I woke to a symphony of songbirds performing outside my bedroom wall.  When I looked through the window, the sky was clear blue.  Across the street is a forest preserve that welcomes me onto its shady pathways whenever I choose to enter.  A canopy of mature hardwoods arches over a woodsy wonderland.  The trail ends at a meadow bursting with color. Daisies, black-eyed susans, queen anne’s lace.  I can name so few of the many flowers gracing the hilltop shimmering in the sunshine.  All this and more inspired a spontaneous Facebook post about being joyful.  And then I saw the news - another video on the situation in the Gulf of Mexico.

       Crude oil is pouring into once blue waters.  Corporate greed coupled with consumer ignorance created a catastrophe.  People’s livelihoods, living conditions and lifestyles have been laid waste.   Animals drenched in oil are dying.  An entire ecosystem is failing.  Fingers are being pointed.  People are angry.  People are sad.  Rightfully so.

       Are you standing with the outraged? It is solid ground for who advocates the right of an international corporation to disregard basic standards of safety in order to maximize profits?  I refuse to join the camp calling for consumers to claim their culpability.  I want safe bike paths and public buses that run on time.  I didn’t sign up for this mess. Yet, I am surely mourning it.  Sometimes I think collectively we’ve been sleeping.  Living not fully awake seems to be the only logical explanation for behaving as though there's no need to revere our earthly home.

      Lately though, I confess I've dreaming.  In my dreams I imagine a master plan formed from a picture much larger than I can see.  I am at most a fleck of light in this infinite tapestry.  Yet, if I claim that speck of cosmic energy as mine and become angry or upset, have negative feelings or emotional eruptions, am I adding dark spaces to a colorful picture?  Would my contribution to the master plan (whether perceived as a perfect picture or a stunning symphony) be off color or out of tune with the harmony being created on the other side?

      The other side of what, some readers may wonder.  And I’d answer with a smile as I try to explain how I believe that this physical world we’re living in is only our imaginary home.  The real world is an invisible arena.  It’s the eternal reality, the one waiting for us when we leave this classroom called life.  Some call it heaven.  The fate of the earth is determined there.  In my imagination I hold onto an image of a more perfect reality that could be created here.  It will reflect the beauty, peace, compassion and love of the other side. If we’re living through the cacophony of individual musicians tuning up in preparation for the great concerto, have faith that they will produce a masterpiece.  Have faith that all is not lost.  Know better times are coming like you know the noise before the symphony is preparation for the well-rehearsed performance.  Know this and take a walk in the woods. 

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I WAS HAPPY TO BE A GUEST ON THE CARRBORO BOOK BEAT CHATTING WITH AUDREY LAYDEN AND PAUL NAGY WCOM  103.5.

YOUR CHOSEN STORY

 

In Transformations of Myth Through Time, Joseph Campbell writes about his idam – his chosen deity.  He says the deity itself has no existence.  It is simply a picture to put in your mind.  It achieves life if you make it your deity.  Then it becomes the guide of your life.  His personal idam was Pancaksara the deity of reading and scripture.  He said he choose it because he’d learned everything he knew from reading.

 

After I read about this deity I thought I should adopt it too.  Because, as I mentioned earlier, I love finding a good book with a story that’s going to teach me a bit more about human nature.  But the image I saw of this deity “coming to illumination through reading scriptures” didn’t speak to me. And then I remembered why.

 

Years ago, I went to see a buffalo that had been born white.  In the Native American tradition, a White Buffalo is considered sacred.  There is a legend, the Legend of the White Buffalo Calf Woman, that explains why this is so.

 

The buffalo I went to see had been born on a farm in Janesville, Wisconsin.  Her owners were very gracious.  Even though they didn’t understand the reason for Her sacred stature, they let visitors come and see Her.  Many of their guests prayed to Her.  They left offerings.  They cried when they saw Her.  Then they claimed that their lives changed after seeing Her.  They knew they felt changed by seeing Her.

 

What was She all about?  Part of the Great Mystery, I’m sure.  Because it’s a mystery, it’s probably best not to try to explain it.  Just enjoy the stories.  Enjoy the magic.  And so I did.  For many years I went back to the farm to see Her.  Even after she died, I went back to the farm to remember how wonderful seeing Her there had been.

