The last night at Visao Futuro, Susan's education center where I took her biopsychology course, we had Carnival! A small one without any pagentry, but it was great, and with everything else in the course, exquisitely created. We gathered in the dining pavillion, a 12-sided structure with glass walls looking out over lush tropical vegetation. Various groups prepared funky entertainment - skits about the experiences of the week, or regional songs and dances - and then a couple of the excellent musicians who are integral to the teaching program played non stop traditional carnival music for an hour and a half solid. The whole dance floor was alive with people singing and dancing and doing conga lines. I didn't know the music, the words or the steps, but it didn't seem to matter. Everyone was so happy and it was great, after an intense week of emotions and learning, to just let loose.
the last morning was a good gateway into returning to the 'real world.' as is the case most of the time here, i was clueless about what was happening and what was being said. I thought, when the class started, I would have plenty of time to pack and do a few essentials before leaving at 4, but the final exercises kept turning out to the the semi final exercises and i found myself blindfolded (to increased interiority) in a sharing circle with everyone clasping sweating hands, crowded into a cheek by jowl circle and hearing "shares" that - since i understood very little - seemed to go on and on... and me, feeling my time for leavetaking activities slipping away, squirming. So after 10 stress free days, I was sufficiently stressed to remember what life outside might be like.
In the airport I had to call the woman from the guesthouse where i would stay in Florianopolis to be sure she was picking me up. Oy! My Portuguese is 1000% better, but totally insufficient for making a phone call to someone who doesn't speak English. Thankfully, my vulnerability was attractive enough to call in some help and all basic needs were handled. I met one young woman returning home from 2 months in alabama. seems there are agencies in brail - and elsewhere? - that arrange for young people to go to america to learn english. but they are actually agents for McDonalds and other low paying employers. This young woman worked in McDonalds and was housed in McDonald's dorms struggling with Southern English and burger flipping. Ever new ways for slavery to show up in our world.
Yesterday I spent time with my friend Jorge Mello's girlfriend, Marge, who kindly got me oriented. Jorge is at a zen buddhist meditation retreat - his preferred way to spend carnival - and will return tomorrow night. On thursday he has arranged a Conversation Cafe with friends - he was in my course in Schumacher College in England and learned the method there.
Yesterday I went to the beach - ahhh, miles of fine white sand to walk and a warm ocean to swim in and hundreds of exquisite young bodies in string bikinis - i defintely felt overdressed in my one piece bathing suit and may screw up my courage and buy a cheap bikini to parade around in and claim my body.
Last night, a fellow I met at the Parque invited me to a Carnival party here - a costume party. The only costume I had was as an aging writer and public speaker from the US... BUT, for some reason, i had thrown a crocodile hand puppet in my suitcase at the last minute so i wore it and used it to talk to people i met. Also, my friend Alvaro had bought himself a gold tinsel cleopatra wig which he stopped enjoying wearing, so i put it on and felt more like i fit in. I was a bit nervous going - not knowing anyone, the language or what would happen - but managing to switch on my basic sense of joy and danced for 3 hours solid with people in all sorts of get ups. So, my friends, I have certainly had enough experience of Carnival - without pagentry - to know I am in Brazil.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Brazil - 25 February, 2006
Probably my last post before leaving.
After the fire ceremony, people were extremely moved, and the group sessions became deeper, with many tears and lots of hugging. This is quite an intensive "new age" workshop, and even tho some seems old hat to me, the information about the chakras is brand new - and of course the people are new and each a jewel. For many it is their first exposure to opening the heart, and for sure any opening of the heart - even for a seasoned inner traveler - is always a profound experience. the group chanting and meditation also sends me very deep.
I have taken more alone time these last days, needing to let impressions settle and my poor overheated portuguese confused brain cool off. I am shedding a bit the eyes of a newborn in Brazil and beginning to toddle. The staff at the Parque - including Didi - is becoming more three dimensional to me, with whiffs of loves and longings among the staff, of human ups and downs even in paradise. Watching Didi work - teach, go about running this big spiritual center with a staff of 40 and non-stop guests - is being instructive not only about chakras, but about my own reinhabiting passion for outer work. I am holding as a paradox my attraction - borne of two intense years of solitude and healing - to a more quiet life AND my natural extraverted and giving side that just overflows with ideas for opening minds to new ideas and designing ways for people to be humane with one another. A fear surfaces in that holding... a fear of loss of self, of getting swept up all too soon in yet one more big project that lifts me out of my skin, inflates me like a balloon, and sends me sailing over the simple pleasures of daily life. Didi is so fully surrendered to mission - and is a nun - so every ounce of energy goes into designing and facilitating programs here. She does it magnificently and I have watched a group of strangers open their minds, hearts and arms to one another - and to themselves. She is working magic. I am not her by any means, but I know within me is that capacity to inspire, to crack open dull paradigms and let the sweet juices of life flow again. This seems to come naturally and seems to want to come out of me again. In holding this paradox of the private and public selves, seemingly vying for the scarce resources of my time and attention, I realized that I have actually changed so why won~'t my outer work change? In the old days, simmering under everything I did was the urgency of the times we are living in, feeling the necessity for a profound metanoia globally as we head into the blowback of our 30 years of overshoot. Now, I believe i will do my work in love, not fear. it is the love that makes all the difference at home and on the road. I'll probably pick at this theme more as this month goes on since it is my first big tour since the old days. 9 cities in 12 days!
Susan and I spent some time planning our talk. She is a consummately prepared presenter so we are together carefully crafting a two hour shared stage evening that will really wow people. She has so much fire for every word being an arrow right into the soul and we complement one another in style, in focus, in language, in topics. And we are planning together so smoothly, changing one another's good ideas, tossing the ones we don't like without any stress. I think we will have a wonderful time. I learned yesterday that this is the first shared tour she has done... so i feel honored and deeply trusting of the spiritual forces that cooked up she and i meeting and 7 years later taking on this tour. And what are you up to Grandmother spirits... we shall see.
Tomorrow I head for Florianopolis (called Floripa by the locals) and 4 days on the beach and doing fun things for carnival. i already have invitations to three parties and people happy to show me around, so I think I'm going to love it. My portuguese has improved by leaps and bounds, so I feel ready to leave this very nurturing, totally safe, infinitely caring hothouse and get my feel planted on the ground in the Brazil beyond the Parque Ecologico.
After the fire ceremony, people were extremely moved, and the group sessions became deeper, with many tears and lots of hugging. This is quite an intensive "new age" workshop, and even tho some seems old hat to me, the information about the chakras is brand new - and of course the people are new and each a jewel. For many it is their first exposure to opening the heart, and for sure any opening of the heart - even for a seasoned inner traveler - is always a profound experience. the group chanting and meditation also sends me very deep.
I have taken more alone time these last days, needing to let impressions settle and my poor overheated portuguese confused brain cool off. I am shedding a bit the eyes of a newborn in Brazil and beginning to toddle. The staff at the Parque - including Didi - is becoming more three dimensional to me, with whiffs of loves and longings among the staff, of human ups and downs even in paradise. Watching Didi work - teach, go about running this big spiritual center with a staff of 40 and non-stop guests - is being instructive not only about chakras, but about my own reinhabiting passion for outer work. I am holding as a paradox my attraction - borne of two intense years of solitude and healing - to a more quiet life AND my natural extraverted and giving side that just overflows with ideas for opening minds to new ideas and designing ways for people to be humane with one another. A fear surfaces in that holding... a fear of loss of self, of getting swept up all too soon in yet one more big project that lifts me out of my skin, inflates me like a balloon, and sends me sailing over the simple pleasures of daily life. Didi is so fully surrendered to mission - and is a nun - so every ounce of energy goes into designing and facilitating programs here. She does it magnificently and I have watched a group of strangers open their minds, hearts and arms to one another - and to themselves. She is working magic. I am not her by any means, but I know within me is that capacity to inspire, to crack open dull paradigms and let the sweet juices of life flow again. This seems to come naturally and seems to want to come out of me again. In holding this paradox of the private and public selves, seemingly vying for the scarce resources of my time and attention, I realized that I have actually changed so why won~'t my outer work change? In the old days, simmering under everything I did was the urgency of the times we are living in, feeling the necessity for a profound metanoia globally as we head into the blowback of our 30 years of overshoot. Now, I believe i will do my work in love, not fear. it is the love that makes all the difference at home and on the road. I'll probably pick at this theme more as this month goes on since it is my first big tour since the old days. 9 cities in 12 days!
Susan and I spent some time planning our talk. She is a consummately prepared presenter so we are together carefully crafting a two hour shared stage evening that will really wow people. She has so much fire for every word being an arrow right into the soul and we complement one another in style, in focus, in language, in topics. And we are planning together so smoothly, changing one another's good ideas, tossing the ones we don't like without any stress. I think we will have a wonderful time. I learned yesterday that this is the first shared tour she has done... so i feel honored and deeply trusting of the spiritual forces that cooked up she and i meeting and 7 years later taking on this tour. And what are you up to Grandmother spirits... we shall see.
Tomorrow I head for Florianopolis (called Floripa by the locals) and 4 days on the beach and doing fun things for carnival. i already have invitations to three parties and people happy to show me around, so I think I'm going to love it. My portuguese has improved by leaps and bounds, so I feel ready to leave this very nurturing, totally safe, infinitely caring hothouse and get my feel planted on the ground in the Brazil beyond the Parque Ecologico.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Brazil - 24 February, 2006
The fire ceremony last night was beyond magnificent, a group, solemn, fierce pagent that gave so many of us the sense we had really burned off karma and opened the space for transformation.
In the afternoon, we had all make 3 dimensional representations of our fear, hatred, anger and aggression, our endless hunger, our timidity, our anxiety and the rest of the third chakra egoic expressions. At the appointed time after dark, the staff - actors, facilitators, didi - turned off all the lights in the compound as we all stood in silence in a circle with our "voodoo dolls" so to speak in our hands. The darkness and silence deepend as we waited. And then the drums came, and figures dressed in white appeared with torches. Didi and one of the main actresses called the circle and ceremonially, slowly, marked each of us with the hindi bindi mark, representing our determination to burn our karma in the fire. we then were led in two long snaking lines around the property and towards a huge fire laid in a field. As we walked, a young man in line to be a trapese artist in cirque du soleil breathed fire while others, dressed in steaming red and yellow outfits, shreiked and ran around us, carrying torches and another one ran pounding a gong. Clearly we were in for no light weight little 10 minute new age ceremony.
the fire was huge, reminding me of the fires we used to build for the lakota inipis - sweat lodges - that i attended faithfully for the year or so after Joe died. But perhaps twice the size. We had learned several chants and dances in the afternoon for the ceremony, so we did the first with our bodies semi lit by fire, circles around and then letting go and everyone dancing wildly, whooping and generally letting out that uninhibited testosterone spirit of the third chakra. We then, in three groups as we are nearly 100 people, did the ceremony to burn our "voodoo" objects. We first crouched down, hands firmly on the earth, crying out with all our gutteral force, fire, burn my anger, fire burn my fear, fire burn my aggression. Then, at the signal, we all rushed in and threw our paper objects in the fire. After all the groups had done this - and believe me every person there was holding the fiercest intention they could - we did a chant: fire, transformation, feel the force of my will, fire, transformation, feel the brilliance of my splendor, fire, transformation, feel the heat of my love. three times we chanted this, faces lit by the fire, and you could really feel that the dark forces of your ego had a place to be reborn - in will, in splendor, in love. My own voodoo object was a steaming volcano, with dark forces within. As I moved through this ceremony, I thought, "These have been with me for years, and will be here again and again, but as long as my intention to face and transform these forces rises up one more time than the forces themselves, I am on the path." In a Vipassana retreat we did "fierce determination" meditation for an hour a day, a time when we really focused without moving a muscle. This ceremony was fierce determination. At the end, which was not the end, we sat and suddenly a tableau was lit across the field, enacting the eternal dance of shiva and kali. Suddenly we were in the middle of a pagent with horrible demons dancing across the field, teaching us about battle of the demons within and how we must, in a way, eat every ounce of our own karma, transforming it all - every scrap - into devotion. This way of tantra, of "it-allness", asks us to encounter the dark and light of our own lives with a fierce and open heart.
Then the play was over, the musicians packed up, but many of us remained as the fire was still huge. suddenly, the totally clear sky clouded over and we were blessed, washed with rain. Many skittered off at that time, but some of us stayed, chanting the basic chant we use here on and on and on. I curled up by the fire, went to sleep for a while and woke as the very last people were leaving. I stayed, chanting, breathing, feeling the solitude and power of that moment and eventually went off to bed. It was 5 hours after the ceremony began.
In the afternoon, we had all make 3 dimensional representations of our fear, hatred, anger and aggression, our endless hunger, our timidity, our anxiety and the rest of the third chakra egoic expressions. At the appointed time after dark, the staff - actors, facilitators, didi - turned off all the lights in the compound as we all stood in silence in a circle with our "voodoo dolls" so to speak in our hands. The darkness and silence deepend as we waited. And then the drums came, and figures dressed in white appeared with torches. Didi and one of the main actresses called the circle and ceremonially, slowly, marked each of us with the hindi bindi mark, representing our determination to burn our karma in the fire. we then were led in two long snaking lines around the property and towards a huge fire laid in a field. As we walked, a young man in line to be a trapese artist in cirque du soleil breathed fire while others, dressed in steaming red and yellow outfits, shreiked and ran around us, carrying torches and another one ran pounding a gong. Clearly we were in for no light weight little 10 minute new age ceremony.
the fire was huge, reminding me of the fires we used to build for the lakota inipis - sweat lodges - that i attended faithfully for the year or so after Joe died. But perhaps twice the size. We had learned several chants and dances in the afternoon for the ceremony, so we did the first with our bodies semi lit by fire, circles around and then letting go and everyone dancing wildly, whooping and generally letting out that uninhibited testosterone spirit of the third chakra. We then, in three groups as we are nearly 100 people, did the ceremony to burn our "voodoo" objects. We first crouched down, hands firmly on the earth, crying out with all our gutteral force, fire, burn my anger, fire burn my fear, fire burn my aggression. Then, at the signal, we all rushed in and threw our paper objects in the fire. After all the groups had done this - and believe me every person there was holding the fiercest intention they could - we did a chant: fire, transformation, feel the force of my will, fire, transformation, feel the brilliance of my splendor, fire, transformation, feel the heat of my love. three times we chanted this, faces lit by the fire, and you could really feel that the dark forces of your ego had a place to be reborn - in will, in splendor, in love. My own voodoo object was a steaming volcano, with dark forces within. As I moved through this ceremony, I thought, "These have been with me for years, and will be here again and again, but as long as my intention to face and transform these forces rises up one more time than the forces themselves, I am on the path." In a Vipassana retreat we did "fierce determination" meditation for an hour a day, a time when we really focused without moving a muscle. This ceremony was fierce determination. At the end, which was not the end, we sat and suddenly a tableau was lit across the field, enacting the eternal dance of shiva and kali. Suddenly we were in the middle of a pagent with horrible demons dancing across the field, teaching us about battle of the demons within and how we must, in a way, eat every ounce of our own karma, transforming it all - every scrap - into devotion. This way of tantra, of "it-allness", asks us to encounter the dark and light of our own lives with a fierce and open heart.
