For months I’ve been feeling lost; waking each night wondering why I’m so anxious, restless, and ill at ease.  Finally falling into exhausted sleep only to arise late, wonder what my problem is, and scramble to catch up with the day–only to repeat the scenario that night.

Paul H. Ray and Sherry Ruth Anderson, authors of The Cultural Creatives: How 50 Million People Are Changing the World, prophetically described my condition 13 years ago when they were writing their book.  Like the Jews wandering in the desert after their escape from Egypt, I’ve been betwixt and between.  I’ve wandered away from my old life that was no longer working for me, and my new life has yet to take form.  Or rather, I’ve not yet completed the inner transformation that will call my new life forth.

In the meantime I’ve been working to launch a new online magazine,The Moon, a journal of personal and planetary reflections.  The first issue addresses the theme, “The beginning is near,” with interviews and essays by some of the progressive thinkers I admire most: the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation’s David Krieger, the Network of Spiritual Progressives’ Rabbi Michael Lerner, mythologist Michael Meade, Buddhist activists Thanissara and Rev. angel Kyodo williams, and The Morning Blessings’ Rev. Angela Peregoff.  My friend Audrey Addison Williams contributed a memoir of her 17 months in East Africa, and my friend Jennifer Freed contributed a poem.  My husband created the website and worked tirelessly to fine-tune its appearance, eliminate bugs and kinks, and add functionality.

Was I happy during this time?

Like a woman in labor is happy, maybe.  To look at me, I was driven, irritable, impatient, possessed.  Beside myself at interruptions and technical glitches.  Despondent over software and hardware.  Yet working on the magazine was all I wanted to do.  Ask a woman in the throes of delivery if she’d like to come over for tea and a chat.  Most likely she’ll snap your head off.

At least now I knew why I was waking up in the middle of the night, though: it was because I’d forgotten to credit a contributor; or hadn’t followed up with someone who’d said they’d send me an article.

The Moon rose on Monday night–just a few nights before the end of the Mayan calendar, and a few days after the nightmare that was the Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre of 20 first-graders and six adults.
 
In light of that tragedy it seemed hugely naive and optimistic to propose that “The beginning is near.”  When I think of the parents and families and friends of the victims, I easily imagine that their worlds ended that day. Though life will doubtless require them to pick up the remnants and stagger on, their hearts won’t be in it.  Their hearts will be on lockdown, sealed by the pain of losing those light-filled children so senselessly, so young.

But then I read the words of my contributors–Michael Meade, reminding us that birth and death are always interconnected, and that there is a world behind this one from which all things come, and to which all things return, making appearances deceiving.  I remember my own knowing that each of us is more than these flesh-and-bone bodies; we are immortal spirits, here on purpose.  That being true, I consider that the beings we lost last Friday actually did what they came here to do:  wake us up to all the ways that we have been sleep-walking through our precious lives on this precious planet.

It’s a tragedy of being human that we too often change only when we are absolutely forced; when there’s no other way.  Our nation’s history is steeped in the blood of innocents–from the Native Americans we slaughtered, to the slaves we imported, to the Marshallese we nuked, to the “collateral damage” we inflict through drone attacks in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and elsewhere.  Though we’ve had the freedom to renounce this violenceat any point, we haven’t done so. Perhaps the souls we lost last Friday were trying one last time to horrifying us into turning our backs definitively on violence and unconsciousness in all its many forms.

And so I launched The Moon, with its optimistic theme, and reception has been favorable.  One kind reader even thanked me for my “moral energy.”

Is that what it is?

It‘s a redeeming thought.

All I know is that when I awaken at 3:00 a.m. my anxiety is no  longer free-floating;  it’s concrete:who will my next interview be?  Which of the inspirational people I know doing inspirational work will I include in next month‘s issue?  Which stories will best illustrate the coming themes–of Community, Consciousness, Co-Creation, and Courage?

What a blessing it is to immerse myself in the work of those who are building a world that works for everyone–and to tell their stories to a wider world.

And so it is.      

My sisters and I were talking about the whirlpools of our lives—the spinning that seems to keep us stuck in place and prevent us from achieving—or, at times, even remembering—our goals.

I related how I’d been under-employed for a year, had lost all but $2,000 of my $124,000 IRA investment in 2011, had attended a networking conference with nearly 1,000 entrepreneurs–virtually all of whom needed PR, marketing, web content, and other communications assistance–and gotten exactly two paying clients (most of the companies were pre-revenue), and was batting poorly in the PR department for my one client under contract.

My sister looked at me and said, “You’d better be grateful.”

I stared at her, momentarily dumbfounded—and then burst out laughing. I hadn’t considered the gratitude angle.

“Really!” she continued. “You’ve been saying for years that you want to be a real writer–that you want to write about what is important to you, not your clients–and that you also want more time to travel in pursuit of your spiritual explorations.  Despite the fact that you have lost most of the assets you thought you had and have virtually no visible means of support, you still manage to live a comfortable life, travel to Peru, visit your land in Washington, stay in the unfinished house, and continue your Inca Medicine Wheel training.  You think maybe the Universe is trying to tell you something?”

Like what?

“Like keep writing!  Keep exploring!  Keep practicing!  The Universe has your back!”

She was so right.  We laughed because—like so many people—we so often think of our lives as problem-filled, instead of solution-filled. We ignore the very blessings Divine Intelligence—or Dumb Luck, if you prefer—has put in our path.  We blow past the miracles in our harried lives, instead of falling down on our knees in amazement and appreciation.

There are various cures for this condition, and most of them involve strategies for becoming more aware, more present–of bringing more of ourselves to each passing moment.

