Sacred Fire Magazine Issue 6 by Sacred Fire Foundation

TELLING STORIES

BARRY LOPEZ

COLIN CAMPBELL

The Modern Voice of Ancient Tradition

MARTÍN PRECHTEL

Issue Six

Malcom Margolin Keeping Knowledge Alive in Native California Zulu High Sanusi Credo Mutwa A Prayer for Peace Apela Colorado Embracing Mixed Blood Waynonaha Two Worlds The Stories I Write Anaansi, Stone Boy, Monster and more!

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Nature is the primary text. How do you read a tree?

Contents Knowing the World Keeping Knowledge Alive: Indian Pedagogy A Look at Traditional California Indian Teaching Techniques

Far from ignoring the education of children, Native American cultures had intricate strategies for passing on their essential wisdom and knowledge. Malcolm Margolin

Lone Dancer, The Stories I Write, Keeper of the Ears

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not just the old tales, but also the stories of our lives that carry the wisdom of the people. Waynonaha Two Worlds

What The Violets Said to Me

How do we slow down enough to hear what the plants are saying? Louise Berliner

Salmon, Bear, River

Nothing can be excluded from the mutual obligations and courtesies of our agreements. Barry Lopez

The Rainmaker

An old tale about what it means for a person to live his purpose fully. As told by Colin Campbell Walking A Journey

Tracing a shamanic journey in real time. Sharon Cohen

Any Given Morning

Death is the thread that binds the web of life. Kristin Kenlan

Life with Spirit All My Relations

Apela Colorado on native spirituality, Catholicism, and her quest for spiritual wholeness. Sharon Brown

A Prayer for Peace: An Audience with Zulu High Sanusi Credo Mutwa

Despite years of violent assaults against him, the sangoma remains unwavering in his dedication to peace and reconciliation, and lives his life with joy. Mark Blessington

Departments Editor’s Note

Poetry

Jonathan Merritt

Why Are You Holding Back?

Hot Flashes

Jonathan Merritt Talking to Helen

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Vultures, Books, Economics and more.

Helen Granger and Jonathan Merritt

Renée Ashley I Walk Naked Through the Day

Reconnecting with the Earth Litter for the Soul

Marianna Tupper

Rita Kesler Raccoon

Phen Canner

Provocations

Getting Right with Money Danger, Fear and Money

Repairing the Damage 19 Seduction

Mark Blessington

Last Page

It’s a Small World Doorway # 3 A Clod of Mud

Martín Prechtel

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Cover photograph: Antelope Canyon © Sourav Chowdhury. Image from BigStockPhoto.com. Inside front cover and page one photographs: Mamma Beech, Helen Granger. Background photograph these two pages: Ocean © Olga Conroy. Image from BigStockPhoto.com. Paintings these two pages all by Laurie Perla.

Fire Stories I have the honor and good fortune to keep a monthly community fire at my home. It’s a small fire, by any standard, attended by perhaps fifteen souls who sit together long into the night. Over the years, these people have become very dear to me. They comprise the community to which I belong. In the Sacred Fire Community we call this a hamlet. The Sacred Fire Community, whose mission is “to foster a global community that rekindles our relationship to each other and the world through the universal and sacred spirit of fire,” has given training, guidance and initiation to firekeepers in about forty hamlets in the United States. The United Kingdom holds around fifteen hamlets, and fires are also being kept in Canada, Mexico, Australia and Indonesia. People who belong to the Sacred Fire Community, but who have not received the specific firekeeper training, are lighting numerous other fires. And, of course, innumerable fires are being lit every day in every part of the world by people who are engaged in the activity of building and maintaining community, of sharing their stories and their lives. Many of these people live in traditional communities or follow paths of traditional wisdom. Others sit around campfires with their companions after a good day of

Editorial Jonathan Merritt

hiking or fishing or hunting. Others light their fireplaces or their fire pits to simply enjoy the night. Sitting around the fire is an ancient practice. We might call it the primary prayer. For beyond the simple functionality of fire— its heat that cooks food and dispels the cold, its light that fills the darkness—fire has an undeniable aspect of sacredness that leads people to share their hearts. When I speak of this sacredness, I don’t mean anything untouchable or grandiose—although heightened experiences often occur around the fire. Rather, I am speaking of the simple everyday recognition of our connection to each other and the world, the sense of connection that allows us to let our guards down, that allows us to laugh and weep and simply be in the presence of each other. In our Western culture, dominated as it is by that faux fire we call TV, it is increasingly rare for people to sit together in simple ways beside the family hearth with only their crafts, their voices, their musical instruments to entertain them. It is rarer still for people to sit outside with the flame and smoke of the fire and the wind blowing through the trees, with owls and coyotes calling into the night. And, in our culture, we rarely hold official meetings around council fires. Since fire is the element of heart, our connection to the realms of the Divine, it is no wonder that our culture has become so secular, that the pursuit of individual agendas and personal wealth has become more important than attending to the general welfare and interests of the community. Lacking the sacred aspects of fire in our lives, we have become more and more separated from our hearts. Much of what we call modernity—our structures and machines, our materialistic and mechanical world-views—is utterly heartless. Of course, there is a distinction between a common campfire or family hearth and a sacred fire circle. When we meet at the fire, our intention is to build and nurture a community of people who are not necessarily like-minded—since we come from different backgrounds and follow various spiritual Jonathan Merrit and his son Eli at a community fire. Photo by Phil Parker.

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Editorial

paths—but who are openhearted, who recognize and honor the connections between us, and who seek to deepen their connections to this magnificent and intricate world. To do this, we create a ritual space by giving offerings to the fire— tobacco to open our hearts to each other, chocolate to open our hearts to the divine, copal to entice the divine energies, and wood to feed and honor Fire, who is our patron and guide. These offerings, borrowed from the Huichols of the Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico, are said to be universal in their appeal; that is, they carry each person’s prayers to his or her proper spiritual home. Over the years of keeping a fire at my home, I notice that, once the fire has been consecrated, there is almost always an immediate deepening and quickening of the conversations between us. Suddenly, everything takes on more significance— the wind in the trees and the hoots of the owls, the crackle of the fire and the forms the smoke makes as it rises into the night. And, especially, the beauty that emerges from the faces of our friends as we open our hearts to each other in this space that we recognize as sacred. Sometimes people tell jokes to “break the ice,” to get us laughing or groaning. Sometimes the conversation turns philosophical as people discuss spiritual practices or concepts of being—where we come from before birth, what it means to be alive, what we believe about death. Sometimes we talk about current events, the political situation, signs of global warming, the wastefulness, inexplicability and injustice of war. Usually these political conversations lead us to a glum and dumbfounded silence. But what always interests me the most, what enlivens me at the fires, are the stories people tell about their lives. Someone might tell a story about hitchhiking across the country as a young man and being caught in a tremendous thunderstorm in Kansas. Another tells about a recent walk through the forest with her great dog, what she saw and felt in that quiet place. One talks about her experience at a silent Vipassana meditation retreat for which she was completely unsuited. A man tells us about taking his mother to a hookers’ conference, a gathering of people who hook rugs and tea cozies. Of course, this leads to a series of joking comments and bad puns. A woman speaks about her work with plants, what they say to her and what she feels. Another woman tells the story of her daughter’s birth—a story that brings us both joy and tears. And the stories go on and on. Recently, a great teacher said that stories, as well as poems and songs and certain works of art, are the intersection between thinking and being. That is, they reveal more than the meanings of the words. They show the heart of the storyteller

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and open the hearts of the listeners. So, as I listen to the stories of those who are gathered at the fire, whether the stories are epic or mundane, I come to know them in an intimate way. I come to trust them, to love them. And our stories become the common wisdom of our fire circle, our way of knowing who, together, we are. It strikes me that in ancestral traditions, wisdom is almost always carried through stories—whether it is the story of how the world was formed, how corn was given to the people, how to entice the weather beings to give their blessings, or how to weave a basket or build a house. These stories, commonly dismissed as myths, are traditionally told in the presence of fire. They reveal the nature of the Divine, the relationships between beings and the identity of the people to whom the stories have been given. This issue of Sacred Fire is largely devoted to these ways of knowing—through ancestral stories, personal testimonies and poems. We hope that you, dear reader, feel moved by what we offer and that a fire is sparked in your heart so that you might share your stories and hear the stories that pour forth from the world around you; so that you can reveal your purpose and place in the world.

Sitting around the ﬁre is an ancient practice. We might call it the primary prayer.

Contributors The author of four volumes of poetry and a novel, Renée Ashley teaches in Fairleigh Dickinson University’s MFA Program in Creative Writing. Phen Canner lives with his wife Jody and four cats in the foothills of the

Adirondacks. Sharon Cohen lives and writes from the forest and the river in Maryland.

The Modern Voice of Ancient Tradition Issue Six www.sacredﬁremagazine.com Publisher Sharon Brown Editor-in Chief Jonathan Merritt Managing Editor Louise Berliner

Colin Campbell is a Sangoma in the Mbukushu tradition. His practice as

Contributing Editors Mark Blessington, Rita Kesler, Mary Lane

a traditional African doctor relies on living in alignment, respect and deep connection with the Spirits of Nature.

Fire Department Editor Gavin Harrill

Living near the Hudson River, Mark Gilliland integrates Tibetan and Native American symbolic traditions into his sacred art. www.imagemaya.org

Proofreaders Buffy Aakaash, Julie Bete, Jackie Robinson

Artist and illustrator Helen Granger lives in southern Massachesstts with rock and tree, ocean and sky. Kristin Kenlan teaches middle school science and math and worked as a

teacher naturalist in Yellowstone National Park for ﬁve summers.

Submissions Manager Mageshwaki Editorial Assistant Santha Cooke Art Director Helen Granger Design Support Maggie Flynn Marketplace Design Caroline Wiebosch Advertising Sales Kateri McCue Business Operations Phen Canner Subscription Sales Jill Jacobs

Rita Kesler, husband Tim and their lab Murphy hike the trails and pick

Subscription Manager Andye Murphy

up litter on Falls Lake near Raleigh, NC. She is the editor of the column “Reconnecting with the Earth.”

Distribution Manager Theresa Arico

Recipient of numerous honors and awards, Barry Lopez is perhaps the foremost American writer who explores the physical and spiritual relationships of people with the land, the plants and animals and each other. www.barrylopez.com Malcolm Margolin is the cofounder and publisher of News from Native

California. Mary Ellen McCourt, a photographer for over 30 years, hopes that her photographs express the vitality and life force that imbues all life on earth. Yana Murphy has been taking photos in the northern California coastal area for some years. The bulk of his current work can be seen on Flickr.com.

A third generation Oregonian, Phil Parker has a genetic afﬁnity with the local plants and places and an eye for capturing their richness and beauty. Laurie Perla lives high in the Rocky Mountains with her bookis

malamute-wolf friend, Dino, her divine feline muse, and her ﬂame-rolling spouse, Dave. Raised in a pueblo village in New Mexico, Martín Prechtel carries the seeds of the Tzutujil Mayan culture that adopted him. He awaits the time when the ground is fertile so that what is holy can jump up and live again. SkyFox enjoys dreaming life and occasionally painting in the Sonoran Desert. Mariana S. Tupper muses metaphorically in midcoast Maine. Her

chapbooks include Secrets the Tall Grass Could Tell (2004) and Lessons from the Wild Goose (2006). Having both Lakota and Cherokee heritage, Waynonaha Two Worlds writes, “I honor my ancestors, and all my relations. I serve the people as a humble human being here on this our Earth Mother.”

Treasurer Tess Horan Accounts Payable Steve Skinner Web Master Dan Cernese Advisory Board Karen Aberle, Jeff Baker, Tucker Farley, Lisa

Goren, Susan Skinner

Thank you! Our deep gratitude to recent donors to the

magazine and to the Sacred Fire Foundation in support of our printing: Anonymous, Mary Bennett, Chris Grifﬁn, India Hoeschen-Stein, Elizabeth (Betsy) McNair, Lydia Mueller, Rob Norris, Timothy Simon, Christine Staub, Mariana Tupper, and Joan Walden. Heartfelt thanks to Eliot Cowan, Lillian Fleer, Maggie Flynn, Jim Koulias, Dianna Seale, David Wiley, our families, and Grandfather Fire.

Letters to the Editor: editor@sacredfiremagazine.com or 10720 NW Lost Park Dr., Portland, OR 97229 Submissions: submissions@sacredfiremagazine.com. Art submissions: artsubmissions@sacredfiremagazine.com.

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The opinions expressed in these pages are not necessarily those of Sacred Fire, the Sacred Fire Community, the Sacred Fire Foundation or their respective staffs. Sacred Fire is published by the Sacred Fire Community, whose purpose 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. Copyright 2007 by the Sacred Fire Community. All rights reserved.

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Letters To the editor: I am very grateful that you are doing this work via a magazine. You have and will continue to change people’s lives in the deepest ways. It is important work at this time in the world. An Onondaga clan mother just reiterated to me earlier this week that a spiritual consciousness is the path to survival of humankind. We will need each other in the hard times to come. Your work is helping people come together for the future. You know, it also occurred to me a few weeks ago, that the doorway through which indigenous people communicate their wisdom, is the very door to which the world now looks in its search for a new paradigm in our relationship with each other and to the natural world. The time is now. Thank you for your work. Gratefully,

Eric Noyes Associate Director American Indian Institute The Lost People; Issue 4

Dear Friends at Sacred Fire: I found your magazine very interesting but am writing to express my concerns as a Muslim regarding the article entitled “The Lost People” by Thom Hartmann. This article contained his argument that white people are interested in Native American culture and spirituality because they have utterly lost their own “original” spirituality which existed in Europe prior to the Celtic invasions and later the domination of Greco-Roman civilization and Christianity. These destructive events are then attributed to Mesopotamian civilization as the original “dominator” civilization which spread its destructive attitudes to these other civilizations. The evidence of history does not support Hartmann’s argument, but rather seems to indicate that the culture of warfare and weaponry began with and was spread mainly by the Indo-Europeans/Aryans. This is the ancestral culture of most Europeans and European-Americans, as well as the Persians and Kurds, and the Brahmanic civilization of India. There is a considerable academic literature on the IndoEuropeans (see, for example, In Search of the Indo-Europeans by J.P Mallory, 1989). The Indo-Europeans/Aryans were a pastoral, nomadic people constantly searching for resources, and this stimulated their innovations in weaponry and warfare, including domesticating the horse and developing chariots which were used to invade lands settled by agriculturally-based populations which supported city-states. This is opposite to Hartmann’s argument that city-states in the Middle East (such as Ur) were the original “dominatorkingdoms.” Number Six

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If, as Hartmann would have it, the first conquerors and first to discard the “Great Law” (nowhere defined but presumably a peaceful, harmonious, Earth-connected, Creator-centered path) were the ancient peoples of “the region where the Middle East meets northern Africa,” his linkage of Ur to Baghdad and Gilgamesh to Saddam Hussein implicates that the contemporary Arab people of Iraq, and perhaps the Muslim world, are the true culprits behind “the entire worldwide 5000year-long orgy of genocide and cultural destruction.” I expected your magazine to be a source of spiritual reflection and information about the world’s indigenous traditions, and knowledge about their application in today’s world. Thus, this article was profoundly disturbing as it revealed that even those who are attempting to rise above materialism to consider spiritual connections are not immune to ethnic prejudice and political bias, or the misuse of spiritual discourse to enmify groups of “others.” Rather than fall into the same game of blame of a specific group or their descendants for all of the death and destruction in human history, I would suggest another, more Earthconnected, Creator-centered path to facing up to such a history of death and destruction. Since human beings have spread all over the world and interbred to such a great extent that geneticists argue that everyone on Earth is at least a 20th cousin, I think it is clear that the culture of violence is a global matter that should be of concern to all people. And it should be a matter regarding which all human beings are responsible for causing, for confronting and for healing. Sincerely,

Nahid Khan Brooklyn Center, MN

We would love to hear from you! Write to the editor at: jmerritt@sacredﬁremagazine.com

Look for the forthcoming interview with Ram Dass in Sacred Fire Issue 7 7

A Reader Rants

Farewell

All of a sudden I turn around and see that everyone believes in an Armageddon.

Over the years, whenever we have put Sacred Fire into the hands of new readers, they have almost always commented on the physical beauty of the magazine. Helen Granger has been the person most responsible for this beauty. This is, we are sad to say, her last issue in this role. Over the years, Helen has applied her unique skills as an artist and graphic designer, working with few resources and little money, using her ingenuity and great heart to bring order, grace, wit and richness to these pages. She has also been a vital voice in our conversations, bringing her particular perspective and guidance to remind us of our mission and to help us hone our message. Here, we acknowledge her remarkable contributions to Sacred Fire. Here, we express our gratitude from the depths of our hearts and wish her great fortune as she continues her path.

The Mayan calendar ends at 2012. The Hindus say we’re entering a period dominated by destruction. The Christians and Muslims believe it. And the Scientists and Eco-activists are sure it’s going to happen. We’re all on the same page for a change! It’s just that the Fundamentalist Christians believe it’s not going to be any work. They’ll just ﬂoat up to heaven when the world goes to shit. This is why we Eco-activists are so pissed. We know how hard we’ll all have to work when disasters start to pile up. The problem: Two hundred years of materialist technology have drained resources and polluted the planet. A relative few of us have hogged the vast majority of materials and energy so that we can live lifestyles of luxury, waste and inequity. As this way of life has become the ideal, many of the six billion humans are attempting to live this way too. This is immensely out of balance with the capacity of our planet. We’re not meant to have six billion TVs, six billion SUVs, six billion iPods! We’re facing an environmental crisis that will crack the foundations of our culture. It’s a crisis for human life. A lot of people are just going to die. Maybe that is their free ticket to “heaven.” The rest of us are going to have to learn how to live and work together in a more sustainable way. First, maybe we can all step back and appreciate that people have some real knowing about a big change ahead. Of course, there are lots of different reactions to this knowing. Some of us want to hit everyone over the head and say, “Wake up! We need to live in a better, less resource-intensive way.” These folks sometimes have a sense of superiority that keeps them from building coalitions. Some of us know what’s going to happen, but need to suppress our awareness of the repercussions of our resource mismanagement. These folks have to close their eyes tightly to maintain the fantasy of ease. Some of us are already so focused on day-to-day survival that we do not have extra energy to consider anything else. What we can do: Acknowledge our knowledge of the big changes ahead. Acknowledge our corresponding fear. Begin with yourself, your own fears and knowing. Consider whether you’re in the right place. Are you staying in a job that drains you so that you can make your car payments? Are there steps you can take to be in better alignment with your true calling? Your very best will be needed very soon. What skills do you need to best perform your role in the coming change?

