I crawl through the corn, like a child
which in a way is who I am in the fields
the roots of who I am--woven in the earth and its rhythms
I watch jam and dolls and trellised tomatoes created from what is grown
I watch how the locals watch the land for rots and weather and time
to tell when it's dry, sick, when we plant, and when we take it from the ground
I watch the weeds wander up the stalks, mirror the crops, grow with passion...displaced plants
I am a child who grew up with fruits and vegetables labeled from two states to the west or across the border
not grown outside our door, covered with our land's dirt
that trickles into our house on boots
engrained permanently on my hands
like the woman I admire greatly with calloused hands, lively spirits, and a deep understanding for survival, work, and simplicity
high desert Albertsons and city street Costco's mark my beginnings
knowledge of what aisle each type of packaged food lies
like rows in a field, aisles 1 to 9 with marshmallows and tin canned green beans
looks like a green bean...tastes like air, stale air, with salt
I am a child who knows how to read and type and has a college degree
but is still not formed like some in Dixon
I feel young
I have never made cheese, canned food, yogurt
I have never made a pasture fence, or helped a birth, tilled land
I am a child with forming calloused hands and sunned skin, taking part in an education
without books, professors, and late night deadlines
and instead filled with sunrises, waking up with my hands asleep
same pair of pants and three shirts turning from white to the shades of the garlic patch
I crawl through the corn, like a child
mountain painted stalks hiding me from the summer sunshine
as I wander one row along
feeling slightly older
last week I graduated Kindergarten...I milked a cow on my own
Emily Sandall grew up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and just received an elementary education degree at the University of Montana. One of Sandall's greatest passions is issues concerning street and working children, and she hopes to use literature as a means to communicate the connection between the lives of the children and choices of comfort we make here in the United States. Sandall loves to write, explore the outdoors, run, dance, and work towards a more just and sustainable world. She wrote this poem in August, while working at three separate organic farms in Dixon, a small town in Northwest Montana.
©2004 Talking Leaves
Winter 2004/2005
Volume 14, Number 4
Transformation: Endings and Beginnings
What a pity that Rabbi Lerner's voice was not heard during the recent presidential campaign. I find his article strangely comforting. Not only does the good rabbi help me overcome some unhealthy judgmentalism by reassuring me that the motivation of the voters who put Bush back in the White House had something to do with seeking "value in life beyond success in the marketplace"--but he sparks my imagination! He inspires me to begin dreaming about how we whose moral values differ from the "Christian right" can begin to appeal to our common desire for "some sense of transcendent purpose."
As much as we might wish that we lived in the carefully maintained secular society of a country like France, separation of church and state seems to be less and less the case here, judging from the political discourse of those in power. It is because of that reality that Rabbi Lerner challenges those of us whose values actually caused us to vote the Democratic ticket to speak out about ethical living.
Since I have the advantage of wearing a round collar, as an Episcopal priest and a life-long spiritual seeker, I am hoping that people will listen to me, as I respond to the deep disappointment of the 2004 election by inviting people of every political stripe to broaden and deepen their vision of morality.
Several years ago, I had the privilege of taking David Orr's introductory environmental studies class at Oberlin College. As I sat in his class, I began to identify a new "ethical language," expressed through a vocabulary based on the way both the natural world and the world of human society really works.
It was the phrase "ecological design" that first caught my attention. David explained that, when we act according to the design embedded in the natural world, things work. In other words, they are sustainable--on-going. Agriculture is sustainable when nutrients, like compost or manure, are continuously added to the soil, so that farming does not deplete its fertility. Energy is sustainable when it comes from renewable resources, such as wind and water. The economy of our town is sustainable when the small businesses that line Main Street are not sabotaged by the building of a WalMart on the outskirts of town. Our lives are sustainable when they do not jeopardize the lives of those who follow us and when they contribute to the health and well-being of those who share the planet with us. In terms of human society, sustainability is another way of talking about "loving one's neighbor." It helps draw us beyond our egocentricity and selfishness, through a response to a higher principle, whether you call it ecological design, Gaia, or God.
The problem with "moral values" is that, for many religious people, moral values are stuck in the mire of a past time in history, when ethics was understood primarily in terms of interpersonal relationships, or in terms of relationship with a judgmental God. The emphasis on sexual ethics, as understood by the Christian right, is a prime example.
I wonder how much good it does to insist, "You are wrong," to those people whose spirits are firmly fixed in this kind of moralism. Instead, it might be better to think quietly to ourselves, "You can grow," and to begin to sow seeds that will perhaps initiate that process.
How about beginning with Scripture--to be specific, Genesis 20:1-17. There, we can read the story of Moses receiving the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai. We can look at these commandments through the lens of fundamentalism, or we can look more deeply into them for the spiritual and ethical truths that they express. Here is my attempt at doing the latter, in the light of today's moral issues, written in the form of what spiritual writers of earlier times would have called "examination of conscience"!
1. I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery; you shall have no other gods before me.
Our "gods" are those things we worship (or "give worth to") in our lives. Who, or what, is really our "god" when it comes to our decision making? What do we put first? Money? Success? Power?
2. You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. You shall not bow down to them or worship them.
Idols are not real; they are human fabrications of "gods." Our present-day idols are the ultimate in unsustainability, because they replace core values with lesser, artificial values which do not work. One example is the "shop until you drop" mentality in which we amass possessions in order to fill a psychological void. In the civic arena, an idol might be public opinion, to which a politician responds, rather than speaking his or her true mind.
3. You shall not make wrongful use of the name of the Lord your God.
This commandment, at its base, concerns using religion for our own purposes. Using religion as propaganda, or trivializing other religions, is entering dangerous territory. Some would even call it blasphemy--an arrogant lack of reverence. The spiritual teachers of every religion teach that language about the divine is only a human attempt to express the mystery that is beyond words, and that we must never act as if we "own" God or even completely understand God's purposes.