Unfortunately, our culture seems to demand that we become less and less present and more and more distracted. We’re not being maximally efficient if we’re not multi-tasking—listening to the news while making dinner; reading a book while eating lunch; checking our messages while walking the dog. We’re endlessly interrupted, and interruptible. We pay more attention to the email that just entered our smart phone than to the person in the same room, or the task in which we were previously engaged. We drive like demons to yoga class, so that we can slow down and breathe deeply, only to endure our mind charging the fences like a crazed POW for the next 90 minutes.  We focus on the clients, work, and impact we’re not making, rather than on the clients, work, and impact we do have and make.

When are we ever completely present at one time?

Thich Nhat Hanh says to reintegrate ourselves by focusing on the breath: “Breathing in, I know I am breathing in.  Breathing out, I know I am breathing out.”

Yes.

Others recommend keeping a gratitude journal—a log of the countless blessings that pour into our lives each and every day.  Soon you realize what an unappreciative clod you are capable of being…

And stop.

I sleep in a spacious room, under a down comforter, on a feather pillow, roses at my head. I awaken to a fog-cooled morning, with cooing doves and hummingbirds hovering outside my window.  My smooth-skinned husband sleeps next to me. I luxuriate in his warmth. As the sun burns off the fog, the hens wake up and begin to cackle as they work on producing breakfast.  My husband has brewed coffee, dark and strong the way I like it, which I sweeten with sugar and cream. I sit in bed with Rev. Angela’s “Morning Blessings” and align myself with the Divine Intelligence that animates the cosmos.  Have I not already enjoyed a day’s worth of good fortune?

And there is more. The water with which I wash my face has been delivered from the mountains, through a wild river and a manmade lake. I do not have to travel a mile or more on foot to carry the day’s supply of water home in a ceramic urn or a plastic jug. The reason I have time to sit at the computer for hours each day is because other people have planted and tended crops I use for food; harvested and shipped the food to my hometown—and often times, prepared the ingredients into bread, butter, pasta, sausage, mayonnaise, and other appealing combinations of nutrients and flavors. I enjoy oil from olive groves in central California, watermelon from Yuma, Arizona, parmesan cheese from Italy, Swiss chard from my own garden. Is there anyone enjoying a richer life than mine?

But wait, my beloved sons are alive and doing well. So are three step-children I too seldom see. And so are six nieces and nephews, six siblings, and both parents. How do I ever complain about anything?

Instead of judging my life by how many meaningful moments I am able to cram into it, why don’t I instead judge it by how much of myself I am able to bring to each moment?

And for a stretch goal, perhaps one day I’ll even stop judging…and instead just be grateful.

And so it is. 

(See more at http://asyouthink.org …)

In the shamanic traditions of the Inca, practitioners carry a “mesa,” or medicine bundle, which holds the sacred stones and power objects called upon in prayer.  “Mesa” means “table” in Spanish, and for shamans from Spanish-speaking countries, the mesa is a portable altar they can spread anywhere. The objects are wrapped in a cloth called a mestana, which is folded into a neat four-cornered bundle and tied—traditionally with a beaded cord. North American Indians, too, carry a bag with their ceremonial objects in it—tobacco, sage, eagle feathers, and the all-important lighter, or box of matches—typically in a leather or cloth bag, often beaded, or decorated with pieces of antler or bone.

Various indigenous cultures have their own ways of selecting the stones, or kuyas, of a mesa and ascribing, or infusing, meaning to them.  In the Four Winds Medicine Wheel tradition one selects stones according to criteria for each of the four directions.  In my work with the Q’ero shamans of Peru I was instructed to choose stones differently—to allow one or more stone from each ceremonial site to speak to me for inclusion in my bundle.

Since I’m just an apprentice shaman, my mesa has been fairly lightweight.  Earlier this year, I’d selected three small stones for my journey through the South direction of the Medicine Wheel.  In ceremony, I’d infused each of them with painful issues I wished to release. The stones carried these emotional toxins for me into the Earth, Pachamama, who is accustomed to mulching our wastes and transforming them into nutrients for coming generations.

For the upcoming journey through the West in the Medicine Wheel training, I’d been instructed to select three stones of different colors—one red, one yellow, one black. What meaning they would come to hold for me I did not yet know, but I’d already selected these stones, plus one other solely because I loved it, prior to my trip to Peru.

In Peru, however, I discovered that the Q’ero shamans choose their stones differently.  Don Marco advised me to allow one or more stones from each ceremony site to speak to me and include it in my bundle.  Since we conducted three to four ceremonies each day, my mesa soon grew quite large and heavy.

The day Don Marco and I went to Machu Picchu, he instructed me to find a quiet place, open my mesa, and after spending time with it, to ask each of the stones whether or not it wanted to work with me.  If not, I was to return it to the Earth at Machu Picchu.

I took my bundle down a steep flight of stone stairs to the side of a terrace wall hugging the cliff.  The spot was partially protected from the equatorial sun by a tree, in whose shade I shared my sandwich with a small bird. Then I opened my mesa and surveyed my stones, arrayed on my mestana.

The first that drew my attention was the stone I’d purchased for love. A beautiful, multicolored, egg-shaped stone from Madagascar, it is polished smooth to reveal rings of red, brown, green, pale yellow, and pink.  I picked up the stone, wrapped my fingers around her and, holding her to my lips, blew my energy into her.  “Do you want to work with me?” I asked.

Perhaps not surprisingly to you—the reader—but more so to me—the skeptic—she did.  Her purpose was to remind me of my love of travel, of letting life take me, confident that only good could follow.  She also represented my connection to the variegated tribes of the Earth, and of the beauty that is revealed only through polishing—through rubbing away all of the rough edges. I was grateful to have a visual reminder of those qualities and held her coolness in my palm for a while, then blew prayers into her before returning her to the mesa.

Next I picked up the piece I’d chosen as the black stone for my mesa. It was actually a dark gray spike of granite reminiscent of a railroad stake. This stone was phallic, male. He had four sides, symbolizing the four directions. I blew into him and asked him if he wanted to work with me. He did. He said he was my connection to the strength of being grounded. He symbolized staking a claim, making a stand, being immovable. I was grateful to have his protection, his strength, his warrior stance and blew my prayers into him.

