Sacred Fire Magazine Issue 3 by Sacred Fire Foundation

WRESTLING WITH A PRAYER WHEEL

TIMED OUT IN TANZANIA

Exploring Pathways of Heart

WAS THAT SHEEP TALKING TO ME?

Issue Three

Malidoma Somé Reﬂects on Water The Poop on Organic Farming Tea for Tao with Ken Cohen Devas in the Parking Lot

Matiop Wal Animals in Wartime

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The

Tao

That

Can

Be Spoken 

A conversation with Ken Cohen

INTERVIEWED BY YAEL GRAUER

Ken Cohen is one of my heroes. His book, Honoring the Medicine: The Essential Guide to Native American Healing, is one of the best books on healing that I’ve come across. In addition to his knowledge of Native American wisdom and healing, Mr. Cohen is also an initiate of Filipino oracion, has studied with Zulu shaman Ingwe, and is trained as an Igbo priest/shaman. He has studied with numerous Qigong masters and apprenticed to Dr. K.S. Wong from China’s sacred mountains. He is widely renowned for his research, writing and work on Qigong. And, he’s Jewish.

We met one morning in early November in Tucson, and I had the pleasure of introducing him to Seven Cups, a beautiful traditional tea shop. An enthusiastic tea lover, Mr. Cohen was in heaven! He recited poetry in Chinese to the beaming owners, who brought out choice cakes of tea to show us. We shared three small pots of tea and a huge variety of mooncakes and mochi treats during our conversation. Question

Do you think that society is evolving spiritually?

No. I would say we are de-evolving. Our brain size is smaller than the Neanderthals’. I’m a follower of Jerry Mander, and he says in his book, In the Absence of the Sacred, that evolution requires interaction between people and natural environments. Since we are now interacting mostly with objects of our own creation, humankind has an incestuous relationship with itself. We have stopped the process of evolution because, again, we need the stimulation of natural environments in order to evolve. So I would say that we are de-evolving rather quickly, and the internet is accelerating that process. It’s the ultimate example of the disembodied intellect, and reinforces the delusion that mind and body are separate and that people can live separately from their natural environment. To make it clearer, people talk about “virtual communities.” Community consists of a group of people living in a speciﬁc geographic location. I highlight the word “geographic,” to illustrate that communities are accountable to place. The internet destroys this accountability to place. It gives people the belief that they can pick up their computer and live anywhere. Basically, it becomes the ultimate rationalization for colonialism, because I think the mindset behind the internet is, “Let’s rape the land where we are and move on.”

Ken Cohen

Question

Wow. Do you think that everyone who uses the internet has that mindset?

No, but I think that human society is largely shaped by its tools. Tools are generally considered devices that accomplish a task or, more abstractly, a means towards an end. The problem is that, in the long view, we can’t predict what that end will be. Tools are not morally neutral.

Ken Cohen

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Photograph by Cheryl Wiles.

The Tao That Can Be Spoken

Some people say, well, if people use them in the right way, they’ll be ﬁne. But the lesson of history is that if we invest too much time in our tools, the tools shape us. Just as agriculture helped to create social hierarchy, private property and greed, I would say that the internet is creating a further split between mind and body and people and place. Question So what do you think people should do to stop

the de-evolution process? Simplify. Do less. Consume less. Be willing to make sacriﬁces for what they feel is right. I think we’re in a culture that lacks courage, and that’s the main thing that’s missing in the world today. People have no courage; they’re just blindly following whatever anyone tells them is going to be easy and proﬁtable. It takes some courage to say, “No. I don’t need to earn 50,000 dollars; I can live quite well on 20,000.” That takes a lot of courage, to say, “I’m going to deliberately do less.” Ken Cohen

Question How important is it that people engage in spiritual

practice in regard to slowing the de-evolution process? Ken Cohen Spiritual practice is essential. Prepare the spiritual fire by removing debris such as negative thinking and muscular or energetic tension. Stoke it with love, compassion, respect, and generosity. Give the fire room to grow by practicing silence. And tend the fire with your friends. We cannot and will not survive alone. These are universal values that belong not to one religion or another, but to humanity.

you have to go quite deeply into that, and not avoid the time and patience that’s necessary to pursue where you feel you’re called. Sometimes, people study something because of its entertainment value—they’re not really interested in it. Once it ceases to be entertaining, and they come face to face with their issues—this always happens with a healing art—then their strategy of avoiding their personal issues is to switch to something else. Then the person ends up having a sort of chop suey spirituality, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. That’s like not striking water—none of them really do you much good. So I would say, I don’t mix the traditions together, even though in my own consciousness and the way that I live, they all have an inﬂuence on me. The other thing to bear in mind is that we’re in a society that has a hard time with dual expertise in spiritual matters. If I were to tell a group of students that I have, say, a degree in psychology, a degree in anthropology, and that I’m a medical doctor—this is not true that I have those three degrees—they would say, “Oh, well, that person’s really talented.” We do have some outstanding physicians who are also anthropologists. I’m sure there are some that are also psychologists, and that would be considered a sign of talent. We feel comfortable with broad academic learning. But, if I say, “I am a practitioner of Qigong and Taoism and I trained as a traditional healer in Native American spirituality among several tribes, and I’m working with an outstanding Jewish Kabbalist, a Sephardic Jew, from Morocco,” then people look at me kind of odd. Then, when they hear my favorite poet is Rumi, I become odder still. There’s this strange Western notion that different forms of spirituality are mutually exclusive.

Ken Cohen

I tend to take the view that we’re all planted from the same earth and the same soil. Our roots go to the same place. But from the viewpoint of the branches and leaves, that is, as the spiritual conditions have developed and been codiﬁed in modern times, they appear different. But you can trace them back to a common root, common plant, and the same sacred earth. I think that spiritual traditions recognize and respect the same basic truths.