Erika Dietrich Chico, California

The Staff In Gratitude I am so thankful to have had the opportunity to serve by being Art Director of Sacred Fire. I am so grateful for being given the chance to grow with this magazine and with all of the incredible people I have worked with on this project. The magazine is a joy to work on but it is also sometimes just that…work. However, I love to watch each issue come together. It is a process not unlike a pot forming on the wheel, a painting on canvas or even a photo coming up in a developer tray... from raw material to a ﬁnished, beautiful and meaningful creation. For all who have offered support and kindness, for all who have given feedback and criticisms, for all who have contributed their gifts I give thanks. It takes a wide web of people to bring this magazine together for each issue and divine and mundane miracles are essential to the process. Thank you to each and every person, god and goddess, essential element, plant, insect and animal that has helped to bring each issue into the world.

Helen Granger

UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES

Hot Flashes

The Interconnectedness of All Things Who: The long-billed vulture (Gyps indicus) Where: India When: Now What: The breaking of a vitally important cycle. Two things that

are seemingly unrelated—an anti-inﬂammatory medication and carrion-eating birds—affect each other greatly when the medication is being used for cattle and the vultures are the clean-up crew in a country that, generally speaking, does not kill cows or consume their meat. The vultures are dying off in high numbers, leaving uneaten cattle carcasses rotting in the sun. A team of researchers traced the cause of their die-off to a popular, easy to get, anti-inﬂammatory drug used by cattleherders on their charges. It seems that the drug is deadly to birds. It is an American drug, well tested on mammals, but, no one thought to test it on vultures. Why would they? Here in the U.S., who notices the work that vultures do? But in India, without them, important changes are already taking place. Disease is on the rise and the wild dog population is growing to take the place of the disappearing vultures. Why: Apparently, we haven’t learned our lessons, yet.

—HG

JOKE! The Real Afterlife A couple made a deal that whoever died ﬁrst would come back if possible and inform the other about the afterlife. Their biggest fear was that there was NO afterlife. The husband was the ﬁrst to go, and true to his word he made contact... “Mary, Mary.” “Is that you, Fred?” “Yes, I’ve come back like we agreed.” “What’s it like?” “Well, I get up in the morning, I have sex, I have breakfast, off to the golf course, I have sex, I bathe in the sun, and then I have sex twice. Then I have lunch, another romp around the golf course, then sex, That is pretty much all afternoon. After supper, golf course again. Then have sex until late at night. The next day it starts again.” “Oh, Fred you surely must be in heaven!” “Not exactly. I’m actually a rabbit in Missouri.”

Helen Granger and Jonathan Merritt

Global Warming + Commercialism = Divine Shrinkage? What: Naturally Formed Ice Shiva Lingam (the phallic symbol

of Lord Shiva) Where: Amarnath, India When: July 1, 2007

On the ﬁrst day of the annual pilgrimage to one of the most sacred sites in India, the shrine of the Shiva Lingam at Amarnath in the Himalayan Mountains, thousands of pilgrims climbed the slippery trails to the 12,800 ft elevation only to discover that the ice stalagmite, which has, for at least 2000 years, formed to heights of twelve feet, had completely melted. Global warming is at least partly to blame since the glacial ice cover of the cave has retreated by more than one hundred meters over the last few years. It is alleged that the Lingam also melted prior to the pilgrimage in 2006, and that it was replaced by a crudely made facsimile. Commercialism also plays its part. Ten years ago, the pilgrimage period was extended from two weeks to two months so that more pilgrims could sit in the Divine Presence. At the same time, the government has promoted spiritual tourism. This has greatly increased trade in supplies and services, including the establishment of three helicopter companies that transport wealthy pilgrims who wish to avoid the arduous hike. More pilgrims visiting the cave, burning candles and incense sticks, and embracing the Lingam, mean higher interior temperatures. What does it mean?

Some commentators note that the difﬁculty of the journey, with the cleansing of the body and the focus of intention, is the most important aspect of the pilgrimage—not what is found at the end. Others ask whether the minor insult of allowing wealthy pilgrims to ﬂy to the holy shrine and the major insult of our polluting activities on Earth has caused Lord Shiva to withdraw. —JM

Hot Flashes SOMETHING TO READ Vermillion Sea by John Janovy, Jr. Houghton Mifﬂin, 1992

I am excited to have found a different kind of scientist writing a different kind of science book. He is a naturalist by the name of John Janovy and the book is Vermillion Sea. The book recounts a journey that Janovy takes to the Baja Peninsula. This journey is undertaken like a pilgrimage in that he follows the footsteps of literary and scientiﬁc ancestors, the great novelist John Steinbeck, and Edward Ricketts, who wrote Log from the Sea of Cortez. What is remarkable about Mr. Janovy, his book and his journey, is that he has a wider outlook than we usually expect from scientists. He feels deeply about what he studies, acknowledges his relationship to it and is respectful of the lives he encounters and the places in which he does his research. He even goes so far as to consider the places in nature where he works and studies to be a sacred sites, because of the relationship he has to those places. Janovy came up with a concept called the “keeper of the keys”—an “element of nature claiming possession of and responsibility for” a geographical area. His ﬁrst keeper was the marsh wren for a place called Keystone Marsh. He selected the marsh wren because “it complains loudly and repeatedly whenever an intruder enters its domain, displaying the audacity typical of idealists who envision themselves as saviors” and he imagines “having to ask its permission in order to enter the

LATEST FAVORITE QUOTE

“A person’s life purpose is nothing more than to rediscover, through the detours of art, or love, or passionate work, those one or two images in the presence of which his heart ﬁrst opened. “ —Albert Camus

cattails” of Keystone Marsh. In Vermillion Sea, Janovy recalls an encounter on his way to the Baja with a fellow biologist who challenges him to find the “keeper of the keys” to Bahia de los Angeles. The author does indeed determine what being he considers to be keeper of that place. At the end of this part of his journey, he reflects on this as he watches the sleeping faces of the students he is traveling with: “[The students] are young and impressionable, a long way from home, and not accustomed to people who think the planet belongs to animals and winds. So I think, with a little bit of luck, sometime in the future, each of them will encounter a stranger in an airport, a person who sends them on a mission of discovery to find their own symbol of which part of nature is responsible for the bay or forest or desert or grassland into which they have chosen to set foot.” —HG

SOMETHING ELSE TO READ Stealing Benefacio’s Roses, A Love Story by Martín Pretchel North Atlantic Books, 2006

Dedication—to the Deer-Eyed Daughter of the Mountain, the Mother of the Great Diversity and to all those people, plants and animals who have been and continue to be… driven from their homes in inﬁnite diasporas of all types to live where they may be unwelcome, while still trying to keep alive their seed capsules of cultural memory in hopes to regrow a home again. May their descendants be carved from the inherited grief of their ancestral loss to become feeders of what is holy in the ground, dedicated to something bigger than their need for justice and the pursuit of revenge. Through the passionate eloquence of this dedication, Martín Prechtel sets the tone for this book of remarkable beauty, depth, elegance, insight and revelation. Originally published as The Toe Bone and the Tooth, this book tells Martín’s story of leaving his home pueblo in New Mexico after a series of feverish dreams, and traveling penniless, armed only with his guitar, through Mexico and Central America. Finally, he arrives in the Tzutujil Mayan village, Santiago de Atitlan, ragged and friendless as an orphan. There, the very man he dreamed of, ﬁnds him, adopts him into the village life, and trains him as a shaman and ritual leader. Subtitled, “A Love Story,” Martín Prechtel weaves in the ancient Mayan story of Raggedy Boy and the Deer-Eyed Daughter of Grandfather Mountain and Grandmother Growth, who fell in love with each other with catastrophic and miraculous results. It is, in a sense, Martín’s own story, as he fell

Hot Flashes in love with the village and its exuberant life—the mist rising off the lake, the fragrance of a million flowers, the raucous voices of jungle birds, the sweet juices of succulent fruits, the flame and smoke of ceremonial fires, and the people, themselves, with their lives dedicated to speaking delicious words and making things of beauty. While far from idyllic—there was real hardship and poverty, disease and death—village life provided identity and purpose to its people and connected them to the world through the ancestral traditions. It is heartbreaking to read of the Guatemalan “Bad Times,” the 1980’s, when the village was assaulted by the catastrophic forces of modernity—Christian Evangelicals, Marxist guerillas and right-wing government soldiers who were equally merciless in shredding the intricate fabric of tradition. Eventually, Martin was forced to make a harrowing escape from the land and the people who adopted him, to live in exile in the strange disconnected culture that inhabits the land of his birth. I have never read a book that better conveys the rich interconnectedness of traditional village life, life that is utterly dependent not only on the relationships between people, but also on their relationships with the lake and jungle and mountains, the plants and animals, the wind and sun and rain, with all that is holy, with all that feeds them and gives them life. Further, it is truly heart opening to read this account of what it means, in the face of horrific injustice, to serve something greater than the pursuit of revenge. —JM

MODERN ECONOMICS

How about reindeer herding (because reindeer fur is the best insulation in -40 degree climates) for all those Europeans that won’t be helped by global warming because they will be experiencing the next ice age? How about your local intentional community, the one that is in touch with the spirits of the land and the ancestors that will be an oasis of connection in a chaotic world? —HG

WHERE THE WILD THINGS REALLY ARE City Life

City girl, country girl, suburban girl, city girl. I’ve come around that circle a few times in my life—I’m on the city girl portion of the loop right now. But at every stop along the way there are wild things. In this bright and bustling city, as I walk along the sidewalk, mugwort (Artemisia vulgaris) leaps gloriously from the cracks, bringing its sunny disposition and personable ways to the junkiest, trashiest alleys and byways. Striding quickly past at my city pace, I hear them singing in chorus, so glad to be alive and green and waving in the wind. On my walk to work I also watch the maples put on leaves and the lilacs bloom. Then I ride the bus and watch as people shake off winter with lighter clothes, lighter shoes and hair out from under their hats and brushed by the breezes. Am I in a forest or a standing-room-only bus, wall to wall with commuters? What is the difference? We stand swaying, our arms out to catch a pole or strap. The trees stand, swaying, their arms out to catch a ray of the sun. I can feel our spirits, every one, wild.

Where to Invest for the Future

—HG

The Atlantic Monthly’s April, 2007 issue’s cover story is titled “Hot Prospects: Who Loses—and Who Wins—in a Warming World.” With the article is a side bar titled “A 401(K) for a Warming World.” The side bar goes on to list investment opportunities that will cash in on the changes in climate predicted to come about in the next 40-50 years. It’s a nice, realistic, coldly logical way to look at the future. But besides investments in pharmaceuticals (for predicted higher rates of tropical diseases), “Green” Energy companies (for obvious reasons), bio-engineered agriculture (because we’ll have to know how to grow more with less), and the assisted-care industry (for all those people living longer lives in a warmer climate), what other types of more creative investments would be good?

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JUST HOW OUT OF TOUCH ARE WE? Where Cotton Comes From From the Boston Globe’s “Sidekick” section, in a short piece highlighting a family day destination spot: “If you ask kids where their cotton shirts come from, they might say ‘The Gap.’ If you asked 19th-century kids, they might say ‘from the sheep.’” Or then again, they might not, since the last I checked, cotton doesn’t grow on sheep. —HG

Keeping Knowledge INDIAN PEDAGOGY: A Look at Traditional California Indian

Alive

Teaching Techniques MALCOLM MARGOLIN

o those who don’t know much about Indian cultures, the phrase “Indian pedagogy” might seem like a stretch. Granted, native cultures in California did not have what a modern resident would recognize as a formal educational system—designated teachers with specialized training, a deﬁned curriculum, places and times set aside for instruction, clear standards for attainment, and so on. If we could have wandered into an Indian village a couple of hundred years ago, we might very well have concluded (as did other early visitors) that native children learned simply by following their parents and other relatives around from one chore to the next, accumulating knowledge by absorption, imitation, and, at best, casual ad hoc instruction. Seeing no schools, courthouses, churches, or farms, we, like other early observers, might have concluded that these “simple” hunting-and-gathering cultures had little in the way of educational, governmental, religious, agricultural, or economic practice or philosophy, and what little they did have was “underdeveloped” and “primitive.” In other words, they weren’t like us. It would be impossible in this brief essay to tackle all these ethnocentric assumptions—the arrogant belief, so deeply embedded in Western culture, that we occupy the pinnacle of human achievement and that others are to be ranked according to how close they come to us. Recent generations of anthropologists and other scholars have steadily underscored the fact that so-called primitive people led lives of considerable complexity that included highly evolved, sophisticated, self-aware systems of governance, religion, and landscape manipulation, as well as of education, even if these systems are not easily recognizable through the prism of modern Western culture. Education, in short, was not something that incidentally and passively happened to native children as they grew up. In fact the need to properly educate children was striking, and considerable effort and skill was expended on it. Native California cultures had no writing; with no way to record knowledge— whether geographic, technical, artistic, social, or religious— transmitting and securing that knowledge deeply and accurately in the minds of a younger generation was of great concern. These cultures passed on knowledge with care, with strategy, with a self-conscious and articulated sense of educational theory. It is no exaggeration to say there was indeed a native pedagogy.

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Illustrations by SkyFox Being neither Indian nor an educator, I don’t claim the authority or the background to explore this subject in the depth it deserves. I am, however, able to draw on thirty years of research, writing, and publishing about California Indian communities. Here are a few observations that may be of value to educators (including parents) now. At the least, an open-minded consideration of these traditional techniques and the assumptions underlying them may prove thoughtprovoking and may point to places where our own methods and educational system are overly narrow or even dangerously ineffective. Repairing Feathers In 1987 I cofounded a magazine devoted to California Indian culture, News from Native California, with two friends: Vera Mae Fredrickson, an anthropologist living in Berkeley and David Peri, a Coast Miwok Indian who taught at Sonoma State University. In

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our ﬁrst issue we ran an article by Harry Roberts, who had long been associated with the San Francisco Zen Center. Although non-Indian himself, Harry had grown up near the mouth of the Klamath River and had lived closely with the Yurok. Robert Spott of the village of Requa, a man Harry referred to as “Uncle,” was a well-known Yurok political and cultural leader. One morning, Harry recalled, he was watching Uncle repair the feathers on the long headdress wands used for a healing ceremony called the “Brush Dance.” Uncle was working hard, meticulously smoothing old feathers and regluing new feathers in places where young Harry could scarcely discern any damage. Why all the ﬁnickiness, Harry asked. The damage was hardly visible in the daylight, and the Brush Dance would be held at night; no one, neither dancers nor audience, would ever notice all of Uncle’s demanding, scrupulous work. For a long time Uncle Spott avoided answering the question. Instead he asked that young Harry work on the answer himself, while

When you teach someone something, you’ve robbed the person of the experience of learning it.

he gave Harry only occasional prods, hints, and stories. Only after Harry had been forced to think hard about his question did Spott discuss it at all, and even then not so much directly as by telling a story that would lead to understanding. I remember my coeditor, David Peri, remarking at the time that this was an excellent example of how the older generation conveyed important information. Robert Spott could have answered the question easily and directly, David observed, but he hadn’t. By refusing to answer the question and refusing even to have much to do with Harry until Harry was on the way to figuring it out himself, Robert first put pressure on the youngster so that he’d know that what he had asked was important. Then he let him work on it, and when young Harry seemed closer to figuring it out Robert told a story that made it all come clear. Did I understand what was going on, David asked. Did I understand the difference between teaching and learning? In fact, David noted, there was a saying: when you teach someone something you’ve robbed the person of the experience of learning it. You need to be cautious before you take that experience away from someone else. This distinction between teaching and learning forms a basic element of what I am calling traditional California Indian pedagogy. Initiation Among the most powerful memories of an older generation of Indians was that of their initiation. Among many tribes a girl at her first menstruation would be sequestered, sometimes in a specially built shelter away from the family dwelling. Here she would eat special foods, perform certain rituals, and act in prescribed ways. Elders observed her closely, monitoring her gestures and her motions—there was only one approved way, for example, of scratching herself if her skin itched—and questioning her about her thoughts, even her dreams. Older women— her grandmother, her aunt, sometimes her mother, and others—would also lecture her, revealing secret knowledge that was kept from younger girls. After a period of time the initiate would be brought out in a public dance and celebration, transformed from a girl into a woman.

Boys often had a similarly dramatic and deﬁned coming of age. In southern California boys reaching puberty would often be removed from their families and put under the care of spiritual leaders who would reveal secrets and transmit esoteric knowledge, often with the aid of powerful hallucinogens. Sometimes the initiate, in an altered state of consciousness, would be brought to a specially made sand painting, the patterns of which provided an explanation of how the powers of the world are aligned—nothing less than the blueprint of the universe. In northern California a young man might be invited to join the men’s society of the roundhouse. He might in fact spend an entire winter in a subterranean roundhouse where he would learn songs, sacred dances, rituals, and other arcane (as well as practical) knowledge before emerging in the spring as an adult. Today we like to think that we live in a society marked by open access to knowledge, but even in this age of the World Wide Web, this is hardly the case. All kinds of information—nuclear secrets, military secrets, commercial secrets, private medical records, and so on—are kept out of reach of the uninitiated, often at considerable effort and expense. It is not unusual to visit a public archive to view someone’s papers and discover that the papers are under seal until ﬁfty years after the person’s death, because they contain “sensitive material.” And we all know that once we discover that something is secret we are all the more eager to learn about it. Traditional societies used this universal human trait—our eagerness to reach out for withheld knowledge—in a very successful pedagogical practice. Children learn differently from adults, the Indians felt, and therefore learning had to be paced. If exposed to adult knowledge while too young, people would misunderstand and devalue it. Children learn in a particular way, it was said, and you needed to respect that way. Once they reached the threshold of adulthood and were judged ready for the complex knowledge one needed to be a fully functioning adult, the knowledge was carefully prepared and presented to them: not thrown at them, nor left around for them to pick at, but handed to them in a highly ritualized setting that made the recipients feel that what they were being given was long sought, highly valued, and would consequently be cherished, remembered, and likewise passed on. Paradoxically, making certain kinds of knowledge scarce helped ensure that it would be conveyed carefully from one generation to the next in a manner that reinforced its importance. For example, the creation myth is arguably the most important piece of knowledge in any culture, and transmitting it with total accuracy, with even the smallest details intact, is of major concern, especially for cultures that depend entirely on the spoken word and human memory. One would imagine that the best way of doing this would be

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to make sure that the creation story was told as often and in as many circumstances as possible, but this was not the case. Many tribes severely restricted the time and manner of telling. In some areas of California, for example, the creation story could be told only during the winter months, only at night, only in a sanctiﬁed space, only by a particularly trained and authorized person who had to fast for so many days, who had to sit in a particular posture, etc. Because the telling of the creation story was rare and difﬁcult, its importance was emphasized, its recitation made keener and the audience’s listening more intense.

more ﬂavor if you will, and perhaps is felt with greater depth and emotional complexity. I remember that in my grammar school a teacher I had a crush on would read us books such as Heidi. I still think of the Swiss Alps with a great yearning and great love that I can’t help but think would not be there had I picked the book up from the local library and read it myself. Native pedagogy concerns itself not just with what is taught, but with who teaches it and under what circumstances. Teaching is not, in other words, just a means of conveying knowledge and information; it is an integral part of that knowledge and information as well.