My third selection was a yellow, semi-translucent, quartz-like stone I’d chosen from my own collection in Ojai.  I’d added it to my mesa because it was yellow—one of the requisite Medicine Wheel colors—although it wasn’t a stone I was particularly drawn to, despite its unusual color and translucence.  I held the stone in my palms for a while, then blew into it, asking if it wanted to work with me.

Yes, it said, it represented abundance, “the golden energy” that Thaayrohyadi, a Toltec elder, had said I’m connected to.  Again I was filled with gratitude.  Sitting there alone, on a ledge carved from the side of Machu Picchu, I was having an emotional experience with stones—so-called inanimate objects.  But see, shamans will tell you, we’re never really alone.

But back to the stone: like so many people, prosperity has been an issue for me the last few years. So of course it’s ironic that I wouldn’t “be particularly drawn” to the stone willing to correct that imbalance for me.  And, you see, I already had a stone in my mesa that was supposed to represent abundance. During the Medicine Wheel rites in the South, I’d sent all my financial issues into it.  Unfortunately, it was small and pinched at one end—a reminder of financial worries, rather than of prosperous aspirations. I was glad to exchange it for his larger, more opulent representation, which conveyed gold, crystal light, sunshine, all needs met, the power to help people receive their good. I blew my thanks into the stone and set it back upon the mestana.

The fourth stone I turned to was a small, round, white one I’d collected from the stream at Mandor, where Don Nasario and I had performed a ceremony at the foot of a waterfall.  Now I held the cool stone in my hands, blew my prayers into it, and asked if it wanted to work with me.

“Of course,” it said. “Why else would you choose me from the countless stones in the river?” This stone represented my connection to water, to flow, to Urubamba—the river that swirls to Machu Picchu—to purity, and the power of ease, effortlessness, softness, grace. I thanked the stone for its kindness and generosity, and returned it to the mesa.

Next I picked up a small, gray, egg-shaped stone that, through my Medicine Wheel rites in the South, I’d associated with time—the sufficiency of time. Just as there is no lack of material good in the Universe, there is no lack of time, either.  Urgency, haste, impatience exist only in my mind. This stone was my reminder that creation in the physical takes time, that “all good things [come] in all good time.”  I asked the stone if it wanted to work with me and it said yes. In addition to assurance of the sufficiency of time, it wished to be my connection to new beginnings, new creation, to a new heaven and a new earth.  As my purpose is all about ushering in the new world, I was grateful to have its assistance.

I now turned to a blood-red rock I’d purchased in Ojai along with the beautiful multi-colored stone. This stone was also from Madagascar and also polished smooth. I asked it if it wanted to work with me, and it agreed to do so, symbolizing the red blood of Pachamama, the Earth, and the red of the liver, which, like the Earth, detoxifies all poisons, renders them harmless, neutralizes and purifies all that doesn’t serve us—yet that we ingest nonetheless.  It also wanted to represent the color of love, of passion and intensity, of the fire of commitment that can accomplish big things.  A-ho!  I blew my prayers of gratitude into the stone.

Next I picked up the small green-gray stone the shaman Don Nasario had given me in exchange for a small plastic bear I’d carried in my mesa as a representation of my power animal—the one who had defended me in the underworld until I was ready to step into my power as a shaman. I asked this stone if it wanted to work with me, and it said it would be my connection to the ancestors—to the ancient spirits of Peru Don Nasario had introduced me to.  I thanked it for its kindness—and returned it to my mesa.

Now I turned to the small white, pinched stone that had represented my connection to prosperity and abundance—until the golden quartz stone assumed that symbolism. I held the stone, blew into it, and asked if it wanted to work with me.

“No,” it said.  “I am too small to be of much use to you.”

“What are you talking about?” I argued. “That’s not true! Small things can be tremendously powerful!  What about the acorn that grows into an oak, the hole that sinks the boat, the grain of sand that makes the pearl, the spark that ignites the inferno?”

“Exactly,” said the stone. “I just wanted to make sure you appreciate me.”

“I do, I do,” I said, in gratitude, and blew my prayers of appreciation into her.

The remaining stone was an arrowhead that former friends had given me. (Not old friends, former friends.  They’d cut me out of their lives for reasons they’d never cared to explain to me.)  Still, I appreciated their gift of the arrowhead, who now agreed to work with me to symbolize the power of pointed concentration, of being focused and single-minded, of flying like an arrow with only one purpose, of the saying, “You can’t do everything, but you can do one thing.” It also represented the power to pierce, to cut to the heart of the matter.  I thanked it for its wisdom and held it briefly to my lips and my heart before returning it to the mesa.

Having ascertained the agreement of all the stones in my mesa, I bundled it up and returned to Don Marco, well-satisfied with the afternoon’s accomplishments.

The next day, however, I welcomed another stone to my mesa.  Two days prior I’d met an Argentinean woman at Mandor.  She too was traveling alone, only she was traveling on foot, without a guide, for a month.  I admired her quiet confidence in doing so, her beauty, the slow manner in which she spoke, as if considering every word.  She was on a spiritual journey of reconnection and was planning to hike the Inca Trail the rest of the way to Machu Picchu—a steep and precarious route.  We’d visited for a few minutes at Mandor; then I’d run into her the following day at Machu Picchu.  Now, as I sat on the train for the return trip to Ollantaytambo, who should be assigned the seat next to me but this same young woman, Andrea?  We talked like long-lost sisters, until at length I was prompted to ask her birthday.  “September 28,” she said.

September 28, the same day as me.  Tears filled our eyes and she reached into her backpack to retrieve a red quartz crystal.  This is for confidence, she said, to remind you never to doubt yourself, or your path.  I nodded.