Everything you study is going to inﬂuence who you are. The only harm comes if you dig a hundred wells, and none are deep enough to strike water. Then they’re all useless. If you want to really understand something well,

I met one of the great Muslim sheiks, an incredible man, one of the great scholars of the Quran, and the teaching that he shared with me I could have heard from a Native American. He said, “The Quran teaches you to ﬁnd the truth that Allah (God) has written in your heart.” Moses is another example of this perennial wisdom. One of the teachings in Judaism is that Moses basically went on a Vision Quest. When he saw the burning bush, he heard a voice that said, “Take off your shoes, because the ground is

So you’re Jewish and you practice Native American and Chinese spirituality. Do you think that sometimes it can be harmful to mix traditions, or to take what you like from some traditions?

Question

Well, ﬁrst of all, I don’t mix traditions. As an educator, I try to keep them very distinct. When I’m teaching a class in Chinese, I wouldn’t want to start in French and then throw in Chinese or start in Chinese and then throw in French. I want to keep the languages distinct.

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holy.” So the rabbis asked, “What are the shoes?” The shoes are concepts and belief systems. So if you take off your shoes, the ground is holy everywhere. It’s only our belief systems, including belief in God, that prevents us from realizing the holiness of the ground, So that’s a very Buddhist teaching, and it’s a very Native American teaching, because one of the reasons we Vision Quest is to rid ourselves of ego. That’s the barrier. Ego, you could say, means “edging god out”—that’s the way I deﬁne ego. I have trouble with the idea that, in Chinese medicine, it seems like they don’t really believe in God, whereas in the Native American traditions that I’m somewhat familiar with, everything is based on a belief in Creator.

Question

Well, I don’t know that I agree. Native Americans don’t “believe” in the Great Spirit, they have “experience” of a reality beyond the conventions of thought, language and culture. So it’s not something to “believe” in. Sometimes people ask me if I believe in the Great Mystery, and I say, “No! Not at all. I sure hope not.” If I have a belief in the Great Mystery, then I need to explore that, and get rid of it, because those are the shoes. With Taoism, there’s also an acceptance of mysteries beyond knowledge. That’s why the Tao Te Ching starts, “The Tao that can be spoken of is not the everywhere Tao…” Ken Cohen

Question

The eternal Tao…

Ken Cohen Yes, sometimes translated “eternal.” Actually,

the original character that’s used in the text means “omnipresent, spread out.” Later, another Chinese character, which means eternal, was substituted.

So I don’t think there’s really a contradiction between these different viewpoints. The fundamental Jewish prayer, called the Sh_ma, begins with the word “Hear.” Spirituality is a matter of deep listening. The prayer ends with the word Echad, Unity, a state of being in which you are merged with the wisdom and beauty of the divine. Maybe we are all waves on one ocean of being. Is the wave the same as the ocean? No, but it is also not different from it. So I think at the heart, Judaism and the message of Taoism and Native American spirituality are the same. They’re certainly very distinct in the way they are expressed, but I don’t really think that you can say that the difference is in one believing in God and the other one not, because the mystic is going to ﬁnd a way to get rid of beliefs no matter what tradition he or she is based in. Question

Do you have any closing words or advice?

Spiritual health, it seems to me, is about flexibility and connection. The Tao that can be spoken about is not the Tao, because words are fixed, but life—the Tao—changes. How can you capture flowing water in a bucket? If we accept the reality of change, we develop a supple and free mind. We let go of expectations, preconceptions and stereotypes. Rigid divisions between people, ethnicities and religions dissolve. We create a foundation for peace. --Thanks so much to Ken Cohen for making this interview possible. Thanks also to Rena for sharing tea and mooncakes, to the staff at Seven Cups for making this visit (and every visit) so delightful, to Cameron Momeni for buying me a ticket for Ken Cohen’s Qigong workshop, and to Nate Summers for introducing me to his writing in the first place. Ken Cohen

For more information, check out http://www.kennethcohen.com [Portions of this interview appeared in a slightly different form on Yael’s website, WWW.DIRTTIME.ORG.]

The Tao that can be spoken about is not the everywhere Tao. We cannot speak about it; we cannot know it because it includes us and we have no outside perspective. The commentator on the Upanishads, Shankara, said that just as the sword can’t cut itself and the ﬁre can’t burn itself, so the subject can’t be the object of its own knowledge. We don’t have any outside perspective. There’s no way to really talk about it. All we can do is accept that in our experience, there is a mystery that’s realized through silence.

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Canadian Summer We left for the Columbia IceďŹ elds, nightclothes strewn around the hotel room, our crayon-colored travel toothbrushes leaning together in a cup. We had turned the TV off, giving the burning towers back to the ashes they were born from, granting the satellites over Calgary a day of rest, and drove slowly toward the young stone mountains, past oceans of forest, rivers the color of moonstone and milk, moss green lakes circled by yellow reeds, stopping our car for the bighorn sheep who crossed the road to drink from the rust-painted mineral throat of a cliff side. In the distance, inscrutable iced peaks, food for the gods of thunder and lightning. Roadside weeds, blowsy as cotton, were ripe for the picking. We paid 30 Canadian dollars to get on a bus with a Chinese couple from Wisconsin, a woman from Paris in a kick-pleat skirt, a smocked Arab family, East Indians in windblown silks, and lumber onto the blue-white ďŹ elds

DORIANNE LAUX in our running shoes and ﬂimsy hats. Some knew to bring plastic containers or emptied Styrofoam cups, but we crimped our chilled hands into leaky ponds and sipped from the pearly stream, that saltless, airless, opaque water. The wind swooped down from the glacier path and we turned to face it, 1000 feet of ice compressed beneath our feet. We turned our backs to the wind, Photograph © Robert Choi. Image from BigStockPhoto.com.

the human world: resplendent in their down vests and baseball caps, their colorful scarves snapping like flags of unaligned nations, camera bulbs flashing , each naked face flushed to essence by the cold. But we could not bear to look at them. Could not, for one more minute, endure their many beautiful and complex languages, and listened instead to the frozen earth below us, its tumbled cache of Devonian sea life and mastodon bones, flowing toward another millionth year. Blue. Silent to the core.