4. Remember the sabbath day, and keep it holy.
Sabbath is rest: a time for cessation of work, and a time for being, rather than doing. It is an opportunity to savor what it means to be alive. This challenges the workaholism of our culture, which provides little time for repose of body, mind, and spirit. Such workaholism steals from us "holy time": the opportunities to take delight in the natural world, or to spend unstructured time with family and friends.
5. Honor your father and your mother.
...and also the generations who will come after us. This affirmation of human community throughout history now calls us not merely to honor our elders (which we are not very good at doing, either!) but our descendants, by living in such a way that we bequeath to them a healthy and beautiful world in which to live.
6. You shall not murder.
Murder is usually defined as killing other human beings--something from which, tragically, we have not yet learned to refrain. But it can also mean violence against the planet or other people or species through more subtle forms of murder: when our purchases or actions (or lack of action) create death, harm, or ugliness, here or elsewhere, now or in the future.
7. You shall not commit adultery.
My dictionary defines "adulterate" as corrupting, debasing, or making impure by the addition of a foreign or inferior substance. It is obvious that, while this commandment was probably originally intended to refer to adulterating a covenant between two married people, there are many other foreign substances which adulterate the integrity of this planet and of human society. Among those which debase the planet are PCBs, nuclear waste, CO2, herbicides--even many of the household products touted by TV commercials and used by the pious, seeking cleanliness after godliness! Probably a good proportion of the list of "seven deadly sins" are on the list of adulterants of human society, from greed and anger to what has long been considered the worst of all, pride.
8. You shall not steal.
Do the comfortable life-styles of our affluent society steal life and well-being from people in poorer countries far away, or from the poor in our own country?
9. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
In short, don't lie. But bearing false witness can also be our tendency to act like ostriches, "burying our heads in the ground" so as not to hear the truth about the consequences of the choices that we make. Or it can be not speaking the truth when we know it, because of lack of courage.
10. You shall not covet your neighbor's house; you shall not covet your neighbor's wife, or male or female slave, or ox, or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbor.
This is about both gratitude and justice. The insidious habit of covetousness steals from us our gratitude for our own good fortune as westerners living in a land of relative security and plenty. It nurtures discontent, greed, and fear. This commandment is not merely about not feeling envious, however. It has to do with acting envious. Do we take more than our share of the world's resources? Do we work actively toward justice?
I don't know about you, but I will never be able to read the Ten Commandments again now and come out with a clean slate! Just by living when and where I live, I am implicated in immorality--a far more dangerous breach of ethics than those "sins" considered immoral by many of our compatriots.
Rabbi Lerner writes, "Imagine!"
Imagine that we can begin to insist that a moral person "would never turn his back on the suffering of the poor, that the bible's injunction to love one's neighbor required us to provide health care for all."
Imagine that "building a stronger America" meant discovering the sustainable strength that comes from love and generosity.
We must imagine this.
For this is the way to inspire other imaginations: the imaginations of those who, we thought, were so different from us because they voted differently.
Imagine beckoning them up onto Sinai with Moses to hear the words of the Ten Commandments in a broader and deeper way.
Imagine inviting them to stand beside a first-century Jewish preacher beside the Sea of Galilee, hearing his message of non-violence, justice, and love.
Nancy Roth is working on a book about spirituality and environmental ethics, and this article is only the beginning. Contact her at [email protected]; for additional articles and a list of her books and workshops, check her website at www.revnancyroth.org.
©2004 Talking Leaves
Winter 2004/2005
Volume 14, Number 4
Transformation: Endings and Beginnings
Our friend Justin Davis, who spent seven weeks at Lost Valley this summer, returned to Texas at the end of September and died on October 4, 2004 in an automobile accident (see Notes from the Editor, on page 9, for more on Justin and how he contributed to our lives). His partner Karly has graciously allowed us to reprint excerpts from the last few months of his journal. Thank you, Justin, for your enduring words of insight and wisdom.-Ed.
For me ecospiritual means incorporating all non-human things (and human things too!) into my spiritual practice. This means being open to all signs, signals, and communication from all physical and nonphysical living and non-living entities. It also means holding innate respect for the great purpose of all things; the very existence of something is reason enough for me to respect and learn why it exists, because it is there for a reason. It is seeing each thing as a representation/actuality of the great spirit/oneness that holds everything together and is in everything. It does not matter to me that it is not "scientifically verified." I feel most things in the universe are not "scientifically verified"; when I feel something in a present and grounded state, it is true and real for me because my body is an instrument capable of perceiving and recording all sorts of "data."
I can do various things to "tune" the instrument of my body. One is learning to understand my self: physically, emotionally, spiritually. When I earnestly attempt to decipher and understand what is emanating from inside my body, I can use that awareness to pick up on subtle changes within my body. I can also perceive more acutely "energies" coming in from the outside.
Also I can "tune up" by being out in nature. Nature is constantly sending out various types of communications, most of them non-verbal. I can decipher these through experience and experimentation with signals and results.
The wilderness is my church. I can go into the wild and receive guidance for anything. It is mainly a matter of opening up my heart, my door, by breathing through it and focusing on it. My heart is my connection to the great spirit/nature/God.
Connecting contact with animals and specific thoughts and what these animals mean to me results in a message from that animal. This sort of activity is person specific and animal specific and sighting specific. Two sightings of the same animal within five minutes of each other could have totally different meanings.
Also, plants growing in a certain area are communicating certain things about the condition of the land. A group of plants is like a newspaper front page or a certain chord within a song or symphony, communicating certain things by their grouping and individual conditions (size, leaf color, thickness, density of branches/leaves, etc.); these groupings and communications are always unique.
Learning about specific characteristics of plants in books is extremely helpful, yet that is only part of the picture. Another large part is observation in the field of the many ecosystems and locations and microclimates and guilds of specific plants. This is where the plant and other plants begin to communicate directly to me (in comparison to the indirect communication of books).
All this that I write of is sacred to me, is spiritual to me; eco-spirituality.