In return, I gave her my arrowhead, so that she could fly like an arrow to visit us in California.  She said she would.

A few days later, at Lake Titicaca, a stone asked to join my mesa to replace that arrowhead and remind me of single-mindedness.  Of course I welcomed the addition. It is a large, gray arrow-shaped stone—again, rather like a railroad spike. I’ve already grown distracted and lost it once—at a beach in California—but retraced my step and found it again, thankful for the reminder to stay focused on my purpose.  There are many worthwhile endeavors in the world, but only a few that I am here to accomplish.

Now that these stones travel in my mesa, they have become my kuyas, stones that are more than stones; they are power objects.  I honor them and am grateful for them.

One might say that “Stones don’t speak. You were only projecting your subconscious onto them.”  I won’t argue with that perspective; for all I know it is correct.  The important thing to remember is that I listened.

Whether it’s the stones or your subconscious speaking, listen.

And so it is.

 

There’s a lot of talk these days about “losers.” To hear some folks tell it, the country is full of them. They’re the unemployed people who occupy Wall Street. According to Herman Cain, they’re also the ones who crashed the economy, signing predatory loans (that they knew full well they couldn’t pay) and defaulting once the loans ballooned and their home values tanked. Or they got laid off (losers), fell sick (poor genetic stock or bad habits), or both. Soon they had no health insurance (freeloaders), couldn’t pay their medical bills (deadbeats) and declared bankruptcy. Next they’ll die out of spite—just to make the rest of us look heartless.

Let’s assume for the moment the Republicans are right: the 99% of us who do not make up the financial elite are losers.  We didn’t accumulate the most toys.  The 1% holding most of the marbles won. 

But a culture that defines success so narrowly that only 1% qualifies is a culture on its way to extinction.  Because no one is born a loser.  Each child is born unique, with a purpose, a gift, a reason for being here. Republicans proclaim this loudest of all—while the child is en utero—insisting that the sanctity of fetal life even trumps that of the mother’s if the two should ever be at odds. The child only becomes a loser upon being born.

True, many children enter the world with the odds stacked against them—and addressing that injustice is our collective responsibility. Holding a child responsible for the circumstances into which she is born is the antithesis of opportunity. In fact, it’s the caste system all over again. Why should people contribute to a society that excludes them?  In a democracy, they will rewrite the rules of engagement—as is their right and their duty, as proclaimed by our own Declaration of Independence.

So-called primitive cultures know that every person comes into the world with a gift—which means that we once knew it too. Native Americans made a space in the community for the heyokas, the contrarians, the tricksters, and believed these stand-outs had a special connection with the divine.  Similarly, Dagara shaman Malidoma Somé says, “We all come into this world with a gift that must be given to the world.” “All,” he says, not “some.”  Depth psychologist and author Michael Meade reminds us, “Everyone needs some help learning who they already are.  That’s the root of genuine education and the task of real culture.”  And Nietzsche said, “Every man is a unique miracle…uniquely himself to the very last movement of his muscles; more…in his uniqueness he is beautiful, and worth regarding, and in no way tedious.”

Contrast this with the prevailing view of the Occupy Wall Street critics: that only white, male, professionally educated, financially successful men, and well-groomed, sexually attractive, heterosexual women are beautiful.  We’ve seen this narrow-mindedness before, in Germany, and it didn’t end well.  Worse, it excludes by definition, everyone “outside of the box.”  In other words, innovators, rebels, artists, musicians, idealists, visionaries, scientists, trouble-makers, inventors—in short, everyone likely to give the world anything other than what we’ve already got.

If you think I overstate the case, consider the oft-quoted reference to Einstein, who didn’t speak until the age of four.  Or Beethoven, who was born into dire poverty and was deaf.  Or Michael Jordan, who was cut from his high school basketball team.  Or Steven Spielberg, who was rejected by three film studies programs because of his lackluster grades.  Or Oprah Winfrey, who was told that she’d never have a career in broadcast journalism.  Or Stephen Hawking, confined to a wheelchair, unable to speak, and almost completely paralyzed, who has nevertheless transformed our understanding of the universe.

The losers, the misfits, are the ones who—ironically—enrich our lives. Without them, life would have a bland sameness—not because we are all actually the same; but because we all try so relentlessly to conform and play the game by the rules, rather than challenge the rules and enlarge the game.

Steve Jobs, whose death has reminded us of his life, helped to write the Apple ad copy that accompanied the company’s “Think different” campaign.  It went like this:

Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes.

The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them.

About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things. They invent. They imagine. They heal. They explore. They create. They inspire. They push the human race forward.

Maybe they have to be crazy.

How else can you stare at an empty canvas and see a work of art? Or sit in silence and hear a song that’s never been written? Or gaze at a red planet and see a laboratory on wheels?

While some see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world…are the ones who do.

Life is not a footrace or a game of marbles.  It is a collective enterprise.  Human beings are social animals and we need each other.  We need even the “weak” among us: the infants—they’re our future; the old ones—they’re our past, our memory, our wisdom; the immigrants—they seed our culture with new food, music, customs, clothes, language, and ideas; the “disabled”—if nothing else they teach us compassion and, if we pay attention, they often inspire us with their resourcefulness, resilience, and breathtaking courage. 

What’s especially ironic is that our country’s veterans–who are so loudly applauded when they’re in crisply pressed uniforms going to or coming back from war–are so piteously rejected when they are the dirty, toothless, and homeless on city streets. Talk to these men–and women–some time. You will find that they are not so mentally ill as you may imagine. Rather, they have been traumatized by what they have seen, and done, and have no way to integrate themselves back into a society that rejects them.

The social contract we’ve been busy unraveling over the last few decades is what knits us together through good times and bad.  It’s the diversification in our portfolio that hedges our bets against future challenges and optimizes our chances of game-changing breakthroughs.  It is well worth the investment of those of us who are temporarily strong—the healthy, employed, or independently wealthy—to support and encourage those of us who are temporarily weak or vulnerable.  We will all—if we live—be weak or vulnerable one day.