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DR. WILLIAM T. EVANS

y breath controlled each step as I climbed the snow slope. Inhale, step; inhale, step; inhale and step. The pitch steepened, I looked up. Someone was watching me. An ewe, a female Bighorn sheep, studied me. It was a long slope. She watched for some time as I climbed. When I neared the crest of the ridge she turned and disappeared into the clouds. Her watching began the exchange, which led to this story. Later, around the ﬁre, I told a traditional Elder that, in my experience on the mountain over many pilgrimages, Bighorn had never before shown itself to me there. “Return to the mountain, make an offering and prayer to Bighorn,” the Elder suggested. “Perhaps a Bighorn Spirit appeared.” Later in the summer I climbed the mountain to where the timberline transitions to a rock uplift and made offerings and a prayer. Upon completing the process, something red to the south caught my eye. In a dark alcove of rock grew a red hemispheric mushroom. I asked if it should be picked and heard “Yes.” I left a gift, but was not clear the mushroom should be eaten. My reaction, in fact, was immediately cautious. Once, in the emergency room, a patient who had eaten “the wrong mushroom” plummeted away in a precipitous death before my eyes. After identifying my mushroom as the deadly poisonous Amanita muscara, I questioned the signiﬁcance of death’s presence in the south as I paid my respects to Bighorn? —A short time later, paddling in my kayak on the Gunnison River, I scanned a cliff where a herd had scrambled a dozen years before. On this visit none were visible, but I felt a spiritual connection occur. I explained my alliance with Bighorn to a companion riding the river beside me in a raft. This friend, who also has the gift of communicating with animal spirits, began to express what she perceived. She sensed grief surrounding the wild sheep community. Over thousands of years, innumerable Bighorn ranged from the plains, to the high ridges of the continental divide and to the desert canyons of the west. Now reduced to small, scattered bands and diminished habitat, they are departing. Bighorn is leaving their place in the circle of life. They are leaving the earth because they no longer feel appreciated and honored. Although their grief is immense, it differs from human grief. There is no clinging to what has been, nor resistance to departing—there is simply acceptance and grief.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY MARK GILLILAND 16

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The Ute people, the ancient indigenous inhabitants of Colorado and Utah, lived in Bighorn country for at least 10,000 years. In Ute cosmology, Bighorn is the “boss” of the split-hoofed animals, and the primary game animal. The wild sheep express a fondness for the Utes and, although they describe the people as sometimes awkward and clumsy, Bighorn acknowledges they lived in an equitable exchange with them. However, miners and settlers did not honor Bighorn’s right to a respectful equitable exchange. They dominated and hunted them nearly to extinction from 1870 to 1950. The current Bighorn population is probably only 2%—8% of the number of animals present at the time of European settlement. Although it appears to wildlife biologists that Bighorn is making a comeback, they are vulnerable to scabies and pneumonia carried by domestic sheep. And many have been found dead from unknown causes. In the spring of 2005, the herd of Peninsular Bighorn in the Northern Santa Rosa Mountains near Palm Springs, California numbered seventy-nine animals. Surveys since August indicate twenty-eight animals have disappeared. Notably absent were the yearlings that had been vitally present in the spring. A wildlife biologist knowledgeable about the “precarious Bighorn” describes them as “very susceptible to stress.” However, Bighorns are exemplars of balance, resilience and vision. Their split hooves enable a facile life traversing cliffs and narrow ledges between meadows. If you watch Bighorn sheep in the wild as they adeptly graze across a hillside, they scramble with momentum up precipitous rock promontories. Three or four can confidently find their place on an outcropping as the herd moves up or down the mountain. With regal presence they survey their terrain. Bighorn vision is far superior to human sight. Some biologists describe their eyes as equivalent to a six—power telescope. Such keen vision allows wild sheep to see predators up to a mile away. It is difficult to approach them unseen. My friend explained that Bighorn learned wisdom from the rocks. They suggest we learn from the rocks. And they seem resolute as a rock in their decision to leave. “We don’t want your vaccinations,” they say. —As a physician trained in modern “Western Medicine,” I look for what has gone wrong. Scientifically, we call this “understanding the pathology” that produces a disease or disorder. This is a valuable perspective in medical care. But,

after a lifetime in medicine and American culture, I have concluded the major tragedy of our time is disconnection. Like most males I was trained to disconnect from my heart and emotions. This disconnection separates us from each other, from the Bighorn, from the natural rhythms of the earth, from all life. In relation to the pain of Bighorn’s story and healing our disconnection, modern medicine’s diagnoses may not yield an effective treatment. Something more is needed, a level of connection we have lost. Treating disease is not health. Health is connection. To appreciate what is alive and healthy, I needed the wisdom of traditional people still alive in connection with their hearts and the earth. —At the ﬁre the Elder’s words penetrated me with clear directness, “We are living in a dangerous time. Animals are showing us this by leaving the Earth. They are not here any more. They are telling us something. In the old days, Indians listened to the animals, they watched. People, who are outdoor people, who are a part of nature, listen and watch. We have to revive that somehow if we are going to preserve life. We must change direction in order to save our lives. The Bighorn sheep are telling us that if they are not here anymore – we too are going to follow them. Listen to the animals, the spirit animals.” The Elder continued, “What I am looking at is the culture we live in today, in comparison with the culture of nature, without man. There is a difference. What we have today

