Sacred Fire Magazine Issue 2 by Sacred Fire Foundation

Exploring Pathways of Heart

$7.95 US | $9.75 Canada

Issue Number Two

Story of a Yuppie Shaman Skepticism and Prayer Encounter with the Sea Goddess Remembrance of Stogies Past...

We donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know what this says yet...

to read some articles this a.m. that made my heart beat faster, and my jaw hang wide...it is a jewel awaiting my return. Thank you, thank you,..for the Spirit Medicine.

Number 2 2006 www.sacredﬁremagazine.com Publisher Sacred Fire Community Editor-in-Chief Jonathan Merritt Associate Editor Louise Berliner Column Editors Mark Blessington, Rita Kesler, Mary Lane

Ann Ring, Tucson, AZ

Art Director Helen Granger Design Support Mary Long

Write to the editor at: jmerritt@sacredﬁremagazine.com

ire, cred F a S r our a De iving y ime, e c e r een at I had b ochures for they w br paper y knowing ho y l l us a not re me-- in my b n d ke reache n’t really ta T U ad life, I h ead them. B n r m o time t of the Autu ift he your g e arrived,...t d in magaz ne demande ble o a l a ! Was cover W O W . . ion attent

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Managing Editor Sherry Morgan Director of Sales and Marketing Sharon Brown Advertising Sales Manager Kateri McCue Advertising Sales Representative Gary Weidner Advertising Production Maxima Kahn Subscription Sales Manager Jill Jacobs Subscription List Manager Andye Murphy Distribution Manager Beth Savino Submissions Manager Mary Ellen Darcy Proofreader Amy Bressler Nee Webmaster Kirk Peterson Sacred Fire is published seasonally by the Sacred Fire Community. The purpose of the Sacred Fire Community is to foster a global community that rekindles our relationship to each other and the world through the universal and sacred spirit of Fire. www.sacredfirecommunity.org. Where to write: feedback@sacredfiremagazine.com, or Sacred Fire 10720 NW Lost Park Dr., Portland, OR 97229. For submission guidelines: www.sacredfiremagazine.com. We welcome unsolicited submissions. Subscriptions: One year, $27.80. Single issue, $7.95 (U.S. dollars). Change of address: Postmaster: Please send address changes to Sacred Fire, P.O. Box 30645, Albuquerque, NM 87190-0645 Subscribers: Please notify us of your new address at least six weeks before you move (the post office does not typically forward magazines), and be sure to include your old address. No part of this periodical may be reproduced without the written consent of The Sacred Fire Community. Any requests to reprint material appearing in Sacred Fire must be made in writing and sent to feedback@sacredfiremagazine.com. The opinions expressed by the authors do not necessarily reflect those of The Sacred Fire Community. Printed on 50% recycled and 15% post-consumer waste, acid and elemental chlorine free paper, by FSCcertified Warren’s Waterless Printing, Toronto, Canada.

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Sacred Fire

Number Two

Editor’s Note A Ray of Penetrating Light

e live in a cold times, a time of fear and disconnection. In response to our fear we pile on layers of protection. To mask our disconnection we numb ourselves with every type of distraction. Greed is celebrated. The myth of individual success and salvation dominates our lives. Generosity, civic duty and social consciousness are all in steep decline. Mute in our separation, we find it difficult to reach out and ask for help or to freely give our gifts. It is winter in our hearts Yet every heart contains a seed. Stirred by the penetrating February light, the seed remembers its ancient desire to sprout and leaf and flower. The essential fire in the heart of the seed cracks its shell and begins the long journey up through the frozen soil. One by one the fire in our hearts is cracking our shells of ice. Shaking off the snows of forgetfulness, we remember our natural desires to laugh together and sing, to cook and eat to listen and lend a hand. As we gather together—tentatively at first, then with greater and greater confidence and enthusiasm— the fire in our hearts grows. This growing fire is the onset of spring. Rooted in the earth, we will receive the gifts of water light and air. We will give our violet and vermilion, emerald, chocolate and golden gifts to each other and to the earth. We offer this second issue of Sacred Fire as a ray of penetrating light, an invitation to connection, an

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antidote to fear. In these pages you will find the memoir of a woman’s long lonely pilgrimage that leads her to a deep connection with the earth and to all that she loves, of a man who, keeping a vigil by a fire, remembers his deepest spiritual dreams and the arc of his path. There is a fish tale and a lesson from a little girl; a discovery of ancestral connection carried through craft and the account of a man whose encounter with the ancient elemental god of fire completely transforms his life. Here is the story of a woman who, sitting in a room with one who is dying, discovers her own true calling. In the first issue, there was a piece on the inside back cover that asked “What if…/Tobacco wasn’t evil….” This created quite a bit of controversy and brought a few letters. Though the writers of those letters declined to have their comments printed, we felt the need to address this issue, to speak about the powerful spirit of Tobacco, which is held sacred by many ancestral traditions, and our relationship to it, as conflicted as that relationship may be. We offer poems, pieces, columns and art all designed to gently awaken you, to remind you of your own ancestral and spiritual connections, to softly stoke the fire in your heart. —Jonathan Merritt

�inter into �pring Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the inﬂuences of each. —Henry David Thoreau

hen winter shows up, I’m still in my pajamas. I stick my head out the door as if testing water, then pull it back in, turtle style, determined to hibernate. And yet, I’m intrigued. The autumn winds worked hard to clear the view, sweeping all but the last oak leaves to reveal a new world. Some part of me lingers, but it’s so damned cold. This is my winter dance—admiring the hand of the cold upon the land, and wanting to turn my back on the beauty and do the bear thing. I’ve come to see that the cold brings that warmth its value; that wanting one without the other deprives me of the joy I get from the contrast. So I give my heart to the season, and decide I’ll give cold a chance. Find out just what or who cold is. Make friends.

And how about those eiderdown tunnels? I plan to hide under my covers and not come out for a while. I will wallow in wool, hot tea, and ﬁreside chats with a Dickens or friends. That’s winter, too. My task is to juggle that desire to escape with the equal desire to be comfortable with my heart’s longing to be part of this world; to connect to both the inside and the outside of the season and face all its aspects so that I, too, can feel all my own parts and be complete. After all, I’m wool and I’m frostbite. I’m endless night and I’m the life of the party. By February, when I smell spring on the breath of the wind, I hope to have so completely lived winter that even if my heart gives a quick leap, I’ll stay the course a little longer. Though I imagine by then I’ll be whining, “How many cups of cocoa till spring?”

Or maybe not friends, exactly. That’s the old me, the Pollyanna who wants to make nice with the grumpy old storekeeper. Perhaps the plan is to just be present to whatever winter really is—come face to face with all of it. And maybe this will improve my relationship with all the other seasons. Yes- perhaps the point is not to like everything, but to know what the season is. I ﬁnd myself wanting to run to the easy place of admiring the trees as they stand bared and honest, or savoring the snow with childlike wonder, but what about embracing ice and the fear it evokes? What about looking Dark in the eye and admitting that by January I’m thinking about Florida? Number Two

Sacred Fire

Divine Nourishment

Mary Lane

Winter I

The element of water rules this season. The great Goddess, Grandmother Ocean, embodies this element.

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t’s winter. She calls me. I ignore her. She tugs at me. I’m busy. She tugs harder. I resist. The sharks are out there. I’ll be devoured. I’ll drown in her churning force. I refuse. She washes the sand away from under my feet. I cling to the rocks, screaming for help. She’s pulling me in. I thrash around in the high surf, my body rigid. She throws me around like a rag doll. I tumble, crashing into the sand. She demands that I return to her every winter. “Remember!” she cries out. I can no longer pry myself from her grip. I let go, knowing I will surely die, and I sink. My life replays itself. Old unresolved wounds appear like a swarm of giant wasps attacking their prey. My stomach twists itself into a knot. My heart beats with the ferocity of a ninety-piece percussion band. My limbs go numb. My mind goes mad, unable to sort it out. I sink deeper. She envelops me with her rhythmic warmth. The deep blue water becomes still. She holds me. I relax, surrender to my fate. My yearly ritual with Grandmother Ocean is as predictable as winter following fall. I know it’s coming every year when the leaves begin to fall and the earth retreats into the depths. The element of water rules this season. The great Goddess, Grandmother Ocean, embodies this element. She holds the story of all there is and ever was. Life would not exist without her. She ﬂows from the heavens, through the forests, across the land, nourishing and kissing everything along the way. She circulates, becomes rain, creeks, rivers, lakes, giving life— always returning to herself. She holds the deep wisdom that is found at the depths of the still waters. Every winter she calls, engulﬁng me with her embrace as I struggle. Finally, I curl up

Divine Nourishment

and suckle at the bosom of her infinite well of consciousness as she cleanses my soul. She fills me with life force, gives me the will to live, teaches me to flow, rest and fill up in the winter with her essence. She fuels my sexual, creative energy—the chi that animates my life. She washes away the accumulated garbage that I drag around, that keeps me from feeling alive. She drowns the demons that hold me by the throat. She surrounds my heart. Why do I resist her every year? She embodies life—and death. I am torn between two worlds. In the inward stillness of this season, she reminds me of what I need to get rid of so I may give birth to myself in spring. She insists that I do my part, that I confront the demons who block the doorway to my freedom and joy. But sometimes all the lights and holiday celebrations seduce me. Joining the rush of the holidays, I avoid my agreement with her and the challenging work of transformation. But my soul pleads with me as Grandmother Ocean offers her assistance. “I remember,” I call back to her. It is time to deeply nourish myself in these winter months, and wash myself—of my Self. So my holidays become slower paced and more intimate with my loved ones. I give up on trying to avoid this journey. She insists that I surrender, rest, nourish myself, and own her. The foods I eat in this season, and how I cook them play a big role in supporting me to receive her gifts. I shift my eating habits to stay connected with her. I eat more foods that grow beneath the surface, that cook for a longer period of time—slow cooking soups, long roasted, or braised dishes. This is like having a wise old woman appear along a cold barren trail. She invites me in to warm myself by a fire with a deep bed of coals, and offers me a hot bowl of soup, and a loaf of bread when I eat in sync with this season. I make sure I include all five flavors into my diet—salty, sour, bitter, sweet, pungent. This helps me nourish all of myself, and keep my balance. Eating only a couple of selected favorite flavors is like riding on a surfboard balanced on one foot leaning to the right or left. You will end up thrashing around in the winter surf.

I look for ingredients that have been grown near where I live. These foods are on the same cycle and resonate energetically with me. I don’t eat foods from the opposite hemisphere that only grow in the summer months. Summer foods float on the surface of the water while I’m swimming ninety feet below in the winter. It’s okay for me to have fewer ingredients to play with in this season. I discovered simple is not necessarily less delicious. I make sure I have plenty of foods from the waters, such as local fish or seaweed, in my diet in the winter. They are highly nourishing to the kidneys and bladder, the organs related to winter and the water element. I don’t scrimp on foods and herbs that nourish my kidneys. They directly affect how much creative, sexual, life force energy I have. I certainly don’t want to run out of that. One of my favorite soups that I prepare for my tropical winter on Maui, where I live, has local vegetables such as carrots, onion, ginger, garlic, and winter greens. I sauté them until they fill the kitchen with their sweet, pungent, and earthy dance. I add seaweed, such as kombu or wakame, which are potent kidney-nourishing foods. Sometimes I use local seaweed Grandmother Ocean throws up onto the beach. This brings the ocean and everything she embodies into my most intimate relationship—my meal. I simmer these ingredients in a light coconut broth with lemongrass, and then I add a local fish and serve over rice noodles. When it is done, I add lots of chopped cilantro for balance with its fresh tangy leaves. The soup tastes alive with this added herb. I love this simple soup on a cold upcountry evening in the winter. Another simple dish I like in the winter is roasted blood red beets with flaming orange yams, sweet Maui onions, lots of pungent garlic, and herbs or spices, which I choose according to my mood. I add some fresh delicate oyster mushrooms toward the end, and toss it all in a little olive oil and balsamic vinegar when done. I put them on a bed of braised winter greens, such as kale or collard greens. The symphony of colors, flavors,

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Divine Nourishment

and textures infuses me with contentment, as it nourishes my depths. Whole grains, such as brown rice, wheat berries, and wild rice are superb for calming the nervous system, also related to winter, and the water element. A calm nervous system allows a sense of awe, and supports ones ability to go with the flow, instead of floating rigid, in fear. This can definitely have an affect on your perspective as you dive into the depths. I indulge in cups of hot teas. In Hawaii we drink a traditional local root, kava, as a sacred tea to calm nervousness. The Hawaiians drink this both socially, and in ceremony. I also gather wild vervain, which is calming, or mamaki, which builds the entire immune system. They’re good local herbs, and very helpful on the inner journey. I slow down and moderate my outward going energy so I can build my life force. I take time to reflect, and enjoy long cups of hot tea, or a bowl of soup with an intimate friend. I sit by the fire and let it melt the armor around my heart, and I get my body massaged. Most of all, I eat plenty of sumptuous dark, rich chocolate to remind me how grand life is. I smear this luscious melted nectar in the faces of my demons, and keep my sense of humor. I support the winter journey with nourishing myself in this way, and let Great Grandmother carry me. She always, without fail, cradles me, nourishes me, cleanses me and floats me back to the surface in spring, renewed, rejuvenated and bursting with life force to fuel my new growth. Once again, I survive death.

Winter Medicinal Recipe 1 Build an indoor fire in the fireplace and stay with it until it has time to build a hot bed of coals and has warmed the house. 2 Make yourself a hot cup of tea, or pour yourself a big shot of tequila or red wine. 3 Draw a hot bath and add lavender essential oil. This can be done with or without a partner. 4 Languish indefinitely in the bathtub with at least 7 candles burning. This also can be done with or without partner. 5 Return to the fire and nourish yourself with a hot bowl of Encounter with the Sea Goddess Soup, preferably lounging on sheepskins with or without partner. 6 Follow this with luscious dark chocolate, and let nature embrace you. �

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Encounter with the Sea Goddess Soup The sea surrounds all of us. I recommend this easy winter soup for anyone who wants to build and balance his or her kidney energy and adrenals. The seaweed is great medicine for the kidneys, and the tofu and shrimp together balance the energy. Ingredients 3 medium pieces each dried sea vegetables such as wakame and kombu 1 cup dried shiitake mushrooms, (chop after soaked) 2 cups of warm water to soak seaweed and mushrooms, save for soup 1 medium onion cut in half and sliced thin 4 medium cloves garlic, chopped 1 TBS minced fresh ginger 1 TBS chopped dulse seaweed 3 cups chicken or vegetable broth 6 oz ﬁrm tofu cut into 1-inch cubes 6 oz small shrimp 1 TBS rice vinegar 2 TBS mirin rice wine 2 TBS chopped cilantro 3 TBS soy sauce 2 TBS minced scallion Salt and white pepper to taste Directions 1. Rinse and soak sea vegetables in warm water. Save water. 2. Sauté onion for 5 minutes stirring frequently over medium heat. Add garlic and ginger and continue to sauté for another minute. 3. Chop sea vegetables, chopped shiitake mushrooms and add to soup along with soaking water and broth. Bring to a boil on high heat. Reduce heat to medium and simmer for 20 minutes. Add tofu and shrimp, and simmer for another 5-7 minutes. Add rest of ingredients and serve. Serves 4 Cooking Tip: Sometimes kombu needs a little longer cooking time than the other sea vegetables. If it is thick when soaked you may want to cook it for 5 minutes before adding the other sea vegetables.