What a Song Means

The Center of the World

In southern California a few people still sing what are called “bird songs,” linked verses that used to be sung for four nights straight during the winter. They recount the wanderings of divinities over the world in the earliest moments of creation. My friend Ernest Siva, a Serrano and Cahuilla Indian from Banning, is one such singer. Once after he had sung an especially lovely verse, I summoned up the courage to ask him what it meant. After some thought, he responded something like this: If I was asking what the words meant, he’d be glad to translate them for me. But that’s not really what the song meant, at least to him. What gave the song its meaning was not just the words but who had taught it to him, when it could be sung, who could sing it, all the other times it had been sung, to whom he had or would be teaching it. When it was sung at a funeral, for example, that circumstance added to the memory and thus the meaning of the song.

Jaime deAngulo, a linguist and collector of folklore, was once working in the high, lonely country between Redding and Alturas in northeastern California, interviewing elders who still spoke the Achumawe and Atsugewi languages. When one old man began telling him the story of how Silver Fox created the world, Jaime interrupted. What do you mean Silver Fox created the world? I just heard from your neighbors that it was Coyote who created the world. The old man didn’t pause. Well, he shrugged, over there they say it was Coyote, here we say it was Silver Fox, and he went on with the story.

Traditional societies personally transmit and personally use knowledge. It doesn’t exist in books that can be shelved; songs are not recorded on CDs that can be played at will. Knowledge exists only because one person gave it to another, and it is kept alive only by repeated use and personal transmission. How one learns something and uses that knowledge are important in traditional societies, more than in ours. We seem to feel that whatever is to be learned exists independently from the way it is transmitted. If, for example, one person learns something from a parent, another from a teacher, a third from a computer, we like to assume that they all know the same thing. You simply know as a fact that the earth revolves around the sun, whether you absorbed that fact in early childhood, learned it in adulthood, ﬁgured it out on your own, had to reject religious belief to get there, or learned it in English or in some other language. No matter how you learned it, it’s a fact, and in our culture facts are seen as solid little building blocks, unchanged by how they are acquired or used. In traditional cultures that does not seem to be the case. Knowledge, transmitted orally from generation to generation, comes with much more history, more personal interaction,

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I’ve witnessed the same thing many times. In northwestern California, for example, the Hupa have their world-renewal rituals at a place they consider the center of the world—the spot from which humans ﬁrst emerged—Takimildin. A neighboring tribe, the Yurok, likewise have a center-of-the-world place, Kenek. And not far from them are the Karuk, with Katamin as their center of the world. And it is not unusual these days for a member of one tribe to visit another’s rituals and even dance at their world center.

In Western cultures this level of tolerance would be almost inconceivable. Were this Europe, we would likely have witnessed centuries of religious warfare, with lands laid waste and countless “heretics” massacred, until the location of the “real” center of the world was resolved. Western culture seems to crave certainty; we demand it from our religious beliefs and from our educational system alike. We seem to feel that questions have answers, and that these answers are exclusive— answering “yes” precludes answering “no.” Things are true or they are false. Although we pay lip service to mystery, we construct educational systems around the assumption that things are knowable, and students are rewarded for knowing, for having the correct answer. If we don’t know something it’s because we’re ignorant, rather than because some things—often the most important things—are simply not knowable. Built into California Indians’ traditional teaching methods, and indeed their overall philosophy, is, I feel, a marvelous acknowledgment that much in the world around us is fundamentally mysterious and cannot be known with certainty. In fact, an important aspect of Indian pedagogy is

something that I ﬁnd heartbreakingly beautiful—a sense of humility: a sense that the world is far bigger, more complex, and more mysterious than the human mind can ever encompass, and that to be a full human being you need to learn to live with ambiguity and a tolerance for the unknown. The alternative is to live with brittle delusions of certainty. Building a Roundhouse Throughout much of north central California—from Mendocino and Sonoma counties east to the Sierra foothills— the roundhouse was (and in places still is) a major cultural and architectural attainment. In traditional times, this large communal building was mostly underground and served variously as a place of worship, a community center, and a university. A few years ago I was at Chaw’se State Park, where the Sierra Mewuk community erected an especially graceful roundhouse in about 1970, then rebuilt it in the early 1990s. It is well used, especially at an annual September event called Big Time, when people come from all over California to celebrate the fall harvest, using the roundhouse for dancing, singing, praying, and otherwise honoring their culture. Here,

Keeping Knowledge Alive: Indian Pedagogy

especially at dawn when dancers enter the roundhouse to greet the rising sun, one can feel the mystery, beauty, ongoing vitality, and truthfulness of California’s oldest cultures. One day I was talking with my friend Dwight Dutschke, whose family had taken part in the original construction and who himself has been actively engaged in the annual Big Time. Our conversation turned to how the roundhouse had been constructed, and I was questioning him about certain details: how the entranceway had been oriented, how the posts had been put in, how the rafters had been secured, and so on. Finally he said, I know what you are getting at. You’re getting at the fact that we could have constructed it better. No, no, I protested, that’s not at all what I was getting at. Well, he went on, we could indeed have constructed it better. A lot of the people who worked on it were into construction and we know how to build. We could have put creosote on the posts when they went into the ground. There’s nothing in the old laws that says you can’t do that. There’s nothing in the old laws that says you have to tie the rafters with grape vine; we could have used wire and nails. We could have built it so that it would last a hundred years. But we didn’t. We didn’t because there was another law we had to follow. When you build a roundhouse you construct it so that it falls apart every twenty years. That way every generation has the chance to rebuild it. Every generation has to learn the songs, the ceremonies, the techniques. If you want to make a building last you do it one way. But if you want to make the knowledge last, you do it another way. Sometimes at these annual Big Times a group such as the Pomo dancers from Elem Colony near Clear Lake will perform a Big Head dance. The Big Head is a mysterious figure, at least to me. Associated with a divinity called Kuksu, in some places it is whistled out of the forest where it dwells, entering the roundhouse with a grand halo of a feathered headdress, pounding the floor with bare feet in a rhythmic and repetitious dance, while the fire from the middle of the roundhouse casts great shadows on the ceiling. Powerful and awe-inspiring, the dance and the regalia associated with it are protected by ritual, rules, and cultural proscriptions. I once asked one of the Big Head dancers to explain it to me. His response was, I’m not sure what it means. All I know is that when I do the dance, it puts my head in the big way.

Both these phenomena—building the roundhouse and the Big Head dance—point to yet another aspect of traditional pedagogy, a need not just to “know” but to experience. Knowledge is not just something to be stored and talked about; it’s something to be lived. It’s got to be “cooked into you,” as they say. It’s not enough to have a lot of information, to have the “right” ideas, to be able to answer the question correctly. Knowledge apart from experience cannot be trusted and won’t last, certainly not in a culture without writing. A Western theologian might very well research and assemble facts about what the Big Head dance means; the dancer, however, knows something more important and lasting: that it puts his head in the “big way.” Mourning Dove Walk almost anywhere in the forested lands of northwestern California and you will hear the plaintive call of the mourning dove. On at least four separate occasions, when I was with Indian friends, this call triggered the telling of the story of Mourning Dove, o’row’e in the Yurok language. It is perhaps the most popular and widely told of the old-time stories. Like other such mythic tales, the story of o’row’e takes place in the distant past, shortly after the creation when all the animals of the world were a kind of divine people (woge in Yurok). They seem to have lived and even looked much like people, and long ago their deeds established the world as we know it today. In that old world, o’row’e was a gambler. Once he was deeply involved in a gambling game with others. He was on a great winning streak, piling up around himself great stores of Indian treasure: white deerskins, huge obsidian blades, red woodpecker scalps, long dentalia shells, in short all the wealth and beauty of the Indian world. He was interrupted by a messenger who had come to fetch him, to tell him that his grandfather was dying and that he needed to come immediately to the deathbed. Just a few more hands, just a few more hands, said o’row’e, and I’ll be right there. He continued to play, continued to win, and his grandfather died. When the time of metamorphosis occurred, when the woge of old took on the animal forms by which we now know them, o’row’e was transformed into the mourning dove. To this day you can see glistening around his neck the treasures he had won in that gambling game. And you can hear

Built into California Indians’ traditional teaching methods, and indeed their overall philosophy, is, I feel, a marvelous acknowledgement that much in the world around us is fundamentally mysterious and cannot be known with certainty.

Keeping Knowledge Alive: Indian Pedagogy hear that the creek was singing him a song. He had never heard the song before, but when he went back home and sang it for an elder, the elder recognized it as a song that once belonged to someone who had died decades before. How did the creek get the song? asked the man. I don’t know, answered the elder, but sometimes songs are like that. If they don’t have anyone to sing them, they’ll give themselves over to a creek for safekeeping.

the call he will make through eternity as he mourns forever the grandfather he once ignored. Even today, every time someone hears o’row’e cry it calls to mind that ancient story and with it a constant reminder that one cannot let material gain get in the way of more essential human obligations. If you do, you will pay eternally for the lapse: just listen to o’row’e. Stories like this were embedded everywhere in traditional culture: animals, plants, mountains, stars, even big rocks, had a past, and wherever you went the sight of an animal, the call of a bird, the presence of a rock reminded you of an instructional story. You could not go anywhere without being informed, educated, lectured to by the world around you. This was not a soulless world that worked on principles of evolutionary biology, chemistry, and physics. It was a world alive with strands of consciousness. It had history, and it was profoundly moral. We might, I suppose, view this simply as a pedagogical strategy. In cultures without writing, instruction can best be preserved by packaging it as a story and then attaching the story like a billboard to an animal, plant, or place so that people will constantly be reminded of it. That’s valid, but I think there is something more: a sense that animals, plants, and everything else we see have something to teach us, that the important lessons in life are not just held by people but are part of the larger world. The world contains things that we need to know that are too important to be left solely to human beings, and these essential lessons are embedded in the animals, plants, mountains, and rivers around us. Learning, in short, does not just take place only in deliberate teaching situations between people. The entire world is a teacher. Knowledge Comes to You I’m not entirely certain, but I think I heard the following story a long time ago from a Hupa friend, Jack Norton. Jack told of a man, depressed and miserable, who sat by a creek. He had been sitting by the creek a long time when he was surprised to

I don’t want to make too much of this—it’s subtle, perhaps fragile, and I’m not sure how well I understand it—but many things such as songs, dances, stories, and prayers, that our culture sees as strictly human fabrication, seem to be viewed by some traditional cultures as entities that exist on their own. The song in the preceding story had a life outside the human race; if humans were to disappear the song would still exist in the stream. To some degree, much of what people need to know is seen as residing in the world around them, with a mind and spirit of its own; in certain situations such knowledge gives itself over to people. This is, I think, qualitatively and signiﬁcantly different from the way we view knowledge—as something we acquire and we own. In our society, where commodity and marketplace are the dominant metaphors, we see knowledge as something to be grabbed, possessed, controlled. This sense of going after knowledge wasn’t foreign to Indian pedagogy. When, for example, a woman training to be a shaman wanted a certain power she often went out to try to capture it. But perhaps more typically, the shaman-in-training would put herself out in the world, perhaps fasting or undergoing other deprivation, and the power might take pity on her, see that she was a good person, and voluntarily come to her. The world was alive, and the knowledge and teachings you needed were not necessarily yours because you wanted them or even worked directly for them. Knowledge often came as a gift, and the goal of Indian pedagogy was to teach people the respect and alertness necessary so that they could recognize, receive, and in the end use the gifts that the world had given them. Conclusion On the subject of gifts, let me conclude by gratefully acknowledging that my thirty-year involvement with the California Indian community has been an extraordinary gift. I hope these thoughts on traditional California Indian pedagogy are helpful to others. They certainly worked for generation after generation in traditional cultures, where they kept alive not only cultural information, technical know-how, artistic skills, and religious belief, but also an understanding of how to be a full human being in the natural world. Perhaps within this traditional pedagogy are hints as to how we too might devise a system of education that doesn’t just produce people who can take tests, but who have a chance of becoming “real persons.”

“Indian Pedagogy: A Look at Traditional California Indian Teaching Techniques” by Malcolm Margolin, is taken from Ecological Literacy: Educating Our Children for a Sustainable World, edited by Michael K. Stone and Zenobia Barlow, Center for Ecoliteracy. © Copyright 2005 by Center for Ecoliteracy and Collective Heritage Institute. All rights reserved. Printed with permission.

At the fire one night, I asked my teacher how whites could repair the damage we’d wrought upon the native peoples of the world. The old shaman said we might help in unexpected ways. The next day, my friend called from Tanzania. While I had been asking my question at the fire, she had been in the fields of East Africa, continuing her studies with the grandfatherly Masai elder who was teaching her about native plants and medicines and healing. She described her relationship with her teacher, how with each meeting the old Masai shared not only more of his lore, but of himself.

Photograph © David Gaylor. Image from BigStockPhoto.com.

On this particular outing, the Masai had asked her gently, “Child, do you know how to dream without sleeping?” My friend, who had been introduced to the shamanic journey’s “waking dream” when she studied Plant Spirit Medicine, felt a new level opening in their relationship, one in which they might share new wisdoms from the realm of spirit. “Yes,” she said. “I believe I can say I can dream without sleeping.” The old Masai leaned forward and asked, “Can you teach me?”

Stories by

LONE DANCER WAYNONAHA TWO WORLDS

hen I was a young girl, my dad took me to an all-Indian Rodeo in Elko, Nevada. We drove a long time, and it seemed we were driving right out of civilization and out of road. Finally, we came to a broken down old arena out in the open with no shade trees for miles. The dirt billowed up as we drove in the place where everyone was parking. The dust covered the windshield so you could not see, and it filled the truck as we drove up. At first there were only a few people around, and I helped Dad get the horse out of the trailer. We gave the horse some water and tied him over on the shade side of the trailer. The sun was starting to sink into my back when Dad took out the brown paper bag of lunch Mom had packed. We sat down in the shade of the truck leaning our backs on the tire. Dad made the prayer for our food and we started to eat. It was so hot you could feel the sweat drip down the back of your shirt. It went sliding along your backbone. I sat and tracked it as it soaked into my jeans. Dad handed me a sandwich on homemade bread, filled with dark venison roast. I drank my warm Nehi grape and watched as others pulled up to the parking area. There were families and just plain loners, who arrived in trucks and horse trailers that had seen better days. Bailing wire tied up the horse trailer doors and the tires were mostly bald. There were a few greetings as people saw others that they recognized. Other than that all was quiet. The horses looked tired and exhausted in the heat as they were taken out of the trailers. Soon the place was full of about a hundred people. Camps of makeshift tarps were being put up, and food was taken out for cooking. The loudspeaker system screeched, crackled, and squalled. Soon some records were being played with Pow-wow music blasting out of the crackly speakers. This went on all through the Rodeo. It was for sure an all-Indian rodeo—the prize money did not draw the fancy riders, and there was no one here but Indians. During a break between the bull-riding and the roping event, an old man came out into the arena. He was dressed in a faded blue shirt, clean but patched, his washed out jeans held up with a worn belt. This was the uniform of the day. I remember he held an eagle feather in front of him and started to dance to the music. All was quiet and no one spoke or made a loud noise. It seemed as if time had stopped for us all. Even the kids stopped to watch him dance. The loudspeaker screeched and sputtered, and the announcer said to give a hardy welcome to the dancer that had come to dance today. Some of the others looked at the ground in shame. You see, the old man was very drunk, and some were embarrassed for him. “This shame is theirs,” my dad said quietly, “not the one who dances.” Dad told me that to dance was the best thing you could do outside of singing. I turned to watch the old man dance. The others had looked the other way or drifted off to their camps. No one else was watching. I noticed that the few who still stood by the fence looked uncomfortable. With that thought in my mind, I watched Dad as he seemed to separate from the earth like a shadow. In what was only a second, he was up and over the fence. It was like he flew into the middle of the arena. As Dad landed on his feet so softly you could not see a bit of dust rise, he started to dance. He bent over his arms out like wings and circled around. He did not look like my dad in his old faded blue jeans and blue shirt with the patches on the arms that my mom had sewn there. Dad’s face changed as he danced on in the hot sun into something only he could see. I watched as Sacred Fire

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Waynonaha Two Worlds he became the Eagle and the soft dust of the arena became the clouds. Each step he took in his old scuffed brown boots fell silent on the dust of the arena. The sputtering beat of the drum was all that you could hear. The beauty of the two men dancing was held in a whispered hush. My heart was ﬁlled with pride as I watched my dad spread his arms into the Eagle Dance. Soon others came into the arena and danced in silence. They all danced each in their own way. “It is a good day to dance,” the announcer said. “Let’s all wachipi (dance).” The people looked at each other, and quietly slipped into the arena. Women took up blankets and used them for shawls, and soon we were all dancing.