Then the play was over, the musicians packed up, but many of us remained as the fire was still huge. suddenly, the totally clear sky clouded over and we were blessed, washed with rain. Many skittered off at that time, but some of us stayed, chanting the basic chant we use here on and on and on. I curled up by the fire, went to sleep for a while and woke as the very last people were leaving. I stayed, chanting, breathing, feeling the solitude and power of that moment and eventually went off to bed. It was 5 hours after the ceremony began.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Brazil - 23 February, 2006
Well, folks, I finally hit the wall today. I am now understanding about 60% of what Susan/Didi is saying and I AM learning my body parts through repetition in the yoga class, but for the rest, understanding is really hit or miss. And today I just got tired on not understanding unto getting up to do an exercise that was only for men... and spending hours watching skits that were incomprehensible but everyone else thought were hilarious. Those who speak English are being so generous in translating but sometimes it just doesn't work for them... or me. I think I am also accustomed to a lot - i mean a lot - of alone time, and the program this week (an introduction to the basic teachings of Sarkar explained by Didi with metaphors from modern chaos/complexity/cosmology understanding) is morning til night with 75 other people. The focus is the Chakras and we are covering 1-4 this week in great detail. I have never learned this system so even thought i am grousing at the moment I am deeply grateful for the education.
One highlight of the educational program here is an extensive use of stories and actors who vividly enact the stories being told. It is lots of drama and pagentry - as well as doing skits and theater games and dances of universal peace so the teaching really gets into the body. In a few minutes we are going to a major bonfire to burn our thrid chakra vrittis - our anger, hatred, fear, jealousy, aggression and such. As usual here, there will be actors, drummers, musicians and lots of opportunity for passion. I think I'll also burn my frustrations at not being able to understand and burning up my brain in the effort.
Another highlight is a new brother - Vincente - who travels the world as a diver, as an expedition leader, and more. He has the most abundant love I have almost ever experienced. Half italian, half indigenous indian, he has a tenderness for living things, myself included. Today there was a poisonous snake in a tree by the dining room. everyone was freaking, demanding the snake be killed (this from vegatarians who have meditated long and hard to attain inner peace). He said, "you are frightening the snake," and talked to it, picked it up, carried it gently a half a mile to the forest and let it go. It went right to sleep in his hands during the walk.
Another new friend is a young dude who is brazilian but grew up in arizona so we can hang out in english. and slang. it feels good to have a couple of people I can just be my personality with and not struggle.
My abdominal pain seems to be clearing, so that is very good.
okay, off to burn some karma,
vicki
One highlight of the educational program here is an extensive use of stories and actors who vividly enact the stories being told. It is lots of drama and pagentry - as well as doing skits and theater games and dances of universal peace so the teaching really gets into the body. In a few minutes we are going to a major bonfire to burn our thrid chakra vrittis - our anger, hatred, fear, jealousy, aggression and such. As usual here, there will be actors, drummers, musicians and lots of opportunity for passion. I think I'll also burn my frustrations at not being able to understand and burning up my brain in the effort.
Another highlight is a new brother - Vincente - who travels the world as a diver, as an expedition leader, and more. He has the most abundant love I have almost ever experienced. Half italian, half indigenous indian, he has a tenderness for living things, myself included. Today there was a poisonous snake in a tree by the dining room. everyone was freaking, demanding the snake be killed (this from vegatarians who have meditated long and hard to attain inner peace). He said, "you are frightening the snake," and talked to it, picked it up, carried it gently a half a mile to the forest and let it go. It went right to sleep in his hands during the walk.
Another new friend is a young dude who is brazilian but grew up in arizona so we can hang out in english. and slang. it feels good to have a couple of people I can just be my personality with and not struggle.
My abdominal pain seems to be clearing, so that is very good.
okay, off to burn some karma,
vicki
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Brazil - 22 February, 2006
For any of you reading this daily, I am happy to report that all my tests from yesterday came up negative for anything really wrong; the doc gave me pills for muscle spasms in the intestinal tract which I am taking faithfully. This morning I was in less pain and whether it is the pills or the faith, I feel confident that I will get better and once again forget that I was ever in pain.
Speaking of the doctor, yesterday's health crisis got me out of this paradise of a spiritual center finally and out into the real world. One of the shining lights who works here - a young acrobat named Jai - drove me to Tatui where I had a very thorough exam by a very nice doctor who laughed at my jokes and gave me a big hug - and two prescriptions - at the end. This is Brazil... where you doctor laughs and hugs! Tatui felt like a medium sized city (60,000) in any 2/3 world country. Small shops lining the street with metal garage doors that are lowered at night. Many squares. A few more 'developed' big stores that are far from WalMart but still not the old small shops of yore. The X-ray facility was about 30-40 years behind what we now have in hospitals in the US. My father was a radiologist so I have those details more firmly planted in my mind than other things from the past.
The countryside is pastoral, the sky huge and ever changing (it rains at least once a day here) and Jai and i had a great portuguese lesson naming things we saw. I read road signs aloud to him.
I had a rich conversation with a lawyer who has been attracted to this Ecovillage and to Didi; she is working on several projects at a tenth of her ordinary pay. Her specialty is forming blended ngo/for profit enterprises and franchising them so I nabbed her for a long, fun conversation about how to further develop the Conversation Cafes. Her view is that Brazil's vocation, gift to the world, is in the social joy and social glue here, so the Conversation Cafes might actually go over better than in the US. We ended up dreaming together about forming a partnership between a major bookstore chain and the CCs and developing a 4 year business plan, raising money and really making it go. Of course, we were only dreaming, only playing... but I wouldn't mind coming back here and playing more seriously with this idea.
For the rest, daily life in the Park is becoming more familiar, the routines, the food and especially the language. Every class I am in, every conversation, my capacity to understand portuguese takes another leap, and I am finding that I can respond in Spanish and get along. This morning, getting dressed and choosing what to wear, i found myself speaking to myself partly in Portuguese so I know I am making progress.
Speaking of the doctor, yesterday's health crisis got me out of this paradise of a spiritual center finally and out into the real world. One of the shining lights who works here - a young acrobat named Jai - drove me to Tatui where I had a very thorough exam by a very nice doctor who laughed at my jokes and gave me a big hug - and two prescriptions - at the end. This is Brazil... where you doctor laughs and hugs! Tatui felt like a medium sized city (60,000) in any 2/3 world country. Small shops lining the street with metal garage doors that are lowered at night. Many squares. A few more 'developed' big stores that are far from WalMart but still not the old small shops of yore. The X-ray facility was about 30-40 years behind what we now have in hospitals in the US. My father was a radiologist so I have those details more firmly planted in my mind than other things from the past.
The countryside is pastoral, the sky huge and ever changing (it rains at least once a day here) and Jai and i had a great portuguese lesson naming things we saw. I read road signs aloud to him.
I had a rich conversation with a lawyer who has been attracted to this Ecovillage and to Didi; she is working on several projects at a tenth of her ordinary pay. Her specialty is forming blended ngo/for profit enterprises and franchising them so I nabbed her for a long, fun conversation about how to further develop the Conversation Cafes. Her view is that Brazil's vocation, gift to the world, is in the social joy and social glue here, so the Conversation Cafes might actually go over better than in the US. We ended up dreaming together about forming a partnership between a major bookstore chain and the CCs and developing a 4 year business plan, raising money and really making it go. Of course, we were only dreaming, only playing... but I wouldn't mind coming back here and playing more seriously with this idea.
For the rest, daily life in the Park is becoming more familiar, the routines, the food and especially the language. Every class I am in, every conversation, my capacity to understand portuguese takes another leap, and I am finding that I can respond in Spanish and get along. This morning, getting dressed and choosing what to wear, i found myself speaking to myself partly in Portuguese so I know I am making progress.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Brazil - 20 February, 2006
As Kurt Vonnegut said in Cat's Cradle, "Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God." Today I'm dancing. But not like two nights ago in the all night kirtan. Not like yesterday in my first day of the Biopsychology course, learning about the Tantra system as taught by Prakar to Didi and Didi to me and a hundred others in this course. Not like my delight in getting to know my new roommate, the amazing Amalia Souza (a link - in portuguese - just to see her picture: http://www.amaliasouza.net/amalia.htm), deep ecologist, environmentalist, world traveler and recent host of Joanna Macy's tour). No, these peculiar travel suggestions are a more gut experience - as in a persistent and growing pain in my gut which by this morning i could no longer ignore. I am pretty certain it's a small unraveling of the repair done in September for a hernia that developed at the cancer surgery site. I am a bit bionic since they had to install a 6" square mesh in my abdomen to hold it all together, and I think that mesh isn't sitting right. But my normal strategy for physical pain - ignore it, the body is the great healer - has not working with this one and this morning it was strong enough that I had to let go of my floating bliss and get down to business. So people are mobilizing to get me some ultrasound and it is time to go. Besides this, I am having rich inner reflections on my favorite topic - freedom - and how it unfolds here. And I am learning a different way to teach from Didi. And portugeuse is flowing over me like a sweet river all day long, and more every hour enters my body and comes out my mouth. i was even able to explain my problems this morning to two brazilian docs who happen to be here for the course. It helps that I speak fluent Spanish and if I go slowly many people can understand perfectly. It's when they answer that it gets interesting.
Okay, one set of thoughts about freedom...
I am feeling very free here - a sort of happy, soft freedom that seems to come from being in such a loving, beautiful environment. For one thing, Brazilians are very physical - laughing, hugging, smiling, touching, speaking with bodies as well as mouths. The feel what they feel and express it. You who know me know I also carry a lot of expressive energy with me. It is, as with all personality traits, a blessings and a curse. The blessing is that I experience a lot of life, I get a lot done, I throw myself into work and play fully and with good results. The curse is that this energy can be a bit much for others. Some run for the hills when I show up, or just click their life energy purses shut with a firm snap, as if to say, "Don't you dare ask for an ounce more from me." I thought I was offering a hug, and they feel at risk of being strangled. One metaphor is that I am like a baby tiger who found herself in a litter of kittens. For a while we are all soft and adorable together, playing and being fondled. Then one day I play - just like yesterday, just like the other kittens - but this time my playmate screams in anguish and runs away bleeding. I often don't understand the impact of my play - how painful some of my gestures of affection can be. If you know the Enneagram, it is the blessing/curse of the 7 with a big 8 wing. Here I don't feel so vibrationally gigantic because everyone is a bit more out to play - I'm just one of the kitty pile.
Reflecting further on this, I realize that it is a combination here of love and trust. In the US, where we are just basically a lot less expressive and affectionate, we are also now, since 9/11 - more skittish. As a nation, we are making fear the dominant feeling tone and security the dominant need. Our gestures as citizens are less and less effective as the national government takes more and more "war powers" for the endless war on terror. As more national resources go into this endless war, and into the pockets of investors and corporations, less and less basic service is available for the general public. This increases the ambient frustration level; in environments of increasing scarcity, people become more competitive and sly. Even in my most gentle part of the nation, the Pacific Northwest, I think some of this national infection is spreading. We don't notice this as we live in it - but out here in Brazil, I can feel the lack of fear in the environment, and I feel it as freedom.
If you want to free another, cease to fear them. This gives them room to find their natural way. This lack of fear feels like the dance floor at the Deer Lagoon Grange where I do ecstatic dance every Wednesday, held by several phenomenol musicians. Not only am I free to move in that big space, but there is no judgement from others about how I move - and our dancing itself serves the drummers who hold us in melody and rhythm. It is that freedom of "One of these mornings, gonna wake up singing, gonna spread your wings, and take to the sky, until that mornin comes, nothin's gonna harm you..." Living in a harmless world - that is freeing. Here I feel this kind of free.
I talked with Amalia about the Brazilian dream, how it is different from the American dream. She said one of their national songs is a Samba! We laughed about what if Brazil, not America, set the tone for the world. What if the bottom line of any endeavor weren't the 'business bottom line" but "can you dance to it?" What if Brazilian freedom set the tone for the world, not the American freedom of I can have and do whatever I want - a sort of entitlement that our dominance allows us to feel as freedom because the consequences become invisible.
Ate logo, until later...
Okay, one set of thoughts about freedom...
I am feeling very free here - a sort of happy, soft freedom that seems to come from being in such a loving, beautiful environment. For one thing, Brazilians are very physical - laughing, hugging, smiling, touching, speaking with bodies as well as mouths. The feel what they feel and express it. You who know me know I also carry a lot of expressive energy with me. It is, as with all personality traits, a blessings and a curse. The blessing is that I experience a lot of life, I get a lot done, I throw myself into work and play fully and with good results. The curse is that this energy can be a bit much for others. Some run for the hills when I show up, or just click their life energy purses shut with a firm snap, as if to say, "Don't you dare ask for an ounce more from me." I thought I was offering a hug, and they feel at risk of being strangled. One metaphor is that I am like a baby tiger who found herself in a litter of kittens. For a while we are all soft and adorable together, playing and being fondled. Then one day I play - just like yesterday, just like the other kittens - but this time my playmate screams in anguish and runs away bleeding. I often don't understand the impact of my play - how painful some of my gestures of affection can be. If you know the Enneagram, it is the blessing/curse of the 7 with a big 8 wing. Here I don't feel so vibrationally gigantic because everyone is a bit more out to play - I'm just one of the kitty pile.
Reflecting further on this, I realize that it is a combination here of love and trust. In the US, where we are just basically a lot less expressive and affectionate, we are also now, since 9/11 - more skittish. As a nation, we are making fear the dominant feeling tone and security the dominant need. Our gestures as citizens are less and less effective as the national government takes more and more "war powers" for the endless war on terror. As more national resources go into this endless war, and into the pockets of investors and corporations, less and less basic service is available for the general public. This increases the ambient frustration level; in environments of increasing scarcity, people become more competitive and sly. Even in my most gentle part of the nation, the Pacific Northwest, I think some of this national infection is spreading. We don't notice this as we live in it - but out here in Brazil, I can feel the lack of fear in the environment, and I feel it as freedom.
If you want to free another, cease to fear them. This gives them room to find their natural way. This lack of fear feels like the dance floor at the Deer Lagoon Grange where I do ecstatic dance every Wednesday, held by several phenomenol musicians. Not only am I free to move in that big space, but there is no judgement from others about how I move - and our dancing itself serves the drummers who hold us in melody and rhythm. It is that freedom of "One of these mornings, gonna wake up singing, gonna spread your wings, and take to the sky, until that mornin comes, nothin's gonna harm you..." Living in a harmless world - that is freeing. Here I feel this kind of free.
I talked with Amalia about the Brazilian dream, how it is different from the American dream. She said one of their national songs is a Samba! We laughed about what if Brazil, not America, set the tone for the world. What if the bottom line of any endeavor weren't the 'business bottom line" but "can you dance to it?" What if Brazilian freedom set the tone for the world, not the American freedom of I can have and do whatever I want - a sort of entitlement that our dominance allows us to feel as freedom because the consequences become invisible.
Ate logo, until later...
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Brazil - 19 February 2006
Prior brazil posts below...
Last night was an all night kirtan, an ecstatic ceremonial way to get legally high.
We were silent all afternoon and made our way at dusk up to the main hall at the sound of a gong. As we dropped our shoes outside and entered, we were handed either a flower or a candle by two of the many exquisite, lithe brazilian young adults who live here as performance artists. A candle and a flower person would then pair and at the beginning of a haunting version of Om Namo Naraya we slowly circled the room. Spokes were taped on the floor leading into a central altar and around the circle pairs would procede into the center, bow and proceed out. The whole effect in the darkness and silence was like souls returning to the light and being reborn again and again. For reasons I cannot say, I was in tears much of the time.
Then we all gathered in a circle and people had a chance to speak about their spiritual journeys, most of it focused on Baba (here's the wikipedia summary of who he is: Prabhat Rainjan Sarkar (1921-1990) was an Indian philosopher, social revolutionary, poet and linguist. Above all this, however, he is usually remembered for his role as one of the foremost spiritual teachers of Tantra and Yoga of the twentieth century; the founding figure behind Ananda Marga, he is often known by his spiritual name, Shrii Shrii Anandamurti. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prabhat_Rainjan_Sarkar.)