Eat When Hungry, Sleep When Tired

- a Zen saying

and then there is Chopin, meandering from five impossible flats to four sharps as if each measure were a casual ripple in a spring stream of melting centuries. What are we to make of him? Nocturnes unnecessary as diamond necklaces, fantasies frivolous as sequined ball gowns. His preludes sing us into the land of sadnesses deeper than the deepest snowdrifts. His valses whirl us into that last dance of the evening. They hold us to each other. They show us the firefly, the precious light before lights-out. They teach us about breathing. When hungry, eat. When tired, sleep. —Marian Kaplun Shapiro

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& Or How I Learned to Love the Stogie

But this same poyson, steeped India weede In head, hart, lunges, do the soote and cobwebs breede With that he gasp’d, and breath’d out such a smoke That all the standers by were like to choke. – Samuel Rowlands, c. 1601

have to make a confession: I am an inveterate tobacco lover. Some of my fondest memories are of sitting around a ﬁre at night, lost in a smoky haze, surrounded by faces of friends only dimly recognizable, all of us pufﬁng away on cigars or handrolled cigarettes. On such occasions, tobacco is nothing less than a sacrament: a divine spirit that is intimately associated with the elemental grace of Fire. Used in the right way, tobacco can help foster connection–whether to others, or to all of nature around us. Perhaps all addicts are wont to speak in such lofty and loving terms of their addictions! But tobacco truly has a sacred aspect that native people throughout the Americas recognize. I started out as a fundamentalist: a child crusader against tobacco use, or at least so far as the immediate world of my family was concerned. My mother was a two-pack-a-day cigarette smoker for much of her young adult life. One of my earliest childhood memories is of my sister and me sitting in the back seat of my mother’s white Corvair as she puffed away on her Pall Malls. Her window is cracked open only ever so slightly. We could be a poster family for public safety hazards: riding a car that Ralph Nader considered “unsafe at any speed,” breathing in a toxic cloud of second-hand smoke, and probably tumbling around un-tethered at that, for who even bothered with seat belts in those days–let alone child car seats. Somehow we survived such harrowing dangers. When we were older, my sister Karen and I struck back. Well, actually, it was mostly my sister’s idea, although I passively went along. At age 9 or so, she took to heart the Surgeon General’s warning and began a sustained campaign to stop my mother from smoking.

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LARRY MESSERMAN Her tools were subtle–at least for a nine year old. Karen would hide my mother’s cigarettes or simply throw them away. My sister acted with the kind of naïve virtue that only young children (and some nations) can affect. But however clever and well intentioned, the efforts did not have their intended effect. My mother was furious–particularly when, on a dreary winter day, my sister flushed her last pack of cigarettes down the toilet. Perhaps it was some form of poetic justice that saw both Karen and me become smokers many years after our mother finally kicked the habit. As I grew older, my relationship with tobacco started to change. As I entered my adolescent years, my earlier wariness of smoking began to soften. Smoking took on a kind of mystique. It was one of those peculiar rituals like drinking, driving, or swearing —we did not know much about sex or paying taxes yet—that we associated with being an adult. Friends began to steal cigarettes from their parents and experiment. I never took to cigarettes, but cigars held a fascination for me. In those adolescent years, I was particularly close to my mother’s father. Charlie was short and powerful, and when he spoke, his voice boomed forth, quickly filling any space around him. Although a successful businessman, Charlie’s heart was always connected to the earth. Nearly every weekend, I joined him on the small farm in the Cleveland suburbs where he boarded horses and ponies. I spent many happy hours with Charlie, feeding the animals, grooming them, and, of course, riding.

TOBACCO WISDOM

from Fishwoman (Pauline Johnson), a Cree Elder Gathered by Jaki Daniels

obacco in our culture has been an exchange for thousands of years. In our culture we were told ‘tobacco moves first’. I don’t know if my ancestors used the word tobacco in my language. We use the word ‘steem ow’ which means, “Sacred symbol of shredded leaves to give to the ancestors to acknowledge you respect them enough to give when asking for blessings.” Anytime we receive anything or take anything from Mother Earth, tobacco must be there. When we say tobacco, it doesn’t need to be commercial tobacco. We have many forms, including the tobacco we make for ourselves from other plants... willow bark, sage, and others. We call it tobacco because it has a different essence in itself. For some reason unknown to me, the essence and smoke from tobacco seems to reach out and touch the Great Spirit and the ancestors in a powerful manner. It’s the first thing we do if we talk about medicine. A story I was told—the ancestors sit and smoke it alongside with you. I don’t smoke, so I will lay it on the ground, the earth, or put it into the fire. Even when you place it on the ground, they are there, joining you and doing ceremony with you. It is a powerful movement for my people and myself, to know that tobacco moves this strongly between this realm and the unknown. Tobacco touches the heart of the Creator. Anytime if I don’t put tobacco down I foresee that my ceremony is not complete. As a young person or beginner you might forget, and for some it is not a steady routine in their lives. For me it is constant.

Charlie’s green Dodge Monaco was like a farmer’s work vehicle: full of bits of halters, shoeing equipment, odd tools and a liberal sprinkling of oats. Although he had given up smoking, the dusty interior that of cavernous Dodge still carried the scent of cigars smoked long ago. Charlie’s doctor had put an end to that habit. Sort of. Because Charlie continued to use cigars as a kind of adult paciﬁer. He often drove with an unlit cigar dangling in his mouth, chewing on it ever so slightly, and occasionally spitting out ﬂecks of tobacco which would come to rest helter-skelter on the windshield, the dashboard, or, winging on the breeze coming through the window, landing on the back seat. The author in happier, smoking days. Photo by Will Berliner.

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TOBACCO WISDOM Needless to say, my grandmother rarely set foot in my grandfather’s car, but I loved it! In some unspoken way, I associated cigars with the old-world earthiness of my grandfather–a swarthy immigrant from Lithuania who smelled of Old Spice and horses, and whose confident way in the world I deeply admired. The years rolled by. I gave up horses for a bicycle, and then, finally, a car. In high school, I took up an entirely different kind of smoking. And unlike certain former presidents, I confess to having inhaled—repeatedly. Otherwise, why bother? But I digress. At least as far as tobacco goes, I never smoked more than an occasional cigar or cigarette in my early adult years. And then my dance with tobacco became something entirely different. At first it was nothing more than…well…big cigar envy. My mentor in all matters shamanic is a man of uncommon stamina, courage, and deep spiritual wisdom. On this particular path, tobacco is one of the sacred substances offered to consecrate a fire. Invariably, after making offerings to the fire, my mentor sits down and pulls out a thick, long cigar, lights up, and begins to puff contentedly away. As he describes it, smoking is a kind of “extra credit,” a way of connecting one more deeply to the grace of Fire. I have come to see how we live in a time of great coldness. We are part of a culture that puts great stock in the mind.

from Eliot Cowan, a Shaman (Marakame) in the Huichol Tradition

obacco is a plant that is particularly sacred to Grandfather Fire, also to his little brother the Sun. It assists in people hearing the divine. It is not an exaggeration to say it is the energy of ﬁre in plant form. A balanced relationship with tobacco needs to be reciprocal—it gives us something so we need to give something back. This means that it needs to be used in the appropriate ritual context with a strongly aligned intention to listen for and to hear the divine. The consequences of an imbalanced relationship are obvious—you only need to look at the statistics for tobacco-related deaths. This doesn’t mean that tobacco is bad for you, per se. It is not out to “get us.” In fact, when used in the proper context, tobacco protects the person using it, despite how it was produced. Fear impacts our relationship with tobacco because fear keeps us from hearing the divine, which is tobacco’s primary purpose. If we fear tobacco, we can’t receive its beneﬁts.

“Good ideas” take precedence over the simple wisdom of experience, and we are led to believe that, by staring into a computer screen, we can take in the whole world. In contrast, our ancestors would gather around the fire, tell stories, seek council, and look to signs of the Divine that were everywhere in nature. We have forgotten how to sit quietly and truly listen to one another. Our stories—traded via e-mail perhaps—lack the mythic depth of those that were once shared around the fire. We feel lonely, alienated, and afraid. Fire is the antidote to this coldness. Sitting around the fire with friends, I have felt a kind of wordless joy that was largely absent from my life before. Fire is about heart and connection. Fire is laughter, creativity, and passion. Fire is what makes life more than just a good idea; Fire makes life juicy! When used with reverence, tobacco can bring one into communion with these deep qualities of Fire. It was not long before I went from buying an occasional cheap cigar at the liquor store to ordering boxes of cigars online and lovingly skimming through the tobacco catalogues that arrived by mail. Cigars became something of a fetish amongst the friends that I met around the fire. We acquired cigar cutters and “wind-proof” butane lighters, and we could chatter endlessly about the virtues of one cigar over another. The more I sat by the fire, the more my love of tobacco deepened. Aside from smoking at sacred fires, I began to use tobacco in moments of contemplation, when I wanted to connect more deeply with nature. My wife Jessica and I

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SMOKE & Fears

developed a weekend ritual of hiking to some cliffs above a fairly remote stretch of beach near our home. We would plant our beach chairs near the edge of the cliffs, then sit, light up—she a hand-rolled cigarette, me a cigar— and just take in the vast beauty of the ocean. I could think of no better way to spend the afternoon: puffing on a cigar, sitting with a loved one, and contemplating the exquisite play of light between clouds, sun, and the water! I wish I could say that tobacco and I lived happily ever after. But a year ago, I began to experience signs that my relationship with tobacco needed to change. Colds invariably ended up in my lungs and I began to experience on-going twinges in my chest. Making a visit to the doctor, I found that I have a mild asthmatic condition. When I sought higher guidance, I was told to take a break from smoking. Whether the moratorium will be permanent or not remains to be seen. For now, I find myself eating a lot more chocolate around the fire—a kind of compensation I guess. No doubt I could still plant my beach

chair at the cliffs and sit for long, languorous hours just staring at the ocean and the clouds. But for some reason I do not. To me at least, it appears that being in “right relationship” with tobacco is a complicated matter. Everyone needs to find his or her own place with it. There are of course certain guidelines. As Native Americans know, tobacco is a sacred substance. It is a gift from the gods that can help us connect. Contrary to popular opinion, it can be a powerful medicine for the heart, deepening our awareness of how we, too, are part of the web of life that connects all of nature to the Divine. But like any sacred substance, tobacco can be easily abused, and in that way quite dangerous. A “casual smoke” is an affront to a very powerful spirit that demands respect. Smoke-filled bars have no allure for me. But some nights when I am seated by a fire, staring upward at the moon and the stars, I feel a deep urge to light up again. I still keep a few cigars stashed away in my humidor–just in case the time is right.

TOBACCO MEMORIES from Beth Savino

y early memories of tobacco are of fields of large sticky plants. The tobacco that we grew—a small amount compared to many in North Carolina, usually seven to ten acres— was grown as a cash crop, something that would go a long way toward keeping us afloat. That was money for our school clothes, shoes and Christmas, too. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, my legs swinging in perpetual motion over the edge of the bench. I watched the smoke rise like a string from my father’s Kool cigarette and hit some unseen current, breaking apart over his head. He’d bring the cigarette to his mouth for a deep drag and take a swig of coffee—a moment of true enjoyment and appreciation. He seemed to use the tobacco for two things—for taking a quiet moment to stop and breathe, and as fuel, like sugar or caffeine, to keep him going. Then he’d rush off to get as much done on the farm as possible until two p.m., when he came in to eat again, shower, and shave. Then he’d make his way to “work,” managing over two hundred people on second shift at the textile mill. In good faith with the legacy left to him by his father, my father farmed in the manner that he felt best and most productive. He treated with chemical fertilizers, with herbicides and pesticides. We took great pains to wipe out anything that would damage the plants and to pour on what we thought would make them grow and produce large, marketable leaves in the fall. We hinged our financial viability on the tobacco crop.We called our connection to the plants and the land love. And the way of working and relating to the land, we called loyalty to the legacy we’d inherited from my father’s father, and betraying that wasn’t considered.

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Wisdom of Winter Light of Fire A Pilgrimage of Remembrance

ANDREW COX

I sit alone before the Fire this cold, February night. I am asking for guidance. My life makes

no sense. I’ve lost the plot. How could I have drifted so far from myself, from what I feel to be right? “Grandfather Fire, please grace me with your light, your clarity, your brilliance, your understanding. Reconnect me with my own, long-neglected heart. Please open me to the great silence, the Source, that I may again have the sight of the soaring bird of meaning, the reason for my existence.” How did I lose such sight? Was I gifted to have it in the first place? Did I lose it as a consequence of lack of gratitude? Without it I am dead. Without it I walk through life like a ghost, of no real use. I am trying to heed the wisdom of winter. This quietest, innermost of the seasons teaches me to accept opportunities to cease doing, to simply be. In that stillness I have a chance to realize my deepest dream, the dream of my life. That dream is my calling, my Tao. It is the map of my authenticity. I need help to hear it and keep aligned with it. I am told by the teacher who invited me into the dream of nature, and into the world of a people who have not forgotten their dream, that in the old days we could turn to our community for help. Community consisted not only of the people we lived with, but also the ancestors of the community and, just as importantly, the plants, animals, stones, earth, spirits, seasons and elements of the place where we lived. In those days our personal dreams and the dream of our community were the same. Later, we had elders to teach us how to remain in the flow of that dream. The community also grew shamans, in some form or another, to sing us back into the dream if we strayed too far and became ill. Acutely aware of this… I hold my fireside prayer in my heart. I offer myself in service, just to hear the Fire’s song. Listening with the senses of a hawk I gaze down at the embers, their glowing like the tiny movements of mice in a waving field of poppies. I feel something of iron in me melting, as in a blacksmith’s forge; and from the searing, sacrificial transformation of the burning wood, golden cords emerge, threads of the dream fabric that is my Tao, my authenticity. It is February of my fourteenth year when I am awakened to the dreaming of the life that flows through me. My family has moved from a city to a remote, beautiful peninsula half encircled by the waters of the Atlantic. This night, an unseen force shakes my bed vigorously, shocking me from my sleep. I scramble up, throw open the window and breathe the cold winter blast. I lean out, craning my neck so I can just about see a portion of the sea. A faint bluish glow, like a distant neon light, pulsates from the horizon, far beyond the bay.

Illustrations by Helen Granger 16

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Wisdom of Winter: Light of Fire

Mysteriously, I suddenly find myself standing on the deserted beach, staring out to sea, trying to make out this strange, ethereal light. Hours seem to pass until I catch sight of a flash of movement, then another. The movements take form, then shape. The blue light appears as a magnificent, luminous Whale. It fills the bay, the sky and my entire filed of vision—a shimmering, living sphere of pure power. My entire body and mind are suffused with it. Now I am blind to everything but this tremulous blue energy. I lose awareness of my body, of the self. There is just this light. Then the light recedes and the sea creeps back into sight. Once again I can see the light contained in the outline of the huge whale. I can see one of its eyes as though it were just a couple of feet away. That one visible eye burns into my soul with such love and compassion that I feel on fire. I drop to my knees in reverence. I can do nothing else until, without warning, I am brutally seized by a compulsion to look out for something, something unusual. I look desperately around and there! On the distant shore, across the bay, I become aware of another “animal,” an ugly, repulsive, nameless creature stumbling around, followed erratically by three smaller versions of itself. I am terrified, even though they are far away and oblivious of me. I realize it is the “whale” forcing me to watch them and my fear diminishes, changing my perception. These pitiful creatures, so inadequately adapted to their own environment, are embodiments of human greed and selfishness. The whale’s eye silently tells me they are to be transformed through love, not ignored, rejected or reviled. I shift my seat closer to the Fire. This thing with the whale happened more than thirty years ago. I’d virtually forgotten it till now. It catapulted me into a new outlook on life… From that night of profound reverence and terror, came my fist sense of the essential alone-ness of the modern human soul, and of the suffering and further loss we cause each other as a result of this separation. And the raging questions: Why? Why are we like this? It’s not how it can or should be! I place another log on the Fire and at first the light is obscured. Soon the flames begin to curl up around the new log. It is early morning, but still far from dawn. The vegetation is stiff with frost. The new piece of wood begins to burn and split. I feel the same thing happening to the hard cortex of my conditioned amnesia and insensitivity- the memories I’d lost, the ones that tie my soul to my deepest dream, ooze slowly from the embers like golden honey spilt from a cracked jar.

