diminished of their full potential and vibrancy because we have failed to attend to something unseen, but vital.
As I type this, sun is streaming into the living room through the bay window. It is a cold, crisp November day in New England. Sandy has blown almost all the remaining leaves off the trees and the hills in the distance stand out in bold relief against the clear blue sky. Everything looks normal.
It is not normal, of course, for the thousands on the Connecticut shoreline, or in lower Manhattan or New Jersey, who are sifting through what remains of their lives before Sandy, who wait for help, or for power to be restored.
And it is not normal, of course, for the Earth, whose bounty we continue to plunder without giving back anything but waste, pollution and the remains of our greed.
In the run up to the election that will take place three days from now, we have seen and heard the views of the candidates regarding the environment, and what they will or will not do to help ensure that it remains viable long after we are gone. We have seen and heard what the environment is saying about our choices up to this point. I will continue to pray that we make choices in favor of a sustainable life for all beings for generations to come; that we can be selfless and aware enough to recognize the bigger agenda that is before us - not just as we cast our votes or determine how to move forward in the aftermath of Sandy, but as we move through our days and nights as beneficiaries and stewards of this planet and all it has to offer.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Friday, September 7, 2012
Following the Salmon and the Story
On September 1, I blogged about a dream in which the word "apayo" came to me. It led me directly to the artwork of an Alaskan woman who introduced me to the Pebble Mine Prospect, one of the most controversial development prospects in Alaska's history (see blog: Where Does it Hurt?). Salmon figure prominently in her work, and were on my mind, fleetingly, the night I had the dream. The title of the first painting I saw on her site: "Our Agreement: I Will Nourish Your Future Generations as Long as You Protect Mine."
In that same dream, I was at a retreat. While I was there, a powerful storm blew through and knocked out the power. After it passed, we went outside to gather plants and flowers for the retreat leader's "Bridge of Flowers" project.
As it turns out, on Aug. 28, 2011, the Deerfield River was flooded by Hurricane Irene and engulfed the famous Bridge of Flowers in Shelburne Falls, Mass. The bridge was declared safe on September 1, a year to the day of the dream.
When I found this info on Google, a "related topic" that came up was the Salmon River, in Idaho. Thinking it an odd association, I clicked on the link and learned that the Salmon River, also known as The River of No Return, has been home to people for more than 8,000 years, including the indigenous Nez Perce tribe, which relied heavily upon the river for its abundance of salmon and other wildlife. According to Wikipedia, "The Salmon River historically produced 45% of all the steelhead (salmon) and 45% of all the spring and summer chinook salmon in the entire Columbia River Basin. The Salmon River Basin contains most (up to 70%) of the remaining salmon and steelhead habitat in the Columbia River Basin. Despite the abundant salmon habitat in the river, these fish have been declining, in large part because of the effects of four federal reservoirs and dams on the lower Snake and Columbia rivers."
The Salmon River was the site of one of the gold rushes in the 1860's, which caused a great clash between the gold prospectors and the native people who lived in the area. This is not unlike the current Pebble Mine prospect in Alaska, where wealthy corporations want to develop a gold and copper mine that could have dire environmental repercussions, and is being fought by the native and non-native Alaskans who want to preserve the Bristol Bay area from the mine.
For me, the weaving of this story through dream, research and synchronicity, is an illustration of how everything is connected across space and time.
It reminds me of the law of action and reaction, and of the myriad ways, places and species in which our actions are negatively impacting our world today and for the future.
Perhaps it is instructive, asking us to look to the mistakes of the past for solutions to the future, and to avoid making the same mistakes again and again, while expecting different outcomes; the time is near when it may be too late to undo much of the damage we've already done (The River of No Return).
Perhaps it is a foretelling of our fate if we fail to care for and respect the tremendous gifts and resources that have been given to us to pass on into the future (Our Agreement: I Will Nourish Your Future Generations as Long as You Protect Mine).
And it reminds me to pay attention to the dreams, to look beyond what appears on the surface, to follow their threads and wisdom to untold places (including Alaska, Idaho, Massachusetts!) and information.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Ghost Cat
It is estimated that there are somewhere between 3,000 to 6,000 snow leopards left on earth. Prized and poached for their beautiful coats, they survive in some of the planet's most challenging terrain. Due to deforestation and dam projects, they have suffered a signficant loss of their natural habitat and food sources. In countries where they live, such as Pakistan and India-administered Jammu and Kashmir, armed conflicts have further imperiled the cats, with a disregard for species preservation among the fighters and the flourishing of an illegal fur trade.
