Shared Transformation
Mending the Hoop
Grandfather, Look at our brokenness. We know that in all creation Only the human family Has strayed from the Sacred
Way. We know that we are the ones Who are divided And we are the ones Who must come back together To walk in the
Sacred Way.
-- Ojibway prayer
Animals, like small children, can be astonishing in their awareness. Koko, the mountain gorilla who was taught
to communicate through sign language, demonstrated a far greater range of intelligence and creativity than had
previously been assumed possible for her species. When research assistant Maureen Sheehan asked her how gorillas
differed from humans, Koko thumped her head, indicating a difference in skull shape. Then she signed for "blanket"
and indicated the hair on her belly -- gorillas are covered in a blanket of hair, unlike their human counterparts.
Asked how humans and gorillas were alike, she signed for eyes. Yes, the Sheehan responded, humans and gorillas
both have eyes. In what other way are we alike? Koko signed, "Love." (from Intimate Nature)
Koko knew with certainty that the capacity for love transcends creature boundaries. Unfortunately, huge portions of our human populace have not been as quick as Koko to understand this.
For this reason, of all the articles I have written for Shared Transformation, this one is hardest. My grief for the abuses heaped on the all the creatures of this earth runs deeper than I can say. I have always been passionately in love with the natural world -- with its animals, plants, trees, flowers, boulders, streams, sun and sky. Nature has been for me the most immediate and accessible presence of the sacred, the place where my soul soared and my heart overflowed. I was greatly blessed early in my life to have lived in areas where I could go off by myself into the woods. This and occasional trips to the ocean were the greatest joys of my childhood. But all this came to an abrupt end in my 12th year when my father's salesman job (which had always kept us on the move from home to home) stationed our family in neighborhoods which to me were suburban wastelands. In my adult life, I have had little opportunity to visit the wilds or perhaps more honestly, I did not seek opportunities. Nature had been far more than a source of enjoyment for me; it was Spirit incarnate and an infinite source of beauty, majesty, wonder, delight. The searing grief of my childhood loss left me in a state of lasting numbness. I continued to nurture a menagerie of pets and plants, but my original connection, once broken, was never restored to its innocently ecstatic form.
I think my personal saga has been a private parallel to the global disconnection between humans and nature. The loss has been indescribably immense. In the name of science, progress, cultural and human superiority, land development, corporate profit and even religion, we have denied the holiness of all living things and have desecrated the earth. We have cut ourselves off from joyous spiritual community with our brethren beings, depriving ourselves of their company, their teachings and their love.
After living so long in both inner and outer violation of nature, the human race is beginning to awaken from the myth of separation. The Earth herself is awakening us, beckoning to us through her bounty and beauty and alerting us through disasters. The plants and animals are calling to us in our visions, in our dreams, in unexpected encounters in the flesh. They are asking for our cooperation in repairing the damage we have done, and they are showing us how to re-enter the hoop of unity and harmony between all conscious beings. They are volunteering their aid to us and are even willing to sacrifice themselves for the sake of all life's continuance. We must take care not to reduce animals to merely metaphysical symbols. The spirit/ally animals that come to assist us need to be honored on the earth as well as the ethereal plane. The night after deciding to make a monetary contribution to a foundation devoted to saving the tiger from extinction, a tiger appeared to me in a dream, as had happened many times before, but this time she was accompanied by three cubs. If we do not help our endangered allies in their earthly struggles for survival, they will no longer be able to help us either. The golden rule of spiritual relationship is reciprocity. We need to give in order to receive, and vice versa. The day after the tiger appeared with her cubs in my dream, I was paid an unusual visit from the Goddess. I noticed an ant creeping along a cabinet top where we keep newspapers and magazines. It was carrying something very curious in its mouth -- possibly a strand of plant fiber or an insect's leg. What made this extraordinary was that the strand was bent so as to form a perfectly enclosed, unilateral triangle! After carrying its strange cargo halfway across the cover of a copy of The Bay Guardian, the ant deposited the triangle smack on the "G" of the word "Guardian" and walked off.