When I view something happening that goes against what I have communicated with/from plants/animals/great spirit/nature it really deeply disturbs me and I sometimes have had judgment upon the person doing the "injustices." I assume they have not communicated or listened with any plants/animals/spirits and are acting out of a singular purpose instead of a diverse multifaceted purpose.
--they go crazy...
I noticed very subtle differences between people and places from Southern California and the big city Southwest (Phoenix, El Paso) to Northern California and Oregon (Redding and Eugene). Two big things are bike lanes and a brightness in the eyes of the people I see. Bike lanes are so easy to add, a simple line on an existing road, that can have such a profound effect on a city. I venture that an effective, efficient, and complete bike lane system can noticeably reduce traffic without the need to consult studies; i.e., someone can casually observe a difference in similar size cities with and without bike lanes.
I would like to compare Eugene and Waco. They seem to be about the same size. They are both university towns, have large rivers running through with extensive parks along them. However, the cultures seem totally different at first or second glance.
I have a strong suspicion that I would not find as high of a percentage of people in Waco as in Eugene that have a "brightness in the eyes" and are willing to look me compassionately in the eyes for more than a split second, or who would feel comfortable hugging me.
What could improve:
* more garden space, especially in unused former garden space
* more native edible/medicinal plants used in groundcover, brush, understory guilds for food forests, and signs about them
* more community bikes that are at lodge and clearly labeled
* more picnic tables
* less Douglas firs and more cedars, oaks, diversity of trees
* using tractors to clear roads for trails once a year
* more interaction with neighbors
* more space for community members in "community areas" (kitchen, lodge, open spaces) during conferences (especially non-Naka-Ima conferences)
* more open/clear trails in "new forest"
* separate but attached kids area in or around lodge
* making trails to destinations (hilltops, special trees/plants, sacred spots)
* review process for long-term community members (yearly?)
* a way for surrounding neighbors to join in on the abundance of meals/food--co-op?
* a playground area for kids, a covered "nice" kids space closer to lodge/community center
I walked across the meadow through grass as high as my shoulders down the hill by the small pond and up the hill on the other side. The woods loomed large on the hill ahead of me.
Soon I came to a fence. At one time the fence separated the area where the cows were from the wilderness. I looked up and down the fence and did not see the way across it. I walked east along the fence until I came to an opening in the fence (a gate?). I turned to go into the woods and standing there before me was a massive old oak tree! It was bigger 'round than two or even three people could reach around and hug! And it reached over a large area of the forest.
I asked the tree, "May I enter the woods?" I listened very closely and looked up at the tree. The wind blew from the west and I heard an affirmative "Hmmmmhmaa." I quivered and smiled and entered the woods.
I walked past thorny vines on one side and brush so thick on the other side that I couldn't see through them. I came to a clearing in the woods where the sun hit the ground. Yucca and wildflowers grew on the ground and birds sang while they flew through the air. I thought, "How joyous to sing and travel at the same time!" So I walked on down the trail that revealed itself more as I walked, singing all the while.
I came across another massive oak tree that was bigger than two people could reach around. I walked more and came across another oak tree that was massive! I then came to some wild plums that were red and just ready to eat; I filled my mouth and stomach with them. They were strong medicine for my hunger. I came to a clearing of more grasses and ferns and in the distance I heard a creek singing. I wandered closer past a lone pine in the clearing and came to the small creek dancing and singing from one place to another down a small valley. I stood there fascinated by the sudden beauty I had stumbled across in the middle of the woods; I listened to the creek's smooth luscious song: Glaa Glaa Gla Gla Gla Gla. I was inspired by the grace and ease and flow that this water moved from one place to another and with a deep breath I drew this grace and ease and flow into my life.
I walked on past many plants and creatures scurrying off among the brush. I walked for quite a distance through forest tall and wide and short and thick. Soon I grew tired of walking and came across a gently sloped clearing by another creek. I reached down to touch the mix of oak leaves and pine needles and other unknown decomposing matter; it was softer than my bed! (to be continued!)
I would do it all over again. Karly and I made it out of the "valley of sickness" (so called because, according to several folks, the Native First Nations people came to the "Lost Valley" to grieve or cure their sickness) alive and closer and more intimate and confident in our common path.
Certainly, it doesn't seem healthy for people to stay there long term. I was sick there more in seven weeks than I have been in two years away from there. Perhaps I was cleansing or purifying myself somehow. I did learn some lessons regarding overeating and preparing my own food when I need it.
I heard something: perhaps Naka-Ima is so successful because it is a healing art (more or less) and it is in this strange valley of transformation. Our society at large does seem to be in a great (meaning protracted) time of imbalance. United States culture, in general, is heavily dependent for its functioning upon the apparently limited resource of oil. We would not live so quickly, so intensely, so demandingly were it not for the high calorie per gram energy of petroleum oil and its byproducts. The emotional imbalance comes via an imbalance in the cost of certain activities and the repayment of the source. For example, we cut down trees in a clearcut and do nothing for the soil. Some of the long term costs of such an activity are decreased rainfall, increased erosion, and increased stress due to lack of peaceful mature forests. The emotional imbalance is this: with such activities we begin to think that we can take and not give, and survive: how does this mindset carry over to human culture at large? Fortunately for us humans there is such abundance on this planet that failure of civilizations due to resource depletion has been limited in recent times. Part of the failure of Roman civilization was due to resource depletion in their immediate area. Indeed much of the Eastern and Southern coasts of the Mediterranean were formerly forested...
So I plan to spread Naka-Ima to Austin with Karly.