Does God answer prayers? Does the universe respond to our requests? Do we, as individuals, have the right/power/ability to influence the collective whole?

I’ve previously posted my vision statement advocating “a world that works for all of us.” But a late-night conversation with my brother, in which we each tried to clarify our beliefs regarding prayer, forced me to consider more precisely what it is that I believe about the universe and humanity’s place in it—as individuals and as a collective.

I believe that we’re all—nearly 8 billion of us—emanations of the Divine. God manifests through each one of us, regardless of what we “believe.” We are made “in the image and likeness of God.” “The Word (God) was made flesh and dwelt among us.”

This was not a one-time event, as Christians claim, but the whole purpose and point of creation. God experiences life in, through, and as us. As Jesus took pains to remind us, “The kingdom of heaven is within you.” Hence,

There’s only One of us here—many drops comprising a single Ocean; many cells comprising a single Body. Since we’re all One, What we do to others, we do to ourselves. Hence the Golden Rule. Hence the stupidity of greed, war, or killing our planet.

Since God is in each one of us, We are all co-creators with God. As co-creators, our potential is unlimited. Wherever we are, God is. The dreams we manifest are creation happening in the now. The creation story has never ended. It continues at the sub-atomic level and in the farthest reaches of the universe, because it is all imbued with divine intelligence—with the stuff of God. Hence,

We influence creation. In other words, God answers prayer. I’m not referring to a God “out there,” that old man with a long white beard we saw pictured in Sunday school. I’m referring to the divine intelligence that orders the universe. When we align ourselves with it, we put that power at our disposal. We put ourselves “in the flow” of creative power that is everywhere present. We “plug in” to the cosmic grid and we direct that current to power the appliances of our lives. Hopefully we’re doing something more magnificent with it than running appliances; however:

We have free will. Hence the state of the planet at the moment. However, millions of people are waking up—which is the whole point of evolution—and realizing:

The more powerful our consciousness, the more powerful our influence. A master like Jesus could calm the waters, heal the sick, and even raise the dead on command. He was/is not the only one who could perform these (so-called) wonders. Lakota medicine men routinely part the storm clouds to redirect the rain away from Sun Dance ceremonies. Siddhas reportedly heal the sick, halt the aging process, and materialize food, drink, and riches through the strength of their consciousness. African shamans can walk on water, co-locate, shift shapes, and open portals to other dimensions. Those of us who have not finely honed or perfected our consciousness create haphazardly, or in time, rather than in the now. As we grow in our perfection—surrendering our ego to the unified energy field in which we live, move, and have our being—we manifest more perfectly and more immediately.

We strengthen our consciousness—our effectiveness—by aligning ourselves in prayer. Muslims pray together five times a day. If we were wise, we would do likewise—in form, if not in content. Uniting our consciousness with others increases our effectiveness. As Jesus said, “Whatsoever two or more of you ask, it shall be done by my Father (God consciousness) in heaven (within you).”

Aligning ourselves means aligning with the unified field. The cosmos is intricately ordered by divine and magnificent intelligence. Paraphrasing Jesus again, “Of ourselves, we can do nothing. It is the Father (God consciousness) within us” that creates wonders. Individualized consciousness is limited; universal consciousness is infinite. My sister keeps this reminder on her refrigerator: “Remember Beth, someone else is running the show. Not you. You have a minor walk-on part. Relax and enjoy the show!” In other words,

We can trust whatever happens. We may not like it; many times I don’t. The oceans are dying (and it’s appalling how significant a statement that is and how readily it is passed over); millions of innocent people are being killed by my government (same paucity of response); Troy Davis may be wrongly executed by the State of Georgia in two days (a million people protest). Yet consciousness itself cannot be destroyed. The universal intelligence in back of all things is not troubled. There is, after all, no death. The consciousness that is my Afghan sister, my executed brother, my dying sea turtles, lives on—waiting only for me to awaken and recognize my Oneness. Hence, I

Fear not, for I know that all things work together for good. Divine intelligence operating through all persons, places, and events will prevail. Despite appearances, all is well in my world. And so it is. (With thanks to Rendy Freedman for the beautiful photo she took and sent to me from Tibet.)

The indigenous belief that “In this universe all things are connected” has a corollary:  we can never be alone, except in our own heads.  The attempts we make to isolate pieces of the universe—identifying the wave as separate from the ocean, or the single body of water that covers the planet into five separate oceans—are linguistic conventions, artificial categorizations.  While they may have been created to help us understand reality—to break it down into manageable segments, suitable for scientific investigation—they have become so fixed in our thinking that they now camouflage what, for the indigenous, is an incontrovertible truth: We cannot be separated from creation, from each other, from the Infinite, from whatever we call God, no matter how we categorize bits of the universe.  There is one life, and it flows through all of us.  Moreover, in the indigenous view, life flows through even inanimate objects—earth, water, fire, stone, planets, air—through Gaia and the entire cosmos.

Since we cannot be separated, we can never be alone—despite how isolated we may feel.  In fact, the most compelling evidence that the Western worldview is profoundly misguided comes from the fact that so many of us do, in fact, feel isolated, cut off, estranged—not just from each other, but from meaning, purpose, and significance.  What people of the world are the most depressed?  According to a 2004 study by the World Health Organization and Harvard Medical School, that would be Americans.  What country has the most obsessive-compulsive disorder, panic disorder, and other forms of anxiety, as well as the highest rates of post-traumatic stress disorder, murder, car accidents, and other violence?  If you guessed the United States, you’re right again. 

