The Breath Of The Earth: Ancient Anima For The Modern Age

By Jesse Wolf Hardin
http://animacenter.org

“The call to power necessitates turning towards the unknown, the mysterium. This change of direction can be accomplished only through what Carl Jung has referred to as ‘an obedience to awareness’.”
-Joan Halifax

There is one near-constant in the canyons of the Southwest. To some it seems like an adversary and to others a friend.... the breath of Earth, the wind. It blows most of the year, from a gentle and delightful breeze to furious gusts that threaten to down the weaker trees, lift the roof of our cabin, and bring even the most arrogant of us to our knees. Most often it is a soft nuzzling, just enough movement of air to let us know it’s there. There can be midmorning moments of absolute stillness, but even they seem somehow taut in anticipation of when the winds might begin again.

It is the wind that blows caves into the tufa and limestone where no water can reach, that carries the scent of the unwary hunter to the flared nostrils of the deer, and that grabs the attention of even the most distracted– reminding them of the world as it is right now, right here. Wind that dries and cracks the ground, and wind that brings the rain. If a sapling is strong it’s not so much from the tensile of its fibers as the periodic testing of the wind. Wind that tugs at our clothes like a teasing lover, or whips the sand into our eyes. Wind that at least temporarily blows the clutter of words from our burdened, racing minds.

Even the most educated and sophisticated of us walk down this river canyon changed, refined not reduced, simplified into beings that hunger and love, that sense cold and heat, that notice the winds passage and sing without provocation. Into curious primates, kindred creatures to those furry and feathered ones that share with us this home. To even the most jaded and predisposed, all the canyon seems energized, alive.... and inspirited. Spirit in the myriad plants and animals, vibrating within volcanic rocks, glowing in the light of a setting sun. Spirit in taste and scent, struggle and fun. Spirit in the life giving river, and in the giddy intercourse of evolving life forms. Spirit in those small and plain things our society so often scorns. Spirit tracing its own movements, in graceful designs in weed lashed sand. Spirit empowering every helpful hand. Spirit in our daughter’s hopeful face. Spirit in the hearts and deeds of they who serve love, truth and place. Spirit singing out from pink and gold cliffs, in the voices of those russet ritualists who came before. And spirit emboldening young cottonwoods and willows to do the “impossible”– extending determined roots into what is an always shifting shore. Spirit that seems to writhe like a river within, spirit as indomitable wind.

Throughout history most cultures and religions have made some reference to wind as a manifestation of or metaphor for spirit. To the Greeks, Anima meant both “courage,” and wind or breath. In the Taoist tradition of Tibet and Nepal, passing through nature and life fully present, conscious and compassionate is called “lung-gom,” the way of the wind. The original meaning of the word “spirit” was “breath:” a clear volume of energy that one can best feel when it moves, alerts, prods or pushes, seduces or agitates. One way to think of spirituality then is as an act of tireless respiration, rhythmically and reciprocally taking in and giving back in equal willing measure.

Students and seekers come to this canyon from all over, each riding astride the currents of their own personal winds of change. Whether they have a language for it or not, most people come here for more than to just spend time at a wild and beautiful retreat center. They come to get in deeper touch with that place within themselves that is still just as beautiful and alive, free and untamed, passionate and purposeful.... to visit what usually proves to be a vast, uncharted and hope-filled savannah within. They are often at a crossroads in their lives looking for the necessary signs to help them decide, or on the edge of some precipice from which they must either fall or fly. Their journey begins not with the booking of a flight to New Mexico, the long drive from Albuquerque in a rented vehicle, or even the mile and a half walk to the refuge from where all cautious cars park. It begins with an awareness they cannot suppress, insights they’re unable to ignore, distraction and dishonor we can no longer tolerate.... and sometimes a calling that just won’t let us be. It is furthered with our grounding in authentic self, service and place. It involves conscious mystical connection, interdependence and interpenetration; expanding empathy and heightened sensation; contact and contracts with the inspirited land, its creatures and plants; energies, entities and insistent inspiriteurs.

Whatever one calls it, there would seem to be a dynamic power that courses through this planet and its wind-filled atmosphere– a vibrational unity, an underlying if in some respects incomprehensible pattern, an entity or energy of inclusion that animates, inspires, enlightens and fuels the best of what it means to be human “kind.” It is this sense of lasting integral beingness that we cleave to, whether envisioned as a male God or Yahweh, a female Goddess or Mother Earth or a formless force for balance or good. And whether recognized by Christian or Jew, Buddhist or Pagan, reformed urban cynic, or man and woman of the woods. The Animá we teach is not just primitive religiosity or a holistic way of perceiving the world. It’s a growing contemporary study, practice and way of life intended for all deeply feeling, intensely seeking people... rooted in ancient ways of knowing and being, in connective “New Science” as well as the lessons and revelations of the natural world. Drawing from the source and ground of all knowing and being, it is possible for Animá to inform – rather than compete with – existing religious, indigenous, magical and philosophical traditions.

As a study, Animá can deepen understanding of our genuine, able selves, in interrelationship with each other, our human communities, and the community of all life. As a practice, it can help us: Increase sense of presence and enjoy increased mindfulness. Better explore personal direction and spiritual or magical path. Deepen awareness and understanding of natural authentic self. Awaken bodily senses, learning to better sense the world we are an integral part of, see more patterns and beauty, hear more exquisitely, taste every nuance of our food, savor even the mundane details of our mortal lives. Explore the so called “sixth sense,” including resonant empathy and innate intuition. Tap into bodily knowing and primal instinct. Grow our sense of place... of family, home, land, ecosystem and bioregion. Further our awareness of and active relationship to the natural, revelatory world. Recognize the intrinsic nature of and animating force in everything, and every thing’s intrinsic value apart from human use. Increase our sense of self worth and confidence, based on our true abilities rather than imposed or imagined characteristics and gifts. Come to better understand our fears, and how to use them as markers for what needs our attention, as fuel to act, to change what needs changing. Realize that we are a co-creators of not only our reality but our world, and commit to acting accordingly. Discover how to give back to the earth that provides and inspires. Learn how to grow from every mistake or misdirection. Get beyond victimhood and attachment to escape or distress. Extricate ourselves from unhealthy habits, expectations, judgments and ways of thinking. Develop healthy attachments to life, spirit, values and missions. Make every moment a decisive moment, and take responsibility for what we both do and don’t do. Reawaken a childlike sense of wonder and connection. Learn how to best utilize our gifts and skills for the good of the greater whole. Discover how to actively fulfill our most meaningful purpose. Positively affect, even in small ways, everyone we meet. Make our environs more healthy, beautiful and natural, as we heal, express and manifest our natural selves. Learn to better celebrate and greater savor.

While each person is unique, the animating spirit of nature can take us to our core, beneath the edifice and habit, and to a place of core agreements and values. In the condition where we are most alive, that we are also most connected, empathic, grateful and caring. Learning to open to the pain of separation and imbalance, simultaneously expands our capacities to feel excitement, awe, love, inspiration and satisfaction. The same winds course through the hearts of every feeling creature, and it’s that Animá that connects us all.

Once again the Southwest breezes pick up, mussing our hair as we breathe in the world... and the earth, in turn, breathes us.

BEAR MAGIC

By Jesse Wolf Hardin
http://animacenter.org

beartooth set in silver

heavy at my throat

I wander into the morning

carrying a basket of flowers

and roots

barefoot in the remnants

of a heavy dew

and I am singing an old song

the blood song

of animal and woman

bound together

into one body, one spirit

-flesh, fur and bone-

-Kiva Rose

A heavy presence pads through the forest primeval, heavy like nightfall, heavy like the weighty body of the universe. We feel its approach, even as we swim the glare of the midday sun— its corporeal mass slowly moving towards us, intent on enveloping us. It is the spirit of a giant that survived the Ice Age, tearing apart the fallen trunks of ancient trees, knocking flailing salmon and furry golden marmots high into the air, continuing to stalk the darkly hidden caves of our dreams: the bear.

It comes not to silence but to awaken. To consume distraction and illusion, to put an end to the irrelevant and trivial, to draw our attention to what matters most in us and around us. To lead us to the ways and plants that can help us heal. To deliver us back to our whole, primal, magical, responsive selves. Some of us may feel the bear inside, raising up and helping us stand strong and straight, driving our hungers and feeding the growth of our insight and wisdom. Some may claim the bear totem as their own, as though the bear had claimed and inhabited them. And for all of us, it is a potential teacher that we would be unwise to ignore.

--#--

Grizzly! The sound of their name is enough to pass a charge, like electricity through our bones, enough to cast a long and deep shadow across our rapidly shrinking arrogance, illusory sense of omnipotence and fragile certainty. One glance at a grizz's unmistakable claw marks eight foot up the side of his scratching-tree and every nerve comes instantly to attention. Every sense is alerted, every light turned on at once in the mortal housing of the soul. Enlivened! Every cell open-eyed and open-mouthed, every molecule on tip-toes, straining to perceive.

Awakeness. Intensified perception. These are the first gifts of the great bear. With their slow lumbering thunder, comes the excitement and clarity of lightning bolts: sudden, penetrating, en-lightening! Truly, one perceives more in grizzly country. Sees further. Hears more acutely. Smells deeper. Notices more. Our senses honed to a fine, irreconcilable edge. Without ever actually seeing a bear, the mere thought of it is as a claw stripping the opaque film from our perceptual lens. The civilized traits of inattention and indifference are swiftly gutted like fish, and left to curl and dry on hot river rocks. Sloth joins nonchalance, pawed into a carrion pile beneath a layer of sticks and dirt.

More people are hurt in California shower stalls each year than are hurt by wild animals in the entire country. The fact is that there's a greater probability of being hit by lightning than attacked by a bear. Our heightened awareness in grizzly country results from the possibility of a bear attack, not by its likelihood. Systematic and almost complete removal of this wilderness potential allows for us to sleep-walk through most wilderness experiences on "automatic pilot," the way we may be used to functioning in the "work-a-day" world. Reduction in any wilderness potential reduces our own ability to experience.

Since our Paleolithic ancestors first contested proprietorship of a cave, the great bear has been a reminder that humans are not at the top of the "food chain." Ask any grizzly you meet. Or, if you're below a certain size, ask a starving mountain lion. If anything, soil is at the top, since it gets to eat everybody . Civilized cultures fear dirt for this very reason, fighting back with soaps, detergents, and above-ground mausoleums. But they fear the bear most of all.