Hi Karly,
I'm thinking of you. You are sweet, a sweetheart, a lover. I was talking about you with Michael and Dianne; I called you my lifetime partner. I said it with honesty, without regret or remorse. After our roller coaster experience at Lost Valley I feel extraordinarily confident in our relationship; especially in our communication and conflict resolution skills. I'm going to be here for you Karly, to hear your feelings and help you express them; and to help you feel safe and loved when I'm able to. I feel you will be there for me in a similar capacity; to love me and help me feel healthy, independent and confident when you are able... I am here in Amarillo (Yellow in Español), the bus station is art deco style and has an interesting design. There are 4' x 4' terrazzo tiles and half the restroom is 1" thick marble! Talk about oil money! I miss you and look forward with smiles and excitement to snuggling with you, kissing you and smelling you--like this badger is smelling the Rosa setigera [photo on front of postcard--Ed.] . I love you! Loveling Justin
©2004 Talking Leaves
Winter 2004/2005
Volume 14, Number 4
Transformation: Endings and Beginnings
a letter to the Lost Valley community, October 12, 2004
To all of you, who have sent so much love and held me from so far away, thank you. I want to respond to each of you individually and do not have the energy right now. I know you understand. It has been incredible to receive so much support from you. Wow. I am so blessed.
The funeral was beautiful. One of the first things the preacher said was that he was reminded of the words of Jesus when he read the mission statement of the Lost Valley Educational Center and intentional community where Justin spent time this summer. Then he actually read the mission statement and I felt so loved and recognized.
Our friend Kelly, who also came to Lost Valley earlier this summer, sang Wen-day-ya-ho, a Native American song about transformation. It was beautiful. And I had the opportunity to speak. I invited everyone to touch each other and expressed Justin's sadness for the lack of touch in our culture. And I talked about the amazing way Justin had of calling me present. And reminding me to breathe. I took lots of deep breaths as I spoke. I shared how sometimes when walking in the woods my mind would start rattling and my mouth would start chattering and Justin would just stop and breathe--or say, Look! and show me something so perfect that I was suddenly not just in the presence of God, but aware of it. He taught me to pay attention.
And I talked about Justin's connection to the Great Spirit/Oneness that he believed holds us all together and is in all of us. I told them about how he would smoke American Spirit Pow Wow blend from his corn cob pipe and ask for guidance when he needed it. And he would sit and wait for an answer. Sometimes Spirit spoke through what he saw or heard. Sometimes it was a feeling or sensation. Many times he received answers from animals or plants which had different meanings each time he'd see them. And when he'd receive an answer he would actually receive it--and integrate it into his life.
I talked about the way Justin listened. And did not react or respond, but reflected, and looked lovingly into my eyes and soul. And I encouraged people to practice listening to each other in this way. And I talked about community and how important community was to him. I thanked them for being his community and I shared that he had dreamed of using the church next to the tent we were standing under (because he wished to be remembered outside) as a community center one day when he started his own intentional community.
I talked about how well he knew the land. And every plant and animal who lived there. Every tree and creek. And how hard he worked to document the changes he expected when Ozarka moved upstream--they have a reputation for drying up creeks which in turn kills plants and changes the ecosystem. And I told them how hard he worked to get his family to protect the land in their stewardship and how he has folders full of the work he did to interest The Nature Conservancy in purchasing and protecting the 1000 acres next door. By the way, The Nature Conservancy is excited about the land...they discovered many rare and uncommon species when they walked with him and they are just waiting to have enough money.
I talked about Justin's vision for living sustainably and cooperatively. And how he considered the impact of his choices on the Earth and our children. And I also talked about how much sadness, anger, and fear he carried for most of his life. And how he felt limited by that. And the cool part is he was moving more and more into his vision every day and he was falling from fear into trust.
I felt excited about representing him and our new culture. I was supported by several friends who know how to be present and aren't afraid to connect. We sang our songs--I release, and I let go, I let the Spirit take my life--'cause I'm only here for Love: No more struggle, no more strife, I let the Spirit take my life, 'cause I'm only here for Love...and Earth, my body, Water, my blood, Air, my breath, and Fire, my Spirit--the Earth the Air the Fire the Water Return, Return, Return, Return....It was beautiful. We moved a lot of energy, connected deeply, and honored Justin Davis.
He was buried with the stones he took everywhere, that lived on the window sill in the barn this summer, a hawk feather he'd been cleansed with many times, American Spirit tobacco sprinkled on his body, an essence from an oak ring of 13 trees--created for safe passage to other realms, flowers from the land, and Rapunzel bittersweet chocolate.
Oh--and our friend Jesse delivered some spoken word from deep down. Hopefully I'll receive a copy to send to you soon. Wo. And Kelly sang the Appalachian Funeral Song, "Take me back, oh hills I love..."
I am so grateful that you got to meet him, know him, witness him, love him. I am so grateful you got to witness us. We did it. We fully expressed ourselves to each other and came back to center over and over again through some incredibly painful times. We loved each other. And we loved you all. We love you all. You helped transform our lives and connect us to Spirit in a way that helps me to cope with the depth of emotions I am moving through. Thank you.
Deep Breath--
Karly
Karly Dillard is grateful to the practice of Heart of Now. She can be reached at [email protected].
©2004 Talking Leaves
Winter 2004/2005
Volume 14, Number 4
Transformation: Endings and Beginnings
After being away for two days, I drove into my customary parking slot and greeted Vince who was working nearby. He said "Justin was killed in a wreck." It was like getting knocked down, blindsided. I was reeling, and starting to grieve. Justin, who usually had an amused sparkle in his eye, was luxurious in few words, at ease in quiet, fluent in music, thoughtful in work. Gone in chaos. The last time I saw Justin, he was busy building the stone wall in front of the Lodge that we designed. We looked in each other's eyes, and there weren't any words to say. No words; no clear thoughts at all; I looked at Justin, felt love, but no words. He seemed a bit bemused like me, like he usually seemed; we hugged goodbye.
My friend Gretchen came to mind. Recently, when a lover was in town on short notice I was telling her how I wanted to have Gretchen create one of her stained-glass windows for me. My lover took on a strange look, laughed nervously, and said, "But she's dead, didn't you know?" A week later, I ran into Gretchen's husband. This was startling, and out of context--not on the rural island where I had known them, where I had lived in a tent on their land. He and his stepson were headed for Mexico; all three of them had planned to take a vacation together. They had gotten typhoid shots the day before Gretchen woke up complaining of a bad headache, just before the blood vessel burst and killed her. He told me about the ritual held on their land. My "brother" Paul, who had been lovers with my lover's sister, had been learning stained glass work with Gretchen; he'd gotten as far as learning the copper foil wrap and soldering. Gretchen had cut the glass for a perched owl for Paul. I later saw Gretchen's last window in the front door of Paul's hand-built cabin while his new child cried in the bedroom with its mother...life in the face of the reminder of Gretchen's death.
