Lessons in Humility

I have always been suspicious of Marianne Williamson’s widely-quoted “call to shine” below.

Our Greatest Fear 

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world.

There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other

people won’t feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the glory of
God that is within us.

It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.

—Marianne Williamson

But this week it finally clicked. I was talking with a friend who lives everyday from her creativity, and was telling her about something I feel passionately about, but am fearful of following through on lest it puffs up my ego. That I’m not sure I want to start a Twitter account and start talking about it and putting myself out there about this project. Basically, I summarized, I want to be humble, and that feels at odds with doing things I would perhaps be successful at.

She didn’t even blink. “Wow,” she said. “Get over yourself. That’s the most arrogant I’ve heard in a while. I mean, no…. Just no.”

Now, I know when I’m getting good advice and ready to hear it when I don’t feel bruised by such a call-out, but rather, relieved to have had it called out.

She’s absolutely right and what a great lesson to see how sneaky the ego is. It can disguise fear as humility. It can disguise its need to feel important as humility. Who is this “i” that thinks what it does would be so amazing that it would then “struggle to be humble”!?  Who is this ‘i’ that believes people care what she is doing? And, is this thought merely a disguise for the fact that this “i” is scared that following a passion will end up being meaningless? Indeed, is the “i” just scared of finding out she is meaningless?

This last question is the crux of the matter. The person/ego – whatever you like to call it – needs to feel important, needs to feel it has a purpose. It is terrified that it won’t have a purpose – probably because it knows that without purpose it cannot exist – it has no identity to maintain, and so it is not needed. Indeed, by accepting ourselves as purposeless (or being moved simply by something greater than our tiny selves) then the ego withers.

I’m not sure if this is clear, but there is most certainly a relief in setting aside ideas of being important or failing, and of having any purpose or meaning, and instead, just following what my heart seems to be telling me to do for no other reason that it seems to be telling me to do it. The end. It’s quite humbling, and a little embarrassing (to the ego), to see that I really seemed under some spell that 1) my offering is my own and 2) that I matter.

I don’t need to matter. Indeed, ‘mattering’ surely only stands in the way of whatever it is this person can serve best doing – however unimportant or grandiose the ego believes that action in the world to be.

Of Williamson’s words it is this line that is clearest for me:

We were born to make manifest the glory of
God that is within us.

In other words, we simply exist to allow consciousness to express itself through us, so just roll with it and be wide open to let that expression go all the way. That is humility. And with it a clear space opens up to feel immense gratitude. How wonderful that ‘i’ get to be a tiny tiny part of something so incredible and wondrous and unknowable as consciousness, or God, or whatever word you would choose.

I’m going to pin ‘get over yourself’ to my desk as a reminder.

The Need for Dark Skies

Sark, a small island between England and France, is the world’s first “Dark Sky” island. It has no vehicles—the 650 people who live there travel by bike or foot—and there are no street lamps. When night falls the only thing to illuminate the island of Sark is starlight.

Intrigued as to how living under the light of the stars impacts health and behavior, psychotherapist Ada Blair decided to interview Sark’s residents. She uncovered that the people who lived on Sark truly felt that being in touch with the night sky benefited their well-being. Writing of her findings for The International Dark-Sky Association (IDA), Blair says that the shared night sky gave Sark’s residents a deep sense of community. That residents made comments such as:

“last summer we were lying on the field outside the Island Hall with everybody looking up during the meteor shower … people had sleeping bags, thermoses, and hot chocolate.”

And while small talk elsewhere may involve the weather, Blair says on Sark it those casual back-and-forths start with the sky: “Did you see the Milky Way above the Seignurie last night. Wasn’t it amazing?”

Not only do the stars bring Sark’s community together, but the residents observing the night sky results in positive (and sometimes transformative) feelings. 

Sadly the experience of turning our gaze to look up at the skies is one that is increasingly lost on our generation. While Sark may have dark skies, much of the world has become illuminated by unnatural light. Journalist, Ron Judd, in an article for The Seattle Times, says that 99% of Americans never routinely see a true dark sky – and that’s if they even step outside…

It’s a stark contrast to how humanity used to interact with the stars, where constellations were our guides, our friends, our gods.

By failing to look up above, we miss the prompt to ask ourselves deep questions. David Ingram, who heads a Seattle-based group of dedicated dark-sky advocates underscores what we miss when we stop looking up: “The sad truth is that the current bunch of us will be the first in the history of the planet to go most or all the way through life failing to grasp our place in the universe. Because we simply have never seen it. You can put anybody—I don’t care who they are—out under the stars for 30 minutes, and they start asking the big questions. Where else does that happen? You don’t ask big questions in a restaurant.”


Love is (still) the Only Way

 “Yes, it is love that will save our world and our civilization, love even for enemies.” – Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Several years ago one of my spiritual teachers, Jennifer Hadley, advised reading Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s speech “Loving Your Enemies” as a regular practice. “Recite it. Aloud. As if it is your sermon. Made from the pulpit of your living room,” she recommended. “It will transform you.”

