A Middle-Eastern Pilgrimage: Being a Welcomed Guest in the Homes of the "Enemy"

Last fall, I went on an extended pilgrimage to Turkey, Syria, Palestine, and Israel. As a fairly new Mevlevi Sufi (Whirling Dervish), I had the marvelous opportunity of visiting Esin Celebi, the 22nd generation great grand-daughter of Jelaluddin Rumi, the poet now famous in America as his poetry (written in the 13th century) is translated into English. Then I went to Syria on an Interfaith Peace Pilgrimage with others interested in positive interaction among various faiths in the Middle East. Following three more weeks on my own in Syria, I traveled by land to Israel where I joined about 100 women, mostly over 50 and primarily from Europe, Canada, and the USA, who were part of an International Human Rights March of Women.

Our women's group traveled between Israel and the Occupied Territories/Palestine, meeting people on both sides of the on-going battle for homeland and security. We listened to the stories of a diversity of people as we were hosted, fed, housed, and educated to "the truth"--as they each perceived it. We tried to understand the rationale for the actions that are taking place on both sides and see if there were things that any of us could do to promote peace in the Middle East. We marched and held vigils on both sides, to stand for the idea that killing from either side is not likely to bring anyone closer to peace and security--a fact that seems to be increasingly obvious, day by day, as the killings intensify in recent weeks.

Wherever I went, Muslims asked why I was not afraid to be in their presence. My hosts were acutely aware that they are typically depicted by the US media as terrorists and seen as "the enemy." They were very appreciative that I would "risk" coming into their reality to learn first-hand what was really going on! On my side, I was amazed that they would graciously welcome me into their lives, even though they were being impacted each day in negative ways by the policies of the current administration of my country. And yet they understood that the fact that "my" government was making decisions that adversely affected them did not mean that I necessarily supported those actions, nor feared and hated them as people! Besides, there is an ancient desert tradition--which pervades the culture even to this day--of inviting even your "enemy" into your tent under your protection for food, water, shelter, and warmth. I felt welcomed with a generosity and hospitality rarely seen in our wealthy country.

In truth, I learned a great deal about many facets of this complex story that would take decades to understand at their deepest levels, and now I am motivated to read and study to try to make sense of it all within the context of my own experience. Clearly, reading and trying to visualize something that I have not yet experienced is quite different from the reality of seeing, hearing, tasting, and generally walking in the footsteps of another on their own home turf (or sand and rocks, as the case might be!).

Of course, I still will never really be able to put myself in the mind and body of a Turkish grandmother going to visit Rumi's tomb for the first time, or a Bedouin selling dates in the streets of Palmyra, or the 93-year-old Grand Mufti of Damascus who sees the US as exporting the western consumer mind to his people. I won't be able to really understand the despair and frustration of the 105-year-old Palestinian man who has held tight to the old-fashioned metal key to the home he owns in Israel--which he hasn't been allowed to see for the last 55 years! And I can't "grok" the fear and hatred of Israeli Settlers who believe that they have the God-given right and responsibility (as stated in the Holy Book) to make sure that all of the disputed land belongs to them--or of the secular Israeli who argues that the Palestinian people don't really exist as a nation and therefore have no rights to the land! And it still seems irrational to me to think that terrorist bombings will bring positive world attention to the suffering of the Palestinian people. After only a brief glimpse into the lives of these people--but with a deep connection between our hearts--I have returned to soul-search, ponder, dream, and discuss what I saw, as a way of working out my own appropriate relationship/responsibility to my new friends and their situation.

I did learn how much land, the spirit of place, religious beliefs, and age-old (and fairly modern) history have to do with the struggles taking place in the areas I visited. In Istanbul, which is a big and modern city, there seemed to be a great striving to show their European-style sophistication, with women wearing unbelievably long and narrow-pointed dress boots, revealing mini-skirts and see-through tops. The wearing of scarves by women has been outlawed in the university and at certain jobs (as well as at the official 80th Birthday party for the country, which was happening on the day I arrived). This is all to show the EU nations how "westernized" the Turks have become, so that they will be admitted into the big new club of European Nations!

However, on my 14-hour overnight train trip to Konya in the Anatolia region of Turkey, I was able to get glimpses of the farming peoples and their lifestyles--which were quite a number of centuries apart from their counterparts in Istanbul. In the farming villages, the women still wear the baggy pants made from many yards of patterned cotton, padded vests, and head-scarves--all of which were quite sensible for the frosted winter mornings, when the sky was filled with steam coming off of the sugar-beet harvesting factories. The men wore equally serviceable home-made clothing that kept them warm while herding flocks of sheep and goats through fields and villages, looking for available grass and water. I was, however, surprised and pleased to see that many of both the old and new houses had water storage tanks on their roofs and a set of solar panels to heat the water when the sun decided to shine! So, some things remain the same over the centuries, while others are up-to-date with modern conveniences and styles.

One of the special opportunities I had for the full month of Ramadan (Ramazan in Turkey) was to join in the breaking of the daily fast, with the ceremonial meal called "iftar." Besides its religious significance, celebrating iftar is a wonderful way to feel the deep bonds of community that hold families and friends together. My understanding is that during Ramazan, each family invites family and friends into their home to break the fast, pray, and reconnect with the relatives from near and far, while special dishes are prepared and eaten by all. Truly, breaking the fast with an iftar meal is a lovely ritual to be involved in--whether you are a devout Muslim, love delicious food, or just want to observe the family dynamics!

Throughout Ramazan, I was invited to iftar celebrations in a variety of venues. These included a humble apartment, with not an inch of extra space for the scores of family and friends, and an ostentatious, multi-storied "estate home" looking out onto the banks of the Bosphorus with leather divans and golden urns depicting the glories of past wealth. We were invited to the Hilton Hotel with a thousand noted personalities of Turkey, including movie stars, famous opera singers, and poets, as special guests of the wife of the Mayor of Istanbul. I dubbed this occasion, with its seven-course meal, "The Mayor's Ball." One evening, my hostess Esin Celebi and I had a nearly-private iftar as guests of a friend who sang Sufi illahis (love songs) to us in a vast vaulted underground water cistern left from Roman times and now made into a swanky tourist restaurant.

In Syria, our Interfaith Peace Pilgrimage group was invited to iftar at the mosque of the Grand Mufti (head of the Muslim faith in Damascus), where 1000 orphaned or poor children were being fed each evening of Ramadan. We had iftar in the gorgeous mosque and shrine of Lady Roqai'ya, the four-year-old daughter of Imam Al-Hussain, the grandson of Prophet Muhammad, who fell dead when her father's severed head was dropped in her lap after a particularly grisly massacre in early Muslim history. (The commemoration of this atrocity was recently marked by the deaths of hundreds of Shiite Muslims in Iraq.)

And I celebrated many nights of iftar in the Bedouin tent, and indoor spaces heated by a simple kerosene stove up on the mountain of the 6th century Christian monastery called Deir Mar Musa north of Damascus. There we had a simple fare of olives, homemade goat cheese and yogurt, dates, tomatoes, mixed spices and olive oil all dipped out of communal dishes with the ever-present pita bread. Later, after saying the Christian prayers and mass (in Arabic), and singing songs from various cultures, we shared another meal with these same dishes. Sometimes we also had a soup made of a newly-butchered chicken, or a mixture of vegetables, or perhaps the head of a goat, as well as cookies, halvah, or a homemade treat made in the little kitchen.

Most days, we were joined by pilgrims who had walked the hundreds of steps up the mountain to spend one or more nights in this amazing community where all visitors were honored, fed, and housed (without charge) regardless of their religious beliefs and practices--or lack thereof! This Roman Catholic monastery had ancient stone, castle-like quarters, where life was not too different from what it might have been in centuries past. Nevertheless, we shared wonderful dialogues, personal questionings of our various religious traditions and faiths as well as late-night discussions about politics, activism, and the environmental impacts of over-grazing the desert. Definitely, community was alive and well at Deir Mar Musa, and it attracted pilgrims from around the world and from nearby Muslim and Aramaic Christian villages who were fascinated by their bold attempt to create an opening for cooperative Christian-Muslim dialogue.

In the monastery, life was shaped by the sense of place and history. I had the magic experience of taking my bedding into the unadorned cave which had originally been inhabited by the legendary black Prince of Ethiopia, later named St. Moses the Abyssinian, who had turned his back on riches and power to become a monk several centuries after Christ. The walls of the ancient church had frescoes from the 11th century lit by candlelight and we sat on rugs and pillows on the floor during our services.

From the rooftop patio we overlooked a vast desert valley, which had served as a caravan route for centuries, with camels slowly traversing well below us carrying goods and people from faraway and exotic locations to the souk (the marketplace) in Damascus. Even today, one can find every sort of luxury item from those times including fine silks, gold jewelry, perfume, beads, birds in cages and fish in bowls, spices, hubbly-bubbly water pipes, chocolates, fruit, inlaid wooden furniture, ceramic pots from China, sheepskin-lined Sheik's cloaks, scarves, belly-dancing outfits, and even an ice cream shop within the miles of covered stands and stalls.

After most of our Pilgrimage group had left Damascus, another member, Laurie, and I took a bus on the road toward the Iraqi border and headed for Palmyra, one of the world's greatest Roman ruins. We traveled on the day of Eid (the ending of the month of Ramadan) along with soldiers, men, boys, and a few women and babies. After several hours of unseasonable rain, we were dropped at an eating place/bus stop outside of town, just as it was getting dark and the final iftar meal was about to be served. We got a cab into town, which was totally dark and appeared completely uninhabited. It was very eerie, and even the hotels were abandoned as families went within their dark walls to be together.

Finally, after a few tries, we were able to find an old hotel, with a nine-year-old boy tending the business, while the rest of his family celebrated. He checked us in and pointed in the dark towards a lone restaurant that was open and served us a traditional dish for the season. We returned to the hotel and waited until we began to see lights and hear the sounds of people again moving about in the streets. We went out and visited some shopkeepers, who had decided to open in the hopes that some lone tourists would show up. For that night, we seemed to be the only Westerners in town! We went to bed and got up to explore the many acres of ruins, tombs, castles, etc. We rode camels and were taken by our hosts' cousins out several hours further into the desert to explore a castle, which pretty much had been abandoned and was crumbling back into the desert.

On the way back, we had hoped to stop by one of the hundreds of Bedouin tents, but it had already gotten dark and we couldn't see any candle-light, so we gave up that idea and stopped at a roasted-chicken shop of another relative in a little, dirty, and very muddy town along the way home. We wanted to wash our hands and use the bathroom, so we were escorted through town into the home of the shop's owner, where the whole family was celebrating Eid with the women in their best embroidered velvet dresses. We used the facilities (holes in the floor) and were ushered into the main room, where the women of the family sat and chatted. One was hooked up to IV tubes and obviously in poor condition, but they graciously invited us into their home and even wanted us to spend the night! We declined and set off on the dark, muddy roads back to Palmyra.

Upon arrival, we decided to explore the ruins at night and were assured that we would be safe. There were spotlights on some of the columns and the amphitheater and we enjoyed the crisp night air. We could hear loud music coming from somewhere in town, so with Laurie's bidding, we set off to find out who was having a party. I was feeling shy, but Laurie led the way and quickly made friends with the women who were all on one side of the street, handing out tea to everyone. Soon, they had pulled her out into an arc of men and teenage boys--presumably the eligible bachelors, who were doing a line dance in the street. We learned that they were enacting the ancient rituals of the pre-wedding night (kind of an all-community version of the bachelor party!).

I wasn't too sure that it was proper for Laurie to be dancing with the men in her dirty jeans and baseball cap, but they indicated that I should take pictures of her. I did and soon I was pulled into the dance as well, between two very high-testosterone youth who tried in vain to teach me the intricate steps, hops, and sideways movements. In the center was a dancer who held high a platter of something dark and gooey with flowers and fruit on top. This was passed around and each man or boy entertained the others with his antics.