At that time and for the rest of the evening, I was translating from devotion to the guru to my own mongrel devotion to love, truth and beauty - not too hard really. Then the music began and continued for about 10 hours with many musicians playing for hours at a time. There were congas, snare drums, symbols, shakers, guitars and voices singing various melodies for the basic ecstatic chant Baba Nam K'evalam which, as I said, I just translated to basic Beatles, "love is all there is." The options for participation were to walk around the central altar with hands in prayer or arms up in ecstatic reach OR to stand on the rim of the walkers OR to meditate OR to sleep around the edges until again inspired to arise and walk while singing. the walk itself was also specific, balancing from one foot to the other, tapping the opposite big toe beside the weight bearing foot. It looks like bouncing back and forth and some people did it very slowly while others bounded around the circle totally blissed out. It is a good example of freedom through limits, as the very narrowness of the doing liberated our spirits to soar.
For the first hour, as with the first while in any meditation, so much that ISN'T ecstatic in me arose to be held until I eventually - as I always do - found my way through the thicket to the simple truths of love. Once that layer burned off, I was right there with everyone, transported. It was like a ten hour generator of bliss. I chose to sleep there rather than bag it and go to a quiet, comfortable bed, wanting to absorb that amazing, unending drumming and chanting even while dozing. I'd wake from time to time, join the circling chanters, sometimes many, sometimes few, and then sleep again. Very heart opening and I found that having joined in this ceremony - a very sacred twice a year event here at the ecovillage park - deepened people's inclusion of me.
This afternoon, the people in the course I helped teach left and as with all workshops I had that bereft feeling of losing a new family. In the quiet space between courses - this week I'm attending their core curriculum on "biopsychology" - I was given a tour of this amazing ecovillage. When I first visited 5 years ago there were only 3 buildings - now there are dozens. It reflects part of Sarkar's social vision of "master units" - fully functional ecovillages around the world. His social philosophy called PROUT inspired me when i stumbled across it in the old YMOYL days; I felt such a resonance with it. You can read more at http://www.prout.org/Summary.html. The Master Unit is part of this, a vision of places that are self sufficient in food, water, clothes, housing, health and education. The ecovillage is well on its way to filling out that map. i saw their ponds that serve as water collection systems, their windmills and solar panels for pumping the water to gravity fed tanks, their biological treatment systems for gray water to return it to the environment, their organic food gardens, their medicinal gardens used to make homepathic remedies, their Montessori like schools, their center for the arts where actors and artists prepare for the powerful mini-dramas that are integral to Susan/Didi's teaching... and more. They are fully water self sufficient, 60% food self sufficient for the 40 people who now work here and the hundreds who come through every week for courses, have a workshop for local women to make clothes for their families and for sale, have housing for guests and staff alike (much of it built as hexagons as the six pointed star for Prakar is the symbol of union of heaven and earth and the tantra spirituality central to his teaching. I won~t bore you with more, but rather later put pictures on my flickr site so you can see for yourself.
My "rest" days when I am not with Didi teaching or in this biopsychology course are starting to fill. I have met some wonderful people from Florianopolis where I chose, somewhat arbitrarily, to wait out - and enjoy - carnival next week. And I now know even more people who might throw parties for me or host talks to tour me around in Saõ Paulo.
So, my friends, this trip so far is going from blessing to blessing, as tho the divine really wants me to get it that there is more brazil in my future.
Now, to bed, having danced all night, as they say. When I learn more about what 'biopsychology' is, i'll let you know.
Last night was an all night kirtan, an ecstatic ceremonial way to get legally high.
We were silent all afternoon and made our way at dusk up to the main hall at the sound of a gong. As we dropped our shoes outside and entered, we were handed either a flower or a candle by two of the many exquisite, lithe brazilian young adults who live here as performance artists. A candle and a flower person would then pair and at the beginning of a haunting version of Om Namo Naraya we slowly circled the room. Spokes were taped on the floor leading into a central altar and around the circle pairs would procede into the center, bow and proceed out. The whole effect in the darkness and silence was like souls returning to the light and being reborn again and again. For reasons I cannot say, I was in tears much of the time.
Then we all gathered in a circle and people had a chance to speak about their spiritual journeys, most of it focused on Baba (here's the wikipedia summary of who he is: Prabhat Rainjan Sarkar (1921-1990) was an Indian philosopher, social revolutionary, poet and linguist. Above all this, however, he is usually remembered for his role as one of the foremost spiritual teachers of Tantra and Yoga of the twentieth century; the founding figure behind Ananda Marga, he is often known by his spiritual name, Shrii Shrii Anandamurti. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prabhat_Rainjan_Sarkar.)
At that time and for the rest of the evening, I was translating from devotion to the guru to my own mongrel devotion to love, truth and beauty - not too hard really. Then the music began and continued for about 10 hours with many musicians playing for hours at a time. There were congas, snare drums, symbols, shakers, guitars and voices singing various melodies for the basic ecstatic chant Baba Nam K'evalam which, as I said, I just translated to basic Beatles, "love is all there is." The options for participation were to walk around the central altar with hands in prayer or arms up in ecstatic reach OR to stand on the rim of the walkers OR to meditate OR to sleep around the edges until again inspired to arise and walk while singing. the walk itself was also specific, balancing from one foot to the other, tapping the opposite big toe beside the weight bearing foot. It looks like bouncing back and forth and some people did it very slowly while others bounded around the circle totally blissed out. It is a good example of freedom through limits, as the very narrowness of the doing liberated our spirits to soar.
For the first hour, as with the first while in any meditation, so much that ISN'T ecstatic in me arose to be held until I eventually - as I always do - found my way through the thicket to the simple truths of love. Once that layer burned off, I was right there with everyone, transported. It was like a ten hour generator of bliss. I chose to sleep there rather than bag it and go to a quiet, comfortable bed, wanting to absorb that amazing, unending drumming and chanting even while dozing. I'd wake from time to time, join the circling chanters, sometimes many, sometimes few, and then sleep again. Very heart opening and I found that having joined in this ceremony - a very sacred twice a year event here at the ecovillage park - deepened people's inclusion of me.
This afternoon, the people in the course I helped teach left and as with all workshops I had that bereft feeling of losing a new family. In the quiet space between courses - this week I'm attending their core curriculum on "biopsychology" - I was given a tour of this amazing ecovillage. When I first visited 5 years ago there were only 3 buildings - now there are dozens. It reflects part of Sarkar's social vision of "master units" - fully functional ecovillages around the world. His social philosophy called PROUT inspired me when i stumbled across it in the old YMOYL days; I felt such a resonance with it. You can read more at http://www.prout.org/Summary.html. The Master Unit is part of this, a vision of places that are self sufficient in food, water, clothes, housing, health and education. The ecovillage is well on its way to filling out that map. i saw their ponds that serve as water collection systems, their windmills and solar panels for pumping the water to gravity fed tanks, their biological treatment systems for gray water to return it to the environment, their organic food gardens, their medicinal gardens used to make homepathic remedies, their Montessori like schools, their center for the arts where actors and artists prepare for the powerful mini-dramas that are integral to Susan/Didi's teaching... and more. They are fully water self sufficient, 60% food self sufficient for the 40 people who now work here and the hundreds who come through every week for courses, have a workshop for local women to make clothes for their families and for sale, have housing for guests and staff alike (much of it built as hexagons as the six pointed star for Prakar is the symbol of union of heaven and earth and the tantra spirituality central to his teaching. I won~t bore you with more, but rather later put pictures on my flickr site so you can see for yourself.
My "rest" days when I am not with Didi teaching or in this biopsychology course are starting to fill. I have met some wonderful people from Florianopolis where I chose, somewhat arbitrarily, to wait out - and enjoy - carnival next week. And I now know even more people who might throw parties for me or host talks to tour me around in Saõ Paulo.
So, my friends, this trip so far is going from blessing to blessing, as tho the divine really wants me to get it that there is more brazil in my future.
Now, to bed, having danced all night, as they say. When I learn more about what 'biopsychology' is, i'll let you know.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Brazil Journal
February 18, 2006 [note, i am posting most recent updates at the top. for feb 17, scroll down]
First a couple of recollections from the trip here. In the Seattle Airport I ran into an old friend, Virginia Hoyte - Jungian psychologist and long time concerned person for the earth. We chatted re the state of the world side by side at the sinks in the ladies room. Her latest amazing book is Lester Brown's [title?] 2.0 so, having plenty of time, i went off to the main terminal to find it at Barnes and Noble. No luck, but just as I was giving up a woman came up to the counter and asked for YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE by Joe Dominguez! She'd been reading the simple living website and wanted THAT book for her flight. We chatted and, tho they didn~t have our book [it's been years since i've found it in airports... I used to visit it in all the airports I went through, just to have a cozy friendly feeling], I felt this little coincidence boded well for this trip. I prepare, prepare prepare and then, once out the door I just let go and allow the true purpose of any travel to reveal itself. Then, in Dulles Airport, on my way to the plane to Saõ Paulo, I saw a big billboard advertising France as a good place to do business. It read: FRANCE. SLOW FOOD AND FAST CARS. There it was again, affirmation that the simplicity movement with all it' cousins - frugality, slow food, sustainable living, take back your time - is alive and not only well, but spreading.
even as i glory in this place and the people, I am trying to understand, put words on, this experience. Of course, these are 75-100 very special Brazilians - they have taken time and money to attend a spiritual retreat. Even so, I am learning about the spirit in this country that so speaks to me waaaay below words. For example, Didi, my friend and the spiritual leader of this ecovillage, teaches in the most unusual way. She gave a lecture this morning about the Great Turning, acknowledging Joanna Macy who was here a few months ago to teach for a week. It was done with a powerpoint presentation projected on a huge wall - very few words, mostly stunning pictures, and frightening pictures. four times in the two hours, giant puppets or very stylized actors arrived to do a highly dramatic enactment of the point Didi was making. Apparently Brazilians are not a text oriented culture, so such artistic and dramatic approaches to teaching go right in. She also is my sister in the importance of conversation; after every section of teaching she had people talk to one another, and then a few share with the group.
And here~s something else so enchantingly different. We do a lot of chanting and dancing, all full of laughter and errors and heart. It~s like we are kindergarteners playing, even as we do sacred rituals. But when people get up to speak you understand how deeply they are informed about the state of the world, how substantial they are in their professions, how educated, how aware. We have had some very serious, lengthy whole group discussions about the teetery dollar, about politics, about 911, about the dark and light of the current moment in brazil... and then we dance and chant and laugh and hug and run through the rain getting soaked but so what.
we shall see how much of these first impressions hold when i am traveling around the country.]
all the facilitators and Didi and I met last night to plan our presentations for the tour. They know her teachings well (they teach them) and had had two days of listening to me. There was a bit of everyone talking at once, of course in Portuguese with me using Spanish to get across and Didi to translate - somehow, amidst the hubub, the tour was planned. I came to understand the gift of this tour even more; each facilitator is doing publicity to attract enough people to cover the costs of Didi's and my travel. I am very excited about the ever clearer ways the teachings I've been developing with NRM and through my own initiation dovetail down to great detail the teachings of Prakar and Ananda Marga - of course, my practices aren't traditional yoga, chanting and meditation (i could use more of all of them) but the essences are so similar. In part because Prakar was both a realized teacher AND a social philosopher. ahem, it's the social philosophy i'm talking about in saying we are similar, not that 'realized being' thang.
I've also been taking long solo walks; the vegetation is much like California but lusher as the humidity is thick. nothing dries out, at least not while i've been here. we eat food from their organic gardens - lots of fruit and vegetables, which is agreeing with me.
One more image before signing off... last night i left the circle dancing when my eyelids gave out. the chanting and laughing was still coming from the large meeting hall as i drifted off. then i hear what sounds like a bunch of drunks with guitars singing outside my window. I don't understand any of the Portuguese but i do understand every time they say 'vicki' and bang on the wall. so i get up, stick my head out the window and there are a dozen smiling faces singing to me. i just laughed and blew kisses. and today many people asked me slying if i enjoyed the seranade. would we dare do anything like this in the US. even my cool friends and more inhibited than these 'free and easy' folks. as rick ingrasci says, the future belongs to whoever throws a better party. i think the future might belong to brazil, then... this is some combo of a better party, a serious symposium, a spiritual retreat and who knows what else. gotta go, as tonight we are chanting all night and even tho it seems unlikely, i might make it at least for an hour or two. we've been on silence all afternoon to prepare.
ciao from a corner of paradise,
vicki
February 17, 2006
Day 3 at the Ecovillage about 2 hours outside of Sao Paulo, a spiritual center affiliated with the worldwide Ananda Marga movement founded by Prakar, an Indian guru and visionary social teacher. I am already fantasizing spending the rest of my days here. Not this eco village per se but here in Brazil. Honest, there is something very different in the people - a sweetness, an ease in their bodies, a joy, an affection... all infectious. Of course it helps that i have taught here for two days solid, so all eyes, ears and hearts have been attentive to me. It helps me feel so very welcome.
I am the guest of Didi, meaning teacher. Her American name is Susan Andrews and after a traditional Harvard education she met Prakar, became a nun and has been in love with the divine ever since. After his death, she came to Brazil and was inspired to start a center here. From that has grown a vast network of teachers throughout the country. There are 60 regional facilitators here now, and later in the month Didi and I will travel to 9 of their cities to give lectures.
Dear God, how did I get so lucky to end up here. Of course, by chance... and design. Didi and I met on the ferry back to Seattle after a gathering with some mutual friends. In that half hour, we recognized one another as sisters on this crazy path of spiritual AND social transformation. Several years later, a dear friend gifted me with a trip to the jungles of Ecuador to visit the Achuar people and learn about the work of the Pachamama Alliance, seeking to help these people preserve their way of life in their as yet unspoiled part of the Amazon headwaters. Well, having made it to South America, I wasn~t about to turn around and go home! I discovered news of the first world social forum somewhere on the web and even though no one i knew knew anything about it, off i went. since i was in Brazil, i visited the eco-miracle of Curitiba and made a side trip to see Didi's place. The friendship deepened, we went off to the WSF together and have stayed in touch ever since. She KNEW and I suspected we had more to do together so she patiently waited until i was done with cancer, done with writing my new book on freedom and then brought me here. based on the response of her students to both the Conversation Cafes and to YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE, her intution was spot on. Many are going to fan out across Brazil to start CCs - and they are now clamoring for a Portuguese translation of YMOYL. Fortunately, there is a summary of YMOYL on the YMOYL website, and a tech guru here has a translation program so ~very soon we'll have that up on the website. They also translated my two powerpoint presentations and between my fluent spanish and a great translator i was able to stand there for 6 hours solid speaking.
Friends, it~s been 3 years of inner adventure thanks to the cancer and the big job of writing a wee book about freedom. I have actually relished every minute of solitude and inner search and have learned lessons that have profoundly changed my life. Even as my health returned I had little appetite for anything but intimate, local, personal connections - i want to relate to people and things i can feel and touch and hug and smile at and comfort and learn from. Gone was the will to 'change the world' - to act on large global systems. Yet now, here, in Brazil, after two days of teaching to about 75 very eager learners, I feel welling up within NOT gradiosity about world changing but rather a feeling of love overflowing and a sense i will again be speaking and writing from love, not urgency. I could have lived the rest of my life without this impulse returning, but now that it is here, it feels natural and right and embodied (not heady).
It~s time for dinner. I will write more in a day or so.
