I Love You All (For Standing Rock Protectors)

“Every natural object is a conductor of divinity.”
-John Muir


Today I am grateful for you.  You magnificent miracle.  You wonder to behold.  I don't know exactly how to frame this in words as there is far too much to say, but I love you.  I love each one of your burgandy leaves and your coarse fur.  I love your four legs and wagging tail and your soft grey wings. You feathered birds that stand in the corn fields from now until the first signs of spring. And then, I love the beauty of your sprouting green-ness.  
I love the smell of your pine needles. Your intelligent consciousness is part of what  brings this earth plane to life, you plant medicine, you animal medicine. 

You who are mineral as well.  Secretly you speak of the early formations here.  You who are ancient. You teach each day the lessons of patience and being in the here and now.  

Today I am grateful for you.

You magnificent miracle to behold, you risen one of earthly delight.  You who are

the children of old growth forests.  You who are just emerging under the canopy.

You who are the

protectors at Standing Rock.

My teachers say: "Evolution does not go backwards."  I believe that must be true.

***
The mystics tell us that we need spiritual crisis. That we must enter the Cloud of Unknowing, the deepest despair, the most profound darkness within, without hope, in order to grow spiritually. They call such a time of deep crisis, of great uncertainty, the Dark Night of the Soul. There, in our radical desperation, in our absolute abandonment, it is said, the Divine Doctor awaits. Holy Darkness was Her medicine all along.
-Vera De Chalambert

Yes, I know that is correct.
On a personal level, I know what it is to go through the Dark Night of the Soul.  And thankfully, I know
what it feels like to be on the other side of that darkness. In the Divine Comedy, (and that is what life is, a crazy Divine Comedy) Dante says: I came to myself in a dark wood, where the direct way was lost.   My experience is that it is through surrender that we get to the other side and find our way through the darkness. That is where the Divine Doctor waits. In the letting go and letting something higher, more than our small selves, lead the way through. Surrendering the ego-self to something greater, to the mystery of all that is. It seems on many levels we are lost now, with no clear way through. But thankfully, there are those willing to stand for healing and the greater good.

Today I am grateful for all life on the planet, everything natural, every conductor of divinity.  I am grateful that there are places to go where Nature is still in evidence. Places where one can look around and see open space and evidence of life unobstructed by man-made structures. Yesterday I went to my favorite bird sanctuary to see the Sandhill cranes as they, like magicians on grey wings, appear again in the fields along the Rio Grande River to spend the winter months.  They congregate close together in the fields and delight in one shared community.  They are almost as if one organism, ever flapping its multitudes of wings.  We humans may be in an existential time of darkness on some levels in the outer world post-election 2016, but the cranes give me hope. The cranes and all those who are standing in their hearts, breathing through this time of metamorphosis.

Trees of Life

I write today for three trees that are gone now, hacked up by men with chainsaws.  I see you fallen ones on the median strip of pavement, your remains chopped into pieces.  I have been holding my breathe for a long while waiting for this day to come.  The day the construction would start in front of my building.  I counted 80 trees-trees for buses- that will be cut down.  Is this a fair exchange?  Is this progress?

I weep for each of your leaves and for the men who are "just doin' my job mam."

Did you three trees know I noticed you?  You will be missed, I promise.  I was aware of your plant medicine for the city, helping to purify the toxic fumes from all the vehicles that passed by you each day.* I could tell you suffered and were not so healthy with all the heat and exhaust coming your way.  You will be missed for your leaves changing colors and for the beauty you brought to this place.  I did think about chaining myself to one of you but frankly, I didn't think I could stomach that much toxicity and noise on the street for long and I knew it wouldn't do any good.  The chainsaws and the men would come anyway and cut you down to the ground.  Men in hard hats and fluorescent colored vests from Star Paving (the faded name on their pickup trucks) did you in today, but really who's to blame?

"Just doin' my job mam...mouths to feed."

The chainsaw sounds again and again, as the hard hat men cut each of your branches, grates on my nerves as it destroys you limb from limb.  I make a small offering to you three trees as the backhoe loader passes me by, may you rest in peace.

Let's pull up more oil for petroleum from the ground and spread it around.

Let's frack some more and see what we can explore.

Let's ignore the indigenous tribes as they stand to protect their land and water from the Dakota Access Pipeline.  Let's pull up more oil for petroleum from the ground and spread it around.