After a while we were pushed and pulled down the street with a bunch of women, who were headed for the bride's family's home. We were shoehorned into a very crowded and hot room filled mostly with dancing women. The bride appeared and she seemed young, frail, and quite nervous. After some spirited dancing of older women relatives, the platter from the men's circle was brought in and the bride's pinkie fingers were smeared with the dark, muddy henna. Soon, Laurie and I had henna'd fingers as well!

The crowd now went back to the party outside, which had begun to die down. The groom's father with his black suit and silver pistol in his hand wanted to dance with me while chanting "Down Bush! Down Bush!" Then he asked if I was worth "more than 3000 camels" and Laurie and I thought that maybe it was time to excuse ourselves, and head back to the hotel! They begged us to sleep over and stay for the real wedding the next day at noon, but we explained that Laurie was flying out of Damascus the next evening and we needed to get the morning bus back to the city.

We had hoped for an authentic connection with real people and we felt definitely blessed to have been invited into such an intimate family ritual by perfect strangers. My henna is now almost gone from my fingernails as it has grown out over the months--so I assume that I am off the hook in regards to any proposals, marriage contracts, etc. that may have been made inadvertently in my lack of language skills and cultural understandings!

Next I went to Israel and Palestine, where we went back and forth across the checkpoints and roadblocks, getting to know perfectly wonderful people who had been taught for decades to fear and distrust one another. We spent Christmas Eve with Yasser Arafat in the "compound" surrounded by bombed-out buildings, which has become his "jail" for the last three years, since the beginning of this latest Intifada. He seemed delighted to tell us stories of the good old days, with his buddy, Yitzhak Rabin and how they would have found a way to create Peace--if only Rabin had lived! We tried in vain to get an audience with Ariel Sharon or any Jewish members of the Knesset, but they were busy with their budget and refused to accept even a letter from our delegation. We could tell that our progress was closely monitored by the Israeli army and police, and they refused to let us enter either Nablus or the Gaza Strip--because they were actively carrying out raids where Palestinians were being killed and houses were being bombed. Besides being unsafe, it would not have been good press to have pictures and first-hand reports being sent back to the 22 countries represented by our group of mostly aging peace activist types!

We did have the opportunity to meet several Israeli organizations that are actively working towards peace with members from both Jewish and Palestinian sectors of Israeli society. While in the Negev, we were hosted by a women's group, which was dedicated to learning to live and work together in peace. After dinner in an Israeli restaurant in Be'er Sheva we went to a Bedouin town where families took groups of us in for the night in their communal family homes. I was in a group of 15 internationals ranging in age from 17 to 92. Our host family was made up of two obviously loving parents and their nine daughters and six sons, plus their spouses and several young grandchildren.

One daughter in her thirties, who had chosen not to get married but to become a community organizer, was our official hostess. She had been inspired by her grandmother to break out of the traditional women's role and some of her younger sisters were planning to do the same! We were ushered into a room with lots of rolled-up mattresses, heavy blankets, homemade comforters, and pillows stacked up in pile. We arranged them so that all of us could just lie down with enough walking room to go to the bathroom without stepping on anyone's head. Some of the older and more exhausted of us went to promptly to sleep, but others stayed up and got to know the family a little. The younger sisters, still in high school, were especially excited to share stories, cosmetics, and boyfriend pictures with the youngest members of our group.

In the morning, we all went out into the sunny courtyard of this large, extended family home made of stone and met the non-human members of the family--the cow, the sheep and goats now with newborn babies, the chickens, ducks, turkeys, doves, dog, and cats. Under a covered shed, the handsome father was making morning coffee over an open fire with his wide-eyed grandson at his knee, learning from experience about the code of hospitality honored as his Bedouin ancestors have done for millennia in their tents. Clearly, this was a family proudly carrying the strengths and values of the past into their lives as they were forced to change by the circumstances of power and politics. No longer are they allowed to roam the Negev at will with their flocks. Yet, rather than becoming victims of a fate not of their making, they seem to have found a balance between the old and the new that is healthy and inspiring!

Throughout my trip, I found that each time I met and interacted with people in a personal manner, we were able to discover mutual interests, beliefs, and life dreams. I was amazed at the generosity of spirit of people who obviously had so much less than I in material terms, who offered the very best that they had to share. Their only consistent request was "Please go back and tell our story to your people and your governments. Let them know that we are not terrorists and we are not your enemy!"

This I am trying to do to the best of my ability, with as little judgment as possible and with deep prayers that one day all people everywhere will have a life that feels safe, joyful, and abundant! I invite you to join me in this prayer.

Dianne Brause co-founded Lost Valley Educational Center in 1989 and has lived there ever since, with periodic sojourns to other parts of the country and world. She writes for various journals focused on intercultural exchange, understanding, and peace, and is working on a way to make her other articles and photographs available via the internet or on a listserve; if interested, please e-mail her at [email protected] .

 

©2004 Talking Leaves
Spring/Early Summer 2004
Volume 14, Numbers 1 & 2
Person and Place: Adventures Here, There, & Everywhere

Community Membership Changes: We Lose Everyone Whose Last Name Starts with "W" or First Name Starts with "L," Lost Valley is Fo

Living long enough in intentional community can be a good way to cultivate a philosophical outlook toward life, which, with any luck, is coupled with a sense of humor. Sooner or later, we are all forced to accept the fact: shift happens. Changes are inevitable. Members decide to move on--usually not because they've stepped into something stinky and can't stand the smell, but because their personal paths take them elsewhere. In most cases, they maintain their ties with Lost Valley and often become regular visitors to their former home here. That doesn't mean that we don't, or won't, miss them.

This summer, we are losing several long-term residents. As announced last issue, the White family (Rick, Alla, Cami, Dylan, and Tess), members at Lost Valley since early 1997, will be relocating to Cottage Grove before the start of the next school year, so that Alla can be closer to her teaching job at Cottage Grove High School. In addition, Larry, who has lived and worked at Lost Valley for ten years--longer than anyone else except Dianne--has decided to move into Eugene, where his children Matt and Grace joined their mother Karin in the fall. To round out the alphabetically-themed departures, our other member whose first name starts with "L," Luna, has also decided to move to Eugene after two years at Lost Valley. The two of them expect to relocate soon.

Fortunately, the news is not all about departures. This spring we are joined by several outstanding interns (who happen to be quite enjoyable people as well): Tangela and Sam in the garden, Julia and Marissa doing cooking, childcare, and service and sacred space, and Carrie Lore coordinating the community kitchen. Several others plan to join us soon.

We also have three new exploring members. Marc Tobin has worked as an intern since last July, helping with community planning and the development of our Ecovillage and Permaculture Certificate Program. He has now entered the membership process, much to the chagrin of the mold spores which formerly inhabited his office space in the Eco-Resource Center. He plays a mean guitar.

Permaculture teacher and practitioner Rick Valley has been coming to Lost Valley every year since 1990 to teach a two-week Permaculture Design Course in December, so his involvement spans almost as great a time period as Dianne's. According to him, in fact, "They named the place after me." More recently, he's been involved as a Naka-Ima student and assistant, as well as with various projects on the land. Finally, after all these years of appearing then disappearing from our lives, Rick has been found for good, we hope, and intends to move into his namesake community by the beginning of May.

Another welcome arrival is Wolf Aulenbacher, who wore wool to February's Experience Week and, in addition to provoking the usual deluge of puns from Kim, quickly became not only part of the flock, but one of the shepherds of our business side. He brings a broad background in personal growth and transformational work along with extensive small business experience and skills. He has proposed a plan for revitalizing the conference center, and the community has happily agreed to it.

As conference coordinator, he says his first priority will be to bring a number of well-chosen new conferences to Lost Valley. "The community would like to see conferences that are within our mission and vision. Examples for this would be village building, tribal teachings, drumming, yoga, or ecstatic dancing.

"I'd like to call out to TL readers: If you know of any workshops or leaders that might fit into our conference program, please call me at 937-3351 extension 118."

 

©2004 Talking Leaves
Spring/Early Summer 2004
Volume 14, Numbers 1 & 2
Person and Place: Adventures Here, There, & Everywhere

Friends in the Neighborhood

Book and Magazine Reviews by Chris Roth

The Raccoon Next Door:
Getting Along with Urban Wildlife

by Gary Bogue
illustrations by Chuck Todd

Heyday Books, Berkeley, CA, 2003, 144 pages.

This is a personable, informative book about how to coexist peacefully with urban wildlife rather than declare "war" on them. The back-cover blurb accurately sums up the author's guiding motivation: "As humans continue to overrun their habitat, these creatures have learned to live with us; the least we can do is reciprocate." Over the course of his long career in wildlife rehabilitation and journalism, Gary Bogue has assembled a wide-ranging body of anecdotes, advice, and insights-everything from "How to Be a Good Songbird Neighbor" to how to neutralize the smell of skunk spray on household pets (no, it's not by bathing the pet in tomato sauce--this new method apparently works better). These innovative methods of peaceful coexistence also lead to appreciation of these animals with whom we humans are sharing "home turfs." In truth, I have had time so far only to skim through this book, but based on what I've seen I wouldn't hesitate to refer to it for advice about any urban (or even rural) wildlife "issue." I truly believe that we humans can do better than war-whether it's waged against one another, against plants, or against "problem animals." We need guidebooks to help us learn about practicing peace, and this is one of them.

Bummers & Gummers

Available for $10 (four issues) from PO Box 66, Yoncalla, OR 97499.

We reviewed this 'zine a few years ago, but it's worth another mention. A homespun journal of back-to-the-land eclecticism, local community-building, and downright uniqueness, it is the creation of Lokiko Hall and a collection of co-conspirators, each well-endowed with a sense of humor combined with practical eco-social consciousness. Perennially relevant columns like "Ask Milo Life" ("advice for people who want to live low in high style"), "News from Wiseacres" (describing, most recently, Benito Marconi's "Oregon Hacienda"), and "Ask Mo'Torhed" ("advice for people stuck using cars") are supplemented each issue by new columns on herbs and "Neighbors and Friends" as well as features on such things as building bike trailers, fomenting the art of fermentation, and "backing the darkest horse" (reflections on Dennis Kucinich and an admirably exhaustive transcript of his speech and question-answer session in Eugene last July). Unlike many periodicals, Bummers & Gummers is worth perusing cover-to-cover, and is definitely one of a kind. If you're very lucky, you'll find a free copy somewhere--but to be sure to get it, you'll need to subscribe.

Gaian Voices:
Earth Spirit, Earth Action, Earth Stories

Subscriptions $20, sample copies available for a small donation, from 132 Fish St., Fryeburg, ME 04037, [email protected] , 207-697-2002, www.gaianvoices.com .

Gaian Voices is a limited-edition newsletter published by Susan Meeker-Lowry (see her letter this issue). Like Bummers & Gummers, it is filled with material relevant to anyone trying to live more closely (in body and spirit) with the earth. Recent issues featured articles on such topics as "Reintegrating the Feminine," "Finding Our Way Home," "Recipes from Gaia's Garden," and "The Peace Movement and Oil." Thus far each issue has been rather slim (through printed, admirably, on virgin-tree-free paper), and its future will depend on what revenues it generates. Gaian Voices' newly established website is www.gaianvoices.com .