Ate logo
beisos
Vicki
First a couple of recollections from the trip here. In the Seattle Airport I ran into an old friend, Virginia Hoyte - Jungian psychologist and long time concerned person for the earth. We chatted re the state of the world side by side at the sinks in the ladies room. Her latest amazing book is Lester Brown's [title?] 2.0 so, having plenty of time, i went off to the main terminal to find it at Barnes and Noble. No luck, but just as I was giving up a woman came up to the counter and asked for YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE by Joe Dominguez! She'd been reading the simple living website and wanted THAT book for her flight. We chatted and, tho they didn~t have our book [it's been years since i've found it in airports... I used to visit it in all the airports I went through, just to have a cozy friendly feeling], I felt this little coincidence boded well for this trip. I prepare, prepare prepare and then, once out the door I just let go and allow the true purpose of any travel to reveal itself. Then, in Dulles Airport, on my way to the plane to Saõ Paulo, I saw a big billboard advertising France as a good place to do business. It read: FRANCE. SLOW FOOD AND FAST CARS. There it was again, affirmation that the simplicity movement with all it' cousins - frugality, slow food, sustainable living, take back your time - is alive and not only well, but spreading.
even as i glory in this place and the people, I am trying to understand, put words on, this experience. Of course, these are 75-100 very special Brazilians - they have taken time and money to attend a spiritual retreat. Even so, I am learning about the spirit in this country that so speaks to me waaaay below words. For example, Didi, my friend and the spiritual leader of this ecovillage, teaches in the most unusual way. She gave a lecture this morning about the Great Turning, acknowledging Joanna Macy who was here a few months ago to teach for a week. It was done with a powerpoint presentation projected on a huge wall - very few words, mostly stunning pictures, and frightening pictures. four times in the two hours, giant puppets or very stylized actors arrived to do a highly dramatic enactment of the point Didi was making. Apparently Brazilians are not a text oriented culture, so such artistic and dramatic approaches to teaching go right in. She also is my sister in the importance of conversation; after every section of teaching she had people talk to one another, and then a few share with the group.
And here~s something else so enchantingly different. We do a lot of chanting and dancing, all full of laughter and errors and heart. It~s like we are kindergarteners playing, even as we do sacred rituals. But when people get up to speak you understand how deeply they are informed about the state of the world, how substantial they are in their professions, how educated, how aware. We have had some very serious, lengthy whole group discussions about the teetery dollar, about politics, about 911, about the dark and light of the current moment in brazil... and then we dance and chant and laugh and hug and run through the rain getting soaked but so what.
we shall see how much of these first impressions hold when i am traveling around the country.]
all the facilitators and Didi and I met last night to plan our presentations for the tour. They know her teachings well (they teach them) and had had two days of listening to me. There was a bit of everyone talking at once, of course in Portuguese with me using Spanish to get across and Didi to translate - somehow, amidst the hubub, the tour was planned. I came to understand the gift of this tour even more; each facilitator is doing publicity to attract enough people to cover the costs of Didi's and my travel. I am very excited about the ever clearer ways the teachings I've been developing with NRM and through my own initiation dovetail down to great detail the teachings of Prakar and Ananda Marga - of course, my practices aren't traditional yoga, chanting and meditation (i could use more of all of them) but the essences are so similar. In part because Prakar was both a realized teacher AND a social philosopher. ahem, it's the social philosophy i'm talking about in saying we are similar, not that 'realized being' thang.
I've also been taking long solo walks; the vegetation is much like California but lusher as the humidity is thick. nothing dries out, at least not while i've been here. we eat food from their organic gardens - lots of fruit and vegetables, which is agreeing with me.
One more image before signing off... last night i left the circle dancing when my eyelids gave out. the chanting and laughing was still coming from the large meeting hall as i drifted off. then i hear what sounds like a bunch of drunks with guitars singing outside my window. I don't understand any of the Portuguese but i do understand every time they say 'vicki' and bang on the wall. so i get up, stick my head out the window and there are a dozen smiling faces singing to me. i just laughed and blew kisses. and today many people asked me slying if i enjoyed the seranade. would we dare do anything like this in the US. even my cool friends and more inhibited than these 'free and easy' folks. as rick ingrasci says, the future belongs to whoever throws a better party. i think the future might belong to brazil, then... this is some combo of a better party, a serious symposium, a spiritual retreat and who knows what else. gotta go, as tonight we are chanting all night and even tho it seems unlikely, i might make it at least for an hour or two. we've been on silence all afternoon to prepare.
ciao from a corner of paradise,
vicki
February 17, 2006
Day 3 at the Ecovillage about 2 hours outside of Sao Paulo, a spiritual center affiliated with the worldwide Ananda Marga movement founded by Prakar, an Indian guru and visionary social teacher. I am already fantasizing spending the rest of my days here. Not this eco village per se but here in Brazil. Honest, there is something very different in the people - a sweetness, an ease in their bodies, a joy, an affection... all infectious. Of course it helps that i have taught here for two days solid, so all eyes, ears and hearts have been attentive to me. It helps me feel so very welcome.
I am the guest of Didi, meaning teacher. Her American name is Susan Andrews and after a traditional Harvard education she met Prakar, became a nun and has been in love with the divine ever since. After his death, she came to Brazil and was inspired to start a center here. From that has grown a vast network of teachers throughout the country. There are 60 regional facilitators here now, and later in the month Didi and I will travel to 9 of their cities to give lectures.
Dear God, how did I get so lucky to end up here. Of course, by chance... and design. Didi and I met on the ferry back to Seattle after a gathering with some mutual friends. In that half hour, we recognized one another as sisters on this crazy path of spiritual AND social transformation. Several years later, a dear friend gifted me with a trip to the jungles of Ecuador to visit the Achuar people and learn about the work of the Pachamama Alliance, seeking to help these people preserve their way of life in their as yet unspoiled part of the Amazon headwaters. Well, having made it to South America, I wasn~t about to turn around and go home! I discovered news of the first world social forum somewhere on the web and even though no one i knew knew anything about it, off i went. since i was in Brazil, i visited the eco-miracle of Curitiba and made a side trip to see Didi's place. The friendship deepened, we went off to the WSF together and have stayed in touch ever since. She KNEW and I suspected we had more to do together so she patiently waited until i was done with cancer, done with writing my new book on freedom and then brought me here. based on the response of her students to both the Conversation Cafes and to YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE, her intution was spot on. Many are going to fan out across Brazil to start CCs - and they are now clamoring for a Portuguese translation of YMOYL. Fortunately, there is a summary of YMOYL on the YMOYL website, and a tech guru here has a translation program so ~very soon we'll have that up on the website. They also translated my two powerpoint presentations and between my fluent spanish and a great translator i was able to stand there for 6 hours solid speaking.
Friends, it~s been 3 years of inner adventure thanks to the cancer and the big job of writing a wee book about freedom. I have actually relished every minute of solitude and inner search and have learned lessons that have profoundly changed my life. Even as my health returned I had little appetite for anything but intimate, local, personal connections - i want to relate to people and things i can feel and touch and hug and smile at and comfort and learn from. Gone was the will to 'change the world' - to act on large global systems. Yet now, here, in Brazil, after two days of teaching to about 75 very eager learners, I feel welling up within NOT gradiosity about world changing but rather a feeling of love overflowing and a sense i will again be speaking and writing from love, not urgency. I could have lived the rest of my life without this impulse returning, but now that it is here, it feels natural and right and embodied (not heady).
It~s time for dinner. I will write more in a day or so.
Ate logo
beisos
Vicki
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Poetry - 2005
Calendar Dates
After the memorial service for Larry Gaffin
Vicki Robin
July 1, 2005
Years pass
One by one
Dates become "the time when...
He was born
She died
We met
You left
I swam in the ocean naked at dawn."
Even now,
When that day rolls around,
I feel a chill
Pegging skin to bone
Goose-bump quills fending off the water
As cold as spears of ice,
And taste again brine and freedom.
Entire weeks fill with remembrance
When we took that trip up north, just the two of us
When I sat in the woods without food, calling out for my soul
When Christ died on the cross and was resurrected.
The taste of whole seasons becomes richer
As the complex flavors simmer year after year
Summer becomes...
Dappled light
Roasting heat
Swimming pools, ponds, holes, beaches
Grilled meat
Naked arms
Chilly basements
Snoozing
Walks in the merciful cool of the evening
Fresh picked tomatoes that just rolled out of bed with the sun
Flowers pulling out all the color and fragrance stops
Overwhelming our ability to name anything
Every summer tastes this way... And more
Dates fill as a life ripens
The soul seed awakens
Hungry to root and branch and be
It's very vigor cracking the hard shell of linear time
Sweet flesh yields its juice, then
Wrinkles
Pulls away from the pit
Shrivels
Becomes nothing
All those dates, it seems
Simply food for that invisible issue
For that other life carried inside
A life that’s melon-round and full of living.
* * * * * *
To build a house
Vicki Robin
September 23, 2005
For Terri and Tom to bless their foundation
First, find the place where you will build.
To do this, ask, “Where do I belong?”
Ask, “Is this where I can live my days in joy and die in peace?”
Imagine you can hear your ancestors – those who knew your mother’s mothers mother – say “Yes”.
Then say yes.
Sit naked in this spot
Send your ancient tail down, down, down into the earth
Dowsing for the truth of the land and your belonging
Ask, “Who are my neighbors?”
Ask, “How will I get what I need in this place?”
When your breath comes easy,
When the community you’ve entered has said, “Yes, we will feed you,”
Then you can plan your house.
Walk the land, feeling where you like to stand at sunrise,
Where your feet go when you think, “Food.”
The sun on your back when you labor will bind you to this place.
The breeze that rises from the valley at sunset will freshen your linens for sleep.
Let the house grow around you like a bowl arising from a potter’s hands
Be hollow. Respond.
Go from beetle to fir tree to stone making friends
“Hello. How are you today?”
You’ll call out cheerily on your morning rounds.
Need anything from town?” you’ll ask these neighbors
Many of whom will never leave this place you’ll call home.
Paths will develop through this walking.
Soon you’ll know where the house’s walls and doors and windows should be.
Where they already are.
Only then, call in the architect and draw up the plans
Only then, call in the builders and build you a house.
Today is not the beginning. That was years ago. Perhaps before you were born.
Next year it will not be finished. That will never happen. Just one day you will move in and
Year after year your whole clan will make merry and merry and merry
And your neighbors the ferns and salal will feel safe in your presence
And you will belong.
After the memorial service for Larry Gaffin
Vicki Robin
July 1, 2005
Years pass
One by one
Dates become "the time when...
He was born
She died
We met
You left
I swam in the ocean naked at dawn."
Even now,
When that day rolls around,
I feel a chill
Pegging skin to bone
Goose-bump quills fending off the water
As cold as spears of ice,
And taste again brine and freedom.
Entire weeks fill with remembrance
When we took that trip up north, just the two of us
When I sat in the woods without food, calling out for my soul
When Christ died on the cross and was resurrected.
The taste of whole seasons becomes richer
As the complex flavors simmer year after year
Summer becomes...
Dappled light
Roasting heat
Swimming pools, ponds, holes, beaches
Grilled meat
Naked arms
Chilly basements
Snoozing
Walks in the merciful cool of the evening
Fresh picked tomatoes that just rolled out of bed with the sun
Flowers pulling out all the color and fragrance stops
Overwhelming our ability to name anything
Every summer tastes this way... And more
Dates fill as a life ripens
The soul seed awakens
Hungry to root and branch and be
It's very vigor cracking the hard shell of linear time
Sweet flesh yields its juice, then
Wrinkles
Pulls away from the pit
Shrivels
Becomes nothing
All those dates, it seems
Simply food for that invisible issue
For that other life carried inside
A life that’s melon-round and full of living.
* * * * * *
To build a house
Vicki Robin
September 23, 2005
For Terri and Tom to bless their foundation
First, find the place where you will build.
To do this, ask, “Where do I belong?”
Ask, “Is this where I can live my days in joy and die in peace?”
Imagine you can hear your ancestors – those who knew your mother’s mothers mother – say “Yes”.
Then say yes.
Sit naked in this spot
Send your ancient tail down, down, down into the earth
Dowsing for the truth of the land and your belonging
Ask, “Who are my neighbors?”
Ask, “How will I get what I need in this place?”
When your breath comes easy,
When the community you’ve entered has said, “Yes, we will feed you,”
Then you can plan your house.
Walk the land, feeling where you like to stand at sunrise,
Where your feet go when you think, “Food.”
The sun on your back when you labor will bind you to this place.
The breeze that rises from the valley at sunset will freshen your linens for sleep.
Let the house grow around you like a bowl arising from a potter’s hands
Be hollow. Respond.
Go from beetle to fir tree to stone making friends
“Hello. How are you today?”
You’ll call out cheerily on your morning rounds.
Need anything from town?” you’ll ask these neighbors
Many of whom will never leave this place you’ll call home.
Paths will develop through this walking.
Soon you’ll know where the house’s walls and doors and windows should be.
Where they already are.
Only then, call in the architect and draw up the plans
Only then, call in the builders and build you a house.
Today is not the beginning. That was years ago. Perhaps before you were born.
Next year it will not be finished. That will never happen. Just one day you will move in and
Year after year your whole clan will make merry and merry and merry
And your neighbors the ferns and salal will feel safe in your presence
And you will belong.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Simpler Living in Tougher Times
Reflections on Katrina, System Breakdowns and Simpler Living
September 15, 2005
Amidst all the shocking, infuriating, moving emails and news stories since Katrina struck, a few have resonated more deeply with me - and together suggest a place to put our feet as we walk forward from this event.
The first, surprisingly, was at Op-ed by David Brooks on Sept 4 NY Times called The Bursting Point. Brooks is a conservative commentator often dismissive of ideas and actions that make perfect sense to me and mine. He likened this moment to the early 70's when Vietnam, Watergate, and the assassinations of Bobby Kennedy and MLK woke us from the dream of America as the innocent, optimistic, good guy nation. We lost faith in our institutions and those breakdowns opened political and cultural space for breakthroughs... some to our liking, some not. He suggests to those with a new vision for America that 'now is the hour' - strut your very best stuff.
The second was from Deena Metzger. Katrina, she said, isn't an event that happened to a few of us. It's part of an unfolding reality that's been happening for decades to all us. She suggests the best speed is slow, and the best approach is sobriety and community We need to discover, together, better responses to crisis through sitting in "council" - circles of conversations - that go as long and as deep as necessary. I quote:
The third article I will insert below in its entirety. It's from Bill McKibben, a journalist in the Cassandra tradition who for decades has given us well researched, deeply human books and articles to show us where our society's preference for money as the measure of meaning and value was taking us. He locked on to the Global Warming issue long ago and earned his right to use Katrina as a portend of the environmental whirlwind that's coming. His other occupation - a Methodist Sunday School teacher - I believe gives his journalism a prophetic yet protective quality that speaks to me.How do we proceed? We do not know. When wise people are
confronted by situations that are beyond them, they admit their incapacity and
they call councils. We must call councils. We must call the elders,
wise ones, scientists, et al, the experienced ones of the world community to
confer with us and each other. Wise cultures call councils especially when
they are, as we are, in grave danger of escalating the damage by taking
short-term methods that can produce even greater devastation… We
must ask each other to set aside, entirely, our personal hopes for our future,
for our security, for our advancement. Let us all be like those who have
lost everything. We are those who have lost everything. We have all lost
everything. We have. There is no future unless we understand that we have
lost everything and we have to begin again. No one and no system in the
living world are safe at this
moment.
Before Bill's article, I want to tell of a few recent experiences of my own. They may seems 'beside the point' (as much of our daily lives do in times of crisis), but make a point eventually.
The weekend before Katrina hit I attended the Fifth Annual Simplicity Forum Congress - a group of educators, activists, authors, academics, and organizers committed to "honoring and achieving simple, just and sustainable ways of life." In the middle of this intense, strategic meeting we took a break to enjoy our beautiful setting in the High Rockies. Half the group hiked down to a river and literally chilled together with their feet in the water. Suddenly a large dead tree toppled right into the middle of the group, injuring several and hitting one woman directly on the head. Quickly, people arrayed themselves according level of injury and according to skills and capacities, forming a spontaneous team of nurses, wilderness medics, transporters, runners, counselors, witnesses and such. The badly injured woman was stabilized and carried up and out, then ambulanced to the hospital. The group processed the shock while continuing to work very effectively as a team on building the Forum. Of course, in the background everyone wondered what it meant that a near tragedy literally descended into our midst. By the end, it was clear. Simple living doesn't mean that nothing bad happens anymore in your life. It's the low-ego, high-equanimity and community way you go through what happens. It allows the best to come from even bad situations. A tree falls in the forest, and people who live more simply seem to respond naturally with directness, resourcefulness and skill.