The triangle originally signified the triple Goddess (in her cyclic forms of maiden, matron and crone). In ancient Egypt, the triangle stood for the female principle, motherhood and the moon. Aborigines worshipped the Goddess as Kunapippi (Kundalini!) in a triangular dancing area. The Goddess, in all cultures who revere her, is considered the guardian of life. The ant had presented me with the Great Mother's calling card! I did not know what to make of this, but I suspect it was a message of encouragement and approval, as though to say, "Continue on this path of helping my earthly children." Until we re-establish our sacred relationships with the rest of the life forms here, we risk losing them altogether. This will result in disaster for our own species, but it is not only the shape of things to come which should concern us. Respectful communication with other living beings is essential for our present wellbeing, physically and spiritually. The Aborigines call the soul-to-soul interplay of information between conscious beings "the dreaming." An Aborigine elder has warned: "Unless whiteman learns to enter the dreaming of the countryside, the plants, and animals before he uses or eats them, he will become sick and insane and destroy himself." (from Voices of the First Day)
Plants and animals can read our minds and our hearts, even from a great distance. Alice Walker tells of how animals came to thank her after she had spoken to audiences about treating them with decency and kindness. In an article she'd written, she described her remorse over having killed a snake. For a year thereafter, the acreage around her country home "crawled with snakes" of many varieties. After she had written a similar essay defending the rights of horses, several horses showed up on her property, making what sounded to her like "joyful noises" when they saw her. She came to realize the snakes and horses knew what she had done and had come to pay her tribute. It was the same with the plant world. She noticed that after praising the wildflowers growing on the hill near her house, the following year they doubled "in profusion and brilliance." (from Intimate Nature)
From the beginning of human history, certain species of animals have always served as teachers, healers and helpers for humans. Chickasaw poet Linda Hogan tells of the case of Lucy Swan, a Lakota woman who was kidnapped as a child and taken to Canada. "She escaped and was led home by a coyote, who then told her always to be kind to the coyotes, to make sure that they, its own people, had food." (from Intimate Nature) Animals are wonderful at demonstrating interdependent living. The animal kingdoms show far more balance in this than we do, and in the wild, elephants, dolphins and whales all demonstrate amazing cooperation and willingness to aid others when needed. With dolphins as with many humans, this loving concern can cut across species lines. A wonderful account of this is given in Other Ways of Knowing by John Broomfield, who lives in a New Zealand wilderness area. He regularly offers food to the native weka, flightless birds about the size of chickens which he says are "feisty, companionable and very intelligent." In Broomfield's efforts to clean up old plastic cartons, milk containers, and other bits of refuge discarded by former owners of his property, the weka took it upon themselves to assist him, occasionally pecking loudly on rubbish hidden in the underbrush to help him in his search. "Most touching of all," says Broomfield, "was the gift of a plastic bottle stopper dropped at my feet by a weka as I was chopping wood one day."
Plants also try to help us. I once had an aloe vera plant (prized by herbalists for its healing properties) which sacrificed itself to restore peace between my daughter and I. A teenager at the time, she and I had been having an argument in our kitchen which had escalated to a shouting match. I rarely yell at anyone but this time I'd been pushed past my edge. All of a sudden, the aloe vera plant, which had been stationed atop the refrigerator, literally leapt out of its pot and seemed to deliberately dive into the wastebasket below. The pot had not fallen over; it remained upright and undisturbed. This incident was so startling, my daughter and I fell into a stunned silence. I later tried to revive the aloe vera plant by repotting it, to no avail. It had not looked in any way unhealthy prior to its "suicide," but died very quickly afterwards.
I have witnessed other cases where plants and animals gave their lives to bring about peace or spare someone pain. Once, when my mother-in-law was doing very poorly after suffering an embolism in her lung, I noticed that one of my plants was dying. Although I cherish my plants, something made me sense that this particular plant needed to die. I realized the plant was trying to offer itself to Death in my mother-in-law's place. Shamans believe that Death never goes away empty-handed, but it will sometimes accept a surrogate life. Within days, it had died, and in the same time span, my mother-in-law's health rallied. I question whether it is right to trade an animal's or plant's life for a human's (although this is in fact what we do when we eat food). Yet these seemingly voluntary sacrifices leave me wonderstruck by the depth of love our animal and plant friends must feel for us. It also convinces me, as the Native American tradition holds, that plants, animals and minerals are more, not less, spiritually advanced than we are. One afternoon when sitting on our back porch, a hawk swooped down and perched on a tree stump in the garden. We had seen hawks soaring high overhead each summer, but never before had we witnessed one at such close range. Hawks rarely dally so close to the ground, nor in such proximity to humans.
The hawk was clearly aware of us and in fact was staring at us intently. I began making friendly chirping noises, as if it were any other bird (many of which grace our garden). To my great surprise, it answered me. We continued our "conversation" for several minutes, with me voicing a poor imitation of the hawk's sharp retorts. Then the immensity of the situation struck me. This was not the usual sparrow or finch; it was a rare and regale visitation! As I realized this, the hawk shot into the air and sped directly toward us, veering upward at the last moment to clear the porch and sail over the roof into the heavens.
For years afterward, I pondered what it might have meant. Now I suspect it was both a blessing and an examination: the hawk sensed that the two humans on the porch were beginning to remember. It dropped by to check on our development, to see if we were ready to connect. My silly chirping showed promise, but clearly I was not ready to partake of communion with hawk people in an intelligent manner. Yet we knew we were in the company of a great elder being, and in our flash of recognition the hawk had come streaking toward us in an unmistakable salute.