 

©2004 Talking Leaves
Spring/Early Summer 2004
Volume 14, Numbers 1 & 2
Person and Place: Adventures Here, There, & Everywhere

Homeward Bound: Agroecological Civilization and the Quest for a Sustainable Society A Conversation with Pramod Parajuli

To restore any place, we must also begin to re-story it; the stories will outlast us.
-Gary Paul Nabhan, Coming Home to Eat

Dr. Pramod Parajuli is an internationally renowned interdisciplinary scholar, sustainability educator, and anthropologist. A native of Nepal, he has traveled widely and done research and published prolifically on the topics of sustainability education, bio-cultural diversities, knowledge systems and environmentalism of the global South. With a research grant from the McArthur Foundation, he has established a multipurpose family farm in Chitwan, Nepal, which educates people on the possibility of peasant livelihoods.

Dr. Parajuli is part of the faculty at Portland State University (PSU), where he co-founded and also serves as the executive director of the Portland International Initiative for Leadership in Ecology, Culture and Learning (PIIECL). He serves on the boards of a PSU student-run Food for Thought Café and Oregon Tilth. Currently, he is working on a manuscript entitled Learning Sustainability: Ecological and Cultural Foundations. A sample of his writings is available at the research and publications section of PIIECL website: www.piiecl.pdx.edu.

This interview is part of a longer conversation with June Rzendzian, who is pursuing a masters' degree in "Leadership in Ecology, Culture and Learning" within PIIECL. June is involved in the Portland-area Slow Food movement and interested in sustainable agricultural issues.

JR: Where does agroecology fit in the larger context of ecological and sustainability debates?

PP: Agroecology represents one major branch within a broad movement. In a way, as we know it, environmentalism in North America has come of age. Even if we count from 1970, it is about 33 years old. The time is ripe to critically look at what has been said and done in the name of environmentalism. I identify three distinct schools of thoughts, plans of actions, and choices.

The first and perhaps the most common-sense view is that the Earth is wild and sacred so we as humans should protect it and revere it. Humans should not be around her except for times of meditation, nature walks, hiking, and contemplation. Among others, people like Henry Thoreau, John Muir, and Leo Tolstoy could be considered the "bachelors" of nature. A modern manifestation is the fascination with the idea of wilderness, parks, and sanctuaries as a form of saving and protecting nature. This has grown to be a big industry in itself. Its credo is: Nature is more pure if it is untouched by humans. So, as the logic goes, we should have fewer people and more nature. In an extremist version, this might justify killing, eliminating, and displacing people in order to save nature. There is a reason why this thinking has a strong hold. When you don't like this techno-industrial life, a natural response is that you want to run away from it and get wild.

The second view is the extreme antithesis of the first, and it could be characterized as nature as a factory: tame, subdue, and extract from nature. We have seen enough of the "hit and run" model of clear-cutting and monoculture in agriculture and forestry. This is the story of the all-too-familiar mainstream techno-industrial worldview that sees nature as an obstacle to progress and the expansion of the frontier. Ideally, in this view, nature would operate in the model of a machine--measurable, quantifiable, predictable, and thus controllable.

The Earth as a household, or an agroecological worldview, is the third way of thinking. It is most often misunderstood, and less talked about. Poet Gary Snyder eloquently represents this view when he suggests: find a place, dig in, and stay put. This view carves the middle path between the other two views by overcoming the projection of culture and nature as binary opposites in the techno-industrial mindset. In this third school of thought, the agroecological householder can be considered as a housewife or a husband of land and nature.

The idea of husbandry or housewifery is a mode of using and being in nature that I call the "moral ecology of using nature." In this mode there is a possibility of overusing, abusing, and also appropriately using nature by humans. A majority of peasant and indigenous cultures and ecological thinkers/activists such as Vandana Shiva, Mahatma Gandhi in South Asia, Wendell Berry, Gary Nabhan, and Gary Snyder in North America share such views. In some ways, Emiliano Zapata's "land and liberty," Sandino's struggle for land in Nicaragua, and other "land to the tiller" movements can be recognized in this framework. During my visits in Mexico in 2001, I found a form of "Zapatista ecologism" alive and well.

Agroecological communities are coming into focus today because of the biocultural diversities they nurture. Tobias Policha's travelogue "Mexican Plants, Places and People" (In Good Tilth, December 15, 2003; see contact info. at end of article) amply demonstrates the rich biocultural diversity nurtured by an agroecological civilization. Occupying merely 1.4 percent of the global landmass, how is it that Mexico hosts 10 percent of the global flora (26,000 plant species)? Furthermore, of the nine countries in which 60 percent of the world's remaining 6,500 languages are spoken, six of them are also the centers of megadiversity. Those six countries are Mexico, Brazil, Indonesia, India, Zaire, and Australia. In Mexico, those languages and biodiversities are nurtured by 54 main indigenous groups who speak 240 languages and dialects. In geographer David Harmon's overlapping of the top 25 countries with the highest number of endemic languages, 16 also had the highest number of endemic wildlife species.

In 1996, I also found another prophetic example among the peasants in the Peruvian Andes, where a host of grassroots peasant organizations inspired by Proyecto Andino Tecnologias Campesinas (PRATEC) are revitalizing the age-old practice of exchanging seeds and cultivating biodiversity in the chakras (farm fields). They call themselves an agri-centric civilization that depends on nurturing nature and being nurtured by nature. Although I am from the Himalayas, I was astounded to find that the Andean peasants were farming at 14,000 feet. I wondered and asked, "Isn't it too much that you are farming on the top of the mountain?" They said, "No, we are farming in a different way. This farming is for the gods because gods see the top of the mountain. We are farming for them and then by farming at the top of the mountain you get a different kind of potato that is not possible in the lower elevations." By respecting the ecological niche of the top of the mountain, they are strengthening biodiversity.

Perhaps agroecology is the mean between these two extreme worldviews: earth as untouchably sacred and separate from us, and earth as a factory to be managed and exploited. This middle path is our quest for a sustainable future.

JR: It seems like you are not merely talking about agriculture as we know it. By adding the flavor of ecology, agroecology offers something more.

PP: Yes, the issue is not merely whether agroecology is a better economic system. I am engaged in a deeper unearthing about the very possibility of human life and that of other species. I am looking at whether humans have been a co-evolutionary animal in the rise and decline of biodiversity. Is biodiversity merely a function of nature or have humans played a role in it? In what ways could linguistic and cultural diversities contribute to biological diversities?

In agroecological thinking, the issue of body, health, food, and eating is central. By eating, all of us participate in interspecies communion--agricultural cycles and cycles of the wild. Among others, I encourage people to read Gary Paul Nabhan's two books, Coming Home to Eat and Cultures of Habitat. As an alternative to the famous Cartesian dictum, "I think, therefore I am," one might say, "I eat, therefore I am."

It is worth doing a bit of historical stretching. Human culture has 40,000 years of vertical axis and horizontal spread of about 6,500 different languages, about 2,000 different cultures and ecological variations in plants and animals. Each culture is a result of cross-fertilization between cultures as they interface through migrations and adaptation and conflicts. Solomon Katz of the University of Pennsylvania has demonstrated that people's genetic makeup has evolved in synchrony with their food collecting and processing practices. After tens of thousands of years with one set of foods processed in a certain way dominating their diets, people physiologically adapt to the digestibility and nutrient levels of those particular foods. Maladaptations can result in cases such as the diabetes among Native Americans or obesity among North American children.

JR: What are the sources of your ideas? Will you describe the community and setting where you were raised?

PP: It has a lot to do with where I was born and how I was raised. I was born and raised in a mountain village in the Himalayan foothills of Nepal. It seems as if, although I left Nepal for graduate studies in the United States, Nepal did not leave me. The agroecological Nepali culture is growing within me even deeper. My village was considered to be very remote, even by Nepali standards. The first time I had to go to Kathmandu (the capital city), I had to travel three days to reach the nearest bus stop. To reach there, we'd walk on foot through forests, going uphill and downhill and crossing rivers. So we were considered to be kind of a hinterland, like you might say the Appalachian range in the American sense, or Chiapas in the Mexican sense.

JR: What form of agroecology did you practice in that village?

PP: In that village in the Himalayan foothills, we had figured out almost all aspects of sustainability and agroecology. It was what I would now call a kind of agroecological civilization. Except for salt and kerosene oil, the village produced almost everything. People did most of their labor, without buying and selling labor, through what was known as parma, a form of labor-sharing with your neighbors. Through parma, houses, fences, farm terraces, and walls were built and repaired, crops were planted, weeded, and harvested. Life journeys such as birth, coming of age, and death were celebrated without much cash exchange. However, a set of forces unleashed in the early '60s unsettled our village economy and culture--one of those being my own departure for Kathmandu and eventually to the United States. While merchant capitalism, trade, marketing of goods, wage labor, and English-speaking schools gradually moved in, we saw the accelerated erosion of the agroecological base and the customary laws that governed it.

JR: Was there a systematic knowledge system embedded in these traditional ways?

PP: There was an implicit science in a very so-called unscientific world out there. For example, when I began to develop a multipurpose educational farm in my own land in Chitwan (located south of the mountain village in the plains of Nepal) in 1993-94, I began a systematic study of these plants in the traditional agricultural and medicinal texts and found that there were books and chapters written on the quality of those plants. Some of them are used for manuring and fermenting seedlings. They can cure you when you are sick, and you can brush your teeth with the twigs of at least five plants. Perhaps the people didn't know the term "nitrogen fixing," but they knew which tree was beneficial for the soil and which was not, which one needed to be kept near the garden, which one by the end of the field as a windbreak, which trees worked together and which did not. The more I recognize how holistic and integrated that system was, the more it puzzles me.

It's puzzling in the sense that the system functioned as if without claiming anything, without telling other people, giving lectures, or putting up a "no trespassing" sign--as if all was embedded in the daily rhythms of life, as if knowledge was not separate from life.

I will give you an example. There was an implicit understanding that you not cut trees around water sources. I distinctly remember within a mile of my own house, there were about six or seven water places--springs sprouting directly from the earth. They were basically carved-out small places where the spring was just bubbling up. These water sources were either within larger public forests or where there was a thick forest cover around the water sources. Nobody could even think about cutting that forest. That is what we call the sacred. Interestingly, lots of deities were placed at the bottom of those trees just so that people would also say that this was not only a watering place but also a place of the Nagas (the serpent snakes) who were supposed to be the givers and regulators of water. In each and every source of water, the idea was that there was a certain kind of god or certain kind of goddess living there.

JR: The water sources are connected to the sacred grove and then the groves to the Nagas, serpent snakes? You are talking about not one actor in nature but many. Do humans and their cultures have a role?

PP: The work on nature is not possible by one but always requires many co-operating hands, including humans. All are bound by a need to protect a place, bring fertility to the soil, or continually maintain a water source. I found similar examples in the tribal communities of India and many other indigenous peasant cultures in the Cornwall region in England, peasant communities in Peru and Mexico, and Maori communities in New Zealand.

Let me illustrate this with another example from my own mountain village. Human rituals recognized the role of more-than-human communities in making this agroecological life fecund and possible. For example, in the month of July, there was a particular day for snakes or serpents, including the Nagas. This has to be the fifth day after the full moon, called Nagapanchami, literally the fifth day of (and for) the Nagas.

We believe that the Nagas are the regulators of the underworld, and they connect different water levels and let water springs come out. My given name according to the ritual calendar is after one of those serpents--Padma Naga. By looking into my nature and the day and time of birth in the month of July, my father (who was also an astrologer) gave me this name.

On the day of Nagapanchami, we as a priestly family--my father was the priest of the whole area--our job was to draw pictures of all these serpents. And there is a particular drawing design about how you could untangle all these varieties of 36 different kinds of serpents. We also had to acknowledge the spider, the scorpion, the snakes, and the earthworms--all the things that were in the soil. In today's language you could call them the ingredients of the soil food web. Our job was to put these hand-written posters on top of everybody's front door. Then we performed pooja (worshipping) and said, "Let this house and family be safe. Let this house be fertile. We are aware that you are around (all these serpents and these beings, the crawlers and critters of the world). We are respectful of you. Don't frighten us and don't harm us. Help us because without you our culture isn't possible."

