The Powers of Green

The Feel of the Forest

Have been reading the 1905 book Spirit of the Mountains by Emma Bell Miles, of Tennessee (many of my ancestors, far more than half, migrated from Appalachian TN, KY, and NC to MO), and found this paragraph particularly resonant as well as lovely:

"We who live so far apart that we rarely see more of one another than the blue smoke of each other's chimneys are never at ease without the feel of the forest on every side--room to breathe, to expand, to develop, as well as to hunt and to wander at will. The nature of the mountaineer demands that he have solitude for the unhampered growth of his personality, wing-room for his eagle heart."

Awen

"Awen, the living energy that stands behind the form" *

*Martin Shaw from Scatterlings

Every once in a while, it's fun to scroll through some photos and enliven them with the iPhone app Artisto. Those above seemed to want to express their living energy with the help of that neat bit of software.

Widget ... because he's just so darned cute.

Weaving the Web

"Each day is a secret story woven around the radiant heart of wonder."

~ John O'Donohue, from Eternal Echoes

Solar Eclipse

I chose to observe the dancing crescent patterns rather than gaze through anything directly at the sun. I'm happy with my choice to feel the energy, listen to the growing silence, and experience Nature similar to all other animals. It was cool.

Okay, in addition, best movie ever that includes a solar eclipse? Ladyhawke. Yup. One of the greats, IMHO. Because of the eclipse, the curse is broken and love wins the day!

Unkempt

I wrote elsewhere a while back about my distress over my neighbor "mowing the woods" in front of my property because he thought it looked messy -- we live in a semi-rural neighborhood, it's why I fell in love with the place, it's supposed to appear chaotic and wildly gorgeous! Not only that, but the "messiness" is inherent in promoting a healthier environment:

"The industrialized eye, accustomed to suburban lawns and controlled gardens, generally sees such diverse, visually complex plant communities as chaotic. There appears to be no order or control, only wild, random growth. Regardless, plant communities have spent some 500 million years learning their craft; there is a reason for how they are structured. The more visually complex a plant community, the better it can respond to ecosystem demands and stressors. All ecosystems are dynamic over time in their drive to preserve this kind of 'wildness.' A suburban landscape, not continually forced into an orderly shape, will 'relax.' It will begin rearranging, reassembling, itself immediately; it will begin to look rather unkempt." ... "Disease outbreaks and heavily destructive insect infestations are extremely rare in these kinds of lumpy, visually complex, 'unkempt' ecosystems." ~ Stephen Harrod Buhner in The Lost Language of Plants

I have also been seen as messy or unkempt, especially once I passed my mid-thirties. Maybe that's part of why I protect the messiness of the woods; I feel it as kindred, as part of me.

What if ... ?

I've been reading a variety of books on plant intelligence, from conventional science to innovative experiments to holistic perspectives to sacred intuition, and yesterday's reading--the chapter titled "The Function of Psychotropics in the Ecosystem" from Stephen Harrod Buhner's book Plant Intelligence and the Imaginal Realm: Beyond the Doors of Perception into the Dreaming of Earth--led me to a few "what if" questions that I decided to share.

our volunteer patch of
Philadelphia Fleabane

What if ... one of the ways that people in power began to control others was to deny them the ability to empathically connect with plants, animals, and even other humans by limiting their access to psychotropics? (Studies have shown that "serotonergic neurognostics generate, or perhaps more accurately, regenerate, the natural childlike feelings of empathy, the direct experience of the personhood of the [human and] nonhuman other, by altering sensory gating in important ways.")

What if ... some of the visions of prophets and/or spiritual leaders were a result of plant-assisted journeying (as with current indigenous shamans)?

What if ... one of the reasons for our current drug epidemic is that some people intuit (on a level they aren't aware of) that we need to find our way back to the connective, inter-related oneness of all life? That the so-called escape it provides from our modern society is also part of a journey or return to holistic functionality?

Buhner's book is itself profoundly mind-opening and I highly recommend it. This last of his books is a 500-page tome that I have explored slowly, every chapter gradually leading into the next one -- a beautiful journey.

When Robin Wall Kimmerer (botanist and author of the delightful book Gathering Moss) spoke with Krista Tippett of On Being, she commented that, "science asks us to learn about organisms; traditional knowledge asks us to learn from them." This is a sensational way of bridging the gaps between conventional science, indigenous wisdom, and sacred connection with Gaia.

Some people choose lifestyles that naturally lead them into learning from the earth, from Gaia. Even then, however, their sense of the aliveness of every Being around them can gradually become rigid. We don't have to imbibe psychotropics to alter consciousness, though. Remember daydreaming? Remember pretending? Recall the last time you read a thoroughly engrossing novel or were swept away by a piece of music? That altered your consciousness, because you allowed the meanings, feelings and sensations access (sensory gating). We can do this naturally. We can reconnect with Earth when we offer ourselves the space to do so. Creatives are an obvious example, one that any of us can mirror and then become.