Snow leopards, also called "Ghost Cats", can hiss, growl, wail and chuff, but unlike other large cats, they cannot roar. I met this shy creature in a dream, and the poem below is in honor of its arduous and endangered existence, and its historical associations with the gods.
For
Snow Leopard/Honoring a Dream
From
the crest of the god’s head,
you
traverse the craggy ancient spines
of
the Rock People.
Vertebrae
by vertebrae
you
carry down the sky.
Its
frigid white breath tears through the air
like
rapacious fangs
and
howls at the impassive, stony faces
that
bear the brunt of its fury,
with
you,
the
sole and silent witness
to
its brutality.
Your
green eyes blaze
with
inner light but offer no warmth.
There
is none to be found
in
this timeless, unyielding
Otherworld.
Here,
survival is a story
of
wits and of will,
of
stealth and of strength,
where
hunger and beauty can kill you
as
readily as any man.
Dreamy
crystalline blankets
yield
to one-way trap doors beneath
the
novice foot,
and
the lies we tell ourselves
to
carry on
are
sheer as the ice that freezes closed
our
frightened eyes.
The
spirits of this land
seem
cruel
and
harsher than they need be.
Or
perhaps safe passage
before
their steely gaze
requires
each soul to speak its truth
deep
into their brittle bones:
How
much do you want your life?
Ghost
Cat,
you
alone know the razor’s edge
where
land meets sky
amid
the blinding haze,
where
antlers mark the graves
of
those who offered or renounced themselves
to
you.
the
hunter and the hunted,
survivor
and survivalist,
earth-bound
immortal,
nearly
extinguished by our greed.
You
met me in the East
in
a humid summer dream,
with
a dare
to
journey North,
to
follow into unknown terrain
your
mysteries cloaked by snow,
made
treacherous by ice
and
marauders
that
might drive me from the trail.
My
fierce and exacting guide,
your
patience is as thin
as
the arctic air,
your
mercy as scarce
as
easy prey.
I
struggle to gain purchase
in
your sure-footed wake,
to
trust that I am held
when
I cannot see the path,
or
hear the approach
of
what will feed me next,
when
I cannot smell the fire
that
draws me
toward
an indecipherable horizon.
Met
only with your stoic silence,
I
stifle the tormented cries
I
yearn to hurl
against
the shrieking wind.
Your
coveted coat
reminds
me
how
to walk with shadow
when
daylight deceives,
when
reason fails and I have no use
for
words.
I
am imperfect and I am afraid,
but
I am willing.
Ghost
Cat,
teach
me perseverance and courage,
to
ascend to the heights you know by heart,
unbound
from illusion,
to
converse with the gods
by
way of the earth.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Where Does It Hurt?
Apayo translates to, "where does it hurt?" in Korean. It can also be used to ask someone if they are sick.
I did not know this until this morning. The word came to me in a dream, the Cliffnotes version of which is that I am at a retreat, led by an outdoor adventure guide who leads spiritual retreats based in nature. I see that among his many program brochures is one on white water rafting; another involves a trek through the Nepalese mountains, or something on that order. His wife offers me a sip of her drink, called "apayo". It's an odd looking concoction: A straw is plunged into something like a bump-less pickle or small gourd-like food that is immersed in liquid, and contained within a clear glass bottle.
The night before, I realized I'd left my current dream journal downstairs. Too tired to get out of bed and fetch it, I grabbed an older one. I found an empty page, and on the page opposite, scribbled in the upper left corner, was a note from July 12 of this year: "Salmon = determination. Know where you are going and you will get there."
Upon waking, at around 4:30 a.m., I scrawl key notes from the dream, including the word "apayo." Unable to go back to sleep, I get up little before 5:00, to record as many details of the dream as I can remember. This odd word, apayo, means nothing to me, so, as any good dream sleuth would do, I consult Google.
Up comes a website: apayoart.com. Hmm. Never heard of it. I click.
The site belongs to a Yupik artist, Apayo, who lives in Alaska. The first image to greet me is her beautiful painting of a bare, pregnant woman in water. Her unborn child is visible and sleeping in her womb. Rising up from the water to meet her is a... salmon. It is titled: "Our Agreement: I Will Nourish Your Future Generations as Long as You Protect Mine."
Beneath this image is a slide show of other paintings. The next one is a reindeer. I've detailed in earlier blog posts how reindeer and deer have been featuring prominently in my dreams of late. I know immediately that this is not a coincidence; I have been led to this site.