My first thought was to leave this cynical poem as the closing here but I thought better about it after I came upon a few paragraphs from Peter London in his book, Drawing Closer to Nature.  If only we took action with a conscious effort toward the interconnectedness of all life in nature as he describes here:

I bring my ax and saw with me to the tree I have chosen to fell, and lay them down away from the tree.  Then I sit a distance from the tree, where I can see it in its entirety.  I bring its vision into me, like a photographer's camera taking into its body the light of that tree. Something terrible and something wonderful is about to happen.  Leaving my axe and my saw, I approach the tree, walking up to it, touching it, feeling its taut and sinewy trunk, its skin, how it springs from the earth, how its limbs reach for the light, the neighborhood it lives in, the neighbors.

And then he prays for this friend, asking for forgiveness, he makes a medicine wheel around the tree noting the path of the sun and the four directions before he carries out his task. 

***

Some months later, after I post these words, I am reading Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer.  She tells the story of her friend and teacher, indigenous basketmaker, John Pigeon.  He is from a lineage of basket makers from the Potawatomi tribe, she writes: Traditional harvesters recognize the individuality of each tree as a person, a nonhuman forest person. Trees are not taken, but requested.  Respectfully, the cutter explains his purpose and the tree is asked permission for the harvest.  Sometimes the answer is no.  It might be a cue in the surroundings--a vireo nest in the branches, or the bark's adamant resistance to the questioning knife--that suggests a tree is not willing, or it might be the ineffable knowing that turns him away.  If consent is granted, a prayer is made and tobacco is left as a reciprocating gift.  The tree is felled with great care so as not to damage it or others in the fall.  Sometimes a cutter will make a bed of spruce boughs to cushion the landing of the tree.  When they finish, John and his son hoist the log to their shoulders and begin the long walk home.

***For more on trees, their amazing capacity to communicate with one another, their ability to feel and so much more than we comprehend read, The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben.

Salmon Vigil, 1999

In the footnotes to the book, Leap, by Terry Tempest Williams I discovered this prayer. These words were recited as part of an event for the well-being of the salmon and the restoration of the living waters, held at St. Mark's Episcopal Cathedral in Seattle, Washington on March 8, 1999. It speaks to the salmon and the sacredness of all waters and life on this earth.  It seems to me fitting to read now as we continue to push for the Dakota Access Pipeline.

We have forgotten who we are.

We have forgotten who we are.

We have alienated ourselves from the unfolding of the cosmos

We have become estranged from the movements of the earth

We have turned our backs on the cycles of life.

We have forgotten who we are.

We have sought only our own security

We have exploited simply for our own ends

We have distorted our knowledge

We have abused our power.

We have forgotten who we are.

Now the forests are dying

And the creatures are disappearing

And humans are despairing.

We have forgotten who we are.

We ask forgiveness

We ask for the gift of remembering

We ask for the strength to change.

We have forgotten who we are.

-U.N. Environmental Sabbath Program

The Bag

I have had a summer practice of going to the Rio Grande river many mornings to start my day before the heat waves of desert afternoons.  It is a short ten minute drive from my place and if lucky I can catch a glimpse of the elephants at the zoo from the vantage point where I park my vehicle.  Love the elephants. Always a big thrill to see these magnificent animals.  My friend Autumn has a fine plan to take these five elephants to the river, but that is a story for another time.  

Body, mind, spirit feels a certain lift moving through the paths in the woods. Especially today when I am a little brain-agitated, I breath deeper with every step.  It is September 16th, a full moon and a lunar eclipse.  I note my beloved cottonwood trees are just starting to turn, soon they will glorify the river with multitudes of magnificent heart-shaped yellowest leaves. It rained last night and so the paths are soft under foot. Everything living seems glad.

Each trip to the shallow river is a journey to a mini-beach.  There is so little water flowing in the spring and summer that the river bed is completely exposed nearly half way across the width at the spot where I frequently enter. Today there are a group of six people and two dogs at the water's edge, they are clearly loving the moment as well.  I take off my shoes and walk barefoot for awhile into the muddy shallows of water.  There are a few birds now, a white shore bird, a couple of ducks; as migration time has just begun.  Only bits of litter spoil the otherwise pristine views of the volcanos to the west and so I have taken to picking up discarded plastic water bottles, old tin cans filled with sand, candy wrappers and such stuff when I go.  It gives me a sense of accomplishment.  Sometimes I remember to bring a bag to carry it out but today I forgot.  I gather up a few things into a pile determined to come back later with a bag to collect it.