Two weekends later, I spent 4 days in the hospital for a high-tech surgical repair way beyond woodsy simplicity's capacity to deal. It was revelatory, though, in what hospitals no longer do. It sometimes took an hour for overworked nurses to respond to my call button. After the response, I'd often find the call button, pain med button and/or phone left out of reach. Hygiene was a packet of heavy-duty handy wipes given to me on day two for me to use. No teeth brushing or hair brushing. One procedure was stymied because the right tool wasn't available. My discharge doc had done his internship at a Community Hospital in LA. He said that such conditions were so common there that sadder-but-wiser nurses and aides would buy supplies at Costco - at their own expense - so they'd have what they needed to care for patients. "You're a writer," he said, "write about that. Someone has to tell that story." I realized that America is closer than ever to the conditions in less 'developed' countries where family members must accompany you to the hospital to do your nursing care. Will busy Americans, as the tempo of such breakdowns increases, need to take back their time for basic caring duties of family and community?
Katrina showed us many things. One was that the systems we have empowered to care for us have gotten careless to the point of being cruel and inhuman. Real humans want to take care of their sick and dying, but we've come to believe that someone else, somewhere else, is in charge and knows better. So people died in the streets, in the Stadium, in the hospitals, in their homes and were left for days. There are big changes we should have made decades ago that could prevent what McKibben warns is coming. Now these are dead snags just waiting to fall. Worse, though, is that we seem to lack to political and social will to make the sober, mature changes needed to deal the "trees that fall" with competence and good grace.
Simpler living seems tied to the expectation that oneself is the grown-up in one's own life. That if change is to be, it starts at home and is practical as well as philosophical. That big systems must be understood for what they can and can't do - and never be allowed to leave us more vulnerable, less able to respond intelligently. I've always said that the last place to look for financial independence is in having a pile of money. If you don't accumulate critical thinking, clear communication, loving relationships, an understanding of give-and-take, networks of friends and mutual help groups - all parts of 'resilience' - no amount of money will protect you in a destabilized world.
As David Brooks says, now is the time to face up to the dark side of America and make sober changes - and hope the forces of intelligence and good sense will mobilize more vigorously than the forces of fear and manipulation. As Deena says, in times like these wise people know that none of us knows what's going on but all of us, in deep conversation, will learn together a way through. As McKibben's article below indicates, Katrina might be the recognized surfacing of an era of breakdowns of a magnitude we never thought possible. As my small experiences indicate, if we rely less on ego and more on community, human resilience and good sense, we can mobilize ourselves to achieve small greatnesses right where we are. If we ask large systems to do only what they are best at - complex surgery, for example, or complex policy making for global conditions - and give as much resource as possible to the people on the local front lines of care, we may be able to weather the coming "perfect" storm.
Where each of us acts in this shifting landscape of crisis is really up to each of us. I trust us to know our neighbors better, to develop skills that will be truly useful in the years ahead, to open our homes to what needs our care, to stay calm, to contribute what we know and get out of the way of those who actually know better. Where can we turn in crisis? To one another, actually. Not letting large systems off the hook on their responsibilities and failures, but not forgetting that at least here in America, it's still "the consent of the governed."
Y2K. 911. Katrina. Are we listening? Every free individual for him or herself is now a loser strategy of enormous magnitude. Simplicity, community, common sense, calm, resilience are really the core curriculum for survival. People in other lands have not had the luxury of forgetting these basics. We have. Katrina was a pop-final. We failed. But we are wired for survival through connection, council, community and what my friend Tom Atlee calls co-intelligence. It may be too late to have predictable future, but we can wise up together. For some great ideas from Alan Atkisson on a community revisioning exercise that's now relevant to rebuilding "the Big Difficult" , go to http://www.worldchanging.com/archives/003425.html
and now, Bill...
Not Our America?
by Bill McKibben
September 07, 2005
http://www.tompaine.com/
Bill McKibben is the author of many books on the environment and related topics. His first, The End of Nature, was also the first book for a general audience on global warming. His most recent is Wandering Home, A Long Walk Across America's Most Hopeful Landscape.
If the images of skyscrapers collapsed in heaps of ash were the end of one story—the United States safe on its isolated continent from the turmoil of the world—then the picture of the sodden Superdome with its peeling roof marks the beginning of the next story, the one that will dominate our politics in the coming decades of this century: America befuddled about how to cope with a planet suddenly turned unstable and unpredictable.
Over and over last week, people said that the scenes from the convention center, the highway overpasses, and the other suddenly infamous Crescent City venues didn't "look like America," that they seemed instead to be straight from the Third World. That was almost literally accurate, for poor, black New Orleans (whose life had never previously been of any interest to the larger public) is not so different from other poor and black parts of the world: its infant mortality and life expectancy rates, its educational achievement statistics mirroring scores of African and Latin American enclaves. But it was accurate in another way, too, one full of portent for the future. A decade ago, environmental researcher Norman Myers began trying to add up the number of humans at risk of losing their homes from global warming. He looked at all the obvious places—coastal China, India, Bangladesh, the tiny island states of the Pacific and Indian oceans, the Nile delta, Mozambique, on and on—and predicted that by 2050, it was entirely possible that 150 million people could be "environmental refugees," forced from their homes by rising waters. That's more than the number of political refugees sent scurrying by the bloody century we've just endured. Try to imagine, that is, the chaos that attends busing 15,000 people from one football stadium to another in the richest nation on Earth, and then multiply it by four orders of magnitude and re-situate your thoughts in the poorest nations on earth. And then try to imagine doing it over and over again—probably without the buses.
Because so far, even as blogs and websites all over the Internet fill with accusations about the scandalous lack of planning that led to the collapse of the levees in New Orleans, almost no one is addressing the much larger problems: the scandalous lack of planning that has kept us from even beginning to address climate change, and the sad fact that global warming means the future will be full of just this kind of horror. Consider the first problem for just a minute. No single hurricane is "the result" of global warming. But a month before Katrina hit, MIT hurricane specialist Kerry Emmanuel published a landmark paper in the British science magazine Nature showing that tropical storms were now lasting half again as long and spinning winds 50 percent more powerful than just a few decades before. The only plausible cause: the ever-warmer tropical seas on which these storms thrive. Katrina, a Category 1 storm when it crossed Florida, roared to full life in the abnormally hot water of the Gulf of Mexico. It then punched its way into Louisiana and Mississippi—the latter a state now governed by Haley Barbour, who in an earlier incarnation as a GOP power broker and energy lobbyist helped persuade President Bush to renege on his promise to treat carbon dioxide as a pollutant.
So far, the United States has done exactly nothing even to try to slow the progress of climate change: We're emitting far more carbon than we were in 1988, when scientists issued their first prescient global-warming warnings. Even if, at that moment, we'd started doing all that we could to overhaul our energy economy, we'd probably still be stuck with the one degree Fahrenheit increase in global average temperature that's already driving our current disruptions. Now scientists predict that without truly dramatic change in the very near future, we're likely to see the planet's mercury rise five degrees before this century is out. That is, five times more than we've seen so far. Which leads us to the second problem: For the ten thousand years of human civilization, we've relied on the planet's basic physical stability. Sure, there have been hurricanes and droughts and volcanoes and tsunamis, but averaged out across the Earth, it's been a remarkably stable run. If your grandparents inhabited a particular island, chances were that you could too. If you could grow corn in your field, you could pretty much count on your grandkids being able to do likewise. Those are now sucker's bets—that's what those predictions about environmental refugees really mean.
Here's another way of saying it: In the last century, we've seen change in human societies speed up to an almost unimaginable level, one that has stressed every part of our civilization. In this century, we're going to see the natural world change at the same kind of rate. That's what happens when you increase the amount of heat trapped in the atmosphere. That extra energy expresses itself in every way you can imagine: more wind, more evaporation, more rain, more melt, more... more... more. And there is no reason to think we can cope. Take New Orleans as an example. It is currently pro forma for politicians to announce that it will be rebuilt, and doubtless it will be. Once. But if hurricanes like Katrina go from once-in-a-century storms to once-in-a-decade-or-two storms, how many times are you going to rebuild it? Even in America there's not that kind of money—especially if you're also having to cope with, say, the effects on agriculture of more frequent and severe heat waves, and the effects on human health of the spread of mosquito-borne diseases like dengue fever and malaria, and so on ad infinitum. Not to mention the costs of converting our energy system to something less suicidal than fossil fuel, a task that becomes more expensive with every year that passes. Our rulers have insisted by both word and deed that the laws of physics and chemistry do not apply to us. That delusion will now start to vanish. Katrina marks Year One of our new calendar, the start of an age in which the physical world has flipped from sure and secure to volatile and unhinged. New Orleans doesn't look like the America we've lived in. But it very much resembles the planet we will inhabit the rest of our lives.
A Modest Proposal in response to Katrina
A modest proposal in response to Katrina
The power of an MPG meter
Sept 6, 2005
Here's something every driver can do right now to address the rising prices at the pump and looming gas shortages.
I drive a Honda Insight with an electronic miles per gallon gauge that gives me constant feedback on my driving. Every millimeter of pressure on the gas pedal shows up instantly, driving that little line of lights down towards 0. Every bit of coasting drives them up towards 100 mpg. Getting that line of lights to dance upward becomes a game. Getting the total average mpg per tankful to ratchet up becomes a challenge. In the process, I've become a champion gas-saving gal in my little 2-seater silver bullet. All from feedback. This game saves perhaps 20% in gas consumption. At this moment, that's significant. With a tank of gas for ordinary cars inching over 50 bucks a pop, just the financial savings alone might attract you to installing such a miracle meter in your car. You can - and it will pay for itself in a few tankfuls. Right online at http://tinyurl.com/dxf4q you can buy a little $30 "vacuum gauge" your mechanic can install in an hour. Before my Insight, I always installed one on my dash. You could try your local auto supply store as well. A "vacuum gauge" is not quite as jazzy as my onboard computer, but that little needle will still train your foot to be lighter than Fred Astaire's.
Behind the utility of saving money is the imperative in this moment of using less oil. Our supplies are vulnerable - politics and storms can both wipe them out. Violence associated with diminishing essential resources is an age-old problem for our species. Wars are fought over water, food and fuel. People turn mean, hoard, abandon their neighbors, disregard calls for sacrifice when they fear their personal needs won't be met. They vote down collective solutions like public transportation while they have access to oil.
Retooling the whole fleet of American cars to get better gas mileage will take many years. Building public transportation that is so good that people would rather use it than their cars will take even more years. Getting the right policies in place that reward efficiency and penalize waste will take ongoing political wrangling. But if everyone in the US put one of these little $30 gauges in their cars, we could better defend ANWR. We could reduce the temptation to bully other nations for their oil.
Imagine the whole fleet of American cars with little vacuum gauges driving delicately down the highways at the optimum gas-saving speed of under 60 miles per hour. Imagine a 10% or more reduction in demand for gas. Imagine arriving at destinations a little less frazzled. Imagine bumper stickers that say "I know my MPG - do you?" "Driving for a solution - MPG meter on board". Imagine a little thing each of us can do that would actually help this big mess.
Of course the big work of engineering a more fuel efficient fleet, changing policies, building public transportation and developing new sources of energy all needs to be done. But what's the little guy to do in the meantime? I say, spend $30 and join the exciting game of getting that gauge to go in the right direction.
By the way, I regularly get 52-55 miles per gallon. Please save me from my gloating by getting an MPG meter too.
Be well,
Vicki
PS - I know acknowledgements are the custom in books, not emails, but I want to briefly bow to the late Dana Meadows who introduced me to systems thinking. For Dana's article about her experience of that mpg gauge on her Honda Insight, go to http://www.sustainer.org/dhm_archive/index.php?display_article=vn844insighted
PPS - What if, with the stoke of an executive pen, such meters were required equipment along with air bags? Hmmm. Know any executives...
The power of an MPG meter
Sept 6, 2005
Here's something every driver can do right now to address the rising prices at the pump and looming gas shortages.
I drive a Honda Insight with an electronic miles per gallon gauge that gives me constant feedback on my driving. Every millimeter of pressure on the gas pedal shows up instantly, driving that little line of lights down towards 0. Every bit of coasting drives them up towards 100 mpg. Getting that line of lights to dance upward becomes a game. Getting the total average mpg per tankful to ratchet up becomes a challenge. In the process, I've become a champion gas-saving gal in my little 2-seater silver bullet. All from feedback. This game saves perhaps 20% in gas consumption. At this moment, that's significant. With a tank of gas for ordinary cars inching over 50 bucks a pop, just the financial savings alone might attract you to installing such a miracle meter in your car. You can - and it will pay for itself in a few tankfuls. Right online at http://tinyurl.com/dxf4q you can buy a little $30 "vacuum gauge" your mechanic can install in an hour. Before my Insight, I always installed one on my dash. You could try your local auto supply store as well. A "vacuum gauge" is not quite as jazzy as my onboard computer, but that little needle will still train your foot to be lighter than Fred Astaire's.
Behind the utility of saving money is the imperative in this moment of using less oil. Our supplies are vulnerable - politics and storms can both wipe them out. Violence associated with diminishing essential resources is an age-old problem for our species. Wars are fought over water, food and fuel. People turn mean, hoard, abandon their neighbors, disregard calls for sacrifice when they fear their personal needs won't be met. They vote down collective solutions like public transportation while they have access to oil.
Retooling the whole fleet of American cars to get better gas mileage will take many years. Building public transportation that is so good that people would rather use it than their cars will take even more years. Getting the right policies in place that reward efficiency and penalize waste will take ongoing political wrangling. But if everyone in the US put one of these little $30 gauges in their cars, we could better defend ANWR. We could reduce the temptation to bully other nations for their oil.
Imagine the whole fleet of American cars with little vacuum gauges driving delicately down the highways at the optimum gas-saving speed of under 60 miles per hour. Imagine a 10% or more reduction in demand for gas. Imagine arriving at destinations a little less frazzled. Imagine bumper stickers that say "I know my MPG - do you?" "Driving for a solution - MPG meter on board". Imagine a little thing each of us can do that would actually help this big mess.
Of course the big work of engineering a more fuel efficient fleet, changing policies, building public transportation and developing new sources of energy all needs to be done. But what's the little guy to do in the meantime? I say, spend $30 and join the exciting game of getting that gauge to go in the right direction.
By the way, I regularly get 52-55 miles per gallon. Please save me from my gloating by getting an MPG meter too.
Be well,
Vicki
PS - I know acknowledgements are the custom in books, not emails, but I want to briefly bow to the late Dana Meadows who introduced me to systems thinking. For Dana's article about her experience of that mpg gauge on her Honda Insight, go to http://www.sustainer.org/dhm_archive/index.php?display_article=vn844insighted
PPS - What if, with the stoke of an executive pen, such meters were required equipment along with air bags? Hmmm. Know any executives...
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Cancer Poetry
Cancer poetry
Written between March and December, 2004, when I had stage 3 colon cancer
Vicki Robin
P.O. Box 1501
Langley, WA 98260
Spring
March 25, 2004
The morning of my surgery
Swollen with fat-belly buds birthing leaves and flowers and fruits and sweet honey summer
We awaken from long winter's darkness along with the crocuses,
spirits thread-bare, worn by loneliness for our lover, the sun
out we come from hibernation, full of stories about rebirth and chattering yes.
yet from years sitting at this garden window
riding the seasons that pass like ocean swells
rocked into knowing the ageless thrumming of the summer-winter summer-winter beat
these buds speak not of ripples dancing with light moments that pass in a flash
but of the breathing of the earth
out with spring
in with winter
pausing at the equinoxes as on the crest of a wave
when up has ended and down hasn't come and you hover,
an eagle before the dive, in that wild in-between when all is visible, when all is visible
or like that pause in breathing when out is over and in isn't yet
and something the sun will never see appears...
a shimmering ocean of now.