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STORIES I WRITE

The sun was hot and felt good on my skin. I no longer minded buzzing horseﬂies and the sweat and the heat. I was so proud of my dad that day; he was a good dancer, and as silently as he had entered, he left the arena. I will always remember him tall and straight as he danced in the dust of the arena. Dad’s eyes were like the Eagle’s and you could feel the Eagle’s wings as he passed by you. I could hear his pure clear whistle as he gave voice to the Eagle in ﬂight. Dad never went for the prize money offered; he went just to ride in what he called “a real Rodeo.” I know at one time he rode in the big rodeos and had a lot of trophies, belt buckles, and ribbons. These trophies lined the top self of the closet in his room. No one ever saw them but the family, and he never talked much about them. On the way home he was quiet. Both of us were tired and deep in thoughts of the day. The lack of conversation was not unusual, as we sometimes traveled for hours in silence. After a long time he said to me, “We must never dance alone; it does not show strength. When we dance together we are strong and our feet are one on the earth.” He said after another long silence, like he was talking to himself, “One time when I was young, there were a lot of good dancers—now there a just a few who know the Dance of the Eagle.” He then looked at me and said, “One day this dance will return, in a time to come, when you are older than me.” As with all things my dad told me when I was young, I kept the words and the day in my mind, to take out later in my life to see again. There are many such days in my mind like this one, and I can see them as clearly as if it were yesterday. For those of you who have been asked to stand in your truth: In this decision to stand against unjust ways and unfair situations, you will many times have to dance alone. Find strength in the Eagle who is always watching over you and protecting you. Mitakuye Oyasin. © 2002 Waynonaha Two Worlds Number Six

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hen I started to write the stories and events in my life and in the life of my family, it was purely to preserve these for my children and grandchildren. I started to put down in writing the stories that we usually gave orally when I became seriously ill. I thought like so many, that these would be carried on by my family, but distance and difference in lifestyles have proven this wrong. Like many of our people we have scattered to the wind and are not exposed daily as I was to the stories and family history. To mention the name of a family member who has passed into spirit is not done in traditional families. We feel to do so would be to hold the spirit of that person here on the Earth. As most of my people do, we release the person and their spirit in the ten day feast. At this feast we also give away all of their belongings to those who come to pay their last respects. In this way we are free of the physical as well as the spiritual connection to the person making their last journey to the spirit world. The stories of that person are all we hold to remember them by, in deeds or character for others to hear and learn by. Like fables and legends, these grow as they are passed down from storyteller to storyteller. As the art of the storyteller is diminishing, I feel the need to write those stories that come to me as well as the ones that are based on actual happenings in my life. My father was a wonderful storyteller. He could hold people for hours who came to listen to the times before we were reduced to reservation living. Some say he was the last of the really freespirited Indians. We lived mostly on cattle ranches in Utah, Idaho, Nevada, and Montana, Wyoming, and even in California, for a while during the war. Dad was a foreman on these ranches and trained horses for the Burbank Studio. He knew most of the really big cowboy stars in those days. For a while, before he married my mother, he was in the Wild Bill West show and again traveled around the world. He also worked for some time with the Ringling Brothers circus during the early 30’s. He and my mother worked in the circus acts and after two years they went into ranching. The years of the war and depression were extremely hard on the

people who had little education, but my father always managed to support our family. Dad was born on the Pine Ridge reservation and was of mixed blood. He was Scottish and Lakota. This made his life harder than the fullbloods. Although he had respect in the Nation, he had a hard time in society, because the racial factor was not easy to overcome. My mother was of Cherokee and Euro descent, so that added another layer to the already difficult one my father carried. This gave us, the children of that marriage, no place of actually belonging. My father was a quiet but powerful man who was always looked up to for leadership by his friends and co-workers. He had a deep understanding of freedom and justice, and he often clashed with the government agents over the unjust treatment of the people. Throughout his life he spoke out on racial injustice and instilled in us the need to always defend our rights. He never liked to see anyone made to feel unwanted or unfairly treated. He had a way of quietly showing others without drawing attention to the person he was defending. Through his words and actions, such as in the “Lone Dancer,” he was able to make others understand the need to have compassion. Speaking out on justice in the Nation in the years before civil rights could cost you housing and food. There are many stories of his escapades on the reservation that eventually caused him to leave and not return for fear of punishment by the agents. We were nothing different than many of the families who chose to move away from the confines of reservation life and the harsh treatment of the government agents to seek work elsewhere. It was not good to be Indian in the time I grew up and especially of a mixed marriage. We learned to stay low profile and assimilate into our surroundings. This is all good fox medicine (the power of observation) and helps me today to blend in and adjust to most any culture or land. After the last of our relations made their spirit walks or left the reservation during the wars, we had no reason to return. I wonder at times how my life would have been had we stayed on the reservation and what would have become of our family there. I am grateful my father had the courage to leave as it offered us a better life and education than we would have been given. Growing up there were many such incidents in my own life that led me to draw on my father’s wise advice. Many of the stories that I write today are done in this old way of teaching. The stories help people see and understand, yet, since they do not directly point to any one specific person or incident, they can be used for many things in life. To this day I am grateful to my family for their teachings and wisdom that gave me strength to endure this ever-changing world. The times of my growing up are gone and will in some ways remain lost in the history of the land. I feel through the stories that I can preserve some of the history for my own children. I trust in some ways this will help you to understand my family and life before now without offending the traditional ways of my people.

The Keeper of the Ears As told by WAYNONAHA TWO WORLDS

Stories by Waynonaha Two Worlds, continued

rom the Star Nation came a young man called Stone Boy or Star Boy—this person was known by many names in many Nations. Some of our brothers and sisters called him The Peace Maker. The legends reach far and into many lands in both the Little Brother land and in the Big Brother land. Across Turtle Island, the stories are still told of this young man who traveled and spoke to the people. He brought gifts of knowledge in the ways to live in peace and harmony. He shared the teachings of the plant nation and the animals, and taught of the heavens, the stars and the wind and rain. As he walked this land, all things were made clear by his teachings. When Stone Boy first came to this land we lived in fear and separation. Small bands of people wandered and hunted, gathered and survived. There was no common language, no ceremony or sacred songs. We did not know the story of creation. These things were brought later to us by Corn Woman and White Buffalo Calf Woman. Upon his first visit to this land, Stone Boy found that the people were isolated. He decided to speak to the people but he could find none to talk to. Finally, after a long walk, he came upon a small earth lodge. A very old woman lived in this lodge, and she invited him in and gave him food and water and rest. Stone Boy asked of her many questions about the people. He knew, as a Grandmother, she had lived long and would know the answers. The Grandmother told him about the people and how they had left the village and the Elders’ fire and now lived in fear of the Monster. This Monster, she said, lived in the great valley that lay between her and the river. The Stone Boy said, “Then I must go and talk to the people and the Monster and tell them to make peace.” The Grandmother begged him to stay and not go in the Valley. She told him it was the Monster’s land, and he would be killed and eaten. The Grandmother told him he could stay and she would feed him and give him one of her beautiful Granddaughters for his wife. After much thought on this, Stone Boy decided to go into the Valley. When he entered the Valley, he found many things had died. The medicine plants, trees and other plants were all dead or sick. Stone Boy looked into the water and saw that the medicine was weak in the Earth Mother. All the water was black and not good to drink; the river was polluted with much bad toka (bad spirits). After he had traveled several days, seeing all the sickness, he came upon the Great Valley. As he watched from the hill, he saw a fire burning and beside it sat a very big Monster. He watched from behind a large cedar tree, and noticed that the Monster had something around his neck. After looking, he saw the things on the Monster’s neck were necklaces made of

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human ears. This made Stone Boy sit down and think. Why was the Monster wearing the ears, and where were the people that they belonged to? He thought about this and what the medicine of such a powerful Monster could be. After much thought and prayer he decided to talk to the Monster. He had to be able to get close and speak to him to know his medicine and to ﬁnd the answer to his question about the people. He had an idea. What better way to go among the enemy, but dressed as one of them? So he took some moss from the north side of the cedar tree and made some shapes to look like ears. With some long Sweet Grass he strung them into a necklace and boldly walked into the valley. The Monster was watching him walk toward him and said, “Stop! Who are you, and what do you want here in my land?” Stone Boy said, “Hello! Don’t you know me? I am a Monster, too. See, I have many ears. I have long heard of your powers and have come to learn from you.” The Monster said, “Hmmm, you are but a boy. What could you possible do to help me?” Stone Boy said, “I will do as you wish and help you to gather many more ears; but you must show me how you do it, Most Honorable One.” The Monster thought for a while and his ego was so big that he said, “Yes, you can stay and help me.” Stone Boy sat down beside the ﬁre and waited for the Monster to speak. As the Monster was so full of himself and boastful, it was not long before he started to tell of the people and how he got the ears. The story he told Stone Boy was of a people who now lived in fear because he had their ears. They could no longer hear the truth and so had given away their ears to the Monster. He then was able to control them and they had to serve him and take care of him, feed him, make his clothes and hunt for him. They lived in fear, and no one could help them as they had no ears to hear with. The Monster said he had all the ears except for a few of the people who lived along the Great River. This river was a threat to the Monster, as it protected the people and kept them from falling into his ways. The river was said to contain wisdom and truth and the Monster could not go near it in the daylight. The Monster told Stone Boy he was waiting for a certain time when the night would be long and the people by the river would be less alert to the voice of the river. He had decided that at this time, when they slept and were easy to capture, he would go down in the night and cut off their ears. Stone Boy asked the Monster if he was so powerful, why then did he fear the river? Stone Boy said, “I do not fear the river; my medicine is good and strong.” Stone Boy then said that he had one fear that would destroy him and he had never told it to anyone. Stone Boy asked the Monster if he too had such a fear.

Stories by Waynonaha Two Worlds, continued

The Monster though for a moment and said yes, he did. Stone Boy said, “If you tell me your fear, I will tell you mine.” The Monster was curious and thought he was so strong and big, he had nothing to fear from this little Monster so he said, “I will be destroyed if the people ever become strong and learn to be in harmony again.” He told Stone Boy he had kept them in fear for so long, they had forgotten the medicine songs and the rhythm to make the spirits come to help them. Stone Boy listened in what seemed to be respect, and then he said, “Why don’t you get some sleep and I will keep the fire going.” The Monster said he had waited a long time, and was getting sleepy, so he asked Stone Boy to go and watch the people while he slept. Stone Boy was to tell the Monster when the people were asleep and when it was time to capture them. After that, the Monster lay down and slept. When the Monster was asleep, Stone Boy ran to the valley by the river and soon came to a lodge. He took off the moss necklace of ears and asked to speak to the Chief of the people. They were very careful of who they let in the village, but finally, after much talk, he was able to speak to the Chiefs. He sat in the Lodge and told them of why he had come to the land of the Turtle Island. He told of the Monster and how he had tricked him. He then told them of a plan to kill the Monster, and he shared the plan with the people. They were to pretend to be asleep— all were to sleep in the Big Lodge that night and not in their lodges alone. They would leave blankets rolled up in their lodges to look like they were asleep. They were to take lots of buffalo fat with them into the Lodge, also many rattles and drums. When he brought the Monster inside and told them, they were to jump up and throw the buffalo fat on the fire to make it very bright. Then rattle and drum and sing the medicine song he had taught them.

It was a beautiful night and the stars were bright in the sky, as they set out to find the village. When they came to the village, Stone Boy asked if the Monster wanted him to go into the Lodge first. The Monster said no, that he would go in now, and Stone Boy was to remain outside. After all, he was the important one, and leader here. Stone Boy let the Monster go into the Lodge first, then quietly followed him. When the Monster was well inside and standing tall, Stone Boy gave the signal to the people and they made the fire bright and rattled and sang the song. The Monster tried to duck down to get out of the Lodge; but Stone Boy became a stone and sealed the entrance to the Lodge, and the Monster was destroyed by fire and went up the Lodge smoke hole into the night sky. Stone Boy stayed a long time with the people and took them into the river, putting the water all over them to regain the wisdom of the medicine. Stone Boy then built an Inipi (stone lodge). He took the people inside and taught them the old songs to sing and drum for the spirits to enter the Lodge. Stone Boy brought all the ears the Monster had taken into the Lodge and had the people place them on their heads and they could hear again. After the Inipi, they returned to the river, where they again went into the water and drank until the wisdom was restored. They prayed until the spirit of the river and stone, fire and air was in their bodies, and they were strong.

He had kept them

in fear for so long, they had forgotten

the medicine songs

After he had warned the people and they were ready, Stone Boy returned to the ﬁre and waited for the Monster to wake up. When the Monster was awake, Stone Boy told him all was ready and the people slept in their lodges. The Monster stood up to his huge and powerful height and said, “I am ready and rested. Let’s go to the village.”

and the rhythm to make the spirits come to help them.

From this time on, the people lived in community and harmony. They respected each other, and never again let anyone take their ability to hear their own hearts. Many came in the years after this who brought great sadness and diseases on the people. Many of the people let the new Monsters steal their ears, and once again they lost the wisdom and medicine of their ways. Now many are coming of all colors to seek wisdom and to ﬁnd a better way to live on this our Mother Earth. The Lodge still stands by the river and is open to those who wish to walk in a good way on this Earth Mother. Mitakuye Oyasin so the stories may live.

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Number Six

Photograph ÂŠ Nikolay Okhitin. Image from BigStockPhoto.com.

I was stranded at a hotel connected to a mall surrounded by empty ofďŹ ce buildings off a highway outside a major metropolis. I felt like a caged animal, no plants, no sky, no air. I thought of the vanished meadows and the woods that had been cut to produce this hybrid species that was neither neighborhood nor city, country nor suburb. I was disgusted. I was seduced, sucked in by windows full of things I suddenly felt I needed. I felt the gloved hands of prosperity and desire reach around my neck. I watched myself play the game as well as anybody, as if only that necklace would transform my life.

What the Violets Told Me It’s

a steamy June day, and I’m sitting among the lavender wanting to be a plant, a flower, to climb into the tangle of my garden and find shelter, home. I want to lie inside a cave of iris stems and poppy leaves, the way my cat attempts, or snuggle down in the middle of the blooming catmint. The bugs think I’m something good to eat. And I sit here, at ground level, learning my garden. I’m a strange kind of gardener—I let myself be gardened, more than anything. I like to watch what’s happening and see who shows up. All visitors are welcome, and who’s to say what’s a weed or isn’t. Every once in a while, I apologize to an overabundance of violets as I pull them, or the many echinacea seedlings—I can’t transplant all of them. Plus the crabgrass has been told firmly again and again that it has its own turf (so to speak), and that it does not belong in the garden. And through my absentminded caretaking, parts of the garden are thinking they are lawn, and parts of the lawn are thinking they are garden.

And yet—how the violet’s leaf resembles a heart, or a playing-card spade. Look how it folds in on itself like a cupped hand begging to be filled. What medicine does its being hold? Is it merely opportunistic, or does it have a job it’s doing here? I could ask. The day is slow, the sun goes in and out, the birds encourage me. I look more closely at the violets by my knee. Earlier this spring they bloomed purple and white, brightened my lawn, along with a wild crop of dandelion yellow. I made miniature bouquets of these, tried to rescue as many as I could before the first cutting of the grass. Now the leaves are flowering in different spots in my garden. There is a stalwart line of them at the ill-defined border of the lawn—a great front line of soldiers marching towards unconquered lands. They stand at the frontier of unclaimed earth, asking me what I intend to put there, and is it all right if they move in. There is strength in numbers, they tell me, and they don’t go anywhere without their brothers. I can see that. Few of the heart-shaped soldiers are singular. I want to know more about this plant.

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Number Six

LOUISE BERLINER I want to taste it, smell it, befriend it. I want to really look at it, and get to know it the way I might get to know a human friend. I like just sitting here among the many swords and hands and hearts of green, just being. But there is this insistence, like the diligence of the bees working the salvia nearby. To do, to do, to do.

A few years ago, I bought a hammock. I thought that perhaps my homework in the world would be to lie in that hammock for one hour a day, to just do nothing. To gaze up at the crowns of pine and oak swaying in the breezes, to watch the dust of the pine pollen falling in late spring, or to possibly track the birds or squirrels as they navigated the heights. Or maybe to look down through the netting at the world below; making the acquaintance of ant, plantain, clover, dandelion, impossibly small ferns, moss, unknown bugs. But I’ve not given myself to the hammock the way I’ve given myself to the busyness of my days. Again the bees sing their refrain… .

The garden is not a quiet place. The bees alone are making quite a racket. But there are the voices of all the different plants clamoring for my attention. The purple salvia, at the height of its bloom, declaring “I am.” The small roses, ﬁlling the air with sweet. I can’t resist running my hand over the lavender to get a whiff. I can feel the plant preening as I do so. The stories here are endless— or should I say, the storytellers. I will sit here, taking dictation. I will let the violets begin, because already I feel that wherever I go over the next days, I will be seeing them, noticing them. Feeling their call to friendship. And who can deny such a friend? Yes I will be a secretary to the plants, here in the garden, in the woods, in the world. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do more. Illustrations by Helen Granger.

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All My Relations A

pela Colorado walks me to the living room window of the apartment she keeps part-time in California. I hear loud buzzing through the glass and watch dozens of bees swarming around a crack in the mortar near the eave outside. “When I arrived from Maui, I found they had nested in my chimney,” she says. Apela views this new residency as a gift; in the weeks before her arrival she had been contemplating European honeybees and the die-offs currently decimating hives everywhere. “I wanted to do something to help, but when I tried, nobody cared. They said the honeybee is not endemic. Most of the people of North America are not endemic. If we have a big die-off should people say, ‘Don’t worry, they originally came from Europe?’” With the simple, subtle elegance that is the signature of “signs” from nature, the bees set the stage for my visit with Apela, a woman who has spent her life exploring, reconciling and healing her two ancestral lineages: the native and the invasive. Dr. Apela Colorado, born near the Oneida reservation and quintessentially “American” with a French-Oneida-CherokeeCelt ancestry, is a professor at Wisdom University in San Francisco, California. As a Ford Fellow, Apela studied for her doctorate at both Harvard and Brandeis Universities and received her Ph.D. from Brandeis in Social Policy in 1982. Her life’s work has been to bridge the chasm between Western thought and pre-Western spiritual experience. Currently she chairs Wisdom University’s “Masters Degree in Indigenous Mind,” a pioneering program that leads students into ways of exploring earth-based, holistic consciousness within a Western academic framework.

Photos: left, Apela (second from left) as a young woman on the Iroquois lands of Wisconsin; right, Apela Colorado at home in Orinda, CA. Photos courtesy of Apela Colorado.