There is an electricity that runs through all of Dr. King’s sermons. Probably the best orator of the 20th century, his speeches perfectly touched the souls of those hearing them. He stirred millions of Americans to nonviolent action, encouraging them to stand up against racial injustice, against racial and economic inequality, and against war.

The electric energy of Dr. King has endured. “Perhaps reading these eloquent proclamations will show us the way into the new millennium, and help us to continue to live truths,” says Andrew Young, former U.S. ambassador to the United Nations, and a colleague of Dr. King in A Call to Consciencea collection of Dr. King’s landmark speeches.

The Power of Speech

I wasn’t familiar with this particular sermon. Indeed, “Loving Your Enemies” is not one of Dr. King’s landmark addresses. It doesn’t mark the call to action like the speech he gave in 1955 following the arrest of fellow Montgomery-resident Rosa Parks. The speech in which he describes justice as “love correcting that which revolts against love.”

Nor is it the most poetic—like the speech he gave after a nonviolent march from Selma, calling for the right of African Americans to vote, declaring: “How long will prejudice blind the visions of men, darken their understanding, and drive bright-eyed wisdom from her throne? … Not long.”

The sermon does not make the lofty aim for a global revolution of values that “will lay hand on the world order and say of war, ‘This way of settling differences is not just.’” As Dr. King did in his address on Vietnam in New York City.

Nor has it become a speech profoundly symbolic of the transformation of a nation from the mired history of slavery towards a hopeful era of civil rights and equality like Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech at the Lincoln Memorial in 1963.

Rather, the “Loving Your Enemies” sermon given in 1957 was to a relatively small congregation at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama where Dr. King was a pastor.

But in reading it, “by putting ourselves in his shoes, we have an understanding of what it took personally for him to lead a nation in profound transformation. How he became one of the most inspiring people to have ever walked the Earth, and how we can follow in his footsteps,” says Jennifer.

By reading it, we are transformed ourselves.

Love Redeems

The call to love that Dr. King lays out in “Loving Your Enemies” echoes through all of his speeches. Furthermore, it is the message upon which he built his life—that love is “creative,” and that only love is capable of transforming hate into love. Therefore, to change the world, love has to be extended to everyone—even to our enemies. The message mirrored Gandhi’s, who Dr. King looked to as inspiration in the nonviolent justice movement.

The sermon uses the story of Abraham Lincoln and Mr. Stanton as an example of love driving out hate. When Lincoln was running to be president, Stanton did his utmost to ridicule Lincoln. Yet, when Lincoln was elected—despite criticism from his cabinet—he appointed Stanton as Secretary of War. In doing so, Lincoln not only served his people by selecting the best person for the job, but he transformed the hatred Stanton held in his heart towards Lincoln—so much so that when Lincoln was assassinated, it was Stanton who gave one of the most touching speeches.

Love is a powerful tool, more powerful than hate, as Dr. King said in his speech:

If Abraham Lincoln had hated Stanton … Stanton would have gone to his grave hating Lincoln, and Lincoln would have gone to his grave hating Stanton. … Hate destroys the hater as well as the hated … Because if you hate your enemies, you have no way to redeem and to transform your enemies. But if you love your enemies, you will discover that at the very root of love is the power of redemption. … And by the power of your love they will break down under the load.

Dr. King’s gift was not just his soul-stirring rhetoric, but also his ability to put forward practical solutions. Love is a practice he realized, and one that requires certain things, as he noted in his speech:

  1. Looking at oneself. “We must face the fact that an individual might dislike us because of something that we’ve done deep down in the past … That is why I say, begin with yourself.”
  2. Discerning between like and love. “Like is a sentimental something, an affectionate something. There are a lot of people that I find it difficult to like. … [but] love is greater than like. Love is understanding.”
  3. Helping those we hate. “When the opportunity presents itself for you to defeat your enemy, that is the time which you must not do it. … When you rise to the level of love, of its great beauty and power, you seek only to defeat evil systems. Individuals who happen to be caught up in that system, you love…”
  4. Seeing the good in all. “Within the best of us, there is some evil, and within the worst of us, there is some good. … Discover the element of good in your enemy. And as you seek to hate him, find the center of goodness and place your attention there and you will take a new attitude.”

Radical Love for the Modern Day

It is only with this foundation that as a society we can continue to walk towards the equality that Dr. King talked about in his “I Have a Dream” speech, says Rev. Dr. Jacqui Lewis. She is a senior minister at Middle Collegiate Church in New York, and Executive Director of The Middle Project, an institute that prepares ethical leaders for a more just society. “It’s a radical love. It is not a love for wimps. It’s saying: ‘I’m going to love you, and engage with you whoever you are,’” she says. “That love drives the dream of a world where black lives matter and therefore all lives matter. Asian lives matter, Latino lives matter, Muslim lives matter, gay lives matter, poor lives matter, and old lives matter. It is a world in which we value the woman in a hijab, and the man in a kippa, and the atheist. Where we realize we are a human family and we cannot function without each other.”

Her favorite speech is “I Have a Dream.”