Chemo
Vicki robin
June 1, 2004
After round one of chemo
So next time you do that chemo, dearie,
Remember this
You will get dressed up in your finest duds and smiles
All chic and attitude
While your insides are screaming
No
No
No
While your mind is shushing all your beautiful screaming cells
There there, you’ll croon
Now now, you’ll soothe
It will only hurt for…
A fucking eternity
Yes
You will go down in your slinky duds to the poison center and say,
I’ll have some more, Maude,
On the rocks
Straight up into
My tired veins
Straight into all my baby cells, those bright hopeful new lives
And I will have to tell them they are just
Collateral damage in a war they didn't start and will never understand
And they will burn
Like all the tender bodied creatures of this earth who are poisoned by our will to have our way
Like mosquitoes and slugs and rats and every leafy thing we deem a weed
They will burn
According to the instructions on the box that says, without shame, "guaranteed to kill..."
Kill that one little confused cancer cell that's wandering, separated from the home where it was born, looking for a place to unfold its destiny.
Just like me.
Yes.
You will suck it up and gussy up and take yourself down to that cancer center and say
“What poison you serving today, Maude, I’ll take the special one
The one
That burns
Hair
Mouth
Tongue
Throat
Stomach
Intestines
Asshole
That burns and blisters
That frightens every little newborn cell
Screaming
Like that
Frail child
In Vietnam
After
Napalm.
So that I will live?
Cleaning
For Taylor
Vicki Robin
June 2004
My first house-sitting place on Vashon Island; moved during worst side effects from round one
I couldn’t stop cleaning
Dust and grime and webs and
Everything that shined
Showed the next
Grime and webs and dust and so…
I couldn’t stop cleaning
Because he’d put a teddy bear on his pillow
Now my pillow for a while
As I live in his house by the water
Which is living inside his love, really
Inside a love so big even the sky can’t hold it
Because he said, “Feel free” and left for 12 days
Giving me tides to heal and waves to soothe and water to…
Clean, I couldn’t stop cleaning
Because, weeping, I find I can’t feel free to take without giving
To be in a love so big that it can hold him and me and the sky and more
So big it doesn’t need me to give, but I need to or I will die of shame
Cleaning the shame from my soul
Shame at being so small and needing so much
From him and them and the sky and the sea and…
God, I can’t stop cleaning or I will feel the crashing weight of this wearisome need
Dios mio! I need, I need, I need, I’m so sorry I will never stop needing…
To clean or I will know a debt I can never repay just
By scrubbing the grime from this world with my life just
By polishing the pain and grief and good grief…
I can’t stop cleaning or this cancer will sneer
“I am bigger than you,” as it
Squats in this house refusing to move,
Searing my pretties while spreading its fire.
I can’t.
And so I take something small, a shelf perhaps, and clean it
Soft sponge, warm water, stroking with care
The small things here in this house by sea
Spice jars and spoons and saucepans
And learn, by cleaning, that small is no sin
And weak is no shame
And at least I am here
Cupped, not crushed,
Between Death and God,
Warmed by water and his “feel free” love and
I, too, can be
Cleaned.
Empty before filling
Vicki robin
August 3, 2004
As I suffered through side effects from round two
empty your bowl
your stomach
your bowel
be hungry
empty your day
your week
your year
have time
empty your closet
your shelves
your drawers
be simple
empty your mind
your heart
your swarm of opinions and ways
be still
we do not know desire
we do not wake at 4 in the morning
with a strange feeling of something wanting to enter our emptiness.
who is this intruder come to penetrate us,
to plant the seeds of ‘next’ in our field of open now?
this is serious, for much is lost in letting such a stranger in
do we want a poem
a lover
a walk in the moonlight
do we want more food than we need
more respect
or power
or allure
heavy burdens that will never let us empty again?
beware
we do not know want
we do not allow lack to build
until we salivate
until our stomachs growl
until an honest need can come
dusty hat in hand
with an honest request
our fullness upon fullness
says
“here lives fear,
sell me what you will
for in my house
nothing is ever enough.”
it says,
“i have heard of a universe that will never let me down,
but i have lost faith.
i do not trust.
if i do not pack my life with
people and things
i will starve
for nothing and no one is there for me.”
spin
in the vast emptiness
trailing the dust of your past like galaxies
sink
into the gossimer fullness of the space in between
feel
the touch of this velvet lover who has
waited, waited
for you to be
done
empty your bowl
your stomach
your bowel
be hungry
empty your day
your week
your year
have time
empty your closet
your shelves
your drawers
be simple
empty your mind
your heart
your swarm of opinions and ways
be still
be peace
Lessons
Vicki Robin
August 18, 2004
As the side effects began to recede
Surely
For all the anguish
There is a gift
Surely
For all the insult
To tender cells and self
There is some wisdom
Surely
For all the knives and poisons
Some trace of words should stay
Some reminder to the well
Of what the ill can tell
Surely
There’s something more than
Brush your teeth
Take your pills
Say your prayers
Touch your toes
Surely
This valley of the shadow of death
Has more truth in it than
Eat your vegetables
Chew well
Don’t overdo
Surely
Having stood on the edge of the abyss
Having borne the howling winds
Tattering my life, silencing my plans
Some whisper will come to stay the willful one
Now returning to claim her throne.
What can I say to her
This Queen of Heaven
About the Hell she’ll soon forget?
What will draw her glance and slow her step
As she catches the scent again of
New lands … new quests?
Will she listen if I say…
“This too shall pass”
If I say…
“In the end all that counts is
receiving and giving
and kindness
and reverence
and gently touching this sacred thing called
living.”
Will she – big, bold, beautiful – turn her head if I whisper,
“Cherish,”
If I say
“Breathe”
If I invite her to pause
Lay down her glorious crown
Take off her wing-ed shoes
Feel the cool grass
And hear the one-life’s
Sweet melodieslike angels singing
Like angels singing?
Surely she will.
Surely.
She will.
Out to pasture
By Vicki Robin
September 29, 2004
As I realized I was no longer who I was… but who was i?
Was it the ankle that never set right?
Or the patch of mange that wouldn’t heal,
That wept and bled and attracted flies?
Or just that she didn’t win anymore,
Couldn’t earn her keep?
Whatever.
One day the old trainer
Clucking, talking sweet, apple in his leathery palm
Led her from the stables and
Out to pasture.
She stood there for days
Still.
Blinking.
Then she pushed her mighty, rich chocolate breast against the fence
Until it creaked and bowed.
Not quite able to remember what in her heyday she might have done.
Jump.
Run.
With tail high, nostrils flared and
Rivers of salty sweat criss-crossing the delta of her flanks.
The racehorse in her
Twitched her mane
Pawed the ground
Sniffed freedom in the air
Saw again that opening in the race between the pounding hooves and pumping rumps
Every cell alive with get in.
And win.
But something else was there
Something new
This fence.
This limit to her will
This being stopped
And all she did was lean and whinny like a nag
Whinny like a stupid nag.
Catching a scent she turned her head, like a bee turns its whole round body towards a blossom.
A farmer in a distant field was cutting oats.
Methodically driving his tractor up and down the rows
A steady whisper of thwack thwack, oat grass falling beneath the cutting blades,
A steady commotion of pistons and great tires – tall as farm-boys –
bearings grinding, treads pushing thick loam down, out, back and over.
It was the cell honey of the cut oats that called her.
Heavenly scents.
That other instinct – pleasure – floods sharp saliva under her tongue.
The smell of freshness, the remembered feel of green sugar pumping down her throat,
Lured, she turns further.
Her great brown breast now leaves the fence
Her fine leg lifts, steps back and moves her towards those fragrant fields
Towards green honey taste as lips swirl freshness into her mouth.
The pasture is lush, high with grass and shimmering with life
A big cottonwood stands in the middle, promising shade and delicious scratches for that patch that never heals
And water somewhere near.
She moves slowly, feeling the easy sway of her back, flicking flies off her haunches with her long tail.
Some other memories come, of the smell of her mother’s rump, always near, always promising safety and milk.
Of a life not of running, but standing in tall grasses, head slightly up
Sorting through a bouquet of scents
Not knowing who or what she was.
Colt-, racehorse- and nag-minds join in her flesh
As her head buries itself in fresh grass, lips sending clumps towards her teeth which grind in easy circles
Sweet green honey, sweet green honey flowing.
This new mind, this mind of work and pleasure, of youth and fullness and age
Comes alive as she ruminates in the clover.
As she leans into the cottonwood and satisfies that itch
As she drinks from the stream the cottonwood said would be there
As she drinks from the stream of all beasts who live and die
As she drinks a new knowing of what it means to have a life
As she tastes for the first time some new flavor called death.
Her ears prick. A sound.
Refreshed she runs towards it
Not to win but to feel, to feel, to feel
Who she is in her essence.
There, in the pasture, she rears
And whinnies like a colt, like a stallion, like lion might roar
And the racehorses, clad in blinders and blankets,
Pampered and prettied and feeling their oats
Pause.
Their heads turn towards the pasture
Towards this strangeness
This knowing
This promise of life.
They feel their future in that sound.
They feel the plains and running and snorting and freedom.
But their jockeys rein them in.
Cancer tribe
Vicki Robin
February 26, 2005
At a cancer care retreat
We are the tribe of the
Cut
Burned and
Poisoned
We are the ones
Who’ve been healed by our pain.
We are the ones who’ve
felt death’s breath
Behind us
Cancer has spoken:
“Your life’s not the same.”
We are the grievers
For life before cancer
When out bodies were free of the
Tracks made by knives
But pain has not bowed us
And death has not caught us
And our bodies still throb
With lust for our lives
Yes we are the tribe of the
Cut
Burned and
Poisoned
And our souls sing out yes
And our wounds make us strong.
Moving to Vashon
February 2005
Upon leaving the island I went to for healing
I was moved by my mother’s womb to be born and then
Everything moved me to tears and laughter and wonder.
Pink and orange, smooth and scratchy, sweet and tangy,
And the soft whooshing of blood in my ears.
Every noise, every sight moved me to crawl and walk and talk.
I wanted everything in my mouth.
I ate milk and bananas and toast and peas and chicken and words…
Oh when I found them I ate words and made sentences
I ate paragraphs and made pictures in my mind
I ate lectures and made meaning
I found ideas, everywhere ideas, and they moved me.
Moved me so.
Moved me so I gave my heart to these shiny ideas, ideals
And moved across country following them…
To Canada and California and Mexico and Wisconsin
To Arizona and Colorado and Idaho and Washington and Seattle…
And there I became the mover, my words moving others to be free
But me, I stopped moving.
I became the lighthouse not the light
I became the rock and ceased to roll
And so life got stuck in my gut,
Fed on blind feelings and grew in darkness until it became
A cancer which when the surgeon lifted it out my soul stumbled home
Parched, parched for water, for living water, for living by water,
And so
I moved to Vashon
Lived by the sea
Dove deep
Swam free
And healed.
And now, dear friends,
I’m movin’ on.
Written between March and December, 2004, when I had stage 3 colon cancer
Vicki Robin
P.O. Box 1501
Langley, WA 98260
Spring
March 25, 2004
The morning of my surgery
Swollen with fat-belly buds birthing leaves and flowers and fruits and sweet honey summer
We awaken from long winter's darkness along with the crocuses,
spirits thread-bare, worn by loneliness for our lover, the sun
out we come from hibernation, full of stories about rebirth and chattering yes.
yet from years sitting at this garden window
riding the seasons that pass like ocean swells
rocked into knowing the ageless thrumming of the summer-winter summer-winter beat
these buds speak not of ripples dancing with light moments that pass in a flash
but of the breathing of the earth
out with spring
in with winter
pausing at the equinoxes as on the crest of a wave
when up has ended and down hasn't come and you hover,
an eagle before the dive, in that wild in-between when all is visible, when all is visible
or like that pause in breathing when out is over and in isn't yet
and something the sun will never see appears...
a shimmering ocean of now.
Chemo
Vicki robin
June 1, 2004
After round one of chemo
So next time you do that chemo, dearie,
Remember this
You will get dressed up in your finest duds and smiles
All chic and attitude
While your insides are screaming
No
No
No
While your mind is shushing all your beautiful screaming cells
There there, you’ll croon
Now now, you’ll soothe
It will only hurt for…
A fucking eternity
Yes
You will go down in your slinky duds to the poison center and say,
I’ll have some more, Maude,
On the rocks
Straight up into
My tired veins
Straight into all my baby cells, those bright hopeful new lives
And I will have to tell them they are just
Collateral damage in a war they didn't start and will never understand
And they will burn
Like all the tender bodied creatures of this earth who are poisoned by our will to have our way
Like mosquitoes and slugs and rats and every leafy thing we deem a weed
They will burn
According to the instructions on the box that says, without shame, "guaranteed to kill..."
Kill that one little confused cancer cell that's wandering, separated from the home where it was born, looking for a place to unfold its destiny.
Just like me.
Yes.
You will suck it up and gussy up and take yourself down to that cancer center and say
“What poison you serving today, Maude, I’ll take the special one
The one
That burns
Hair
Mouth
Tongue
Throat
Stomach
Intestines
Asshole
That burns and blisters
That frightens every little newborn cell
Screaming
Like that
Frail child
In Vietnam
After
Napalm.
So that I will live?
Cleaning
For Taylor
Vicki Robin
June 2004
My first house-sitting place on Vashon Island; moved during worst side effects from round one
I couldn’t stop cleaning
Dust and grime and webs and
Everything that shined
Showed the next
Grime and webs and dust and so…
I couldn’t stop cleaning
Because he’d put a teddy bear on his pillow
Now my pillow for a while
As I live in his house by the water
Which is living inside his love, really
Inside a love so big even the sky can’t hold it
Because he said, “Feel free” and left for 12 days
Giving me tides to heal and waves to soothe and water to…
Clean, I couldn’t stop cleaning
Because, weeping, I find I can’t feel free to take without giving
To be in a love so big that it can hold him and me and the sky and more
So big it doesn’t need me to give, but I need to or I will die of shame
Cleaning the shame from my soul
Shame at being so small and needing so much
From him and them and the sky and the sea and…
God, I can’t stop cleaning or I will feel the crashing weight of this wearisome need
Dios mio! I need, I need, I need, I’m so sorry I will never stop needing…
To clean or I will know a debt I can never repay just
By scrubbing the grime from this world with my life just
By polishing the pain and grief and good grief…
I can’t stop cleaning or this cancer will sneer
“I am bigger than you,” as it
Squats in this house refusing to move,
Searing my pretties while spreading its fire.
I can’t.
And so I take something small, a shelf perhaps, and clean it
Soft sponge, warm water, stroking with care
The small things here in this house by sea
Spice jars and spoons and saucepans
And learn, by cleaning, that small is no sin
And weak is no shame
And at least I am here
Cupped, not crushed,
Between Death and God,
Warmed by water and his “feel free” love and
I, too, can be
Cleaned.