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is a culture of consumption. That culture of consumption leads to a loss of almost everything, because no renewable resources are returned when things are taken out. They take resources out of the wilderness and bring sickness into the wild animals. There is only one way it will end and that is annihilation. Once we destroy the resources we have not renewed, we are lost.” —The Elder and Wisdom Holders live in the Circle. They explain living in the Circle as the source of connection. It gives the courage needed to be a human being. To live in the circle and stay present through a mass extinction requires strong-hearted inner stability sufficient to honor the emotions. For example, staying present to Bighorn’s story has required me to process my grief and to grow my appreciation, to stay connected. To be strong-hearted requires enough maturity to hold the tension between sustaining and protecting life. To be strong-hearted is to honor my emotions and accept their assistance in keeping my balance. To be strong-hearted requires me to contribute my gifts and frailties to the circle of life with honor and respect. The phrase “traveling in circles” implies lost meandering, getting nowhere fast. To many of us turning to the circle may seem a strange strategy for times of extinction. However, The Elder’s culture honors the circle as the sacred source of healing, life, and wisdom. The “Great Hoop” is life and renewal. The east is the sunrise, inspiration and a new beginning. The south is growth. The west is introspection, learning who I am. In the north dwell wisdom and skillful means. In the center are balance, harmony, equitable exchange, and the power inherent in being. The Great Hoop empowers us to celebrate, to grieve, to release, to learn and to grow. —At the fire the Elder tells me, “Pause now. Gaze into the fire. Be still with Bighorn’s story. The talking stick is in your hand. What did you learn? What does your heart say? The firelight enables us to see our way through a changing world. The fire is a reflection of your heart, its beauty and magnificence. When you neglect your fire, it is a sickness and curse. Tend your fire as you reflect on Bighorn. Trust the voice of your heart to come forth. Share Bighorn’s story with kindred folk around your fire. What have they learned?” Twice by that fire I walked the circle. In the evening I processed my grief and sadness at Bighorns leaving,

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acknowledging out loud the loss, crying, screaming out, and replacing this loss with a new intent in my heart to honor Bighorn’s lesson—to listen and watch with appreciation and respect. In the morning I entered the circle with appreciation for the new day. Gratitude arose from my heart-connection to the circle of life. In appreciation the rhythm of my heart is one with the rhythm of the earth. We are in a great transition. Many species are leaving. Bighorn is departing. Leatherback Turtle has only a few more years. Polar Bear is having a hard time. Trees are dying. The challenge of living in appreciation requires a return to fundamentals. Are we strong-hearted and humble enough to “listen and watch,” to sustain and protect not only ourselves, but all life? I release what is departing and appreciate what remains. —When we regain our courage to be sacred human beings in a sacred world, a change of heart occurs. Our relationship to Life becomes one of appreciative watching and listening, of connection to all things. This is one lesson we can gain from Bighorn’s story. Connection happens around the fire. Connection is a circle. Life, days, seasons, water all flow in a circle. Appreciation connects. Even in this era of mass extinctions, I dwell in the sacred circle of continuity. May those with the courage of their wholeness receive the spirit of Bighorn’s story and learn to watch and listen despite their fear and grief. Acknowledgements: Recently I spoke following The Elder at a gathering. My first words were, “I am a translator from the wisdom of traditional people to the modern world.” In the present case, I am a translator for creatures who have no voice we comprehend. My communication with Bighorn was aided by Fran Gallaher. This story came through in this time assisted by her skills. Tu Moonwalker, Wisdom Holder, is my teacher. Clifford Duncan, Ute Elder, is my older brother. Jim Goss, who compiled the first Ute dictionary, explained to me the place of Bighorn in Ute Cosmology. Paula Underwood shared her traditions understanding of the circle. Suggested reading: Who Speaks for Wolf, Paula Underwood, illustrated by Frank Howell, A Tribe of Two Press, 1983, San Anselmo, CA

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Reconnecting with the Earth

edited by Rita Kesler

Snake Search FRED VENTURINI

he search began just as I expected—a slow walk, eventless, me stewing in sweat and wishing I’d never signed up for such boring volunteer work. My mind translated “snake hunt” into a captivating stalk through thick patches of forest, each step putting us on the cusp of danger, a few inches closer to the poisonous fangs of the Eastern Massasauga Rattlesnake—and me a few credits closer to graduation.

...I realized that I was the one with my foot hovering over the snake. I was the threat.

At least I had the graduation part right. The snake hunt wasn’t really a hunt at all, it was more like a catch and release mission. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the Illinois Department of Natural Resources were implementing a management plan for the Massasauga, which is on the endangered species list in Illinois. We hoped to locate a few snakes to mark their territory, capture them, put transmitters inside of them, and use the information to further understand the evasive critters’ habits. But I wouldn’t be involved in all that technical stuff—my orders were to lend another set of snake-spotting eyes and hope we stumbled upon an Eastern Massasauga rattlesnake. We wandered the base of a saddle-dam near Carlyle Lake, a 26,000 acre man-made lake in Southern Illinois. The lake offers the two types of habitat the snake requires—wetlands for hibernating and breeding, and prairies for feeding. This was deﬁnitely prairie territory. Blazing heat roasted me from a cloudless sky. We walked slowly and silently, as if the dying grass were eggshells. All I could think of was catching Sports Center in the air conditioning at the end of a fruitless day. I was completely distracted, my vision sweeping in a short arc, left to right. Then, my foot froze in mid-step.

