Bluebirds

I walk out into the bright day, where tiny birds startle, and twitter, beginning their morning songs. I walk amongst the piñons and scrub oak. Among junipers with tiny blue grey berries and shaggy barks. Surrounded by the elders of tall ponderosas with their thick, scabous bark to protect against beetles and weather. And then, a Stellars Jay couple, the male with a cobalt blue suit, his spouse a dustier, dun version, soar and dip. They come to rest on the Piñon, their heads cocked to listen. She is at the very tippy top of the tree. While her husband settles on a branch as close as he can get, to size me up. Alert and intelligent, they attune themselves to my actions and words. I am enchanted by their simple glory and single minded focus. I do not feel like an intruder, only a participant in this web of life here in the forest. I pay attention.

It is 9am. I sit here on a Sunday morning with my tuxedo kitty on my lap, my feet propped up to the oven of snapping embers from the early dawn fire I built. I sip my cacao. We are all content for this moment.

It isn’t lost on me, that in these times, we must pay attention to our contentment, my friends. Simple things are the best. Sitting in deep gratitude for the small, but daily joys. This is necessary soul medicine. These times are not for the labile souls who buckle and collapse under the pressure from without. No, like diamonds, we must withstand the intensity of the external heat, and see how it is forging and refining us for the Great Turning or the Great Unraveling and the Work that Reconnects (Joanna Macy). This is our time to shine as we root down, down, down into the stable work of Loving.

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—

equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.

Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me

keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be

astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium.

The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

that we live forever. (Mary Oliver)

We must tend our souls fiercely, and guard them against the ugliness, pettiness and intentions of violence and despair. Soul force is the only thing that will prevail. We are building a new world, and it won’t come without hard labor.

In a recent blog post by Starhawk, she talks about power from within, vs. power over—the latter of which we are very familiar with in the political world. This country was built upon power over black and brown people and power over the earth—as the founders raped, pillaged, exploited and extracted from her bowels.

We are now poised again to choose people power—standing with one another. Starhawk reminds me of this power. I am buoyed by her words and the memory of centuries of ancestors who have gone before with soul force, satyagraha, and power with—in all cultures at all times. We are the the ancestors of future beings. How will we show up?

But there is another kind of power, that kind of power I call power from within: spiritual power, moral courage, creativity, skill and ability. The word ‘power’ comes from the Latin potere, related to potency and potential, to our ability to do, to think, to envision and imagine, to speak our truth. That kind of power is unlimited. If I have the power to write, that doesn’t take away your power to do the same, or to create in some other way.  It might even inspire you.  No one can take this kind of power away from us, and we always have it available.

In the meantime, I don’t need to rehearse the brutalizing and coarse times we live in. The crows have come home to roost in this country. We now have a political atmosphere where the powers in charge will continue to smash, break and destroy everything possible daily—all in service of their wicked fantasies for absolute domination and wealth. Their comeuppance will happen. The earth, with her need to feed her non-human children, will shrug off and pull the plug one day. I can only hope and pray that more humans will wake up to what has been unleashed.

Postscript

BY MARIE HOWE

What we did to the earth, we did to our daughters one after the other.

What we did to the trees, we did to our elders stacked in their wheelchairs by the lunchroom door.

What we did to our daughters, we did to our sons calling out for their mothers.

What we did to the trees, what we did to the earth, we did to our sons, to our daughters.

What we did to the cow, to the pig, to the lamb, we did to the earth, butchered and milked it.

Few of us knew what the bird calls meant or what the fires were saying.

We took of earth and took and took, and the earth seemed not to mind

until one of our daughters shouted: it was right in front of you, right in front of your eyes

and you didn’t see.

The air turned red.

The ocean grew teeth.

The closer we can live to the Mother’s heartbeat, the better off we will be. As the blatant shadow of human political hubris becomes monstrous and overwhelming, we cannot forget where our true wealth lies. It is in the sustaining harvest of the Mother. The bluebirds. The tree beings. The moon in her cycles. The waters. The teeming bacteria of soil. Our miraculous bodies we have forgotten to love. The sun’s radiance. The more than human creatures that walk, fly, slither, swim and crawl on this earth.

The Mother gives generously and reciprocally when treated with respect and care. Everything comes from the Creator.

Blessed be.

Sunday, February 23, Valdez, New Mexico