Things to Think

Things to Think

Think in ways you've never thought before.
If the phone rings, think of it as carrying a message
Larger than anything you've ever heard,
Vaster than a hundred lines of Yeats.

Think that someone may bring a bear to your door,
Maybe wounded and deranged; or think that a moose
Has risen out of the lake, and he's carrying on his antlers
A child of your own whom you've never seen.

When someone knocks on the door,
Think that he's about
To give you something large: tell you you're forgiven,
Or that it's not necessary to work all the time,
Or that it's been decided that if you lie down no one will die.

~ Robert Bly ~

(Morning Poems)

Deathlight

"Death is no more than passing from one room into another. But there's a difference for me, you know. Because in that other room I shall be able to see." -Helen Keller

Father Remembered

We are midway between two dates related to my father. One-hundred-one years ago, he was born, August 7, 1907, in the midst of the Osage Nation, in what was known as Indian Territory, soon to become a part of the new state of Oklahoma. Ten years ago, at the age of 91, he died, August 21, 1998, here in Columbus, Ohio.

I remember these simple facts each year. In part, to gentle myself. In part, to give honor and express gratitude for his life.

He accomplished much throughout his life. The Encyclopedia of Cleveland History has this entry regarding him:

SPARLIN, ESTAL EARNEST (7 Aug. 1907 - 21 Aug. 1998) was the director of the CITIZENS LEAGUE OF GREATER CLEVELAND and a lifelong advocate for good government. He was born in Osage County, Indian territory, in Oklahoma to "Burthie" (Ryan) and Oscar Sparlin and graduated from Ponca City High School. Sparlin worked as a paperboy and linotype operator at the Ponca City News. From 1928-1935 he worked at the Columbia Tribune while he attended University of Missouri, where he received his bachelors and master's degrees. He received a doctorate in political science there in 1936. Following his graduation, Sparlin taught at the University of Missouri and at the University of Arkansas. He also worked for the Arkansas government and as a legislative analyst for the Missouri General Assembly. Prior to coming to Cleveland, Sparlin was the assistant director of the Governmental Research Institute in St. Louis. In 1953 he became the director of the Governmental Research Institute and Citizens League in Cleveland. He retired in 1975 but was named acting director of the CLEVELAND COMMISSION ON HIGHER EDUCATION that year and continued attending public meetings at City Hall until the mid-1980s to serve as a watchdog on behalf of his fellow citizens.

As leader of the non-partisan Citizens League, Sparlin researched the credentials of candidates for public office, then published the league's views of their qualifications to assist voters. He also provided explanations for voters of the intricacies of tax levies and bond issues. Sparlin fought for the reduction of Cleveland's wards from 33 to 21, helped prevent the expansion of the Port Authority Board to more than nine members, and assisted in gaining approval for Sunday liquor sales to enhance convention business and produce additional revenue. In 1978 he was named citizen of the year by the CLEVELAND AREA BOARD OF REALTORS for his role in the adoption of Ohio's ethics law, for bringing voting machines to Cuyahoga County, and for doubling the Citizens League's membership. In addition to his duties at the Citizens League, Sparlin was an active member of the City Club and Rotary.

Sparlin married Harriet (Tripp) in 1928 in Ponca City, Oklahoma and together they had five children: Denise (Gilgen), David, Derry, Dale, and Dan. Sparlin passed away at the Mayfair Village nursing home in Columbus and his ashes were scattered in Osage County, OK.

I accompanied him during the last three-and-a-half years of his life, when he lived near me at Mayfair Village. Throughout that period, I shared time with him virtually every day, with the exception of brief periods when I was away for trips or conferences.

I was with him throughout the night before he died just before dawn, the morning of August 21, as he took his final breath, and as his spirit hovered at the head of the bed for a period. So there is much to remember.

You can surmise from my previous entry on spirit and breath, how deeply meaningful those moments were for me, that final ruach. There is something to add, though, and that is to remind us all that what we call the final breath is nothing we can know in the moment, much less ahead of time. For it is not until the following moment, the moment of the next breath, the breath that does not come, when we learn of the finality of the previous breath.

There was a gathering a few days later at a rickety, rusty, abandoned bridge across Salt Creek, where it flows around Fairfax, Oklahoma, near where my father was born. He grew up playing in this creek. And so it was here that my daughter Sharon and brother David, and many of his family, gathered to cast Dad's ashes into the waters.

