Something like hope

The fields beyond our house, with the Patuxent River in the background.

A chilly morning, a cup of tea: it sort of begs for writing, especially as my child seems to be sleeping in. So here I'll do it.

We had a terrific summer storm last night-- heavy rains, thunder, lightning-- the works. My boy stood on the front porch with me and kicked up his heels in it, running about and screaming with delight. Later on we drove down by the horses and he had a go at jumping in some of the most brilliant puddles we've seen here yet. Up in the sky, clouds of all shapes and colors filled the many strata of the atmosphere, some seeming high and lumbering, others low and quick, flitting by in an after-rain race.

The whole while, I felt softer to this place. It is hard to be angry at a partner who looks so beautiful, who becomes so welcoming... And this morning, I recognize that it is difficult to see a place's truth through resentful eyes. I really think that's what it is: I resent having to be here, having this as our only option, having to love a place I never really cared to care about. Now...can I live with this and enjoy the puddles anyway?

Meanwhile, back at my place...

I awoke today refreshed and happy, for something happened yesterday-- something subtle and free, like a cooling breeze-- and all at once, I was able just accept where I am. (The where I am being southern Maryland, and certain resultant depressed mind-states.) Perhaps something in the weather buoyed me; after all, it was in the low 80's much of the day, and cool and not-too-bright. I spent most of my time out of doors (like my forebears). I was... happy.

And so today I was going to write something sweet and prolific and excited about accepting where I am, and then? Well, later in the morning I was sorely disappointed by someone I'd been counting on (...again). And then after, when I took my child to a nearby playground, a "sexy" young woman showed up with a young boy carrying around a toy gun, which he shook at the other children playing chase with him. The woman herself had a nervous twitch, and with a closer look I saw she was covered with several scratches and bruises. She was friendly, though, and we chatted a very little bit before she took off again. But the whole experience left a deep hole inside of me-- where the hell am I??

So it's back to square one again. Happily today was a zazen day for me, which set the right tone and structure to carry the rest of the morning's distress. That practice reminds me that I'm not separate from any of this, not this battered woman, not this child exposed to violence, not this sense of deep disappointment. In fact, it was my own history-- or at least, an echo of it. So while I've set a vow in my life to assist everyone who is suffering in this world, I know to begin with myself, and the compulsion I have to push it all away given my revulsion borne of what I've known in my own life.

The trick, though, in balancing that is the fulcrum of my son, and my relationship to him as a mother, and a protective one at that. I long to keep him safe from all of this mess. To bring him up in a place that is free from addictions and pain, pesticides and toy guns. The first two issues are hard enough to balance inside of oneself, in spiritual practice; but adding my child into the equation? How does one balance accepting what is and where one is, and protecting one's child from true danger?

My favorite quote from Suzuki roshi is "Enlightenment is not a state of mind." To me, this says that experiencing our perfection is not about "deciding" to "become better"; rather, it's knowing and experiencing completely where one is, and all that that is. It is nothing less than relationship itself, between all of me, my history, my senses, my memories, my interpretations, and that of all of existence. This is the sacred friendship which requires careful cultivation each day, each moment. There aren't easy answers; there's no magic potion I've seen.

So that is what I tell myself as I rock in my chair, sip my tea and listen to the birds in the gorgeous forest that surrounds me. Good or bad, can I accept that I am in relationship all the time? I kiss my son to sleep, and rest in the cool air. This is a good enough place to start.

Pioneering Relationship

Venus of the Fels Cave-- click here for the full story in Speigel.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the earliest humans, and where spiritual endeavor began... And happily these thoughts were rewarded by word earlier last week that the oldest artistic representation of the human form had been found in Germany (just click by the picture). While the Venus of Willendorf, which is ever my favorite piece of art, has been dated to about 24,000 bce, this pretty lady has been dated to a few thousand years prior. (Which really says something about art's original purpose, and a bit about our early orientation about what was meaningful, don't you think?)

Prehistoric art was a favorite of mine to study in art school, and I'll always kick myself for not designing my bachelor's around the subject (I ended up focusing more on American Indian art-- I was in New Mexico, after all). Yet I've remained touched by the people who created this beauty "just a thousand grandmothers ago", as one professor put it.

Another interest I have is in discovering an American Zen tradition that is less a copycat version of Japanese culture, and more an appropriate blend of spiritual need, religious heritage and zazen. For me, this has meant a heartfelt journey into the religions of my ancestors-- if anything, to gain a greater sense of connection to our Earth (many of them were, after all, earth-oriented traditions) and a better understanding of where I'm from.