What we were trying to do during Nagapanchami was to purify water, to make it healthy through the protection of the forest around the water because water is basically a product of trees. As scientists have now recognized, a full-grown tree can transpire 2,000 gallons of water on a hot, dry day.

JR: Are these actions deliberate in recognition and respect for other than human beings?

PP: Let me share with you another ritual from South India. In South India women of the household draw different designs in front of doors and in the yards with powdered rice flour. These patterns are known as Kalam. The patterns vary because they express the women's dreams, their anxieties, current events, etc. A cultural anthropologist might say this is the human invention of art, but here we see clearly that it is also an ecological act. It has the creative idea about designing the pattern the way you like it, but then it is basically about offering the product of the earth to other species such as ants. You are offering rice, which is the product of the soil, to the ants as well as other things that come and eat. That means you are in partnership with the ants and other critters that need that food and acknowledge that they have a role in your harvest. That is the sustainability of spirit.

Now, you might say, you are hungry but you are feeding these ants! From an economic perspective it might be a stupid thing to do. But what they are doing is nurturing nature's economy, sharing the bounty of nature with more than humans.

JR: Let's talk more about agroecology in the general sense. How exactly do you define it?

PP: Agroecology basically means doing agriculture according to ecological designs and principles. Doing so, you can get agricultural crops without overtaxing and in some cases actually enhancing nature's vital principals. In economic terms, you could say you are using the interest rather than the principal of nature in doing agriculture and pursuing your livelihoods. In a nutshell, a move towards agroecology from this techno-industrial society is a move from emphasis on the accumulation of technomass to the nurturing of biomass.

The option ahead of us, as Wendell Berry aptly says, is not whether to live with or without nature. We can afford to live only with and in nature. But we can choose how, in what scale, in what speed and velocity, with what degrees of reciprocity we want to live in nature. So the division between the wild and domestic is the function of a techno-industrial mindset. The answer is not in creating national parks and sanctuaries; the challenge is in creating different ethics for using nature. I talk a lot about this in my article, "How Can Four Trees Make a Jungle" (see www.terrain.org/essays/14/parajuli.htm).

JR: Younger generations think that pursuing an agroecological civilization would be like going back in history. After all, somehow, didn't the techno-industrial civilization emerge from the agricultural one?

PP: Even if one wanted to, one cannot go back. That is the secret dynamic of history. In history we evolve and co-evolve (again not only among humans but also among more than human species) but do not go back to an earlier historical period or experience. As the saying goes, you cannot jump into the same river twice. But what we can do and many have chosen to do is to carve out a future in a different path. Among others, Helena Norberg-Hodge talks about Ladakhi society and proposes that these could give us inspiration towards our "ancient futures."

The second point I want to bring home is how many innovations and how much good thinking have gone into refining the new mode of agroecological civilization, bringing into fruition indigenous traditions and new innovations. There is a blending and the flowering of convergence between the old and new.

JR: What are some examples of this?

PP: Let me start with some living examples from indigenous and peasant traditions. Recently, there was a delegation of people from Ecuador, the Mamallakta, in Portland. They gave several lectures and also distributed an e-mail defining who they are and what they do. The first paragraph in the e-mail read: "We come from the Ecuadorian Amazon, which is a cultivated forest (le silva culta)." This is one of the most profound statements in the history of agroecology. The Amazon is supposed to be the wildest place untouched by humans, right? Now, what are the indigenous people saying? Yes, it's a forest but it is cultivated forest, not only by humans but also cultivated by birds, insects, plants, and mammals. No wonder the Kichwa word Mamallakta means "mother community."

Another example is the "forest islands" (apêtê) found among the Kayapo people in the Brazilian Amazon. In the campo-cerrado in Brazil, the Kayapo have concentrated plant varieties collected from an area the size of Western Europe into a 10-hectare plot. One hundred-twenty species were found in ten apêtê.

What on earth are these human artifacts of forest islands doing in the heart of Amazon? As shown by the late anthropologist Darrell Posey, these are the centers of biodiversity but nurtured by human knowledge and labor. Apêtê begin as small mounds of vegetation, about one to two meters round, created by ant nests in open areas in the field. Slight depressions are usually picked out because they are more likely to retain moisture. As apêtê grow, they begin to look like up-turned hats, with higher vegetation in the center and lower herbs growing in the shaded borders. The Kayapos usually cut down the highest trees in the center to create a donut-hole that allows the light into the older apêtê.

From the southwest US and Northern Mexico, ethnoecologist Gary Paul Nabhan reports that more than 400 plant species are eaten by the tribes of the northern Sierra Madre; historically, the Tarahumara alone utilized at least 220 kinds of native plants as food. He also reports the multifunctionality and purpose of an ironwood tree. Sixty-two reptiles and amphibians, and 64 mammals use ironwoods for forage, cover, and birthing grounds. An ironwood-bursage habitat also shelters some 188 kinds of bees, 25 ant colonies, and 25 other types of insects. That adds up to an extraordinary level of biodiversity.

I am currently reading an inspiring book called Gaia's Garden by Toby Hemenway who lives in Southern Oregon and has written one of the most intuitive books about biocultural diversity that can be maintained in permaculture gardens. I highly recommend the book. He documents many innovations. You could think about edible landscaping meeting wildlife gardening. Basically, it is the idea of the wild and domestic, the forest and farm disappearing as dividing lines and blending with each other. It becomes a continuum where there are polycultures and there are some annual cultures helping each other.

Wes Jackson'sLand Institute, based in Kansas, also offers a provocative model. There they caution us, "Wait a minute! This annual agriculture is too much! We are taking ourselves too seriously by doing annual agriculture, by planting and weeding and harvesting and storing." We're taking too much of an active role. What humans should do rather is let nature do perennial polycultures and harvest from nature's labor of love. Perhaps the future of agroecology is in the combination of some form of bio-intensive garden, permaculture designs, polycultures, animal husbandry, food-forests, agroforestry, farming within forestry and so on.

JR: Any final thoughts?

PP: Humanity is at the verge of knowing how to create our livelihood while following nature's designs and meeting nature's needs. We are enriched with foresight provided by the past and a vision for the future. That's the new terrain I want to explore, a sustainability of the spirit! Sustainability is, in my recent metaphor, a move from outward bound to homeward bound. Earth is our home and making a nest within that home is the basic challenge right now. We are already in the middle of that journey and we do not need a huge violent revolution to get there, either.

As Manfred Steger and Perle Besserman write in Grassroots Zen: "We don't have to create waves when the ocean is flat.... Finding ourselves in the middle of a big wave itself presents us with an opportunity. All we have to do is dive right in."

A slightly different version of this interview first appeared in the February 15, 2004 issue of In Good Tilth, 470 Lancaster NE, Salem, OR 97301; [email protected].

Pramod Parajuli, Ph.D. is Associate Professor, Education, and Director of the Portland International Initiative for Leadership in Ecology, Culture and Learning (www.piiecl.pdx.edu), Graduate School of Education, Portland State University, [email protected]. June Rzendzian is a masters' student at PIIECL. See introduction for fuller bios.

 

©2004 Talking Leaves
Spring/Early Summer 2004
Volume 14, Numbers 1 & 2
Person and Place: Adventures Here, There, & Everywhere

Is This Heaven, Hell, or the Baja Bus?

Two-and-a-half days. One bus. Twenty-six hippies. No showers. Heaven? Hell? Or, just the Naka-Ima Baja Adventure?!

After sharing our intentions, visions, and fears, a group of people who participate in Naka-Ima hopped on a Green Tortoise bus to embark on a ten-day trip to Baja, Mexico. Upon pulling out from Lost Valley, I almost immediately questioned my motivations for taking this trip. Being a person who needs a fair amount of space and independence, who has difficulty sleeping on moving vehicles, and who gets motion sickness fairly easily, I wondered, "What the hell was I thinking?!" I hadn't given much thought to this part of the trip, as I'd been thinking more about actually being in Baja. "OK, ok," I reasoned. "It's the middle of the winter, I need some sun and heat, I'm spending time with a group of people I love, and I'm going to a beautiful place. I've never really traveled with a group this large who all share a desire for community, growth, and intimacy, and this is a unique opportunity to do so." I decided to let go of my concerns and see what would happen.

It's challenging to stay grounded on a bus, probably for some obvious reasons: a bunch of metal, rubber, plastic, and other materials all thrown together and moving at 60 mph doesn't lend itself well to grounding. Despite my continual efforts to let go, I found it extremely difficult to feel connected to anything or anyone. There was no real sense of place, nothing to anchor to, no stability. With the constant clamoring of the motor and the collective ball of twenty-six energies swirling around the tight, cramped environment, I found myself longing for the soothing lapping waves on the beach, the birds singing, sunlight on my skin, warm air, and stillness of the desert.

It's interesting how people's energies and environment converge. I live in a 4000 sq. ft. housing cooperative with eight other people. For the first several months, I found it hard to relax. I initially thought it was due to my schedule and work, which tends to be pretty full and frequently involves working with people on deep personal issues. I'd come home and retreat to my room or office to get some rest, but would never come away feeling rested.

After several months, however, most of my housemates left to vacation for a couple of weeks. When they came back, I noticed how much more rested I felt. Upon reflection, I realized that my schedule hadn't changed all that much while they were away, and I'd had about the same amount of time off. Yet, just the fact that there were fewer people in the same confined environment completely shifted the energy, regardless of how much I even saw or interacted with them. Being on the bus, it was difficult to separate my own energy from everyone else's, and find some way to anchor myself. The more I struggled, the less grounded I felt. Finally, once I decided to let go of trying to become grounded, I began to feel more so! I spent much of the time on the bus letting go repeatedly.

We finally arrived at our destination in Baja, a remote beach on the Sea of Cortez five miles in from where the bus stopped. The hike was amazing; it was downhill most of the way, winding through hills and canyons dotted with green shrubs and reddish-brown earth. Off in the distance, in full view the whole time, was the blue sea. It was beautiful, and from the first steps down I immediately felt a deep sense of peace, awe, and reverence.

I've always felt a connection to the desert. Since I was young, every time I see a picture of the desert, or visit the southwest, I feel a sense of timelessness, home, and connection to spirit. It wasn't until I went to Israel several years ago (my family is of Jewish ancestry, part of which is middle-eastern) that I realized what I was connecting with was my past. I'd previously thought that I had been destined to live there someday. However, after living in Arizona for a couple of years, I noticed that it didn't feel quite right. After my Israel trip, I realized that my draw was not about reliving, but remembering.

Walking down to our camp in Baja brought back those memories. I could feel spirit so strongly as I walked, and the still vastness of the desert felt so full and alive. Yet, being around people was challenging. During the walk, I felt disconnected and agitated at times. It was difficult being in a place that I felt so connected to and hearing people talking loudly, yelling to one another, and seeming oblivious to the intense energy of the land that I was feeling. I noticed my judgments of them. Did they share my same sense of reverence? Were they just clueless? "They should be feeling what I'm feeling!" Although it was challenging, I did my best to focus on my own experience, while allowing others to have their own. During part of the walk, it was helpful to talk with others about this and discover that they also felt awed, but were expressing it differently.

We spent several days on the beach. I continually began to feel more grounded and connected, despite cool and rainy weather for about half the time. I spent time alone sitting on the beach, looking out over the ocean, and time with others exploring the area. However, I still found it difficult to connect with everyone, and at times had a lot of self-judgment and "shoulds" about it:

"Here we are together in this beautiful place, and I should be connecting more."

"Maybe I'm just keeping myself safe, and am afraid to open up with everyone."