At its worst, civilized human existence can be unnatural, reduced, confined, insulated like a padded cell, buffered from danger and thus from adventure, heightened sensation, spontaneity and awe. A great effort is made to ensure the urban environment is the opposite of grizzly country: constrained, predictable, metered, pacified, and inflexibly scheduled. There's a singular lucidity to grizzly country, a brilliance and clarity like sunlight dancing on a curved tooth. Time spent in grizzly country is infinitely and necessarily flexible. Spontaneity and attentiveness are traits that contribute to both our capacity to survive and to enjoy.

But the grizzly, and in fact all species of bear, have more to teach us than merely being alert. They are intuitives, seers, shamans, travelers of the soul and instinctual healers that have influenced our development and psychology for ages. Our species evolved in close relationship with Ursus, serving alternately as the bears' food and prey, as their destroyers, their fawning bards... and their rapt students.

--#--

The earliest physical evidence of human reverence for animal spirits was discovered in various grottoes high in the mountains of Franconia, Switzerland and Germany. Along with numerous tools and fauna remains, they discovered purposeful collections of cave bear skulls stacked neatly on shelves, or protected inside stone cabinets protected by slab "doors." Some were encircled by a formation of small rocks, while another held a leg bone in its mouth. Here were not only the tools for killing and fleshing these powerful animals, but proof of their veneration by what must have been a bear cult. It seems that from earliest times the bear was seen as the "Animal Master," the strongest of all. Right relationship with the bear, however each tribe defined that, would determine what other animals made themselves available.

I once came upon some Pueblo Indian friends of mine way back on a dirt road, north of Taos. Hung upside down next to them was a young black bear carcass. I'd read how human they look with their baggy hide removed, but nothing prepared me for what looked like a skinned man with his chest opened, the pink muscles layered like a teen wrestler with a size #18 neck. They salted and rolled up the skin, fur side in, while I watched the flies probe the exposed body. The hide would be carefully tanned, and the meat left for the coyotes. For them, eating a bear would be like cannibalism. For they are the creatures most like us.

The bear's fierce maternal devotion helps explain her role as the Mother of All Animals. In her book Gods and Goddesses Marija Gimbutas contemplates the hundreds of ancient terracotta "bear nurses" that have been excavated from various Euro-neolithic sites. Many are enthroned female bears, or women with bear masks on, and most are nursing a cub. She sees these as the primordial animal goddess, the Great Mother, nurturing the new gods and goddesses of vegetation and agriculture. The cub, then, becomes Zeus on the bear's nipple, Zalmoxis and Dionysus, Artemis and Diana.

Our ancestors in both the "Old" and "New World" watched the bear go into its den every winter and emerge every Spring— an obvious herald of rebirth, the return of life to a hungry land and hungry people. The people of civilizing Europe harnessed the bear, and the bear's mythology, to the purposes of the field and plow. In England they had the "strawbear," while in Germany he was called the Fastnachtshar: a man dressed up in a straw bear costume who would be led in early Spring to each house of the village. There the man-bear would dance with all the women. The more enthusiastically they danced, the richer the coming crop would be. Pieces of the straw costume would be snatched by the young girls, and placed beneath their pillows to insure fertility, or placed in the nests of their chickens to encourage the laying of eggs. The bear has forever represented as going into the self, into the Earth in order to be refreshed, revitalized and reborn again. Those who would be students of the bear travel the discomforting trail into their inner self, only later returning to the busy surface with the strength and secrets found within. They know that out of the icy sleep of winter comes the regeneration of life.

Entering into an initiation rite is often like going into hibernation. The initiate is likely placed in the dark and isolation of a secluded hut, pit or cave. They may be further wrapped up, blindfolded, or otherwise have their senses and mobility limited as it would be in the womb. As with hibernation, the initiate would seem to die inside, giving up one persona and climbing out in a new, empowered form. For this reason, the Dakota refer to a boy's rite of passage as "to make a bear." The coastal Pomo included both boys and girls in an initiation where the children are symbolically "killed" by the kuksu spirit, with the help of a costumed grizzly bear. They were then removed to the forest for four days and nights. When they were "reborn" into the tribe, they brought with them the secret medicine songs and plant knowledge learned in their travels to the middle world.

For the Ainu of northernmost Japan, the bear was "The Divine One Who Rules the Mountains." To the Cree they are the "Angry One" and "Chief's Son." The Sami translation is roughly "Old Man With Fur Clothes," while the nearby Finns say "Old Lightfoot" or "Pride of the Woods." Most often, wherever they are found they're called "Grandmother" and "Grandfather" out of respect. Long after the adoption of firearms in both Europe and America the indigenous people continued to hunt bears with their most primitive weapons, insisting on honoring their quarry with the personal engagement and inherent fairness of hand to hand combat.

The totemic energy of the bear was invoked by both men and women of one of the select warrior classes of "barbaric" Europe. They got their name "Berserkers" from the bear ("ber") skins ("serks") they wore instead of the uniforms and armor of their more civilized antagonists. Men and women are said to have fought together, biting at their shields, and raising such a tumultuous animal roar that the earliest Roman invaders fled in a total panic. They were famous for their ability to ignore pain, facing unfair odds with uncompromised ferocity. Their characteristic ability to continue fighting in spite of numerous wounds may have been assisted by the consumption of certain psychoactive mushrooms, no doubt showed to them by their rambling bear guides. Among the Great Plains tribes of America they were called "Bear Dreamers" and "Bear Warriors." Known for running head long at their foes, at times with no more than a bear-jaw knife. They believed the bear spirit would protect them, inspiring incredible feats of courage.

The Pueblo name for bear is often the same as for doctor. The bear not only ushers in the spring vegetation, but then shows those who watch close enough which plants and roots to eat, and which herbal medicines to gather for their people. In this country the bear showed the people where to find the kinnickinnick (also called Uva Ursi, or "bearberry"), the yarrow and osha root. The Lakota emergence myth describes the people being tricked into leaving the middle earth by the Trickster Iktomi. For leaving the embrace of the Earth Mother the people were subjected to disease, cold and hunger for the first time— possibly an allegory for humanity's progressive disenfranchisement from the rest of the living planet. It was the bear, the doctor, that felt sorry for the wayward humans and showed them the plant remedies they would need to ease their self-inflicted suffering.

In both America and Europe the bear spirit was considered to be the ally of the shaman. Like the medicine man, the bear could both heal you and kill you. Both are solitary travelers, garnering their power from the lessons of Nature and the experience of solitude. Both are feared at the same time they are revered. Like bears, those with bears for guiding totems, typically make people uncomfortable.

And to be fair, bears can be hard to live with! People with bear energies or traits are not just strong willed but stubborn, sometimes to their own detriment. Uncooperative, unless something happens to please them. Able to withdraw into themselves, to the exclusion of others. Distant and inaccessible, when they’re feeling either melancholy or bored. Impatient about anything that matters. Dangerous when they are crossed. They are hardest on themselves when they lack a purpose, and hardest on others when they are judged and misunderstood.

Unless and until they develop self discipline, such people may gravitate to extremes of mood and behavior, giddy and playful one moment and perturbed the next. They may find themselves eating more sweets than are healthy, and sleeping more than they need. They are not lazy people, only extremely particular about what they commit their interest and energies to.

On the other hand, these bear-folk have the ability to search the inner labyrinths of their creature beings and wild souls, resulting in a deep understanding of self that they can make use of if and when they decide to come back out. They have the inherent strength and determination to accomplish great things, moving aside immense boulders in order to get to a self-assigned goal. They are self motivated and function well at solitary work of any kind. At the same time, they can make incredible mates, so long as they live with someone who not only truly knows and understands them, but who also shares their preferences, desires, intentions, missions, destinations and designs. They are capable of being some of the very best teachers, authors and parents... and the most dependable guardians of integrity and truth, spirit and magic, land and home. They make the most powerful healers, whenever they have first done the work of healing themselves. Those who marry the bear, never want to go back.

It’s not a matter of physical size or shape. Being bear is in the way one walks flat-footed, and swings their head from side to side. In the deliberateness of motion, and the absence of frivolity. In great persistence and high intelligence. In playfulness that is as intense and focused as hunting or sex. In the father’s force of purpose, and the mother’s protectiveness. In the earth-warrior’s devotion, and the inimitable bear-hug. In the Medicine Woman’s affinity with plants and intuitive relationship to medicinal herbs. In their huge hearts and berry-chomping smiles. It’s in the way that they dream of the bear... and the way that bear, in turn, dreamed them into being.

--#--

what is sacred, and

who walks with naked foot.

the earth below and the mind's echo in

the long night, the body turns

on poles of cold wind and fire.

what the dream can touch

and the heart hear

(the cracking of gray ice

like a mirror in her eyes)

give yourself to the star, give

yourself to the last bear

-Barbara Mor

Acceptance of the wild bear is tantamount to acceptance of the untamed wilderness, of the untamed energies of womanhood, of an untamed life. It means acceptance of the dualities of nature, of all sides of the Earth Mother.

I am reminded of Artemis, Greek daughter of the original Animal Mother, grown into the Lady of The Beasts, the Lady of Wild Nature, priestess of the moon. She was Diana the huntress, but also served as the defender of wildlife. Her companion was a bear, and together they ruled the plant kingdom and thus determined feast or fast. She served as protectress of thieves, slaves and outlaws. She was at once the destructive, all consuming "terrible mother" and the defender of the children, guardian spirit of all pregnant women and "Opener of the Womb." Artemis helps us understand how our difficult embrace of the bear is actually an acceptance of the death that must precede any planetary rebirth.

For many thousands of years humankind has looked to the bear as both reality and symbol, seeing many different things in both. A few land-based tribes in Siberia and North America continue to actively revere the mighty grizzly as a worthy rival and invaluable guide. Conservationists and nature lovers may continue to see them as important aspects of a healthy ecosystem, and some in the Pagan and New Spirituality communities still draw on them for inspiration, example and power. But for most people, the relationship has progressed to one of estrangement, with all wildlife becoming distant curiosities or televised entertainment. They are no longer even trophies to "bag," let alone threats to avoid at all cost. To them, the bears are veritable historical artifacts, barely breathing throwbacks to a wilder and more intensely realized time. They're magic, and they are indeed disappearing. But they're also as real as we are. And in another way, they're always here.