Two thousand of us pack a purpose-built dharmashala in the ancient mountains of Rajasthan. This is one of ten pilgrimages I made every January during my twenties, to meet the god Shiva. As we wait for this powerful, incorporeal being’s gentle incarnation into the body of an old yogini, we become aware of the atmosphere changing. A palpable stillness and silence steal over us. Magically, the night air takes on the joyful, energizing freshness of a perfect spring day. I look around. Without exception, every face is radiant, every pair of eyes bright and childlike. Not a trace of anything other than peacefulness, love and joy can be seen. Shiva enters while the soul of the instrument yogini is transported to a subtle realm of dormant consciousness. The god gazes silently around through the borrowed eyes. Something is being emitted through that gaze, a love so pure that nothing impure can withstand it. When the gaze falls with the intensity of a searchlight on me I instantly feel like I’ve received a new body, a body of light, free from all my habitual muscular tensions, convoluted thinking patterns and knotted emotions. For hours during this still night, Shiva speaks with love and authority. He reveals secrets of Time. It is, He tells us, nearly time for all souls to return to our original home, the ocean of light. This is why the world is calling out for connection with the Divine more than ever before. Great changes are to come. Nature will move towards balance, human scale disasters increasing along the way. Whole species are to disappear. This is to make way for the return of the Golden Age, the circle of time having turned from the previous Golden Age, through the Silver and Copper ages and now, to the very end of this Iron Age and through this short time He calls the Conﬂuence Age. This is Wisdom, stripped bare of its religious and philosophical interpretations, straight from the source of the ancient Vedic tradition. It reminds me of a similar message from the Maya. Their Tzolkin calendar also predicts global upheavals to usher the world into a period they name the Sixth Sun of Pure Consciousness. Towards dawn, Shiva pulls us, as one, into a rareﬁed state of being. Silence and pure light increase. Now I see I am somewhere in space, in a region of white—the Milky Way perhaps? I can see the beautiful planet, Earth, alive, blue and green, wisps of cloud circling. I stand perfectly still. I feel the Sun behind me, its ultraviolet rays radiating through me towards Earth. I realise it is not the Sun but Shiva Himself, emanating healing love. We are not alone. Like stars strung out along this

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realm of active selflessness, thousands of other beings direct vibrations of love towards Earth. I see these streams of healing reaching into the darkest recesses of every human psyche, and into all the places Mother Earth contains her rage, transforming the pain of separation, uniting all in a dream of perfection. All these fellow beings are faceless, but among them are clearly the manifold deities of all peoples and traditions. I have neglected the Fire in my remembering. Two burning logs fall apart with a thud and a hiss of scolding sparks. I feel a sudden, sharp pang of grief. It is fifteen years since that last pilgrimage. What possessed me to leave, irrevocably, that beautiful path? It’s all too easy to blame others, or the incessant, mundane demands of life for my forgetfulness. How many winters have I lived, how much have I learned to align with the deeper dreaming that provides meaning to existence? A sharp crackle from the Fire startles me. I add more wood. Its aromatic smoke rises. The weaving continues, connecting that meaningful experience in India with the next, which occurred over a decade later. Eliot Cowan, the teacher of plant spirit medicine who invited me into the dream of nature, and into the world of a people who have not forgotten their dream, leads a group of students down a dusty road in rural Massachusetts. We come to a tall, graceful weed with flame-shaped, dark green leaves and conical heads of tiny, aromatic buds. He tells us to study this plant, Mugwort. Later he beats a drum that opens us to the spirit of the plant. Leading me into this meeting, my animal guide treads slowly, carefully and unusually quietly, as though in awe. We are feeling the same deep, pulsating “drone of silence” I had felt while studying the plant earlier by the road. I become aware of a perception of Mugwort as being at the epicentre of a great healing force. I sit down before the

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spirit of Mugwort. I feel my whole body resonating with some vibrant power. Pure energy runs in lines like live electricity cables from head to toe. Following the teacher’s instructions, I ask Mugwort to clarify my true intention in practising plant spirit medicine. The spirit breathes crystal clear thoughts into my heart: “It is your duty to give yourself to the healing force emanating from the Divine. I am a plant, which reflects this powerful, driving force. I have given myself to it. Your duty is to do the same.” The Fire blazes with satisfaction. I adjust the blanket around me to keep the deepening frost off my back. My thoughts are running clear. I remember another time with that teacher, in the snowy Catskills. It is a trip that follows the numb ending of a twelveyear relationship. Walking alone by a frozen stream, I feel able to reflect calmly for the first time since then. I realize that I’d turned my back on the Divine and all that it meant to me for the harsh lessons of that unhappy liaison. Trudging by that stream in upstate New York, I am again called by my teacher. He beats a drum for a group of us. The drumming opens me to a meeting with my spirit-world guide. She leads me to a primeval place somewhere within my heart that transcends time and space. She tells me, “All dreams begin and end with the Divine. But dreams are like journeys and the one journey you people collectively share over untold lifetimes is the epic migration from a “time” when you are closest to the Divine to a point when you are furthest from the Divine, and then back again. Your journey back is a pilgrimage of remembrance, and on it you carry the burden of your spent vitality. That’s why you need our help.” She tells me many other things but I do not fully understand them. I acknowledge instead that, like winter holding the secrets of summer, I have to store their meaning until the time is right. The light of dawn begins to creep into winter’s sky. I stand up and give thanks to Grandfather Fire.

SHANTI E. BANNWART

he first purple light of morning colors the clouds in the east of Scotland. I leave the ferry from the small island of Iona to drive across the Isle of Mull in the Hebrides. The air is saturated with silence of an early winter day. I am alone. No other car is visible on this single-track road. Gently undulating hills spread on both sides as far as the eyes can reach. A few lazy sheep and cows are sprinkled across the meadows. The land is glowing. It has the character of an old woman storyteller sitting at the fire. Her stories are written in the sturdy grass and murmured into the wind that blows and dances ceaselessly and leaves the taste of salt on my lips. I have time in abundance to reach the next ferry that will take me to the mainland where I go once a week to buy food. I drive slowly; lean my head back and let my eyes caress the land and sky. The light changes constantly. Rays point to hill tops or valleys, suddenly revealing a dark and hidden fold in the land, transforming it into a dramatic stage setting, where birch trees beckon in the morning breeze. Waterfalls tumble over rocks and curl playfully through the rough countryside. The fields are gold, brown and dark-red surrounded by carpets of a luscious Scottish green. This green is intense and electrifying, it vibrates and shivers with delicious delight. Scotland is woman; it is female land. It is moist and nurturing. It embraces like a womb.

take off your shoes Journey into Solitude I have spent several months now on Iona, a place of pilgrimage. Lore tells that more than forty Scottish kings are buried in the ancient cemetery beside the majestic Iona Abbey; some say even Macbeth’s tomb is hidden in the ground. This island is held as sacred in the hearts of the Scots. It floats like a small, thin boat in the Atlantic on the west flank of Scotland. St. Columba the Irish monk landed here in 536 and built the first simple hut. He attracted pilgrims and this tiny island became the cradle of Christianity for northern Europe. The spark spread from here and became a fire. For me this sacred island has offered itself as a resting place after a year of travel and transience. The moment I stepped off the ferry and set my foot on Iona it wrapped me into its fierce mystery. I rented a small house on the only paved road near the ferry landing place and settled down to hibernate. There are crossroads in our lives that demand contemplation and stillness. I longed to integrate the experiences of the last year and sort out which direction my life would take in future. I needed a place and time for inner journey. Iona became this place for me. I grew into loving it with a dark passion. My life on this island is sometimes without firm ground underneath, not held by the grip of reality. I feel a seductive shapelessness in my thoughts and perceptions. My connection with the world outside dangles on a thin thread that could simply wear itself out and slip away. I don’t know if it is me who hovers in a dream or the world beyond this place is dreaming itself and is not real. The sounds and smells of that world do not reach to these shores. This island is saturated with the wine of silence.

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Never before have I committed myself to such a solitary quest—not for such a length of four months and not to such a lonesome place. No one knows me here or cares. When I stretch my arms there is nobody to touch with my hands, nobody to stroke, to smell or cuddle. Nobody’s arms are near to hold me. This winter seclusion penetrates my bones and makes me humble and naked. Solitude is like a stern storm that rips away shielding clothes of social roles and assumptions. My soul is unprotected. I take daily walks on this island and it slowly reveals its obvious and hidden beauty. The wind blows and combs my hair as I walk along a ﬁeld where a white horse grazes. Her tail and mane ﬂap in the wind. She lifts her head when I stop and call her.

Maybe she is lonesome, too, I think, leaning my forehead against her silky brow. I inhale her warm creature scent. We are two living, warmblooded beings, aware of each other’s presence. I remember a line from Rilke, “Two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.”

She steps slowly towards me and we look into each other’s eyes. Her eyes become dark caves and light shines from inside. This light sparks a scorching ﬁre of longing in my belly.

In this moment I feel piercingly awake inside the dream that my life had become. This land has taken me in and integrated me in its landscape. I am one with this creature, with the hard grass beneath my boots and the wild geese screeching overhead. I forget if I am willow or wind, sail or song.

“I yearn to touch a warm and living body,” I whisper, tears rolling down my cheeks. I mumble gentle names and stand motionless, until she moves her bony head close to mine. Her soft wet lips and nostrils explore my hands with great intimacy. She senses how precious this gentle encounter is for me.

My sister and I arrive on the ferry in the mainland harbor of Oban. A train leaves from here to Glasgow and its airport. I escort her to the station; she is parting, returning home after a week of sharing my life in this winter retreat. I see her so seldom

“Come near, you beauty, come and let me touch you, let me stroke your wet fur and scratch your nose.”

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take off your shoes

since we live far apart. She seized the chance to visit, because this winter I am just hours of travel time from her home. “You are my best friend and companion all through my life,” I say. We hold each other to say good-bye, tears in our eyes. We both cry easily and feel a bit embarrassed about it. “I so much appreciate that you came all the way to the small island where I hibernate. I know you were cold in your bed at night and there is not much comfort in my simple abode. I still laugh when I see you going to sleep with your ski cap on and woolen socks. Thank you, thank you my dear, for sharing my solitude.” We both sob now, holding each other, we do not know when and where on this globe we will see each other again. I live in a no-man’s land in between destinations, the future is unshaped. I am searching and waiting for the inner call to a new purpose and passion for my life. “ I am always here for you” she responds, “You can trust it, let me know if ever you need my help. Your life is so different than mine and sometimes I worry about you.” She leans out of the window as the train moves and shrieks in its track. Rain and wind ﬂattens her hair on her wet face. Our tears mingle with the rain. The end of the train vanishes in gray mist and I stand alone on the platform for a long time. She travels to a warm and cozy home that is ready for Christmas; a husband and her grown children wait for her. Her future is protected; she is very well cared for. I drop my head and look at the cement, rain and tears drip from the coat in little rivulets into my shoes. What am I doing here? I wonder, deeply shaken by doubt and loneliness. Her normal and secured life makes mine look like a forlorn boat on open water. I take the next ferry back to the Isle of Mull where I had left my car. As the ferry departs from the harbor a severe winter wind grabs and tears on me like a ferocious dog, I hold on to the railing. What am I doing here?

The ferry turns slowly around the last elbow of land that pokes outwards into the water, then we head straight towards the wind. The sea wrestles with the big boat and bangs its fists against the bow. I am alone on the outer deck. What am I doing here? A ray of sunlight shoots suddenly through an opening in the racing clouds. It points, a mighty finger of God, towards the top of a hill and showers it with vibrant light that makes the hill quiver with radiance. The hill bolts upwards towards the gray sky, like a green horse made of blazing fire. It burns its beauty into my brain like lightning. I am shaken by the power of the land and its wrestling with the sky. I am Moses in front of the burning bush. “Take off your shoes!” God said to Moses. I bend down and take off my shoes, my shoes of mediocre fears, my shoes of longing for companions, of wanting security and a warm home. I take off my shoes in front of the burning hills to honor a beauty that exposed itself to me for a mere few minutes but with the valor of eternity. I stand with bare feet and God reveals a secret to me. The secret is, that I had to travel all the way here to this place and this moment to be given the offering, right now. The land revealed its soul. The sky revealed to me its love-making with the land and there was only this one moment when the curtain opened and the great Mystery was being revealed to me. It will never again happen just in this way. I had to be empty of normal nurturing things that make us safe and satiated. I had to be raw and transparent so that I could see with the eyes of Soul into the Soul of this place, so I could begin to understand the Sufi saying, “God created the world to be known.” The ferry arrives at the Isle of Mull, its big ropes are being knotted around piers to calm its squirming and shaking. I step on the land and drive slowly back to Iona and towards a solitary but magical Christmas.

I remember a quote from Nor Hall: Without child or man I turn I fall Into shadows.

I have children, grandchildren and man somewhere on the other side of the globe, but I followed a deep instinct and decided to choose solitude. Why? For the ﬁrst time during my retreat doubt grabs me with ice-cold ﬁngers. Photos on pages 20 and 21 by Shanti E. Bannwart. Photo this page by Micah Spear.

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fire

An Interview with David Wiley

ANNIE KING

Now is the season to know That everything you do Is sacred. —Haﬁz

n the indigenous or shamanic view, the world around us is a manifestation of the Divine. From the smallest pebble to the trees, rivers, mountain, all the way to the great elemental forces that make up this world, the different manifestations of the Divine can be seen before our eyes. Intact indigenous cultures refer to these manifestations as gods and they maintain close relationships with them. One of the primary elemental forces, Fire, is present as a Divine Energy in all traditions. Fire has been our benefactor, warming us, cooking our food, giving us light for many millennia. We also know it as the energy of our hearts. It holds our pure spiritual knowing and wisdom. It connects us to each other and to the Divine, providing the medium for transformation. Fire is present in all spiritual pathways and, in many traditions, it is a living presence, which provides guidance and help. In the tradition of the Huichols of northwest Mexico, they call the God of Fire, Tatewarí. On this planet today there are said to be six people who are can be put into a deep trance that allows this great elemental energy of ﬁre to speak through them so that this elemental force can help the peoples of this world re-connect to their purpose and open their hearts. There is one each in India, Tibet, Indonesia, and two in the Amazon. There is also one in North America. David Wiley lends his

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body so that Tatewari, affectionately known as Grandfather, can appear and offer guidance. Formerly a businessman, David has experienced the ﬁres of transformation and embraced the role of shaman, healer and counselor in the small village of Tepoztlan in the central highlands of Mexico. This interview is his story. Question What was your life like

before you met Tatewarí? David Up until that time I’d been a

business consultant living in Atlanta. I worked with clients in the Southeast U.S. and helped them reorganize their businesses. I was, as Grandfather likes to kid me, a yuppy. I’d grown up in a place called Oak Ridge, Tennessee. It was a scientiﬁc community and the major employer was a national laboratory. Science was God. So I was educated in a public school system that placed a great deal of emphasis on science. Religion and spirituality were seen as matters of social activity. God and the Divine were not taken very seriously – at least that was my feeling growing up. If someone had asked me: “Do you believe in God?” I would have said, “I don’t understand what is important or interesting about that question!” In other words, “Who cares?” I moved to Mexico as my marriage of 16 years was ending. I was going to be with someone who was very important to me. In order to support my children, who were living with their mother in the US, I started a job as a trade consultant for companies who wanted to do business in Mexico. Almost immediately a series of disasters occurred. First, the government, which was the source of a lot of trade contracts and economic stimulation, became unstable with a change of presidents and almost went bankrupt. Also, the small tradeconsultant company that I had contracted with was unable to pay me because of unrevealed debt problems. On top of that I had an angry ex-wife with an aggressive lawyer who wanted to make her displeasure known. And so, when the company I contracted to work for failed to pay me, I ran out of money and I began to get behind in my child support payments. My ex-wife then had a warrant placed on me for non-payment of child support. This meant that if I showed up in Georgia, I’d be arrested until I could meet the payment conditions and clear the mounting arrearage in support payments.