My mind goes to the time I was stung by a yellow jacket when I pulled a branch near its nest in my nursery plot. A few minutes later, I was talking with my landlady in her living room as I felt myself passing out. Fortunately, she had a niece allergic to bees and called 911 before I collapsed in the back yard and began puking. I was down a deep, dank, obscure and horribly cold well that was getting deeper like the down elevator, and I was struggling with all I had to hang on. I've been caught in a rogue wave while body surfing. I've heard my father tell me about getting his rental car hit in the rear by a drunk doing 60 at noon. I saw the scab on his forehead from the time he was hanging out his open door by the seatbelt as his car spun around and around in a big Detroit intersection. I've read about getting seized by a crocodile or great white shark. It was like that; and I didn't have any power in this situation, either. I heard the fire department volunteers, and some were saying things that sounded real bad. But something told me that the helicopter and doctor were coming quickly. That much tipped the balance for me, I think. Bored and hyper-aware from the drug cocktail dripping like ice water into my veins in the I.C. ward, I still felt too lazy to reach for the call button for the nurse to fetch me a book. I watched the cardiac monitor oscilloscope and realized I could will the sine wave to flatten and that would bring the nurse without the need to reach across to the button. The nurse hurried in, a bit perplexed when the curve showed normal again. She explained that most I.C. patients don't want to read and suggested TV. I watched Siouxsie sing "Peek-a-Boo" in spooky black and white. Later, I lay in bed looking at the skyline of the hills above Portland, and made collect calls to family and friends telling them my new temporary phone number, and how curious it was to "bee" alive. The volunteer chief who had responded visited me and told me god had special plans for me. The doctor, a blond, athletic angel in an immaculate uniform visited and told me how worried she had been. Ever since I've been very quick to tears; movies, talking with someone, or just seeing something beautiful can start the flow.
A few years later, I heard that a horticulture friend had committed suicide. I then seem to have erased the information from my mind. Why? Was I too busy? The next year I went to a meeting in his city, cool grey Seattle, expecting to see him. I remembered him telling me he was digging a well (!) under his house so he didn't have to pay for city water. I heard the story from someone at the meeting: he'd been growing pot and his antagonistic neighbor turned him in. The police put pressure on him to finger others. A divorced veteran, he was threatened with losing his house and garden, all he'd put back together. He went down into the uncompleted well, wrapped an American flag around himself, and fired a pistol. They found him a long time after. I guess my body knew to wait to learn it all, because the image of being down a well was just too close to home.
After many years of stings, in a different nursery plot, I reacted to a yellowjacket sting for the second time. I relaxed, and I calmly told my customer what was going on. After it became evident that I was reacting, he took me up to the nearby house, and someone called 911. This paramedic crew works US 26, and carries epinephrine, so there was no need to call lifeflight. It got to where the world was tangerine orange for me, and I'm told I was incoherent when the call was placed, but I was permitted to refuse transport with my signature. I never left that time; I didn't go down the well.
This year so far, three friends have died; two of them died in the same week after long illnesses. Simon depended on charity, and had been waiting on a new liver. Bill had great insurance, researched the world's best surgeon, and managed a few more years in his beloved Belize with one third of his stomach before the recurrence of his illness. Both, from their last messages, seemed in a very good place before departure. Another friend has brain cancer; diagnosed, admitted, and operated on in just three quick days in his own hospital; when he awoke he was unable to speak. Justin left Lost Valley, went home to Texas, and was killed in a wreck.
My friend Elaine was killed by a woman driving drunk, to whom no one would give a ride home from the tavern. She was cremated--not her wishes, but on short notice; what can you do? A friend made it to the memorial service where Elaine's ashes were passed out in Abundant Life Seed packets. My friend brought a packet back to me; she thought I was a good one to give some ashes to because she was nomadic and I had a garden. I split it in two and sent half up to our friends in Seattle. The other I sprinkled over a compost pile. Understand, like an heirloom sourdough starter, my composts inoculate new piles, and my compost culture dates back to my return to North America in 1980. So Elaine is all around us, here at Lost Valley and elsewhere around the Northwest, and who knows, perhaps even further. As they say with homeopathics, dilution makes it stronger.
Rick Valley is Lost Valley Educational Center's land steward, a Permaculture teacher since 1987, and an instructor in the summer 2005 Ecovillage and Permaculture Certificate Program. Contact him at [email protected].
©2004 Talking Leaves
Winter 2004/2005
Volume 14, Number 4
Transformation: Endings and Beginnings
It's time to come clean. I am guilty as charged of feeling ambivalent about this great creative venture called Talking Leaves, as well as every element involved in its production. Nearly twenty-five years after first taking writing too seriously, I am still in recovery from that period; the process of attempting to transfer my experience of reality into written words is still just as often grueling as liberating. What's more, it is always merely a pale representation of what I actually see, feel, and would like to say. Not only am I a frequently-blocked, reluctant writer, who generally enjoys most other things better than reading or writing--but I'm frequently busy with things that seem much more real to me. And, like the firefighter in I Heart Huckabees, I am sometimes overwhelmed by the absurdity and contradictions inherent in the activities we seem to need to engage in as we go about our lives. In this case, the technological infrastructure, materials, and energy use involved in creating a magazine sometimes seem to be poorly aligned with the spirit of what I am hoping TL conveys in its pages.