“I’ve spent 30 years trying to language the ‘whole’ mind, the indigenous mind, into the analytical Western mind,” says Apela. “The native language is based on verbs, and the English language is based on nouns. One is moving and living, and the other is categorical, analytical, separating. It’s two exactly opposed ways of looking at life. “The purpose of life in a native way is to understand and complete and fulfill relationships,” she says, “with the trees, water or the wind, or the cloud people, or the star beings, or grandmother moon, or our older brother the sun...all of that is real.” Apela’s students study traditional indigenous stories, visit sacred sites, absorb lessons from elders from Hawai’i to South Africa and review literature that compares and contrasts indigenous science with western science. These streams of thought and study merge in a meditative engagement with ancient symbols from the students’ own ancestral heritage. The program culminates in a thesis presentation that combines art, story, journey work, academic rigor and ceremony, including a sacred fire lit with flint the student retrieves from his or her own genetic ancestral homeland. It is a course of study that grew from Apela’s lifetime of work. “When I grew up, the practice of American Indian spiritual ways was against the law,” she says. “Therefore, what I learned was what elders say is the way we should learn, which is through direct connection.” Life in the forested wilderness of northern Wisconsin with a “huge, hard-drinking, fighting, Celtic-Indian family” was spent close to the land. The family harvested ice in winter to provide refrigeration in the summer, planted gardens in spring, felled timber in summer and collected berries in fall. “We just lived the cycles of nature,” she says. “I was on a spiritual path but I didn’t know it. It was just the way we lived.”

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Number Six

Apela Colorado tells her story SHARON BROWN

She credits her grandfather with kindling her spiritual connection to nature. “He was the one person in the family who still carried the culture,” she says, “though I don’t think he ever used the word ‘Indian.’” Nature was her refuge. “I grew up not really trusting anybody,” she says. “When there was drinking and ﬁghting every weekend in my home, I would run into the woods.” There, she’d try to teach herself to run silently through the trees like the Indians she’d seen in the movies.

receiving her Bachelor of Arts and Master of Science degrees from the University of Wisconsin. She married an Apache man and had three children before moving to Cambridge, MA to pursue a doctorate focused on Native American alcoholism.

As a young girl, she became fascinated by the Catholic Church. “Even though I came from a French-Catholic-Indian cultural background, nobody in my family had gone to church or knew anyone who had,” she says, recounting how seeing the glint of the gold chalice through the open church doors spoke to her on some unknown level.

During these years, her calling to Indian spirituality grew stronger, and she attended sweat lodges three or four times a week. The 70’s brought forth calls for social justice. Apela joined the American Indian Movement, becoming a student board member of the group that wrote the American Indian Freedom of Religion Law, which was passed in 1978.

She got permission to attend services and began going to church weekly. A nine-year-old, sitting alone, she was the only mixed-blood in the pews. She loved her sky-blue catechism book, and unlike the children born Catholic, she studied fervently in preparation for her conﬁrmation. “They said we would receive the spirit of Christ when we received communion,” she says. “I was really up for that.” But when the day arrived, “I got the host on my mouth...and nothing happened. And I was horriﬁed. I thought, ‘Something’s wrong with me.’”

The explosion of interest in “native spirituality” brought a new chaos to the Indian peoples. Apela watched as non-Natives began appearing at Indian ceremonies, yearning for a naturebased experience of spirit. Non-natives ﬂocked to the sun dances and sweat lodges, soaked up the wisdom of the elders, then moved on to the next ceremony. “They crowded into these native ceremonies and despoiled them out of hunger and need,” she says. “I’m ashamed to say this, because I’m half white, but the people were not giving anything back, because in the Western world, whatever money we’ve got, we hold on to.”

Apela sought solace in the church, because she always felt like an outsider. The whites excluded her because of her Indianness, and her Indian relations disdained her for her focus on study and academics. But when a pedophile priest made his moves on her, she ran. “I never went back. I hated the church after that, because in all the violence I grew up in, the church was my sanctuary, and that priest took it from me.” Driven by the desire to ease the violence and suffering she grew up with, she threw herself into her studies, eventually

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Meanwhile, among the Indians, the re-introduction of traditional native ways highlighted a massive cultural amnesia. “When I was a young woman, 65% of native children had been removed from their native families and placed in foster homes and institutions,” she says. “When the Indian Welfare Law and the Indian Freedom of Religion Act passed, suddenly young people came home and they wanted to know who they were.” “These kids got violated a hundred different ways, because there was no system within native communities for receiving

them back and initiating them into their identities,” she says. Internal conflict roiled many tribal populations, as Indians suffered jealousy and exclusion within their own communities, complicated by the government’s “blood quantum” proof of native ancestry. Apela faced prejudice from other Indians because she was not a full-blooded native and because she was a woman; for, after centuries of European domination, Indians had become very patriarchal. She had the growing desire to learn the sacred way of the pipe holder, to be of spiritual service to others. She hesitated, though, because these prejudices made her feel too unworthy to ask for the initiation. Her situation reached a critical point one early spring. Her husband, whose alcoholism had become active when he was in service in Vietnam, was away working in Alaska. Alone with her children, then nine, three and an infant, she prayed for guidance and got a message. “It was a warning, but I didn’t know what it meant,” she says. The next day, she received a phone call from an Ojibwa man she’d met earlier at a conference. He was calling her from Minnesota, to ask if she was OK. “That really frightened me,” says Apela who told him everything was fine. The man prayed for her, and sent her an eagle feather. His support touched her deeply; it was the first time she’d been acknowledged and offered protection in that way. Days later, on a snowy Sunday morning, her husband returned from Alaska, drunk and raging. He started to beat her, holding their crying infant under one arm, hitting and wrestling her with the other. She broke free from his grasp and ran for help, stumbling down icy stairs to call the police. “All of a sudden, I saw my grandfather’s face,” she says, “And I remembered the last time I saw him. There was snow that day, too. He said, ‘I want you to remember this: Remember the pipe. Remember the pipe. Remember the pipe.’ When he’d said those words, I didn’t even know what he was talking about, and I had forgotten all about it. But on this day, bam, I could see his face and hear those words.” Apela found the courage to ask for what she knew she needed: initiation as a pipe holder. She traveled by bus to Oklahoma, to the home of Manfred Kaulaity, a Kiowa “mystic-elder culturalpractitioner.” Dark skinned with a long white ponytail, Manfred had been orphaned as a child and passed from elder to elder, learning five Indian languages and the skills of a medicine man along the way. Manfred would be her guide, but she would never call him a “teacher.” “There is no way that sacred power can be inherited or that someone can teach it to another person,” says Apela. “In Indian tradition, there are no middlemen, no priests. The best we can do is to share our stories, to maybe save someone

from making a mistake or maybe help them save a little time on their spiritual journey.” Her spiritual connection to the earth and her traditions deepened with the pipe, and her desire to help her Indian relations grew stronger as she received her doctorate in social policy. She reflected on the despair of the native young people, who were now free to practice their indigenous ceremonies but had little living tradition to return to. “I looked at this mess and the chaos of it, and the violence. And I thought there had to be a better way,” she says. She considered creating a halfway house, where people could socialize and facilitate the remembrance of their ancestral ways, but her elders told her that she should work with the white man, to teach him. Initially, she felt that the elders were pushing her away because of her mixed blood, but they said to her, “The problems of this country can be healed when the white man remembers who he is.” “At that moment, part of my heart said, ‘There’s hope for half of me,’” says Apela. Her hair stood on end as she realized that it might be possible for people of all cultures to remember who they are, to return to their indigenous minds. In 1993, after years of teaching workshops addressing primarily the social needs of Indians, Apela was invited by the California Institute of Integral Studies (CIIS) to found a six-year PhD program in Traditional Knowledge. She envisioned the class as a sanctuary for surviving practitioners of traditional knowledge, who could earn the Western “stamp” of an academic degree from an indigenous point of view. Virtually every student in her first class was Indian, and the clash of individuals surprised her. The students were filled with fear, anger and exclusivity and held great animosity for each other. At her altar, praying for guidance to quell the chaos, Apela got the message that she needed to open the class beyond Native Americans and to share traditions. “I said, ‘No, if I share that there will be nothing left of me,’” says Apela, who identified completely with her Indian heritage. “But the spirits don’t care if you like what they tell you.” Unfamiliar with any traditions but her own, she joined with CIIS psychology and shamanic studies professor Jergen Kremer to expand the program’s cultural scope. Not long after, however, Apela’s world began to fall apart. CIIS abruptly ended her program. She was three years into the six-year course and her students were eager to complete the coursework on an ad hoc basis. But Apela was suddenly without a steady income and no longer had Kremer’s multiethnic perspective. “I was alone with all these people from different cultures,” she says. She started to lose weight and was feeling terrible. She started having recurring nightmares of a white woman, sobbing,

“I found that if you are going to suffer, Christianity knows how to comfort people.”

crying that she had been murdered but that nobody cared. “My psyche was screaming at me to honor that part of myself,” says Apela, “but I just couldn’t see that at the time.” Out of the blue, she received a big book from her mother, who had attended a family reunion. It was her French family history with a genealogy chart going back to the 1200’s. Apela discussed the book with a colleague and decided to make a prayer to her own French ancestors for guidance. She made the prayer, and on her 50th birthday was diagnosed with breast cancer. “It was a living hell,” she says. “I didn’t know why this was happening to me.” At about this time, Apela met two prominent Americans, men of extreme power and wealth, whose influence opened opportunities for healing. She was introduced to Lawrence Rockefeller Sr. through a colleague from CIIS, and she met former Treasury Secretary William Simon when he visited her Maui home to buy art from her second husband (her first husband having died years before). “They would call on me in various spiritual ways, to do ceremonies and to pray with them,” she says. It was paradoxical that she would be dying and at the same time connected to the earth through these two men. “Both of those men were so powerful, and from the patriarchal Western world,” she says. “I thought, well, I must have some relevance in the Western world.” That’s what it took for her to finally start to accept the role she was born to play with her “other half,” her white half. William Simon, a devout Catholic, proved to be a pivotal figure in her life. “When we met I went to give him a hug, and there was a clear flame spirit that shot through the air and connected the both of us. It was like I’d known him forever. Later he said that was the most spiritual moment of his life. The funny thing was, I looked at my family tree and I found that our families back in France began in little communities north of Paris. A woman from his family and a man from my family married in Quebec and started our North American French family lines.” Simon reminded Apela of what she’d loved about the Catholic Church as a girl. She soon found herself attending a mass with him. As they kneeled and prayed before services, a gust blew through the open church windows, and she had a thought. At that moment, Simon turned to her and said, “Apela, we’ve

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done this for generations,” and she said, “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Apela’s heart-felt reconciliation with the Church was as an adult Native woman, and at times she wondered whether she’d be tossed out if the priests knew what she was really thinking. She was not there for the teachings of the Bible (“Every time I tried to look at the Bible I was horriﬁed by its violence”) or for the sermons (“I would close my ears, I couldn’t stand what I was hearing”) or for salvation through Christ. She was there for the exquisite beauty and for the many elements of European spirituality and pagan ritual wrapped up in the ceremonies. During the chaos of her cancer, the Church gave her solace and structure. “I found that if you are going to suffer, Christianity knows how to comfort people.” Apela’s cancer passed, and she accompanied a friend on a trip to France that brought a full embrace of her Frank lineage. In a hotel room in Provence, on the eve of the Feast of the Three Maries, after a day spent visiting St. Mary’s Basilica where she made a prayer for the ailing (and soon to die) William Simon, Apela had a visitation. She found herself standing at her window facing a dawning apricot sky. Though it looked and smelled like the south of France, it felt like a very ancient time. She felt an arm around her shoulder and could not move, but she could see the drape of a gown. She felt that an amazing woman was holding her, gesturing out toward unbearably beautiful olive trees. “Who are you?” asked Apela, and the answer came to her lips: “Mary Magdalene.” In that moment, thunder rumbled, rain fell hard. The vision ended but never left Apela. St. Mary Magdalene, who was the ﬁrst to see the risen Christ, had been left adrift on the Mediterranean fourteen years after Christ’s death by Jewish elders who sought to quell the growing interest in Christ’s teachings. She landed in the south of France, and taught the indigenous Franks one of the earliest—and now apocryphal—forms of Christianity. Through Mary Magdalene’s embrace, Apela discovered new wholeness, a direct connection to the spiritual essence of the Catholicism that had compelled her, an Indian girl, since childhood. Now when addressing her ancestors, she could use the Indian invocation “All my relations” in a way that acknowledged ALL of her relations, including the white invaders of the North American lands. It was a profound healing, the kind of healing she hopes will come to her students as she leads them to explore their own indigenous hearts and minds. For additional information about Dr. Apela Colorado’s Indigenous Mind Masters Program at Wisdom University, please visit www.WisdomUniversity.org.

Salmon, Bear, River “The man’s name was Elishtanak. When my father died he came and asked my mother if he could take me fishing, and he made a regular thing of it. He understood fishing, and that’s what he taught me, to understand the obligations and the mutual courtesies involved. He would sit on the bank of the river with me and talk about steelhead and chinook as well as anyone who ever wrote it down. I’ve fished the river the way he taught me and fished it better than anyone. And every day I did it the feeling filled me that I was sure of myself, that because I understood this I could weather anything. “Elishtanak told me a story. One time,” (Hanner’s voice changed in such a way that the hair went up at the back of my neck and I leaned forward involuntarily, as though about to be overtaken by something in the dark) “before there were any people walking around this valley there were bear people. They had an agreement with the salmon.” Hanner put his fingers to his forehead, as though coming into the memory of it. “The

BARRY LOPEZ salmon would come upriver every fall and the bears would acknowledge this and take what they needed. This is the way it was with everything. Everyone lived by certain agreements and courtesies. But the salmon people and the bear people had made no agreement with the river. It had been overlooked. No one thought it was even necessary. Well, it was. One fall the river pulled itself back into the shore trees and wouldn’t let the salmon enter from the ocean. Whenever they would try, the river would pull back and leave the salmon stranded on the beach. There was a long argument, a lot of talk. Finally the river let the salmon enter. But when the salmon got up into this country where the bears lived the river began to run in two directions at once, north on one side, south on the other, roaring, heaving, white water and rolling big boulders up on the bank. Then the river was suddenly still.

The salmon were afraid to move. The bears were standing behind trees, looking out. The river said in the middle of all this silence that there had to be an agreement. No one could just do something, whatever they wanted. You couldn’t just take someone for granted. “So for several days they spoke about it. The salmon said who they were and where they came from, and the bears spoke about what they did, what powers they had been given, and the river spoke about its agreement with the rain and the wind and the crayﬁsh and so on. Everybody said what they needed and what they would give away. Then a very odd thing happened—the river said it loved the salmon. No one had ever said anything like this before. No one had taken this chance. It was an honesty that pleased everyone. It made for a very deep agreement among them. “Well they were able to reach an understanding about their obligations to each other and everyone went his way. This remains unchanged. Time has nothing to do with this. This is not a story. When you feel the river shuddering against your legs, you are feeling the presence of all those agreements.” Excerpted from “Hanner’s Story” in River Notes, copyright ©1978 by Barry Holstun Lopez. See www.barrylopez.com.

Illustration by Helen Granger

Prayer

for

Peace An Audience with Zulu High Sanusi Credo Mutwa MARK BLESSINGTON

This audience with Credo Vusamazulu Mutwa was held on December 8, 2006. My wife, Cindy Blessington, son, Doug Blessington, daughter, Sarah Blessington, and Corinne Castro sat with me in Credo’s modest living room. Credo Vusamazulu Mutwa is a Zulu High Sanusi, the highest distinction of Sangoma (shaman), who lives in South Africa. He is regarded as one of the most important sangomas in Africa and has met with numerous world leaders and famous people, including Nelson Mandela and then-President Bill Clinton—the ﬁrst U.S. president to visit Africa. Credo has published many books and spoken at various conferences. A constant stream of people visits him from every corner of the world seeking healing, guidance and teachings. The upheavals that shook Africa over the last centuries—many stemming from European colonization—disrupted the traditional ﬂow of African wisdom. Shamanic initiation was less consistent and fewer sangomas were initiated or dedicated their lives to this work. Miraculously, Credo was initiated into many African traditions and has spent his life accumulating and preserving Africa’s ancient wisdom. Unfortunately, no other sangomas in Africa are ready to carry this diverse and deep set of traditions, so much of what has been transmitted to Credo will die with him. Credo has taken the controversial step of publishing some of Africa’s sacred stories that

were previously transmitted strictly through oral tradition. The two sacred stories within this article appear with Credo’s permission. On the day before telling these stories, Credo took us to a sacred site. It is commonly called Wonderwerk Cave, but Credo refers to it as the “Cave of the Great Mother.” He had been visiting it for decades but never entered out of respect. Credo explained that his “feet were still dirty” because as a young soldier he had walked on blood spilled during combat. But after ﬁfty years of waiting, he was now clean enough to enter. When he reached the rear of the cave, which was quite deep, he was a bit winded. Then Credo turned, faced the entrance, raised his arms and sang with tremendous emotion—as if personally pleading with the Great Mother Herself—the Masikhanye song in Zulu and then English. This was what he had waited ﬁfty years to do. Her cave reverberated with this peace song. MASIKHANYE Masikhanye, masikhanye. Esibano sokuthula. Empomalanga, nyakatho. Esibano sokuthula. Tsonalanga, ningisimo. Esibano sokuthula. (Repeat)

LET IT SHINE Let it shine, oh let it shine. Oh let the lamp of peace to shine. In the Eastern, in the Northern. Let the lamp of peace to shine. In the Western, in the Southern. Let the lamp of peace to shine (Repeat) Sacred Fire

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Credo has sought reconciliation in Africa and around the world his whole life. When asked to side with one political group or another during the violent times that came with the dissolution of apartheid, Credo repeatedly refused; this would have interfered with his ability to stand in peace and serve all people. He received multiple threats to choose sides. He was nearly killed by a mob of children; his house was gassed, then bombed; and then his wife was murdered—all because of his unwavering dedication to peace and reconciliation. Despite a life of tremendous suffering, Credo remains joyful, respectful and humble. He often smiles, laughs and claps his hands. His grandchildren grin at his nicknames for them. His in-laws blush when he tells of their special gifts to the world. He addresses his visitors formally as if each one was a head of state. He asks them questions to highlight their special interests, gifts and contributions. He apologizes or jokes about his ignorance or his poor artwork, hearing, health or appearance. He somehow retains a constant state of awe and wonderment about life. When he tells stories about his suffering, you sense he would grant a prior enemy the same respect he shows any other guest in his house. This is his gift. Credo Please, honorable ones, what questions do you have for

me today? Mark Baba (father, an address of respect), you are now 84 years old. You have done so much for your people and so many others around the world. What work is still left for you to do?