So my new adventure quickly became an enormous disaster. I found myself marooned in Mexico, unable to come back to the States to seek new employment because of the warrant. I wasn’t able to see my children, and I was faced with a new culture that felt quite overwhelming—and so there I was! This process went on for two years. I was unable to close any contract no matter how hard I worked or how many meetings I attended. Nothing seemed to work. Question So at this point your life was in turmoil. How did the meeting with whom we now know as Tatewari, the God of Fire, come about? David My new Mexican partner, Diana, who was gracious

enough to support me through this time, is involved in various spiritual pursuits, as many Mexicans are. Diana is quite eclectic. Whenever she was interested in going off to some workshop or some spiritual meeting, I would dismiss those types of activities as superfluous. I continued trying to find trade contracts, which was what I thought was important. Whenever she would see or explain something in a spiritual context, I took it as a challenge to explain the phenomenon in a rational scientific context as a way of dismissing its possible spiritual nature. But one day she invited me to go to a three-day Shambhala Buddhist meditation retreat in Cuernavaca, and I agreed to go. Quite frankly, I don’t know why I accepted her invitation, except that maybe I was so depressed about my situation that, finally, I was open to anything. So I attended the meditation and I felt very relaxed and very open. I was surprised to find that I meditated very easily. On the third day, during an afternoon break, I was walking in the garden of the retreat center, feeling relaxed and expansive, and I found myself talking to myself about some deep philosophical questions. As I began to ask myself those questions, what I identified as “a voice” began to answer them. I was surprised at the depth of the knowledge of the voice, and how profound the answers were. At the same time, an image, more like an apparition, of a very old Indian man, small and very weathered, wearing a red headband, began to appear. I felt that I was in some kind of daydream until I realized that the voice was not my imagination speaking to me and that the apparition was real. I immediately panicked and rushed out of the garden to find Diana, who is a psychotherapist. I rushed to her saying “Diana, there is an old Indian man talking to me,” thinking Sacred Fire

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that I needed either therapy or drugs, or both! Diana’s response was, “Well, find out what he wants!” I felt stunned and disappointed because that was not the kind of help that I was expecting. I wanted her to dispel this experience. But after she said that, I thought for a short while and realized that this was too incredible of a situation to run away from. So I got up my nerve and I walked back out to the garden, which was filled with bushes and plants so that it was quite secluded. And there He reappeared! At first I tried to make some kind of social conversation like, “Isn’t this garden beautiful?” “You’re afraid, aren’t you?” He said in a deep voiced, gruff and direct manner. It stopped me dead in my tracks and I admitted, “Yes I am!” “Do you want me to go away?” He asked. “Wait just one moment—this is too incredible, too unbelievable,” I said. “Let’s take this one step at a time and see where it goes.” “You’re really torn up about this thing with your kids, aren’t you?” He said, somehow knowing that my separation from them had been my overriding preoccupation for two years. It felt like He had just pressed a button. I was filled with grief and answered, “Yes.” “You know, I could use someone like you. I’ll make a deal with you,” He said as though He was mirroring some business lingo. “I’ll fix this thing with your kids, if you become a shaman.” At that moment I felt very inspired, knowing that whatever He said would come to pass. I enthusiastically said, “Yes, I agree.” I paused for a moment and asked, “What’s a shaman?” “You don’t need to get hung up on labels,” He said. “You’ve got a lot of time to figure that out.” And then He disappeared. I ran back into the retreat center where Diana was talking to some of the participants, and I said “Diana, He said He’s Number Two

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going to fix this thing with my kids, and that all I have to do is become a shaman. What is a shaman?” She looked at me with a disconcerted expression, and began to fumble an attempt at a definition. I said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll look it up in the dictionary!” What I found was something to the effect of: Shaman: A member of certain tribal societies practicing a magico–animistic religious belief system who acts as a medium between the visible and invisible spirit world for the purpose of healing, divination and influence over natural events.

“What in the hell is that?” I shouted. Then I calmed down, telling myself that I shouldn’t be worried. It is going to be just ﬁne because He was going to take care of this thing with my kids. Question I imagine your relationship with Tatewari and developing trust in this guidance was a process just like any relationship? David Yes. At the ﬁrst there was the momentum of wonder,

fascination and enthusiasm. He appeared the next day and woke me up in the morning before sunrise. I was very startled, and asked, “What is going on?” He said, “It is time to get up. We have to go to work. We have a deal!” As I pulled myself out of bed, He continued, “The first thing you need to learn is how to pray; you can’t do this sort of work unless you know how to pray!” And that was the last time He appeared to me in apparition form. So during the first part of the process I felt a great deal of elation. But He continued to add on activities that became more challenging for my mind so, even with the fascination, my mind began to grouse. It was very confronting. I wondered if I was crazy. I would actually have moments of longing for the way things used to be. Even after He brought me a business deal two months later that resolved my financial problems, allowing me to satisfy my

debts and begin to see my children again, my mind’s capacity to generate doubt persisted. My mind wanted a continuous flow of these types of experiences to reassure it. This is one of the ways the mind wants to stay in control. Dealing with the mind was where my real training began. At the beginning when I asked who He was, He would say, “Don’t worry about labels, you have plenty of time. Lets just stick with what we’re doing.” Then, a few months later, He dramatically stepped up the heat. He said, “Now you need physical teachers. And you’ll also learn more about me and who I am.” He instructed me to go to an area where we received mail and to locate a brochure advertising Eliot Cowan’s Plant Spirit Medicine course. He then said, “He is going to take you to a Huichol shaman who is going to know that you are coming. I also want you to take this course to learn something about the spirits of plants, not just their pharmacological value.” I was thinking to myself, “This is going to be difficult. I don’t have the resources to look for someone in the States!” But I discovered that the course was being given in Tepoztlan, a village forty-five minutes from the city where I lived. There I met Eliot and he seemed to understand what I was going through. He also knew a Huichol shaman, named Don Lupe González Rios, with whom he was apprenticing. A month later he took me to meet the shaman near Nayarit, Mexico. Don Lupe, who anticipated my arrival, finally diagnosed the being talking to me as Tatewarí, the god of Fire, also called Grandfather Fire, who is in charge of teaching all the shamans their work. Don Lupe said that I needed to become his apprentice in order to keep my agreement with Tatewarí. As the dust was settling on this arrangement, Tatewarí had me go to an old Nahuatl (central Mexican highlands Indian group) weather shaman named Don Lucio Campos Elizade. Don Lucio also identified the being that was talking to me as Grandfather Fire, in the Nahuatl language known as Huehueteotl. And there I began my apprenticeship with him as a trabajador del tiempo, working as an emissary for the weather beings to help bring beneficial weather. Meeting these old guys and getting their solid corroboration did a great deal to improve my trust. Tatewarí pointed out that He didn’t give me my doubt. My mind generated this perspective—which is a particularly prevalent problem in my home culture. I had to learn that Divine isn’t something that I, as an individual, can manipulate for my own desires. I am simply a small part of the big picture. As I learned to let go of

The ego takes itself very seriously and wants to have its own kingdom. Therefore, it can hide from what confronts it. The ego sees the energy of ﬁre as an unreasonable and potentially destructive dose of humor or clarity in the face of this confrontation. the desire for Him to satisfy all of my insecurities, I began to embrace the phenomena of life as a living intelligent being. My trust issues began to resolve. And, therefore, I could participate in life rather than being fearful or suspicious or dismissive of it as a way to protect myself from it. Question Could you talk about when Grandfather ﬁrst

began to speak through you to others? David Diana and I had a habit of sometimes taking

our evening meal at a restaurant named “Sanborn’s” in Cuernavaca, Mexico. One day, about five months after all this began, we were having a meal and I suddenly felt a strong urge to drink some hot chocolate and to smoke a cigar. Now this was very strange because I didn’t and don’t smoke. Diana looked at me in a funny way as I got up and went to the tobacco shop and purchased a few cigars. After fumbling and figuring out how to cut the end off and get it going, I discovered that smoking the cigar and drinking the hot chocolate seemed to amplify my ability to hear Him talking to me. I said to Diana, “Hey it really helps me hear him, go ahead and ask me some questions.” I felt my heart racing, which I thought was the effect of the tobacco, and then I felt a surge like an acceleration similar to taking off in an airplane. I found myself waking up in a great deal of confusion, not remembering what had happened. At first, I felt there had been some kind of accident like an earthquake, which is common in this area. However, Diana informed me that my expression and presence changed dramatically and Tatewarí had suddenly started talking with her. She found it wonderful. Sacred Fire

Number Two

Tramsformation by ﬁre

Question Do you hear or remember what is going on? David No I don’t remember anything. I’ve never been

anesthetized, but I can imagine that this is what it must be like—a blank space in experience where time isn’t accounted for. Question Since then Grandfather has had you make

appearances at specially organized ﬁres where people have experienced Grandfather speaking through you, where you appear to be in a trance. Is that channeling? David Since I don’t have much experience with people

who channel or consciousness of what’s happening when Grandfather is speaking through me, it’s hard for me to comment on this. However, when I’ve asked Tatewarí, He doesn’t call it channeling. He says that channeling is where a spirit, being or energy invades your body and speaks through you. Sometimes it can be from opening a door and connecting through your mind. But Fire is a natural elemental presence in nature. It makes the heat of our bodies. He says that He only has to slightly amplify His presence which is already in us. When this occurs, my body temperature increases to 104 degrees and I’m in a coma-like state. This, He says, puts my mind to the side. Therefore He uses my “suit,” as He calls my body, and He generates an audible form. Although the form looks like an individual speaking, He says He’s not speaking as an individual, but as a presence in the world. Question Can you do this at any time? David No. I don’t call Him; He calls me! Question How do you feel about this “lending of the suit” as Grandfather calls it? David Well, at ﬁrst it was very disconcerting, because the

mind, by its nature, still likes to be in control. It’s still a little like this. As I said, it’s what I imagine it’s like to be anesthetized. Something happens, and, because he sets the mind to the side, it feels like a gap. For me it is like a blind spot. This is different from going to sleep where you close your eyes and you wake up and you don’t feel that you’ve missed something. I don’t even know if I have been asleep or not. I evidently have to undergo a difﬁcult recovery process in which my memory seems to be temporarily affected and I have some impressions of being very cold. Evidently, after Number Two

Sacred Fire

the heat leaves there’s a temperature crash. I also have a really bad taste in my mouth as He has been noted to blaze through 12 to 14 big cigars and a large quantity of hot chocolate in an evening. Question Can you say anything to help people who don’t

understand this process and are skeptical? David I’m not sure. I can certainly appreciate the skepticism

given that I have been there myself. As I’ve said before, it takes time. The mind can be shown clear evidence and it will try to find a way around it. That’s when you discover it isn’t about evidence; it’s about control. The mind doesn’t want to admit the obvious and therefore relinquish territory. So it took work through His guidance—such as successful apprenticeships with Don Lupe, Don Lucio and Eliot Cowan—to create a process that helped me build trust and begin to learn how to deal with my mind and its desire to dismiss what you could call the phenomena of spirit. But that is very tough work and some people aren’t ready for it. At times Tatewarí can be painfully direct in pointing out what your mind doesn’t want to face. He also absolutely loves to taunt the mind or individual ego with hidden or direct humor. He can leave a piece of bait to purposefully generate doubt and then pull the rug out in order to confront the ego’s assumptions. The ego takes itself very seriously and wants to have its own kingdom. Therefore, it can hide from what confronts it. The ego sees the energy of fire as an unreasonable and potentially destructive dose of humor or clarity in the face of this confrontation. If you’re open, you begin to laugh at yourself for the mind’s absurdities. Tatewarí generates this laughter as transformation. In our modern materialistic society there is a great deal of pandering to the mind. You’re supposed to always get what you want. You’re not supposed to believe anyone that contradicts you because you have the right to be right. Isn’t that what all the advertisements tell you? In the spiritual-learning area I find people who prefer to read books rather than deal with a teacher because they can keep whatever perspective they like. They don’t have to face a teacher who may point out something that might make them feel uncomfortable. Therefore, there’s an ego/mind benefit to remaining a lone ranger. In contrast Tatewarí, as fire and connection, deals with bringing perspectives together. That requires people who are willing to relate to each other.

Tramsformation by ﬁre

In response to your question I can say this: “try it, you’ll like it.” I find that if you’re open to listening to what He’s saying, then, even though the “suit thing” must be a little weird for people in a modern European based culture, He makes very practical sense. He puts the world in the middle with all of its beauty and warts, and gives a perspective on how to embrace and deal with it all. There’s no simplistic “all the good guys are on this side and all the bad guys are on that side.” I personally have come to find it refreshing. But it requires openness because the world is a very complex place compared to the capacity of the mind to understand. As some famous author once said, “Truth is stranger than fiction.” Question How has this changed your life? David There is no retirement plan, and there are no health insurance benefits! Well, my life is completely different. As a marrakame or shaman in the Huichol tradition, and a healer and weather worker in the Nahuatl tradition, I’m a village shaman in Tepoztlan. I have a healing and counseling practice. I am involved in the village life: welcoming new births through baptism; counseling people with a variety of spiritual or relationship problems; performing funerals and so on. So attending to the needs of daily human life, plus being involved in the Sacred Fire Community and traveling on their behalf keeps me busy. Whenever He sends me on a trip or when I am doing a pilgrimage, which is one of the main ways to learn in the path of Huichol shamanism, I can’t help thinking that this is quite a bit different than becoming captain of industry and making my first million dollars. Even though there is a lot of hard work involved, I consider it a blessed life, and wake up every morning looking forward to seeing what the Divine will bring.

anti-royal tenant-farmer and merchant-class revolution that took possession of what is now the country and disposed of the original inhabitants,” this cultural perspective is less than 250 years old. In terms of the multi-thousand year old cultural history of the world, this is nothing. In other parts of the world that have a very old cultural basis and traditions, He says that these types of interventions have happened, even though they weren’t well recorded. He says that He shows up during various times in various ways to give a little “grease” as He calls it. He says that, despite all the material and technological things we seem to have going for us in this epoch, our lives are growing colder, more confused and separate. He says His interest is to awaken His voice as heart within people and therefore bring more warmth, connection and heart-guidance to their lives. And He’s said that there has been a lot of drift between what the heart voice truly is and what the mind has co-opted and presents as heart. So he’s presenting Himself in this fashion in order to help us gain a form of calibration. He presents it as one of those rare moments. Maybe we’ll get a glimpse of where Divine is taking us.

Question Why do you think Grandfather is coming at this

time and in this way? David He’s told me that what He’s doing isn’t unusual

although it may seem strange for people living in these times. But our current cultural perspective, which is heavily shaped by European “Age of Reason” ideology built on a previous foundation of Judeo-Christian views, is only 500 year old. If you focus on the United States, which He calls “the great All photo by Will Berliner.