And yet, when I spend too long without writing, or without putting together a magazine, I sense that something is missing. Too much time goes by "living in the moment," and at the end of it I can be left feeling an emptiness, as if an opportunity to appreciate life and to make a positive contribution to the world has been squandered. The process of putting some of my experience into words and sharing it--and of providing a forum for others to communicate their experiences and perspectives with one another--can help prevent or heal that feeling of emptiness or missed opportunity. Writing and reading can be a way of sharing things with people at a deeper level than what we normally encounter in everyday interactions--and it can be a way of communicating with people all over the country and around the world, and with the future as well.
Right now, then, I will try to turn two problems (or, more charitably, challenges) into one opportunity--or, metaphorically, to eliminate two classes of election fraud with one lawsuit (since I'm not enthusiastic about killing birds and don't want to bloody any stones today).
My problems are that
1. I have to complete this magazine, and I don't have quite enough suitable text to fill it. In fact, there are exactly four empty pages left.
2. I have the aforementioned love-hate relationship with the written word, which can become a major impediment in my ability to easily cultivate Talking Leaves as a forum for my own and others' self-expression. It's hard to get excited about something that half the time you can't stand or that drives you crazy.
The solution, of course, is to transform my attitude and my relationship with writing and editing so that this becomes a TL issue with which I am once again happy. This process has happened with every single past issue of Talking Leaves, but it usually has not been transparent. It's a process of transformation with which I repeatedly engage, overcoming demons and embracing angels (or, if you will, eschewing lawsuits and writing love poems instead, which end up eliminating all election fraud because of the change in heart they produce in the world-at-large).
So, you guessed it, I am going to try to provide the missing text for this magazine by writing about the very process of transformation in which I need to engage to provide the missing text for this magazine (about the process of transformation). Brilliant! Or, at the very least, shrewd.
Now this plan introduces another problem. What kind of self-indulgent writing project am I proposing here? How can I possibly justify dragging readers through the inner torments of the editorial/writing process, which themselves are not even real suffering at all? (To see real suffering, take a look at war, poverty, disease, etc.--and then consider whether, in the interests of better combating those things at a global level, an election fraud lawsuit might actually have been the best idea after all.) My justification is this: we are each a microcosm. Trying to pretend we know more than we know, about the "big picture," does not really serve anyone. What we each do have, all we can really be experts about--if we pay attention--is our own experience.
But what is my experience? Over the course of several hours, since I started this essay, I have been interrupted at least half a dozen times by various people and events. I guess I invited this by attempting to write this article on my laptop in the front part of the Eco-Resource Room/TL office.
But my mind couldn't help wandering back to the topic of Transformation. Had I really done it justice with my "Notes from the Editor" piece, and with the other articles I had collected for this issue? Was I going to be disappointing the many readers who've told me they appreciated my writing, by not including more in this issue? More important, was I going to be blocking an important piece of creative expression that would actually serve the world in some small way? Or was this desire to write just an ego trip? Was I actually bored out of my skull with attempting to express the ineffable?
These were just gnawing little flickers of thoughts, understand; nothing to interfere with my daily life enough to actually sit down and write.
Instead, as I harvested vegetables, I found myself slipping into a contemplative, somewhat awestruck state in which I realized that the breakfast I and the garden interns ate on an April morning had fueled the work that prepared the beds for the transplanting of vegetable starts; and that, once grown, these crops had produced the nutrition, both physical and spiritual, that we took in when we harvested them mid-summer from this same bed. Those starts themselves had been seeded and cared for thanks to the transformation of many previous meals into human being and human activity. Having incorporated that mid-summer nutrition, we then re-prepared the bed, and stuck in another round of transplants, which were just now, in late November, ready to harvest. Meanwhile, all those other vegetables produced by this process were feeding Lost Valley residents and visitors, who were going about their work in the world perhaps not consciously aware that it all started with the garden crew's breakfast on an April morning.
But of course it didn't actually start there. That breakfast was composed of fruit harvested by us, and then frozen, late the previous summer, as well as some organic grains grown elsewhere, available to us because of the work of hundreds, thousands, millions of people who have worked in myriad ways to help guide our species onto a more earth-friendly, sustainable path than the one we've been on recently. And where did they find the inspiration to help in this transformation of agriculture? They couldn't have lifted a finger or a digging fork, or raised a voice or a greenhouse roof, without the fact that their bodies were constantly transforming the energy of other living organisms into human life force--and back again.
The more I contemplated these things, the more I realized there was no beginning (not even the Big Bang--I mean where did that come from? somewhere, I'm sure) and no ending either. I was bringing these late-November-harvested vegetables up to the community kitchen, where cooks prepared them for consumption by sixty or seventy people, most of whom would be going out into the world feeling inspired by the transformative possibilities of honest communication and self-reflection. And a few of those people would be playing music with me that night, re-charging me spiritually for another day of what we consider "productive" activity (generating food and magazines). This is not meant to imply that making music isn't productive in some way--the vibrations have innumerable quantifiable and nonquantifiable effects within both the makers and the listeners, who are ultimately the same. Every listener is creating the music anew--both with his or her eardrums and with the imagination--and every musician is listening (even Beethoven in his later years; the "inner ear" doesn't go deaf).
So transformation was all around me as I thought about Transformation. Anyone who examines any of the paragraphs above will find a thousand threads of connection not followed for every thread that I have chosen to put words to. It's an overwhelming topic. It's who we are, what everything is. It's so obvious it probably doesn't need to be said. But it's also one of the hardest things for us humans to understand and accept, wedded as we seem to be to forms we want to hold onto, and looking as we tend to do on the surface level, in the realm of immediate form, rather than seeing beyond it to the endlessly-cycling energies that animate us and everything we see and don't see.
I think it's just as well I decided not to complete that navel-gazing essay about the transformation of my attitude toward writing. I had much better things to do. I found them not by setting an overly-serious intention (like the production of an article explaining how I'd learned to be comfortable writing again when I stopped taking it so seriously), but by paying attention to subtle intuitions, almost whims--following where my feet wanted to go.