POV to Systems

I was struck how appropriate the following quote could be when applied to other systems besides organ systems (and plant systems, which is the focus of the book); for instance, consider its potential for understanding cultural, political, social, or religious systems, not to mention simply other personalities, and how we can relate to them.

"The closer the reality of the organ system is to your normal point of view, the easier it will be to experience its reality. The farther away it is, the more disturbing it will be. Experientially assuming an extremely different orientation will in itself teach you about the narrowness of your normal point of view. The resistance you have to this new and very different perspective is information about how and how much you cling to your normal perceptions." ~ Stephen Harrod Buhner, The Secret Teachings of Plants

The book Secret Teachings of Plants is profoundly moving; I highly recommend it!

Its Home On Its Back

This little box turtle (wish I had a good telephoto lens because he or she would tuck its head inside every time I tried to get very close), trudging along with its home on its back, reminded me of travel, the meaning of home, withdrawal when in danger, being hard on one side and soft on the other, and the ancient fable of the tortoise and the hare. Just to name a few imaginings that came up.

And those musings recalled how everything I read, most of which is non-fiction, seems to inspire a story line. Books about our planet like The Dream of the Earth by Thomas Berry to A Tear at the Edge of Creation by Marcelo Gleiser; on society and religion as from Age of Anger by Pankaj Mishra to Evolution of God by Robert Wright; from Reasons to Stay Alive by Haig to Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma by Levine. Not to mention the variety of books on history, psychology, and spirituality.

Then there is the basic review of my own life experiences from divorce to single living, from competing in dog shows to hiking on mountain trails, from moving across the country to making new friends, from learning about natural remedies to falling in love later in life.

Most of the abundance of ideas or themes can be woven into tales that could take place within my fictional series, except that the first book isn't even finished yet. I've dozens and dozens of possible tales. How will I ever get to all of the stories? I guess the simple answer is that I will get to the ones that I'm meant to write. And that will have to suffice. My Muse will have to offer the rest to other people, although I hope she waits until after I've officially discarded them.

Flowers!

I just love it when these bloom! Such joyful flowers!

Amethyst Falls Wisteria

Slither

Sharing a Tale

This short piece from a novel is such a delightful tale-beginning that I am compelled to share it; please pop over to read BLUE by Marie Cartier. Not only is the story marvelous, but the message it is sharing is vital.

Maine Coast; an hour from where I used to live

Intentions

One of my intentions for this year is to provide more posts on my HolistiCARE blog, so I invite readers to pop over there for a visit once in a while if you are curious. I will be mentioning specific remedies or methods, as well as educational resources, about those modalities in which I've been trained.

I'm also hoping to start growing some fresh food-herbs now that I'm living in a moderate climate. I've never had much of a "green thumb," but perhaps the Ozarks will be kind to me in that respect. If it is, I will post the uses of those herbs that do grow, and how I incorporate them into our meals. I'm a modest, non-adventuresome cook, but this may turn out to be a curious journey nevertheless.

Spring is right around the corner, and a new season awaits. But meanwhile, I enjoy the ability to see the sunset for a while longer; once the trees get their leaves, the sun only peeks through.

Healing Our Wild Hearts

During this past year, I've often struggled to have faith that humans are worthy of the gifts of our magnificent planet and universe. The vicious comments to and about other people, from all points of view and all sides of the political conversation (if one can even call it a conversation, which I doubt), have triggered my tendencies toward melancholy and misanthropy. And, if it weren't bad enough that we treat each other badly, we destroy other species and the planet that provides so abundantly for us.

Winter in the Ozarks

Whenever I could manage it, I have always chosen to live "in the country," whether that was our new home here in the southwest Missouri Ozarks, or in the woods of Maine, or the mountains of Colorado. Even these areas, though not wild, retain enough residual wildness to soothe my soul when I am unable to visit true wilderness areas.

I worry that this next administration of our government will harm our environment even more than we've already done, by prioritizing short-term gains over long-term losses. I would like to think that humans can control our greed so that we do as little harm as possible to others and our planet, but, sadly, most people when given free rein will think short-sightedly only about themselves, whether farmers or corporations or the average worker buying as much stuff as they possibly can.

Winter Woods in Maine

If we further allow our country to invade, harvest, and destroy even our wild places -- national parks, forests, and refuges -- our souls, the wild magic within each of us, whether we know it is there or not, will die along with our resources. There have been multitudes of books and movies about what could happen, yet many of us see them as entertainment rather than warnings, pretending they couldn't possibly happen.