Primal humans found something distinctly familiar in the great bear. In the way the mother gently plays with her cubs, and stiffly defends them against all comers. The way she gently sniffs the beckoning blossoms, or stretches in the sun. The bear appeals to that part of the human psyche still pondering its own untamed nature— with perked ears and raised hackles! It strokes the Paleolithic sensibility that even now revolts against enforced civility.

There is something like destiny, like karma, climbing inexorably over the nearby ridge, heading unhurriedly but deliberately our way. It is a playful dream, a sensual overture, a fur-covered agent of the wild. It is awakeness, and it is healing. It promises, in silence, to take us into itself... into its very center!

It is the great bear.

And it is us.

Go ahead

turn around

see the shape

of your footprints

in the sand

-Leslie Marmon Silko

Anatomy of a Quest

By Jesse Wolf Hardin
http://animacenter.org

Since the time of the Paleolithic seekers of insight, purpose and power have made sacred quests in wild and enchanted places. Intentionally removing themselves from the comfort of the familiar– from supportive family and tribe– they set out to encounter truth and magic, to be challenged and tested, stripped of every illusion and comfort that ever held them back. They sought alliance with Earth and Spirit, and the personal power or medicine needed to do what is right. And they went in hopes of a gift: an omen or sign, an essential lesson, a spirit ally or animal guardian, a revealing of dormant magic skills.... and always, a deeper vision of their self, their role and purpose.

This deliberate engagement with being and meaning was common to the primal ancestors of every race on nearly every continent. The intense initiation rights of the Lacandon Mayan warriors of Guatemala and the Yoruba priestesses of beautiful Africa. The Hopi child at the onset of puberty, facing weeks in the dark recesses of a ceremonial underground kiva. The blue eyed Sami shamans of mountainous Scandinavia, laying in an icy pit until finally earning the curiosity and assistance of the gods. The Aborigine of Australia’s outback, embarking on long spirit-filled journeys they call “walkabout.” The Cheyenne seeker, sitting cross legged days and nights on end atop the highest wind-blown peak. Such quests might be rites of passage marking a girl’s transition into womanhood at the first sign of menses, or her eventual shifting into the wizened ranks of cronehood at the end of her moon cycle. Or they may be undertaken during times of personal quandary, to reconnect with the dear departed, solve a problem, meet a need. It is a furthering of commitment to the lifelong quest that is life– ever seeing more, understanding more, feeling more, caring more.

With New Nature Spirituality we don’t duplicate any indigenous ritual, tradition, or way of questing. As eclectics we might study the many historical examples, but as intuitives, we depend on sensing the direct revelatory will of Spirit and Nature for direction as to the form and content of our sacred efforts. For example, nothing about the way we do Spirit Quests at our sanctuary and Earthen Spirituality Project is Native American per se, which also respects AmerIndian concerns about “cultural appropriation.” Instead, we are instructed by the same holy and whole Source that once informed and inspired the original inhabitants of this most enchanted canyon, and likewise, all magical peoples in all places and times.

Many of us never think about doing anything like a retreat or quest until we’ve barely survived a disease that could have killed us, or until we’ve had a series of failed romances or aborted careers that leave us confused and wanting. Certainly those who are most susceptible, and most ready, are often the few who are at the point of breakdown and rebirth. But there is no one alive who couldn’t benefit from a soul affirming quest for truth and being, at any time. And the survival of our kind— as well as the survival of so many other species and the ecosystems that support them— may depend on each and every one of us making repeated forays into the unfamiliar regions of self and place. Only when we’ve regained the sense of self-love and Gaian assignment common to the rest of Earthen life, can we hope to have the clarity to repair our lives and heal our world.

The Spirit Quest Defined

As taught and practiced here a Spirit Quest involves a minimum seven day commitment. This includes: time for presence, sharing and orientation; a day gathering wood and tending fire for a hot medicine sweat; up to four days and nights of fasting outside on solo; and a day or two for slow assimilation and integration of the various experiences and lessons.

The Site

The most successful quests are undertaken in the wilderness, open to the instruction of the natural world, and free of the distractions and contrivances of civilization. Anywhere in the natural “undeveloped” world one can both tap the wisdom of the Earth, and heal from the effects of our obsessions, denial, habits and fears. And all the more so in those notable spots where power and clarity are most accessible and even inescapable.

Anywhere we go, we are likely standing on ground that was once consecrated by the aboriginal peoples who preceded us, and through this awareness we can align ourselves with the sensibilities of those Seekers who came before. Stepping where the Goths once stepped, dancing where the Aztec danced, we are pressed to the same level of sensitivity and awe, to the same depths of humility and respect. And the forms of the landscape and the vagaries of watersheds that brought the ancients to these places, continue to act like a magnet for the attuned Seeker of today. High storm swept peaks, unusual rock formations and the confluence of rivers are typically places of power and visitation. As are any womb-like caves, the furthest projections of land into the pounding ocean swells, and the places where artesian springs bubble forth from their crest of fertile ground.

The canyon where we host our Spirit Quests is filled with the abandoned house sites of the Sweet Medicine People, also called the “Mogollon,” and the Sanctuary itself is home to the largest ceremonial kiva site in the region— further indication of its spiritual significance to those who preceded us. And to this day, a place of seldom equaled beauty and inescapable truths. For our canyon questers, there are a number of stunning pink and purple cliffs to choose from, pock marked with rain sculpted depressions, and featuring rocks that look like animals or like faces looking back at us. For shade there are alligator bark junipers and majestic pines, some draped with wild grape arbors glinting emerald in the first morning light. In a way, making it here to the canyon is a quest in itself. Because of its distance in miles from any city or airport and the busy schedules that everyone keeps, it requires unusual determination to make the long trip from wherever. In addition, a potential quester can usually feel the power of the revelations that await them, and sense the implications and responsibilities they bring. Coming to the canyon for medicine work is an act of uncommon vision, courage and follow-through.

The Fast

Fasting is an extremely valuable aspect of the meaningful quest. A fast is an opportunity to cleanse the lens of perception, at the same time as the body. It exposes and challenges our attachment to comfort, while heightening all our senses including the so-called “extrasensory.” And as with other aspects of the quest, it serves to remind us that we are infinitely stronger than we think.

The Medicine Sweat

Before embarking on a wilderness quest, it’s essential to first undergo a cleansing sweat in a heated lodge.

As with other practices humans have devised to help them stay aligned with the Earth and Spirit that sustain them, the medicine sweat is common to the majority of our ancestors. Whether it be a hole dug into the ground, embryonic bent willow lodges covered with hides, or the raised rock saunas of the pantheist Vikings, our kind has almost universally sought out the scalding testament of heated rocks splashed again and again with ladles of crystal mountain water. The effect of the sweat is not only to cleanse the skin, but to cleanse the mind of useless thought, purifying the human soul in preparation for its purposeful interaction with holy Spirit.

In the canyon we spend an entire day collecting firewood, and asking various rocks if they’d be willing to serve the intentions of the sweat. The firepit is dug out, and the walls of the low-roofed lodge covered. By midnight the fire is lit, and it’s tended until the sky begins to lighten. Red pulsing rocks are rolled out of the fire with a stick, and are moved with a pair of old deer antlers the rest of the way to the waiting hole in the center of the lodge. Somewhere around four large or eight medium sized rocks are used in each of four different rounds.

With the questers inside and the door flap sealed tight, a sprinkling of sage and copal sends sweet smudge into the air, followed by the first splash of water on the wildly sizzling rocks. Adding a little more water at a time, the heat is brought up to the point where we don’t think we can stand anymore, and then we add still a little more. Between each of the rounds we exit, skin still steaming, and plunge into a hole in the chilly river of mirrors.

The last round is timed so that it ends just as the morning sun first touches the cliffs above. Crawling out of the dampness and heat is like the passage from the uterus into a world made new again. Every sight and color seems freshened, every smell brightened. The once cluttered mind shines as transparent as an opened window, and as glad as a child. The sensate body is ascendant, and the giving heart reigns.

Effect & Commitment

It’s easy for one to imagine that they’ve failed their quest, having been trained to doubt our selves and question our worth from an early age on. But in the Spirit Quest there is no such thing as “failure.” Even we come down early, we are marked by a depth of experience that we can use in measuring every other aspect of our lives. If we find we’re unable to escape the monarchy of the mind, we will at least have identified it as the frightened and counterproductive despot it can be.

It’s easy for someone used to the special effects of videos or the easy hallucinations of drugs to be disappointed if no eagle lands on their knee and tells them what they want to hear, or if the sky fails to split apart at the approach of a procession of angels. We may be unimpressed at first, with the seeming commonplace nature of unfolding experience. Compared to the rapid-fire images of modern entertainment the real world may seem to move in excruciatingly slow motion. But then, when at last it moves slow enough the very idea of time is suspended, and we get a taste of eternity: the eternal vibrant now!

On the other hand, while on quest, no event or feeling is insignificant. Bugs inscribing circles in the dust as they do their mating dance. The play of feathered clouds, the intercourse of sight and sound. Every impression, every seeming coincidence, every emotion that arises tells a part of the story of the realized self— in vital relationship to all that is.

Oddly enough, it’s by going on a quest by ourselves that we learn we’re never really alone. The quest links us to a lineage of questers and seekers, and to every other constituent of this living dancing matrix. To the distant past and hopeful future, and to the irreplaceable present tense. The quester is gifted with heightened awareness, and with it comes the responsibility to act. For every gift: a commitment!

The Quest strips away illusion and denial, reuniting us with our authentic selves: with our feelings, instincts, needs, gifts, abilities, hopes and dreams. It leads us out of the cage of the fearful, rational mind and back into the intuitive matrix of Earth and body, heart and soul. Inevitably those parts of ourselves that we’ve either lost or suppressed resurface in the light of the vital quest experience. We welcome back the more sensitive, wonder-filled sides of our essential beings.... and discover the kind of strength that comes with our increased vulnerability. We come to feel blessed by our struggles as well as our gifts, awash in gratitude, anointed in love, and devoted to that which matters most.

We are emptied, enrolled and fulfilled.... in this ancient quest for true being and most meaningful purpose. And connected– to all there is, to all that we can be.