"I should be asking more people to do things together."

And so on.

However, when I looked at what I was needing and wanting in each moment, I noticed that I felt good taking time for myself, being in my own space, and doing what felt right for me. As I accepted that, I felt more alive and empowered, and felt more comfortable around everyone.

When it came time to hike out, I decided to leave well before everyone else. I like to walk slowly, and the thought of having the road up all to myself sounded appealing. As I slowly made my way, I felt myself open up in a way that I hadn't been able to with everyone else around. I could feel the pulse and spirit of the land, and how old and ancient the land was. I could feel connection to my ancestors. As I took in the beauty of the mountains and sea, I started crying. All I could think was, "it's so beautiful." Every time I had that thought, I would cry harder. At one point, a red-tailed hawk rose up in front of me from the valley below, circling as it rode a rising thermal. Everything felt so whole and complete. I felt completely alive, and waves of inspiration, insight, and vision came to me. I felt like anything was possible. I thought of my father, whom I've only seen twice in the last eight years, and imagined asking him to go camping with me in the spring.

I had been continually thinking that I should be connecting more with the group. However, what I kept overlooking was that I felt very connected to myself, and to this place. I was very aware of what I needed and wanted, who I was, and what was important to me. When I let go of needing to connect with the group, I felt full. I was able to hold on to myself while being around others. It was the strongest experience I'd ever had of being in touch with myself.

Driving back felt much easier. In addition to feeling more grounded (or maybe in spite of it), it even seemed like there were fewer people and more space on the bus. When talking with people, I realized that others had also been having similar feelings of disconnection and self-judgment because of their disconnection. I felt amused by how difficult it was for us to accept what our own desires were, and instead how we were distracted by wanting to take care of other people.

When I returned home, despite feeling tired, I felt clear and solid. I noticed that I valued and accepted my needs more, and was less concerned with what other people thought. I was reminded of a process called differentiation, in which a person in any kind of relationship acts out of his or her inner truth and self-validation, without trying to please others or self-sacrifice, while still remaining open and loving towards them. In the past, when doing so, I always felt more alive and connected to both myself and others. The trip gave me the chance to practice doing it again.

David Franklin loves Naka-Ima, bagels, and guitars. Visit him at www.DavidFranklin.org , or e-mail [email protected]

 

©2004 Talking Leaves
Spring/Early Summer 2004
Volume 14, Numbers 1 & 2
Person and Place: Adventures Here, There, & Everywhere

My Story As Told By Land*

*with a nod to David James Duncan, whose book My Story As Told By Water is highly recommended to anyone who is also convinced that "I" and the natural elements are not easily separable.

On a mid-March afternoon, I sit on the south steps of a small cabin attached to a yurt. Bathed in dappled sunlight, I am looking out over Lost Valley Educational Center's tree-ringed meadow, where countless camas bulbs, dormant below the surface over winter, are now readying themselves for bloom. The violet-green swallows returned just yesterday, and spent this morning scouting out nesting spots. A greater variety of bird song greets us almost every day this time of year--a nuthatch is calling right now--and one by one the spring wildflowers also show themselves: spring beauty, trillium, violet, coltsfoot, chickweed, cress.... From where I sit at the moment I can watch bees, spiders, several species of beetle, and various small unidentified insects making their rounds. The clear blue skies, the fresh air, the gentle breezes, and lengthening days of sunshine are enough to make one forget that the rains are likely to return, many times, before summer. I feel peace, openness, possibility, new life, and growth already starting all around me, and preparing to burst forth even more abundantly as winter continues to recede.

In my first draft of this essay all of the "I's" in that initial paragraph were surrounded by quotation marks--but I have removed that punctuation as needless clutter and distraction. However, my reasons for qualifying the term "I"--for emphasizing its "(or so we call it)" nature--are still valid:

1. I have started to suspect that, to paraphrase John Lennon (who said "God" instead of "I", referring to the other side of the same equation), "'I' is a concept by which we measure our pain." "I" implies separation, duality (I and everything-but-I), which is not what I feel at the moment, sitting here on the edge of this meadow.

2. Perhaps more directly to the point in terms of this essay, "I" cannot be divorced from the land on which that "I" is participating in life. "I" is not a wholly independent, easily transposable, separate being, but an outgrowth of the place in which "I" is enmeshed.

This all might sound like some great abstract theory, but it's merely an attempt to articulate something that runs through my experience much deeper than any concept. I have never been able wholly to separate myself--my thoughts, feelings, perceptions, emotions, and general sense of well-being--from the place in which I am dwelling. Each environment has an energy which becomes part of my energy. Each landscape has messages, wisdom, and moods that it seems to impart--and not only to me, but to others who open themselves to it.

How much has the land shaped who I am? As western-socialized humans, we tell ourselves many stories about our unique identities. When we attribute aspects of our character to "nurture" (implying acquired qualities) rather than "nature" (innate qualities), we are usually thinking about the influence of our families and social environments, not of our natural surroundings. But is it possible that the land--meaning the entire ecosystem in which we are embedded--is the single most powerful force in shaping who we are and how we experience the world? Even those qualities that we appear to absorb from or develop as a result of our interactions with other people may, on a more fundamental level, be the land expressing itself through larger social units, through our predecessors and fellow dwellers in whatever place we are calling home.

Instead of telling you who I am by referring to my specific interests, activities, accomplishments, failures (the individualistic "ego" perspective) or by referring to the people who've been important in my life (the social, but still anthropocentric perspective), it would be interesting to talk about my life as an expression of the places I have lived. I will not deny that I feel a sense of self that transcends any particular situation I may find myself in, and that this "I that is uniquely I" is continuous for as long as I can remember--nor will I deny that my family and certain individuals and social groups have been integral in shaping who I am. Those things are undeniably true, and I am glad for that. But it seems equally true--although we have not been trained to perceive this--that because we are embedded in places and ecosystems, all of our individual and social expressions are, inevitably, also outgrowths of those larger systems.

So, as an example, I'll try telling this new kind of life story here, as concisely as I can manage (since my editor is serious about word counts). I have lived almost three-quarters of my life in just three places, where I've spent five-plus to eighteen years apiece, and have spent the rest of my life in places I stayed for anywhere from a day to two years. I'll call those three longer-term homes my "primary home landscapes," and the other significant places I stopped on this journey as "secondary landscapes of influence." And in case that sounds too humorless and academic, I'll substitute the terms "Stomping Grounds" (for the longer-term places) and "Stopping Grounds" (for the others) whenever the mood strikes me.

I moved into the house that became the center of Stomping Grounds #1 when I was less than two years old. I still remember my first visit, when my parents were house-hunting--and my memory is of the basement, which would become the location of many ping-pong games, various construction projects (from a never-to-be launched wooden raft to a robot made primarily from an art easel and a baby powder dispenser), and frequent leaks and in-seeping of water from the surrounding hillside. The basement was also the pre-existing, semi-indoor equivalent of something that I and my playmates in the neighborhood constantly strove for--digging into the earth, making forts, tunneling through bushes, contacting (and occasionally being overwhelmed by) the natural elements and weather extremes.

My house sat several houses down from the top of a hill in a fairly densely populated New York suburb--a place which, seen from above, probably looked much more like what it actually was: a fairly mature mixed deciduous woodland, punctuated by meadows and waterways. Streets, houses, and manicured lawns were prevalent, but they were hardly the dominant elements of my experience of that ecosystem. Instead, I grew up among many large, old trees, in a landscape peppered here and there with apparently immovable glacial erratics and other geological features that even modern civilization had not been able to remove. Creeks and rivers still flowed (occasionally underground, but usually in plain sight), and large fields ringed by trees provided ample area for growing children to play ball or frisbee, fly kites, and run around.

Although our lifestyle could hardly be described as "back to the land" (utilities provided our heat and electricity, we bought all of our groceries, and playhouses were the largest things we ever built), we did experience the four seasons in nearly their full force. Deep snows would cause school cancellations in winter, and allow the construction of snow castles, tunnels, and caves; withering heat and humidity in mid-summer, often culminating in thunderstorms, would have us spending days trying to cool ourselves with lemonade and with dips in the municipal swimming pool, and nights sleeping without bedcovers, serenaded by cicadas. Spring was, to quote e.e. cummings, "mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful," bursting with color after the gray and white winter, and fall was equally colorful as the leaves changed, days shortened, and cool weather returned. Each season was distinctly its own, erasing all memories (at least for a child) of what had come before and what would inevitably come afterward. It was a great environment in which to live in the present--to be a child--to wonder at the nature that was still quite intact around us.

Growing up in Stomping Grounds #1, I experienced these primary feelings: security, familiarity, the relaxed wisdom of a mature ecological landscape, peacefulness, and the exhilaration provided by changes in the weather and the opportunity to play outside no matter what the season (whether sledding down our hill in winter, playing ball during the long days of spring and summer, or burying ourselves in leaves in the fall). In many ways, I knew my home town better than I'll ever know any place again. I knew the nooks and crannies of the landscape from a child's point of view, had access to many more back yards and secret passageways through dense vegetation than most adults will ever have, and most of all, I had time to play, to explore. I did not deliberately avoid streets or houses--that would have been impossible. Instead, I explored my surroundings without judgment, open to the environment in ways that helped me see the life, the opportunities for fun (look, there's a roof to bounce a ball off of) everywhere around me.

I was also surrounded by one of the densest and most diverse populations of squirrels in the world, many of whom were my close neighbors, inhabiting the tree trunks and limbs, telephone wires, and porch rooftop outside of my second-story bedroom window. Our century-old house seemed to be an open invitation to their scampering, and gave me a living space at a level mid-way up several large trees in our yard.

As I grew up, and as my time was gradually taken over more and more by schoolwork, I still wanted to maintain my connection to place. I joined the cross-country and track teams, which meant that, when weather allowed, I spent most of my afternoons running around outside. I had no interest in getting a car; instead, I bicycled to school every day. When I felt increasingly distant from the childhood spirit of play, I still received emotional sustenance from the land. Just as special locations on the land had drawn me to them as a child, I developed intimate connections with various running trails and bicycle routes in my teenage years. I had never truly known myself as separate from this place. Although my parents, brother, and I traveled perhaps six weeks out of every year (most often to what became our "home-away-from-home," a friend's house in New Hampshire's White Mountains)--my home in New York was the place that I always came back to. It was part of me, and I was part of it.

I believe my experience of childhood would have been wholly different had I grown up in a more recently developed suburb, where the landscape had been scraped clean to make way for houses. I grew up in a place with history--a history that respected the land, that wasn't driven by a desire to conquer it and change it in order to make a quick profit. When I talk with people who grew up in more modern tract developments, surrounded by strip malls, they express none of the deep connection to place that was my daily experience as a child. The groundedness that I experienced in the people around me was also in part, I believe, an outgrowth of the place. My companions in those years, like me, spent very little time driving, commuting, or shopping. Most of the time, my schoolmates and even my parents went wherever we were going (which wasn't usually far) on foot or by bicycle.

Leaving that home landscape was perhaps the most difficult transition I've ever made in my life. I was simply unfamiliar with myself apart from that place. The peace and security, the familiarity, the knowing that "everything is right with the world," the love of place and the opportunities for exhilaration that I'd taken for granted for so long--a result of being embedded in that place--suddenly disappeared. I became hopelessly nostalgic for "lost youth" and for the childhood home that changed irrevocably when my social circle disbursed. Each time I returned during a break from college, I noticed that even the place itself was becoming busier, less relaxed: houses sprang up on formerly open land; traffic increased; and fewer children could be seen playing in the neighborhood. I received many signals that in the modern era, even if you try, "you can't go home again"--not to the same feeling of home and connection you knew as a child. Both the place and I had changed.