Many other of her paintings are of salmon, including salmon in the rapids (white water rafting, anyone?) and a jazz-singing salmon in a red dress (red dresses are another prominent dream theme). She states on her site that she's trying to raise awareness of the Pebble Mine Prospect. Wait, PEBBLE mine? My dream imagery has been rife with rocks and stone of all sizes for months. I click for more information. As it turns out, the Pebble Mine Prospect may be the most controversial development prospect in Alaska's history. If it proceeds, nearly 87 miles of rivers, creeks and wetlands that support king salmon, red salmon and other fish, wildlife and people, could be damaged or destroyed.
In a blog for the Huffington Post, Jeanne Devon writes of the Pebble Mine Prospect, "Anglo American Mining (whose track record is less than stellar) wants to put one of the world's largest open pit gold and copper mines at the headwaters of the largest remaining wild salmon fishery on earth -- a fishery that feeds the nation, employs more than 14,000 people, and has sustained human beings in the Bristol Bay area for thousands of years. If you're anyone except a gigantic mining conglomerate, it's a no-brainer. But the mineral wealth at the proposed site is vast, and The Pebble Partnership will do whatever it takes to get it.... Cyanide and pools of other toxic mining waste will have to be held back from leaching into the rivers that feed Bristol Bay by a series of earthen dams 700 feet tall -- that's 100 feet taller than the Space Needle. And they would sit smack atop the most seismically active region on the planet."
I read with dismay and heartbreak.
Researching further, I learn that in Korean, apayo means, "where does it hurt?"
It seems clear that there are important stories that want and need to be told. And they are coming to us in dreams.
Through my dreams, I have learned about the Reindeer peoples of Mongolia and Siberia. They are at risk of losing their cultures, and the reindeer they herd are in perilous decline. I have come to know the snow leopard, who is also in grave danger of eventual extinction, with only 3,000-6,000 remaining on earth, due to poaching and over development of their territory. I have learned that one third of Britain's dragonfly species are endangered, or nearly so. I have dreamt of the buffalo, whose haunted fate here in America remains tenuous, and of a breed of sheep with a reddish, deer-like coat that is on the "watch" list for endangerment.
Where does it hurt? It hurts everywhere. Everywhere that we ignorantly, callously, carelessly and selfishly plunder the Earth and her resources. These are significant stories that we don't hear on the news and that generally don't spur us to action, because they are happening somewhere other than in our own back yards. But we've forgotten that our back yards don't really belong to us, regardless of what the bank note says. We all share one back yard, and it is only ours to borrow, to share, and to pass on to future generations. And the ripple effects of years of greed and erosion, pollution and over-development will end up at our doorsteps eventually, wherever we live.
Something bigger than my imagination connected me to Apayo's art and its message today. Something that knows there is vital spiritual nourishment and life in the white water rapids, the cool mountain air, the salmon and the reindeer that give themselves to us for sustenance. Something that wants us to know that our future generations will be preserved and cared for only if we protect and care for that legacy today. And tomorrow. And every day thereafter.
Apayo?
The earth. The water. The air. The animals. My heart.
I did not know this until this morning. The word came to me in a dream, the Cliffnotes version of which is that I am at a retreat, led by an outdoor adventure guide who leads spiritual retreats based in nature. I see that among his many program brochures is one on white water rafting; another involves a trek through the Nepalese mountains, or something on that order. His wife offers me a sip of her drink, called "apayo". It's an odd looking concoction: A straw is plunged into something like a bump-less pickle or small gourd-like food that is immersed in liquid, and contained within a clear glass bottle.
The night before, I realized I'd left my current dream journal downstairs. Too tired to get out of bed and fetch it, I grabbed an older one. I found an empty page, and on the page opposite, scribbled in the upper left corner, was a note from July 12 of this year: "Salmon = determination. Know where you are going and you will get there."
Upon waking, at around 4:30 a.m., I scrawl key notes from the dream, including the word "apayo." Unable to go back to sleep, I get up little before 5:00, to record as many details of the dream as I can remember. This odd word, apayo, means nothing to me, so, as any good dream sleuth would do, I consult Google.
Up comes a website: apayoart.com. Hmm. Never heard of it. I click.
The site belongs to a Yupik artist, Apayo, who lives in Alaska. The first image to greet me is her beautiful painting of a bare, pregnant woman in water. Her unborn child is visible and sleeping in her womb. Rising up from the water to meet her is a... salmon. It is titled: "Our Agreement: I Will Nourish Your Future Generations as Long as You Protect Mine."