Although indigenous people may appear—from the Western point of view—to have more to worry about—survival, for instance—they also have sound support systems.  First among them is the belief that the universe they inhabit is friendly; that it cares for them—right down to providing their daily nourishment.  They know who they are, where they belong, and who they can call on for help—including their ancestors.  Moreover, they know they were born for a purpose—a purpose that Creator also equipped them to fulfill.  As a result, it has nothing to do with how much money they accumulate or status they achieve.  Their talents came with their original equipment; all that is required of them is to express them, to place them into service.

A primary reason that Westerners feel estranged and isolated from the natural world is that we seldom listen to it.  We consider it dead, or at best, unconscious, so what’s there to listen to?  Yet indigenous people do listen to the natural world; for them the natural world is always communicating and one who ignores this communication is either foolish, or perhaps disabled.  Either way, their lives are at risk because they make decisions oblivious to a wealth of information that is available to them.

How is it available?  Through listening.

Tom Brown, Jr., founder of the Tracker School who acquired his skills as a boy at the side of a Lipache Indian named Stalking Wolf, says that one can be so attuned to the natural world that one can know which plants and which parts are edible, which plants are medicinal, and which are toxic, even if one has never encountered the plant before, simply by attuning oneself to the plant.  In other words, by listening.

This requires a willingness to spend a certain amount of respectful time in the natural world, in a receptive mode, observing, listening, and quieting the mind from its incessant broadcast. At a weekend workshop with Ecuadorian elder, Don Alverto Taxo, participants were encouraged to go outside and “make friends” with a plant that called, or spoke, to us. “Make friends” was an expression chosen intentionally to convey consideration and respect—an equal give and take of energy, rather than a one-sided conversation in which the poor plant would have to hear all about us and never have a chance to get a word in edgewise.

The experience was very instructive—as we learned when we shared our experiences later.  When we took the time to listen to the plant we had selected, we did receive intuitive, felt responses to our emotional and conversational offerings.  In fact, many of us were sad to say goodbye to our new friends, our exchanges had been so meaningful.

Skeptics might say, “It wasn’t the plant speaking; you simply communicated with another part of yourself.”  To whom an indigenous elder might answer, “Exactly. There’s only one Great Spirit here, expressing through all creation. When we speak with nature, we are speaking with Great Spirit, with oneself.”

If the end result is greater empathy and understanding, and a sense of being connected to all Life, and of never being alone, what is the problem?

And so it is.

This statement of the fundamental unity of all creation is perhaps the foundational principle of the indigenous worldview—which differs starkly from the prevailing Western view. 

“In this universe, all things are connected” implies far more than just the “knee bone is connected to the thigh bone” type of connectivity (although even this most basic statement of the obvious frequently eludes Westerners, as we see in modern medicine).  Indigenous connectivity implies a universe so intricately ordered and interwoven that it confounds the mind—which is perhaps the point.  As the ancient Greek philosopher Plotinus said,

The stars are like letters which inscribe themselves at every moment in the sky. Everything in the world is full of signs. All events are coordinated. All things depend on each other; as has been said: Everything breathes together.

(Emphasis added.)

The notion that “everything breathes together” also implies that the universe is alive—a concept that conforms to the indigenous worldview, as well.  Indigenous people speak to the stones as “grandfathers,” call upon the sky for rain, sing songs for the health of the oceans, pray to the mountains, and invoke the four directions. Moreover—and perhaps more importantly—they listen to the communications and observe the signs from the natural and inanimate world—because, after all, humans are not the only intelligent life here.

In contrast, the Western mindset continuously seeks to separate pieces of the whole into discrete parts, and to treat them as isolated phenomenon.  We do this with scientific experimentation, seeking to control all variables except for the one factor under investigation.  We do it with human beings, separating this group from that group, blaming, castigating, demonizing—and all too often—brutalizing those who are “other” than “us.” 

We do this with the natural world—holding man apart from the rest of creation, presuming that only human beings are intelligent, can communicate, are worthy of our consideration.  We certainly don’t grant them any “rights.”

The lessons of history, the teaching of karma, and even the Christian admonishment to “Love thy neighbor as thyself”—are lost upon us.  We continue to divide and conquer, believing we can separate out pieces of the unified whole, damage part, and leave the rest unaltered.

This is why indigenous people—and a growing number of awakening Westerners—wonder at how long the Earth can possibly tolerate our willful ignorance.  The ongoing disaster at Fukushima—which has prompted at least one headline that “the Pacific Ocean is dying” (http://www.opednews.com/populum/linkframe.php?linkid=150559) and British Petroleum’s disaster in the Gulf of Mexico—prompting at least one headline that “the Gulf of Mexico is dying” (http://www.globalresearch.ca/index.php?context=va&aid=22514) —are but two “isolated” incidents that are not—in reality—isolated.  The nuclear power plant at Fukushima remains radioactive; the Gulf remains poisoned with oil and—worse—chemical dispersants.  Although we talk about the Gulf and the Pacific as separate bodies of water, there is in fact one continuous body of water on the planet.  Although we talk about separate ecosystems, there is in fact one food chain, one web of life.  We have inflicted massive damage on the planet in just these two “discrete” incidents.  In addition, human activity is causing the extinction of an estimated 200 species daily; the decline in every major fishery and every major ecosystem on the planet; the loss of habitat for all predators and virtually all complex forms of life; the threat to groundwater, glaciers, rivers, lakes, and most freshwater sources from mining, pollution, and over-use; the rise in average temperatures that is melting glaciers, lowering water tables, and causing ever more radical weather; the loss of forests—both temperate and tropical; the list goes on and on.

The Buddhist Declaration on Climate Change states, “Today we live in a time of great crisis, confronted by the gravest challenge that humanity has ever faced: the ecological consequences of our own collective karma. The scientific consensus is overwhelming: human activity is triggering environmental breakdown on a planetary scale. Global warming, in particular, is happening much faster than previously predicted…Eminent biologists and U.N. reports concur that ‘business-as-usual’ will drive half of all species on Earth to extinction within this century. Many scientists have concluded that the survival of human civilization is at stake. We have reached a critical juncture in our biological and social evolution.”