Sacred Fire

Number Two

Many of us were sitting around the fire with a shaman asking questions about the problems humans have caused, what we might do to remedy those problems and how we can reconnect with the spirits of the earth. After listening for a while a serious young man said, “What you’re saying is to sit by the fire and do nothing.” “That’s right,” the shaman replied. “Except that it’s not ‘doing nothing.’ It’s sitting by the fire and listening to your heart.” “But that’s not going to help with global warming or the extinction of species or the war on terror,” the young man insisted. “I’ll say it again. Sit by the fire with your friends and listen to their stories. Walk in the forest and listen to the trees and the birds and the streams and the wind. Try to calm your mind, which is full of fear, and listen to your heart. Then you’ll know what to do.” “Sit by the fire? Walk in the woods? That’s nothing. You’re telling us to do nothing.” His voice was angry, challenging the shaman. “You’ve got it. Sit by the fire. Try to be calm.” The shaman calmly puffed on his long cigar. The young man stood up and shouted, “I haven’t got time for this!” He ran off into the night.

Chiaroscuro The Play of Light and Dark JENNIFER MEANS I have been working on prayer. How to sit and listen, focus inward, deeper toward the heart. Mostly I just hear the babble of my own thoughts, steady and constant, like a brook passing over a series of stones. Every once in awhile something will emerge—a salmon rising to the surface, rippling into the constant chatter for a moment, shifting things—and then it’s gone. In my prayers I ask for help. “Help me listen, Grandfather,” I ask, sitting by the fire. I breathe deeply and sink in to my chest and hold it open while the fire sputters and flames of color lick at the sticks; while sirens scream in the distant city and the rain beats out a rhythm in the trees of my yard and the tarp over my head. I wonder how the shamans do it? How do they hear the voices of the gods, the spirits of the plants and rocks and trees and wind. I even have friends who hear these voices— who have allies in the spirit world, animal helpers, medicine dreams. What do they sound like when they speak? Where does it come from? Are they visions? Do they speak English? How do they know that it’s God talking? Is it my heart or my head that keeps me from hearing? I have been working on this listening for many years now. Every morning and night I sit by a candle in prayer and meditation. Every month I spend a night by the fire—fasting, listening, watching. I have to admit, though, my daily prayer is often rushed by the ticking of the clock, the sound of children waking, and my own persistent thought, “What can I wear today that doesn’t need ironing?” Tonight, I am sitting outside by the fire with my daughter, Maya, who, from the moment she was born, has been my teacher. She was born with no vital signs, after a long labor. The doctors worked to resuscitate her for 10 minutes, and then, because her brain had been deprived of oxygen for so long, they worked for the next few days to convince us to take her off life support. I prayed for that little girl like I have never prayed for anything, rocking her in my heart, because I wasn’t allowed to hold her for three days. And my husband telephoned everyone in our phone book, and asked them to pray for her. And a prayer circle that stretched from Florida to Hawaii went out—Christians, Sufis, Buddhists, Pagans, Native Americans, New Agers. And people started calling us, telling us that in their prayers that they had a vision, or a dream, or a sense of peace and that Maya was going to be okay. And today, we are sitting together, waiting for the others to join us. The cold November rain pours around us as we sit inside the weathered smoky canopy. I think that for a few short moments I may offer her some wisdom and teach her some lessons about listening. “Ahhhh. I love the fire,” Maya says while the wet kindling smokes and finally bursts into flame. “Listen. Can you hear what the Fire is saying, Maya?” I ask. Maya is quiet for a few moments and then she sits forward in her chair and yells into the flames. “What? What’s that you are saying, Grandfather?” I chuckle and think to myself that perhaps I have been approaching my prayers all wrong, maybe I need to be more direct with the Gods. Maya turns to me. “Is the fire God, Mom?” “Yes, the fire is one aspect of God.”

“Grandfather Fire helped me get better. When I was a baby I was sick and Grandfather helped me.” Later, in my prayers I again express my gratitude for the warmth and light that the fire brings into my life, for these heart felt moments, these connections. I feel the great depth of darkness that stretches out around me, beyond this room, this place, into other realms—the corners of my soul; under the currents of my thoughts where the fish swim; to the place of the Mountain Spirits, the Rock People; to under the rocks into the depths and dark soil of our Mother; and into Space, the Infinite mystery; and into the darkness of fear and the underworlds; into those nights in the intensive care unit on the brink of my daughter’s death; into the darkness of my own death—and in that darkness I see the spark of light, the flame that creates an opening where I find the warmth of hope and heart and possibility. I find Grandfather there ready to help me as he helped my daughter, as a newborn, find life.

Photo: Reﬂected Light, Harvey Coté.

Knitting Nana

JOAN SPEAR

Nana was a mah-jongg and cardplaying, matzo-ball-soup-making, larger-than-life caricature of a Jewish grandma. She loved gaudy costumejewelry (great for dress-up), wore gobs of blue eye-shadow and make-up which she generously shared with me, her eldest, therefore first and therefore most special of granddaughters. I could always discover something sweet along the lines of peppermint hard candies in her huge red leather handbag and her kitchen was overstocked with cookies and sweets that we were never allowed to eat at home. I forgot to mention that my Nana drove a black Cadillac with fire-engine red leather seats and let me “curse,” but only in the car when no one else was around.. I visited my Nana regularly in the spring, summer and autumn when she and my Poppop were not in Florida with their card playing and golfing cronies. I would tie on my beat-up saddle shoes, hop on my trusty bike (Schwinn, blue, twin baskets on the back tire, bell) and pedal seven minutes over to the apartment building where Nana and Poppop resided. Nana taught me how to play card games. She loved to watch TV with me. But most importantly, Nana knit. She knit afghans, she knit sweater and skirt outfits for me that itched, sweaters that were icky shades of blue with little seed pearls painstakingly sewn in tacky designs that I wouldn’t be caught dead in, yet somehow would end up having to wear. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but my Nana also taught me how to knit. We made Barbie clothes—truly haute couture—stoles and long, skinny evening gowns out of those formerly icky shades of blue that now wonderfully matched Barbie’s painted-on eye shadow. Ken got little scarves. We made all the small sections: fronts, backs, tops, bottoms and then Nana taught me to sew the sections together seemingly seamlessly. Then little seed pearls were sewn on. When I think back to that time, I realize Nana must have had great patience to see those little doll outfits and other projects through—untangling yarn, picking up dropped stitches from impossibly small needles, saying something like, “Oy, Dahlink, it’s simply a masterpiece.” I can see her clacking away loudly, as if to let us all know she was busy and productive in what otherwise appeared to be a life of cards, candy, Cadillacs.

What a gift she gave me. I never knew at the time. We used beautiful wool. We sat together in companionable silence in the den, accompanied by soap operas. And I have carried a love of knitting with me all my life. My mother must have also been a knitter, taught by her colorful mother, no doubt, but I have no memory of catching her in the act. She owned every size of needle and a tartan patterned knitting bag and I (nice Jewish girl) still have the Christmas stocking with my name knitted on it, which I hang alongside the stockings I knit for my children. She told me that she knit in college, during lectures and I wanted to know why she wasn’t taking notes.

“Dahlink, it’s such a magnificent sweater. What a masterpiece.”

My mother was more conventional than my Nana, though she drove a Buick Skylark convertible, fire-engine red with black bucket seats, after she totally stripped the gears on our little blue VW. She didn’t play cards, golf or watch soap operas. She was the first person I knew who took yoga classes in the Seventies, and went to art lectures at the museum. She took me to the symphony in the city; she shlepped me to piano lessons. But we did not knit together. I knit while my mother was dying—a sweater coat that was knee length. Usually I did my knitting in the winter— I equate wool with warmth. But in the heat of August, I began a project to keep me from wringing my hands, from tearing my hair, from screaming in helplessness that my fourty six year young mother was incurably ill. I knit in the air-conditioned chill of my mother’s bedroom, sitting on the floor next to her bed, knitting and breathing with her. Clackety-clacking so she knew I was there. Every ragged breath she drew, I breathed with her, willing her to keep breathing. My family would assemble on the floor, lying next to her bed and just breathe and talk to her. My father would spend the nights sleeping on the floor next to her bed breathing with her. Breathe in, knit one, breathe out, purl one. I knit for days, for weeks. The sweater grew as my mother lay dying. I wore the sweater for years after that. I am a colorful mother who makes brown rice and miso soup and muffins from blueberries picked and frozen last summer; and who drives a small,

unobtrusive and gas-gentle car and has allowed her hair to gray naturally. I write music, practice yoga, and wear home knit clothing, a descendant from a legacy of knitting women. I say “Oy, Dahlink” with authority, because I now understand both the affection and wisdom as well as the sense of humor and deep history involved in such an endearing term. Come to think of it, I’m about the age my Nana was when she taught me to knit, when she knit us together in our family history, seed pearl by seed pearl. Somewhere in the attic, moth- or mouse- eaten, I know I still have that itchy and unappreciated red and white striped sweater and skirt set that Nana made for me when I was 10. I wish I’d kept that icky blue sweater with seed pearls that she lovingly made. I long to know where all those bejeweled Barbie outfits and my Barbie are. Last year I taught my twentysomething actor son how to knit. He

reports that knitting on subways is a chick magnet and he makes great scarves for friends and family while waiting in auditions and green rooms. And now it is Thanksgiving Day and my family is hanging out in the living room by the fire. My husband is reading a funny article out loud, while my youngest is taking photos of the cats and my middle son is IM-ing on his laptop. My oldest, actor-knitter son, has just brought out the sweater he never finished knitting last winter and we are sitting on the couch trying to figure out what’s next, unraveling tangles and trying to keep the photogenic cats at bay. I sigh, “Oy, Dahlink,” and it’s an homage and link to my Nana as well as a humorous ribbing to my son for the mess we’re working on. I am knitting with my son and I am knitting with my ancestors. Knit one for Nana, purl one for Mom, knit one for me, purl one for my son. I can hear Nana, “Dahlink, it’s such a magnificent sweater. What a masterpiece.”

Love Beyond Words for Laura

had just lost my job, my husband, my home. But when I heard that Laura was dying, that her breast cancer had returned and had metastasized to her liver and to her bones, I offered to help care for her. I knew in my heart that this was meant to be. I did not know Laura very well. Although we were both part of the same small Buddhist community in the tiny town of Ojai in Southern California, we had never spoken other than to say “hello” on the rare times when we bumped into each other at the grocery store. The previous year I had been part of a circle of care for a man in our community who died of AIDs. That experience had shown me that caring for people who are dying is part of my life’s work. I had seen clearly, for the ﬁrst time in my life, that I have a “talent” that many other people do not possess. That is, I am very good at doing nothing. I can hold space—quietly, calmly, fearlessly—for the profound transformation that is death. So when I was told that Laura didn’t want my help because she didn’t know me, I was disappointed. And a week later, I made my offer again. This time, Laura said yes, I could help, but only to move her possessions from her old apartment to one that could better accommodate the close friends who would be staying with her in her last days. I spent a few days cleaning and moving her things into the new place. She never moved into the new apartment.

Sacred Fire

Number Two

CARLA LEFTWICH

Instead, the circle of people caring for her, headed by her close friend, Mark, had decided that Laura must move to Shantigar. Shantigar means “place of peace” and it was the center of our Buddhist community. Our teacher, Ösel Tendzin, had chosen this place as a ﬁnal retreat. It was here that he lived and taught until his death in 1990. Shantigar is a beautiful spot, a magical orange and avocado ranch in the incredible nest that is the valley of Ojai, California. At that time on the property there was a “big” house where Ösel Tendzin had lived and 2 casitas—Casa Blanca and Casa Brava. Laura would spend the last 3 weeks of her life in Casa Brava. The shrine room, where Tendzin had taught the diamond teachings of the Vajrayana Path, was just steps away. Some days after Laura moved in, I received word that she had decided I could help her. I never found out why she changed her mind. I became part of the circle of six people who took turns staying with her. One and sometimes two of us would be with her continuously until her death.

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The ﬁrst time that I sat with Laura, Mark was also there. Laura and I did not speak. By this time she was very weak and she rarely used her energy to talk to anyone. I just sat quietly by her bed listening to the sounds that ﬂoated in through the windows – Mark’s children laughing as they ran by on the way home; Don Raul, the gardener, sweeping the stone walkways that connected the houses and the gardens; sangha members walking down the path on their way to the shrine room; the piercing cry of the gong calling people to meditation. Within the walls of Casa Brava I was aware of the sound of Laura breathing. After an hour or so, Mark asked Laura if she was hungry. “Yes,” came the answer. Mark asked me to go to the kitchen and heat up some soup. When I returned with the soup, Mark crawled in the bed with Laura, put his legs on either side of her and propped her torso and her head against his chest. I sat in front of them and fed her spoonful by spoonful. Later in the afternoon, Mark announced that he had to go home and care for his children while his wife went to work. Laura and I were left alone. I noticed that she seemed uncomfortable and agitated. I asked if she was feeling afraid. She said “yes.” I asked her if she would like me to lie down next to her. “Yes,” came the reply. I lay down so that we were

Love Beyond Words

face to face. I reached out and took her hands in mine and we rested, hands in hands, for a long time and Laura even slept for a bit. During this time I felt our unspoken heart connection was planted in unknowable depths, and I felt it begin to grow. Over the next three weeks I often did shifts with Mark. Although Laura was in a great deal of pain, she never complained and refused to take any kind of pain medication. On days when she was unable to get comfortable in any position, Mark or I would draw a warm bath. Then he and I would walk Laura, her arms braced over our shoulders, to the bathroom. We would slowly lower Laura into the tub and Mark would hold her face above the water so that her whole body could float. My job was to place warm, wet cloths on her chest, and splash the soothing waters over her arms and legs. Sometimes she would smile as the waters caressed her. Other days, Mark and I took turns holding her in our arms and feeding her or holding her in our arms just because she was lonely and frightened by the process of dying. I also spent many hours alone with Laura. She was stubborn. Not only did she refuse any medication, but she also refused to have a bedside commode or a hospital bed. As she became weaker it got more and more difficult to get her out of the bed and to walk with her to the bathroom. One day as I was resting beside her, she whispered, “I have to go to the bathroom.” I said okay, and went over to her side of the bed to help her get up. It was a slow process. Once I had her sitting up on the side of the bed, I placed her feet on top of my feet and stood her up. We waltzed, a halting waltz, like a child and her huge Raggedy-Ann doll, to the bathroom and back. Fifteen minutes or more passed before we finally returned to the side of the bed. We stood there with our heads close together, Laura’s feet still resting on top of mine. Before I could start to lower her down to sit on the bed, she whispered, “Why are you so kind to me?”

It was the ﬁrst time she had ever said anything personal to me. I was shocked that she had spoken. I was even more shocked when the reply to her question came out of my mouth because I realized that the words did not come from me. They were from Someone, Something, Some LOVE far beyond my small self. And this Greater Being said, “Because this is what you deserve!” Laura wept and I wept as I helped her down onto the bed. The Sunday before Laura died, I was in the shrine room for the regular Sunday day-long meditation practice. Someone came in and tapped me on the shoulder. Laura needed me. I remembered that no one in our circle of care was with Laura that day because she was to have visitors and had requested to be alone with them. When I entered the room, I could see that Laura was extremely tired and wondered if she had been trying too hard to entertain her friends. I introduced myself to the two women sitting stifﬂy in their chairs, and they told me that they worked with Laura at the hospital. Laura was a nurse and both of these women were also nurses. I said that it was nice to meet them or something like that and then I turned to Laura. “What do you need?” I inquired. ”I’m hungry,” she replied, weakly. “What would you like to eat?” I asked, knowing that she had not eaten anything in the last two days. “A hamburger!” she said with a big smile on her face. “A hamburger!” I exclaimed. I knew that Laura was a strict vegetarian. I smiled at her and we both started laughing. Unfortunately, there were no fast food restaurants near that part of Ojai in 1994, so Laura agreed to have soup. Still, as I heated the soup, I longed with all my heart for a hamburger to magically fall out of the sky. Laura had two sips before declaring she was full. She never ate again.

