Sunday Week 6
She’s sure now.
Sliding into an ocean of dread, wave after relentless wave takes her, plunges her to blackness. She surfaces long enough to foil the questions in her mother’s eyes. Deeper this time. They say drowning is a peaceful way to die. No peace here, none at all.

Sunday Week 8
Parade Magazine headlines the latest celebrity. Inside, a small piece lifts off the page. The waves ebb. Maybe it’s only low tide. Maybe God answers prayers.

Sunday Week 9
Save me, her dark eyes cry. The unfamiliar minister looks up. Yes, he says, yes, it’s true, yes, I saw it, too. Crushing the torn wafer he offers, she feels herself being lifted high over the waves. Unfolded now, the backlit letters, “Clergy Council for Problem Pregnancies” breathe life back into her lungs. Gracias a Dios, she whispers, sure now.

Sunday Week 11
A clinic hidden inside a house. Women wait, mothers and daughters. Alone. The words “risk of dying“ stand out. Too late. She hands over $300, puts on the gown. The ether lifts her away to oblivion and then a slap. Dark now, leave out the back door, bleeding, unsteady. Not so sure anymore.

Sunday Week 15
College. A new start, no hindrances, a life forsaken, a life regained. Sure again.

Gaia shifts.
The baby’s chambered heart swells to the vibration,
ripples of ecstasy rising from her crown.
Green rivers turn to red.
Light cradles the crib, seeping onto the mattress.
Winged creatures rise to watch from afar.

The mortician suggested having the service before the end of the year, finish with the sad business, have a clean start for a new year.

At her diagnosis, expectations were set. Why, of course, hospice would help us through this. We read the books on good dying, how and when to say goodbye, instructions on managing pain. She accepted dying, thought she’d bask in her last few months, hosting guests, relishing memories. But after a few weeks of side effects, I found her sitting on the toilet, weeping, saying over and over, “I didn’t think it would be like this”.

More surprises. Morphine changed her from a sweet Baptist to a raunchy vamp. She flirted with the chaplain, told dirty stories, made bigoted remarks, her tongue unleashing secrets of her own teen pregnancy, an aborted life.

Others wrote about the good dying, we lived the bad. Four calls after midnight to hospice when no amount or type of pain relief gave any. Lying awake, exhausted, panic swooping around the room, settling in my chest. Baby monitor capturing every groan, shift, or wheeze. Where was the Light? Where was grace, redemption, forgiveness? Someone else’s death, not this one.

Releasing her ashes, a shift of breeze flung them back at me, dusting my face and hair. Bits of her settled on the seawall, resisting. Nothing right, nothing to plan, not even this.

I have been waiting for you as you played on Earth, your smile hesitant, then brilliant. When shadows of experiences veiled your way, I stopped and waited, still. Time to catch up, I thought, but oh so patiently. After all, what is time but an artificial construct of the human mind?

I see the blue bubble, riding o’er your crown, a faint cerulean streamer floating ever higher. Original Energy, Source, All That Is, slides down the wave spectrum, engulfing the bubble, showering your cells in luminescence. Sometimes you twitch as though the Puppeteer has lifted the marionette’s strings. Surprised at this uncontrolled impulse, your breath hangs for a millenium. Then it’s back to stepping, the cloak of illusion and disbelief muffling your vibrancy.

3 AM. Your pineal pulses to the rhythm of vaster dimensions and you travel to me. Together we climb onto the sultan’s carpet and glide through the starry night. You see points of light in an indigo sky. I see …more. Your inner camera lens captures a piece here and particle there, frozen images and yet, sometimes your shutter stays open just long enough to wash your visual field in Pure Light. You blink, transfixed, transmogrified, every concept of self, of the I, obliterated. The blue field of your being courses with aliveness, and suddenly, you, too, see…more.

Recently some friends told me they don’t follow the news or make any attempt to stay informed, because it’s “too negative”. Yes, it’s true that much of the news is “bad”. We can overdose on mainstream news sources, wallow in overexposed TV tragedies (can anyone say “360″?), and play the “ain’t it awful” game, but I don’t believe we should look the other way and act as if these world news events are not happening. Everyone of us is contributing to the detriment or betterment (usually both, depending on the issue) of life on Earth because every social and economic action we take has consequences, from the most mundane (buying toilet paper) to civic (voting). Paying no attention does not disqualify us from having an effect.

Rather than giving up because the news is a bummer, or succumbing to cynicism (which is occasionally entertaining but ultimately enervating,) why not seek balance in the sources of information we review and the attitude they present? My recommendation is to find news sources that provide more than one side of a story. Sure, watch the Evening News, but occasionally read some alternative print magazines or ezines like Mother Jones, Utne Reader, Alternet, Common Dreams, and Environmental News Network.