On that hot, humid day, much of the fine dust hovered in clouds in the summer air, gathering on the cottonwood leaves overhanging the creek, to be washed into the waters when the next rain came. Some will have been absorbed by the leaves, to await the moment when the leaves fell to the waters below, canoeing their way along the creek's surface for a period. Some will have sunk gently to the bottom of the creek to join the sand and rocks, lurking there still to this day. Some will have been taken in as life-sustaining drink by fish and turtles, raccoons and coyotes. Some will have flowed with Salt Creek as it wended its way to the Ar-kan-sas River, to the Mississippi and into the Gulf of Mexico, joining the continuous, labyrinthine currents of the great waters of Earth.

Alas, these are memories. And, like many others, they evaporate out of the vast oceans of memories, ascending into the skies, gathering in ever-increasing droplets, falling to Earth as rain, once again offering refreshment and sustenance before moving on in the ever-renewing cycle of memories.

So it is that in these days each year I remember the birth and death of my father, giving him the honor due his name, and singing a song of gratitude for his life, and for all the life he engendered. Aho.

Turtle and Moon

A friend asked about Moontime the other day.

On the way to my friend's cabin in the hills of southern Ohio, very near Serpent Mound, I nearly ran over a turtle sunning at the side of the road. I am reminded that turtles have been here well over 200 million years old, older than lizards and snakes! Many turtle species--particularly those widespread in North America--are walking Thirteen Moons calendars, with their carapaces of 13 platelets, from which so many Indigenous etiology tales have been spun.

There is a wondrous labyrinth/maze in Inniswood Garden near where I live that recalls one of the common Native American (Iroquois/Haudenosaunee) creation myths about Sky Woman, in which turtle plays his traditional role as Turtle Island. The maze/labyrinth is created by carved flat stones set in the ground, each containing a bit of the tale, until you eventually end up at a magnificent statue of Sky Woman. It's deeply moving to "walk" this tale. I've pasted it below; you'll note that the myth continues on with Sky Woman bearing two children (origin of good/evil).

But Turtle is at the root of it all. Thus, all is embedded in Moon Time.

Before our world came into being, human beings lived in the SkyWorld. Below the SkyWorld was a dark watery world with birds and animals swimming around. In the SkyWorld was the Celestial Tree from which all kinds of fruits and flowers grew. Today, the Shad tree is known as the Celestial Tree because it is the first flowering tree in the northeast in the springtime.

The wife of the Chief of the SkyWorld was called Skywoman. One night, Skywoman who was expecting a baby, had a dream in which the Celestial Tree was uprooted. When she told her husband the dream he realized that it was a very powerful message and that the people of the SkyWorld needed to do everything they could to make it come to pass.

Many of the young men in the SkyWorld tried with all their might to uproot the tree, but failed. Finally the Chief of the SkyWorld wrapped his arms around the tree and with one great effort he uprooted it. This left a great hole in the crust of the SkyWorld. Skywoman leaned over to look into the hole, lost her balance and fell into the hole. As she slipped she was able to grasp a handful of seeds from the branches of the Celestial Tree.

As Skywoman fell, the birds and animals in the water below saw her and decided that she would need help so that she would not be harmed. Geese flew up and caught her between their wings and began to lower her down toward the water. The animals saw that Skywoman was not like them and would not be able to survive in the water.

Each of the animals dove into the water trying to bring up earth from the bottom for Skywoman to land on. Many animals tried and failed. When it seemed like all had tried and failed, tiny muskrat vowed to bring up earth or die trying. She went down, deep, deep, deep, until she was almost unconscious, but was able to reach out with one small paw and grasped some earth before floating back to the top. When muskrat appeared with the Earth, the Great Turtle said it could be placed on his back. When the tiny bit of earth was placed on Turtle's back, it began to grow larger and larger until it became the whole world.

The geese gently set Skywoman on the earth and she opened her hands to let the seeds fall on the soil. From the seeds grew the trees and grass and life on Earth had begun.

In time, Skywoman gave birth to a daughter, Tekawerahkwa, who grew to be a lovely young woman. A powerful being called West Wind fell in love with Tekawerahkwa and took her as his bride. In time she became pregnant with twin sons. Tekawerahkwa's sons were very different; one (Bad Mind) had skin as hard as flint and was argumentative and the other (Good Mind) was soft skinned and patient. Flint was impatient to be born and decided to use his sharp flint-like head to cut his way out of his mother's body. While his gentle brother was being born the natural way, Bad Mind was forcing his way through his mother's armpit which killed her. When Skywoman saw the lifeless body of her beautiful daughter she was terribly angry. She asked her grandsons who had done this awful thing and Bad Mind lied and placed the blame on his good brother, Good Mind. Skywoman believed him and banished Good Mind. Fortunately, Grandfather was watching Good Mind and came to his aid. Grandfather taught Good Mind all he needed to know about surviving on the earth and set him to work making the land beautiful.


Skywoman placed the head of her daughter in the night sky where she became Grandmother Moon and was given power over the waters. From her body grew our Three Sisters, corn, beans, and squash.