I felt like I was rising up, beginning to ﬂoat. I pulled myself back down, determined to stay present, determined to be a conscious witness to the beauty of the unfathomable mystery taking place.

Sacred Fire

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Love Beyond Words

After eating, Laura was completely exhausted and wound up. I asked her if she would like me to hold her. “Yes,” she said. I climbed up behind her, encircled her with my legs and gently lowered her body back against my chest. We rested that way without speaking for forty-ﬁve minutes, maybe even an hour. Laura’s friends sat in their chairs and did not talk. They seemed astonished at the quiet way in which Laura and I interacted. But I felt perfectly comfortable, perfectly natural, silently holding this friend, this being whom I loved, in my arms. Two days later, Mark called me in the morning. He said, “If you want to say goodbye to Laura you had better come over this morning. Her breathing has changed and we think she will die soon.” When I arrived at Casa Brava a number of the people who had cared for Laura were there. I looked at her, lying there with her eyes closed, and could tell that death was near. I sat down by her bed. Then, one by one, the other caregivers began to leave. As I sat alone with Laura, her breathing changed radically. Her breaths were further and further apart and each in-breath was a visible struggle. Then once again a shift occurred. Laura breathed out, an impossibly deep and long out-breath. Then her jaw jutted out, out beyond her normal physical boundaries, and grasped for air, for life. Seconds passed, maybe even a minute passed, and then she breathed out again. For a second time I witnessed the extraordinary lunge, her whole body, her whole being stretching, searching, reaching for air. A minute passed and for the third time the air escaped loudly from her lungs, from her entire body. I waited. I waited. This time there was no movement. Laura’s body remained still. I sat upright in my chair. I felt like I was rising up, beginning to ﬂoat. I pulled myself back down, determined to stay present, determined to be a conscious witness to the beauty of the unfathomable mystery taking place. I said, my voice steady, “Laura you are dying. Your spirit is leaving your physical body. Do not be afraid. Remember whatever you see, whatever you hear, whatever you experience is the heart of the guru – it is your awakened heart. I thank you for all the gifts that you have given to me and to all the other beings you have encountered in your life. I love you.” It is part of Buddhist tradition to leave the body undisturbed for three days. Laura’s body remained in Casa Brava and the

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Sacred Fire

community took turns sitting with her. I remember that it was early spring and we kept all of the windows open, wearing our coats and wrapped in blankets, grateful for the cold air. I remember that the smell of the body rotting alternated with occasional breezes that brought in the sweet scents of roses and orange blossoms.

Laura died in 1994. I now live in Grand Junction, Colorado where I am part of a group of people planning a co-housing community. My dream is that we will have a small house in our community, a house like Casa Brava, where people who are dying can come and be held within such a space—a space of love beyond words. We will hold them and when the time comes, we will let them go.

Rainbow Light, Book of Light, pages 1, 2, 21, 4, 5, 15, 61 Kathleen O’brien The series of collages featured on pages 36 and 37 were created for the show, “Honoring the Ancestors,” at Weyrich Gallery, Albuquerque, NM, October 2003. In a journey I saw 7 long panels each in one of the rainbow colors. They corresponded to the Chakras and radiated phrases and affirmations. They would be the first 7 pages of “The Book of Light.” These were not to be framed, but rather free hanging, like prayer flags. My first response to the rainbow idea was that it was kind of corny (with all due respect, Ancestors). Having that response blocked me. I called an artist friend and we discussed blocks but I didn’t tell her anything specific. Next she described some Buddhist teachings she was receiving as a preparation for death about attaining the Rainbow Light Body. This synchronicity amazed me and I returned to the Ancestors for instruction about this rainbow light, humbled and contrite that I had judged their wisdom.

Steelhead comes into your Life

T.E. MERRITT

n the shallow clear water, the water that fringed the jade-green pool in the great river that flowed wild over the timeless, round boulders, the gigantic steelhead swam. It was a buck and he was angry, it seemed, as he eyed me for a distinct moment. He wasn’t acting as if he was concerned about being hooked. I reeled in, straightening and tightening the line—ten-pound test, much too light for such a big fish. I was trying to be smooth, to maybe coax the fish into being peaceable and, perhaps, to gently surrender himself and slip up onto the rocks for me. Abruptly, my optimism vanished when my pole was nearly jerked from my hands. The fish had turned in a flash, and streaked to the bottom of the pool where it began to cartwheel violently, trying to dislodge my hook. I could see down into the greenish pool where the huge silver fish appeared to be gold, a golden strobe, flashing golden light up from the jade-green depth. This was a very dangerous time; the “death-roll,” some fishing guides called it. Many fish freed themselves performing the “death-roll.” I eased the pressure on the fish and the fish responded by swimming to the surface so fast it blasted through in a reverse shower of diamond bright droplets, a million of them. It appeared to me that the fish was now swimming up through the air intending to leave the planet. I know my mouth was hanging open. I was stunned by the impossible size of the steelhead and the astounding height to which he soared. Upon “reentry,” the great fish knifed down into the river with barely a splash, rocketing upstream angry and violent as a rank rodeo bull. I had to run, awkward and slipping over the bowling-ball sized rocks, holding the rod as high aloft as I could, trying to keep up with this freight train of a fish. I felt a familiar hopelessness settling into my chest. Panic still possessed my heart but experience told me that it was but a matter of moments before the fish was gone. You see, I had hooked such fish before. I resigned myself, then and there, to accept the inevitable—that being, of course, the familiar heart-breaking snap of

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Illustrations by Joshua Andrew Belanger Sacred Fire

It was an ancient beam of light and gratitude ... right into the center of my eye.

the leader. There would be a sudden, surreal dizziness as hope drained in a single flush and was replaced by an unsavory mixture of confused emotion. This signaled the depressing reality that I had lost another great--or perhaps too great--fish. Strangely, just about the moment I began to relax, and, as it were, “accept the inevitable,” the great fish slowed down, in fact he stopped just short of “spooling” me. I reeled in line as I walked upstream cautiously over the slippery rocks, expecting at any moment another explosion of steelhead fury. The line grew taut as I walked upstream toward the fish. I kept reeling, regaining as much line as possible, anticipating another screaming run at any instant. I could feel the fish—a strong, slow, thumping the momentous tail-sweep of the huge steelhead. It was the silver heartbeat of the river. I felt as though I had just emerged from a musty subterranean existence—stifling and fraught with anxiety— into a realm of air and light, into a different plane that vibrated peacefully, deep and fluid, silent yet moving. I became aware that everything around me was throbbing with that same rhythm. Around me the forest was glistening and bright. Each boulder reflected a myriad of astonishing color. The river was luminous—breathtakingly beautiful in its shimmering grace. I became conscious of the spirit of the fish itself and my own heart swelled with gratitude, with such spontaneous joy that I burst out laughing. The thankfulness for everything I saw and felt, the comfort and common sense—no—the sanity of the natural world, was such a relief to me, such a pleasure. It was Coltrane’s “Love Supreme.” I felt a prayerful posture possess me. I realized that greater consciousness of the natural world is greater appreciation, is greater thankfulness. It was an understanding that possessed me, that so overwhelmed me. It was universal love and it radiated everywhere, even right down the line that connected me to the fish. In fact it may have started from the fish’s end. Thereafter the fish fight was strenuous, yes, and clumsy, at times, but non-violent. The fish knew and I knew that I would release him. And so I did, after measuring his girth and length and taking eight quick photographs of him lying patiently on the rock. I say patiently, because he endured those clumsy efforts of mine with a calm, even stately demeanor. He didn’t

flop about and hence didn’t injure himself. He knew. He followed my every movement with his eye. I have always described steelhead as super-conscious creatures; more light and energy than matter; more spirit than substance—my wife Lupe would joke that “it didn’t matter, then, that we had no substance to eat’—but this fish was something else, and I’m not referring only to his state recordbreaking size. I spent more than a half-hour sitting on a rock in the shallows reviving the great buck. Twice, I had to wade out and recapture him when he seemed too weak. I stood in the river up to my chest that cold, bright, January day, gathering him back gently, and returning to my rock for a third and longer attempt at resuscitating him. I moved him back and forth in the water until I felt his energy and vitality return. I kept at it, holding him above the tail until he became pretty spunky and it became a fun kind of game trying to hang on to him. Then I released him and watched as he raced to the bottom of the pool, fifteen or sixteen feet deep. I started to clamber towards the shore. My boots heavy, filled with water, I was startled to suddenly see that the fish had swum back into the shallows and was upright but motionless, ten feet upstream from me. With a sigh I realized I had probably injured the fish too much for him to survive and I slowly waded toward him. I was saddened thinking of having to kill this magnificent fish, this brood-stock treasure-big fish spawn more big fish. I wanted to apologize to him and to my children. He was swimming just fine, his eyes bright as ever when he looked at me right into the center of my eye, and his eye beamed at me. It was an ancient beam of light and gratitude, like I said, right into the center of my eye. And, abruptly, he turned and flashed away, rocketing into the depths of the river and upstream. In that instant I realized that I had agreed to never kill another giant steelhead, another broodstock champion, should one ever again come into my life. I also realized that I had truly encountered an emissary from the very soul of wildness, sent to enlighten and soothe my tortured soul. “Yep,” I told Lupe, “One doesn’t go out and merely ‘catch’ a steelhead. It is more true to say that a steelhead ‘comes into’ ones life; and then takes it over for a while!” Sacred Fire

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LUMMI NATION, Whatcom County - It began quietly with the beat of a single elk-skin drum. Then came the songs and prayers, as powerful as the fire set to this house to burn it to the ground. Painted with red ochre for spiritual protection, Dorothy Charles, a spiritual leader of the Nooksack tribe, led family members in setting the house ablaze and, with it, trying to destroy the scourge of drug abuse killing some Lummi people. To begin the healing the tribe has returned to the teachings of its ancestors. Fire has helped in times of great hurt before. Many tribal members believe it will help again. “As powerful as this blaze is, just as important are the fires of compassion this tribe must carry in its heart,” said Jewell Praying Wolf James, a former member of the Lummi tribal council and tribal spiritual leader. “Ask yourself, what does the fire mean? It is to remind us to be together in the sacred circle of life. Show up when your people need you the most. Go find out how you can help one person, one more time,” James said, standing before the roaring blaze. Glass exploded. The roof fell in. “There it goes,” Charles said, watching the smoke rise to the sky, and with it, the pain in this house. “There it all goes.” —Linda Mapes, The Seattle Times, 12/02/05

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Sacred Fire

LOUELLA BRYANT

cross the valley from our house in Lincoln, Vermont, Mt. Abraham hoists the morning sun. Our 16 acres are ledge and sedimentary rock with quartzite outcroppings not native to this area. Glacial erratic, my geologist friend calls the glittering stone, deposited on the land when ice carved the mountains millions of years ago. The old surfaces of the stones call to me, and I can’t resist turning them in my hands. After we built our house, my husband and I pried, jostled and coaxed boulders from the earth. Flat rocks formed a patio. Smaller stones spiraled out in paths defining garden spaces. The land was scaping itself. Friends brought thinnings—primrose, silver queen, goats beard, bee balm and chive. By the end of the first summer, the garden took on color and shape. But there was no end to the rocks. I began to pile them one atop the other, slender structures, some precariously tall, others sturdy and squat. The cairns began to line the driveway, silent sentinels greeting visitors. A delivery man once said, “Is this some kind of religion?” Perhaps. Since humans first came upon a stone, there was the urge to build. I felt a spiritual force when I visited Stonehenge years ago. The nuraghe in Sardinia, architectural and artistic towers in Chechnya, Asia Minor and the Mediterranean, and towers built throughout Europe in medieval times all point to a timeless fascination with placing stone upon stone. Some ancients called the towers stone spirits. In the Inuit cultures, the word is Inukshuk, which translates into “stone man that points the way.” Inuit rock towers stand at important locations throughout the barrens of the Arctic to serve as guideposts

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or markers. If a single stone is removed from an Inukshuk, the structure becomes weaker, which is why the Inukshuk has come to symbolize our dependence on each other and to remind us of the value of strong relationships.

quartzite with its sharp, crystalline edges. The ﬁrst tower grew among the primroses, a ﬂat rock balanced atop a ragged one, rock layering upon rock, topped with a textured piece the shape of a large arrowhead, pointing toward the sky.

When I construct my towers, I think of early Vermont farmers who built stone walls to mark their land or hold in cows, restacking in spring after winter’s devastation.

I tend to build towers when I feel hurried and hassled, when I need quiet time to regain the balance of my life. Rocks mustn’t be forced—if one teeters, I put it down and ﬁnd another. When one stone is settled atop another, there is harmony and beauty in the relationships they form. I know a tower’s ﬁnished when I’ve got it as high as it will go. Then I stand back and look, a moment frozen in time.

I have noticed that each rock has its own personality. One beautiful stone veined with quartzite is irascible and refuses to support another rock atop it. Whenever I try to build it into a tower, the tower falls within a day. And so the rock stands alone, balanced on one narrow end, happy in its solitude. A stout tower of seven rocks has stood for three years. Spiders have built their webs along it and moss grows in the hollows of its joinings. It withstands strong winds, driving rain, sleet and hail. The rocks in this tower have made commitments to each other, and they hold together no matter what.

Sometimes the towers fall when I turn my back. Others, like the one eight rocks high behind our house, have withstood the ﬁercest winds. Some I’ve rebuilt a dozen times, each structure slightly different from its predecessor. When the wind tumbles a rock tower, I have no regrets. Their transience teaches me that life is ﬂeeting and that I should appreciate what I have at the moment —my friends, my possessions, my joys and sorrows. Fallen rocks are an invitation to rebuild, to “revision” the tower in a new form—opportunity rather than disaster. I wonder if that’s the way old Vermont farmers looked at their stone walls. Maybe it’s an innate human trait, to build, to alter our landscape and personalize it. Rock towers are beautiful in their mutual cooperation, their delicate balance. And so I construct them carefully, like summer gardens, like relationships—and enjoy them as long as they last.

Most of the rocks in my towers come from our woods, but I borrow some from the old stone foundation of the original farmhouse on our property. The house burned down years ago, but we keep the cellar hole in its honor. I like a mix of veined mountain stone and sparkling

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Sacred Fire

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  

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  

                                  

                                             

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            

                                                                     

 Number Two

Sacred Fire

�� Fire circles are at the heart of the Sacred Fire Community. They offer a space for people of all paths and traditions to come together in community around the fire and be touched by its transformative energy as they share their hearts and lives. Fire Circles are offered in North America, Australia, Hawaii and Europe. For a full listing, visit www.sacredfirecommunity.org

THE BROOKFIELD MASSACHUSETTS FIRE CIRCLE

Are you longing for a sense of community?

invites you to join us to share the warmth at our monthy community fires.

A place to share your heart with others in a sacred space where you can feel safe and heard?

We welcome you to join us at our monthly ﬁre!

Tim Simon and Gwen Broz at timgwen@charter.net or 508-867-9810 for dates and times of upcoming fire circles.

Community Fire Circle of Boiceville, NY Claire Franck at cfranckpsm@hvc.rr.com 845-657-2929

“Fire moves you to a different place”

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THE COMMUNITY FIRE CIRCLE IN SANTA CRUZ, CALIFORNIA

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invites you to join us at our monthly fires.