Beneath this image is a slide show of other paintings. The next one is a reindeer. I've detailed in earlier blog posts how reindeer and deer have been featuring prominently in my dreams of late. I know immediately that this is not a coincidence; I have been led to this site.
Many other of her paintings are of salmon, including salmon in the rapids (white water rafting, anyone?) and a jazz-singing salmon in a red dress (red dresses are another prominent dream theme). She states on her site that she's trying to raise awareness of the Pebble Mine Prospect. Wait, PEBBLE mine? My dream imagery has been rife with rocks and stone of all sizes for months. I click for more information. As it turns out, the Pebble Mine Prospect may be the most controversial development prospect in Alaska's history. If it proceeds, nearly 87 miles of rivers, creeks and wetlands that support king salmon, red salmon and other fish, wildlife and people, could be damaged or destroyed.
In a blog for the Huffington Post, Jeanne Devon writes of the Pebble Mine Prospect, "Anglo American Mining (whose track record is less than stellar) wants to put one of the world's largest open pit gold and copper mines at the headwaters of the largest remaining wild salmon fishery on earth -- a fishery that feeds the nation, employs more than 14,000 people, and has sustained human beings in the Bristol Bay area for thousands of years. If you're anyone except a gigantic mining conglomerate, it's a no-brainer. But the mineral wealth at the proposed site is vast, and The Pebble Partnership will do whatever it takes to get it.... Cyanide and pools of other toxic mining waste will have to be held back from leaching into the rivers that feed Bristol Bay by a series of earthen dams 700 feet tall -- that's 100 feet taller than the Space Needle. And they would sit smack atop the most seismically active region on the planet."
I read with dismay and heartbreak.
Researching further, I learn that in Korean, apayo means, "where does it hurt?"
It seems clear that there are important stories that want and need to be told. And they are coming to us in dreams.
Through my dreams, I have learned about the Reindeer peoples of Mongolia and Siberia. They are at risk of losing their cultures, and the reindeer they herd are in perilous decline. I have come to know the snow leopard, who is also in grave danger of eventual extinction, with only 3,000-6,000 remaining on earth, due to poaching and over development of their territory. I have learned that one third of Britain's dragonfly species are endangered, or nearly so. I have dreamt of the buffalo, whose haunted fate here in America remains tenuous, and of a breed of sheep with a reddish, deer-like coat that is on the "watch" list for endangerment.
Where does it hurt? It hurts everywhere. Everywhere that we ignorantly, callously, carelessly and selfishly plunder the Earth and her resources. These are significant stories that we don't hear on the news and that generally don't spur us to action, because they are happening somewhere other than in our own back yards. But we've forgotten that our back yards don't really belong to us, regardless of what the bank note says. We all share one back yard, and it is only ours to borrow, to share, and to pass on to future generations. And the ripple effects of years of greed and erosion, pollution and over-development will end up at our doorsteps eventually, wherever we live.
Something bigger than my imagination connected me to Apayo's art and its message today. Something that knows there is vital spiritual nourishment and life in the white water rapids, the cool mountain air, the salmon and the reindeer that give themselves to us for sustenance. Something that wants us to know that our future generations will be preserved and cared for only if we protect and care for that legacy today. And tomorrow. And every day thereafter.
Apayo?
The earth. The water. The air. The animals. My heart.
Friday, August 10, 2012
I Ride My Buffalo to Remember
One recent night in the dream world, I rode a buffalo bareback to get a bit of ice cream. We traveled down a busy, tree-lined street, and not a single car or truck so much as slowed down as we passed. I caught sight of my reflection in a glass-walled building: sitting astride my four-legged chariot, my hair streamed down my back, unbound and untamed as her mane; but instead of buckskin, I wore a sky blue Talbot's tee shirt.
Talk about straddling two worlds. Our entire journey was rich with contradiction and metaphor for the tension that exists, that we've created, between the natural and industrialized worlds. In my waking life, I inhabit primarly the latter. Traveling with buffalo, I can remember that which came before, and that to which I can return - both in and outside of my dreams.
This poem attempts to explore the messages and spirit of Buffalo, and to honor the dream in which we traveled together, unseen by the waking world.
I Ride My Buffalo to Remember
Talk about straddling two worlds. Our entire journey was rich with contradiction and metaphor for the tension that exists, that we've created, between the natural and industrialized worlds. In my waking life, I inhabit primarly the latter. Traveling with buffalo, I can remember that which came before, and that to which I can return - both in and outside of my dreams.