[Credo leans over and picks up a tall, ﬂute-shaped, brass cup. It is decorated with animals and other shapes.] Credo See this cup? On it is a spider. She is Anaansi, the one who never tires. And here is a frog. He is Oshi, the noisemaker. There was a civil war when the Ibo people of Biafra sought independence from Nigeria in 1967. After ﬁghting for years many people died and they wanted peace. They melted gun shells and made this cup. They drank pombe from it together as friends.

Pombe is an African beer made from bananas. No, I would not drink it. The beer is made by people mashing and stomping bananas with their feet. And never mind if their feet are clean! The mashed bananas are left out in the sun to ferment. The longer you leave the bananas out, the stronger it gets. For a long time, peace was very important in Africa. We have many traditions about peace. But European colonists set one tribe against another. For example, the Belgians only appointed Watusi to be police. The Watusi are large, tall and strong Africans. They had lived with the smaller Bahutu people in peace for many years. This led to widespread ﬁghting between these peoples, especially in Rwanda, where many people were killed. I ask you, Mr. Doug: What color helmets do UN soldiers wear?

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Doug I’m sorry, Baba, but I don’t know. Credo They are blue, sir. But in Africa, blue is a war color! It is the color you wear when you go into battle. If you come in peace, you wear orange. But if you want to ﬁght you wear blue. Or white, the color of bones and death. You do not wave a white truce ﬂag in Africa. No! That is silly; it would be orange in Africa. Oh, the things I could tell you. People do not understand Africa! It makes me so sad.

Tomorrow I will take you to an old mission. They have gates made of iron with images of doves in them. The dove is a Christian symbol of peace, yes, but it is the symbol of murder and unforgiving war in Africa. The ANC (African National Congress) and the IFP (Inkatha Freedom Party) wore tee shirts with doves on them. They were fighting each other and burning each other’s houses down. The dove is called echube, the slasher or ambusher. The goddess of love and war is Nanana. She holds an olive branch for peace and a dove for war. If you wanted a symbol for peace in Africa, it would be the butterfly. The butterfly is called uvemvane, which means the one who fans up the good spirits. It makes the spirit of peace rise up. It is the symbol of rebirth. The egg on the leaf of the tree turns into a caterpillar and then a pupa and then a butterfly. Each lives a different lifestyle. In Burundi, there were many dead people from fighting. The UN soldiers made a bad situation worse. They did not bury the dead in individual graves, as we always do in Africa. They took bulldozers and dug mass graves. Then they bulldozed the bodies together, poured petrol on them and burned them! This was a horrible thing for Africa. Cremation is the one thing Africans fear most of all. We believe that if a person is cremated, this destroys the immortal soul. Even with AIDS and the overflow of graves we still do not cremate. Papa Doc Duvalier (longtime dictator of Haiti) learned how Africans fear being burned and used it during his reign of terror. South Africa’s United Democratic Front (UDF) learned from Papa Doc and used necklacing against the ANC. They put a tire around your neck, poured gasoline in it and lit it to burn you alive. So, you can’t burn Africans! It makes things much worse. So, back to this cup. [Credo holds it up again for us to see.] Ogon, the great god, first created the Niger River. There were many crocodiles on that river. The great ocean goddess, Yamanji, looked after the crocodiles. They were big and had sharp teeth. Not like the frog, who is small and has no teeth. The crocodiles were always fighting. Ogon shouted to Oshi the frog: Oshi! Make those crocodiles stop fighting! They are spilling their blood and making my beautiful river dirty. You better make them stop or I will strike you with lightning! Oshi was very afraid and croaked at the crocodiles: Oh, crocodiles, please stop

MASIKHANYE Masikhanye, masikhanye. Esibano sokuthula. Empomalanga, nyakatho. Esibano sokuthula. Tsonalanga, ningisimo. Esibano sokuthula. (Repeat)

LET

SHINE

Let it shine, oh let it shine. Oh let the lamp of peace to shine. In the Eastern, in the Northern. Let the lamp of peace to shine. In the Western, in the Southern. Let the lamp of peace to shine (Repeat)

or the great god Ogon will kill me. The crocodiles stopped their ﬁghting for a moment and jeered at the frog: Hey, frog! Open your mouth. Ah, let us see. Ha! You have no teeth. You can’t be chief of the crocodiles. Be quiet and leave us alone.

crocodiles never ﬁght again. Ogon said: How? Anaansi said: Help me to put out the sun and make the moon dark. Ogon said: Is that all? Anaansi said: Yes that is the only thing that will stop the crocodiles from ﬁghting.

The frog was very afraid and went to Anaansi, the goddess of spiders. She is also a trickster. He said: Oh, Anaansi, please help me. The great god said that he would kill me if I don’t stop the crocodiles from fighting. She said: What will you give me if I stop them from fighting? The frog said: I will be your slave. I will plant yams for you and other vegetables and do anything else you want. Anaansi said: I do not need anything like that. I am a goddess. I have all the food I want. What could you possibly give me, a goddess? Oshi thought for a moment, then said: You need love! Anaansi asked: What is love? I have never seen it. Will you give me this love thing if I help you? Oshi said yes, so Anaansi said that she would go to sleep and that tomorrow she would stop the fighting.

Ogon started smoking marijuana and sent a big jet of smoke at the sun and it blinked out. But then there was the moon. Ogon knew he could not put the moon out that way. Ogon asked Anaansi: How can I put out the moon? She told him: Oh, great Ogon you can do it. Just lift up your loincloth, bend over and make bad wind at the moon. So Ogon did it and the moon screamed and went out.

Oshi was so afraid he could not sleep. As he looked up into the sky he saw Ogon drinking pombe and getting drunk and angry. There was lightening in the sky and there was a storm. Finally, Oshi fell asleep. When he woke up, he found the land to be cold. He thought: this is strange. Then he found something new and even more strange: there was peace! There was no blood in the river. She had done it! Anaansi had saved him! But how did she do it? Oshi looked at the Niger and saw scores of crocodiles floating in the water. Their eyes were blinking but they were not able to move. Anaansi somehow had made the river freeze and had laid cobwebs over the crocodiles so that they could not get out while the water froze. They were all trapped. Oshi said: Oh, you wonderful Anaansi! Then the great god Ogon came down and said: Oshi, was that you? Did you make the crocodiles stop fighting? Oshi said: No, it was Anaansi. She helped me. The crocodiles were hungry and started to complain. Then Anaansi floated down on her cobweb and dangled in front of the drunken god. He said: What do you want? Anaansi said: I want something only you can give, oh great god. Make the

The whole world was cursed with dark and cold. The animals started to starve and die. All animals on land and river began to beg for mercy. Ogon was irritable and did not answer them. Anaansi heard the cries from the animals and went out on her web and found Yamanji, the sea goddess. Anaansi said: Let’s talk woman to woman. Yamanji asked: Are you trying to play tricks on me? Anaansi answered: We can ﬁgure this out together. The world is dark and cold. The animals are dying. Would you help me? Together we could make the world light again. Yamanji said: OK, let’s get on a dolphin. So they got on two dolphins and rode them to a village deep down under the sea. There they made much magic. They created a huge bubble that rose up from the sea and into the sky. It exploded in the face of the sun. The clouds were blown away and the sun came back to life and was bright once again. Then Yamanji said: Anaansi, only you can help the moon come back to life. Anaansi asked: What can I do? Yamanji said: Anaansi, you are a clever woman. You will think of something. Anaansi remembered that the frog had told her about love. She called to Oshi and said: Oshi, please can you come here. You said I need love. But I know someone who really needs love now. Can you go and give the moon a big, wet kiss? Oshi said OK so Anaansi used her web to ﬂing Oshi up at the moon and splat! He kissed the moon goddess and she came back to life. But she saw how ugly the frog was and changed into a crescent. Now the sun and the moon were ablaze once again.

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A Prayer for Peace

There was peace everywhere. The crocodiles never killed each other again. There was peace and happiness in the river and on the land. [Credo holds up the metal cup.] This cup was sculpted by the Nigerians to drink pombe and make peace to end the war. Here you can see the spider, the frog and the crocodiles. It is a peace cup. [Credo puts down the metal cup, picks up a metal object that looks like a candleholder and holds it up for us to see.]

husbands. A Zulu warrior makes a good husband sometimes, when he is not drunk. Now the remaining Zulu warriors could not ﬁght. Even Bambata had been killed in the ﬁght. He was a great chief but the English soldiers beheaded him and used his head for a football. Well, the women had put an end to that war. The English rode through Zululand and only found women. The English did not know that the surviving warriors had been forced to dress like women. [Credo holds up the metal candleholder again.]

I will tell you another story. Here is a lamp. It was made by Zulu women in 1906 after a war—the Zulu Rebellion. The Zulus fought ﬁercely against the English but the machine guns, called “laughing guns,” were too much. The Zulu warriors were badly defeated and retreated into the forest.

This sacred lamp was made to commemorate how the women saved the Zulu nation. A thread is placed on the lamp and we burn it. And we sing Masikhanye (Let it Shine). This is what I have left to do in my life.

The Zulu women heard of the terrible defeat. They made a plan to save any husbands who were still alive. They would keep them from ﬁghting again. The women went into the forest and called for their men. They hid clubs and sticks behind their backs. When the men came out, the women started hitting and beating them. Then the women tied the men up and brought them back to the village. They wanted to keep their

To Credo, one of the most sacred sites in all of Africa is the Tree of Life outside of Pretoria. Leaders from around Africa and the world have sought reconciliation at this tree for centuries. For many years African tribal elders lived in the tree. Credo has visited it many times, but again from a distance because of his “unclean feet.” Before he dies Credo hopes to ﬁnally stand beneath the Tree of Life and sing Masikhanye.

Visitors at the mouth of Wonderwerk Cave: from left to right, Credo Vusamazulu Mutwa, Doug Blessington, an African apprentice, Virginia Mutwa, Cindy Blessington, Mark Blessington, Corinne Castro, Sarah Blessington.

Why Are You Holding Back As you walk on this path that leads to your death, what would you hold back from the world? What would you hold back from those who weep, who call your name, who beg you to turn back? Will you withhold your words of love, your vision of their beauty, the depth of your knowing? Will you withhold your own grief at the loss of this world? Will you walk stoic before your enemies, enduring their curses, absorbing their blows to your head and stomach and back? Listen—the birds are singing for all they are worth. The wind chatters through the trees and the stream rings all her bells. The whole world pours forth without hesitation or shame! Why are you holding back here on this path that leads to your death? Raise your voice! Sing and shout! Let your tears ﬂow! Let your words echo against the hills. —Jonathan Merritt

Mandalas by Mary Ellen McCourt

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My daughter squealed, “Let’s go again!” and because it was a weekday, I agreed. Most weekends, the line outside Disneyland’s “It’s a Small World” folds back on itself, snakes across hot pavement, makes you wait with alternating currents of anticipation and frustration. Today we’d go three times. Inside it’s loud, colorful, saccharine. Our boat takes us past all the peoples of our world, who smile, hand in hand, singing the same song... We have skins of different colors, but it’s a small world after all! We all have ethnic clothing, but it’s a small world after all! We sing in different languages, but it’s a small, small world!

Photograph © Brian Chase. Image from BigStockPhoto.com.

Then it hits me. How many Greek men wear those white skirts anymore? How many Japanese kids dress in kimono every day? What do Eskimos really eat, now that whale hunting is taboo and seal blubber is full of PCBs? With over 32,000 restaurants in over 100 countries, McDonald’s feeds about six billion people a year—that’s the population of the world. Thanks to Disney, NewsCorp, global branding and satellite TV, our home HAS become a small, small world. And it looks like a box store.

The Rainmaker

AS TOLD BY COLIN CAMPBELL, AFRICAN SANGOMA, AT THE FIRST ANNUAL INTERSPIRITUAL CONFERENCE ON JUNE 3, 2007, IN ANSWER TO A QUESTION ABOUT SERVICE. Photograph by Mary Ellen McCourt.

undreds of years ago, there was a village in the northern part of southern Africa. Southern Africa is a very, very dry place and it very, very seldom rains. So rainmakers are highly revered shamans, because rain represents everything in life. The rainmaking shaman brings the potential for life in what she or he does. There had been no rain at all in this village for the last ten years. The crops were dying, the cattle were dying, the food that nature usually provided was drying up and withering away, and the community was in a terrible state about this. The elders had gathered, and the rainmakers of the community had been called, and rituals had been performed, and sacriﬁces had been made, and the ancestors had been pleaded with. Everything that they could possibly think of had been done and nothing had yielded any rain. So, as a last resort and in total desperation, the elders called a meeting of the community. With great sadness in their faces and in their hearts they said, “We’ve come to the point now where we can no longer survive as a community. It’s got to that stage. And the only way we can continue forward is to divide up and each walk in one of the four directions and hope that Providence provides better in another place. And the best chance we have—because it is wild and desolate and dry out there—the best chance we have is to all go in different directions and hopefully some of us will survive.” Of course this was a really drastic decision for the community and people took it with very heavy hearts. But it so happened that one of the community members sitting in the audience put up his hand and said, “You know, I’ve heard of a shaman, one who makes rain—a powerful shaman, who lives, well, unfortunately, many days travel from here through very treacherous territory. But this person has huge acclaim and has never failed to bring rain to any community that he’s been called to assist. I would be willing to go across the mountains and through the desert to ﬁnd this shaman and bring him back here, if you, as a community, would be willing to agree to wait for me, for just a few more days.” And the community thought long and hard about that and the elders thought long and hard. It was a really drastic decision because they had just enough provisions to set off on a journey of hope. If they stayed much longer in the village, even that hope would dwindle and there would be absolutely no possibility of survival. But because they were so desperately keen to solve the problem, they eventually agreed. The elders said, “We’ll hold things together as best we can. You go and bring this shaman, bring him here. And tell him that we need rain. Tell him that we’ll give him anything that we have, because we’re so desperate. But also know that we give you three days. We

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know that it’s a treacherous world out there, and if after three days you have not returned, we’ll assume that you’ve been devoured by lions or died of heat or starvation or that some other terrible thing may have befallen you, and we’ll go ahead with our original plan.” And so the villager set off, and the days went by and the tension in the village mounted massively—people were really fearful. Every day they went to the edge of the village and they looked to the horizon to see if the villager was returning, and every day there was no sign. And eventually, by the evening of the third day, the village elders called everyone together once again and said, “Well, our worst fears have come to pass. We believe that our fellow villager has been devoured by wild beasts and is not going to return. And so we’re going back to our original plan. Each person and each family for themselves, and the best of luck.” And so the villagers began to disperse and head towards their homes to pack their belongings. As this was happening, one of the children came running in from the edge of the village with great excitement and said, “There are people coming on the horizon.” And so, of course, the whole village ran to the edge of the village to have a look, and sure enough on the horizon came these two ﬁgures. And the villagers looked and, sure enough, one of them was the villager who had been sent to ﬁnd this great shaman, the rainmaker. They came into the village, and the villagers were really astonished, because there didn’t appear to be any black horses, as was customary, or entourages, or weaponry of shamanic creation accompanying the gentleman. He was an old, old man, hunched up, and he had a little bundle of belongings under his arm. They walked through the village and the villagers shook their heads and said, “Who is this person?” He was taken to the chief and the chief, with equal astonishment, beheld the sight of the gentleman in front of him, and quizzically looked upon him and said to him, “Are you the shaman? Do you make rain? Are you the famous one everyone talks about, that we’ve waited for at our peril for three days in the hopes that you’ll bring us rain?” The old man didn’t answer. So the chief eventually said, “Well, since we’ve waited this long and, since you’re here, what is it that you need from us? Whatever you need, we’ll give you. We just ask that you do everything in your power, your enormous powers that we’ve heard of, to bring rain for us.” And the old man simply said, “I need a place to live and I need to be left alone.” As it so happened, one of the families had already left and a house was vacant on the edge of the village. The old man was taken to the house and he moved in. For the next days, the anxiety of the village mounted. By now the original plan for each family to go its own way could not be

The Rainmaker

followed through. The food was not sufficient. So the village was basically doomed. Every day all eyes were on the shaman. And the shaman nonchalantly went about his life. He went down to the market and scrounged what few vegetables were still on sale. He went home and he cooked them. And he put his blankets up to hang on the line after washing them. And he did whatever every other person did. He even began to make some friends around the village. He was quite a chatty guy by this stage. And the comments began to spread around the village: “Who is that?” “This is an imposter.” “This is ridiculous.” “We’ve been hoaxed.” “This is a joke.” And then, after about five days, the clouds began to gather. And the thunder began to roll and the wind began to blow and it began to rain. And it rained and it rained, and, to the utter astonishment of all in the village, it rained more. It rained like it had not rained in fifteen years. And after several days of this, the old man went back to the chief and said, “I’ve come to request permission to leave, to return to my village.” The chief was, well, overwhelmed, as you can imagine. “I don’t know what you did. I don’t know where the ceremonies were or where all the fireworks were or all the things that we know to be part of this business of making rain. But whatever you did, there is no question. You made the rain. Have whatever you want.” To which the old man replied, “I just want to return to my village.” I suppose the moral behind the story is this: In African tradition it is said that everyone is born with a purpose, and that purpose is not so much in what we do, as who we are. And the more we become congruent with who we are, the more things start to happen around us. And depending who we are, different things will happen. So in the case of the old man, rain happened around him. All he had to do was go about the business of being an old man. That’s all he had to do. As long as he was completely congruent with that, miracles happened and rain came to pass. This is the understanding of traditional culture in southern Africa and the way I would see service, in the sense that service is a natural outpouring of one who has found his truth and lives it completely.