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The Eastern Massasauga Rattlesnake. hard to find, hard to see. with the plight of the snake? To become educated? To formulate a plan that may benefit both business and the snake? Because our world can’t slow down. Rattlesnakes are all the same in the instant culture, where snap images and generalizations dominate: they slither around every rock and tree, poised to strike, bite, poison and kill. The rattlesnake looked like a pile of dung at first, curled up upon itself, sandy-brown, the color of the dying grass. If not for the dark patches lining the whole of its body, I probably would have stepped on it. There was no poison dripping from the snake’s bare fangs. No hissing. No darting tongue. No thick, writhing body that threatened to crush my bones. I’d heard the snake team call it a pygmy rattler, and I finally got the image. This little guy would have fit in the palm of my hand in his curled state. The pieces added up in my head, all the things Joe Smothers, the Corps of Engineers’ snake guru at Carlyle Lake, told me about the Eastern Massasauga—hard to find, evasive, and most of all, severely threatened. As scared as I was for the moment, I realized that I was the one with my foot hovering over the snake. I was the threat. The Massasauga was only sunning or hunting or going from place to place. He was only living—which was his right, the right of all things. My fear was replaced with excitement— here was a rare animal I may never see again. The snake team came over and within moments, they had him tubed and the location marked. My back was getting patted hard for spotting him. So went my first meeting with the Eastern Massasauga Rattlesnake—it wouldn’t be our last. As I finished my coursework and prepared for my career as a Park Ranger, my mind continued returning to that day, the first meeting between the snake and myself. One encounter between man and animal, and I couldn’t shake the image, but more than that, I couldn’t shake the relationship. The snake is harmless—I saw that for myself. It’s palm-sized and rare enough to not threaten anyone. Yet I read in the newspapers: “It should be the responsibility of every business related to the visitors of the Carlyle Lake area to write the Federal and State representatives asking for the reduction of the Illinois Department of Natural Resources Budget, to eliminate the assaults against the businesses of Carlyle.”

In the instant culture, there are no books, only covers. In the instant culture, I, like many others, am a rattlesnake. Seeing the Eastern Massasauga, learning about the plight of the snake, I came to realize more and more that the snake shares the same yearnings that I have—to not be judged by a simple glance or rumor. If our society were more interested in slowing down and taking the time necessary to educate ourselves, to acclimate our own lives to lives of both animals and other people, the infrastructure of our communities and country would improve. And much like the rattlesnake, I didn’t want to be judged by a mistake. When I was younger, a “boys will be boys” ﬁght ended up costing me a broken hand and a smear on my record I have yet to escape. My efforts to defend myself that day have somehow created a reputation that I don’t deserve. The Eastern Massasauga Rattlesnake has hospitalized two people due to bites—both times, the snake was being harassed by the victim. Yet the biting incidents become ammunition for the snake’s detractors. Three years passed before I met my friend again. Dead prairie grass curled against the ground, crackling against my boots. Sweat nibbled at my eyes, blurring my vision. I wasn’t on a snake-hunt; I was about to write a ticket for trespassing. But my eyes were always cast downward when I walked the snake habitat on the lake. With my ticket book in hand, I saw him. The snake was tightened against itself, ball-like. My boots were ﬂat on the ground. Neither of us moved, neither was threatened. I wondered if this was the same snake—he was certainly bigger, but still no bigger than my hand in his current state. How long did I stand there? I can’t be sure. But I do know this—I left the snake alone. After some reading and some

Helping the snake was called “terrorism against our businesses.” The snake, in my mind, became symbolic of our times. The “instant” culture relies on portable electronics, an Internet feed, on-demand information, and high-speed living. Why take the time to become intimate with this animal? To become familiar

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interviewing, I knew the snake. We weren’t quite friends, but knew enough about each other’s business to stay away. I used to be a kid with a rap sheet, but I had a ticket book, a badge, and I was about to write a guy a citation for trespassing. We talked for a few minutes. His name was Rob, he was from Missouri, and didn’t see the sign. I let him go without a ticket. Call me gullible if you want. That would be the easy, instant label. But I call it human. The image that I remember most often from my first encounter with the snake was of me, hovering over the snake, my boot poised to crush him. I was frightened—he was frightened. As an endangered species, the Eastern Massasaugas live with that symbolic boot raised over them. The residents of Carlyle are the ones poised to crush—and this is because of fear and ignorance and greed. Nothing more. No matter how nature is attacked where you live, remember how the boot hovers just above the Eastern Massasauga. But the Massasauga isn’t alone—in your state, your neighborhood, or perhaps even your own backyard, there’s a species at risk. A symbolic boot hovers just above all endangered species, and most of the time, that boot is built from misunderstanding or plain old ignorance. In addition to ignorance, the unfounded, pervasive fear of snakes creates a mental roadblock. Spiders, rodents, snakes, and worms are the types of creatures that instill nearly universal dread. Sadly, that dread is often unfounded or based on stereotype. As a young boy, I remember being told about the poisonous, violent nature of the slithering beasts—as a man, I’ve learned that snake bites are rare (and when they do occur, are often instigated by humans) and I’ve seen first-hand that snakes smoothly integrate into nature. They’re enforcers of sorts, helping to regulate local ecosystems. In addition to stereotype, ego is another huge obstacle. Those that claim that supporting the Massasauga is “terrorism” against business foster a closed mind, and will be difficult to educate or convince. Their ego interferes, as does their “business sense” or selfishness, depending on how one views their stance. Socrates said the only truth he knew for sure was that he knew nothing. When it comes to endangered species, following this advice is key. Let go of generalizations. Release your ego. Declare your lack of personal knowledge. Only as a blank slate can you begin to acquire knowledge about the Massasauga, or any other endangered species. Then, grant authority to someone with greater knowledge and experience. You’ll find that those with knowledge are thrilled to pass that knowledge along and further their cause. These guidelines can open up doors to being aware of and in touch with nature where you live. Before you know it, you’ll be