This poem attempts to explore the messages and spirit of Buffalo, and to honor the dream in which we traveled together, unseen by the waking world.
I Ride My Buffalo to Remember
I ride my buffalo to partake of the feast,
to indulge, until sated,
in the pleasures and treasures
before and beyond us.
The perfumed relief of open air,
the languid summer breeze on our faces,
the brief, sweet respite
of a lone shade tree,
the company of a kindred soul.
I ride my buffalo to remember,
to feel remembering in my bones;
the dissolution of boundaries
between beings and being,
the solid support of her broad bare back,
sinew and blood,
muscle and bone.
The smell of sun-warmed fur
fragrant with sweat, grass and loam
returns me to myself
in an instant,
for real and for good.
I ride my buffalo to inspirit my prayers,
to give thanks for the abundance
that both carries and is carried
within me.
My path has been blessed,
each breath,
every step,
and I have never traveled alone.
within me.
My path has been blessed,
each breath,
every step,
and I have never traveled alone.
I ride my buffalo between the worlds,
the one on the surface
and the Real one beneath.
Skimming the skin of the outside world
from this perch atop my ancient kin,
I peer over her brow at the horizon
scrawled with the horrors
and hopes
of my fellows.
They do not see us
though we pass within the distance
of a breath,
though we pass within the distance
of a breath,
do not hear us
though we call out
in a single, resonant voice,
though we call out
in a single, resonant voice,
Return! Return! Return!
I feel myself grow heavy upon her back
and my cheeks, my chin,
her neck
are baptized in a salty torrent.
With thundering hooves and heaving breath
we pierce this flimsy membrane,
plummenting through and descending
plummenting through and descending
down to the heartbeat
of the world,
where beneath perpetual sky
and upon boundless land
we eat, sleep, dance and dream
with one heart, one mind
around one circle of stones,
one eternal fire.
Ringed by the ancestors,
enjoined by the spirits,
buffalo dances with wolf,
bird and fish unite,
black embraces white to form
a silver plume
that ascends beyond sight
to tickle the stars,
an invitation to the dance.
Ringed by the ancestors,
enjoined by the spirits,
buffalo dances with wolf,
bird and fish unite,
black embraces white to form
a silver plume
that ascends beyond sight
to tickle the stars,
an invitation to the dance.
I ride my buffalo to remember,
to feel remembering in my bones.
8.10.12/Honoring a dream
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Communion
Shortly after hearing about the shootings in a Sikh temple earlier this week, I had a dream in which a stranger came upon our property and shot two deer, a mother and her daughter. For me, the deer represents many things, among them peace, gentility, grace and benevolence.
As I listened to radio reports about the shooting, including interviews with members of the Sikh community, it seems their world view also embraces these tenets.
It is shocking and horrifying to think that swift, sudden and violent death could be visited upon a community gathered in peaceful prayer and yet, it happened. Happens. The sacred is violated, both in the breach of holy space and the willful, thoughtless destruction of life.
And the deer comes through in the dream world, a messenger, perhaps a guide. How can I take her message into my heart and honor it, live it, learn from it? I begin to explore these questions in the following piece, and know that if I continue to carry them and the images from which they spring, more will be revealed in time.
8.7.12
As I listened to radio reports about the shooting, including interviews with members of the Sikh community, it seems their world view also embraces these tenets.
It is shocking and horrifying to think that swift, sudden and violent death could be visited upon a community gathered in peaceful prayer and yet, it happened. Happens. The sacred is violated, both in the breach of holy space and the willful, thoughtless destruction of life.
And the deer comes through in the dream world, a messenger, perhaps a guide. How can I take her message into my heart and honor it, live it, learn from it? I begin to explore these questions in the following piece, and know that if I continue to carry them and the images from which they spring, more will be revealed in time.
For The Deer/Honoring a Dream
They
stand, heads bowed
side
by side, as if in prayer,
then
lift in unison
to
partake of this morning’s communion,
young
green leaves from the weeping cherry
still
moist with dew.
They
eat hungrily, happily.
The
daughter’s movements
follow
her mother’s by a breath
like
a shadow,
or
an echo,
like
this, like this.
Learning
by watching.
Learning
by doing.
So
much to learn,
to
see, to taste.
The
bumblebees hum in the honeysuckle,
birdsong
rings out across
the
yard.
Squirrels
chatter and give chase
up
and down the oaks,
and
each life lends its voice
to
the hymn.
A
clap of thunder from the pristine sky.