After living my first eighteen years in this same town, I proceeded to move from location to location for a decade-and-a-half thereafter, never exceeding two continuous years in any one home until I was thirty-four. Each of my Stopping Grounds along the way helped shape my identity in those years: the dark Pennsylvania woods, hemmed in by too many poorly-maintained freeways (of asphalt and of human spirit); the expansive, geologically rich, apparently timeless northern Arizona desert, where land and people seem to share the same native wisdom; the remote, gently rolling hills of northeast Missouri, where time stands still in its own way, and where (if one doesn't read the headlines) things can seem to a native New Yorker a little too comfortable and self-contained; the artificial flatlands of over-cultivated, chemicalized farm country surrounding an organic farm oasis, where the "modern crisis" is as evident in its own way as it is in any city; and many others, each of which could comprise an essay of its own (but I'll resist for now).

Early on in this journey, two years spent on a traveling environmental school affected me profoundly, as my busmates and I experienced firsthand both the wildness of this continent and the destruction caused by our civilization's ways of living on it. Had I been able to insulate my identity from the land's influence, I might not have experienced such a powerful mixture of, on the one hand, land-identification, a melding-with-everything--and on the other hand, extreme disaffection and alienation at the way in which we humans had set ourselves apart so as to destroy fundamental elements of nature both within and without. I decided to seek out ways of living, places, and people involved in finding a different way. I wanted to explore, both on my own and together with other people, how we can bring ourselves back into harmony with the natural world, with one another, and with our essential selves.

The "secondary landscapes of influence" I experienced over the course of many years all drew me in, and each, in its own way, was very difficult to leave. I start to feel at home in any natural setting fairly rapidly. I cultivate my connections with place through various daily activities which assume the position of spiritual practice for me, and all of them involve either exploring or working on the land. These activities (which have included walking, bicycling, running, gardening, and other ways of being outside) are not so much choices for me, as things my body is demanding that I do. They are automatic, second nature, essential to my health and well-being. I wouldn't trade them--or some palpable form of immediate connection to the landscape--for anything in the world (except perhaps for world peace and universal enlightenment, but I don't think those would be possible anyway without my getting my "outdoors fix").

Despite my feelings of connection, I did choose to leave each of these Stopping Grounds--and I believe these choices also reflected the influence of the land. For whatever reasons, my temperament and the temperament of each of these places led us into significant "live-in" relationships that were nevertheless of limited duration. While I felt a resonance in each place between "me" and "everything-else-here," important parts of me eventually seemed to be missing, and after a year or two I felt a call to move on. Obviously, in each of these places, I also had not developed social connections strong enough for me to resist the pull of whatever new adventure lay ahead. I believe this was no accident either--had I felt that this landscape was indeed my long-term home, I would also have found a greater resonance with others there who felt that way.

I first encountered what would become Primary Home Landscape #2 when I was twenty-four. I would eventually spend a total of nearly six years living there, spread out over four different stays (two years, then two shorter periods of a few months each, then more than three years). In fact, this essay was inspired initially by a conversation with a current resident of this former Stomping Ground. His description of the influence of the land on the individuals now living there matched my own experience and my observations of the energy of the place as it has impacted hundreds of people over the years (I've stayed in touch and visited periodically even when not living there).

Stomping Ground #2 is a forty-acre parcel situated in a western Oregon valley on the east side of the Coast Range. Bisected by a creek, thirty-five of its forty acres are forested, mostly with even-aged trees which started growing after a mid-twentieth-century clearcut. There are very few flat places on the land, and none of any significant size; virtually everything is either uphill or downhill from where one is at any moment. The sides of the valley rise on both sides; there are no wide horizons or long views from ground level. All of this leads to a sensation of being "closed in."

The land itself is very beautiful, and draws one in powerfully. Even with the recent addition of some relatively conventional buildings (to replace the rustic, handmade, non-code-compliant hobbit huts that preceded them), it still retains the feel of land that is intimately present in the lives of its human inhabitants. The parcel is surrounded on three sides by timber land (with only one immediate human neighbor), with the nearest, dead-end paved road more than half a mile away. Trails both on and off of the property give one nearly endless woods (albeit all impacted in some way by industrial forestry) to explore. On-site, organic gardens, a now sustainably-managed forest, a nature reserve, and numerous appropriate technology experiments give practical expression to the back-to-the-land ethic and ecological consciousness that have motivated the stewards of this research and educational center since its founding more than two decades ago.

In its early years the group described itself as an intentional community, but more recently has seen itself as a de-facto or "unintentional" community composed of a half-dozen to a dozen staff members of the non-profit as well as shorter-term participants in its programs. In fact, the group has experienced 100% turnover in its composition (or 500%, 1000%, or more, depending on how one calculates it) since its founding. My five-and-a-half total years as a resident there were a relative anomaly, a duration exceeded by only a few others over the past twenty-three years. A few months, or a year or two, are more typical. This leads me to believe that the place and I had an unusual amount of resonance, in order for it to feel like "home" to me for so long. I also know that it no longer feels like home to me, and that I can't imagine my current self being content there.

What are the qualities that those forty acres bring out in people? Because the place seems so closed in, and because its natural qualities are so immediate and accessible, life there can seem engulfing. I, and other residents, frequently became so absorbed in our immediate surroundings that we lost perspective, forgot that the outside world (including not only other lifestyles and people, but other landscapes) existed at all. In fact, some of us were looking for that highly focused land-immersion experience, and we found a perfect place to enact it. I recall one early resident boasting that he had spent months at a time without setting foot off the property--and this was certainly an option. The work on-site was never-ending, and could (and did) absorb all of my and others' energies--and then some. Especially in the early years, travel away from the place (especially in an automobile) was discouraged by a common ecological ethic, and both the organization and the land itself seemed to bring out a fierce loyalty within the group of people who chose to immerse themselves in the place.

Had we in fact been able maintain a focused, peaceful, cooperative relationship with our surroundings, we would perhaps have been more content; but in actuality we had not forgotten about the outside world. Socio-ecological awareness was what had brought many of us to choose to invest our energies in this project. For those drawn to this place, guilt about having been raised as "American consumers" was often as strong a motivator as excitement about learning, researching, and teaching the skills of sustainable living. We were there to save the world--which, not surprisingly, can be a rather stressful occupation. In this worldview, life was hard, and was meant to be hard.

The landscape reinforced this message. Every wheelbarrow load of compost, manure, firewood, building materials, or anything else needed to be pushed uphill or restrained from careening away downhill. The lack of open, sunny areas around buildings meant that during much of the year they were damp and cold--a condition exacerbated by the founders' ideological opposition to the use of insulation, coupled with our understandable desire to conserve firewood. The diminished horizon reduced even further the already-limited amounts of sun and light available during Oregon winters. Most important, the closed-in feel of living in a mostly-wooded, depressed valley, with no flat areas, no long views, no placid bodies of water, no peaceful, truly "open" spots, seemed to produce a background anxiety that stayed with many of us almost constantly.

Some visitors remarked upon the tension they felt as soon as they set foot on the property. Others believed the place was haunted. The organization itself experienced nearly incessant struggle, both internal and external, which came to be its accepted reality. Communication was often challenging among group members. Internal political and power struggles, culminating in a lawsuit, nearly destroyed the organization in the early 1990s. The court settlement (which resulted in the eviction of a long-time member) was followed by battles with the county over zoning and building codes and another lawsuit brought by a new neighbor. During my final tenure there, two residents were evicted on separate occasions for threatening to kill other residents (luckily, as one staff member was fond of saying, "no one died"). Even among those who didn't flip out, few people seemed to experience contentment on this piece of land--but perhaps contentment was not what most people arriving there were actually striving for, since "contentment" and "saving the world" are often not conceived of as compatible states of being. For a whole host of reasons, the land and somewhat stressed-out eco-activist types (of which I was one at that point in my life) seemed mutually to call to each other, and to reinforce one another's energies.

The place has brought forth many "good works" in the world, and has inspired many people, including me, in positive ways. But nearly two decades of involvement and/or observation, as well as numerous conversations with past and present residents, have led me to believe that these patterns, which I have seen repeating themselves over and over, transcend social factors and the idiosyncrasies of the individuals who participate in this eco-social experiment. They are a product of the land itself, in constant interplay with the people who find themselves drawn there.

My solution? No, I don't suggest bulldozing one of the hillsides to expand the horizon. But awareness is the first step in any healing work, and with a little feng shui brought to bear--as well as a commitment to open communication about how everyone experiences the land and one another--new possibilities can certainly open up there.

Stomping Ground #3 is Lost Valley Educational Center, where I've been a resident for nearly seven years now. I opened this essay by describing some of the feelings this land evokes in me. Here, as with the place I've just finished discussing, I've heard many different people talk about the same phenomena, with a similar set of feelings (different, however, from those in Stomping Ground #2) evoked in diverse people by this particular environment. Here, too, the conceptual boundaries between "self" and "land" become blurry, and the feelings experienced don't have clear boundaries at all.

Lost Valley has a greater diversity of habitats than Stomping Ground #2 (resembling, in this respect, Stomping Ground #1), and different parts of the land have very different feels to them. A more mature forest surrounds many of the dwelling spaces, while a young, regenerating forest covers half of the property. Large open garden spaces and a large meadow provide the opportunity for a wide horizon, punctuated by tall trees. Our creek flows nearly year-round, and offers a swimming hole. A substantial pond beyond the meadow holds water during much of the year. The meadow itself, and much of the rest of the land, is quite wet during the rainy season. Numerous residents and visitors have remarked on the "watery" quality of the land, and the watery quality of the emotions that it tends to elicit. The place seems to plumb our internal depths, and to encourage reflection, emotional release, and acceptance. In the same way that the "closed-in" feeling of my previous home often evokes that state of being in its human inhabitants, the openness and fluidity of this land tends to bring out those qualities in people just as strongly.

The tense eco-activist who comes here is likely to have her or his defenses crumbled, and to come face-to-face with the feelings of both pain and joy, of separation and connection, that have produced that way of coping with the world. Obsolete personas and other forms of falsity and self-delusion tend to crumble too. The land not only gives its inhabitants permission to feel--by providing safety, nurturing, inspiration, and its own watery example--but it seems to elicit those feelings in everyone who comes here. It is no accident that Naka-Ima, Lost Valley's most well-known personal growth workshop, has grown and flourished on this piece of land. The land primes people for the experience of opening up, letting go, and finding a new, expanded identity--one that tends to be both more true to each individual's unique, essential nature, and more genuinely connected with other human and non-human strands in the web of life.

In the same way that a "closed-in" energy can repel visitors, this land's open, fluid energy can attract and welcome them--and apparently has always done so. Before Europeans arrived, this was a gathering spot and campground for our Native American predecessors, the Kalapuya, and in more recent times, it was the center of activities for Shiloh, a countercultural (yet fundamentalist) Christian organization which trained thousands of its followers here before sending them out to two-hundred satellite locations around the country. In those days, this property was known as The Land, and was expected to be the site of the Second Coming. Since then, under Lost Valley's tenure, it has continued to attract thousands of people. It maintains friendly relations with most of its neighbors, and a large number of people come regularly and repeatedly to visit and participate in programs--an arrangement facilitated by our relative proximity to Eugene. Such things as car-usage and other lifestyle choices, including engagement in various on-the-land sustainability activities, vary widely among residents and visitors here alike, but on site, the ethics and practices of an ecovillage predominate. As in all of my previous Stomping Grounds (and Stopping Grounds, for that matter), I get around almost all of the time on just foot or bicycle, as do others when on these eighty-seven acres--and we wouldn't want it any other way. When I consider the character of this place--which I've watched under many different circumstances and with many different populations over the years since its founding--it seems clear to me that the land is the most powerful player in what Lost Valley Educational Center is, and in what each of us experiences here.