Empty before filling
Vicki robin
August 3, 2004
As I suffered through side effects from round two
empty your bowl
your stomach
your bowel
be hungry
empty your day
your week
your year
have time
empty your closet
your shelves
your drawers
be simple
empty your mind
your heart
your swarm of opinions and ways
be still
we do not know desire
we do not wake at 4 in the morning
with a strange feeling of something wanting to enter our emptiness.
who is this intruder come to penetrate us,
to plant the seeds of ‘next’ in our field of open now?
this is serious, for much is lost in letting such a stranger in
do we want a poem
a lover
a walk in the moonlight
do we want more food than we need
more respect
or power
or allure
heavy burdens that will never let us empty again?
beware
we do not know want
we do not allow lack to build
until we salivate
until our stomachs growl
until an honest need can come
dusty hat in hand
with an honest request
our fullness upon fullness
says
“here lives fear,
sell me what you will
for in my house
nothing is ever enough.”
it says,
“i have heard of a universe that will never let me down,
but i have lost faith.
i do not trust.
if i do not pack my life with
people and things
i will starve
for nothing and no one is there for me.”
spin
in the vast emptiness
trailing the dust of your past like galaxies
sink
into the gossimer fullness of the space in between
feel
the touch of this velvet lover who has
waited, waited
for you to be
done
empty your bowl
your stomach
your bowel
be hungry
empty your day
your week
your year
have time
empty your closet
your shelves
your drawers
be simple
empty your mind
your heart
your swarm of opinions and ways
be still
be peace
Lessons
Vicki Robin
August 18, 2004
As the side effects began to recede
Surely
For all the anguish
There is a gift
Surely
For all the insult
To tender cells and self
There is some wisdom
Surely
For all the knives and poisons
Some trace of words should stay
Some reminder to the well
Of what the ill can tell
Surely
There’s something more than
Brush your teeth
Take your pills
Say your prayers
Touch your toes
Surely
This valley of the shadow of death
Has more truth in it than
Eat your vegetables
Chew well
Don’t overdo
Surely
Having stood on the edge of the abyss
Having borne the howling winds
Tattering my life, silencing my plans
Some whisper will come to stay the willful one
Now returning to claim her throne.
What can I say to her
This Queen of Heaven
About the Hell she’ll soon forget?
What will draw her glance and slow her step
As she catches the scent again of
New lands … new quests?
Will she listen if I say…
“This too shall pass”
If I say…
“In the end all that counts is
receiving and giving
and kindness
and reverence
and gently touching this sacred thing called
living.”
Will she – big, bold, beautiful – turn her head if I whisper,
“Cherish,”
If I say
“Breathe”
If I invite her to pause
Lay down her glorious crown
Take off her wing-ed shoes
Feel the cool grass
And hear the one-life’s
Sweet melodieslike angels singing
Like angels singing?
Surely she will.
Surely.
She will.
Out to pasture
By Vicki Robin
September 29, 2004
As I realized I was no longer who I was… but who was i?
Was it the ankle that never set right?
Or the patch of mange that wouldn’t heal,
That wept and bled and attracted flies?
Or just that she didn’t win anymore,
Couldn’t earn her keep?
Whatever.
One day the old trainer
Clucking, talking sweet, apple in his leathery palm
Led her from the stables and
Out to pasture.
She stood there for days
Still.
Blinking.
Then she pushed her mighty, rich chocolate breast against the fence
Until it creaked and bowed.
Not quite able to remember what in her heyday she might have done.
Jump.
Run.
With tail high, nostrils flared and
Rivers of salty sweat criss-crossing the delta of her flanks.
The racehorse in her
Twitched her mane
Pawed the ground
Sniffed freedom in the air
Saw again that opening in the race between the pounding hooves and pumping rumps
Every cell alive with get in.
And win.
But something else was there
Something new
This fence.
This limit to her will
This being stopped
And all she did was lean and whinny like a nag
Whinny like a stupid nag.
Catching a scent she turned her head, like a bee turns its whole round body towards a blossom.
A farmer in a distant field was cutting oats.
Methodically driving his tractor up and down the rows
A steady whisper of thwack thwack, oat grass falling beneath the cutting blades,
A steady commotion of pistons and great tires – tall as farm-boys –
bearings grinding, treads pushing thick loam down, out, back and over.
It was the cell honey of the cut oats that called her.
Heavenly scents.
That other instinct – pleasure – floods sharp saliva under her tongue.
The smell of freshness, the remembered feel of green sugar pumping down her throat,
Lured, she turns further.
Her great brown breast now leaves the fence
Her fine leg lifts, steps back and moves her towards those fragrant fields
Towards green honey taste as lips swirl freshness into her mouth.
The pasture is lush, high with grass and shimmering with life
A big cottonwood stands in the middle, promising shade and delicious scratches for that patch that never heals
And water somewhere near.
She moves slowly, feeling the easy sway of her back, flicking flies off her haunches with her long tail.
Some other memories come, of the smell of her mother’s rump, always near, always promising safety and milk.
Of a life not of running, but standing in tall grasses, head slightly up
Sorting through a bouquet of scents
Not knowing who or what she was.
Colt-, racehorse- and nag-minds join in her flesh
As her head buries itself in fresh grass, lips sending clumps towards her teeth which grind in easy circles
Sweet green honey, sweet green honey flowing.
This new mind, this mind of work and pleasure, of youth and fullness and age
Comes alive as she ruminates in the clover.
As she leans into the cottonwood and satisfies that itch
As she drinks from the stream the cottonwood said would be there
As she drinks from the stream of all beasts who live and die
As she drinks a new knowing of what it means to have a life
As she tastes for the first time some new flavor called death.
Her ears prick. A sound.
Refreshed she runs towards it
Not to win but to feel, to feel, to feel
Who she is in her essence.
There, in the pasture, she rears
And whinnies like a colt, like a stallion, like lion might roar
And the racehorses, clad in blinders and blankets,
Pampered and prettied and feeling their oats
Pause.
Their heads turn towards the pasture
Towards this strangeness
This knowing
This promise of life.
They feel their future in that sound.
They feel the plains and running and snorting and freedom.
But their jockeys rein them in.
Cancer tribe
Vicki Robin
February 26, 2005
At a cancer care retreat
We are the tribe of the
Cut
Burned and
Poisoned
We are the ones
Who’ve been healed by our pain.
We are the ones who’ve
felt death’s breath
Behind us
Cancer has spoken:
“Your life’s not the same.”
We are the grievers
For life before cancer
When out bodies were free of the
Tracks made by knives
But pain has not bowed us
And death has not caught us
And our bodies still throb
With lust for our lives
Yes we are the tribe of the
Cut
Burned and
Poisoned
And our souls sing out yes
And our wounds make us strong.
Moving to Vashon
February 2005
Upon leaving the island I went to for healing
I was moved by my mother’s womb to be born and then
Everything moved me to tears and laughter and wonder.
Pink and orange, smooth and scratchy, sweet and tangy,
And the soft whooshing of blood in my ears.
Every noise, every sight moved me to crawl and walk and talk.
I wanted everything in my mouth.
I ate milk and bananas and toast and peas and chicken and words…
Oh when I found them I ate words and made sentences
I ate paragraphs and made pictures in my mind
I ate lectures and made meaning
I found ideas, everywhere ideas, and they moved me.
Moved me so.
Moved me so I gave my heart to these shiny ideas, ideals
And moved across country following them…
To Canada and California and Mexico and Wisconsin
To Arizona and Colorado and Idaho and Washington and Seattle…
And there I became the mover, my words moving others to be free
But me, I stopped moving.
I became the lighthouse not the light
I became the rock and ceased to roll
And so life got stuck in my gut,
Fed on blind feelings and grew in darkness until it became
A cancer which when the surgeon lifted it out my soul stumbled home
Parched, parched for water, for living water, for living by water,
And so
I moved to Vashon
Lived by the sea
Dove deep
Swam free
And healed.
And now, dear friends,
I’m movin’ on.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Feeling Free - Birthday Message 2005
July 4, 2005
Hello friends,
Like kids who were born around Christmas, I've always secretly considered July 4 mine - the bonfires and fireworks I took as warm-up celebrations for my birthday, July 6.
In two days, I'll turn 60. And George Bush will turn 59. And the Dalai Lama will turn 70. Ever since I found out who shares my birthday, I've wanted to make some something of it (being the meaning junkie I am). Given that we three have been born between two Western liberation days, July 4 and Bastille Day (July 14), and now that I am 6 months away from finishing my book on freedom (Feel Free; Rethinking Freedom in a World with Limits) I'm gonna make something out of that.
All three of us have pledged our lives to freedom. At a material level, W considers himself a liberator of the Iraqi people, not to speak of the Afghani and everyone globally beset by terrorists. His Holiness the Dalai Lama (HHDL for short) has spent decades trying to non-violently liberate Tibet from Chinese rule. And I, too, have spent decades promoting independence - from money worries, but also from the whole consumer mindset. I have, to be honest, sometimes had the fervor (unto righteousness) of W. If you could hear my thoughts (many of which go right by without my notice), you'd catch sentences like, "This consumer feeding frenzy of stuff must stop! Now! I said NOW!". To my credit, I have also had the spaciousness of HHDL, often seeing with equanimity the vast, multi-faceted context out of which our delusional consumer culture arises.
All three of us are also in the soul liberation biz. W has found his salvation in Jesus, and some might read his kowtowing to the Religious Right as a sincere belief that we'd all be better off as Christians. HHDL is, first and foremost, a Buddhist monk engaged in the precise work of freeing himself from illusion at every level - lifetime after lifetime. I am more of a spiritual mongrel. I have the salvation bent of my Western Religious heritage, believing in the Kingdom of Heaven as my true home. I also seek liberation into the infinite now through attention and intention, influenced by Eastern traditions. And I've engaged in Native healing practices, from weekly Lakota sweat lodges to ceremonies with shamans from the lush jungles of South America. As I say in my book,
I’ve nosed along the fences between me and freedom my whole life, keen to openings where something fresh might blow in and swirl out musty ideas or now-dead routines. At age five I insisted on going to sleep-away camp. By eight I’d been to Cuba, by sixteen to Paris, by nineteen I was living in Spain for a year and at twenty-four I went cross-country in an old van with a guy and a dog. I started studying Utopian communities in high school, continued in college and was inventing my own within a decade. Every scrap of income was put into buying time rather than stuff – time to really taste existence up close and personal.
The range of meanings of freedom - from HHDL to W to me - says a lot. It means that the lived meaning of freedom in America in 2005 does not cover the whole territory. A NY Times July 4 editorial this morning had a welcome tinge of Patrick Henry...
The word "freedom" especially seems to have hardened around the edges in the last few years. It has lost some of its ability to suggest the open-ended potential of our lives, the possibility of coming to new terms with the expectations we have been handed by earlier generations. The overtones of discovery the word once had seem to have been put on hold. Instead, there is a new complacency, a certainty that we know just what freedom means and exactly how it should look. There is an unwelcome comfort with the inequitable distribution of freedom even in our own country. There is a poisonous tolerance for the idea that freedom encompasses only the right to say positive things about America and its mission in the world.
The liberal tradition of "freedom from" (tyranny of every stripe, from the state to overbearing neighbors) has become "I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, as long as ... it's my property, it doesn't hurt anyone (ahem... that I can see), it's not against the law or at least I don't get caught." But the freedom of "away" - getting away (with it), going away (from it) and keeping "it" away from you - has to be coupled with "freedom with" - the capacity to be with whatever arises in your life, whether inside your noggin or right in your face. If "away" is the only way to freedom, we're doomed. We do live in a round world. Materials go round and round - never away. People can run, but, given our roundness, they can't hide; away and back home are the same thing. Karma says, "What goes around, comes around." So does the Golden Rule. Anything we won't ultimately embrace, love and heal will meet us again on our next road to Samara - or in our next lifetime.
There's also the profound question, "What is freedom for?" Were we given freedom (by the Creator, by the Constitution, by the embedded principles of the Universe) so we could run, hide, invade, take, dominate, rule, escape, care for only our own? Or were we given freedom to be designers along with the Divine? If so, the holy secret is that limits along with other constraints like containers, boundaries, edges, borders, criteria, agreements, laws, principles, values, covenants and such, are the tools the Universe uses to create. Away and With are both essential. Freedom is the necessary raw expansive power of life, but limits are the shaping power of existence. All the beauty we make - in marriages, in art, in sustainable societies, in great religions - comes from knowing this secret of the "away/with" "freedom-in-limits/limits-in-freedom" paradox and embracing the exquisite tension of living where the two intersect.
For me, personal freedom comes from being present to everything that arises - within and without, touching everything with love. Janis Joplin had it half right: freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose... or gain. Relational freedom comes from knowing that everyone and everything is enacting their freedom, just like me, and is equally worthy of my respect and attention. Social freedom comes from knowing that no matter how dense and encrusted social/cultural conventions might be, they were made up by people like me, and people like me can change them. Political freedom is being engaged in the conversations that create the rules we live by and the collective plans we make. And spiritual freedom is the loving, generative space in which all this arises and passes away.
So there you have it - my birthday message along with a preview of Feel Free. Happy 4th, and for that matter 5th, 6th, 7th and all the rest.
Be well,
Vicki
Hello friends,
Like kids who were born around Christmas, I've always secretly considered July 4 mine - the bonfires and fireworks I took as warm-up celebrations for my birthday, July 6.
In two days, I'll turn 60. And George Bush will turn 59. And the Dalai Lama will turn 70. Ever since I found out who shares my birthday, I've wanted to make some something of it (being the meaning junkie I am). Given that we three have been born between two Western liberation days, July 4 and Bastille Day (July 14), and now that I am 6 months away from finishing my book on freedom (Feel Free; Rethinking Freedom in a World with Limits) I'm gonna make something out of that.
All three of us have pledged our lives to freedom. At a material level, W considers himself a liberator of the Iraqi people, not to speak of the Afghani and everyone globally beset by terrorists. His Holiness the Dalai Lama (HHDL for short) has spent decades trying to non-violently liberate Tibet from Chinese rule. And I, too, have spent decades promoting independence - from money worries, but also from the whole consumer mindset. I have, to be honest, sometimes had the fervor (unto righteousness) of W. If you could hear my thoughts (many of which go right by without my notice), you'd catch sentences like, "This consumer feeding frenzy of stuff must stop! Now! I said NOW!". To my credit, I have also had the spaciousness of HHDL, often seeing with equanimity the vast, multi-faceted context out of which our delusional consumer culture arises.
All three of us are also in the soul liberation biz. W has found his salvation in Jesus, and some might read his kowtowing to the Religious Right as a sincere belief that we'd all be better off as Christians. HHDL is, first and foremost, a Buddhist monk engaged in the precise work of freeing himself from illusion at every level - lifetime after lifetime. I am more of a spiritual mongrel. I have the salvation bent of my Western Religious heritage, believing in the Kingdom of Heaven as my true home. I also seek liberation into the infinite now through attention and intention, influenced by Eastern traditions. And I've engaged in Native healing practices, from weekly Lakota sweat lodges to ceremonies with shamans from the lush jungles of South America. As I say in my book,
I’ve nosed along the fences between me and freedom my whole life, keen to openings where something fresh might blow in and swirl out musty ideas or now-dead routines. At age five I insisted on going to sleep-away camp. By eight I’d been to Cuba, by sixteen to Paris, by nineteen I was living in Spain for a year and at twenty-four I went cross-country in an old van with a guy and a dog. I started studying Utopian communities in high school, continued in college and was inventing my own within a decade. Every scrap of income was put into buying time rather than stuff – time to really taste existence up close and personal.
The range of meanings of freedom - from HHDL to W to me - says a lot. It means that the lived meaning of freedom in America in 2005 does not cover the whole territory. A NY Times July 4 editorial this morning had a welcome tinge of Patrick Henry...
The word "freedom" especially seems to have hardened around the edges in the last few years. It has lost some of its ability to suggest the open-ended potential of our lives, the possibility of coming to new terms with the expectations we have been handed by earlier generations. The overtones of discovery the word once had seem to have been put on hold. Instead, there is a new complacency, a certainty that we know just what freedom means and exactly how it should look. There is an unwelcome comfort with the inequitable distribution of freedom even in our own country. There is a poisonous tolerance for the idea that freedom encompasses only the right to say positive things about America and its mission in the world.
The liberal tradition of "freedom from" (tyranny of every stripe, from the state to overbearing neighbors) has become "I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, as long as ... it's my property, it doesn't hurt anyone (ahem... that I can see), it's not against the law or at least I don't get caught." But the freedom of "away" - getting away (with it), going away (from it) and keeping "it" away from you - has to be coupled with "freedom with" - the capacity to be with whatever arises in your life, whether inside your noggin or right in your face. If "away" is the only way to freedom, we're doomed. We do live in a round world. Materials go round and round - never away. People can run, but, given our roundness, they can't hide; away and back home are the same thing. Karma says, "What goes around, comes around." So does the Golden Rule. Anything we won't ultimately embrace, love and heal will meet us again on our next road to Samara - or in our next lifetime.
