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.

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.

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.

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.

 8.7.12

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? 

Are We There Yet?

An emerald green hummingbird darts from the feeder to a high branch in the swamp maple, head cocking to the left and right, compulsively preening while surveying his surroundings. Confident in his appearance and that the coast is clear, he swoops back down to the feeder with lightning speed, an aerial flourish his gift or his pleasure, I'll never know which. 


Ablaze with passionate red intensity, a scarlet tanager in full breeding plumage lights up the leafy green backdrop of that same swamp maple. Love is grand, indeed.


In the garden's colorful obstacle course, a young rabbit charges, stops, turns and retreats over and over again, chasing - or being chased by - an invisible, cotton-tailed playmate. 


Enter the russet-colored doe, her proud and zaftig form full from Spring's lush bounty. In her reddish gold coat, she emerges from the deep green of the forest like a fiery Irish maiden. Unhurried and alone, she blazes her trail through fern and birch and pine. A hush falls over the world, and all its creatures watch in reverence as she passes. 


Above, the clouds that hang over the Barndoor Hills cannot be pinned down, arranging and rearranging themselves in a never ending interplay of light and form. Like a painting that each moment remakes itself anew, this sky-borne display is scored by a symphony of birdsong: robin, wood thrush, blue jay, sparrow. 


People ask me why I rarely go away on vacation. These are just a few of the reasons. I am fortunate enough to live in a place that I almost never want to leave. With my husband and our two feline "kids", I inhabit a world that endlessly captures my attention and imagination, offers respite and relief, and beckons us again and again to stop, look and listen to what lies just beyond the doors and windows. 


While I remember well the bustle and excitement of planning and packing to go someplace new, it has been a while since I've done it. It seems that contentedness, particularly of the soul variety, is not so easy to come by these days. So I don't want to disrupt mine. 


I'd rather refill my coffee cup, return to the back porch where my book awaits and the new day is filmy with early light and humidity. The sweet smells of fern and clover infuse the air, and I can smile at the airplanes that occasionally pass overhead, imagining the crowded seats, the tired parents and cranky children, the rush to the next gate, the inevitable question, "Are we there yet?"


I am. I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere. 

Lemming Fever

Have you ever worked with or for anyone who has inspired your inner lemming?

Someone you would willingly follow off a cliff into the As Yet Unknown, because they have ignited in you a passion so fierce and utterly compelling, that not knowing the terror and ecstasy of that 8 second free fall seems worse than the potential of a single, terminal “splat”?

When I contract a sustained case of "Lemming Fever" (as I describe the above condition), I know I am in the presence of a great leader. There are many qualities that can describe great leaders, but there are several in particular that resonate with me.

The great leaders I’ve met inspire me to believe in them, but also, without my even being aware of it, they inspire me to believe in myself. They recognize in me attributes and potential that I may not see, tease them out, buff them to a brilliant shine and reward them. The magic here is that I come to believe that we can achieve the goal; I become invested because I believe in both the leader's vision and what I can contribute to it. 

The best leaders help me see and understand my role in the ecosystem, and how it relates to the greater good and benefit of all. 

When the human mirrors around them reflect changes that must begin with and/or be sustained by them, they respond with humility and integrity of action. 

Great leaders deflect credit and heap it upon those around them. And they mean it. They live by "we" versus "me".

They don’t need to tell me what they want or believe or are committed to doing, because they’re too busy showing me.

In addition to finding interesting ways to engage and challenge the matter between my ears, they understand what matters to my heart and find ways to encourage that, too.

Great leaders challenge the status quo and encourage others to do the same. They make time to explain the “why” behind the “what” for every person at every level, and model how each of us – whether individual, group or organization – is either moving forward or sliding backward.  

In my estimation, great leaders avoid rhetoric and “buzz” words, favoring plain talk that helps constituents answer those perennial, existential questions such as: Who am I to you? Where do I fit? Does what I do matter and if so, how? Do you see me? Hear me? Do you care?

Even today, when long-term loyalty between employers and employees is in decline, great leaders can still engender such sentiments. At the very least, they can earn respect and credibility by acknowledging that employees know their jobs best, and by talking openly and honestly with (not at) employees about issues and decisions that affect the organization.

Great leaders are willing to fail on occasion, and are not exempt from the rules that apply to "the masses". No one is held to higher standards than those to which they hold themselves. They push through their limitations and places of discomfort to grow and evolve, even if they look imperfect doing it. They show up and own up every time it counts. 