 

Once when I was there, I started thinking about all the books I’d read and how hard I’d worked to get an education that would bring me my personal version of the American Dream.  I hadn’t found fulfillment in the part of the dream I was living.  I was longing for something I couldn’t name.  But I knew intuitively that it had something to do with putting the books aside and getting out into nature.  Hiking, biking, canoeing -- doing the things I used to do before I started my quest for the big job in the big city.

 

And so I left the big job in the city and headed for the hills.  Literally.

I know there is wisdom to be found in nature.  In the birdsong or the whistle of the wind through the woods.  I guess by Joseph Campbell’s definition Miracle, the White Buffalo would be my Idam – except Miracle, the sacred White Buffalo I saw, really did exist.  Doesn’t that make Her an even bigger mystery?

 

It’s almost springtime.  I’m going outside to learn.

FINDING YOUR STORY

I reached into the open bookcase. I couldn’t read the title on the binding, but I could see the particular book I wanted.  I pulled it off the shelf and laid it in the crook of my arm.  It was Joseph Campbell's Transformations of Myth Through Time.  I hadn’t gotten further than the first page before I found this gem:  "Getting into harmony and tune with the universe and staying there is the principal function of mythology."  At last, a simple explanation for my fascination with myths and legends.

Being out of “harmony and tune with the universe” is not a pleasant feeling.  It’s when your life seems to be running you and you find yourself making decisions based on what you think you should do.  It’s when the concept of believing in yourself and knowing what you were meant to do has not yet risen within you.  It’s when religion doesn’t work and faith isn’t happening and nothing, absolutely nothing, in life makes any sense. 

At such a point in my life, I was grateful to find a story that pulled me out of that funk. Who hasn’t been comforted by a good story?  The one I was thankful to come across is the Legend of the White Buffalo Calf Woman.  I read it after I went to visit a buffalo that had been born white.  A White Buffalo is a sacred symbol to Native American people.  Knowing the Legend makes it possible to understand why Native people consider the animal holy.  I wasn’t raised in the Native American tradition; yet this story spoke to me like none other. 

In Native American belief, the birth of a White Buffalo symbolizes a time for unity among races. For individuals it’s a call to reconnect with traditional faith practices.   Reading the legend, I was reminded of my love for the earth and the role I had to play in society.  And reading Campbell’s work leads me to greater understanding of the role stories have played for people in all societies.  He does much more than tell good stories, he calls to mind the reasons we’re going to agree what the best ones are.  A classic will move us as individuals when it emphasizes elements all of us --members of the world society -- have in common.

I hadn’t planned on book shopping the day I and a couple of friends rode out to the Light Center in Black Mountain, North Carolina.  We were going to the meditation dome before going out for lunch.  On the way upstairs, I stopped by the bookcase and pulled open the glass door. And there it was nestled between dozens of others – just the read I needed to find.

Anyone else have a story about finding a good story at just the right time?

The first news of the day was tough to take.  Tragedy has once again come to the impoverished nation of Haiti.  By now everyone following the news knows it is the poorest country in the western hemisphere and that 80% of its people live in poverty.

What might not be remembered are the news reports from 2008 when the Haitian people were making cookies with dirt and oil and water.  As food prices around the world began to rise, those were the only ingredients some caregivers could obtain to mix up and feed their children.

In the spring of 2000 I  visited Haiti and witnessed living conditions beyond the imagination of most Americans.  Aside from the natural beauty of the Caribbean nation, the inspiring thing about being there was the warmth and friendliness of the Haitian people despite their daily shortages of food and water.  

The tiny nation has a history of revolution and rebellion making it also one of the most politically unstable nations in the world.  That, of course, contributes to its material poverty; but also speaks of the spiritual strength of a nation whose people will continue to fight for their collective rights.

In Reflections on a Haitian Pilgrimage I wrote about the difficulty I was having coming to terms with the disparities of this world.  As tears filled my eyes watching the news this morning, my mind raced to come up with an explanation for the seemingly unending suffering of the Haitian people.  I realize it may seem absurd to be looking for a silver lining in this dark cloud of catastrophe, but in taking this approach I am finding hope that Haiti will receive the humanitarian aid it has long-suffered a need for. 

I moved into my apartment 8 years ago.  A renter once again, I decided I would not plant a garden.  It would be silly to spend time, energy and money making things grow in the yard when I'd be moving again - soon.  I'd just left a home where I'd spent thousands of hours and hundreds of dollars creating several lovely gardens. Then I sold it all. I knew I would never put that much effort into something I'd have to leave behind again.  After all, I'd only be there a short while.