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the one with great knowledge and experience, passing it on to others. Everyone likes to say that knowledge is power, which is true. Luckily for us, knowledge is also contagious, but only to those who submit to knowledge by being not just a learner, but an active learner. True knowledge isn’t attained by a few clicks or a casual listen, but by a fundamental change in belief that permeates the heart and the intellect. I invite you to Carlyle Lake where you’ll enjoy the beaches, water, and forests—and you’ll also have a chance to observe an endangered species, the Massasauga Rattlesnake. If you can’t make the trip to Carlyle, don’t worry. The truth is right outside your door. Chances are, a similar opportunity to learn and observe an endangered species awaits you in your neck of the woods. And that boot of ignorance hovers above, ever-present, ready to drop—your choices are to wait and hope or become an active learner. You’ll ﬁnd the second choice can not only make a positive impact, but enrich you in the process. Rita Kesler, editor of “Reconnecting to the Earth,” is a plant spirit medicine practitioner and environmental educator in North Carolina, where she guides children and adults to personal healing through reconnecting with the Earth.

Snakes reﬂect a part of our culture that prejudges, that hates what is unknown and appears to be beyond connection and understanding. To learn more about them and to help release your fear and judgment, consider Fred’s recommendations. –RK, Ed.

: http://www.umass.edu/nrec/snake_pit/pages/myth.html Common snake myths are debunked at this website. : http://www.angelﬁre.com/zine2/drez/Massasauga.htm This is a Massasauga focused website that demonstrates the impacts at Carlyle Lake. : http://t3.preservice.org/T02210/facts.htm This easy to access, general information site about all kinds of snakes is wonderful for all ages and interests. ® The Last Snake in Ireland by Sheila MacGill Callahan is a children’s book that tells an entertaining variation of the St. Patrick myth and also is sympathetic and informative about snakes. ® The U.S. Guide to Venomous Snakes and their Mimics by Scott Shupe is a quick and reliable guide to identifying the small percentage of snakes that pose a real threat to man. It is a great resource for the layperson.

Expanding the Sahara I tremble and fret. It is strange how words chock in my throat, How you break my heart. Why do you condemn me To live in everlasting jeopardy? Where is the green vast scale That spread on this land? Tell me why the rains Have gone away with the clouds, Gone with the wind, Leaving me to face The dark of my night? How will my children envision This place as it was, When animals used to roam On these jungles at will? I witness a big cloud of Dust rising beyond my own voice. I know that I am scarce of words To express what I feel for tomorrow, For you break my heart.

Photograph ﾂｩ Vladimir Kondrachov. Image from BigStockPhoto.com.

窶認redrick Gachanja Njoroge

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Sacred Fire

Number Three

Time and Patience Lessons from Tanzania

SVAGITA ELKS

anzania and its people have a pleasantly ambling pace. Their relationship to time is completely different from how most of us experience it in the West. Time is a loose and easy thing, expanding and contracting as necessary, not governed by a rigidly ticking clock. In fact, the clocks I see hanging prominently in people’s homes or offices are often just decorative. Most have stopped completely—it’s always 1:27 or 7:56 or 12:13… Plans or appointments are made and often kept, but the one p.m. meeting, if you’re lucky, will happen at two, though it may not happen that same day, or even that same week. Inevitably, there is mud or dust to walk through, depending on the time of the year. There are traffic jams, flat bicycle tires, last-minute weddings and funerals to attend. Babies are born. Malaria is suffered. Old friends are met on the street and there is catching up to be done. Basically, life is happening. You may or may not get a phone call from someone warning you of a change in plans— some people have phones, some don’t. Even if they have a phone they may not have easy access to electricity to charge it, or the money to buy calling credit. So patience and waiting are woven into the fabric of this culture. Things simply happen when they happen and take as long as they take. Hopping up and down, fuming, tapping one’s foot, raising your voice does not expedite things. It is considered rude and childish behavior—and, embarrassingly, the behavior of foreigners. Hmmmm…. Things happen when they happen and take as long as they take, huh? Well, if you had spoken to me twoand-a-half years ago, before I moved to Africa, I would have agreed with you enthusiastically on this point.

Number Three

Sacred Fire

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Sacred Fire

Number Three

��

��   

   



  

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

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



     

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

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

 44

Sacred Fire

Number Three

A Message A

CASSIA BERMAN PHOTOGRAPHS BY ROB DEW

few years ago, in a shamanic drumming circle, I had a vision. I saw myself in the middle of the parking lot of a mall in the neighboring town, a mall I’ve always liked for its spaciousness of sky, spectacular sunsets, and the really good health food store that’s there. I thought my mind was wandering, so I tried to blank it out, but the picture persisted. There I was in the middle of the blacktop, surrounded on three sides by stores. I was shown that before this place was paved over, Nature had ﬂourished there—trees and plants grew, creatures lived their lives and spirits played. I was shown that the nature spirits are playing there still. They are not dependent on physical form for their survival, and bear no malice towards the humans who cleared the ground and built their stores, for human structures are very temporary in the scheme of things. I was reminded of the threadlike weeds one sometimes sees poking through blacktop, making one wonder about the strength that allows such fragile-seeming things to push through so hard a surface. I was reminded of houses and buildings abandoned by people for a few years—how Nature, with Her boundless energy, quickly takes over, pushing aside human creation, and as it decays, grows back in all Her abundance. I was reminded of junkyards where plants matter-of-factly grow through cars and rusting machines, turning them into strange sculptures of human decline. I was shown the abundance in the stores of the mall as a reﬂection of the abundance in the woods, where layers of things pile on top of each other in seeming disorder. This disorder makes as much sense in the continuity of the cycles of life as our items, manufactured from those same elements and neatly folded and stacked or arranged on hangers, make to us. And I was shown that in this mall and all malls, all the places humankind has paved over for our temporary, sometimes ill-planned projects, that Nature in Her essence is still dancing. The creatures whose habitats are destroyed and the humans who destroy them suffer in the short run, but life doesn’t die. Life ever celebrates, whether manifest or not. I was shown that in the long run, Nature can repair Herself. In the short run, just as the forest creatures need their wild places in order to live, we also need those places where Nature freely puts forth Her energy and balances the air, the waters, the energies of Her inhabitants and the subtler vibrations, even if we never visit them. If we destroy those places, we suffer, too.