I think humility and humanity are central to great leadership. Every great leader I've met has a killer sense of humor and refuses to take himself or herself too seriously. They cultivate an environment where laughter is an essential nutrient, and the ability to laugh at oneself is a core competency. 

I believe great leaders are passionate about great leadership. They don’t want to “manage” people, they want to inspire, groom and mentor other great leaders. They don’t want people to “follow” them, they want people to take ownership of the vision and carry it forward of their own volition – with the necessary direction, resources and support – but fueled by personal passion, not a mandate or a model for action.

I don’t know how much cliff jumping is in my future, and I’m not selling my parachute on eBay any time soon. But this week, during time spent with several leaders from my past and present, I’ve felt the flush and tingle of Lemming Fever stirring in my veins. And it feels something like hope.

Tell Me a Story

"Tell me a story." 

As a child, I loved stories. And not just the kind that existed between the beautifully illustrated covers of a dog-eared book, though there were plenty of those: Ramona and Beezus, the Madeline L'Engle series, Where the Red Fern Grows, Rikki Tikki Tavi and the Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales... the list goes on and on. 

I also craved "real, live" stories that were told in person, orally, so that I could feel the reciprocity between teller and listener. I wanted my relatives to tell me stories about my parents and their siblings. I wanted stories from my teachers about what life was really like for the peoples who populated our history books. I tuned into stories told between my parents across the dinner table, in hopes that I might catch some insight into what it felt like to be a grown up living in a grown up world.

There is still nothing quite like a good story, really. Even the rather mundane ones can be illuminating, if I'm listening well. 

There is a revelation that happens between storyteller and listener. It occurs in the lilt of the voice, the selection of which words to stress and which to downplay, the use of pauses and breath. It unfolds in the metaphors and imitations that can bring the story to life, the cadence and rhythm and tone that carry the story's emotions. It emerges in physicality that can enliven and punctuate the narrative with different layers of expression. 

Stories have always been one way in which I make sense of the world and my place in it. The story, the storyteller and the listener all have a distinct and important role to play in the experience of story, and it is my view that once told to another, a story can never be exactly what it was before; something of it becomes overlaid with the experiences, attitudes and ideas of the listener so that when retold, it will have subtle new shadings of meaning and nuance. 

Job interviews are like stories. Of course, we're all telling stories about ourselves all the time, but the interview seems like it might be one of those odd, microcosmic situations that's charged with a bit more poignancy and oomph. 

I don't know that I've heard many people speak of interviews in this way, but for me, it's true. During an interview, one person tells another who they are - where they come from, what they're good at (or not), what is of interest to them, how they are likely to behave in a variety of scenarios. They tell this story from their own perspective, from the perspective of what they've heard or gleaned from others, and perhaps based on more concrete evidence, as well.

When I say, "Tell me about yourself" to a candidate, I think I'm really saying, "Tell me a story. Your story." Secretly, I'm hoping that I won't get a facts-and-data report; I want a compelling glimpse of what our collective story might read like if we end up spending 10 hours a day together.

I'm consciously and unconsciously registering the responses in the same way I listen to any story: Where is the pause, the breath, the lilt? Where is the leaning in and the pulling away across the table? Does the candidate paint pictures in the abstract, with broad, bold strokes? Or are they finely detailed with color and clarity? Where is the quieter tone that draws me in closer, the impassioned exclamation that makes me sit up and take notice? What character does the candidate play in the story of his or her life: unsung or decorated hero, persecuted martyr, humble teacher, spirited cheerleader, tortoise, hare, innovator, risk taker, conformist? 

This is on my mind because I've recently conducted a number of interviews. And the process never gets old for me. I approach each one with the optimism and anticipation of my 5-, 7-, 12-, 42 year old self who can't wait to hear a good story. 

These days, I'm also thinking about my story, and what it might sound like to someone else when it's my turn to tell it. Will it put them to sleep, or keep them intrigued enough to want to hear what comes next? If each stage of my life and career is a chapter, what is the title of each, and how can I color and texturize these periods in ways that my resume alone might not allow? 

How to do I want my story to end? Whether at the close of an interview or at The End, what is the arc of my story moving toward? In my personal epilogue, what are the stories that I might want told about me and how I lived, loved, chose, behaved? 