Westerners believe they are immune to all of these events that do not affect them personally.  But indigenous people understand that there are no discrete events. In this universe, all things are connected.  All of creation is the intelligence of the Godhead expressing itself.  When a canary dies in a coal mine, it is a warning to the miners to get out, oxygen levels are precipitously low.  Instead, Westerners are likely to think, “Oh, what the hell.  It was just a canary.”  If humanity is to survive, we must return to the indigenous wisdom that teaches us there is only one life here.  We are all a part of it, and we must care for all of it.

How To Make Penny Auctions Work For You.

It’s quite sobering to consider the number of high military officials who become compelling–perhaps the most compelling–proponents of peace. General Douglas MacArthur gave this speech to the Los Angeles County Council of the American Legion on January 26, 1955, calling on the people to demand an end to war:

“The leaders are the laggards. The disease of power seems to confuse and befuddle them. They have not even approached the basic problem, much less evolved a working formula to implement this public demand. They debate and turmoil over a hundred issues — they bring us to the verge of despair or raise our hopes to Utopian heights over the corollary misunderstandings that stem from the threat of war — but never in the chancelleries of the world or the halls of the United Nations is the real problem raised. Never do they dare to state the bald truth, that the next great advance in the evolution of civilization cannot take place until war is abolished. It may take another cataclysm of destruction to prove to them this simple truth. But, strange as it may seem, it is known now by all common men. It is the one issue upon which both sides can agree, for it is the one issue upon which both sides will profit equally. It is the one issue — and the only decisive one — in which the interests of both are completely parallel. It is the one issue which, if settled might settle all others.

…

“I am sure that every pundit in the world, every cynic and hypocrite, every paid brainwasher, every egotist, every troublemaker, and many others of entirely different mold, will tell you with mockery and ridicule that this can be only a dream — that it is but the vague imaginings of a visionary. But, as David Lloyd George once said in Commons at the crisis of the First World War, “We must go on or we will go under.” And the great criticism we can make of the world’s leaders is their lack of a plan which will enable us “to go on.” All they propose merely gravitates around but dares not face the real problem. They increase preparedness by alliances, by distributing resources throughout the world, by feverish activity in developing new and deadlier weapons, by applying conscription in times of peace — all of which is instantly matched by the prospective opponent. We are told that this increases the chances of peace — which is doubtful — and increases the chances of victory if war comes — which would be incontestable if the other side did not increase in like proportion. Actually, the truth is that the relative strengths of the two change little with the years. Action by one is promptly matched by reaction from the other.

…

“I recall so vividly this problem when it faced the Japanese in their new Constitution. They are realists: and they are the only ones that know by dread experience the fearful effect of mass annihilation. They realize in their limited geographical area, caught up as a sort of no man’s land between two great ideologies, that to engage in another war, whether on the winning or the losing side, would spell the probable doom of their race. And their wise old Prime Minister, Shidehara, came to me and urged that to save themselves they should abolish war as an international instrument. When I agreed, he turned to me and said, ‘The world will laugh and mock us as impractical visionaries, but a hundred years from now we will be called prophets.’

“Sooner or later the world, if it is to survive, must reach this decision. The only question is, when? Must we fight again before we learn? When will some great figure in power have sufficient imagination and moral courage to translate this universal wish — which is rapidly becoming a universal necessity into actuality? We are in a new era. The old methods and solutions no longer suffice. We must have new thoughts, new ideas, new concepts, just as did our venerated forefathers when they faced a new world. We must break out of the straitjacket of the past. There must always be one to lead, and we should be that one. We should now proclaim our readiness to abolish war in concert with the great powers of the world. The result would be magical.”

Don Marco has given me a homework assignment for my last night in Peru.  He has asked me to write what I received from each of the shamans I worked with: Don Nasario, Don Pedro, and Don Ysidro.

Don Nasario is easy. He was my warm welcome to Peru and to Andean shamanism. His childlike openness, non-judgmental acceptance, and ready friendship put me instantly at ease. While Don Marco ensured my physical safety, Don Nasario helped me feel emotionally safe, as well.  I remember our first ceremony together: we took a short hike up to a cave where Nasario smudged me clean and reintroduced me to the ancestors. As if I were a child, Don Nasario held my hand on all the steep parts, coming and going.

As the ceremony began, I loved how he called upon all the apus, all the spirits, all the power places, running through a long list of names, and whenever he stopped, I knew it was my turn to say, “Leslee,” because he had forgotten how to pronounce my name.  His willingness to be imperfect, to make “mistakes” good-naturedly, made it safe for me to be a beginner, to not know much. When the ceremony was over, he spread his arms wide and gave me a big hug, saying, “Gracias, gracias,” although it was I who had received the gift. Standing there in that thousand-year-old cave, having been reintroduced to the ancestors and spirits of a place thousands of years old, made me feel grounded and connected in a way I have seldom experienced.  I could only cry tears of gratitude.    

Don Nasario also presided over my first despacho at the feminine power spot, Kiliarumiyoc. I loved how Don Nasario purposefully set about our task—yet without making me feel that anything I did was wrong, even though I didn’t know how to do anything properly. I was grateful that he added the power of his prayers to mine. I was grateful to have the opportunity to pray for so many aspects of my personal and collective life—and to have those prayers compounded by the power of the shamans.

When the despacho was complete and bundled up, I loved the genuine devotion with which Don Nasario kissed the giant rock that is an altar to the moon. Later, when we intended to burn the despacho in a fire ceremony, I loved the purpose and concentration with which he set about building the fire.  I loved his free-flowing, childlike energy, and his sense of humor—always ready to find something to laugh about—or to create something, if necessary.