Further, check out foreign press for an entirely different spin on news than what you’ll find on the home front. As only one example, you can usually find the UK magazine, The Economist, at the library or on most newsstands.

You likely won’t agree with all you see and hear, but at least you will have a broader perspective from which to make your decisions and take action.

Regardless of your news sources, you may still get depressed with the magnitude of the issues covered. It’s easy to get overwhelmed when we are barraged with stories of war, nuclear weapons, terrorists, famine, poverty, mass species’ extinction, and many more environmental and social justice issues. To balance all the bad news, seek inspiration by learning about successes in making a positive difference. Here are some starting places, and if you are aware of others, please share: Yes, the Magazine of Positive Futures, The Giraffe Heroes Project, and Good News Network.

The YouTube video linked here inspired me to write this post. Maybe it will give your spirit a lift, too. As the Hopi Elders have told us, “we are the ones we have been waiting for”.

HOPI ELDERS SPEAK

You have been telling the people that this is the Eleventh Hour.
Now you must go back and tell the people that this is The Hour.
There are things to be considered.

Where are you living?
What are you doing?
What are your relationships?
Are you in right relation?
Where is your water?
Know your garden.
It is time to speak your truth.
Create your community.
Be good to each other.
And do not look outside yourself for the leader.

This could be a good time!

There is a river flowing now very fast.
It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid.
They will try to hold on to the shore.
They will feel they are being torn apart, and they will suffer greatly.

Know the river has its destination.
The elders say we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open, and our heads above water.

See who is in there with you and celebrate.
At this time in history, we are to take nothing personally.
Least of all, ourselves.
For the moment that we do, our spiritual growth and journey comes to a halt.
The time of the lone wolf is over.
Gather yourselves!
Banish the word “struggle” from your attitude and vocabulary.
All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.
We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.

(attributed to an unnamed Hopi elder; Hopi Nation, Oraibi, AZ; http://www.communityworks.info/hopi.htm)

AUGUST 17, 2007

It’s only Friday and already we have had a near-miss Category 2 hurricane, three earthquakes in the 4.4 — 5.4 magnitude range, a tsunami advisory, a wildfire causing the evacuation of homes, and a 56 acre lava bench collapse near the ongoing eruption of Kilauea volcano. Even for a native Californian, hardened by living on the ever-moving San Andreas Fault, as well as experiencing Hawaii’s 6.7 quake of last October, it’s been an unsettling week.

Many Native Hawaiians believe the Creative Force of Nature, embodied in the Fire Goddess, Pele, resides on this island, in the center of Halemaumau Crater, now part of nearby Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. Within 30 miles of my home, I can observe, in real time, the creation of new land and the destruction of old by volcanic eruption. This week’s quakes were in the area of this current flow, likely more evidence of sizzling magma on the move. Living here, quakes “come with the territory“, quite literally. Hurricanes have raked the state in year’s past, with familiar tourist hotels still shuttered 14 years after Iniki hit Kauai, so as we residents observe our communities, reminders of Nature’s actions are never far away.

Just as the Big Island has 11 of the world’s 13 microclimates, it may also contain all the types of natural threats on earth, with the possible exception of snow avalanches (even though Poliahu, the Goddess of Snow, visits Mauna Kea each winter). Living here it’s necessary to come to terms with the constant threats of high UV-rayed sunlight, crashing 30 foot surf, lava bench collapses, frequent flash floods, wildfires in rain-parched leeward lands, and fresh hot streams of liquid fire oozing towards your home.

Maybe it is not surprising that I was drawn to live here. Residing in the lap of Nature’s creative and destructive forces, subjected to upheavals of all varieties, living in the middle of the Pacific, I feel more at home than anywhere else on the planet. Yes, my heart beats faster in fear when the ground starts to shake, the skies deliver galloping curtains of raindrops the size of M and M’s, or winds blow open the bolted doors. Yet when the light of the sun presses apart the clouds, illuminating the wind’s movement by continuously reshaping the swirling puffs of white cream, when the rainbow arcs over the ocean spray, and the birds return to the grass, I am joy-filled, ecstatic, so glad to be alive, and as the locals say, feel “lucky I live Hawaii”.

In the late 80’s, I started having frequent disaster dreams, primarily of huge earthquakes and tsunamis. In therapy at the time, I interpreted the dreams to be entirely personal, relating to my own floods of painful emotions and large shifts in my psyche. Used this way, these dreams acted as a barometer of my progress towards healing. Through the lens of my subconscious, I was able to observe, in dreamtime, the death of self and the rebirth to Self.