Caretakers: Contract With The Land

By Jesse Wolf Hardin
http://animacenter.org

“We belong to the ground, it is our power and we must stay close to it; or maybe we will get lost.”
-Yirrkala, Aborigine

Walking down this canyon has always felt special to me, the way it stills my thoughts, awakens my senses and deepens my awareness. The sense of intimacy and eros, family, pack and alliance. Of sacredness and timelessness. Of worthiness and assignment. And there’s nowhere in the canyon, and thus nowhere in the world, that is more powerful for me than at the base of a certain set of cliffs. It’s where the ancient ones conducted many of their ceremonies, and where we too do what passes for ritual– including magical outdoor weddings and communion with our loved ones who have passed on. It’s where we go to understand and embrace our losses, as well as to give thanks for our gifts. To seek solace when needed, and to feel less alone.

I was either raising kids without the help of a mate or living all by myself for the first fifteen years spent here in these mountains. It shouldn’t have to be so hard, but for me answering the call of home meant an end to my first marriage when she grew impatient with the homesteader lifestyle, what she called her “cultural isolation” and the simple interests and ways of the handful of folks in the nearby town of Reserve. A number of sweethearts followed once I began touring the country, performing music and giving talks.... but most were ready to leave in a week or two and none stayed. A dozen years of river flowed by my humble cabin before a woman arrived who seemed not only excited to love me but unlikely to leave. One of the hardest moments of a decade’s many heartaches, was realizing how she was barely conscious of the canyon miracles unfolding around her, that she wasn’t really connected to the spirit, mission or needs of the land I loved.... and that no matter how much it hurt, I’d have to ask her to go.

The first morning without her found me stumbling towards the dawn-lit cliffs for what felt like the millionth time, with no particular idea or agenda in mind. What starts out as scenic and alluring at a distance, becomes up close something more like looming and imposing. There at the base the impulse is always to look up, and it must have been so even for those first human inhabitants of the canyon trained to seek spirit in the ground as much as the sky. And craning my neck towards the forms and fissures above, through choking tears, came these unexpected words “I promise, no matter what, I’m yours. Even if I end up penniless with no one here to love me....” Then, in almost a scream, “I will never leave you!” And in turn, I accepted the canyon’s assurance that I belong.... and that as lonely as I might be, I would never be alone.

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Contracted: receiving the support of the land and pledging the self in return. There was of course another contract as well, whereby I– then a young man with more attitude than common sense– signed my name on a set of papers that indentured me for fifteen years. As with most or all real estate agreements, it stipulated that if I was more than thirty days late with any of the semiannual payments, the land would automatically revert back to the seller. No matter that the engine of my camper bus was now in a truck belonging to the county deputy, or that I had no other vehicles and no way to leave with my stuff if I ever failed to pay. In order to stay close to the land I’d gone from selling expensive paintings in our gallery in Taos to working minimum wage jobs doing everything from spreading seeds on logged acreage to making adobe bricks, with friendly immigrant workers I could barely understand. My part of the bargain involved doing whatever it took to get up the money for the land payments, and the seller was likewise bound to turn over control of a most special place.

Of course, as has been said in many ways in many different tongues– one does not own the land, the land owns us. It’s nothing short of ludicrous to talk in terms of possessing and controlling ground which predates us by billions of years, which will continue to exist in one form or another after we pass away and for many billions more. In truth we can only possess that which we contain, and it is the land that contains us. Nonetheless “buying” land is one of the best ways of ensuring that it will be respected and taken care of, or withheld from destructive development. Pristine sections can be set aside and preserved. Damaged lands can be had cheap and brought back to health again. Properties adjoining state or federal lands can serve as place of transition for folks looking to experience the wilds, a base camp or learning center, a point from which to embark. And in every case land covenants can be signed that help define and determine appropriate land use, conservation easements can be assigned in order to prevent future harmful practices, and nonprofit land trusts can be formed for the sole purpose of ensuring the integrity of the property for generations to come.

Nonetheless, the most important contract is not that between two people.... it’s the reciprocal commitment between human and land, made and fulfilled in particular places. As with contracts between individuals or entities, both parties make promises in exchange for specific benefits. For centuries the land has kept its part of the bargain by offering up nourishment, shelter and instruction while we’ve largely defaulted as a species on our reciprocal obligations. We’ve largely failed our task to be the planet’s most sensitive receptors, to temper knowledge with humility and wisdom, or to properly give sacrament to, give thanks for, preserve or celebrate that land we as a species have evolved in contractual partnership with.

With every gift comes a responsibility to its spiritual and physical “care and feeding.” This goes for the soil itself, elemental to all life, and all that grows from its bosom or calls its rocks and trees home. Responsibilities to the plant and animal species we consume, to the water we drink and the air we breathe. The responsibility to insure that which we take is neither diluted nor despoiled, to give back equal to that which we are given. And whether we choose to call it that or not, it includes a responsibility to engage in some form of prayerful communion. Responsibility: the ability to respond.

Whether acknowledged or not, humanity is locked into a hereditary contract, and we’re collectively liable for any mistakes. We’re not slapped with this responsibility nor strapped with it like unwilling beasts of burden, but rather we consciously take on the caregiving assignment. We are held responsible, the way a mother holds its child even as she demands it take credit for its actions. When the Hopi speak of a cause for the current period of global imbalance they call Koyaanisquatsi, they cite our kind’s failure to live up to what is our end of the bargain. As a species we tend to take more than we give, permit a heavy-handed remaking of the planet for the sake of comfort, and stand mute as one life form after another fall victim to the trends and byproducts of our population and lifestyles. As a result of the progressive abrogation of our contract, humanity ultimately cannot help but suffer in direct proportion to the suffrage of the land. What we can do as individuals is to consciously acknowledge the implicit agreement, and give every day to a personal honoring of its terms.

According to this contract we are not proprietors but responsible servants and full partners with an equal investment and stake in its lasting health and wholeness. Nor are we “good shepherds” making omnipotent managerial decisions for the perceived good of the rest of creation, so much as “caretakers”– witnessing and buttressing the needs of other life forms, of creatures and places with their own calling, their own sense of purpose, direction, and membership. Caretaking: taking care, taking ever so carefully, and never taking for granted. These duties are both custodial and priestly, tending to the energetic as well as practical well-being of the land. It’s similar to the way a doctor might consider one’s emotional as well as physical condition, but requiring greater restraint. A physician aggressively seeks out and confronts what he considers to be maladies. On the other hand a caretaker is sometimes called upon to act assertively, and other times to step back and allow some process take its course. The intuitive knowledge of when to interfere and when not to requires an intense period of familiarizing oneself with the biological makeup, natural and human history, special energies, needs and proclivities of one’s place. Rightful decisions– decisions that can positively effect future generations of humans and non humans alike– proceed from silence.... arise from a great listening.

Whereas the Sweet Medicine People once spent their summers planting and tending corn along the Rio here, my Project partners and I give part of the warm months to revegitating the canyon with long missing native species. The willow was one of the first to make a comeback, sprouting waist high as soon as I began chasing off the cattle, and soon a twenty foot high thicket once the four strand fence went up. Stalks chewed down to the ground nevertheless continued to draw nourishment through an extensive and undamaged root system, propelling new growth skyward the first full season free of predation. To hasten their comeback and to fortify the bare riverbanks against seasonal floods, we’ve carefully cut branches from the established bushes and stuck them at intervals to take off in the damp soil. Wildflower seeds from the year before are planted by poking a hole in the ground with a stick, barely bending over to drop two kernels in each waiting womb. While not quite the same pleasure as a garden these trustees require no watering, weeding or battling with insects. Success in the reintroduction of natives is a result of protection from forces outside the ecosystem, but also a species’ built-in relationship with their home environment– in balance with that which they feed on, and that which feeds on them.

The hardest part is figuring out which species belong and which are destructive or over competitive invaders. Some of the exotics came across the Bering Straits, with the first human arrivals to the Americas. Domestic dogs carried their primitive packs, and Asian seed stock caught rides in the fur gaiters around their legs and the capes that hung from their backs. Mullein, with its soft, fuzzy leaves, seems like a benign though not indigenous presence. Others, like horehound and the tamarisk tree quickly dominate any riparian area they sail into, colonizing foreign soils, choking the life out of every native population. Like Columbus and Cortez, these botanical opportunists are adept at making the transition from guest to master. In the Southeast it’s the kudzu vine, which once having escaped its ornamental plots in the suburbs, it’s now fast becoming the dominant species, climbing and eventually choking the standing trees. Rabbits released into Australia as a meat source quickly took over and decimated the available vegetation. Sailing vessels acted as arks for the emigration of not only viruses and bacterium, but the opportunistic Norwegian Rat. So destructive was the rat once introduced to the Hawaiian Islands that they decided to import their nemesis, the mongoose. The only problem was that the mongoose finds it much easier to catch rare species of songbirds than rats and has come close to decimating them. Failing to learn from our mistakes, our latest gambit involves the planned introduction of lifeforms never before seen on this planet, the products of advanced genetic engineering.

Some more mundane intruders like tamarisk (European salt cedar) pose no great threat to their home turfs, but once released into North America they develop a biological hegemony in the riparian areas, to the point where it’s the only remaining tree along many of the rivers of the Southwest. Worse still, they are both fast growing and herbicide resistant, and they release a shower of mineral salts that make the soil inhospitable to any competing shoots. Unchecked they soon smother the native willows and immature cottonwoods, filling the ravines and river bottoms with their billowing pink blossoms.

Beautiful blossoms, we’ve got to admit. There were none at all in this rivershed when I first moved there, but now they’re beginning to crop up among the beeweed. Gorgeous blossoms, in fact. But we’re easily jerked back to reality when we recall the Rio Grande River system clogged by a single-species forest, a vast monoculture, a jungle of nothing but tamarisk. Too many of the same kind of flower, too much of the same uniform color, in a veritable holocaust of beauty.

For months we struggled with what to do, until some of the slender trees were well over our heads. We wondered if it wasn't enough that there was anything at all growing, after so many generations of grazing and die-back? And besides, don't all plants, like all people have migrants for ancestors, and thus a right to flourish in a new place? When we finally went down to dig them up, they felt as smooth and sentient as any creature, as vulnerable in the face of our attack as other plants were in the face of the tamarisk’s own territorial campaigns.