There's also the profound question, "What is freedom for?" Were we given freedom (by the Creator, by the Constitution, by the embedded principles of the Universe) so we could run, hide, invade, take, dominate, rule, escape, care for only our own? Or were we given freedom to be designers along with the Divine? If so, the holy secret is that limits along with other constraints like containers, boundaries, edges, borders, criteria, agreements, laws, principles, values, covenants and such, are the tools the Universe uses to create. Away and With are both essential. Freedom is the necessary raw expansive power of life, but limits are the shaping power of existence. All the beauty we make - in marriages, in art, in sustainable societies, in great religions - comes from knowing this secret of the "away/with" "freedom-in-limits/limits-in-freedom" paradox and embracing the exquisite tension of living where the two intersect.
For me, personal freedom comes from being present to everything that arises - within and without, touching everything with love. Janis Joplin had it half right: freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose... or gain. Relational freedom comes from knowing that everyone and everything is enacting their freedom, just like me, and is equally worthy of my respect and attention. Social freedom comes from knowing that no matter how dense and encrusted social/cultural conventions might be, they were made up by people like me, and people like me can change them. Political freedom is being engaged in the conversations that create the rules we live by and the collective plans we make. And spiritual freedom is the loving, generative space in which all this arises and passes away.
So there you have it - my birthday message along with a preview of Feel Free. Happy 4th, and for that matter 5th, 6th, 7th and all the rest.
Be well,
Vicki
Tuesday, January 01, 2002
Tiffa and Peri
Tiffa and Peri
Vicki Robin
Published as “Transformation” in Imagine edited by Marianne Williamson
Tiffa watched her daughter Peri laughing and talking with several friends over by the old boathouse at
At Peri's age—17—Tiffa was still Tiffany (she'd disabused herself of that Barbie name when she turned 50 and gray). It was 2000. She had just graduated from
Facile with multiple ways of knowing (as most people were these days), Tiffa allowed herself to sink into a reverie that drew on her meditation practice, her scientific training, and her keen Web columnist's eye for the current and the quirky.
Her mind swam upstream like a spawning salmon, attracted to the headwaters where true explanations arise. The change, as always, happened first in the invisible and mysterious, in tiny shifts in thinking and feeling that alter the whole watercourse of history. At some point, the lonely majority of closet meditators and weary activists reached critical mass and came out in force, wearing their love for life on their sleeves. Before the tipping point, we all answered the question "What do you do?" by describing our jobs. After the shift, we’d reply to the same question by mentioning what we do to serve one another. Spirit was out of the box called church. It was everywhere and everywhen.
Who or whatever is running this show is a great “just in time” manager, Tiffa thought with the wryness of her columnist self. We needed that base of shared communion to deal with the shared time of Sorrow. Who could avoid being a mystic, thinking about the many arks that were sent to us to ride those rough waters? What a time. .
People now seemed different too—and not just because of Afro-Asian fashion or the features of the young people who now carried more and more races in their blood. Strangers talked openly with one another. People hugged a lot. And they were forever whipping out their pocket communicators (PC’s)to exchange useful information or arrange s-n-s (service and swap) barters, enriching their lives without spending a dime. The self-proclaimed Nosy Neighbors were out in force, using their PC’s to match people in need with offers for beds and meals in private homes. Great outdoor volunteerism for folks over 80!
There was also the
Neighborhood conflicts also got aired in the "con-res" circle. Now that everyone was trained from kindergarten on to use the whole range of awareness and conflict resolution tools, grievances had gone from private hell to public pageants. People loved the basically good-natured verbal brawls where you proclaimed your bitch as eloquently as possible, listened fully and accurately to your "opponent's" version of the same predicament, and together found a creative solution. "Mention the tension and resolve the dissension" was the motto for these public "con-res" sessions. Crowds gathered, cheered for elegant innovations, and often reenacted the conflict with hilarious skits. At best, there would be some musicians who'd get everyone dancing and people would go home in a happy mood to some juicy private celebrations of good feeling. Strange, Tiffa thought. In the old days, we watched music and sports—now we play music and sports. We stuffed our feelings and our faces and went to the movies. Now we are the movies. It's so different.
The other difference (and it was hard to remember how it had been) was silence—there wasn't even the whisper of an internal combustion engine. Small electric cars and buses glided along the street behind her, all filled to the brim. It was so easy with a communicator to pick up hitchers: Just punch in your destination and route and the names of everyone needing a lift popped up. A quick series of e-mails and barters and you'd have a full car and parking credits. Thank Gaia that the Chinese got smart and decided to leapfrog over the fossil fuel economy. They sure cornered the market on alternative-energy technology, Tiffa mused. Talk about a survivor civilization. .
Peri had pulled out her communicator to make a date with one of her friends; she talked to another on the celly and then punched in “off-line till 3 pm” and put it back in its holster. She came over to Tiffa and went from standing to bench-sprawling in one gangly plop. "So I have to write something about modern history for my Webzine group and I thought you could help."
“Help…or do it for you?”
Tiffa got the look that said she had damaged the delicate trust a mother needs to rebuild as her child becomes an adult. Backing off, she inquired, "And that topic is. ."
"Money and stuff. Like I know when you were growing up there were so many people starving and that the rich didn't seem to care. Some people had it all and wanted more. Some had barely anything. That's like totally gonzo. I need to interview three old-timers”—Watch your language, lady! Tiffa thought—“about why and how they think things turned around."
"Funny, I was just thinking about the changes. But why did they happen? That’s a great question. Tomorrow I might give a different answer, but today what occurs to me are three big trends: the Great Sorrow,”—Peri rolled her eyes; why does everything start with Great Sorrow stories?—“the Simplicity Pioneers, and the strange way e-commerce actually transformed the economy from a market for things to a market for needs.
"I saw your eyes, honey. I know you've heard about the Great Sorrow years. But if there's anything we learned, it's that wisdom comes from keeping our stories alive. That, and the Journey of the Eighteenth Year.”
“Do you think I’m not up to it?” Peri suddenly looked like a young colt, nostrils flared, a bit of wildness in her eyes. Tiffa knew bravado when she saw it. The Journey of the 18th Year was devastating for so many young people brought up since the Sorrow. As they visited the global sites of past ecocide and war, they pondered our blindness as a species and the darkness that could filter again into our midst.
“No, Pumpkin…I mean, Peri. I think you will come through it a wise woman. You will understand the Sorrow from inside. You know, anyone could have predicted it, and many did, even in the 20th century, but we didn't really know it was upon us until we were years into it. Everyone knows that the Great Sorrow came from the synergy of the crash of the global financial markets, the terrible die-off from AIDS and other antibiotic-resistant diseases, the flooding of coastal regions around the Earth, and the end of the fossil fuel era.
“My generation—into whose childhood was woven mourning for the loss of nature and culture—was so much more able to handle this era than our parents were. They'd grown up in the 1950s and ‘60s and believed in the economic boom, like previous generations had believed in a flat Earth. They kept thinking there was going to be a rally. We understood ecology and cycles and limits to growth. We knew that the economy existed within the natural world; they thought they'd transcended the laws of nature. They were like children, really. They just couldn't cope with it. It was so sad. They'd developed so many medicines for life extension but they just didn't want to live in a world that looked so diminished.
"So while the old-timers were partying themselves to death in Hawaii and OD-ing on everything they could find, we were prepared to hospice the death of the old mindset and midwife the new world that was being born. Within a decade, our numbers were decimated and a third of the species were destroyed.”
Against the will of the savvy adult she was cultivating, Peri had sunk into that quiet space of storytelling.
"Yet we survived, and for good reason. Your grandparents’ generation also had some shining lights. Like the Simplicity Pioneers. These were "my people." We started having congresses in 1999, I think. Give or take a few years. The whole movement was a loose-jointed, grassroots-y affair. People everywhere were hitting the same cultural lie—that more is better and it’s never enough. They were bone-tired, from overwork, overstimulation, overspending, and overconsumption of stuff they didn't need. It's like fifty million lonely, spent consumption junkies hit bottom in one decade and started seeking solutions. With some kind of ancient homing instinct for health, we turned from competitive consumption to the shelter of community. Study circles, conferences, chat rooms, church groups, books, journals, barter nets—you name it, we flocked to it. At first we only wanted to heal ourselves, but soon we saw that we couldn't be healed inside a sick system and on a dying world. We organized and got active, developing trade associations and activist pods and policy and research institutes and, of course, the PopEcon Pranksters, with our wicked street theater. There were some great leaders at that time—a whole group of them that seemed to instinctively know that they would all be stronger if they worked and played together. They were like a moral compass, pastors of the whole culture. I think that was the beginning of the end of the old days of the lone charismatic leader."
"Why would any one person want to be a lone leader? That's like so not natural."
"Surely they've taught you Western history, Peri! The whole saga is the story of just that struggle for dominance."
"Get fluid, Mom. The guys who played that game wrote your books. My books tell the story of the universe, not that penis-dueling junk. Maybe you think humans have changed since you were born. I just think the rule makers, the process guides, and the storytellers have changed, and”—Peri's eyes sparkled—“they tend to have vaginas."
Peri was right again. Tiffa felt old and rejuvenated both at once. Will the young people celebrate the die-off of her generation as holders of the old way of thinking, just as her cohorts secretly prayed for the boomers to be gone? Yet sitting with Peri and her many friends always gave Tiffa the tingle of youth, the desire to live forever and keep participating in the great unfolding mystery.
"To continue with my oh-so-antiquated interpretation of history. .” Tiffa said, feigning indignation. “With all that talk, action was bound to happen. Buy Nothing Day got bigger than Earth Day. A Million Meek March on
“Why doesn’t anything trans like that happen anymore?” Peri moaned.
“I thought the same thing about the 1960s when I was growing up in the ‘90s. Like I’d missed all the action. Your generation has big challenges ahead, Peri. I can see them coming. Despite the Journey of the 18th Year, people will forget the Sorrow. They will decide the World Wisdom Council is a bunch of reactionaries. Every generation has its revolution. Just watch the horizon. And maybe watch those young guys a little less…” Gaia, I sound like my mother, Tiffa thought. Age—who knew it would creep into my radical life?…
“Keep telling, Tiffa,” Peri demanded, mesmerized by the story and willing to overlook Tiffa’s slide into mothering.
“Two million people. .thirty cities simultaneously…never before. .never since. So many people and concerns that had been pushed to the margins in the quest for the material ‘more’ were pushing back together for a new set of values. We were speaking with one voice about the world we wanted and were creating, not just protesting the world that was being forced on us by large institutions. The labor movement joined, realizing that they could fight for shorter work time rather than higher wages. The tax shift folks joined, promoting their consumption tax/guaranteed minimum income/no subsidies for extractive industries package. Youth was there, with their message of ‘We want a world to grow up in.’ Kids. Toddlers. Heartbreaking. .and very media-genic. And, best of all, the poor were there in droves. They were marching for more libraries, computer centers, swimming pools, and free public transport in their neighborhoods. And right alongside the poor and homeless, the Millionaires for Justice marched. They were mostly in their twenties and thirties, people who'd made out like bandits on Wall Street—and knew how true that term really was. Call it guilt, call it giving back, they were advocating an end to corporate welfare and a voluntary lowering of CEO compensation.
“Representatives of NGOs from the two-thirds world came too, protesting the domination of commercial interests abroad. From that BND on, money as the sole measure of value had lost its stranglehold on the public psyche.
“The third fascinating occurrence was the surprising social renewal that evolved from e-commerce. It’s all so obvious to you, I’m sure, but it really was a revolution equal to, well, alt-fuel. It took hold just after women discovered that e-mail was a cheap, easy way to keep the family connected. Everyone and her grandma were online then, and e-commerce was an obvious next step. Cutting out several middlemen between producer and consumer lowered transportation costs and perhaps had something to do with the decrease in carbon emissions and global warming.”
“I cannot believe those old stories about doing errands in a car,” Peri chimed in, rolling her eyes with what she thought was a sophisticated flourish indicating disgust.
“Nor I, frankly! I think the next step was when somebody coined the term ‘be-commerce’—that whole service industry of coaches/salespeople. I love the way they not only help you figure out what product to buy and how to use the damn thing once you have it, but ask you whether there might be nonmaterial ways to fill your needs better than getting more stuff. Once be-commerce caught on—and it wasn't cheap back then, but the triple savings of buying less, buying cheaper, and liberating shopping time offset the cost—other specialized type of transactions surfaced.
“‘We-commerce’ became the new name for public spending. People thought afresh about what they wanted to own personally and what they wanted to borrow from a community source.”
“Like transportation,” Peri offered. “I can’t imagine everyone wanting a private car, when a little intelligence and a few taxes so easily created the mobility system that we have today. I mean, how could people be so solid, so, like, 2020?”
Tiffa silently voiced the mother’s prayer of hope: May she have a daughter just like her. But what she said was, “It is strange what a name will do. The ideas had been around for years, but calling it we-commerce captured the entrepreneurial spirit of the times. Libraries became we-commerce in books; the vidi-wall became we-commerce in entertainment, and fees for cable television disappeared. Suddenly, we were thinking about the kind of world we wanted for everyone and looking for we-commerce solutions rather than government regulation or private consumption. It was easy—once we could see it. And cheaper. So American.
“Then there were the Simplicity Pioneers, who started pushing nonmonetary ‘you-and-me-commerce’—the barter nets that became the s-n-s system today. It was such a no-brainer to realize that none of us use all our possessions all the time. Sharing brought our costs of living down dramatically—and brought back good old-fashioned neighborliness. The you-and-me-commerce folks eventually grew beyond barter to all sorts of consumer-owned buying clubs. Neighborhoods organized and partnered with organic farms. A group of my girlfriends designed a kind of tunic that we thought would be cool to wear and partnered with an immigrant women's sewing club to produce them.”
“What I love, though,” Peri said, “is the see-commerce. I’m glad someone figured out that getting out is fun. For me, see-commerce in mall showrooms is more about seeing my friends than seeing stuff I might want to buy on the Web. I mean, once I’ve played with the latest techno toys at the mall, I just don’t want to spend my e-script on it.”
“I guess mall showrooms are like window-shopping down on old-time
“I just realized that e-commerce used to only mean ‘electronic.’ My oh my, times really have changed. You take enviro-commerce for granted, but back in the beginning, there were no ecological screens for products. People had no way to know the cost to the Earth of what they were buying. So much has changed!
“Gaia, we were so worried in the early days that the Internet was going to be one more tool of the commercial devil, but look how inventive and playful we became. For all our activism, for all our protest, I don't think we ever thought that commerce itself could be a force for healing.
"Peri, I think it all comes down to good people living in elegant human systems that enhance the big system—the living system that includes us all. Frankly, I'm damn proud of this little species we have here. We've gone through such a terrible time, but look what we've learned and invented. Look how we've grown.”
Peri started going solid, braced for a lecture about the bad old days—but it didn't come.
“In a way, honey, you are a celebration for me of all that is good about being human and being alive in the universe. During the Great Sorrow, no one wanted children. After the Sorrow, those of us who made it through knew we had to reproduce very carefully to survive in a world where ten million other very precious species shared the world's natural wealth. Having you was my way of saying, ‘The tide has turned.’”
Peri had gotten more than a Webzine story. She’d gotten to bask in the attention and intelligence of the woman who, truth be told, she most admired. Tiffa, normally not very demonstrative, hugged Peri and cried. Peri, normally not very tolerant of mushy emotions, cried too. Then her communicator beeped. It was 3 o’clock—time for her online chat with her three best fillies. Not that Tiffa wasn't like a filly too, but after all, she was kind of prehistoric.
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