We're all storytellers, writing the stories of our lives line by line, day by day.

What's yours? 

The Deer Mother

In a mid-summer night's dream, I pull into the driveway and get out of my car. On the way to the house, I pause to look up at the night sky. It is very dark and I see a constellation, a tight cluster of stars, that form a small, thick cross. 

Toward the house, I hear rustling by the front door but can’t see what it is. It sounds large, and I feel a tightness in my belly. Something approaches me and I stand very still.

It is a very large, antlered animal – almost like a cross between a deer and an elk. It is not terribly tall, but it is broad and solid. I gasp. Its antlers are large and very ornate; they are not very thick and there are many of them, woven together like the branches of a tree. The animal's back is dark and covered with many small white spots that seem almost to glow, like a magical sky full of stars. It is beautiful and breathtaking. 

The animal brushes gently against me. Holding my breath and still not really moving, I hold out my left hand, and it sniffs me. It allows me to pet its muzzle. I am filled with awe and know this is very special. I do not feel afraid, but I am not sure what is happening or why. Suddenly, down by my knees, I see another face. There is another, smaller animal - a baby - looking up at me. Its face is beautiful and open and sweet, and it sniffs and nuzzles my right hand as I hold it out. My stomach is fluttering with excitement, and my heart feels full of joy.

In Siberian Evenki mythology, Khelgen is the Cosmic Elk. She is associated with the Big Dipper and travels with her calf, who represents the Little Dipper. During the day, Kheglen and her calf disappear into the heavenly taiga and return at night, when the movement of the constellations recapitulates a great hunt. She is associated with the cycles of life, her great antlered rack connected with the World Tree, or Tree of Life. Kheglen was revered by the reindeer herders of Siberia, whose culture dates back thousands of years. Today, these people find their way of life, and their reindeer, in danger of being wiped out by overdevelopment and significant shifts in the global economy. 

This poem is in honor of Khelgen and her calf.

For Kheglen
(Honoring a Dream)

The Earth moves
as she moves,
her gait heavy
with intention and the fullness
of this moment.

Between each step,
a pause,
pregnant with the wisdom
and stories
she bears across
her star-strewn back
and in her crown
of antlers,
branches grown from the World Tree
beneath which all Life
begins 
and ends, begins again.

Across the divide
of life and death
she has journeyed with her progeny,
the smaller constellation
reborn in her mother's
shining image.
Ancient
and brand new to me,
the eye of my heart
takes her in more easily
than can my thinking vision.

Yet her breath is on my hand,
her broad belly brushes my arm.

She is here.
She is real.
I am witness
to these goddesses and star-painted
messengers.
Behold!
Behold!

And in the full night sky above,
a constellation
of the Cross beams bright
as if to say,
By whatever names you call Me,
I am here.
Behold.

7.18.2012/honoring a dream

Tending the Goats

I am asked, in a dream, to tend a friend's goats. Her request requires that I choose between an old commitment and a new one; to face my fears and risk failure in trying something new; to put the needs of others before my own sense of ease and security. 

In exploring aspects of the dream through a poem, I find myself reconnected with the path of nature, with the excitement and joy that new challenges can bring, and the importance of remaining open to life's larger lessons.

Tending the Goats/Honoring a Dream

I am coming!

I am coming!

I found the key,

beautiful girls,

and I am coming.

Through sunlit woods

and down the well-marked path

to your door

I will travel,

silver pails swinging.

I will offer food and drink

in return for your

sure-footed company,

will delight in your curious gaze

as you learn to recognize me

and I learn to recognize myself

in you.

I had other plans today

but I chose you

or you chose me,

or perhaps we are choosing

each other.

I have never done this before

but having chosen, at last,

I am ready to work,

ready to learn.

I left my fear along the path,

somewhere between

the leaves crunching underfoot

and the breeze stirring

in the pines.

Teach me to climb and trust

the earth beneath me.

Teach me to climb and seek

the sky above.

Teach me to be agile

when the landscape changes without warning,

to trust my heart

and the warmth of your lips on my open palm.

Oh, hard-headed beauties,

you wear your confidence like a cloak,

wield your independence like a shield.

But you play like rambunctious children

and it feels so good to laugh.

My arms will be tired tonight,

but my heart will be full.

Standing before your door

which has not yet swung open to greet me,

I catch myself, day dreaming

our afternoon together

before remembering that I am still holding

the key.

July 17, 2012