Since moving to Hawaii, my disaster dreams have returned, more vivid and detailed, maybe because of the reality of the dangers around me. But viewed in a larger context, maybe it is, for the planet, a time of death and rebirth. Mystics and scientists are converging, while still speaking in different tongues, in their views that natural disasters are on the rise. Whether due to man’s insensitivity to our home place, cosmic cycles running their natural course, the Christian’s Armageddon or the Islamist’s Jihad, the inhabitants of Planet Earth seemed poised to observe, in our lifetimes, great shifts in culture, geography, and environment.

Whether you believe in rescue via Rapture, survival in underground bunkers, escape to distant planets, or intervention by friendly extraterrestrials, until that day occurs, why not gear yourself to watch in wonder at the events that are unfolding in front of your eyes? If all we do is seek safety, which may be only an illusion, a lucky happenstance, or the result of picking the right team, we may miss the glory of our next breath, the light on the leaves after the rains, the sweet stumble of a child’s first steps. Someday the sun may rise on a new Earth, seeded with a new generation of exotic creatures. Who’s to say? In the meantime, do whatever you need to do to prepare, but don’t forget to relish all you love, open to Life’s many gifts, cling to nothing, and remind yourself to feel “lucky you live Here, Now”.

The fragrance of Basil envelops me as I brush against her bright green leaves. It’s impossible to ignore her, even if my garden destination is another plant.

Basil cries out, “Here! Here! Pick me! I’m so glad to see you. Let me share my bounteous greens, my delightful aromas. My family is present in gardens around the world, our uses culinary, medicinal, and holy. Surely, we Basils may seem to be nothing fancy, hardly considered exotic, and yet, can you imagine how dull your sensual world would be without us?

Let the aroma of my Genovese Basil plunge you back to that summer in Tuscany…remember sitting under the grape arbor, drinking Chianti by the flickering of fireflies, dining on fresh San Marzano tomatoes, with pulp so fleshy, red and thick, so explosively flavorful as to negate any thoughts of darker things in the world?

Remember how Cinnamon Basil’s savory-sweet mix enhanced the braised lamb at Caravansary in San Francisco? You were a young woman then, smitten by the cosmopolitan ambiance of that great city, dreaming of journeys ahead.
Sharing mezze of hummus, baba ghanoush, and pita bread with friends, Cinnamon Basil and company introduced you to a foreign place by first tasting the cuisine.

Thai Basil, with her complex combination of citrus and licorice notes, takes you back to a humid, steamy night of lavish dining on the banks of the Chao Phraya, the food carvings of radishes and carrots offering a visual still life against the tactile fireworks exploding on your tongue. Wildly infatuated with Asia and the man across the table, you basked in the pleasures spread before you.

Sweet, Mediterranean, African Blue, Lime, Lemon, Mexican Spice, Opal Purple, Red Rubin, Greek, Sweet Chen, my many names, like my flavors, luxuriate in your mouth. As my fragrance dances around you, recall how the Peruvian shaman’s use of my leaves and flowers, when mixed with the waters of the Amazon in a limpia, purified you to meet the plant teachers of ayahuasca. This Basil was a midwife, who embraced and cradled your spirit and delivered you gently into a state of grace.

Holy Tulsi, Tulasi (the Incomparable One), in Sanskrit, worshipped in India as a manifestation of the Goddess Lakshmi, is rightfully revered for Her healing and comforting qualities. Recall how planting Her by your doorway invites well-being and benediction.”

Brushing gently against Basil in my garden, I realize how my life has been enriched and blessed by Her Presence. Basil says, “Here! Here! Pick me. Smell me. Taste me. Savor me. Let me embrace you, heal you, fill you and open your heart.”

I do, and She is Divine.

Stick Your Neck Out by John Graham

YOU CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE

If you are familiar with the Giraffe Heroes Project, you will know of John Graham.

Stick Your Neck Out, his latest book, is one I recommend for citizen activists (that’s you and me…Graham gives tools to help any of us stop complaining and take action).

This guide reads easily and is packed with helpful information and inspiring case studies. His suggestions are holistic and soulful, while still grounded in the realities and challenges of changemaking in today’s world of polarized views. He advocates win/win solutions as optimal, but offers advice on how and when legal means might be necessary.

If you aren’t already motivated to take action to improve situations in your neighborhood, community, country, or planet, Graham’s sharing of his heart, experience, and optimism will move you to action. His message: take risks, be smart (by learning from his and others’ mistakes), and yes, YOU absolutely can make a positive difference!