I may not visit those wild places very often, but I am deeply comforted knowing they are there -- for their own sake as part of the Divine Whole, but also in case I need them. If they disappear, where will we go to heal? Where will our hearts be able to feel a sanctuary of natural wilderness even if we cannot see it with our eyes?

Summer in the Rocky Mountains

I was blessed to grow up visiting these wilderness places each summer; they became a part of me, places I always knew were out there healing us through their vital existence. Further, I was blessed that these visits were journeys across our amazing America, from sea to ocean, from mountains to deserts--these were road trips. The insightful naturalist and author Terry Tempest Williams writes about this eloquently in her latest book, The Hour of Land: A Personal Topography of America's National Parks:

     To be an American once meant unending possibility, and the land reflected that possibility. Always the next bend--the next ridge--the mountain range descending into the depth of canyons carved by water an wind and time.
     Now, we say we have too little time, not enough time for road trips. We used to visit our national parks most often by car. Families took time and experienced the gradual approach to the park being visited. Anticipation was part of the journey as was the wildness of a family spending time together for hours and days, traversing the states. Today we arrive by plane. We miss the trek across the vast expanse of this nation. I sometimes wonder whether these special landscapes now appear as "pop-up parks," a spot of entertainment and commerce instead of an unfolding geography.

This past weekend, I pulled out some books by an author I used to enjoy but had yet to read her four most recent novels. I had paused in reading her books because I felt like she went into a darker mental space than I cared to visit anymore; Nevada Barr writes about the intersection of wilderness (national parks) with humans-gone-wrong in her mystery series. I found myself wanting to read her stories now, though, for the very reason that her protagonist somehow always finds her way through to the other side, to where she still has faith in beauty and love and how wildness can help us to heal.

I wish more people would travel, would make space in their lives for experiencing the wonders of our natural, wild places. Unlike our ancestors once thought, the beauty and resources of our world are finite and we need to treasure them. Many people forget that our bodies and minds careen into the wastelands without the nourishment provided through our souls, our wild and divine hearts that are revitalized through our connection to our sacred earth.

Grand Canyon

Firefly Messages

Fireflies are magic. 

A child-like innocence returns to my soul 

as I watch their twinkling small suns, 

winking, beckoning. 

Night becomes sweet and mysterious. 

Messages in morse code: 

indecipherable quick blinks in a row, 

like dot - dot - dot; 

slow-held blinks that create streaks like fairy sparklers, 

as in dash — swirl — dash; 

the ones I hold my breath in wonder of 

that go blink — long pause — blink; 

or any scintillating combination thereof. 

Tiny alchemical conversations. 

As dusk drifts gently into the hillside, 

in our little clearing below the decks, 

a microcosmic field of fireflies begins to flicker, 

the wondrous golden lights reflect upon 

a verdant carpet that grows ever darker 

as the curtain of night falls. 

These precious beings 

spark imagination as they float upward, 

into the thick, damp air 

like stars from within the earth to 

whisper their tales if we listen. 

These are emissaries of tranquility, 

showing us the way to glimmering peace.

I Got High

Windy Point Vista

I got high on Wednesday!

Okay, I got 5,000 feet higher on Wednesday.

Fine, if you want specifics, my husband and I drove the S-curve road up nearby Mt. Lemmon on Wednesday to go hiking -- the Bigelow Trail was at an elevation about 5,000 feet higher than where Tucson is in the valley.

I was thrilled to be walking -- and sitting -- beneath huge, old Ponderosa Pines!

I brought along Widget's carrier in case he got tired, but he was quite the trooper, sniffing and usually leading the way.

Phoenix the Corgi was with us as well, but was hanging back with my husband.

Before heading back down to Tucson, we stopped for pizza and a snack at the Cookie Cabin in Summerhaven. YUM!

The drive to the Bigelow and Butterfly trails is about an hour and a half from our home, but the trip was well worth the reward. I definitely need to do it more often.

born in fields of uncertainty

"Words have a weight to them. How you choose to present them and to whom is a matter of style and choice."

" … I believe my own voice continues to be found wherever I am being present and responding from my heart, moment by moment. My voice is born repeatedly in the fields of uncertainty."

"Earth. Mother. Goddess. In every culture the voice of the Feminine emerges from the land itself. We clothe her as Eve or Isis or Demeter. In the desert, she appears as Changing Woman." 

~ Terry Tempest Williams, When Women Were Birds: Fifty-Four Variations on Voice

There is so much I'd like to say about this woman, this author. She holds me breathless ... traversing her stories, treasuring the exquisite expressions felt through her words. When Women Were Birds picks up the story of Terry's mother's journals … the journals I first learned of while reading Refuge.