It
must be lost,
wandered
too far from its own
mother,
meandered
over many mountains,
now
crying, trying
to find its way home.
to find its way home.
Another.
Death
arrives at my door
on
the shoulder of a man,
his
white shirt
criss-crossed
in the color of blood
and
partially obscured
by
the dark figure slung over him
like
a sandbag.
He
does not know he carries the weight
of
The World.
He
acts as though it is nothing,
mere baggage to be dropped and left
until
he finds a simpler, easier
way
to manage the load
that
weighs him down like lead,
like
the very lead
with
which he filled his cargo,
precious
cargo,
though
he could not see it
through
his dark eyes and prescription glasses.
A sprig of green leaves
hangs at the side of her mouth
and her still-open eyes are empty in their frames
of long black lashes.
Beside her, the future lays still
and growing cold.
The daughter’s movements
followed her mother’s by a breath
like a shadow,
or an echo,
like this, like this.
The fur at her new and narrow throat is mussed
and red
where the blood on his hands
tried to return to its
source
when he handled her so roughly.
He took them both
because he could.
Two,
the number of kindness and balance,
of duality and
choices.
Without
warning
the
false thunder arrived and
struck
like lightning.
No
time to run.
No
time to hide.
No
time to teach the little one what
or how to fear.
or how to fear.
There
was only time enough
to
teach her peace,
and
how to live in harmony
with
her surroundings,
how
to love the earth alive beneath
her
feet
and
in the rocks and trees,
sky
and water,
flowers
and
Every
Living Thing.
But I
am still here,
still
learning.
Monday, August 6, 2012
A Plea and a Prayer
Several weeks ago, our nation was horrified when a masked gunman opened fire at a midnight showing of the movie "The Dark Knight Rises", killing 12 people and wounding 58 others.
Today, the news is full of reports of another shooting in Milwaukee at a Sikh temple, in which a gunman killed six people and wounded several others, before being shot and killed by police.
As typically happens in such cases, once we have grieved the senseless loss of life, the debate over gun control laws rises up to dominate the public discourse.
In my humble opinion, these horrific and tragic incidents are indicative of issues that run much deeper than anything that can be mitigated by mere legislation.
Our nation, our culture, is suffering from a soul sickness. For generations now, we have been moving farther and farther away from the soul-felt understanding that we belong to one another, that we all are an inextricable part of the same web of life. This web holds not only the souls of humans, though we have convinced ourselves that we are the center and masters of our universe. This web holds all living beings, including the animals, plants, and insects. It includes the Earth, the elements and the inanimates.
Indigneous cultures, from which all of us have emerged if we go back far enough, have always known and revered this sacred relationship between and among all beings. Long before organized religion, peoples around the globe prayed to the sun, the moon, the Earth. They mapped their lives according to natural cycles and gave thanks for the bounty of the Earth and elements that nourished, taught and sustained them. They did not view themselves as separate from their surrounding environments; they viewed themselves as but one small piece of a universal ecosystem, wherein each life was connected to every other. They did not think in terms of the individual, but lived based on the needs, conscience and well-being of the whole, the tribe, the Community.
There are still cultures that honor these ways today, though they are rapidly disappearing. I think of the Reindeer People in Mongolia, whose culture is on the verge of extinction and whose reindeer populations are in perilous decline. Around the globe, in fact, on every continent, we can see vestiges of the old ways being eaten away and eradicated by the same ego-, greed- and power-driven pursuits that ravenously consume and defile our natural resources, with no regard for the wisdom and precious, irreplacable life within them.
And having divorced ourselves from the beauty, grace and power of the natural world, we turn our insatiable appetites and open wounds on ourselves and each other.
There are those who think such language alarmist and dramatic (insert derogatory or diminishing adjective here), but our future - our souls - are at stake.
What will we do, what will we have, when we have plundered and exhausted the remainder of what this Earth has to give? When the water we poison with chemicals and sewage and oil has dried up or sickened us? When all the trees have been cut away, the Earth raped and pillaged for its black gold, natural gas, gems and minerals? When the animals, birds and insects who once were our family members and teachers have died off and taken with them their generosity of wisdom, spirit and sustenance? Who and what, except for ourselves, will there be left to war with, conquer, kill, control, subsume? And as our resources become more scant, we can expect that the violence we do to each other will escalate in scale, frequency and severity.
We need only look to our neighbors in the Congo, Syria, Haiti, Juarez and Afghanistan (to name a few) to see what fate awaits us if we continue on our present path. Today, it is easy to believe that such endemic violence still only, really happens "over there."