Just as bad was the horehound incursion, seeds hitchhiking up onto the mesa stuck to our socks, moving through the rest of the county in the tails of horses and the alfalfa hay they eat. It looks so lovely at first, in patches of short ground-cover that smell sweetly when walked upon, pungent leaves perfect for brewing up a batch of old-fashioned horehound cough drops. It isn't long however, before they form a solid crusty plane of yard-high vegetation too thick to walk through. Where the ground around our cabin and below the cliffs were once graced by desert mariposa and soaptree yucca, soon there was only horehound. Prickle-poppy and evening primrose, nettle and mallow, cushion cactus and tahoka daisy were being pushed out of their own neighborhoods, denied access to soil and sun in a hostile takeover bid. We felt we had no choice but to strike back in defense of biological diversity, accepting the hands-on responsibility of removing them one plant at a time, sharing their pain at being ripped up by the roots.

The beaver are another case in point. In a balanced river ecology they’re an aid to the ecosystem by slowing the river and raising the water table, and when the ponds eventually fill in with soil they become meadows that are highly attractive to a wide range of wildlife. Beavers are wetlands restoration experts, but like all “experts” they can be the cause of costly errors. The little fuzzballs also require up to six acres of woods to sustain themselves, plus are notorious for cutting down trees that they strangely neither eat nor build with. In a mature riparian forest thick with mixed-age cottonwoods and willows they are a welcome addition, but in the early stages of restoration and reforestation efforts they can be a terrible hindrance. For years we had to remove the few that moved downstream to the sanctuary while the forest grew back, but now we’re host to a family that we think the land might sustain.

Not all decisions are as difficult, but we find the whole concept of "environmental restoration" a touchy one. As obviously and totally beneficial at it can be to rebuild salmon streams or replant clearcut hills, the very notion of restoration implies that humans know what’s best.. something there is little evidence of. The other side of the argument is that humans have forever affected the world around them, and that maybe only by taking responsibility for that role can we mitigate our impact. The caretaker must be prepared to do whatever is called for. We’re accountable not only of our actions, but also for the results of what we have yet to do.

Only a small population of people live out in the countryside but the agreement, the contract remains the same. To be taken care of, one must take care. Some of the fondest of my early memories involve the front yard gardens that my father tended. I don’t recall any happy-topped carrots or broadleaf lettuce in the gardens, nothing that could safely fill the belly, naught but food for the soul. In the only truly creative enterprise I ever saw him commit to, what the man gardened was color. A host of reds from ruddy to brilliant predominated in one bed, while the hedges and flower rows along the sides of the house featured variations on pearl and ivory, lavender and fuchsia. Different plants blossomed at different times of the year, so that with careful planning there would never be a week without a display of floral brilliance. And he gardened shapes— stars and ovals, trumpets and bells, lily sheaths and the folds of the roses running up the wood fence next to the sidewalk. The pansies were always Grandmother’s favorites, so there had to be room made for them. Others were selected for their meaning in one historic culture or another, a species to stir up happiness, and another for success. All took a substantial amount of his time, quietly watering each plant with a hose when the sprinklers would have just as easily reached. Some more out of place than others, some more vulnerable than the rest, but all required care.

As a kid I could never come to terms with the mowing of the lawn, turning sensuous wind-dancer stalks into a green flattop that felt prickly to the bared feet. But I loved the flowers. I picture them when I think about what it means to take on the hereditary role of caretaker, a role meant for every one of us breathing the air, eating of the bounty of the planet, heating our homes with nonrenewable fuels. If we take care by adjusting our lifestyles, consuming less for the purpose of reducing our negative impact on the supporting world, then we must also include in our duties the pleasurable honoring of sensate life, the purveyance of beauty, the encouragement of a diverse flowering in our everyday lives.

And next, no matter where we are, we learn to identify with and care for our home-ground. We need to develop the capacity to make the truly difficult decisions, the hard-edged choices. As with the horehound in our canyon one must decide both what to incorporate, and what to exclude. Many of the things we would own may be inappropriate for a life in harmony with nature and our own natural cycles. Much of what we do may be taking us away from our path, distracting us from the richness of the moment and pressing us into a virtual rather than vital reality. Some of the people we care about in life may prove to be a handicap to our focused practice, or act in ways that dishonor the spirit of place we’ve finally learned to recognize and interact with. Our contract includes a provision for the surpassing of plan and habit, for consciously bearing the agony and ecstasy of right action.

As individuals, families and neighborhoods we take an active interest in the health of the area where we live, becoming partially culpable for its problems and taking credit for its improvement by virtue of an unblinking awareness. We can take care of the land we live on whether we own it or not, whether its an acre of breathing soil or the patches of green surrounding our apartments. We can co-caretake any forested areas nearby, and the regional watercourse no matter how far away. The community park is just that, and its well-being is in the hands of a concerned public.

The fact is that the only workable politics function at the grassroots level. That the moral jurisdiction belongs to those who actually live in a given place, and who cherish it the most. That to really protect somewhere we need to be able to hear it, feel it, know it and respond to it. And that these things requires we actually be there, body and soul. I’ve come to realize that any realistic hope for cultural, political and ecological relief lies in a radical shift in our elemental values and primary modes of perception.... that it lies in our intimate personal relationship with the forces that made us and the places that allow us to be. In our contract, and in our promise.

Caretaking, after all, is taking things personally, and caring. Caring for that which owns us, feeds us, charms us, encompasses and includes us.

Daring, in fact, to love.... so.... much!

Eating Wild: Native Foods Of The Southwest

By Jesse Wolf Hardin
http://animacenter.org

We know that the Southwest is home to a high number of quality whole-foods markets, as well as some of the finest eateries in the entire country. What we may not have noticed are the diverse native foods often found growing at the base of their stately adobe walls, or concealed among the exotic grasses that border the parking lot. Rewilding our flower beds and bursting up through the cracks in the sidewalks are delicious salad “fixin’s” like Dandelion and Dock. And on the way to buy our organic produce we likely walk or drive past examples of the diverse indigenous gourds, grains and greens that the ancient native peoples sought. Collecting a portion of one’s dinner from nearby mountain meadows or neighborhood yards, we gather not only sustenance but taste and tradition.... gather up our thoughts and spirits, memories and moments.

Common to the area are Wild Celery greens which are delicious steamed with onion, Plantain leaves for frying, and the prolific Quelites (Lamb’s Quarters) that can be dried in the Summer and reconstituted in soups and sauces the rest of the year. A prime source of information are the elders of any region, particularly in the Hispanic community where familiarity with the land and a passion for fine foods have have helped keep the tradition of gathering alive. There are also a number of good books on edible plant identification, and workshops such as ours that teach hands-on collection and gourmet preparation. One of the benefits of eating wild, after all, may be the amazing flavors they impart. Watercress is a tasty plant popular with health-minded buyers, high in vitamin B and iron, that’s found in many of the less impacted creeks and rivers. We also have wild grape whose leaves are great whether cooked or raw. Taking a hint from the Mediterranean cookbooks, we love to stuff them with steaming yummies for bite size dinner treats.

Our partner Loba is not only a competent chef, she’s also one of those special sensualists who revels in the endless new combinations of ingredients, and of these she may love her feral feasts the best. Each year she cooks or preserves the bounty of our isolated river canyon: Red and Sweet Clover, high protein Amaranth and dandy Dock, Beeplant and magic Mint, Yucca flowers for stir fries and prickly pear fruits for syrup and jam. Puffballs, Boletes and Shaggy Mane mushrooms. Tomatillos, Mustard seeds. Black Walnuts and Juniper berries. Imagine if you will pesto with wild oregano, clover or mint leaves. Suckerfish sushi and hearty crawdad stew. Hand decorated jars of pickled purslane. Wild grape jelly crepes. Prickly pear buttermilk pie and yucca fruit crisp. Browned Pinon cookies. Garlicky Beeplant ravioli with local goat cheese in the early Fall. Stir fried Stinging Nettles and crisp salads of wild Watercress, both picked in mid Winter. And fresh out of the stove some early morn in July– a wild mulberry pie!

Any indigenous person would tell us how eating wild is like taking into ourselves the energy and power of the land itself– the tendencies and sensitivities, capacities and qualities of wildness.

I’ve seen how every little bit that we’re able to subsist off the land increases our confidence in ourselves and our ability to survive. And even in the best of times we can eat not only cheaper but better, by adding some foods we’ve gathered to those ingredients we buy. We soon figure out which months to harvest which foods, and when to collect their seeds to help disperse or plant. We learn to recognize the soil and moisture requirements of the various species, and how much sun and shade each needs. We also notice when certain human activities have degraded those conditions, and may feel moved to do our part to protect, tend or restore the remaining habitat.

The wonderful flavors of the wild call out to us, invite our participation in their native dance of delight. We might consider this as we’re driving past what appear to be indiscernible patches of roadside greenery, or while walking by those curly-leafed plants lining the local acequia. Coming to know the native edible foods of any region is to become more intimate and familiar with the land, its seasons, its song. There is perhaps no tastier way for us to come to know ourselves.... or to know we belong.

Walking The Edge: High Water & Extreme Living

By Jesse Wolf Hardin
http://animacenter.org

The smell is unmistakable, not unlike a farmer’s fertilized fields right after irrigating. It is carried on the attendant winds to the noses of anyone and everyone awakened to life, even in the valleys where the river runs wide and well away from businesses and homes. It is the wafting smell of decomposition, of mud mixed with organic matter in the process of being broken down by bacteria and mold, of rotting grass and willows dislodged by anxious currents... the amorous odor of plant sex and procreation, of the deaths that birth new life. It is all the stronger within the narrow confines of a canyon, this murky, scandalous scent splashing against the sides of the cliffs, rising up and washing over the benches and mesas like heady invisible waves.

It is not the smell, however, that wakes me from my sleep in the dead of night. It is that sound, that terribly loud rushing of water like a rumbling train shaking the bedrooms of farm house boarders. In the city one learns to sleep comfortably under the blanketing whoosh and hum of highways, and it’s said that over time the NY State Park volunteers even get used to the deafening roar of voluminous Niagara Falls. What is alarming is the sudden contrast, with the the Rio Frisco normally running so slow that it can barely be heard. If every river has its song, the Frisco could be said to play a soft ballad, a gentle tune hummed by cowboys to calm a herd made nervous by distant flashes of lightning, or else an amorous Spanish corrido sung outside some señorita’s window while her father sleeps. In June, one has to put their ear down close to the ground to hear the languid passage of water through the tickled cattails and reeds, or search out the sudden turns where it tumbles and gurgles over moss covered rock. Now in August, I throw off the covers at the sound and stand shirtless under racing clouds and motionless stars, trying to judge the width and speed of the river in the scant light they provide.