Where the two meet is about creating an authentic religious practice-- and it has led me to some fascinating places. One such place is Scotland; particularly Before Scotland: The Story of Scotland Before History. This book has been so utterly helpful in gliding me through a history that has always been more than a little difficult for me to grasp simply because it's always been done so icily.. Alistair Moffat begins it with a bit of an essay about why-bother, as "prehistory" often suggests in its air a sense of "not being quite the real thing".

I recall first learning about those long-ago ancestors during my first art history course, those who painted caves somewhere in France and being stunned by their creativity and heart. And yet somehow, I never felt a true part of them, as we didn't dive very deeply into knowing them, for quickly it was off to the "real" cultures of Egypt and Greece and finally to Rome, the realest of all the real cultures.

How sad it makes me, and Alistair too it seems, that the harsh judgments of our invaders from so long ago could remain to haunt so thoroughly that we pass right over the history of our forbears in favor of the ones who could conquer and divide us. Think of how we still refer to the earliest of them, these cave people, rough and uncivilized... And yet, as Alistair points out, even as we still "despise our forbears", "these people were not aliens. They were our first parents."

7 million years ago: the first humanoid appeared. 100,000 years ago, the first homo sapiens; and by 29,000 bce, the first of these were in what we know as Britain. 16,000 bce was the height of the ice age, and by 11,000, the ice had retreated so that Scotland was ice-free. They've found an arrowhead dating to 10,800-- really, this number is so far beyond what I can really grasp, but there it is-- and the earliest hunter-fisher settlement in Britain, Howick Haven, dating 7,800 bce.

These numbers are fine, but what I find most intriguing about this book is Alistair's exploration into who they were. Pioneers, he reminds us; hunters and fishers seeking what can be found in the rich, green lands to the north, likely from the Dordogne valley of "France". He cites Bryan Skeys' research of mitochondrial DNA, the sequences that can be traced through women only. In his sampling of populations in Britain, he found 7 "origin women", clan mothers he calls them, 6 whom 40% of today's Europeans can call "mama". The seventh clan mother was from what we know now as Iraq, and she signals the introduction of a farming cultural revolution...

But for now, I am most interested in digging deeper into the mind of this "prehistoric" mama, mostly intrigued by the utter tenderness of her tribes' treatment of those who had died. One mother was found with head and feet atop deer antlers; around her neck, a fine necklace created by the teeth of 43 different stags. But by her side? Her infant, laid in the nest of a swan's wing, with a small flint knife by its waist.

There was another child found, this one buried with a small local stone, the shape of a tongue, placed in its mouth. "You are of this place, and you are this place," it seems to tell us; you are its language, and your story it will tell for generations to come.

The tenderness of these burials-- I was so taken to read of them. I wanted desperately to be the one who found them there-- could you imagine?

That is where I rest now; this intrigue, this love that has blossomed in me for our "first parents". This is the beginning point I was seeking, before jumping into an herbal study, before digging more deeply into the lore of my Celtic ancestors... There is something so common about these people. We are all from this, no? "We are who we were," writes Alistair, again and again. And I beg the small favor of a local stone in my mouth, even before death, saying "I belong."

After the Storm

from the Hearth...

It's Beltaine, the Celtic festival of welcoming the summer season and lighting a new light. There is a wonderful bit of background (& poetry) at this lovely blog I rambled upon this morning... And another lovely amble to inspire my own ramble, pulled out into nature on this day when the fairies themselves are said to move into a summer home of their own. (And if you're curious about more traditional ways of celebrating this holiday, this really wonderful website by a Scottish friend of mine covers all the details.)

Otherwise, it has been a day of finding my own way, working to fulfill this dream I have of settling in truly & surely with the rhythms of life that surround me. In the morning, my son & I ventured out into the "soft weather", kissed by a bit of rain were we as we picked the fresh buttercups for our hearth offering. This evening we blessed the family and the house with a bit of spring-water and made an offering of beer, firelight and water. Fire and water marked the start of creation, according to the Celts. I like the mix.

It is also a good day to set intentions, much like planting a garden as we've been busy with these last days. For myself, I have such a habit of sinking into slothfulness, and despair; a good discipline for me will be softening my approach, increasing my curiosity and fostering openness. One way to do this will be through simple ceremonies, such as I indulged in tonight... Acknowledging my forebears and the "invisible" realm of spirits and gods-- honoring that which lies beyond reason, and making friends with what I cannot know through blessings and music. I am always so glad when I do, and feel so much more alive, simple as the method may be.

Sláinte!