Good Mind made all the beauty on our earth - he created the rivers , the mountains, the trees. He taught the birds to sing and the water animals to dance. He made rainbows and soft rains. Bad Mind watched his brother creating beauty and was envious. He set out to create the opposite of all the good his brother had made. He put dangerous rapids in the rivers, created destructive hurricanes and powerful tornadoes. When Good Mind planted medicinal plants, Bad Mind planted poisonous roots and deadly berries.

One day, while Good Mind was away creating more things of beauty, Bad Mind stole all the animals and hid them in a big cave. When Good Mind returned to find that all of his creatures were gone he was very sad. A tiny mouse told him what his brother had done, so Good Mind went to the cave and caused the mountain to shake until it split so that the animals could emerge. Good Mind was very angry with his brother and they fought. Bad Mind used an arrow and Good Mind used a deer antler as weapons. When Good Mind struck Bad Mind with the deer antler it caused flint chips to fall from his body. Their battle raged for many days and finally Good Mind won. He banished Bad Mind to live in caves beneath the earth where he waits to return to the surface.

I never tire of celebrating synchronicities. This morning, after composing my message last night about Turtle and Moon, I was reading in Louise Erdrich's Books and Islands in Ojibwe Country. You may well be familiar with Louise Erdrich as an Ojibwe/German writer. I have eaten up her novels, the most recent (2008) being The Plague of Doves. This book, Books and Islands, is a narrative of her wanderings through Ojibwe country in northern Minnesota/southern Ontario, around the Lake of the Woods.

The synchronicity involves a major rock there, bearing petroglyphs a thousand years or more in age, showing history, culture, instructions (on how to travel from this world to the next, for instance), and myths of the early Ojibwe. Prominent among the painted images (they used paint made from Earth elements--it lasts!) is that of Mikinaak (Turtle). She declares, "The rock paintings are alive." Having climbed to the paintings, and leaving handfuls of tobacco, she writes:

"The mikinaak has immense significance in Ojibwe life. As there are thirteen plates in its back, it is associated with the thirteen moons in the yearly cycle, and also with women. It was women...who were responsible for beginning Ojibwe mathematical calculations. They began because they had to be concerned with their own cycles, had to count the days so that they would know when they would be fertile. They had to keep close track of the moon, and had to relate it to their bodies in order to predict the births of their children. And they had to be accurate, so that they could adequately prepare. In a harsh Ojibwe winter, giving birth in an unprotected spot could be lethal. Women had to prepare to be near relatives and other knowledgeable women. Mathematics wasn't abstract. It was intimate. Dividing and multiplying and factoring were concerns of the body, and of survival."

Aho.

This, from a 49-year old woman, traversing the lake country by canoe and small boat, with a still-nursing 18-month old daughter at her breast. Concerning which, she writes:

"Sometimes I look at men, at the way most of them move so freely in the world, without a baby attached, and it seems to me very strange. Sometimes it is enviable. Mostly, it is not. For at night, as she curls up or sprawls next to me and as I fall asleep, I hold onto her foot. This is as much for my comfort as to make sure that she doesn't fall off the bed. As I'm drifting away, I feel sorry for anyone else who is not falling asleep this way, holding onto her baby's foot. The world is calm and clear. I wish for nothing. I am not nervous about the future. Her toes curl around my fingers. I could even stop writing books."

I'll stop now, before I start quoting prodigious amounts of her writing!

Blessings on this day, in the Maya calendar, of Uc Kan (7 Seed). A day carrying the vibrational energy of Seven (harmony, resonance, mystical seer into other dimensions), and of Seed (connection with outdoors and nature, gatherer of abundance).

Elder Wisdom

Today's Elder Wisdom is from the wondrous Native American writer, Linda Hogan--with a one-paragraph commentary from Whitebison:

Elder's Meditation of the Day - August 4
"Telling our lives is important for those who come after us, for those who will see our experience as part of their own historical struggle."
--Linda Hogan, CHICKASAW
How important it is for us to support one another. How important it is for us to know our culture and to share our experiences with one another. How powerful it is to be authentic. How important it is to hold no secrets. I am as sick as my secrets.

And so it is, that blogging is walking along the path where telling our life story, fully connected with Earth energy, is so natural. And so whole-making.

Creative Breath

I've been reading a remarkable book, The Zen of Creativity, by John Daido Loori, a Zen monk, founder of Zen Mountain Monastery in upstate New York. I'll post an excerpt at the end of this entry.

There is a remarkable connection with a garden created by my friend Mark, a Native American shaman. He has been intentional in bringing the Directions together in his garden.