We have guests arriving for a Wild Foods event, and they will get more of an adventure than they bargained for. Rather than a leisurely stroll down the canyon – passing through calf-deep crossings of crystalline water – my partners walk them down a steep forested mountainside on a narrow elk trail, and I will shuttle them in a raft two at a time across a rushing sepia flow. It is not a “raging” current as some might describe, for carries with it no anger. More accurately, the river is like a happy headstrong child, running full speed with a big smile on its face, howling too loudly to hear a mother’s pleas to stop.

For as long as people have settled near rivers, humans have suffered the effects of periodic floods. Fields of much needed food have washed away, and at times so have the houses and barns of those who planted them.

Standing on the banks of the Rio Frisco, we all sense the degree to which we are truly on the edge, not just between land and water but the known and the unknown, the expected and the surprising, the habitual and the magical. It is the edge between full-on living, and the state of being any less than fully alive. It’s not danger that has our guests so wide-eyed or prompts the wide-stretched smiles on their faces, but rather, the disruption of limiting patterns and preconceptions. The flooding river has transported them to the edge, a state and way of being that they will each do their best to walk back in their cities, at their jobs, in their homes.

The edge is the milieu of evolution. And for we humans it is the place of conscious choice and change, the exceeding of imagined limitations, the stretch in yoga, the dancer or gymnast’s leap into excellence, the moment of inspiration and the field of accomplishment. It is where we – like life itself – dare to take chances, to try something new, to envision and explore. The edge is the state of deepened presence, heightened awareness and awakened senses – of fascination and enchantment, creativity and revelation, passion and engagement, purpose and commitment – and thus of manifestation and satisfaction, realization and reward. It is there that life presents all its colors and flavors, that opportunities present themselves and nest-bound baby birds dare a leap of faith into the imposing but beckoning sky.

It’s clear that some people more than others seek out and thrive on the experience of the edge. These include warrior women and men who sign up for more than one stretch in elite military units, as well as peace activists bravely protesting a U.S. waged or funded war in spite of public pressure and government surveillance. Philanthropists who spend their inheritance on revolutionary ideas or deeds, and master burglars who don’t need the money the steal. Children undergoing rites of passage, adults signing up for four days of solitude and fasting on what is often called a Vision Quest. And the more mundane examples of hot air balloonists, mountain climbers and downhill skiers. Of struggling artists and musicians. Of women working so-called “men’s jobs,“ and men who made an art of being sensitive. Empathic and motivated teachers in sometimes unresponsive public school systems. Single working mothers who could have had it easy by staying in a compromising marriage.

As individuals, we are furthest out on the edge when we quit a soul-deadening job with no certainty of finding a more meaningful one. Or when we stay with a low paying position as a gardener or preschool teacher because it our greatest gift to the world and best use of our life. When we move to a different city or out into the country, in order to fulfill our hopes and dreams. When we wake up every morning in some special home, grateful and pledging to stay. When we take time from talking at the table, in order to intently focus on every taste. For the couple in relationship, the edge is where they continually discover new things about one another, and where they work on new or challenging projects together. It is where they require the best of each other, instead of avoiding every difficult test. The edge is where they go to either heal a bad relationship or else to end it, as well as the place where promises of forever are both made and kept. For all of us, it is the shore from which we embark onto new ways of thinking, being and doing. It is always from there that we extend ourselves, exceed and excel.

When we launch the raft, the current starts to hurry us downstream while I paddle my hardest to get us across. We reach the opposite shore a considerable ways down the canyon, able to neither predict nor ensure where we’ll touch ground. If the edge ever seems frightening, it is because it is there where we are most clearly not in control. Of course, another way of looking at it would be to say that while we are agents of spirit and change, we are never really in control, and that the edge is where we are blessedly freed of any such illusions, where the real world takes precedence.

The river running through our teaching center is generally low, all but for a couple of weeks in an average year. It is seldom that anyone gets their knees wet, and we can almost always drive someone in who has trouble walking. With the glad comfort and relative ease, we and our guests have to be all the more careful not to lose sight of the edge, or of the vista of possibilities beyond. It becomes an important art and task to remain in the frontiers of insight, experience and transition.

Without attention the edge recedes, e ven for a devoted adventurer or someone living in the wilderness like my partners and I do. The world is forever moving, not just spinning but swelling and tumbling, shifting, growing, evolving, advancing. The edge is where we keep pace, where we are sentient participants rather than after-the-fact observers of objectified phenomena tossed about in passing time's spreading wake, an echo some song left behind.

It is important to remember that walking the edge is not the same as being addicted to risky behavior, or being "edgy," nervous or apprehensive. Nor does it mean always pushing hard without rest or relaxation. Instead, it means to make every thought, word and action deliberate, and therefore consciously intentional and meaningful. We can do that in a hammock, with extreme awareness of how much it nourishes us and how wonderful it feels to swing. We can become intimate with the edge through the ways we interact with our parents or children, by making all conversation meaningful and truly focusing on the person we're communicating with. Through our noticing the sensation of rain as it kisses our upturned faces. And through the whole-body awareness of a lover's embrace.

Today, our canyon guests are being alerted by circumstance and significance, by high water, stiff knees and mountain grandeur. By the threat of a slow leak in one of the raft's chambers, the scent of the bogs, the beating of their hearts, and the encouraging clapping of brilliant green cottonwood leaves. What they are being alerted to is their own senses and immediate environment, to potential problems and exciting scenarios, to unsated hungers and deepest needs, to their gifts and abilities, to the swirling paisley patterns in the water and the relative solidity of the never-to-be-taken-for-granted land.

Getting to the other side, of course, is always just a beginning. I need to grab the bent willows and swing us sideways, unload my guests and their baggage, and pick the best trail through the woods to the cabins. It is the same with life, it seems, with each new crossing being start of something rather than the end. We commit to a destination or goal whenever we inhabit the edge, even when that destination is simply a greater realized self, or family, or home. It is from the edge of the expected that we each depart, and from which platform our glad return is launched.

Reintegration: Health As Wholeness – The Healing Of Self & World

By Jesse Wolf Hardin
http://animacenter.org

“There is no division between where we live and what we are."
-Scott Russell Sanders

The Anima Sanctuary is a restored riparian wilderness, a river ecosystem made healthy again through the reintroduction of cottonwoods and willows, cattail and clump grass. Ringtail cats cavort next to splashing muskrats, and fish make love under an expanse of heron wings. With each new season, increasing numbers of plants have made their way back home here, and every Spring comes the sound of yet another bird species I’ve never heard. With every reintroduction the land becomes more of what it once was, and in this way, more itself.

Like this land, I too have lost parts of myself, only to regain them through practice and prayer, personal insistence and the passage of time. Things such as the willingness to laugh, and the ability to cry. The honest depths of agony, and far extremes of joy. My inner animal, and the reason for being. The inclination to play, and the patience to stay. It’s a good thing, because the longer I’m here, the better able I am to hear the will and whisperings of the Earth.... and more myself I am.

Of course, the walk downriver hasn’t always been easy. Although some seasons I’ve leapt about, moving rocks for soil berms as if work had no weight, when I've been ill it hasn't been so easy. But in either case, I’ve never been truly healthier since coming here to home and purpose: knowing who I really am, what I most need to be doing, and where I most certainly belong. Indeed, what is to be healthy, but to be whole: a balanced unity of gifts and needs, heart and mind, vision and action. Gaia teaches that good health isn’t the absence of trauma or pain, but rather, the most complete embodiment of our authentic selves. The depth of sensation, emotion and experience. The fullness of expression and response. The fulfillment of our passions and our purpose, our destiny and our dreams. It’s how we live, not how long. “Wellness” means living well: consciously and compassionately, artfully and purposefully.

It isn’t disease that makes us unwhole, for pain makes us more aware of our bodies and feelings, and the way both our lifestyles and our immediate environments are affecting us. Suffering tempers our skills, tests our resolve, and strengthens our will. Debility teaches us humility, and infirmity counsels patience. The loss of one sensory organ leads to a heightening of the others. At its worst, a deadly virus does nothing but return us to the earth we arose from, extend from, and belong to. We are made unwhole not by death, but the failure to fully live. By that which dilutes our focus, weakens our intention, or dishonors our spirit. That which makes us doubt our instincts and intuition, significance or value. We are made unwhole by the suppression of our feelings, and the repression of our needs. By the subjugation of our animal beings. We have to give up certain aspects and components of our selves, in order to fit into society’s mold. It is the loss or neglect of these parts that contributes to our greatest dis-ease: our imagined separation from the rest of the living world. And with their re-membering and reclamation, we take the first of many steps towards the necessary cure.

Likewise, the Earth isn’t made any less— or any less healthy— by the eroding of mountain rock into fertile valley soil, or the death of a cottontail in the jaws of a fox. Or even the shredding of forests by an erupting volcano, which relatively quickly grow back. Even the natural extinction of species is only a recycling of the parts into the whole, each pruning back resulting in a new burst of growth, an opportunity for new color and form. To the degree that it is sickened it is not because of the annihilation of individual life forms, so much as the overall reduction of biological, cultural and topographical diversity. The extincting of species for no reasons other than obliviousness and greed. The appropriation of habitat, so there’s little place left for the wildlife to spring back. The monocultures of agribusiness, and the genetic manipulation of life. And it’s not just the killing off of native songbirds, but the hundreds of indigenous languages being lost to neglect. The defacing of the planet with asphalt, and the defaming with plastics. By our failing to notice Gaia’s every miracle and gift, every hint of wind, the opening of a sidewalk blossom, the dance of a floating leaf. And by our forgetting to give thanks. We make the world sick with our neglect of self and planet, the dishonoring of Spirit, and the conceptual and physical dismembering of the which was one.

We say the “integrity” of a structure is compromised, and perhaps made unsafe, if any portion is degraded or removed. It is the same with a person or an ecosystem. The health of people or places increases with the diversity and magnitude of their expression. Thus any reduction in diversity impinges on the integrity of the whole— and the role of the social and ecoactivist becomes one not only of resistance but restoration and reimmersion.