Before you knew the word dream and the word ﬁre, you dreamed of ﬁres. —Lisel Mueller

Talking to Helen Ever back to the burning. Before you knew your name, before the ﬁre sealed your eyes, you were aware of the ﬂames—your heart whispered the music they danced to, your pale skin wore their shadows like rouge. You heard it within you: spiritoso. Obbligato. You named it, never spoke its name, but it rose inside you— heat will rise—and it spoke from you, the great, urgent furnace of your life burst forth, consumed your silence, overwhelmed even your blindness, and you shone—forte, forte— you burned like a white, white sun. —Renée Ashley

From The Various Reasons of Light, Avocet Press, 1998. Reprinted with permission from the author and Avocet Press. Illustration by Helen Granger.

�alking

�

�ourney SHARON COHEN

ay after day, through the seasons, I have come into these woods in this human skin. So well do I know this place, I feel as if I could walk along with my eyes closed and still see the familiar plants and trees around me. I follow the trail as it snakes into the forest through the parting of the ferns. Each curve brings me further into myself and into the wonders of these woods. I have traveled this path in lightning and floods, in blinding snow and bitter cold, in the midst of the first dance of the small purple butterflies and on the day when the peepers emerged into their call. I have pressed my feet into this ground when the light moving in the trees brought a deep stillness to this land. From this path I have heard the guttural growl of the bear and I ran with pounding fear. I have stood here for long stretches of time close to the great blue heron as it hunted for fish. I have walked this way cradling a soft wounded fawn in my arms as it heaved its last breath and I cried with its passing. I see plants growing now where drops of the fawn’s blood fell. Moment upon moment passes before my inner eyes as I step—I remember plants and animals in their cycles. Many times I have also entered these woods with purposeful offerings of tobacco. During these walks, I sought out and visited a plant that called to me as I prepared to embark on a shamanic journey to meet the spirit of that plant. From these shamanic journeys, I have been able to venture further into the layers of forest and the depths of this land. Over the years, my experience and understanding of this place has grown, as the journeys to the plants have touched my heart. Now, when I go for my walks, I also remember past dream journeys to the plants around me. As I pass the ancient twisting spicebush in this forest, I feel the water moving through the land; coming upon the dogwood, again I am in its sensuous dance. Everywhere I gaze, I see that I am surrounded by ancient beings. Many of them have generously shared themselves, taught me about this land and assisted me in my growth. Their presence moves me. I am humbled at the short stretch of my life compared to the vast continuum that is this place. On my walk, I pass the freshly repaired beaver dam and remember a winter’s dream journey sitting warm in their den. Continuing down the trail, I acknowledge the giant guardian

oak high up on top of the hill. Always I come to a familiar patch of mossy ground by the river, dappled with white violets and tiny grasses. One spot of moss, from so many visits, now holds the imprint of my body. Here, a tree kindly offered herself during a dream journey as a frequent guide. Now, when I stop here during my walks, I reveal my heart and struggles to her, and she lovingly shares her world and wisdom with me. When I approach the tree, I leave my offerings, shed my skin, and lay on this ground. In a way, I feel as if I’m coming home to a world I know better than any other. The forms behind the forms of the trees make more sense to me than the world that my people move in. I know the feel of the land here like I know the sensation of life beating within me. Wrapped in layers, I have lain on this spot wet and cold, listening to the river and the trees as the ice has melted under me, the deer have passed by barely distracted by my presence, hawks have circled above, song has returned, the skunk cabbage have risen and opened like glowing green pools in the sun, buds have burst out, the ferns have uncurled, ants have crawled over me, the berries of the forest have ripened, and petals and leaves have fallen on me. And still I lay here. I sink more deeply into the pulsing of the land. Gradually, forms pass away, invisible light and shadows fade like cloud cover and I ﬁnd myself easing down into the heart of this place. When I rise, it seems as if something has shifted around me and within. As I walk home, the forest looks different. I move in it, not through it. I am another animal that this place shapes and everything touches me in a wordless way. I pass the beaver compound again and the old large one, so accustomed to my movements, swings up alongside of me and seems to lift its head in a greeting of sorts. It occurs to me that I no longer view shamanic journeys as something that I go on. Rather, I feel as if I am living in a journey. Recently my life has changed dramatically. I know that I am being reshaped into my true self. There has been signiﬁcant pain, loss, and joy in the process and yes, a sense of sinking into myself just as I sink into this land. At times I have the sensation that I am feeling my way along in a world of dreams, prayers, and journeys.

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Photograph by Yana Murphy My first formal dream journey training began nearly ten years ago during a six week plant spirit medicine class. With over twenty other men and women of different ages and backgrounds, I learned the skills I would need to go on shamanic journeys. Then we all met and journeyed to the same plants together. Much of my doubt was dispelled, noticing that time and again we brought back shockingly similar messages. So I went forth confident from the class and journeyed on my own to the plants that I had loved for years. During one of my first solo dream journeys, I had the wind knocked out of me by a plant spirit. I was twenty-five and I felt the drive of one who feels the burden of saving the world one piece of land at a time. I had expected a loving greeting from this plant as I had reverently planted it in many wildflower meadows in my work doing ecological restoration. Instead, I was slammed in the gut. The plant spirit towered over me and said something like, “Stop worrying about saving us. We are fine. Find your power. Do your healing work. This is what power feels like.” That advice changed my life and propelled me on my own healing exploration. Sometimes I still wonder if what I hear and experience is simply imagination. Dream journeys can seem fantastical to Number Six

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our minds. This spring, at the end of a journey to a beautiful yellow flower with rubbery mottled green leaves, called trout lily, that grows in clumps along the water’s edge, I was asked by the plant to immerse my body in the river that day upon returning from the journey. I thought to myself, as I stepped down to the river, “Why am I doing this? This is crazy! The water is still absolutely February freezing.” Doubts crept in. As I began slowly inching into the river, a green frog that looked identical to the one that had accompanied me through the journey came hopping down the rocks behind me. It came right to the water’s edge where I stood and, very strangely, just hopped up and down there in place croaking loudly at me for quite sometime. Finally, when I dunked in the water, it let out one last croak, turned around, and hopped away. All the while the bright yellow trout lily flowers waved around me in the sun and I felt the glow of them in my heart. So, with the assistance of the plants and land around me, I am letting go into the journey that is my life. The paradox is that this is both the most difficult and simplest path I have ever embarked on. Here, on this journey, I am finding myself. I feel blessed to walk deeply in this land.

Any Given Morning KRISTIN KENLAN

It is midmorning, late June. The solstice sun has cooked the early chill from the air. Here, in Yellowstone, even at this time of year, it is not uncommon to begin the day scraping frost from the windshield and end it in shorts and a tee shirt. Now, at nine oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock, my wool hat and gloves are stuffed in the pocket of my jacket and my jacket lies on the ground. Most of the early risers who people the hillsides at dawn to catch the comings and goings of wolves have gone on to other activities. It has been a fairly uneventful morning, as wolfIllustration by Mark Gilliland

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watching goes. Earlier, and from a distance, I’d caught a glimpse of four adults on a new elk kill. At the den site that lies across the river, two gray pups and a black flickered briefly in the dappled light beyond the tree line, playing on a log. Now the den site is still. On a distant ridge, three bighorns graze the snow-patched slope. A herd of bison, dotted with tawny calves, stretches across the river bench before me. The occasional solitary bull rolls in a wallow, its presence announced by the puffs of dust rising from the ground like smoke. All seems quiet—which is, of course, misleading. The Lamar Valley looks gentle, but it has claws and teeth. As I replay the memories, I see the grizzly lifting its face from the belly of an elk calf while the cow stamps and snorts and shies nearby. I watch while eagle, raven, magpie and coyote come to pick the bones of a bull elk. In another scene, a weeksold pronghorn fawn leaps from its cover and flees with a wolf in pursuit, each stride lengthening, each stride closing the distance. The pronghorn mother streaks past and cuts between the wolf and her fawn, the target in the crosshairs of each—this life. I have witnessed these events, but in each case I have missed the precise moment when life was snatched away—and been relieved. It’s not squeamishness on my part. I’ve spent hours in anatomy labs, wrist-deep in the dissection of most of the vertebrate classes I can think of; been on hand at a deer check station and watched the biologists saw out jaws for aging; examined the carcasses of various wolf kills. It’s not dead that bothers—but death. The moment holds the mystery and the fear. Still, death is the thread that binds the web of life. Death is the requirement. Which brings me back to this moment on this hillside where I sit, idly scanning the river bench for wolves, pondering the paradox of predator and prey. It was only yesterday that I witnessed the pronghorn chase and I found myself willing that fawn to, “Run, baby, run!” I know that an unsuccessful hunt means unfed pups. Perhaps a lingering starvation is less compelling than sudden, violent death. Perhaps it is because I am unhungry and don’t understand, or that the bond of motherhood crosses species lines, or that another’s fear and pain are hard to watch, but I am puzzled. Had the pronghorn mother turned and flailed at the pursuer with rib-shattering hooves, I would have been rooting for the wolf. Now, as the sun climbs and I begin to feel it baking my arms and face, a lone gray wolf drifts through the bison herd. Normally, this doesn’t amount to much. One wolf does not alarm a herd of bison. But this one circles back. A single bison lies apart from the herd. As the wolf approaches, it struggles to its feet. Its abdomen is swollen and red and something is dripping from the hind end. It takes two steps towards the wolf and buckles. The wolf comes closer. The bison again heaves itself to its feet and faces the wolf. Three steps forward and it’s down again. The wolf moves in. The big head swivels and stares. A grim anticipation lands at the bottom of my stomach like a stone. The wolf grows bolder, snapping at the air just inches from the bison’s haunches. Again the animal lurches up and turns. But this time something dark and slender and straight is protruding just below the tail—a tiny leg. This is a cow, trying to deliver her calf, while the hunger of the world closes in. Three more times this scene replays, each time the tiny leg reaching farther into this world. Miraculously, or perhaps because the wolf is only one, the danger from horns and hooves too great, it abandons this probe and trots away to the east toward the quiet den. When the cow scrambles once more to her feet, a tiny rust-colored bundle lies in the grass. She turns and begins to lick. A bull appears and attempts to herd her back to the larger group. She is not ready, her calf not yet on its feet. And so he stands with her. I had thought that I must bear witness to the exchange that is life’s currency—its cost. But on this morning death deferred. And in that waiver I begin to unravel my confusion. Life chooses life.

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I Walk

I decide to spend the day naked. It is as simple as this: I drop my pajamas onto the bed and step into the hallway.

Naked

No fussing with socks. No rustling around in the closet. I am free to go, ready to drink in the day.

Through

Luckily my husband has already left for work. And our child, rushing off to school, assumes that I’m heading for the shower.

the Day

And so I continue my tour of our home buck-naked, boldly walking right up to the windows to peer out at the neighbors’ house. I sit at the computer. I talk on the phone as if everything is normal. I do take extra care with splatters when working at the stove. I am so preoccupied by my new sensations —my torso soaking in the soft air, my feet tacky on the wooden planks— that I disregard the tiny hand in the back of my head that is ringing alarm-bells at the idea of me heading out to buy groceries. But the day is sunny and bright! And the sharp driveway sand is scrumptious against my soles. I slide my buttocks onto the car’s velvety seat. My alarm bells go silent. Amazingly, the shopkeepers are so accustomed to seeing clothed people that they assume the same is true of me. There is only one awkward moment when a cashier winks, and I blush until I realize that I mistakenly handed him my car-keys instead of coins. What freedom, what joy! To walk through the day unencumbered by cotton and polyester! To simply get up and go, and keep going, through a day ﬁlled with texture unmuted by leather and rubber, metal and wool. I open the sun-roof. I roll down the car-windows. I arrive home just in time to warm the oven before my family returns. They can’t help noticing that my posture is straight. The color of wind and sun is in my cheeks. “What else is different about you?” they ask, sensing something more. I smile. But it is the end of the day, and the story that I could tell them is longer than we have time for before dreamtime envelopes us like our sheets that we slip quietly into as darkness falls. —Mariana Tupper

Doorway # 3 I got hugged recently by Amma, the hugging guru. I really didn’t know what to expect, so I was open to whatever was coming my way. Nothing prepared me for what happened. I felt ﬁre rushing up my legs. Afterward, I could hardly stand. I understood that something profound had occurred.

I tried to tell some friends about this encounter. They snorted. What could possibly happen with a hug? Did I believe all that crap? And what is an enlightened being, anyway? I realized then, that for just about everybody I know, living with mystery is unbearable. Most people like knowing The Facts. Or they accept things as matters of Faith. But what if there is a third doorway? What about direct experience? What about a knowing that can’t be quantiﬁed and isn’t based on belief? There’s nothing more direct than being belly to belly with unconditional love.

Litter for the Soul

itter is not a sexy topic. It doesn’t grab attention like beached whales, yet I believe it is necessary for the growth of the human spirit. Oh, I could try to mesmerize your mind with such tantalizing facts as—if the 7.2 billion cigarette butts discarded and leaching toxins in Australia each year were laid end to end, they would circle the Earth 3.6 times. The worldwide number is estimated at 4.5 trillion per year. Or, I could tell you that in the U.K., foodrelated litter has dramatically increased the rat population. Or, that in the U.S., littering is regional. For example, there is more illegal dumping in New Mexico versus in New Jersey, where there is more litter from fast-food restaurants. How about that a person 14-25 years of age is most likely to litter in groups, while those over 25 are most likely to litter alone? Would you read on, or would your eyes glaze over? This is such a multifaceted and complex problem, so permit me to offer just two of a myriad of views concerning litter. The ﬁrst is fairly typical and research-based; the second might just create discomfort with your present views of reality. Where litter is concerned, there are typically three types of people. On one end are those who pick up other people’s refuse. On the other end are those who willfully discard. In between are those people who don’t care enough and/or are either frustrated or complacent. There are many reasons why people litter. Some are not willing to use their valuable time to look for a trash can, some do so because of the lack of social pressure to do the right thing, while others are acting out as a form of social rebellion in the absence of penalties and reinforcement. There is the culture of the individual desire that says that anything that you want to do is not only ﬁne, but is the thing you should do because nothing is more important than your desires. So, if a person is walking down the street eating a breakfast bar on the way to work, that person can discard the wrapper anywhere because

Just as I spiritually connect to a plant and ask permission if I can pick it, I now do the same with most pieces of litter that

Reconnecting with the Earth Rita Kesler

getting to work on time is all-important, and once the wrapper is discarded, it’s not his or her problem anymore. Surprisingly, many litter because they don’t recognize that items like cigarette butts and food scraps are litter, or they think someone else is being paid to pick it up. Littering creates tremendous problems for the Earth. Not only does it reduce the aesthetic appeal of our public lands, it also ends up in our lakes, rivers and oceans and kills aquatic life like fish, whales and turtles by slowly choking them. Our groundwater is affected by the breakdown of toxins. Refuse can block drainage systems and cause flooding. It can cause fear and become dangerous, such as in the case of broken glass or discarded needles, syringes and condoms. There are two general types of spiritual philosophies that come into play: “One should live lightly on the land” versus “God gave us this land to use as we wish.” The person who collects other people’s litter also typically believes that one should live lightly on the land because of faith or moral conviction. They feel engaged and connected to this planet. This person reacts negatively when he or she sees trash along the road or trail. I used to consciously send angry and resentful energy to the person whose litter I came across. “What disgusting, lazy, ignorant, careless *@#% would do this?” And then I would hope that something horrible would happen to him or her. Maybe a huge ball of twist ties, candy wrappers and fishing line would chase them mercilessly through the streets. In my city, we have a government phone number we can call to turn in people we see throwing things out of their cars. They first get a letter and then are fined. I stored this number in my cell phone, and, like a covert spy, was ready to pounce upon these evildoers and make them pay! The headlines read, “Litter Woman Saves the Earth!” My point of view at that time was: all litter is bad and a product of our consumerist, “I want it now!” society; all people who litter are bad people who are consciously destroying the Earth; and everyone should do their part and pick up every single piece of litter they see. The end.

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Divine Nourishment It was my husband who instigated a second, reality-altering view and shocked me into realizing that I actually belonged to the large middle group who are frustrated and complacent. We take a hike every weekend along the river near our home. Usually we jump out of the car and immediately take off with our dog down the trail. But one day he stopped, turned around, opened the trunk of our car and pulled out a huge bag. When I asked him what he was doing, he told me he couldn’t stand all of the trash scattered along the trailhead any more and he was going to pick it up. He also planned to take it home and separate it for recycling. I was dumbfounded! Here I was, someone who considers herself spiritually connected with the Earth as a healer, environmental educator and editor of this column, and it was my husband who was doing something about it! I had grown so used to all the trash each weekend, that I actually didn’t see it anymore! I had grown complacent and ambivalent. At that moment, a divine door opened, and I realized I was feeling the same way about my life in that moment. The signs were “litter-ally” scattered all around me and I had been blind to them. There were so many possibilities and openings being presented to me, and they were right in front of my eyes. Some healers (like me) are attracted to particular ﬂowering native plants. They catch our eye and we learn they have something to offer our clients and teach us about the world. Likewise, when I’ve been hiking, a shiny beer can lying amidst beautiful grasses has caught my eye in the exact same way. Yet I dismissed it as trash. Where the ﬂowering plant gave pleasure and joy in its beauty, the discarded can did not. I then asked myself if I believe (which I do) that the divine is always at work in the world, and everything is vibrating as part of one energy, then could it be possible an old discarded beer can is not only divine, but also a divine sign? I wondered if I needed my signs to be like the Shroud of Turin, Moses’ tablets or the writing across the sky from the Wicked Witch of the West. Then I thought of another spiritual belief I hold: “As without, so within.” What was it in myself, what part of my true self have I discarded and tossed aside? Is it my refusal (“refuse-all”) or fear to show people who I really am so that I discard or squelch the emotions that are not socially acceptable? Is there a gift the Goddess has given me that I have carelessly thrown away, or is it one I haven’t slowed down enough to notice? Am I trashing the world with my negative thoughts? Is there a correlation between all the “trash-talk” and negativity going on in the world and the amount of trash we encounter or produce? From my husband’s simple act, from this door opening, so many questions welled up inside of me and I was completely overwhelmed. I thought about a comment by the naturalist Aldo Leopold: “One of the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds.” From the one

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shiny beer can lying amidst the tall waving grasses, I realized I so deeply felt the cries of this planet in its destruction that I had begun to isolate myself from the beauty surrounding me, and from community. It didn’t have to be like that any longer. Just as I spiritually connect to a plant and ask permission if I can pick it, I now do the same with most pieces of litter that catch my eye. Some I’m directed to leave for other people for their own lessons and divine openings. No, I don’t go around meditating with every piece of paper I find, but I’ve found myself more mindful to each source that attracts my attention and I pick up what I can. It is a small but important act that reconnects me with the Earth and my community and helps me stay in the present moment. I have come to realize that each piece of trash is in fact alive with vibration; it originated from the Earth, is Divine, and therefore cannot be separated from either. I cannot be separated from them. Picking up the litter we are attracted to is divinely inspired to show us how to live in this world; to look at our fears and resistance, to question our lives, to reconnect us with the Earth and to the Divine, and to slow ourselves down long enough to connect us with our hearts. Litter helped open another divine doorway a few months ago when I was driving to the mountains with our dog. After stopping for his favorite treat, I opened the windows to enjoy the cool breezes while I zoomed along the highway. Suddenly, a food wrapper flew out of the car and was caught by the wind. I was mortified! I had never littered in my life. I sent a silent thank you to the person who would be picking up after me and sent a prayer to the Earth for forgiveness. This mistake made me realize that sometimes litter is not from a conscious or malicious act against the Earth. I knew I no longer needed to be emotionally attached to the people whose litter I came across and I was finally able to release my deep negativity toward them. It was a huge transformational experience. Instead of anger, now I connect with the person and send them positive thoughts in the hope they will awaken to the spirit of this planet and become its caretaker. If all of us who care deeply for the Earth began sending positive instead of negative energy to those who are contributing to its destruction, I wonder what would happen? It’s been much easier to send anger, frustration and a lack of understanding, but it certainly hasn’t accomplished much. If we “clean up our acts” so to speak, and work on our own healing, it is quite possible we could collectively help awaken the masses to reconnect with the Earth and support its healing. I believe it’s worth a try. Funny thing about litter. It’s for the soul—who knew? This is the final column in the series, “Reconnecting with the Earth.” We thank Rita for her dedication, hard work and heart, and also for being one of the Four Mothers who originally envisioned this magazine..