Sacred Fire

Number Three

from the Mall I was shown that in the mystery of the gift of free will, we are allowed to make mistakes, hurt ourselves and the life around us until we learn to live in harmony and wisdom with all life. The connections between our suffering and our mistakes sometimes take a long time to become obvious to us. In the mystery of trusting that even the story we are living has a happy ending, I was shown that we can watch even seemingly stupid acts of destruction with the eyes of a patient Mother whose home is eternity, who watches Her slow-learning children make mistakes as She waits for them to grow into maturity and understanding. --I was told very clearly, now that I know that they’re there, to connect with the nature spirits whenever I go to the mall. On a windy, sunny Sunday, a day it wasn’t hard to imagine all of nature doing a wild dance of celebration, a friend and I went there, stopping at the health food store to buy cornmeal, sage and dried rosebuds for the devas. Sunlight was sparkling in the parking lot. As we made our offerings at the bases of the few small trees, and acknowledged the spirit of life and beauty and deeper wisdom that we love, an empty blue shopping cart from one of the stores went careening in front of us, pushed by the wind, or perhaps by devas, perhaps ﬁlled with laughing fairies, happy to almost be seen. Or so it seemed.

Number Three

Sacred Fire

Growing Down

Seen with the eyes of January, April is risky, not to be trusted. Especially an April ﬂushed with sudden heat, everything quickening and opening at once. A spring like this makes your mouth water for sweet tomatoes before you’ve planted the peas. A spring like this makes old timers shake their heads and tell stories about blizzards on May Day, killer frosts in June. Grow down, my father used to tell me when I was small and he was just a wiseass kid himself. He knew I was born old, full of things learned from sitting still in long darkness, eavesdropping on rocks and rivers talking under mufﬂing snow. I wish he had lived to see this late and hectic spring— your extravagant warmth turning my spare landscape inside out with prodigal bloom. I imagine him laughing at my bewilderment, my

attempts

hold

something

in reserve, as if my body had not already chosen, already given everything for this chance—however precarious— to set fruit, to ripen. —Lisa Nash

Sacred Fire

Number Three

D��t�

Facing

L�f�

Embracing

hen I was sixteen, I went for a sports physical to get ready for the ﬁeld hockey season and my doctor found a lump in my throat. Tests soon showed that I had thyroid cancer. The conventional treatment called for a complete removal of my thyroid gland, radioactive iodine treatment and life-long thyroid hormone supplementation. I was a child of the 70’s commune counterculture. I did not accept mainstream medicine’s solution as the only path. In my research I found that even a portion of the gland could support the metabolism for the whole body. I learned that if my entire thyroid gland was removed and the synthetic hormone supplement became unavailable, I would become progressively tired and die within a year’s time. As a young environmental activist, it seemed plausible that modern society was going to implode, so this issue of availability felt like a very real consideration. So, I fought to keep as much of my thyroid gland as possible. For me this meant a life that afﬁrmed my orientation to the natural world and a life that was not dependent on synthetically produced hormones. Seventeen years later (a year and a half ago), I found that my cancer had returned. Through waves of panic, dread, insidious doubts and sleepless nights, a knowing began to emerge—recognition of the importance of this moment in my life. This was another opportunity, another waking point. But waking to what?

Learning that the cancer had returned was but one part of a great falling away of the identities and structures of my world. Three weeks before the diagnosis, I had left the teaching hospital where I had a successful, yet increasingly constricted career as a psychotherapist. The teaching gig I had lined up for the summer fell through. All my professional writing of seven years was lost to computer mysteries and flooded basements. The yoga retreat center which had been my sanctuary since college, closed. My partnership of six years was undeniably and heartbreakingly over. My sexual orientation seemed to be shifting. I was reduced to just me, facing my worst fears and my core questions: What the hell is going on? What in heaven’s name am I to do? And who on earth am I? In facing the cancer this time around, I was absolutely terrified of doing the wrong thing. The sure convictions of my adolescent years seemed so far away. The stakes felt high and my ability to make an immediate decision was made impossible by the deep divide in my being between mainstream and alternative worlds. In this state I went to see my holistic doctor who, hearing all the fear in my questions, said, “Robin, it doesn’t matter what you do, just that you do it with joy. Go to surgery with joy. Take the radiation with joy. If you choose an alternative course, chose it not out of fear of the radiation or fear of surgery, but from the truth of who you are.” And so, I chose life. Not any particular philosophy or approach, not “my” life, just life. Guidance came in many forms. I began working with a master healer: a Huichol shaman who guided me towards facing death while encouraging me to completely embrace life. I traveled to meet him in different parts of the country where he was teaching and bringing community together. In this way I came into an ever-widening circle of fellow seekers and healers that gathered in the age-old ritual of sitting around the fire. Well, actually, drumming, dancing, singing and laughing round the fire. I went on pilgrimage in Mexico, an ancient practice aimed toward awakening our connection with the divine, and I found that divinity amongst my fellow pilgrims. Paradoxically, it was my shaman who gave me the courage to choose mainstream medical intervention. This proved to be far more critical than I could have anticipated. After a more extensive surgery than expected, the pathology report indicated that the cancer had converted to an aggressive subtype that required immediate and complete medical treatment. One round of radioactive iodine was supposed to take care of any remaining cancer as well as diagnostically rule out the possibility of distant metastasis. The chemotherapy not only