But as I was driving home, an odd coincidence, a white plastic shopping bag was literally flying down the street directly towards me.  It had the quality of being on a mission.  Mesmerizing like the ephemeral video of a floating plastic bag in the film, American Beauty, this airy animated object compelled me to brake, get out of the car and grab it before it sailed away. "Right on," I thought, "just what I need". Bag in hand, I turned back to the river's edge and picked up as much trash as it could contain.

Curious wonder. Ask and ye shall receive.

A chance occurrence or something greater?
I like the simple magic of it.

Next day, on my way back again, no kidding, another bag flying down the street in front of me.

The Bird Who Came in Through the Doorway

As I sit in my morning meditation with Rune stones, ancient Nordic symbols, I chant to connect me with all that is alive, I hear the distinct sound of wings flapping.  Not the wings of my canary Piccolo- who is singing golden trills in his cage behind me- but the wings of another bird.  A bird from outside has flown into my urban loft space, through my open door on the third floor. I look up as she lands above us on a black pipe near the ceiling, up about twelve feet on the sprinkler system.  She has perched momentarily, directly over my new painting of Sandhill crane’s wings- which is leaning on an easel. Later, I consider what a miraculous blessing this is for my feathered painting but in the excitement of the moment, I just feel concern for the bird’s safety.

The small brown one flys across the width of the space to another black pipe, pauses above Piccolo, then cruises down the length of the loft over a half wall into the bedroom.  I am completely focused on her presence in my space.  She is moving toward the windows facing south, the direction from where she came in.  But she can’t get out as the windows are closed.  I hate the sound of her failed attempts hitting against the glass.   I enter the room and want to help but fear I will scare her off again in another direction.  She sits on the narrow ledge of the window casing for a bit, no doubt stunned and then hops down to the window sill where she allows me to pick her up. Wild bird in hand, I cannot say for certain if this is a House Sparrow but probably, yes. She is small, sandy brown and sturdy, with a very strong looking beak.  I gently cover her eyes with my hand as I carry her outside.  All of this spans a minute or two; I sit down with her in my hands onto a chair on the balcony. Taking a breath, I lift my fingers from her eyes so that she might see to get her bearings. I let go and she is free again.

Instantly she flys straight out over the balcony railing to the very top of a dead branch on a tree, in a neighbors lot two doors down. I can see her there and she appears to be looking back toward me. It is simply magical to witness her soar with swift speed to the familiarity of the tree. What could she possibly imagine just happened?  

As I gaze at her I notice the space between us is filled with dancing particles of tiny points of light.  They seem to mix with and through everything, sparkling up the air.  More wonder happens as I observe a distinct aura of light above the tops of the trees around where she is perched.  It appears as if there is a brighter band of energy around the edges of all the trees in the field of my heart vision.  Something opened within me when the bird flew off, I was given a brief glimpse into non-ordinary reality.  She gifted me something I cannot explain, a heightened few precious moments and then it was gone. The vision faded but I cannot stop thinking about it.

Reading from Ted Andrews’s book Animal-Speak I find this quote:

“In the beginning of all things, wisdom and knowledge were with the animals; for Tuawa, the One Above, did not speak directly to man.  He sent Animals to tell man that he showed himself through the beasts, and that from them, and from the stars and the sun and the moon, man should learn...for all things speak of Tuawa.” *


Andrew’s says the word “animal” is derived from the Latin word “anima,” meaning soul or breath of life.  The wild in “wild animal” comes from the Anglo-Saxon “wilde,” referring to living free with Nature and not under human control. Surely Ms. Sparrow gave me some of her sparkle, her animate breath of life when she entered my nest for a short while.  I feel connected to all things alive as I process this wonder, I pick a Rune stone: “Ken” which is shaped like an arrow head sideways < and stands for the element of Fire. It represents life giving fire and spiritual creative energy. Gladly, with gratitude, I will paint more feathers today.






*Chief Letako-Lesa of the Pawnees Tribe to Natalie Curtis, circa 1904