Spiritual relationships between humans and animals are not rare occurrences, says Linda Hogan. They are "not
the product of undeveloped minds, but have come from centuries of intimate experience between the animals and humans."
In the tales that demonstrate bonds between humans and other species, "we see stories of a primary radiance,"
Hogan tells us: "They keep clear a relationship that is both ancient and practical. They are stories of a
world of unending relationship and this is the very essence of creation and life."
-- El Collie
Intimate Nature: The Bond Between Women and Animals, Edited by Linda Hogan, Deena Metzger, and Brenda Peterson,
Fawcett Columbine (The Ballantine Publishing Group), 1998. ISBN 0-449-91122-5
This anthology of women's stories, essays and poetry about the vital link between humans and all of earth's other
creatures is breathtaking and heartwrenching. As the introduction states, the future of the world "depends
upon reaching out beyond our own species' estrangement and loneliness to connect with the physical presences in
the world around us." As Deena Metger remarks, "A change of consciousness is taking hold in our culture,
sustained to a great extent by the insights of indigenous peoples." The quality of writing in these selections
is so soulful it’s a wonder the book doesn't levitate off the shelf. Yet these stories are not simply sentimental
or lofty; they are a cry for the sanctity and continuation of life. Breaking through cultural preconceptions about
animals of all kinds, at their core, these are powerful love stories. As Gillian Van Houten wrote of Shingi, the
lioness she had raised from a cub, "...I came to a fundamental realization: This encounter with Shingi was
not about rescuing her or saving her life or even about her successful reintroduction to the wild. It was about
our relationship, about what happened between us in the time that we shared our lives and what we could learn from
each other." In the deepest sense, our relationships with animals are spiritual covenants which open us to
what is most real in life. "Animals hold us to what is present: to who we are at the time, not to who we've
been or how our bank accounts describe us," says Gretel Ehrlich. "What is obvious to an animal is not
the embellishment that fattens our emotional resumes but what's bedrock and current in us: aggression, fear, insecurity,
happiness, or equanimity. Because they have the ability to read our involuntary tics and scents, we're transparent
to them and thus exposed -- we're finally ourselves."
Other Ways of Knowing is a passionate testimony to the grandeur of life, and a vote of confidence in
the potential of human consciousness. We're all in this together, as Broomfield says, "to piece together
a wise and joyful way of being in the world."
The history of humanity is not something "back there" like an interesting antique. It is the foundation of our present existence, and only by becoming aware of our collective and personal roots can be begin to heal ourselves and live as fully conscious beings. For those of us struggling to snap out of the spell of social programming, this book, like the others in this review, is mental CPR. Lawlor gives us a privileged glimpse into one of the most spiritually radiant, socially successful and physically healthy lifestyles in human history. Like native peoples of the Americas and Africa, the original Aborigines lived in harmony with nature. The depiction of their lifestyle as one of harsh survival in merciless desert terrain is false. Far from having a subsistence lifestyle, these deeply spiritual people had a bountiful existence with plenty of time to spend each day in sacred dance and ritual. In the two to three hours required daily for hunting and gathering, Lawlor says that they were able to procure "a more balanced, varied, and nutritious diet than agricultural societies have ever achieved." Lawlor also traces humanity through its decline from the last Golden Age to our current Dark Age -- what the Hindus call the Kali Yuga -- in a way that is nothing short of revelationary. Lawlor's depiction of our species' fall from grace is as painful to read as it has been for me to confront my personal past traumas. Yet without an understanding of what we have been through and why things went wrong for us, we cannot help but continue on in the same old dysfunctional patterns.
Lawlor tells of the Aborigine belief that "every meaningful activity, event or life process that occurs at a particular place leaves behind a vibrational residue in the earth," which they refer to as jiva or guruwari, a "seed power." Because of this, they believe that "the spirit of their consciousness and way of life exists like a seed buried in the earth." It seems dead, but it is still there, waiting for the right conditions to germinate. Says Lawlor: "There is an interim between the end of a seed's dormancy and the moment when the seedling bursts into the light.” Some of us feel homesick for cultures we never knew in this lifetime, but which resonate with sweet familiarity in our souls. The more accounts I read of indigenous cultures, the more I find validation for ways of being, perceiving, and relating to life which from earliest childhood seemed real to me but which were considered impossible, impractical or wrong by modern standards. Perhaps those of us who have felt this way have incarnated in this time and place to help breathe life back into those dormant seeds.
It seems unlikely that we will ever return to the innocence and purity of the Aboriginal way, but we need to learn what we can from them so we might integrate their wisdom with our current practices and restore our sacred connection with life. Lawlor quotes from the T.S. Eliot poem to make this point:
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
-- El Collie
© El Collie 1995