"A story grows from the inside our … if I begin traveling with an awareness of my own ignorance, trusting my instincts, I can look for my own stories embedded in the landscapes I travel through."

"A story allows us to envision the possibility of things. It draws on the powers of memory and imagination. It awakens us to our surroundings."

"Story is a sacred visualization, a way of echoing experience. There are lessons along the way." 

~ Terry Tempest Williams, Pieces of White Shell

In all of the author's books, Terry's voice is strong and clear, and yet each book is a distinct image. I admire her ability to hold her voice, soft or crisp, no matter the topic. And she is able to balance her story within the context of the alternating story of place, something I aspire to do in a few of my WIPs.

I'm grateful to have come across this author; she is inspirational on many levels.

Red Desert

As I continue seeking a deeper understanding of not only the Sonoran Desert, but of myself in relation to the element of fire and of desert in its larger meaning and presentation, the book Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert by Terry Tempest Williams, though grounded in her multi-generational heritage among the rocky canyons of southwest Utah, provides perspective and inspires me to greater courage.

Different parts of our vast United States evoke varied considerations, and Williams' book brings forth an honoring of and reflection upon Mother Earth's diversity. One that stimulates us not to see our planet just for what we can get from it physically -- food and water -- but how our soul is nourished in unexpected ways through its fierce wildness as well.

"As the world becomes more crowded and corroded by consumption and capitalism, this landscape of minimalism will take on greater significance, reminding us through its blood red grandeur just how essential wild country is to our psychology, how precious the desert is to the soul of America."

I remember driving through Zion National Park on vacation with my parents forty years ago, and I can still recall the awe with which we viewed the red rocks. I will visit this place again.

"There is a resonance of humility that has evolved with the earth. It is best retrieved in solitude amidst the stillness of days in the desert."

I am looking forward to winter so that I can gather my courage and walk alone into the desert of West Saguaro National Park. I want to be within the desert, in solitude and silence, and hear a different voice, feel a rhythm unfamiliar.

"I believe we need wilderness in order to be more complete human beings, to not be fearful of the animals that we are … "

Tucson

The Vitality of Listening

It's strange to me that I've never read the works of Terry Tempest Williams, and yet, here I am; apparently now is when her words speak to me … and I listen. 

I recently listened to her interview in 2011 by Krista Tippett at OnBeing and wanted to share this quote (from the unedited version):

"If we can ask ourselves the question, then we are going to move toward the answer. And that's where, for me, it really is about listening, and being curious, and speaking [listening] from our umbilicus, not our mind, and sometimes not even our heart because that's where it gets so emotional that we *can't* hear one another. But if I'm listening to you with my hand on my belly, you know, of where I was first connected to breath which was my mother, you know, then I really can sit in the seat of presence and hear what you are saying, not what I want to say to you, but to really listen and to find that point of humanity, that connective truth."

Her reference to speaking and listening from our umbilicus really touched me.

A Wandering Pine

I miss my White Pine sentinels; they surrounded our Maine home on three sides, and I always felt protected.

Sara Maitland said “pine woods have a strange habit of wandering” (From the Forest). In less dramatic fashion than the Ents of Tolkien lore, granted, yet they do wander. I love this perspective of how pine forests move even if the individual trees don’t necessarily pick up roots and move over to the next ridge. It’s a bit of fascinating observation and can give rise to all sort sod fantastical stories of how boundaries and landscape change face across time, where once the line was here but now it is there; one at first blames the memory, perhaps I don’t recall my childhood experience as well as I thought because visiting to woods sixty years later, the slope appears different — but it is! 

One can almost imagine in the cover of night, a pine wriggling its toes free of the soil and a long root, then another, reaching over, slowly, ever so subtle, creeping like a vine, sinuous as a snake, and then tugging as it digs in once more shifting its tall trunk in that direction, nearly imperceptible because it doesn’t want to topple. Shifting itself away from the group. 

The fantasy is actually easier for me to imagine than the practical science of how “they re-grow as new individual trees from seed and tend not to do this under their own canopy, but to the sides of existing stands.” 

Maybe this is another subtle reason I am aligned with pines (though, fyi, in this instance the author is speaking of Scots pines) — I didn’t grow under the “canopy” of my family of origin but rather to the side. I really love this new conceptualization of my beloved pines, evergreen and raining positivity upon me continually. The author calls this wandering “spooky” but I find the entire notion utterly delightful and encouraging to the growth of diversity away from the familiar. For instance, my younger brother is definitely deciduous, growing from our mother-base; my older brother doing his own thing from a trimmed height where he branched out but still firmly connected to the original trunk … but me … I’m a seed cast to grow beyond the canopy. 

I’ve been waiting my entire life to be in the forest and free; 

cycles are age, yet less age than individuality. 

One never knows where and when shift may happen.