But is happening here, perhaps on a smaller scale at the moment, but in ways that strike fear into our hearts and can tempt us to retreat into those old, entrenched ideas of "me vs. you", "us vs. them". And fear is perhaps the most potent antidote to finding our way back to love of Earth, Community, soul.
Until we begin to look more deeply at the underlying cultural causes that are at the root of such traumatic and senseless acts such as the Wisconsin shooting, we cannot expect a reversal of fortune. Until we internalize and embody the understanding that there is no "me" without "we" (and by we, I mean all living beings who share our sacred home), we cannot begin to know and greive and heal the soul-wounding that leads us to such deranged acts.
It is not that no one is trying to change this course that we are on. There are countless individuals, organizations, and formal and informal groups that are working very hard every day to get our attention, inviting us to think and choose differently, invoking the wisdom of the spirits, animals and ancestors for guidance. It may not be enough. At least not in this lifetime.
The people, organizations and forces that currently are in power will dig in their heels and use every means of control and manipulation at their disposal if they think they are being threatened. They will don masks of benevolence and generosity, adopt pretty words and catch phrases, engage the greatest marketing minds on the planet to keep us all bought in to the idea that we are getting closer to living - or losing - "the dream", whichever option will keep our minds, our hearts, our fear, our wallets more firmly in their grasp.
But if the dream does not entail revering, respecting, honoring and protecting ALL life and the natural resources that sustain it, it will become - is becoming - a nightmare, from which there will be no return. And for those that would leave it to future generations to clean it up, figure it out and resolve it, well -- to my mind, that's just further evidence of how far afield we have gone.
In some books, this post may qualify as a rant. Perhaps on some level it is.
For me, it is an acknowledgement of my grief and feelings of impotence to do much of anything that can possibly make a meaningful difference at this point. It is a plea and a prayer that some intervening force or forces shake us out of our complacency and torpor long enough to question the implications of our choices, our demands that life be more convenient, comfortable, "safe." For in the end, when we have obliterated, outlawed, terrorized, erased or otherwise eliminated anything or anyone that might threaten our sense of safety and entitlement, those of us who are left will have only each other to fear.
In the meantime, I will do as a friend recently suggested. I will plant my tent in the crater and sow what seeds I can. I will pray for the victims of the recent shootings and their families, and for the souls of the gunmen who committed those crimes.
On some level, I feel as though the perpetrators serve as a warning for those who are willing to heed it. They may feel like an anomoly, like the "crazy" "evil" "other" - and they may be those things. But they also are a mirror for something that each of us has inside, whether we choose to admit it or not. Human behavior is a continuum; our individual actions may fall anywhere along the spectrum, but the spectrum is in all of us.
And I wonder how we will respond as a culture, as these types of tragedies become more frequent and more commonplace. Will we continue to picket and protest and legislate away the potential for evil? Will we continue to point the figure "out there" at "those people" who make it unsafe for the rest of us? Or, like the indigenous people who see themselves as part of a much larger story, will we begin to ask the deeper, harder questions of our collective culture and conscience that hold every one of us accountable for helping to shape the ending?
Today, the news is full of reports of another shooting in Milwaukee at a Sikh temple, in which a gunman killed six people and wounded several others, before being shot and killed by police.
As typically happens in such cases, once we have grieved the senseless loss of life, the debate over gun control laws rises up to dominate the public discourse.
In my humble opinion, these horrific and tragic incidents are indicative of issues that run much deeper than anything that can be mitigated by mere legislation.
Our nation, our culture, is suffering from a soul sickness. For generations now, we have been moving farther and farther away from the soul-felt understanding that we belong to one another, that we all are an inextricable part of the same web of life. This web holds not only the souls of humans, though we have convinced ourselves that we are the center and masters of our universe. This web holds all living beings, including the animals, plants, and insects. It includes the Earth, the elements and the inanimates.
Indigneous cultures, from which all of us have emerged if we go back far enough, have always known and revered this sacred relationship between and among all beings. Long before organized religion, peoples around the globe prayed to the sun, the moon, the Earth. They mapped their lives according to natural cycles and gave thanks for the bounty of the Earth and elements that nourished, taught and sustained them. They did not view themselves as separate from their surrounding environments; they viewed themselves as but one small piece of a universal ecosystem, wherein each life was connected to every other. They did not think in terms of the individual, but lived based on the needs, conscience and well-being of the whole, the tribe, the Community.