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Come be with the fire, the ocean, and each other. For more information, contact: Peter and Sharon Brown 831-252-5530 p2b48@yahoo.com

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Apples of the Earth (Pommes du terre)

JOAN LEHMANN I like a baked potato roasted until its skin is crispy. I take it from my plate and cup it in my hands so that it warms them to the bone. I feel the peel, like rough paper, under my fingers and hear it gently crackle. I lift it to my nose to smell the earth on its skin. As a child, every spring I witnessed the plow turn the soil and smelled the fresh soil of the fields. It filled our senses and our excitement grew with the changing of the seasons and the beginning of a new crop year. We played in the moist, rich loam. The aroma was wet and thick. At the back of my throat, I could taste it. The plow turned over pumpkin seeds and corn cobs from the year before and stirred memories of the last season. When the blade cut near the edge of the woods, the roots of sassafras trees were nicked and a fragrant aroma, like a medicinal tincture or men’s after shave blended with the mossy mixture. The sun warmed the ground and dried it. My potato smells like this.

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Sacred Fire

Getting Right with Money

Mark Blessington

Got Wood?

hances are you could use more wood balance in your ﬁnancial life.

What does this mean? Why would I say this?

When in balance, the wood element embodies conﬁdence in setting ﬁnancial objectives, earning money and accumulating wealth. When there is an appropriate amount of wood energy in our lives, we feel comfortable participating and competing in today’s economy.

This article is the second in a series that explores how the Chinese Five Element system has much to teach us about our relationship with money.

To date, I have surveyed more than 100 people on their relationship with money. Wood was usually the least balanced financial element. Most people found more balance through the other four elements: fire, earth, metal or water. For example, they were more comfortable spending money with joy (fire), helping others flourish financially (earth), analyzing financial issues (metal) or finding economic alternatives (water). My survey was not representative. The individuals were attending a money workshop that was not focused on getting and saving more money or getting out of debt. Instead the emphasis was on their personal and spiritual relationship with money. Since this magazine focuses on personal and spiritual growth the chances are good that you need more wood balance in your financial life. The Wood Element and Money When someone has a healthy and balanced amount of wood in their financial life, they rate themselves highly on the following nine items:

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Indicators of Balanced Financial Wood Energy Confident about earning money and accumulating wealth. Visionary financial strategies (goals, objectives and tactics). Use foresight to anticipate financial challenges and opportunities. Assertive and efficient financial coordination. Bold financial risk-taking and action. Enjoy competing for money. Direct and decisive about finances. Assertive about personal financial needs. Persistent pursuit of financial objectives.

If you had to rate yourself on the wood element financially, how would you rate on a scale from one to five? Be honest. Watch the emotions that come up for you as you read the items. Reflect and ask yourself if you learned anything about yourself in the process. When financial wood energy is exaggerated or excessive, bad things happen. On the following nine items, follow the same process. Rate yourself and observe what emotions come up for you as you read the list. Indicators of Too Much Financial Wood Energy Endless drive to earn more money or amass more wealth. Obsessed with visions of financial grandeur. Unrealistic financial plans. Arrogant about financial accomplishments. Exert tyrannical control over financial efforts. Use power over others to gain more money. Antagonize others about their money problems. Reckless or compulsive with money. Eruptive anger around money problems.

Indicators of Too Little Financial Wood Energy Unsure about earning money or accumulating wealth. Missing or unclear financial goals and objectives. Deny the importance of personal financial success. Delude self about financial success. Blame others for financial failures. Devious tactics to achieve financial objectives. Devious obstruction of other’s financial success. Inconsistent pursuit or premature abandonment of financial plans. Unable to generate desired financial results.

Case Example: “John” John was a small retail shop owner who lost his business when his wife fell in love with another man. The subsequent divorce called for selling the shop, which sold for far less than he had hoped because it had never been profitable. His in-laws had supported the purchase and ongoing cost of operating the shop. John had accumulated a large amount of credit card debt over a two-year period while he recovered from losing his wife and business. John had many creative ideas on new businesses he could start, but he had no savings and they would all take time to generate income. His ideas for making money in the shortterm seemed empty to him; none of them were challenging or meaningful. John could not explain why he did not feel confident about getting a job, paying off his debt and saving money to start a new business. Nor did he have a deep understanding of why his prior retail shop never reached profitability. When pushed for answers John realized that from a very early age he seemed to have entrepreneurial business interests. His parents told him in subtle ways it was wrong to be a successful business person and to use his intelligence for personal gain. He felt shamed for having capitalistic ideas and was taught that prosperity was a sin. John’s parents went bankrupt when he was in his 20s, and this had a further impact on him. Prosperity

Bad things also happen when you do not have enough ﬁnancial wood energy in your life. Once again, rate yourself and observe your feelings.

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Sacred Fire

Is it wrong to be prosperous? Many people in our society tend to equate prosperity with evil. It is easy to ﬁnd examples of prosperity run amuck: rampant materialism, the growing gap between rich and poor, exorbitant pay for business executives,

Getting Right With Money

excessive corporate influence over the political process, etc. Some people seem to believe that if you offset excessive financial ambition by rejecting financial ambition or the entire economic system, a balance will somehow be created. From a Five Element perspective, however, you cannot rebalance excessive wood energy with insufficient wood energy. This does not average out and create balance. It just creates more imbalances. The only thing that creates balance is balance; two wrongs don’t make a right. So, the only answer to excessive financial ambition is to reduce it to a sustainable, harmonious level. Can we live a good life with a low amount of wood energy? Isn’t it nobler to focus on the other elements, especially fire and earth, which are much more concerned with our fellow man and the environment? Shouldn’t we leave the expression of selfish wood energy for those who have chosen to pursue the more mundane things in life? Again, the Five Element system tells us no. Every adult must embrace all five elements if they are to remain healthy. To ignore one element is to invite sickness into your life. Spiritually, to ignore prosperity is to suggest that the Divine does not want us to be prosperous. Ancient cultures prayed to the gods for a good hunt. They prayed for rain so that game would be plentiful. They knew from experience that if they had a good relationship with the gods, and hunted in a manner that was in harmony with nature, they would be blessed with a good hunt. If they ignored the gods or hunted indiscriminately, they would suffer the consequences. They knew every adult needs a relationship with nature. Without participating in nature, they completely miss the beauty of life. Money as a Natural System Many people seem to accept the ancient wisdom that, to be fully human, we need a connection with nature. But these same people seem to believe that the economy is not a natural system, so it is OK to minimize or reject participation in it. Maybe this assumption needs to be revisited. We know a lot about the weather. While we rarely get it exactly right, we often have a good idea about what the weather has in store for us. This natural system is not under man’s control; we know it is not man-made. We accept this and try to read the signs about what is going to happen next. Sometimes the weather catches us completely by surprise and other times we have a good idea about what is likely to happen. We think we know a lot about the economy. We have a president who sets economic policy and we have a Federal Reserve Board to keep our economic system stable. We can go out and get a job and earn money. We can start a business if we want and hire people to work for us. We believe that if we

manage our economy well, there will be jobs and prosperity for everyone. It’s all up to us. Or is it? Are there forces at work in the economy that are far beyond man’s control? When I first questioned whether the economy was man-made, I was shocked by the answer. I’ve concluded that we have no more control over the economy than we do over the weather. In fact, sometimes it seems like we know more about the weather than the economy. Compare, for instance, the New Orleans hurricane and the high-tech stock market collapse in February 2000. We had multiple days of advance warning that a hurricane was headed for New Orleans. In contrast, no one knew the high-tech stock market was going to fall apart in February of 2000. In fact, we never seem to have advance warning of a stock market crash. It just happens, and then economists write articles about how we should have seen it coming. Or, take the fact that the weather has a significant impact on the economy. Unusually cold winters dampen retail sales. Droughts make food prices soar. If the weather, as a natural system, impacts the economy, how can the economy be purely man-made? Or, what about a small town that loses its largest employer and everyone is suddenly out of work? Was this under man’s control? When you ask the individuals who can’t find any work and are forced to foreclose on their houses, they do not feel it was under their control. They personally did not make the company leave town. When you ask the company why they left town, they say it was out of their hands, too: global competition forced them to find cheaper labor somewhere else. Or, consider the fact that economic exchange is an ancient phenomenon. People have been trading amongst themselves forever. Man is a social animal and has an instinct to exchange with other humans. This is why we find systems of exchange among all human groups—it’s just part of our DNA. Participating in exchange is what man does out of instinct; it’s a natural inclination. In the end, it is unhealthy to separate ourselves from the economy. It is a natural system, and deserves as much reverence as the weather, the forests or any other natural system. We can’t justify separating ourselves from the economy by rationalizing that it’s not a natural system. In fact, much of what we know about natural systems like the weather can help us relate better to the economy. Early Wounds Another barrier to establishing and keeping a healthy amount of financial wood energy in our lives is what we could call early wounds. John felt shamed for his entrepreneurial tendencies at a young age. Many others were implicitly told as children that

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they do not deserve abundance, so they act consistently with this belief as adults. For example, one woman was the first of several children born in fairly close sequence. Her mother did not have much time to spend only on her. She could not remember ever sitting on her mom’s lap and listening to a story or sitting on the floor and playing dolls with her mom. Instead, this woman felt responsible for taking care of her brothers and sisters from a very early age. While she developed a great work ethic and deep sense of responsibility, she never accumulated much financial wealth for herself. Instead, her career was focused on helping others. Another woman rarely saw her father because he was so consumed with his career as an artist. He did not fulfill many of his responsibilities as a father. As this woman matured, it was obvious to many people that she had incredible artistic talents, but she was reluctant to pursue them as a career. She felt very uncomfortable or sick when she started to get serious about them. Then she realized that she was holding herself back because she was afraid of being consumed by her art and becoming a bad parent just like her father. The underlying, subconscious belief system she had created for herself was this: her father’s artistic gifts pulled him away from being a good father, and her artistic gifts would do the same thing. So, she could not let herself seriously pursue the arts. The Gift of Wood The wood element brings tremendous gifts. It helps us see the importance of taking good care of ourselves economically. This is not being selfish; it is part of the Divine plan. Wood challenges us to create and pursue a personal definition of prosperity that fits the gifts we have received and the overall purpose we are called to during this lifetime. One of the best signs of healthy wood energy in someone’s life is having specific financial objectives: “I want to earn $25,000 this year.” “I want to save $50,000 over the next 10 years.” “I want a job as a nurse.” “I want to be promoted by the end of the year.”

energy is in balance we find the financial flow of life. We see the big picture about what our financial situation is trying to tell us, and we go with that flow rather than fight it. If a tree encounters a lack of sunlight on its right, it bends to the left; it doesn’t increase its growth to the right in hope that more effort will create more sunlight. Wood energy also teaches us that we are born into economic tribes. If we scorn, avoid or drop out of our economy, we undermine our sense of safety in the world. For example, if we manage our lives to avoid taxes by staying “under the radar screen,” we live in fear that the tax man will catch us and seek retribution. What Now? As you read this article, did you have any uneasiness? Did the hypothesis about needing more wood apply to you? Did you resonate with any of the energy levels that were too high or too low? Did you find yourself recalling past wounds experienced when someone exhibited too much or too little wood energy? If so, there is an opportunity for you to get right with wood. In the category of self awareness, write down your observations. Avoid making judgments, just record what you experienced as you rated yourself and reflected on the items. Focus on your memories of events and feelings. In the category of self-treatment, you can start practicing what it would be like to have balanced wood. For example, pick an item from the “Balance” list and envision yourself as behaving that way. How would someone act and how would they talk if they had balance in that item? If you try these steps and you still feel a need to do more work, future articles in this series on the Chinese Five Elements and money will be written to address how energy flows among the five elements, how other elements can support or restrain a balanced expression of financial wood energy and how you can use these interactions to bring your wood energy into balance.

Wood energy drives us to realize our destiny. The oak is not embarrassed for growing tall and limiting the understory’s growth. It’s just what it does. Nor does the dogwood resent the oak. The understory is beautiful and prosperous in its own way, and is grateful for the protection the canopy provides, allowing it to have more delicate and colorful expressions. To deprive yourself of financial gain is to deny your essence. The challenge of wood is to accept your unique financial role in the world and bring it forth with deliberate intention. Wood energy teaches us that financial objectives should not be pursued at all costs. When our financial wood

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Thinning Yields Life’s Choicest Fruits PHYLLIS EDGERLY

chuckled the first time I noticed the empty gallon jug my husband had placed under a leaky faucet before we had time to repair it. That tap only dribbled about a drop every 15 to 20 seconds. Yet when I needed cooking water a short time later, a full jug of that water was waiting nearby. Those 3 or 4 drops a minute had really added up. And it did feel good to put them to use at least once before they went down the drain. Depending on what gets cooked in those pots, my husband sometimes even captures that water for triple-duty on flowerbeds or houseplants. For years now, he has also brought home pounds of paper and cardboard from his workplace, where generating mountains of them is an occupational hazard. One or two evenings a week, he takes an hour or so as he catches up with weather, TV, or public radio to sort, flatten, and bundle these up and recycle them. Initially, those quantities of waste paper looked pretty small and it was easy to think, why bother? Yet over time, as those resources were channeled toward reuse, they didn’t simply disappear into dumpsters to occupy an estimated 2,000 cubic feet of landfill space a year.

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Now it’s true that my husband has deﬁnitely inherited some of the thrifty tendencies of his Yankee forbears. Yet the more I watch such consciously conserving efforts as these, however modest or even silly they might seem, the more I begin to consider how conscious I want to become in my own life. In addition to trying to minimize waste, there’s another kind of custodianship required of us if we want to maximize resources. When a friend gave me a batch of beautiful vegetables from her garden, I realized that there was one factor in their healthy growth that I’d never been savvy enough, or disciplined enough, to grasp. I had avoided thinning the plants in my garden and, as a result, I’d had weaker plants and poorer yields. Since I hadn’t practiced the discernment and choice that thinning requires, none of my plants had done very well. This concept was underscored for me when my husband paid a young friend of ours to yank out miniature saplings that had seeded themselves into our yard from neighboring shade trees. When he was done, he spread out more than 300 of them on a tabletop and we marveled for a moment that these could potentially have become a good-sized woodlot. But of course, nature is positively lavish with such output as a means of ensuring perpetuation of the species. Maybe a handful of these, at most, would ever have reached full maturity if left in the ground. And in aid of that process, others would have had to be removed to allow enough resources for growth. Unless we retreat to a cave or mountaintop, life sends us a similar, unceasing abundance of opportunities and choices. And a consumer-driven culture guarantees that lots of material things constantly compete for our attention. Things add up, and while that can sometimes be a useful concept in the conservation of even minute bits of important resources, it can dwarf our lives, and our time, when we don’t make choices. The cultural suggestion that “you can have it all” produced a lot of folks like

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me who are finally having to learn how to thin our gardens— and our lives. I had a rather timely epiphany about this a few months back when I visited a friend in Europe. While I think of her as a highly creative and effective person, I was surprised to see that as she made her to-do list, she customarily planned no more than half of her waking hours - two-thirds on the absolutely busiest days, which she keeps to a minimum. When I asked why she didn’t plan more, she said, “How else can I leave room for the unexpected, or spontaneity, or even the chance to change my mind?” I protested, “But what about all the things you need to do?” “Well, who decides that?” she asked, reasonably enough. “Of course, this means that I have to say no to some things as well as yes to others,” she qualified. “But I try to think of it as deciding what my yes’s will be, first, then seeing what time and room are left over after that.” Like that jug under our faucet, she’s found the design for capturing back a resource and using it in a meaningful way, rather than watching it drain away. Now, that’s my kind of stewardship.