After the despacho had burned away, Don Nasario and I sat in the tall grass with our mesas and I was grateful to have him bless my “beginner’s mesa” kuyas with his. He admired my little bear, which I had bought several months ago to remind me of the power animal Don Tomas encountered in the underworld when he visited on my behalf. The bear in the underworld was actually a fierce adult, standing on his hind legs to protect me, but this little “osito” was my reminder.

I was so charmed by Don Nasario’s kindness and attention that I offered the bear to him, and although he seemed surprised, he accepted.  Thus, I got a graphic lesson in how readily I give my power away.  I was very upset about it that night, wondering how I could so casually give power animal that meant something significant to me, to someone who had no reason to appreciate its significance. It was as if I had casually given away a child, or a pet. Materially, it was just a plastic bear, but symbolically, it was my defender in the underworld.

I told Don Marco about it and he encouraged me to talk to Don Nasario and make it right.  I did talk with Nasario, but something was lost in translation.  As it turned out, we agreed to exchange kuyas.  I prayed over my little bear and gave it to him again; he prayed over one of his kuyas and gave it to me.  I got to keep the lesson about giving away my power.

Don Nasario also presided over my San Pedro experience, my baptism in the waterfall at Mandor, my visit to Apu Veronica, over a short ceremony at the river in Ollantaytambo, and a foot-washing on another day at Ollantaytambo. The waterfall ceremony at Mandor was especially powerful—in large part because of the exhilaration of immersing myself in the cold, rushing water.  But it wouldn’t have been the same to do it alone, or to do it recreationally.  It was made powerful by the prayers and intention of Don Nasario, calling forth my own prayers and intention.

In all of the ceremonies Don Nasario performed with and for me, he showed great kindness—never minding the discomfort, the rain, the cold, the repetitiveness, my ignorance—nothing. He was always generous and affectionate, treating me as if I were a child that might know nothing now, but could learn—and my learning would cause him happiness. After every ceremony, he gave me a hug and repeated the words, “Gracias, gracias,”…but it is I who will always be grateful.

Don Pedro and I didn’t spend nearly as much time together as Don Nasario and I, but the ceremony he conducted for me at the waterfall cave, Chacan, was perhaps the most powerful of my trip to Peru.  It was a ceremony of balancing, of bringing the masculine and feminine, the divine duality, into equilibrium. He also performed the illumination ceremony on me, using his brass disks to reflect the sunlight on my chakras.  It may have been the force of his personality, but I really felt the energy move when Don Pedro drew it through my arms—and particularly my legs.  When the ceremony was over and I had washed myself and my mesa in the cascading water, Don Pedro turned to me and yelled three times, “Todo esta en orden!  Todo esta en orden!  Todo esta en orden!” I get tears in my eyes recalling this even now, because one of the fears I caught from my teacher in Washington is that the world is going to be destroyed.  That may be what is required to restore the balance, but it doesn’t feel “en orden” to me.  It feels dangerously precarious, and I expend a lot of my mental/emotional/spiritual energy somehow thinking I can tip the balance back…”save the world,” help wake humanity—or the sleeping portion of it—up, and that I know better than Creator how to manage things.  (I know that’s ludicrous, but I try.)  Don Pedro’s ceremony at Chacan was a powerful lesson for me that the Universe is intricately ordered in ways I can’t even begin to imagine, and that perhaps it’s time for me to trust.

Interestingly, the ayahuasca ceremony reinforced that lesson in a fundamentally practical way. Although I’d wanted to have a vision—an experience of the order in the Cosmos—I had all I could handle dealing with my body’s upset.  When I was at last in my bed and somewhat comfortable, the thought came to me, “You’re not so worried about the world right now, are you?  You’re just worried about yourself, and in a way, that’s all that’s appropriate.”

I have found myself saying, “Todo esta en orden! Todo esta en orden!” on several occasions when appearances might have indicated otherwise—for example, when I realized that cancelling my flight from Cusco to Lima had created more problems, rather than solving one.  Yet affirming Don Pedro’s mantra helped to manifest the order that later appeared.  The same thing occurred the night of the May Day party at Hostal Inti-Kala.  Affirming “Todo esta en orden” while music blasted at 3 a.m. helped me, at least, to relax—and perhaps had an effect on the revelers, too.

I received the Hampe rites from Don Ysidro, as well as his kuyas for performing them on my own for other people. The ceremony itself was powerful—it was very helpful to feel the energy being drawn down my body from my crown chakra and up my body from the Earth.  The confirmation of feeling the energy in my wrists and temples was also helpful, as was the admonition to concentrate.  But what perhaps was most helpful—even if rather humbling, overwhelming, and intimidating—was Don Ysidro’s comment that he liked my manera preparing the ayahuasca despacho, and that we could perhaps work together in the future—male and female—and help people at Ausungate.  He reiterated this after the hampe initiation.  Although I don’t really know how to integrate this thought, I nevertheless feel honored and humbled that a shaman saw something of potential value in my efforts.

There are two final (ha! “Final”!) gifts I received from all three of the shamans.  One is the example of people who live easily in their bodies and not in their heads.  People who are balanced.  People who can even puke and shit in the presence of others and not feel conflicted about it.  People who flow easily with life, despite its challenges and hardships.  People who are truly childlike, in the way that Christ said we all must be “to enter the Kingdom.”

The other is the example of people who are profoundly aware in each moment of the natural world and what it is telling them. They are always listening, observing—and understanding—the messages they receive from the sun, the wind, the birds, the clouds, the grass, the stones. Nothing is inconsequential.  This is a very important lesson, and one that requires me to slow down in order to emulate.  But what powerful rewards one receives from the effort.

I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to work with these shamans, and for all of the experiences of the last 15 days.  I am sure that this recounting merely scratches the surface of all that I have received, so I consider it a work in progress.

Gracias.  Gracias.

And so it is.