There are still cultures that honor these ways today, though they are rapidly disappearing. I think of the Reindeer People in Mongolia, whose culture is on the verge of extinction and whose reindeer populations are in perilous decline. Around the globe, in fact, on every continent, we can see vestiges of the old ways being eaten away and eradicated by the same ego-, greed- and power-driven pursuits that ravenously consume and defile our natural resources, with no regard for the wisdom and precious, irreplacable life within them.
And having divorced ourselves from the beauty, grace and power of the natural world, we turn our insatiable appetites and open wounds on ourselves and each other.
There are those who think such language alarmist and dramatic (insert derogatory or diminishing adjective here), but our future - our souls - are at stake.
What will we do, what will we have, when we have plundered and exhausted the remainder of what this Earth has to give? When the water we poison with chemicals and sewage and oil has dried up or sickened us? When all the trees have been cut away, the Earth raped and pillaged for its black gold, natural gas, gems and minerals? When the animals, birds and insects who once were our family members and teachers have died off and taken with them their generosity of wisdom, spirit and sustenance? Who and what, except for ourselves, will there be left to war with, conquer, kill, control, subsume? And as our resources become more scant, we can expect that the violence we do to each other will escalate in scale, frequency and severity.
We need only look to our neighbors in the Congo, Syria, Haiti, Juarez and Afghanistan (to name a few) to see what fate awaits us if we continue on our present path. Today, it is easy to believe that such endemic violence still only, really happens "over there."
But is happening here, perhaps on a smaller scale at the moment, but in ways that strike fear into our hearts and can tempt us to retreat into those old, entrenched ideas of "me vs. you", "us vs. them". And fear is perhaps the most potent antidote to finding our way back to love of Earth, Community, soul.
Until we begin to look more deeply at the underlying cultural causes that are at the root of such traumatic and senseless acts such as the Wisconsin shooting, we cannot expect a reversal of fortune. Until we internalize and embody the understanding that there is no "me" without "we" (and by we, I mean all living beings who share our sacred home), we cannot begin to know and greive and heal the soul-wounding that leads us to such deranged acts.
It is not that no one is trying to change this course that we are on. There are countless individuals, organizations, and formal and informal groups that are working very hard every day to get our attention, inviting us to think and choose differently, invoking the wisdom of the spirits, animals and ancestors for guidance. It may not be enough. At least not in this lifetime.
The people, organizations and forces that currently are in power will dig in their heels and use every means of control and manipulation at their disposal if they think they are being threatened. They will don masks of benevolence and generosity, adopt pretty words and catch phrases, engage the greatest marketing minds on the planet to keep us all bought in to the idea that we are getting closer to living - or losing - "the dream", whichever option will keep our minds, our hearts, our fear, our wallets more firmly in their grasp.
But if the dream does not entail revering, respecting, honoring and protecting ALL life and the natural resources that sustain it, it will become - is becoming - a nightmare, from which there will be no return. And for those that would leave it to future generations to clean it up, figure it out and resolve it, well -- to my mind, that's just further evidence of how far afield we have gone.
In some books, this post may qualify as a rant. Perhaps on some level it is.
For me, it is an acknowledgement of my grief and feelings of impotence to do much of anything that can possibly make a meaningful difference at this point. It is a plea and a prayer that some intervening force or forces shake us out of our complacency and torpor long enough to question the implications of our choices, our demands that life be more convenient, comfortable, "safe." For in the end, when we have obliterated, outlawed, terrorized, erased or otherwise eliminated anything or anyone that might threaten our sense of safety and entitlement, those of us who are left will have only each other to fear.
In the meantime, I will do as a friend recently suggested. I will plant my tent in the crater and sow what seeds I can. I will pray for the victims of the recent shootings and their families, and for the souls of the gunmen who committed those crimes.
On some level, I feel as though the perpetrators serve as a warning for those who are willing to heed it. They may feel like an anomoly, like the "crazy" "evil" "other" - and they may be those things. But they also are a mirror for something that each of us has inside, whether we choose to admit it or not. Human behavior is a continuum; our individual actions may fall anywhere along the spectrum, but the spectrum is in all of us.
And I wonder how we will respond as a culture, as these types of tragedies become more frequent and more commonplace. Will we continue to picket and protest and legislate away the potential for evil? Will we continue to point the figure "out there" at "those people" who make it unsafe for the rest of us? Or, like the indigenous people who see themselves as part of a much larger story, will we begin to ask the deeper, harder questions of our collective culture and conscience that hold every one of us accountable for helping to shape the ending?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)