ROBIN CHALFIN 56

And so, I chose life. Not any particular philosophy or approach, not “my” life, just life.

didn’t work, it also provided no diagnostic information. I had to wait another 6 months for my body to take more radiation. I had to wait 6 months to rule out my worst fears. Reaching out in need, I was blessed with the experience of community and an ever deepening sharing of the heart. I discovered the medicine of authentic connection. I prayed for healing. I wrote letters asking for prayers and found that the act of sharing was my greatest medicine.The letters were ﬁrst written to this small group of pilgrims from Mexico and the United States. Then, as I gained courage, they were extended to my larger spiritual community and, ﬁnally, with my friends and family. The loving and compassionate responses sustained me. This was the medicine of touching others and being

touched by them from the power that only comes through vulnerability and humility. I share my letters with you in the same way I would share a trail in the woods with a friend. I found a way. May it shed some light on your way. January 2005

Dear Ones, I’m writing to all of you to ask for your prayers and to share with you how I am learning to be with the challenges in my life. I’m entering an especially vital time as I prepare for more medical treatment. As you know, this past year I found out that the cancer I had as a teenager had returned. This recurrence has brought me to places of fear and, simultaneously, joyful recognition of

ARTWORK BY CLAUDIA D’OCCHIO

�� 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 ��

THE COMMUNITY FIRE CIRCLE IN SANTA CRUZ, CALIFORNIA

��

invites you to join us at our monthly fires.

��

“Fire moves you to a different place”

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

��

�� Sacred Fire

Number Three

Sacred Fire

The Universe Knows a Smart Aleck One Woman’s Wrestling Match with a Prayer Wheel GINA KNUDSON

freely admit that I’m spiritually immature. I’m skeptical, cynical, and empirical. Show me the money, as Cuba Gooding, Jr. would say. But secretly I pine for the mystical. When friends tell me of answered prayers to issues like buying a new home or losing weight, I think Christ, my congressman won’t even respond to me. And then the inevitable wave of bad, smart alecky thoughts come crashing to my mental shores. While you people are troubling the Lord and Savior with chunky thighs and real estate market tips, endless suffering is occurring all around us, I sneer privately. But I can say with some authority that the universe isn’t big on smart alecks. Recently I made a trip to the Sawtooth Botanical Garden in Ketchum, Idaho. THE Dalai Lama had been there weeks earlier to dedicate the Garden of Infinite Compassionate and especially its centerpiece, an ornate prayer wheel carved by Buddhist monks in India. The garden had directions that encouraged visitors to follow the gravel path clockwise. Walking around the spinning prayer wheel, I did as I was instructed and tried to emit compassionate thoughts to my fellow creatures. Despite my sincere and most obedient attempts, I had that same nagging sense of the futility of it all. Blind faith must be such a peaceful sensation, I supposed. I tried to imagine my compassionate transmissions connecting with some sort of a spiritual satellite. But before I could reach a deep and lasting meditative state, my mind slipped to the stately and gigantic boulders flanking the prayer wheel. Man, where did they get those things? What kind of truck would you need to haul those big suckers? Hours after my visit to the Garden of Infinite Compassion, I got the distinct impression my message had been received. My right eye started to become red and inflamed and really, really sore. Two days later it had swollen nearly shut and blisters began to circle the eye, clockwise. Pain shot through my head and out my eye socket in a rhythm much like the clanging bell that hung from the prayer wheel and the colorful pie-shaped flags snapping in the breeze. “It looks like Mike Tyson worked you over,” my husband commented. Nope. I knew the Dalai Lama had done it.

Compassion is an insane thing to wish for. It sounds harmless to roll it off the tongue, but by definition the word means to share the suffering of another. The doctor’s definition was a nasty case of shingles. While completely minor by most standards, the condition put me squarely, if temporarily, on the side of the afflicted. Suddenly, I was the old man who eclipses any conversation with stories of hip replacements and arthritis. What else could people want to discuss other than my oozing, warped face? The compassion spread when I picked up my prescriptions. Even with top-notch health insurance, I forked over a cool c-note for 10 days of bitter medicine. That could have been dinner out. With dessert. And wine. Or in many people’s case, part of the rent payment. A week’s worth of groceries. The difference between a family making it and falling behind. Most people don’t choose to get sick. Unlike me, they don’t hold up a lighting rod during the storm and yell, “Come and get me!” to the black clouds. But as a society, we have created a system that punishes misery with the side effects of financial ruin. We Americans cheer on the underdog, yet stand by while the downtrodden are systematically crushed by the weight of the crowd. These realizations are not necessarily new ones for me, but I have never felt so directed to do something about them. In Ethic for the New Millennium, the Dalai Lama explains my dilemma, “When we enhance our sensitivity toward others’ suffering through deliberately opening ourselves up to it, it is believed that we can gradually extend outcompassion to the point where the individual feels so moved by even the subtlest suffering that they come to have an overwhelming sense of responsibility toward those others.” Great, an overwhelming responsibility is where I’m at now. I feel like the child that begs for a puppy and six months later sends the pain in the ass back to the pound. Busted. The next time I find myself in the presence of a prayer wheel, I will be very careful. He might seem like a gentle soul, but I know the Dalai Lama has a big zen stick and he’s not afraid to use it.

Sacred Fire

Number Three