This open, fluid energy, including this permeability to and interconnection with the outside world, does not necessarily lead to greater stability--in fact, one of the dominant qualities of Lost Valley, from an organizational and social standpoint, is that it is constantly changing and evolving. Since everything seems possible, and since clinging to "old forms" seems unnatural once someone suspects they may be obsolete, we tend frequently to try new ways of arranging our work and our daily community life. And while a closed-in feeling can sometimes lead people to stay in a situation longer than might be healthy for them (since it seems there's no way out), an open feeling can contribute to much more rapid decisions not just to change something, but to leave, when a resident recognizes that she or he is not happy. A case in point: by the end of this summer, much to my amazement (and occasional distress--I'd like a little more stability), I will be the second-most-senior human resident here. Aside from Stripes the cat and other elements of the non-human landscape, only Dianne, who's been here since she co-founded Lost Valley in 1989, will have been here longer.

The land's fluid qualities have affected me personally as well. Although no one will accuse me of being an overly wild and crazy guy, many of my ideas about life and about myself have loosened up and changed significantly since those relatively closed-in years at Stomping Grounds #2. Guilt, desperate save-the-world ideas, and various "shoulds" have lost their appeal as prime motivating factors in my life. At some point, I noticed that the more energy I put into what I love, rather than into pre-conceived ideas of what would be "good things to do," the more I find that same energy coming back to me. In contrast to what eventually seemed like the futility of some of my previous forms of struggle, making the choice to follow my heart and do what I love gives me the actual experience of the world becoming a more loving, sustainable place. As of yesterday, I still occasionally fell prey to fear and limitation; I still sometimes struggled in my attempts to open up and be honest when many of my impulses were to censor myself; I still hesitated and found myself erring on the side of caution more than I would have liked. But even as of yesterday, the many wonders of the land here--including its numerous, exuberantly vocal birds, its varied vegetation, its soil, its vistas, and the people it has influenced--had opened me up in ways inconceivable to me a decade ago. And today is a new day--a perspective that is an obvious, palpable reality to me as I experience this place.

A pileated woodpecker is calling, with its almost-human cackle, suggesting to me that, by wrapping up this essay in the very near future, I might still avoid becoming a laughing stock. That's just as well--I've realized that I'm actually more of an amateur naturalist, musician, underground comedian, and person interested in long, wandering conversations, connections with the rest of life, and "being here now," than I am a writer or editor anyway. For all of this, I have the land to thank. Or maybe I should say "I" have the land to thank...but even that doesn't accurately portray it.

Ultimately, I believe, it is the land, and the spirit behind the land, that are doing the thanking--because in the big picture, in the unity of our differentiated world, nothing seems truly separate from that... (not even that pileated woodpecker, calling again, laughing at my attempts to describe the indescribable)...

Chris Roth edits Talking Leaves, coordinates Lost Valley's organic vegetable gardens, has become a perpetual enrollee in local Lost Creek watershed bird classes, and is recovering, perhaps ungracefully, from a serious case of writer's block (an underrated, unjustly disparaged condition which can also be described as the cultivation of one's observative, meditative, and musical sides). Contact him at [email protected]. His foresighted, camera-ready mother Nancy Roth's website is www.RevNancyRoth.org.

 

©2004 Talking Leaves
Spring/Early Summer 2004
Volume 14, Numbers 1 & 2
Person and Place: Adventures Here, There, & Everywhere

Notes from the Editor: Once Again, A Double Issue...

Like our Fall/Winter 2003/2004 edition, this issue of Talking Leaves is thicker than normal. Publishing fewer, longer issues saves us substantial amounts of printing and shipping costs over issuing the same amount of material in smaller chunks. Currently, income would not support producing more than approximately three issues per year. We welcome any financial support you are able to offer. Contributions to this magazine (and to Lost Valley) make a real difference in what we are able to do. While we are committed to continue publishing, we will be able to reach more people, more often, with each substantial boost in the income we receive from subscribers and supporters. We would also welcome assistance in increasing our income from other sources--advertisements, grants, etc. Our one half-time, non-business-oriented staff person (me) is not adequate to fully realize the potential of this magazine--at least not from a business or distribution standpoint. Please contact the office if you believe you could be of help. One positive development is the arrival of a new conference coordinator who is also dedicated to lending his expertise and assistance to related projects at Lost Valley, including Talking Leaves.

The theme of this issue developed from the material we received-not the other way around. Nevertheless, it all seems to hold together uncannily well--but that is ultimately for you, the reader, to judge. As always, we welcome your feedback and responses to this issue of TL.

 

Submissions Requested:
A Day in (Your) Life

The Summer 2004 issue of Communities magazine (see www.ic.org) will have as its theme "A Day in the Life" in intentional community. Both Chris and Dianne have submitted articles (about Lost Valley, and about a Syrian monastery Dianne visited this winter). But editor Diana Leafe Christian's idea sounds so good to us that we would like to take it even further, and try our own version of it in Talking Leaves. We will feature a selection of the submissions we receive either in our next issue (due out in late summer or early fall), or spread out over several issues.

For our version of "A Day in the Life," submissions need not be focused specifically on intentional community, per se, but on however you, a Talking Leaves reader, are living. How does an individual who resonates with the basic values articulated in this magazine spend a day? We encourage you to describe an actual day, not to fabricate a day from bits and pieces of other days--although if you need to take that second approach in order to convey what is important in your life, that is also acceptable. Please be sure that the "Day in the Life" you describe could happen, in all its details (or, preferably, did). Please also let us know (either approximately or exactly) what date you are describing, since we may choose to assemble articles in chronological order.

Your article can be anywhere from 750 to 3500 words in length, although shorter articles may have more chance of being included. If you wish, you can send us several versions, of different lengths. We also reserve the right to edit for length. If possible, please also send us photos or other illustrations to accompany your article. (See home page for submission details; our tentative deadline is June 30, but submissions after than are also welcome.) We hope to hear from you.

Thanks again for reading TL, for sharing it with your friends, and for helping keep it a vibrant and vital publication. In today's world, the evolution of ecological, cooperative, peaceful human culture has become not just a pleasant idea or nice-sounding dream, but a practical necessity. We can all play a part.

 

©2004 Talking Leaves
Spring/Early Summer 2004
Volume 14, Numbers 1 & 2
Person and Place: Adventures Here, There, & Everywhere

Notes from the Haul (Haul of Justice Arizona, 2003--Caravana de Esperanza)

By Velvety Black Earth Tongue (aka Tammy Davis)

 

Editor's Note: In the Spring 2002 issue of Talking Leaves (Volume 12, Number 1), we featured an interview with The Blazing Echidna (aka Ethan Hughes) about the Superhero rides he had helped organize (cross-country in 2000, in Maine in 2001, and a then-upcoming trip in North Carolina in 2002) as well as the local Hero Alliance he'd been part of in the Cottage Grove-Eugene area of Oregon. The Superheroes are dedicated to "doing good" wherever people need help, coming together in adventures of service that spread a spirit of joy and celebration. They have developed a "Superhero Start-Up Kit Coloring Book," containing advice on how to start new Superhero trips and projects (portions are reproduced in these pages). Their most recent trip took place in December 2003 in Arizona. Lost Valley community member Tammy Davis joined the heroes this year, along with many others who'd been (or who have since become) interns, program participants, and/or simply friends of Lost Valley. Excerpts from her journal follow.

 

Day One

Nov. 30th, 2003... A bus leaves Maitreya Ecovillage in Eugene miraculously at 9 am with 24 caped superheroes, two bus drivers, and 24 bikes plus a few trailers compactly strapped to the roof of the bus. Boxes of food, delivered in the dark and driving rain the previous night by special forces who have teamed up, Dancing Dragon and Spota, are shoved under the benches on the bus. A whole crowd of family and supporters see us off...waving and cheering in the relentless Oregon rain. Our fearless and generously tolerant bus drivers, Allan and Kevin, give us the lowdown: "Make sure you each have a 'buddy' who intimately tracks your every pee break so you don't get left behind at a gas station at 3 am." We superheroes insist on having our own special superhero "count-off" as back-up. Number One--"Honesty Man" (Lawrence), "able to create and destroy relationships with a single phrase"--starts the count-off, 2, 3, 4... I, "Earth Tongue," am 16...Janna, "Serpendipity," is 17 and keeps forgetting to say it out loud, even in the rare case when she actually is on the bus and ready to go on time...Oh yeah, and Sky, who is "Reflecto...Something?" and loves to surf the edge of tolerance, keeps repeating his number, 14, throughout the rest of the count. 18, 19, "fourteen!", 20, 21, "fourteen!"...Brownie Boy (Evan), who ate at least a pound of brownies within the first few hours of the bus ride without barfing, rarely says his own number...usually Purple Monkey says it for him while socking him in the arm for not participating in the count. One of the bus drivers finishes the count for both of them saying "25, 26" while rolling slowly out of the parking lot as we finally finish the heroic count so we can hit the road.

As the snuggle pile on the platform in the back of the bus continually shifts and people rotate from the couches along the sides of the bus, we cruise south, shedding the rain and daylight. Somewhere in California during various hours of the night we add riders until our count is up to 31! Buffalo Gal shows up at some random gas station exit with rhinestone sparkles aligned perfectly on her forehead.

 

Day Two

Still on the bus...watching a spectacular purple orange sunrise in the Cali-zona desertscape, silhouettes of saguaro cacti on the horizon. We get a kick out of walking in and out of gas stations with our capes on. We stop for a game of Frisbee in the sun, (finally.....ahhh, the sun) while the drivers fiddle with the bus. Mark, the owner of a gravel trucking company, buys a frilly black tunic at a truck stop to sew his sparkly red cape to, magically transforming him into "Super Softie." We finally get close to our destination at dusk, only to be turned back by a tunnel that seems to measure the exact height of the bus plus the bikes on top! But after almost shaving off a few bikes under a gas station awning, we decide not to risk it and drive around...so it is dark by the time we reach our rendezvous point at the park in Douglas, AZ. The bus seemed to circle the park three times before settling down for the night in an empty lot. The rest of our Merry Band of superheroes we found cheering our late arrival by a bonfire they built in the BarBQ grill near some picnic tables...Among many was "Compashman" (Christian), who was a Permaculture apprentice at Lost Valley when he met Ethan at Naka-Ima and signed on immediately to join the league, the artist formerly known as "Purl Roshi" from Twin Oaks in Virginia, who changed his name to "the Vitamin Kid" after just recently finishing the book Bless Me, Ultima by Rudolpho Anaya (it's a great book, read it!), Ethan's momma, the death-defying "Desert Queen," and the famed "Wander Woman" and "Luna, Warrior Princess" from a previous ride. We set up our tents and crash, finally able to get the whole group horizontal at once after the long bus adventure.

 

Day Three

Honesty Man is going nuts because his watch battery died and he can't tell what time it is at 2 am while sleeping...go figure. I wake up throughout the night with the sickening realization (too late) that I am catching a cold. I pray for no fever.

We circle up and get into parade formation for our virgin ride (a whole 16 plus 6 blocks) to the unmarked secret location of the Hope House, a shelter for battered women, to help them repaint the interior. We ride back and forth and up and down the block, discreetly dressed in outrageous superhero costumes unsuccessfully looking for the place until we finally call the director on Desert Queen's trusty cell phone and ask her to please step outside the place and wave to us so we can find it!! We split off and half the group heads to Hope House's thrift store across town to build a dressing room and lots of shelves, sort donated items, and collect more costume pieces and "stuff" to haul around on our bikes for fun. Spiral comes up with a tongue for me, Buffalo Gal scores some horns for her helmet, and Velvet Revolution finds a fancy belt to add to his get up.