It all starts with us literally “coming to our senses.” Our creature senses are organs of reintegration, and when opened and heightened they bring the world we’re integral to even closer. It is taste that can stir our gratitude, sight that can awaken awe, touch that can mend the imagined separation between body and soul, self and place. Touch, through which we feel. Touch that heals. Our sensory and emotional contact inspires the protection, nourishment and celebration of that which we’ve engaged. It can result in forests defended, trees replanted, and native grasses gently stroked and sung to!

Our future personal, social and ecological health may hinge on our personal integrity, and the surviving integrity of the natural world that we love. Like the extirpated Mexican Gray Wolf or the defamed spotted owl, we seek to be and belong. For us, to be reintegrated is to be accepted back within the identity of the Gaian whole, to exist and act in harmony with tribal human community and the community of nature. We still commit ourselves to herbs and spells, good food and real magick in our quest to stay physically well and able. But real health is a state of being at one with the needs, expression and spirit of not only our physical and energetic beings, but with the living breathing Earth as well... engaged in the endless adventure and fulfillment of our awakened lives and sacred deaths.

By learning to wholly be aware, wholly serve, we intentionally rejoin the Whole. And it is through this bringing back together of disparate and damaged parts— of self and of Earth— that we never have to feel apart again.

The Retreat

By Jesse Wolf Hardin
http://animacenter.org

Going to a wild and beautiful place on a nature retreat has nothing to do with disengagement or escape. It’s an opportunity to be restored to balance, and inspired to act.

It may take an hour or two to get there, or it could require a day long plane ride. A car rental to explore the Olympic Peninsula with, a burro ride into the Sierras, a boat trip to a remote island, a rugged jeep ride, or a walk in that requires wading the same shallow river seven times. Inevitably it will be somewhere selected for its dramatic grip on the imagination and the senses, its powerful natural setting or longtime association with ceremony and magic. Crashing ocean waves. A secluded forest grove. The stunning view from a mountain top stupa. The embrace of an enchanted canyon. The cherished holy places of exotic traditions, or the colorful mesas where generation after generation of Mogollon Indians held their ceremonies and prayed. Upon arrival a gong might ring, and a set of bamboo gates swing open. Or perhaps it is only the touch of the river water on one’s bared feet, and the call of the eagle or raven that announce one has left behind the expected, the known, the busy and rote, and entered into enchanted place and time.

For thousands of years our kind has made conscious and deliberate sojourns, and for far more than rest, no matter how restful such experiences can be. The Buddhist goes on retreat to deepen his or her practice, in a special place conducive to such aims. The Franciscan Friar retreats to a wilderness abbey, to get further away from the distractions of the parish and power struggles of the church, and closer to the experience and reality of god. The shaman leaves the comforts of the village in order to contact the truths and forces that can help him in his work when he gets back. The tribal Medicine Woman, or the modern herbalist and healer, will take time out in the forest or desert where she can be herself healed, fed and affirmed... and in this way, be better able to heal and give to others. And likewise, businesswomen, community activists and urban merchants often realize that they can accomplish more of their goals in the long run, if they first take some time out of their busy schedules to give to themselves. More an more healers are defining health as wholeness and vitality, both of which are gifts we can give ourself through focused and nurturing retreat.

There is nobody who can’t benefit from a temporary halt in the usual flow of obligations and events, a weekend or even an entire month away from the day planner, the instant messenger, the nagging phone. Away from personal habit and rigid schedule, and into a dramatically different environment and pace. Away from the usual comforts that insulate us from ecstatic connection, from exciting adventure and the sometimes challenging elements, and in that way further into vibrant, spirit filled, sensate experience. A nature retreat brings one closer to the natural world that calms and heals, challenges and stirs, empowers and instructs... and thus closer to one’s own inner nature, their authentic feelings, needs, abilities, potentials, hopes and dreams.

While here may be cabins with comfortable beds and homemade feasts, those on retreat still have to go to the trouble of adjusting their work schedules, arranging for child care and transportation, and temporarily suspending the million and one things that they would normally be doing. Such intention, effort and follow-through makes the retreat all the more powerful, and its effects longer lasting.

Whatever the cost in getting there, or in projects delayed, we pay a much higher price when we neglect to treat, tend and recharge ourselves. Hypertension. Heart attacks. Premature aging. Disrupted sleep. Feelings of unease and dissatisfaction that lead to ambivalence or despair. It can help to take a single hour of the day, every day, and make it a set time for focused, ritual engagement, for turning off the mental loops and consciously reinhabiting our bodies, emotions, and spirit. For sensing ourselves in connection to all that is, and drawing vision and energy from the earth beneath our floors. The key is how deliberate we make that hour. How dedicated to the purpose of our personal, enlivened wholeness. And how focused on our enjoining, and hopefully bettering in some small way, the whole wrld that we are a part of.

Going on retreat was never meant to be a substitute for personal manifestation and action, but rather, a place and a way in which to be nurtured, instructed, energized and empowered. We still need to act on our priorities, after a retreat helps us sort out what really matters most in our lives. And it remains up to us, to utilize the energy and manifest the visions that retreats provide.

The advantage is that on a nature retreat the native inspirited world offers up its insights, allowing one to tap with some inner root the accumulative planetary wisdom of 4.5 billion years of evolving consciousness and life. And it is also in retreat, that even those with the busiest minds can quiet the chatter long enough to hear their own inner pleadings and promptings, warnings and assurance, contented purring and sagely advice.

Teachers & Seekers

By Jesse Wolf Hardin
http://animacenter.org

Again and again life and spirit show us the ways in which we are all teachers of a sort, responsible for our effect on the larger living world... but it would nonetheless be a mistake to downplay the importance of wizened human mentors and other (including plant and animal) inspiriteurs. There are no true “solitaries,” only those unaware of their teachers, or who have yet to meet and align with their allies on their path. If the fact of ecology and the dynamics of magic tells us anything, it is that we are inextricably interconnected and fully interdependent, and that none of us really “get it on our own.” Every correct conclusion or healthy choice benefits from the wisdom or example of others. And when we hear truth from our hearts, they are speaking from and for the needs and will of the entire sacred planet we are a part of. Even our instincts are handed down, paw to palm, from distant primal ancestors, the result of thousands of years of challenge and mistake, opportunity and fear, elation and pain, persistence and reward. Insight, revelation and extrasensory perception all draw from and are informed by that reservoir of accumulative memory and association that some call universal or collective consciousness... and which we describe as Anima.

All of us human repositories of Gaian wisdom have the capacity to be conscious instructors and role models. On the other hand, only a small percentage of those who have an impact on other’s lives, are by nature equipped for and devoted to teaching others, and who thus become defined first and foremost as teachers. Their depth and integrity of knowledge, breadth of experience and enthusiasm for passing on their lessons and gifts is what marks them. For them, it feels not only personally satisfying but somehow essential that they pass on their lessons and gifts – just as real artists not only create occasional expressions of beauty but actually live and breathe art... and true leaders are those naturally committed to doing the crucial work of moving forward regardless of the costs and rewards, not feeling fulfilled until certain they have left sufficient blazed trails for others to follow.

From the time I ran away from military school as a young pup, I searched high and low for those individuals who might be able to teach me, or inspire me by example, in the ways of being real and purposeful in a culture of artifice and distraction. Some, like the revered philosopher

Alan Watts, did indeed offer words that were like brilliant stars to navigate my life by. I was encouraged by the audacious authenticity of Ken Kesey and the ability of Rolling Thunder to gather a tribe. The primary author of The Great Cosmic Mother, Barbara Mor provoked me to go beyond the simplicity of black and white and into the world of layers and twists. Experience with others – indigenous shamans and control-freak gurus alike – taught me about the human failings of even the most brilliant of our kind. I learned that we should give thanks to every influence whether flawed or not, as we are grateful for every mistake we learn from, and to every poignant test that we survive.

To the degree that we in this culture have come to disrespect or feel leery of leaders and luminaries, elders and teachers, it is the result of witnessing or hearing about individual gurus practicing what Starhawk calls “power over,“ charismatics whose insecurities result in their coveting rather than inspiring and engendering power in others. Such people tend to claim that they have exclusive knowledge and abilities unavailable to their students no matter how much they might study and practice. They fear they would lose their following, and thus their identity, if they were to teach that others have the capacity and responsibility to learn and then make important choices themselves, and the means with which to grow and to know.

My partners and I are here to help awaken and embolden the teacher within you. We will neither force you nor allow you to become our dependent. Every session I hold, every line I write, is meant to be a full class from which you the seeker or reader graduate. The work of the Anima Center is to aid others in the honest realization of their individual medicine ways... and help lead them to the lessons of dyanamic Nature, to the place of both knowing and doing where truth and purpose reign.

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The Way Of Anima lines cited in my articles from time to time are a result of that great listening. They are essentially Gaian Sutras, passed from the all knowing whole to this wordsmith in moments of confusion or need, insights and aphorisms that hopefully cut to the chase scene, earthen tools for clarification and choice that beg to be embodied, implemented and lived. As they were given to me, I give them to you.

• Spirit is the first directive. And this inspirited planet we are extensions of, is our original Teacher. Thus one of the first steps in becoming a Teacher, is to become a lifelong student of the earth.

• Every exchange of information is an alliance of purpose, between that which expresses, and that which hears. That purpose is not only the education of the individual, but also the informing of the earthen whole.... to our mutual and collective benefit.

• All things have something to teach us. All things capable of learning, are students. All students of life, have learned lessons they can then share with the world.

• Seek what is true, and then honor what is sought. It is always as close and connected as our hand, as expansive and complete as this ever unfolding universe.

• A seeker becomes a teacher whenever she or he shares the truths they’ve found with others. At the same time, no viable teacher ever quits being a seeker.

• The purpose of the teacher is to point to phenomena, reveal connection, heighten awareness, and encourage engagement and depth. To nurture the seeker’s compassion, and affirm their intrinsic beauty, practiced skills and developing love. To encourage healthy skepticism, expose harmful untruths and help eliminate self serving lies. To instigate response, inspire service and purpose, and foster fulfillment.

• The most conscious, experienced or innovative of human teachers are vehicles for practical and spiritual truths... but never their source.

• A teacher does not explain mysteries, so much as acknowledge and honor them.

• Anything we learn from, is a teacher. Thus to resist the idea of teachers, is to deny we have anything to learn.

• The problem is not so much that we have a hard time trusting the sources of truth, but that we are unwilling to give up those things we wish were true.

• Teaching is a joint accomplishment — in the same way that art must have a viewer, and music is in ways incomplete without the partnership of audience.