Raccoon PHEN CANNER

It was a sunny afternoon in late spring and I was driving home through a rural area, running two hours late, when an unusual creature ran across the road in front of me. As I passed, I could see that it was a small raccoon with its head stuck in a plastic peanut butter jar. I stopped the car and ran after it. As I caught up, it tried to back away, but appeared disoriented. I grabbed the jar but it was stuck on tightly and lifted the raccoon from the ground. The raccoon squirmed and scratched at me with its paws and I dropped it, and it ran into a spruce tree. I forged into the tree and grabbed the raccoon by the tail, then grabbed the jar with the other hand, and pulled in opposite directions. The jar ďŹ nally came off, like a wine bottle releasing its cork. I let go of the raccoon and it continued quickly up the tree. I walked back to the car, shaken and overwhelmed with emotionsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;sadness and anger that garbage was left out for these creatures to risk their lives investigating; joy that the raccoon could breathe freely again; gratitude that I had been delayed in town just long enough to encounter the raccoon at the right moment to help; surprise that I had acted spontaneously rather than spinning in my habitual indecision; worry that perhaps I had caused further injury by acting too brashly. I cried as I drove home. Photograph by Yana Murphy

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Danger, Fear and Money

“J

ames” had a retirement account and used a “casually aggressive” investment philosophy. He only reviewed his investments every year or so and when he did, he chose a diverse set of investments that had high long-term growth potential. After a while, James’ return was well above average. For several months James had a gut feeling that the market was going to take a dive. He decided to sell all of his investments and let the cash sit in low-return money market investments. Within a month the market declined sharply. Soon afterwards he sensed that the market had recovered so he reinvested his money back into high-risk investments. That year James’ return was triple the average. James started to brag about his return. He spent more time thinking about his investments and buying and selling more frequently—often several times a month. His return started to drop. Then he lost a lot of money. James stopped trading so frequently, reverted to his earlier “buy and hold” strategy and his returns improved. Five Element Chinese Medicine teaches us that each element is uniquely important and indispensable. Imbalance within any element can do great harm. But after hearing so many stories like James’, I am tempted to view the water element as the most important one when it comes to money. On the one hand, I know this is false. On the other, water seems to have particular dominion in the realm of money. At one moment it can bring prosperity and in the next, ﬁnancial ruin. The water element is all about our relationship with danger. Can we detect danger and then listen to what it is telling us? Can we ﬁnd an appropriate response to danger: should we run from it, avoid it, confront it, work with it or be still with it? From a water perspective, James’ early investment

The water element is all about our relationship with danger.

Getting Right with Money Mark Blessington

strategies succeeded because he had a good relationship with danger. He sat comfortably with his investment risks and let the market take its course. He trusted that the market would eventually reward the risks he took. James’ quiet investing approach allowed him to sense market danger. By ignoring the short-term ups and downs of specific investments, his intuition was open to sense the economy’s overall potency. Then, when his intuition told him the market was faltering, he followed his guidance and found safe harbor. James was maintaining a healthy relationship with market danger and thus kept his water element in balance. James lost his balanced relationship with danger when he started thinking he could assert his will over the market and conquer market danger. He came to think his specific investment choices were more important than listening quietly to the market and following its lead. Driven by a false sense of power and expertise, James launched into frequent investing activity. This cut him off from his biggest asset: an intuitive sense of the market’s power and where it was going. In Chinese Medicine, the emotion associated with water is fear. Fear is a natural response to danger. Dangerous forces can help or harm us and fear is a mechanism for sensing and relating to danger. From a money perspective, appropriate fear helps us correctly identify financial risk, which is a primary force in the economy: investment risk drives investment return (e.g., low risk, low return; high risk, high return). At first James appropriately feared the consequences of frequent investment activity: it would undermine his longterm investment strategy and destroy his intuitive sense of where the overall market was going. Then James’ fears became inappropriate. He incorrectly feared he would lose his money if he did not become an active investor. This is one of the most common investor mistakes and it plagues old and new investor alike. “Maggie” was engaged. Her fiancé earned more money than she did, but he had a fair amount of debt. He never had trouble paying the interest, but Maggie still wondered if she should get a prenuptial agreement. She had heard horror

Getting Right with Money

stories about women who had married into debt. In one case the husband had left, defaulted on his debt and the ex-wife had been forced to assume the payments. Maggie did not want this to happen to her. Maggie had also inherited some money recently. It was more than she had ever had “free and clear” before. On the one hand, she wanted to fix up her house before they moved in as a couple. On the other, she wanted to put the money away and keep it safe. When she asked her fiancé what he thought she should do, he did not offer any opinions and said he would support whatever decision she made. Maggie’s emerging financial relationship with her fiancé was pleasing to her. He treated his money as her money and spent it freely on both of them. She did the same. They planned on opening joint banking accounts. He was relaxed about money. He did not withhold financial information and freely described his investment portfolio with her. While he was considerably more comfortable with risk than Maggie, his investments were not unreasonable and he was a successful investor. In Chinese Medicine, the five elements limit each other: wood limits earth, fire limits metal, earth limits water, metal limits wood and water limits fire. In Maggie’s situation, a water imbalance—fear of her fiancé’s debt—was threatening to limit her fire, or the new flame of love and financial intimacy with her fiancé. All close relationships involve financial risk. Appropriate fear is required to detect it. Yes, her fiancé’s debt was a risk, but so was the possibility of dousing their fire with a prenuptial. Yes, her fiancé might favor a riskier approach to the inheritance than Maggie, but avoiding a joint decision on how to use the inheritance could set a bad precedent for the future. Maggie’s challenge was to respond appropriately to financial risks. She could explore their ability to pay interest if their income dropped or compare the current value of their assets to their debts. These responses have the potential of deepening their financial intimacy, while a prenuptial or not discussing the inheritance have the potential of stifling it. “Sandra” managed her family’s finances. Her husband worked long hours and traveled constantly during the week; this way he could focus on her and the kids during the weekend. Their finances were complicated and included investments, credit cards, mortgages, loans, taxes, etc. Sandra kept everything running smoothly but they never seemed to save any money; every paycheck was spent before it arrived. Occasionally Sandra and her husband fought about money. He complained she let the family spend too much. She retorted that she always reviewed their major expenditures before making them. He would point to expenditures he

always objected to, such as numerous life, disability and health insurance policies. She would remind him that she had given up her career to stay at home for the kids and that she could no longer replace his earnings if he died. Such conflicts never seemed to be resolved. Later, Sandra could see that it was time for her husband to retire; constant travel and life in the corporate jungle had taken a heavy toll on him and his health was suffering. Radical cuts in spending were required. Sandra slashed their expenditures by half the first year and another half the next. The experience was both energizing and painful. Having fewer bills was a relief but she often felt deeply unsettled. Why might Sandra feel unsettled after cutting expenditures? What need was no longer being satisfied by the act of spending? One possibility is that over-spending helped Sandra feel loved. So, when spending levels were cut, Sandra felt less love. This widespread Western phenomenon was discussed several articles ago. Another possibility involves the water element. Chinese Medicine tells us that fear cries out for reassurance. In Western society, reassurance is often provided financially. The formula we learn is this: ease your fears by spending money. Buy an insurance policy if you fear your spouse’s death or a home security system if you fear crime. Fear is a powerful driver of consumerism. Financial predators know this all too well and make fear their business ally. If someone has deeply rooted fears, they can end up with an unquenchable drive to spend money. Material possessions can’t address deep fears, insurance policies can’t eliminate a deep fear of a spouse’s death and security systems can’t address a deep fear of crime. Instead, fear-based expenditures provide a small sense of relief, suggesting that additional expenditures will deliver greater relief, thus launching vicious expenditure cycles. Deep fears are only assuaged through Divine relationships. No amount of human reassurance can relieve a deep fear. If financial difficulties stem from deep fears, the solution is Divine love. Sometimes the gods use financial pain to deepen our relationships with them, so the best approach is to accept the pain as a blessing and learn from it. Even though Divine gifts can come in initially painful packages, the alternative of not listening to what Divine is telling you is much worse. I say this from personal experience and from what I see over and over again with my clients. Oh, and one last thing: I am “James” and “Sandra” is my wife, Cindy. Formerly a consultant to large corporations, Mark Blessington currently counsels individuals and small businesses on how to get right with money. www.gettingrightwithmoney.com.

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A Clod of Mud Science reduces everything to its constituent parts. In so doing it strips away the stories of things, rendering them essentially lifeless. In contrast, the ancestral traditions hold that everything has a story. Everything is alive. Take, for instance, this clod of mud. It has ancestry, born from the dust from many stones pushed up into hills from the sea and from the compost of cedar, maple and pine, various grasses, ferns and weeds, with some animal dander and bones. All this was brought together by the wind and mixed by millennia of rain.

Photograph by Jonathan Merritt

The clod was formed when my three-year-old son scooped it from a patch of mud in our yard. It ﬂew when he hurled it against the garage door. Some of it stuck and some fell to the concrete. When it dries, I’ll sweep up the fallen chunks. But the spattered part will remain until a hard rain from the north washes it off. This is not a story about ancient stones or cedars or weeds or the animals that walked on this land. It’s not even a story about my son. It’s the story of a simple clod of mud that took shape on a rainy summer day. It has a presence in the world for a given period of time, before time and the elements break it down and it returns, like all of us, to the ground.

9 �� 9 9 2007 Interspiritual Conference DVD’s . . . . . . . 63 9 Blue Deer Center . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Back Cover 9 Chumash Lineage Ceremonies . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 9 Coaching with Prema Sheerin . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 9 Fire-Inspired Blankets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 9 Herbal Allies Inc. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 9 Indigenous African Spirit Technologies . . . . . . . 62 9 Inner Traditions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 9 Lifeways Programs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 9 Multi-Pure Water Filtration. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

9 On Fire Glassworks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 9 Plant Spirit Medicine by Eliot Cowan . . . . . . . . . . 59 9 Rivertime Cabin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 9 Sacred Fire Community Fire Circles . . . . . . . . . 57 9 Sacred Fire Community Store . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 9 Sacred Fire Magazine Back Issues. . . . . . . . . . . . 59 9 Sacred Fire Publishing Fund . . . Inside Back Cover 9 Source Books . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 9 Staub Leadership Solutions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 9 Wild Spirit Wolf Sanctuary. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

The Modern Voice of Ancient Tradition Sacred Fire magazine is a doorway to the ancient, authentic wisdom that lives in every heart. It challenges modern assumptions and opens the possibility of living everyday life connected with divine. Recognizing that all spiritual traditions share a common essence, Sacred Fire invites us all to come together and share our stories around the universal wisdom and healing spirit of the ﬁre. Get Connected! Come explore the mysteries, challenges and miracles of living a heart-connected, spiritual life.

Feel the warmth! 4 issues–only $27.80! www.sacredﬁremagazine.com 56

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�� 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, and Europe. For a full listing, visit www.sacredfirecommunity.org

Are you longing for a sense of community? 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!

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

Westford

Massachusetts

ﬁre circle invites you to join us at our monthly ﬁres. Come share a song, a joke and your open heart.

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THE FIRE CIRCLE OF SANTA MONICA INVITES YOU TO FIND WARMTH AND CONNECTION AROUND OUR MONTHLY FIRES. Contact us: Alan Kerner Santa Monica, California kerners@aol.com 310-452-0658

Come Home to Your Heart THE COMMUNITY FIRE CIRCLE IN SANTA CRUZ, CALIFORNIA invites you to join us at our monthly fires. Come be with the fire, the ocean, and each other. For more information, contact: Peter and Sharon Brown 831-252-5530 p2b48@yahoo.com

THE BROOKFIELD MASSACHUSETTS FIRE CIRCLE invites you to join us to share the warmth at our monthly community fires. Contact us: Tim Simon and Gwen Broz at timgwen@charter.net or 508-867-9810 for dates and times of upcoming fire circles.

“Fire moves you to a different place”

COMMUNITY FIRE CIRCLES OF TENNESSEE, GEORGIA & SOUTH CAROLINA invite you

Come, Join Us Around the Fire! • stir ancient connections with the natural world • share our hearts and lives • deepen our spiritual connections For more information, please contact: Steve Skinner, Summertown, Tennessee 931-964-2452 stvskin@bellsouth.net Sherry Boatright, Carrollton, Georgia 770-854-5551 sherryboat@bellsouth.net. Annie King, Florence, South Carolina 843-665-1340 annieking@sc.rr.com

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�� back issues—while they last! Issue #1 - our premiere issue Leon and Maria in the Altai by Bill Pfeiffer Nothing is Ever Lost by Stephanie Thomas Berry No Garbage Karma Here by Dr. James Reiley Divine Right Order by Jennie Marlow

Issue #2 Transformation by Fire: A Talk with David Wiley A Steelhead Comes by T.E. Merritt Love Beyond Words by Carla Leftwich Wisdom of Winter: Light of Fire by Andrew Cox Issue #3 The Tao that Can be Spoken: A Talk with Ken Cohen The Universe Knows a Smart Aleck by Gina Knudson Animals in Wartime: A Story by Matiop Wal Shamanic Reﬂection on Water by Malidoma Somé Issue #4 The Lost People by Thom Hartmann Born to the Medicine: A Talk with Eneke-Alish Huaute The Path of Ancestral Wisdom by Dr. Lewis Mehl-Madrona The Lightness of Letting Go by Brandon Bays Plus regular columns on Getting Right with Money, Divine Nourishment, Reconnecting with the Earth, and more…

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widow of Grandfather Semu Huaute and keeper of his medicine, offers traditional ceremonies to bless and heal.

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Serving since 1993

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Malidoma Presents ongoing Programs and Workshops on

Indigenous African Spirit Technologies Including: A Two-Year Intensive Journey Into the healing wisdom of the Dagara People of West Africa. Facilitated by Malidoma SomĂŠ, Ph.D., in Oregon, New York, & North Carolina New groups forming annually

Malidoma SomĂŠ: Author, Elder and Shaman

for more information, write to info@malidoma.com call 541-683-6028 or visit www.malidoma.com Ask about Personal Divinations and Personal Intensives www.malidoma.com 62

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ON THE ROAD TO THE SACRED 2007 Interspiritual Conference ...An audio experience on DVD

Almost 20 hours of MP3 recordings on 1 disc

Geshe Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche Tasnim Fernandez Lei’ohu Ryder Shyamdas Eliot Cowan David Wiley Richard Reoch Colin Campbell Chief Oren Lyons Malidoma Somé, PhD.

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it’s what you need Buy online at the Sacred Fire Community Store www.sacredﬁrecommunity.org

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f you went into the market in the Canyon Village and bought tomatoes from the most wrinkled woman you saw, rather than from a smoother girl, you’d probably learn the story of how these tomatoes came from her grandfather. How having been the chief initiator long, long ago, he had received the seeds as a gift from a strange tall Indian from an unknown tribe and village who’d come wandering through one day and then disappeared. When this ex-chief, reduced to poverty by his ceremonial service, had planted the seeds, tomato plants came up and ﬂourished in such a way as had never been seen before. The plants never really died and the tomatoes grew so thick and constant that this old woman’s grandfather recuperated his losses within the year. Other people tried to grow the tomatoes but no one ever succeeded. The old man was the only one the Tomato Goddess graced with abundance from these seeds. When you bought these tomatoes you were participating in his story. Every person and product in the village had a face behind it, and the stories about their existence and their continued struggle to exist were common knowledge. Even the basket in which the tomatoes were stacked was made by a Tzutujil Indian lady from farther around the lake who had… and so on. When dinner was prepared, every ounce of it had an ancestry and origination point of which the diners were conscious. When we had such a meal, as we did every day, we took these stories into our bellies. We became part of them by eating.

—MARTÍN PRECHTEL

Worth the Trip! Plant Spirit Medicine vRitual, Retreat, Ceremony vWisdom Teachers from Ancestral Traditionsv

The Blue Deer Center provides an important setting for teachings and practices that promote balanced relationship with the natural world. We particularly welcome ancestral approaches to healing, ritual, and retreat. The Center's origins are rooted in the Huichol shamanic tradition and our connection to the universal and sacred spirit of Fire.

BLUE DEER

CENTER

Call or visit us online at www.bluedeer.org for upcoming programs and events. P.O. Box 905 v 1155 County Route 6 v Margaretville, NY 12455 v 845.586.3225 v info@bluedeer.org v www.bluedeer.org