There is a stream of water, labyrinthine in its wanderings, alive with emerging frogs. There is bamboo--multiple species--bringing refreshment and revitalization with abundant gifts of life-sustaining oxygen. There are Japanese lanterns that filter flickering flames of gentle light. And a seated Buddha, holding in his folded hands a stone from the high bluffs above the upper Mississippi where ancient Natives built countless ceremonial bear effigy mounds. All is alive; all in motion. Even the stones of the waterstream and the gathered puddles of water.

I love sitting there as Mark plays his Maya clay flute, the waters flowing, the birds, insects, and animals all in concert. And here is where John Daido Loori's writing intersects. The passage from Loori's book speaks of a player of the ancient traditional bamboo flute, the shakuhachi.

Two things strike me especially. One is that the flute being played is rough, barely finished, the bamboo still near its raw state, whereas the traditional shakuhachi is highly refined.

The other is that it is not the flute making the music, rather, the breath.

Not the material, rather, the spiritual.

Ruach is the Hebrew word for it. Ruach means breath, Spirit. The root of the word is related to voice, thunder and wind. Ruach is the creative activity of the Divine, who breathed or spoke or sang creation into being. “The Spirit of God hath made me, and the breath of the Almighty hath given me life.” (Job 33:4) Both words, "Spirit" and "breath," are translations of the Hebrew ruach.

Another thing I hear here, is that the ascending consciousness which the Maya calendar reveals, is something that has been evolving for centuries among the Zen Buddhists.

Again, I am aware of the Eagle (North) and the Condor (South), the Buddha (East) and the Christ (West), coming together from the four sacred directions in this garden. Mark, then, and those whom he invites to stand with him, stand in the vortex of the completing directions: Above, Below, the Center Within.

To many, it will be apparent that not only are the Seven Directions present, but so also are the Elements of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. As well as Metal.

Aho.

------------

When Watazumi Doso came to visit Zen Mountain Monastery, I gave him a tour of the grounds. We came upon a plumber who was working on our new bathhouse. Cast-iron piping lay outside the building. Doso playfully picked up a three-foot-long piece and began to play it as though it was a shakuhachi flute. Although the pipe had no holes in it, he was able to create a surprisingly wide range of sounds and a haunting melody.

Doso gave a concert at the Zen Center of Los Angeles and soon after the performance started, an LAPD helicopter flew into the area and hovered overhead. TUM! TUM! TUM! TUM! Doso's flute immediately picked up the rhythm and developed a counterpoint. An infant cried. Doso's flute responded. A car drove by at high speed. The flute whizzed with it. Doso's concert included the totality of all the sounds that were happening around us. He blended, merged, answered everything he heard, incorporating it into his experience and expression, rather than being distracted by it.

The ability to be free in his music was the result of Doso's life-long, unrelenting commitment to the discipline of the breath. He actually wasn't very interested in the shakuhachi as a musical instrument. He called his flute suijo, which loosely translates as "concentrated breathing tool." Doso saw himself not so much as a musician or entertainer, but as one who is totally devoted to developing his life force--chi--by utilizing and strengthening his breath. The bamboo flute was simply a tool for that practice. He said once, "Since I must have some way of knowing how my breath is doing, I blow into a piece of bamboo and hear how it sounds."

Doso didn't use the highly polished lacquered and well-tuned flutes that were common in the Japanese shakuhachi tradition. His flute was much less processed and far closer to its natural state. The inside of the section he used still revealed the bamboo guts. Most people, even experienced masters, considered that kind of instrument unplayable. Doso's music proved that wrong. His playing always touched the very core of one's being. Sometimes the sound had a tremendous strength, like the driving force of a cascading waterfall. Sometimes it roared like thunder. At other times it was gentle and sweet like birdsong at sunrise. It always seemed to reach me, but not through my ears: It entered my body through the base of my spine, moved upward, and spread through my being.

The Zen of Creativity: Cultivating Your Artistic Life. John Daido Loori. New York:Ballantine Books. 2004. pp. 172-173

Welcome

Welcome to my first blog entry, prompted by my persuasive niece, whose engaging blog you can find at www.rivergarth.blogspot.com.

Areas of deep interest include the Maya calendar, labyrinths, mandalas, crop circles, Native American spirituality and culture, nature and ecology, music of many varieties (classical, sacred, ethnic, folk, jazz), literature and poetry, and cats.

Though it may be awhile before images begin to appear here, I want you to know that I live with Rumi and Nefertiti. Rumi is black from nose to tail, and is jaguar sleek. He is a Healer, and in due course I'm sure to relate stories of his healing powers. Nefertiti is tortoise-shelled, and gorgeous. A craftsperson I once knew wanted to take Nefertiti home to model for a quilt she was designing, so beautiful are Nefertiti's colors.