Meanwhile, I decided to take the reluctant-to-paint-boys on a mission to track down the Stealth Angel Love Bomber, allegedly traveling on foot across town, to show her the secret location of the Hope House. We stopped in front of the local bike store and decided to pick up trash in the street and apartments next door while waiting for her to pass by. One old lady was so impressed with Brownie Boy, Ragin' Cajun, and Reflecto...Something? picking up trash, she gave them a dollar and they decided they would give it to Ethan later. As we searched behind the 7-11 for a dumpster to deposit the trash, just who drives up in a rental car but Miss Love Bomber. The story goes like this: She was looking for a ride to Tucson, she considered the bus her best option, but since she was just walking right by a car rental place, she went inside. The guy at the counter was upset because he wanted to drop the car off here and they told him he had to get it to Tucson to turn it in... so he notices the lady behind him in the cape and makes a wise-crack: "Well, maybe Wonder Woman here will take it for me!" And the rest is history...

 

Day Four

"Plenty of Time, Nowhere to Go." We woke up and took our time packing up camp, building just a few more shelves for the shelter, making banners for the bike brigade, and fixing up bikes. After we tucked away every last shred of evidence we had been at the park, we went over the directions: 16th to A Ave., take a right, merge with Highway 80 West and go 'til mile marker 379, take a left at the Windtree Ranch sign and then it is just 6 miles up a dirt gravel road with a 1,200 foot elevation gain. Well, after numerous map checks at every turn, ten flat tires, one wipe-out on the gravel road, and one fiery orange-fuchia desert sky sunset that Groovy Swirl and I stopped in awe to watch, we ended up shuttling our bikes and trailers up the gnarly last half-mile rutted, rocky, and steep hill IN THE DARK! As I approached the first steep hill I was greeted by Somebuddy, GreatGitchigumi, and Serpendipity, who began running alongside my bike saying " Welcome to Heartbreak Hill, you will probably make it up three-quarters of the way and then fall over, so we are here to give you a boost and catch your bike if you fall over!" Such teamwork! On the next hill, it took at least three superheroes with enough leftover leg strength to push each bike or trailer up the hill; that rider would keep going and the other two would run down to shuttle the next bike with one new person joining them. Blazing Echidna and Blue Heron got caught in a space/time loop and went up the hill six times! Artemis Fartemis team cooked up a hearty meal for the worn-out heroes so we could get to work at the ranch the next morning.

The adventure continued...but Tammy Davis ran out of time and energy to transcribe her journal. You can find out about the next Superhero ride, and/or inquire about a "starter kit" for creating your own ride or project, by contacting Superhero Headquarters, 78590 Echo Hollow Lane, Cottage Grove, OR, 97424, (541) 767-9604. A Lost Valley community member and Naka-Ima staff member, Tammy is also involved in education about Permaculture, Compassionate Communication, and related areas.

 

©2004 Talking Leaves
Spring/Early Summer 2004
Volume 14, Numbers 1 & 2
Person and Place: Adventures Here, There, & Everywhere

Songs of Land, Love, and Time

 

 

 

  Music Reviews by Chris Roth

May

by Laura Kemp

2004. CD available for $16 postpaid from Rain Water Records, PO Box 10032, Eugene, OR 97440, [email protected], www.laurakemp.com.

I suspect I have already exhausted my supply of superlatives in describing Laura Kemp's music over the past decade, and in the process have violated, many times, my current policy of not using comparative terms when assessing artistic merit. Nevertheless, what I wrote about her first CD, Volcano (1994), in an early Talking Leaves, still seems just as true to me today:

"Laura Kemp...has more talent as a singer-songwriter-musician than most nationally recognized recording artists, and Volcano is a better album than the vast majority of those I have heard, regardless of musical genre....It is fortunate for Eugeneans that her work has not yet been spoiled by commercialization....[She is] a keen observer of the human condition, splendidly gifted at transforming life into art through music, and helping others share in the experience."

Since then, with two more equally accomplished CDs, Corduroy (1997) and Alone (2000), and regular live appearances, she has continued to be arguably the most consistently well-loved performer on Eugene's folk singer-songwriter scene, winning a variety of honors including "Favorite Female Musician" virtually every year in Eugene Weekly's readers' poll. In a variety of configurations--with the Laura Kemp Band, Babes With Axes, Kemp-Kelley-Wakefield, in various duos, in songwriters-in-the-round appearances, and solo--she has used her beautiful voice, adept acoustic guitar work, harmonica, and occasional dobro or other instrument to bring a steady supply of fresh songs to audiences in Eugene and throughout the region. Many of us regular fans are familiar with at least two to three albums' worth of as yet unrecorded material by Laura, some of which her guitar students (including me) have learned to play even without any recordings to imitate.

Laura's eagerly anticipated new CD, May, goes a long way toward filling in the gaps in her recorded repertoire. But it does much more than that. A skillfully and beautifully assembled song cycle, it presents a cohesive whole, and sets a new standard for a Rain Water Records album. It surpasses even Laura's fine previous recordings in the quality of the performances, the depth and range of emotion and experience conveyed, the beauty and power of the music.

Laura's concerts never fail to be moving, satisfying, grounding experiences for me, reminding me of much of what's most important in my life. To achieve that effect on a CD is an ambitious feat, but Laura and her well-chosen array of guest musicians have accomplished it here. This disc preserves the immediacy and inspiration of Laura's songs while also reflecting a care and attention to musical detail likely to generate ongoing, lasting pleasure in even the most discriminating of listeners.

Some tracks, like "Sword Ferns and Salmonberries," are beautiful in the simplicity of the arrangement (just voice and banjo); others, like "Snow Returns," are intoxicating in the rich tapestry of sounds they weave from multiple instruments. Nearly all of the songs have something to do with land, the seasons, and/or weather, as well as with such themes as love, gardening, relationship, and personal feelings and choices.

Though I have never been to the specific place it describes, the wistful, haunting "Hannah Branch" evokes in me memories of many places I have loved and left. Sounding like an old-fashioned hoedown, the bluegrassy "In Time" celebrates surrender and transformation. "Rootless Way," a favorite in Laura's set list for ten years now, contemplates the roads that take many of us away from one another, in this culture and time in which geographic separation from friends and family can be the norm rather than the exception. "May," a song from Alone recorded here in a new arrangement, explores the emotional territory of many non-parents' perennial question: whether to remain childless when the desire to have a baby can be so strong. A bittersweet, evocative "Cold Comfort" shares the pain and paradox of a relationship that has gone sour. It serves as a reminder that we are all capable of being in the emotional and spiritual "pits," and (as the rest of the album proves) emerging to see the beauty even in that journey into darkness.

The upbeat "Love and Soil" follows, bringing together love of gardening and love of a person and distilling two complex arts into their essences: a willingness to embrace life. The funky, humorous, and touching "T.V. Song" should convince anyone to at least consider what home could be like without a T.V. set. The gently driving "Snow Returns" mixes some of the nostalgia of "Hannah Branch" with separation from a lover and the knowledge that "spring will bring on changes new." Like "Love and Soil," "Sword Ferns and Salmonberries" is inspired by the earth and by love. A cover of Kate Wolf's "The Lilac and the Apple" closes the album on a note similar to that which opened it--reflecting on the passage of time, changes, and the perennial presence of the land, whose readiness to nurture transcends generations.

These tracks feature, in various combinations, vocals, acoustic guitar, harmonica (all provided by Laura, with Dennis Berck adding harmony vocals on one song), dobro (played by Sally VanMeter), mandolin and mandola (Steve Smith), banjo (Mark Thomas), fiddle (Roy Brewer), violin (David Burham), upright bass (Suzanne Pearce), fretless bass (T.R. Kelley), and drums and percussion (Brian West).

Among the hidden treats on May are a sly reference to Jimi Hendrix (can you find it?), a feline commentary on the proceedings (from Laura's cat Chumley), and, not-so-hidden, a wonderful cover painting by Julia Lynch. Co-producer Tony Kaltenberg contributed his musician's ear, studio finesse, and optimism in the face of a complete hard drive meltdown. As was said about Sgt. Pepper (to which Laura is, understandably, steadfastly resisting comparison, despite May's thematic and musical richness and the hundreds of hours poured into its creation)...a splendid time is guaranteed for all.

(I mean that literally: if you buy it on my recommendation and don't like it, I will pay you for it and find it a good home. I'm serious.)

Paper in the Wash

by Cindy Forslev

2004. CD available from Cindy Forslev, Deadwood Creek Rd., Deadwood, OR 97430, [email protected] , www.cindyforslev.com .

This impressive debut album from Cindy Forslev--a Registered Nurse, Oregon Coast Range resident, and skilled singer-songwriter-guitarist--reflects her love of people, of nature, and of music. The lyrics are consistently intelligent, telling stories of the elderly and ill that she's cared for, the places she's loved, and the experiences she's had along the way. The songs mix wistful sadness (the plea of an 88-year-old as her body and memory wane but her "soul is still strong," in "Not Quite Ready") with humor ("Push It Over," about the karmic necessity of returning shopping carts, and "Valley of Bad Backs," about a common complaint); reverence for the land ("Oregon Hills") with personal attraction ("My Own Reflection"); appreciation of those in the caregiving professions ("Mr. Warefield's Ride") with fond portraits of those receiving their services ("Paper in the Wash" and "Ila").

Cindy's voice is sensitive, strong, and affecting, and the musicianship throughout this album is stellar. The CD release party for this disc at Eugene's Cafe Paradiso in March was a deservedly packed event, a musical celebration that ended with multiple standing ovations. Cindy has a lot to say, and has discovered powerful ways of expressing it in music. Watch for more! And meanwhile, whether in concert or on CD, don't miss her.

On the Wing of the Great Spaceship

by Tony Kaltenberg

2003. CD available from www.tonykaltenberg.org .

This album captures the acoustic guitar magic of Tony Kaltenberg, whose percussive style, deft fingerwork, and soulful compositions inspired by the cosmos (and by individuals in his life) have earned him comparisons to Michael Hedges and Leo Kottke. The twelve tunes on this CD are purely instrumental, but don't need words to convey the moods and journeys they describe. Michael Manning joins Tony on fretless bass on four of tracks, and Alex Kelly adds cello to four others. A grand total of one of the compositions is in standard tuning; the other eleven range from DADGAD to CGDEbBbEb and everything in between. The effects are unique, transporting us into whatever subject matter inspired the piece, from the fishing blues (in "Teeter-totter") or good cooking ("Zucchini Break," "Thanksgiving at Mom's") to the cosmic perspectives provided by the stars (including "Ain't No Bigee" and the title track) and his father's birthday ("61 Circles Around the Sun").

The liner notes for some tunes are particularly intriguing. Tony explains "Boomerang" with this story: "When I was 13, my brother and I were throwing boomerangs in a field when suddenly, I heard him yell 'duck.' So I ducked, and the boomerang hit me in the forehead. I guess it could have been worse... This tune is patterned after the emotions I experienced that day: calm, confusion, anger, and visions of stars (although these stars were in my head)." And the piece "Tiny Little Gremlins," Tony writes, "celebrates the by-products of our thought processes. They are the tiny little gremlins in our heads, the ones we sometimes listen to when we shouldn't and the ones we don't when we should. In this tune, they are represented by the little notes, pings, scratches, harmonics, and extraneous noises that arise from the tapping technique used here. If you listen closely you can hear all those tiny little gremlins dancing on the strings, laughing their little heads off."

Much of this issue of Talking Leaves was laid out to the accompaniment of On the Wing of the Great Spaceship. Hopefully the gremlins' work has only been for the better. If you think it has, check out Tony live or on this CD.

 

©2004 Talking Leaves
Spring/Early Summer 2004
Volume 14, Numbers 1 & 2
Person and Place: Adventures Here, There, & Everywhere