Jungle Medicine by Connie Grauds

Magic, Mystery, and Medicine

In this classic tale of the dark night of the soul, a mainstream, mid-Western woman, trained as a pharmacist, travels to Amazonia to further her medical education. There she meets indigenous shamans, keepers of the secrets of the medicinal plants of the rainforest, and discovers that the key to healing is more than the pharmacological properties of the plants. Profoundly stirred by the spiritual energies awakened in her by the shamans she encounters, her science background fails to explain her emotional, physical and spiritual crises, nor does it offer her total healing.

Readers will relate to the author’s life situations; who among us hasn’t had a health challenge (in the author’s case, cancer), a marriage gone awry, a job that doesn’t fit, or a life that feels parched and devoid of inspiration? Not everyone will seek healing in the same way as the author, but her pursuit of clarity, purpose, and health is a universal human story, told with honesty, insight, and humor.

Jungle Medicine isn’t an academic treatise on indigenous tribes, ethnobotany, shamanism, or ayahuasca, (the spiritual plant medicine used by South American shamans), although all of those topics flow throughout the story. Instead, the author’s lush, sensual descriptions of the daily life-and-death dramas of the jungle, her ability to write of plant medicine pharmacology in a way a layperson can understand, and the information she provides about the natural medicinal riches of the rainforest, (increasingly endangered due to slash-and-burn agriculture and petroleum exploration), takes the reader on an exciting, tactile journey to the heart and lungs of the planet, the Amazonian jungle. More than a memoir of spiritual emergence and physical healing, Jungle Medicine is a call to action to all of us, to walk in tempo with the song of our life’s purpose, to respect Nature’s bounty, to make spiritual healing equally as important as our Western medical technology, and to act now to save the irreplaceable pharmacy that is the Amazonian rainforest.

I live surrounded by tropical jungle, teaming with invasive species: showy African Tulip Trees, swaying Alexander Palms, and purplish Miconia (a large-leaf ornamental which has overtaken 80% of Tahiti’s native forest in 40 years). The newest invaders are coqui frogs; looking like miniature Kermits, these imports originated in shipments of plant material from their native habitat, Puerto Rico. There they are kept in balance by predators, but in Hawaii, the only challenge to their explosive population growth is man.

Humans carried them in, and now humans are facing the high decibel aftermath. The shrill mating screams of the males, measured at fortissimo levels of 125 dbl, have residents of the Big Island resorting to the Big Guns to attempt a good night’s sleep. Battle jargon colors talk of amphibious take-overs of territories. The media cites the War on Coquis and county and state officials, after several years of lamentations and hand-wringing, now clamor to hold community meetings on the subject, lest their constituents think they are able to sleep on the job. Community pressure has persuaded local government and the USDA to engage in the skirmishes on public lands and near refuse transfer stations (where county trash trucks spread new coqui infestations by moving collection trailers from site to site).

At dusk and in the dark, CDS’s (Coqui Death Squads) made up of community residents, wrestle four-hundred gallon sprayer hoses, filled with caustic hydrated lime or citric acid slurries, to blast thumb-sized frogs off of banana fronds and ginger flowers. On a smaller scale, some folks, especially the elderly, are going mano-a-mano, targeting these tiny, shiny-skinned froglets with bleach in spray bottles or spoonfuls of baking soda.

Three years ago, my night sounds consisted of a few crickets and the surf hitting the shore. Now, I awaken to the advance call of a juvenile male coqui, pushing into new territory, his screams rising as a solo, strident top note to the general chorus. I know amorous females will follow and soon, a new colony will be trespassing closer to my home. Instead of sleeping, I have arguments with myself over the ethics of killing the frogs, especially given my organic tendencies. Surrounded on four sides by lush, wild acreage, any possible action I would take to kill them would be the equivalent of trying to toss a marble to the moon.

Year-round, it’s too warm to close the windows, and with electricity now costing over $.35 per kilowatt hour, the white noise of air conditioning isn’t an option, either. Catch and release is nearly impossible, and where would I release them? Ear plugs, and the knowledge that the human ear eventually tunes out continuous sounds, are my only recourse.

Isolated in the middle of the Pacific, Hawaii’s latest fear is that the Guam Brown Tree Snake, a reptile that has wiped out most of that island’s indigenous birds, has established a beach head on Oahu, stowing away in one of the many planes that travel between Guam and our islands. Earplugs tucked in, the backdrop of my nights filled with frog sounds, I now have nightmares of picking fruit and facing off the snake. Days of snakes, nights of frogs — indeed, my mind has been invaded by these most unwelcome sleep snatchers.