Sunday morning I ended up in the lodge, with the thought of labeling just a few of our subscription renewal envelopes before I headed to the office to do other things. I planned to organize a bulk mailing party the following day, when I knew more volunteers would be available. On Sunday, I just wanted to do a small amount of preparation and spend a few extra minutes around the woodstove. But that's not what happened. Three hours after I stuck that first label on, the 1500-piece mailing was entirely completed, sorted, and packaged. And a large part of the labeling was done by 5-to-8-year-olds (and a few even younger), who were so excited about helping me that they were disappointed when there were no more envelopes to label. I had never even asked for help--they insisted. I decided that the fact that a few of the labels ended up not exactly parallel with the top and bottom of the envelope was a small price to pay for the joy that these young helpers were finding in doing a productive activity together. And perhaps that personal touch would bring in more subscriptions: it should be obvious to anyone receiving one of those envelopes that it was not labeled by a soulless machine, but by a human being--one who appreciates that straight and parallel lines are mostly an adult-created artifice.
I could have spent Sunday morning fretting over how to complete the written portion of Talking Leaves. Instead, I spent it enjoying the best in human nature, as revealed by the spontaneous helpfulness, enthusiasm, community spirit, directness, and nonstop entertainment provided by a group of children. My unexpected party guests that morning have not yet been (and hopefully never will be) confused or demoralized by the life-negating qualities of an adult world where that attunement to "the heart of now"--that sense of the sacred--has been lost.
It's true that the mailing party couldn't have happened without a lot of planning on my part. Magazines, address lists, and preprinted remittance envelopes don't materialize out of thin air. In creating a sustainable world together, we adults do need to cultivate an awareness of past and future, the ability to think seven generations ahead, an appreciation of what came before us, a "long view" of the ecological and social landscapes in which we reside, a practical attunement to day-to-day realities in an agriculturally-based society (which we do still live in, lest any of us forget). These practical "long view" qualities are important, and they're probably why our species has developed "adulthood" in the first place. (Also, heavy things sometimes need to be moved.)
But we adults also need to be in touch with the present, and be able to fully immerse in it. And how each of us experiences that present is unique--we're each slightly different. A spiritual ecologist might say that we each assume a slightly different niche in the ecology of Gaian self-awareness. A student of community would notice that at any one moment we each play different roles in our group's process, which vary and change over time. We don't need to be attached to those roles, yet we each have specific gifts that may predispose us to filling certain ones.
For example, in this moment, I am writing, rather than disco dancing. Some people might claim that I would be more immersed in the present if I were disco dancing, and that I am a hypocrite for choosing to engage with the written word instead. But I can only counter that I am immersed in my present. I hear the call of a winter wren outside my yurt. I hear the sound of a hammer, further in the distance, fixing someone's porch steps. I feel the pleasant coolness of the late-November air, especially against my legs, which, except for my fingers, have the fewest layers of clothing on (only two) right now. I see all the split firewood near my woodstove, which I have chosen not to light today because I enjoy the crispness of the morning. And I'm aware that my fingers need to keep moving in order to stay warm. None of this would be possible were I disco-dancing right now.
Nor would I likely be thinking about the trees that were harvested to create that firewood, or remembering how splitting the rounds into pieces warmed me up so much a few nights ago that I didn't even need a fire by the end of the process. I would not be noticing the sun just breaking through the clouds now, or looking at the clock on my computer and realizing that we need a few more salad greens harvested for lunch today.
So no, I am not disco dancing. I like this better. Everything is transforming around me. A vocalization produced by a small brown bird sets off a sympathetic vibration within my ear drums and ultimately warms my fingers and results in the rearrangement of some pixels on my computer screen. Eventually, it will determine the configuration of numerous little drops of soy ink on the page you are reading. That winter wren has set off a chain of events that will be just as real as they are impossible to trace or quantify. Everything and everyone, in his or her own way, does this all the time.
A few more reflections on transformation before I begin my next "fast" from writing:
Like that wren when it starts singing up a storm again later this winter, part of me keeps thinking: "love" is right around the corner. Someone, soon, will realize that we're soul mates, or at least a really good match. I get caught up in ego and fear. Then I realize: I am in love with almost everybody, on some level. And particularly certain people. But I can't define love in exclusive human terms anyway. When I am attuned to the process of transformation, I am in unconditional love, regardless of how close I am or am not to any other person.
According to my computer's word-count function, I have now generated enough material to fill those four empty pages, thus solving, at least temporarily, my two former "problems." I've also managed to keep my fingers warm, and have been rescued by the bell from getting any more personal. Without transformation, none of this would have been possible.
But right now, I need to harvest some vegetables. We can't eat words for lunch. I mean, not that we'd want to...although that might change once I see this in print.
Chris Roth edits Talking Leaves. If you think he should not be so verbose, email him at [email protected]. And while you're at it, send submissions (see page 2) so he won't have extra space to fill next time.
©2004 Talking Leaves
Winter 2004/2005
Volume 14, Number 4
Transformation: Endings and Beginnings
In July, when I chose the theme for this issue--"Transformation: Endings and Beginnings"--I had little idea of what transformations lay in store. Some transformations were already well under way at Lost Valley--a very large turnover in the makeup of our resident community, for example. Others, including two deaths among our circle of close friends and family, came as great shocks. And the change within the US political system that I hoped would be ushered in on November 2 took a decidedly different turn from what I had in mind.
The late-summer/autumn season itself was full of transformations, which delayed my work on this issue until early November. Some were seasonal: in the months of September and October, we brought in the harvest from the summer crops, and when those were killed by frost, we replanted the garden beds with wintertime vegetables. Until the garlic, winter salad greens, and cover crops are in, autumn gardening is a race against the rain--and fortunately (because I delayed magazine work), we won that race again this year. The beautiful transition from summer's green/brown lushness to autumn's multicolored tapestry (parts of it migrating from twig-tip to ground), and from long, warm, dry days to short, colder, wet ones, was the backdrop to all this garden-related activity.