• For seekers to fully “own” their abilities, accomplishments and purpose, they must personally and willingly pay the cost... and learn to take credit for having done so.

• Once we know that everything we are and do affects those around us, we become partly responsible for what effects we have.

• For ideas to effect the world, they must first be translated into action. For these reasons, a good teacher makes sure the seeker is in touch with her feelings — and that she feels empowered to act on them.

• Likewise, a teacher will strive to be a catalyst — and never a surrogate for the seeker’s direct experience or personal revelations. They will direct focus away from themselves, and in the direction of that which they have been fortunate to see. Rather than imposing definition or interpretation, a teacher leads or excites us in the direction of meaning.

• The teacher’s purpose is not to criticize or judge, but to awaken, inform, inspire, encourage and applaud. At the same time, it is as important for a teacher to capitalize on a student’s challenges as on their abilities, as crucial to point out any illusions as to point to the truth.

• Not all lessons or gifts are accepted, fewer are understood, and fewer still are really put to use. Thus a seeker must open to new lessons without any expectations. And a teacher would best share her vital lessons without expecting anything in return.

• An Anima teacher plants the seeds of awareness and empowerment that he or she was himself given... with no certainty of results, he or she waters them with tears. Feeds them with their hopes. Christens them with their heartfelt prayers. And emboldens them their cheer.

This Age Of Heroes

By Jesse Wolf Hardin
http://animacenter.org

From out of the mythic, mist draped past a host of heroes and heras beckon us to hear and heed, urge us forward to our own opportunities for heartful heroism. The stories of David and Goliath, brave Ulysses and Queen Boudica, the wise Merlin and indomitable Sparticus are not meant to merely entertain us. Nor did our heroic ancestors intend to spare us our own great struggles, enlightening challenges and soul-satisfying victories! They acted and sacrificed, succeeded and excelled in order to meet the unique threats and critical needs of their people, their lives and times. Our own day and age is no less perilous or in need of able champions than was theirs, and plenty of events arise in our contemporary lives that demand an assertive and valiant response.

If you look in your dictionary you’ll notice that “hero” is one of the few English nouns without a synonym that can substitute for it, there being no other word in our language that conveys the same powerful meaning. Similarly, nothing can substitute for personal heroism when immanent danger or an urgent purpose arise. You can deny your heroism to others out of a sense of duty or humility if it makes you feel better… but anytime you give yourself fully to a mission on which much depends, you’re a hero or hera, simple as that!

One defining element of being a hero is being willing to drop our schedules, abandon comfort and certainty, face our fears, and take genuine risks. It can be heroic just to resist the pressure to fit in at school, because there is a very real risk of that we’ll be shunned if we’re authentic, exposing our real feelings and beliefs. There’s some heroism involved just in studying a practice like Animá, when many people no longer believe in personal integrity, the living earth, spirit or purpose.

The most heroic acts of all are those committed not just for ourselves but for the protection and betterment of our loved ones, our communities and clans, and the other life forms. A time when governments are waging wars against each other and their own people, when personal liberty is being surrendered in hopes of increased safety, when the natural world is rapidly being destroyed, is truly the golden age of heroes. The challenges we face today offer us more chances than ever to use our skills and demonstrate our worth in service. All around us today are examples of nature being trampled for profits, women and children being mistreated, entire countries being plundered and cultures stripped of their diversity and dignity.

The hero in us is called forth into the light, whenever and wherever we encounter ignorance, prejudice, cruelty, injustice or greed… called to act whenever there’s a clear and vital need. To be heroes can mean to heal or create with love, rather than to fight and bleed. The measure of any hero lies in our compassion and the strength of our intent… and in the form and fact of our deeds.

• Heroes grow to serve compassionate missions, but neither bend to serve either institutions or men.

• Develop and write up your own heroic code of honor, including:

1) the sort of things you pledge never to do, such as betraying an ally or cause, denying even the most painful truths, or giving up when the going gets rough

2) ways of acting that are clearly inappropriate for a wizard and a potential hero, such as being petty, arrogant or cowardly

3) the various types of indignities and threats you pledge to confront, resist and transform when and where they arise

4) the kinds of people, other life forms, natural areas and sacred places of power, liberties and rights that you can promise to protect and nourish, further and celebrate

• Develop a plan to deal with each situation as it comes up, intensely focusing your wits as well as your special energies. Then be prepared to set your plans aside as the threats morph and the situations change.

• Maximize your knowledge and abilities in preparation for heroic events… but no matter how powerful you ever you need not depend on yourself alone. Enlist human allies and aides, tap the wisdom of the ancients that still resides in your bones, call on the spirits of place for help, and invoke the Great Spirit by whatever name.

• It is the purpose of heroes to attempt the impossible.

• Always set out to exceed your imagined limitations. Nothing is wholly impossible, regardless of the odds stacked against us.

• The greater the odds against us, the more important our deeds and the greater any accomplishments.

•Not all heroic acts are completely successful as intended. What makes you a hero is how hard you try…. plus your noble reasons why.

•Live a heroic life, and future generations will tell your story as you have read and retold the stories of those courageous ones who came before.

An Artful Life

By Jesse Wolf Hardin
http://animacenter.org

“Culture comes up out of the earth, vibrating through the body, as each individual affirms life and expresses her or his unique creativity. It is kept alive by consciously honoring the sacredness of the four Great Mysteries: food, sex, birth, and death. The ceremonial arts are channels for people to express their relationship with these primal mysteries.”
-Sedonia Cahill

Art and love are surely among humanity’s most redeeming graces. And the most meaningful of that art reflects, exalts, and is informed by inspirited nature. It’s an acknowledging and glorifying of the inner essence of relationship and form, of that numinous essence that our creations can at best only allude to. It is the marriage of symbol and context, Earth and Spirit, fostered by our own loving hands– a palette of mountain clay and earthen pigment.... of pain and joy, struggle and hope.

There’s an intentionality and honesty to real art that makes it more than decoration, raising it to the level of ritual. The artist celebrates not only the lines and color of a particular landscape, but the character that breeds and defines its landed features, the spirits of place honored in deft strokes by one who loves the land in the hush of compost and gray of winter as much as the brilliant warmth of Spring greens. And it is just as true for our poetry, correspondence and diary entries, for craft and song and dance dedicated to the illumination of the lasting inner power, the energetic fibers that connect us to the whole. Dances to the hunted animals, chants to the rain gods, magical paintings on mats of bark and myths told and retold over the proverbial tribal fire– all are stories, and it is story that binds us to our beliefs, to the past and the future, and to the experience of place. They are the threads that weave us back into our contact with the land that defines and sustains us, crucial lessons handed down through the inheritance of crafts rather than the sequencing of genes. Since the very beginnings of what it means to be “human” we have venerated and exalted the gods, the land, and our true loves-- and it is in this place of art and ritual where we know these things and ourselves as one.

What is often missing in our unlanded culture is not only artistic form in life, but the art of life: the art of conscious, responsive, celebratory relationship. The assignment is not only to make the relationship work, but to make it beautiful as well. Not only meeting the needs of the other, but delighting them with our means for doing so. In our relationship to the land, the care we gift it includes our attentiveness, love, protection, and artful celebration of shared being. In our ecstatic coming together there is the opportunity for a further dissolving of boundaries. Boundaries between us and the land. Between the creator and the created, the artist and the art.

It’s far too easy to relegate art to those visible forms seeming to exist beyond ourselves, to finished and salable products rather than recognizing it as an ongoing process in which we play an essential role. Say the word “art” and many will conjure images of mummified paintings hung in sterile museums, the tastier graphics adorning the expressway billboards or the better of the year’s dramatic films. For some art is whatever catches and pleases the eye so long as it was informed by the human hand, while for others it can only be found in the few of those creations that manage to stand out from the rest, enlisting, stirring and releasing our reservoirs of pent-up emotion. Others find in the creations of Nature or God, in the luster of the sunset and the grace of beating wings an artistic perfection one can barely approximate on paper or in clay. An in the end all our art, as all people and all life forms— is of the Earth. Grounded in a wild and creative Nature, empowered by Spirit.

What we nearly all forget is the degree to which we can and should be participants in the artistry we’re immersed in. While we may consider ourselves “spectators” we inevitably contribute awareness, experience and emotion to what is principally an exchange. Exchanges with someone’s painting, with the architecture that surrounds us or the heavy-breathing clouds above our heads. We are said to be the only species capable of creating art, and yet we may also be the only lifeform ever to exist outside the state-of-art.

But it was not always so. Not for the pale villagers of ancient Europe who left us the sculpted body of the archetypal Earth Mother, the bearer of all of life. And not for the first hominid inhabitants of this state called New Mexico either. The ancient pueblo people left behind shards of painted pottery that continue to evoke the Great Mystery, fired clay fragments of a life of honoring, picture-puzzle pieces still vibrating with the energy of years of reverent touch. They spoke their fealty for the land in rock art carved out of their collective and individual souls, lightning bolts and the seed-carrier Kokopelli painted on the sides of the caves. Here too are the forms of the artists’ fingers and palms: their signatures, the marks of their selves, in graphic hands reaching out to their descendants across the chasm of time. They left enduring images of their priorities and loves, deities and dreams. They left their holiest expressions of wonder and communion, the evidence of a marriage with place consecrated in timeless art.

The lover in us is a child that likes to draw, handle a sharp pencil, splash water colors or inhale the aroma of the turpentine and linseed oil that thins and binds the pigments to canvas. Vision can be as immediate as touch, direct and with no need of explanation. Like altar boys we ready the vacant sheets of tree-flesh, release our lifeforce in a fountain of red paints, freed of all preconceptions about design as meaning proceeds to take over. One never really manufactures either adventure or art. We are confronted by it, consumed by it... and remade within it. It always has a purpose, one beyond the range of the artist’s intentions, and it is willingly given away. Here today and gone tomorrow, like those golden cottonwood leaves. Like those Tibetan sand paintings intricately crafted in this ever-shifting medium, definitive colors sure to blow across one another, mixing and blending until fully melded into, fully indifferentiable from the landscape from which they came. But then it’s not in the completion of some project that we become fulfilled. Rather, it is in the making of our art, in the living of our lives that we’re made whole.

“The purpose of art is not to represent the outward appearance of things, but their inner significance,” Aristotle proclaimed. This is true for those aesthetic forms evolved independent of human influence as much as for our “own” crea