Reconnecting with the Earth

edited by Rita Kesler

Strutting Peacocks and Spiritual Warriors Fighting Well for Planet Earth LYVEA ROSE CURETAINE

icture yourself paddling in peaceful silence down a river in a kayak, leaving the cacophony of human civilization behind. The air is deliciously fresh and the water sparkles, carrying you into a blissful trance.

A spiritual warrior truly knows her power, and therefore has nothing to prove to others.

Then suddenly a couple of voices start up in your head. They strut around like peacocks, messing with your thoughts. They fan out their brilliant green feathers and peck at you sharply to make sure you’re listening. “Oh please,” you protest, “I just want a little peace and quiet!” You paddle a little faster, but there it is – your last argument, up to date and multi-coloured in your mind, right up to the last word spoken… “What do you mean you’re postponing the interview, Lyvea? We need you on this politician’s back! We want media coverage as soon as possible, or the road will be built and the trees will be down. They won’t grow back overnight!” “I’m still doing the interview,” I sigh, “just not tonight. I’ve got a free pass to a theatre preview, a friend of mine is in it and I want to go.” “I can’t believe this—we’ve been campaigning against this for so long, and you’ve always been right behind it. I hope you’re coming to the public meeting on Saturday, at least?” “I am right behind it, but actually on Saturday I’m going kayaking. I need some downtime. I’ll be there in spirit, okay?” “In spirit? IN SPIRIT? Are you serious? Environmental laws don’t get changed because we’re all there in spirit, Lyvea!” And on we go, around and around in my head. My mind registers the light bouncing off the river, and knows that a dragonﬂy has just brushed my skin, but I feel no connection.

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My body is there but my mind has taken over and is stuck in replay. My spirit floats back and forth, watching and waiting. Working to change laws, change human habits and ensure the planet’s survival is an urgent task. This means that the way we fight for Earth issues has to be effective. But how comfortable are we with entering into conflict? Aren’t the people who are concerned with this Earth peaceful types, after all? Is a fight ever a good thing, and if so, how can we fight well? Looking at the fights I’ve been involved in, there seems to be two basic types. The first type has at its core a spark of respect for who ever I’m talking to; the second type doesn’t. The first is solution-focused; the second is driven by my ego, leaving me unable to concentrate on the issues at stake. In the first type, I can listen clearly; in the second, my feelings are running so hot that I barely hear anything. Understanding how we operate best, and what’s driving us, helps us to help the Earth, from the local to the global level. And now more than ever, we need to learn how to fight well.

‹‹‹ When I think about ﬁghting for the Earth, I immediately think of my friend David. He is always ready to tackle an issue that needs tackling. But even though I agree with where he is coming from, we often end up arguing. This tends to happen on Sunday mornings, when a bunch of us meet at our favourite café. The mood is convivial, we’re all here to relax and enjoy ourselves. Then out of nowhere David and I begin to spar. “This drinking water is probably toxic,” he says, holding his glass up to the sun. “I don’t believe it’s from a mountain spring. Exactly where is Happy Springtime Creek for goodness sake?”

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“David, relax. There are laws against false advertising. If they say it’s from Happy Springtime Creek then it must be”. I take a good, deep slurp. “Mmm, delicious!” I gasp, just to rile him. “And what makes you an expert on this?” he asks. At this stage, our friends groan in unison. “I’m sure I’ve heard of it. It’s a genuine fresh water spring somewhere down south. This water is pure,” I reply. “Can’t we just relax and enjoy our breakfast? I’ve done my bit for the environment this week.” “Oh really, what did you do? Hurl a few pizza boxes in your recycling bin? Cut down on phone calls?” “Oh please,” I laugh, “are phone calls an environmental hazard now?” Our eyes lock. Someone picks up a newspaper. “I’m simply pointing out, Lyvea, that this water is potentially toxic—to our bodies, and to the environment. If it’s really from a mountain creek, exactly what damage is being done to the place it’s extracted from? How many trucks are driving in and out? How many trees had to be cut down? What’s happening to the birds, the ants, the eco-system? Blessed Jesus, get a grip Lyvea - time is running out for this planet!” I sigh sharply. “David, right now I just want to get a grip on my eggs Benedict.” I put my hand on my heart and say ﬁercely, “I swear I’ve done my bit over the past ﬁve days, okay? Want to check my diary? I’m just asking if we can we discuss this another time?” He starts to splutter, “ANOTHER TIME?” I quickly add, “Maybe we can investigate it, check it out, before we get worked up about it. If it’s suspicious, I promise I’ll write something about it, okay?”

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David thumps the table enthusiastically. “Okay, Sweet Thing, but in the meantime,” he raises his voice so the whole café can hear, “IN THE MEANTIME I REFUSE TO DRINK THIS WATER! It’s an environmental disaster waiting to happen. It is businesses like this that are driving the planet to a state of no return. There’ll be no eggs Benedict, no “Happy Whatsit” water, and no one to have breakfast with. I’ll be sitting here one Sunday all on my own, and I’ll be thinking, ‘I wish I’d done more when I could!’ and then I’ll fall into my goddamn plate and it’ll all be over.” I point my knife at him. “David, we’ll get onto it. ON MONDAY, okay?” He grumbles, then slowly smiles. “Eat your eggs,” he says. “I’ll be ringing you first thing in the morning, so get your protein while you can.” “That’s what I’ve been trying to say, sweetheart!” I reply. Silence. He’s now endeavouring to look innocent. Slowly I smile too. A waitress asks, “Do you want more water here?” No one answers. And breakfast continues. If I imagine David and myself as two knights on horseback, galloping towards each other with flags held high, I understand our arguments better. David has an aristocratic looking nose, so it’s very easy to imagine him as a knight. He is over six feet tall, and his voice is deep and gentle – until we start sparring. Instantly he’s up on his horse and kicking up sparks. I pick up my reins too. I’m suddenly fierce, like an Amazon. We clash, we spit and we bristle with passion, and then we jump down from our stallions and smile. The crowd sighs with relief. At first glance, sparring like this with one of my closest friends seems pointless. Yet it serves a purpose; it develops my fighting skills—my confidence, quick thinking and focus. It’s a mini-workout for my willpower, as if I’m carefully sharpening the blade of a magic sword. And no one’s been hurt, because David and I respect each other—this is something I automatically know in my heart. We’re simply practicing for the real thing. Unfortunately, not all my fights with David end so amicably. Sometimes our egos get the upper hand, and we collide headon and land tangled in the dust. Picture the same scenario – same café, same friends, but a darker kind of fight. As it begins, my temperature rises fast, as if a dangerous fire has just ignited between my ribs. I’m hurtling down the fast lane to a place I don’t want to go. Yet I’m drawn there as if my honour were at stake. I just want to be “right.” I know this is coming straight from my ego, but it’s irresistible. Our dialogue degenerates into insults. Each of us wants the other to back down. We both just want to feel superior.

My eyes narrow and burn towards David, but somehow I’m not hearing him anymore. Later in the day, bruised and sheepish, I realise that this fight lacked the vital ingredient of respect, which is where I slipped up. I was intent only on diminishing my friend. Sure, my ego was temporarily bolstered but the issue fell by the wayside, and I can’t even remember what we were talking about. As the blue shadows of twilight begin to slant across my back garden I pour a glass of wine and ask myself, “Bloody hell, Lyvea, how is carrying on like that going to help the planet? Either you’re an Amazon or you’re an ego on legs wasting your breath! What do you want to be?” I admit I’ve got one or two reservations about portraying myself as an Amazon. Yet it’s now or never for those who want to help the planet. So I delve into the wisdom of the East to see what the sages have to say about fighting well. I am fascinated to discover that, in traditional Chinese medicine, each body organ is said to have a spiritual function as well as a physiological one. The kidneys’ function is to build and maintain will power or strength of spirit. Aha! Here it is, the archetype of the spiritual warrior—right here in our kidneys! This is the deep inner strength and determination we need to fight successfully for the water, the soil, the food supply and the fresh air that we want our children’s children to breathe. So how does a spiritual warrior fight for the environment, according to the sages? For a start, a spiritual warrior truly knows her power, and therefore has nothing to prove to others. She can rein in the ego’s appetite to score points. Yet she can and does fight when necessary, using the tools of precision timing, accurate facts, alternative options, a win-win attitude, and respect for her opponent’s strengths. In the East, it is believed that martial arts, meditation and other similar practices build and maintain warrior qualities, which of course are mental and emotional, as well as physical. But if you’re struggling at this moment to imagine yourself as a Mahatma Ghandi type, there are other ways of building up your warrior qualities. Personally, I like to throw paint at a canvas while singing along cathartically to spiritual ballads. I’ve found that regular exercise is beneficial—not only for my pecs but for my mental acuity. I figure that the planet needs me to be full of fire, to be passionate, to be optimistic. Of course, if you can find a sparring partner with an aristocratic nose, you’re in luck. On a larger scale, suppose David and I were politicians from two neighbouring nations. This conflict would be much more formal. We’d have a team of advisors huddled around our chairs, facts and figures displayed before us on digital screens, and we’d arrive in much bigger cars.

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“Monsieur President,” I would begin with a tight-lipped smile, “may I point out that the region in question has been populated by people of my country since time immemorial. We believe our citizens have the right to control and benefit from any commercial activity in this region. Please refer to Table 10 on your screen.” “Madam President,” David replies through gritted teeth, totally ignoring the figures flashing up before him, “my government acknowledges no such point and agrees to no such thing. We have the means to start extracting spring water immediately and we would regard attempts to stop us as unlawful.” What kind of fight is this? Is it just a war between two vote-seeking egos? Clearly, the outcome of this meeting will impact the whole region, a place of great natural beauty and ecological importance. The local community and the lives of native plants and animals will be affected. The stakes couldn’t be higher, really, since protecting regional eco-systems is vital for the future of the planet as a whole. So what can I do? Well, for a start, listen. Then, present a solution that contains some benefits for David’s nation, while still protecting the habitat. If I approach him with a respectful attitude, and use all the other tools of the warrior, we’re more likely to find a solution. On the other hand, if I do not listen, if I do not strive for a win-win outcome, if I aim merely to score points and tread his ego into the dust, he is likely to resist my proposals. He will smile for the cameras and drive away, knowing at least he didn’t let me win. In a delusional fantasy, he’ll pour champagne in his limo and bask in the glow of his victory. Likewise, I’ll return home without a victory. A stalemate. This gets the planet nowhere fast.

››› As a global community, we must now ﬁnd solutions for the urgent, large-scale Earth issues that threaten our survival, such as atmospheric pollution, loss of bio-diversity and contaminated water supplies. Yet, too often, these problems, which we ourselves have caused, fall through the cracks of ego-driven agendas and remain unresolved. If we are to make progress, it’s vital to keep our egos and personal issues out of our debates about these issues. Try watching yourself in the middle of such a debate. You may be a spokesperson for an international campaign, or you may be initiating something in your local area such as cleaning up a creek, or marketing a biodegradable product. At some stage, you’ll be required to meet and negotiate with ofﬁcials, government representatives and, perhaps, even people who completely oppose your ideas. Step outside this scene and watch yourself dispassionately. What image do you get? Do you see a

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warrior spirit, steadily working towards positive outcomes, or do you see a peacock dazzled by its own ego, strutting its stuff? In our hearts, we know we need to fight hard for planet Earth. It’s okay to gallop off on our trusty steeds to fight for an issue; in fact it’s essential. We just need to make sure that we are doing what we need to do in our personal lives to keep our spirits strong. I believe we can make the necessary changes to restore our beloved planet to health. And when that day comes, I know where I’ll be. I’ll be on my way back to my favourite river. I’ll unsaddle my horse, fire my campaign director, switch off my laptop, and put on a dress simulating bright green peacock feathers. I won’t even drive—I’ll simply fly on the breath of a few million souls that are singing, singing with joy. And when I get to the river, whom do you think I’ll see? Ah, of course, my friend David, and every other living soul who has fought along side me for Earth-centered values. I’ll see picnics and dancing. I’ll see octogenarians cartwheeling and children sitting with their feet in the water. I’ll push off in my little kayak and this time I’ll truly feel the brush of a dragonfly against my cheek, and I’ll see the clear, clean water. I’ll paddle down stream with only the sublime sounds of river life in my ears. Who knows, I might even find that secret spring that got me thinking about this column in the first place.

It IS important that we learn how to ﬁght well if we want to connect more deeply with the Earth and each other. These are some of the many websites and an address to help you and your children ﬁnd ways to transform criticism and blame into compassion, cooperation and connection. –Ed.

› www.rootsandshoots.org (Jane Goodall’s peace work)

‹ www.pon.harvard.edu (The Harvard Negotiation project)

› www.sfcg.org (Search for Common Ground) ‹ www.crinfo.org (The Conﬂict Resolution Information Source—good links)

› www.urbanext.uiuc.edu/conﬂict/guide/intro_ goals.html (Out on a Limb-Guide to getting along for children and teachers). Click on “go to website” at the bottom of the page for a fun and interactive activity.

On Crocuses A

s I write this, a sharp-toothed wind blows and the ground is more frozen than it’s been all winter. Behind my home, the Black Mountains loom cold-shadowed and fierce, crowned with spurs of trees shrouded in thick hoarfrost. Yet just last week the snowdrops and crocuses emerged from their light slumber to grace the earth with their bright flowered faces. Stooping down to praise the singular beauty of a lavender crocus blossom, I pondered the evolution of these tiny flowers. Had some woman like myself, struck by the courage of a wild crocus blooming in the cold of centuries past, pulled her wool shawl tight round her shoulders and sat down to observe a flowering rapture—first in the frothystamened bloom, and then within her own work-wearied heart? Did she resolve to nurture that blooming, both in flower and in heart? Are the common crocus blooms I admired just last week the progeny of a relationship eons ago between a woman and a flower? Oh, but the crocus isn’t common, my child

heart says, she is the epitome of faith. Did this woman also cherish her faith— not a religious type of faith, but that deep abiding faith in the miracle of life, the kind of faith that dwells deep in the heart and enables one to see through the shadows of winter and the storms of history, to behold, still, the wonder of Life? My mere speculation of crocus evolution aside, the gift of the crocus is one of faith, and for that gift, given in the bleak homestretch of winter, I am immensely grateful. My eye turns again to the mountain peaks above me. I have walked that ridgeline in the hot gaze of the summer sun, among the humming of bees and tangles of green. Now the trees on the ridgeline are dressed in frozen cloud, and bear the brunt of vicious wind and heaving cold. These small ﬁrs are courage—they stand at the peak shaped by the hard hand of the wind and unfurl their beauty nevertheless. Never the less. For while the daylilies of summer will push themselves three feet above the ground and have exuberant blossoms of ﬁre orange and velvet pink,

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and the oaks on the bottomlands will spread their arms wide and leafy wild, the beauty of the diminutive crocus and stunted ridgeline pine is not less than these. If anything, these brave members of the plant kingdom possess a wild and deep inner beauty that speaks to our own beautiful hidden self. We, too, live in cold and harsh places, and we know ourselves to be shaped by the heavy hand of this era. Yet now is the time to be beautiful, to be “never the less.” It is hard not to walk these days and be dressed in the dark thoughts of despair. It is difficult to see through the shadows of human time and see a miracle for us, a blooming at the end of this era of unfettered fear. But the ridgeline pine does not mourn her circumstance. Instead, she knows herself to be first kissed by the morning sun. And the crocus, sweet cup of faith, she drinks the sun. So eager is she for that golden light she wakes first, in the predawn of spring. When the cold returns to pluck her blooms, she knows her time will return. The cold will fall away.

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