Community life here was also unusually busy and full of change, in part because of the relatively high degree of staff and resident turnover this year. We needed to make many decisions about who was to be here, how things would get done, and other community and business matters. We held a series of reviews of new and prospective members, and started our visioning process for the coming year. We found that, when a departure resulted in a newly-unmet need within the community or within the business, someone generally appeared who was excited about meeting that need, and able to do so. We have been very fortunate to have attracted a number of enthusiastic interns, as well as new prospective community members, who have stepped into the breaches left by the departure of several long-term members. We are exploring new facets of organizational development, refining our educational programs, and also developing new capacity within the events center for next year. On the physical plane, the grounds and facilities have undergone extensive transformation this year, thanks to the dedication and love of many who have joined us with a desire to share their skills and passions in beautification, cleaning, and ecological work. These changes included a new swale and improved pathway next to the meadow area on the way to the creek; spruced-up, deeply-cleaned, and beautifully painted spaces in many parts of the property; new signs; remodeled offices; and a host of other improvements.
Some of the transformations were also personal. I remember that in the first few weeks of September in particular, self-expression trumped fear on multiple occasions, in several areas of my life, and for this I am very grateful. (Hopefully anyone who received a dose of deepened honesty from me, or who witnessed my overcoming guitar-related stage fright, didn't feel otherwise.) However, communicating, music-making, and being generally happier do not necessarily translate into increased time available for holing up alone with a computer to try to crank out yet another issue of Talking Leaves.
Two deaths hit us this fall. Justin Davis arrived at Lost Valley in mid-August, joining his partner Karly Dillard, who'd spent most of the summer here as an intern. Justin worked tirelessly on the land, scything, doing other important maintenance projects, and also leading the construction of a rock wall/bench/garden area in front of our main lodge. His sense of humor, gentleness, dedication, playfulness, and love for people and the natural world--and the caring he brought to everything he did and to every interaction he had--contributed greatly to our community. I particularly appreciated his musicality; a singer-songwriter-guitarist, he joined me in creating the "Lost Valley Ramblers," who performed at this year's fall Permaculture Gathering in Eugene. On Monday, October 4, just six days after leaving Lost Valley to return to his native Texas, Justin died in an automobile accident when an oncoming vehicle crossed into his lane. He was 26 years old. We will miss him. In this issue, we excerpt some of the journal entries he made during the last few months of his life, and we also include reflections by Karly and several community members upon his passing.
Larry's mother Ruth was also known and loved by many of us. Larry had moved to town in early summer, but he and his family are still near and dear to us here. Ruth was among my favorite "community parents" (as well as an avid Talking Leaves reader). She and Sy brought an unquenchable curiosity and enthusiasm to their visits to their family-away-from home here; and their obvious love for their grandchildren, Matt and Grace, was deservedly reciprocated. Unlike some parents, they fully supported their son's sometimes unconventional choices, which included investing a decade of his life into Lost Valley as he and Karin raised a family here. After a series of health setbacks and a month in a hospital in New Jersey, Ruth died on October 17. We are grateful for her life, and know that she will continue to inspire those of us whose lives she touched.
Several other deaths of people with some association or relationship to Lost Valley or its members also occurred within the last few months. It has been a time of change, a time for grieving and acceptance of the reality of the cycles of life and death.
Because of the intensity of transformation happening this fall, it was not until November 3 that I had any significant time to consider putting together this issue. And because of the election results, I was not feeling particularly inspired about anything that day. In fact, I was downright despondent about the mentality of the US electorate, the state of the world, and the relevance of anything I as one individual was managing to do in my life--including editing this Podunk magazine. Especially since I did not have enough material assembled yet to fill an entire issue, putting together TL seemed more like a burden than a joy on that day. I couldn't even bring myself to write anything, since I wanted to convey something positive and inspiring and almost all of my thoughts that day were dark.
Among the things that helped pull me out of despondency on November 3 were a series of emails I received. The nature of this Talking Leaves issue suddenly became clear to me--it can't be a forced treatise on the wondrous process of transformation, but needs to speak to what we have been experiencing, which has included ample amounts of grief, sorrow, and mourning. Some transformational opportunities are simply no longer possible in the same form they once were. These opportunities are replaced by others, of course, but that doesn't mitigate the immediate loss of loved ones or elections (if indeed the elections were legitimately lost; significant evidence suggests otherwise). The emails I received that day were born out of the pain of recognition that what seems so obvious to many of us is not a shared reality with approximately half of active US voters (give or take a few percentage points, depending on the extent of shenanigans that may have occurred)--and that the world faces the prospect of four more years of a US administration with policies and positions that send chills down many spines. This issue contains some of the writings that helped me see a bigger, more inspiring picture again, and to let go of my attachment to the hoped-for election outcomes that did not materialize. I hope they will do the same for you. The hopes and dreams that many of us brought to November 2, only to have them apparently dashed, do not have to die--they just need to find other forms. Perhaps they will find fuller expression as they continue to transform and evolve.
Other writing in this issue considers transformation from other perspectives. We may be experiencing some "hard times in Babylon" (as Eliza Gilkyson was when she created the stunning CD reviewed on page 36), but that doesn't mean better days are not coming. Please join us in making sure those days become reality.
©2004 Talking Leaves
Winter 2004/2005
Volume 14, Number 4
Transformation: Endings and Beginnings
We request submissions in electronic form if possible, with the text pasted into the body of an email (sent to [email protected]), or in text-only format or Mac Word 6.0.1 or lower on a CD mailed to our office (please include hard copy as well). We invite and encourage the inclusion of artwork both related and unrelated to articles or poems (send original photos/art to be scanned, or send electronic files at 200 dpi or greater--tiff for Mac, or original jpg). We welcome your comments and letters.
We also need financial support from those who believe that this magazine can contribute to a more hopeful future; please return the enclosed envelope to help support the work of Lost Valley Educational Center and Talking Leaves.Without you, these particular leaves can't continue talking. Thanks for reading TL!
©2004 Talking Leaves
Winter 2004/2005
Volume 14, Number 4
Transformation: Endings and Beginnings