That short while flew by.  Each year I fell more in love with the quiet, peaceful neighborhood.  I took long walks admiring other people's gardens. I had no desire to move.  And after eight years passed,  I couldn't resist putting in a few fall bulbs in anticipation of a colorful spring.  I learned then what many people already know:  plant a garden wherever you go. You never know how long you'll stay and if you have to leave someone else will enjoy the flowers.  Next time I won't waste time thinking there will be a better time or place to plant a garden.

Such a beautiful day outside and in.  Sun is shining which makes me want to take a walk before lunch.
Also, the joy I am feeling inside is giving me cause to celebrate.  Sandra Ingerman writes about transmutation; but I'm feeling an inner transformation.  It's as simple as feeling my strength returning; as complex as the concepts of soul retrieval she writes about and I study.

I'm reading one of Sandra's books, "How to Heal Toxic Thoughts."  It's helping me remember who we all are and how to love.

I read a story once.  The main character had been raised with the stories of her ancestors.  As a child she listened to them.  In early adulthood she recited them.  She knew facts about the life of her mother's mother's mother.  She knew who she was because she knew who she came from.  Knowledge of the hopes, dreams, aspirations and accomplishments of the woman who preceded her presence on earth gave her strength, courage, self-awareness.

Awareness of my ancestors, family ties and the realization of what branch of the family tree I'd sprouted from wasn't something I grew up with.  We  moved a lot.  My last name changed. Ties were cut.  On purpose.

Today I started by writing names across the top of a blank sheet of paper.  Drawing lines for descendants. Making connections as though those actions will solve the mystery.

Went to a writers' workshop yesterday.  Anne Chisled Barnhill gave a wonderful presentation about the strength of  the memoir as a tool for personal and social transformation.

She led the group into a writing exercise without knowing that one member of her audience (me) had for several years refused to let her muse be tested by such a technique. 

Yesterday I surrendered and took up the challenge to imagine myself at 8 or 9 entering a favorite room in my house.

"After dinner I loved to escape to a small sitting room off my parent's bedroom.  There was a large overstuffed chair in there with a floor lamp alongside.  I was slender and shorter then and my whole body fit snugly into the seat of that chair.

Mom and my brother and sisters would head upstairs to the t.v. room and I would be left in peace and welcome silence to open my book and enter into the world of the story I was reading.

There was nothing wrong with the world I was living in.  The house was large and homey.  My reading room had a battered wooden dresser that held extra linens.  A gray blue rug covered the floor.  A trunk with a rounded top sat nearby and sometimes when I needed a rest from reading I would study the scroll work on it and admire the intricate carvings some careful woodworker had chiseled long ago."

I went to a spot by the river where I could sit and write and listen to the water rushing over the rocks.  It made a sweet sound.  Not the roar of Niagara but the hum of a steady flow that when I struggle to describe it just reminds me of the sacred om.

I leaned back on the bench some loving soul had set on high ground above where the river makes a bend.  The force of its movement washed away earth and rock and left sandy beach below my feet.  It was too chilly to go wading.

The day before had been sunny and hot with not a cloud in the sky. I had chores and errands to run then.  In the middle of them I promised myself I would go to this place far from town and breathe in the smell of woods and water.  I would have a day of rest in this beautiful spot; but by the time I got there the weather had turned.  It was damp and cold.  The view at the river's bend was beautiful.  Rock cliffs protect both sides of the valley the river formed through the ages.  But it was hard to enjoy because I sat wondering how long it would be before the clouds burst open soaking me to my skin before I made the walk back to my car.

I'd been at that same bend in the river on blistering hot days.  I had walked into the water.  Sat in a tube and floated the current downstream.  The mountain spring water was warmer then.

I'd come back in early fall.  The leaves had not brightened into their full seasonal glory.  Even if they had, I knew I'd be thinking about when I'd been there in the spring and had seen the dogwoods displaying their delicate pink and sacred white blooms among the early green dotting the ridge tops.

I watched the water flow past me.  It reminded me of that morning's Sunday service.  Nothing is permanent.  There is always movement.  Change.  An eddy here or there may give the appearance of stillness and rest.  But don't be fooled.  Underneath the seeming stillness there is movement and the sometimes stagnant water will work its way back into the mainstream when its time.