“I feel its reverberations still as people stand up against racial inequality that continues to be a reality,” says Jacqui. “And I am hopeful. I see signs of people collaborating, of races and religions coming together for equality, for justice. It doesn’t take a million people, it takes just enough good loving people who say: ‘This will not happen on our watch.’ And who continue the nonviolent protests on the streets to insist that everyone is treated fairly.”

Of all of Dr. King’s speeches, “Loving Your Enemies” is the one closest to my heart. Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s love spurred actions that transformed a nation and continues to do so today. Among the many things I am grateful to Dr. King for is this reminder that hatred does not serve the world—and that includes my own hatred. In that way I have transformed too. If we want to make a change, be it political, environmental, for social equality and justice, or simply in our own lives: “Love is the only way.”

(This article was originally written for Wanderlust and can be found here)

The Legacy We Leave

If you were to stand high up in the Wadi Musa mountains of Jordan and look out across the landscape ahead to Israel you would see only more mountains, and desert.  Completely unknown to you would be that, there, in the crevices of some of those mountain walls below, lies a hidden city, a city abandoned over 1,500 years ago, that once was home to an inspiring civilization – the Nabataeans.

I was fortunate enough to visit the ancient city of Petra and the nearby Wadi Rum desert while working in Jordan researching the impact of the Syrian refugee crisis. Long have I been in love with this part of the world – from Southern Spain and Greece down into Northern Africa and Egypt, and up and across through the Middle East to Iraq and Iran. These countries talk to me of ancient civilizations, of learned philosophers, astronomers, mathematicians and poets, of kings (and queens) erecting temples to their Gods (and to themselves.) They speak of aromatic spices, priceless gems and cloths, carried by wooden sailing ships, unloaded at the docks of noisy harbors, to make their way to be sold at incense-filled souks. It is where our recorded history as a human race begins to take shape – the rise and fall of the Sumerians, Babylonians, Assyrians, the Ancient Egyptians, Phoenicians, Greeks, and later Romans too.  And so, they speak to me of possibility and also of the legacy we leave.

I had gone to Petra and Wadi Rum after spending several days in Jordan’s main refugee camps. They are home to 120,000 of five million Syrian refugees who fled their country when the conflict began six years ago. As time has passed, tents have been exchanged for more solid structures. Many have A/C or heaters. The camps have stores where almost anything can be purchased if you are lucky enough to find work, or receive money from relatives abroad. And there is mostly electricity and water. Advancements have been made there, if not in Syria.

There are vivid memories of bombs, violence, and the heartbreak of leaving, but it was not a sense of hopelessness or despair that met me there. What struck me rather was the resilience of the human spirit. Because, in spite of all they have endured, what the refugees desire now is to create a new life and to find work. Their hope is waning that other countries beyond Jordan will help them do so.

Petra was my first day off in weeks. To reach the city, you have to take the same path as people over 2000 years ago would have taken – through that hidden fissure in the mountain carved by tectonic forces millions of years ago. The narrow path, dotted now with other tourists, some on donkey, winds for almost half a mile between the rose-colored walls before ending in a large courtyard where the Treasury building is carved into the rocks. Beyond, among the sprawling ruins, archaeologists tell us there are administrative buildings, tombs, an amphitheater, a library, a monastery. There are remains of advanced water irrigation systems that enabled the Nabataeans to create an oasis in the desert.

So why did the people abandon Petra? No one knows. Perhaps it was a gradual change in climate, or the slow impact of changing trade routes that favored the Nile, or maybe people were forced to leave because conflict thrust upon them. 

I had this on my mind when I arrived later at the Wadi Rum desert.  My guide was a young bedouin called Hazzum who was going to drive me through the Mars-like dunes and rocks. By now, after weeks of work and travel, I was slowly beginning to unwind, and Hazzum and I had some light banter as we drove. When we pulled up to a shady spot to make tea, however, the chatter stopped as Hazzum instead turned his focus to starting a fire.

There is a silence that the desert brings that I have yet to experience elsewhere. With no trees to rustle, and no life in sight, the stillness of a desert forces the senses to give up, and the mind has nothing to distract it. You are left raw. I went and sat in the shade of a large rock, but in that moment the silence of the desert swallowed me whole, and I began to cry. If Hazzum wasn’t brewing tea nearby, I would have surrendered and sobbed my heart into the scorched earth.

In the ruins of Petra, a seed had been sown. It was a reminder of just how long we, the human race, have been doing this dance – of creating civilizations that strive to be brilliant, to develop new technologies that make us feel more “advanced” than civilizations that have come before, and of creating ‘legacies’. But for all these advancements, have we become any better at humanity?

Just 200 miles away, the electricity was being turned off in Za’atari refugee camp, and 200 miles beyond that, Syria’s conflict raged on. In the other direction, just beyond neighboring Saudi Arabia lay another humanitarian crisis – 20 million people on the verge of starvation in Yemen because of a war. And there just over the mountains beyond Petra was of course Israel and Palestine. And even thousands of miles away back in my own country I watched from social media as a different kind of crisis raged – one of a growing wealth gap, a seizure of public lands for profit, the threat of a nuclear attack, and an oppression of people because of the color of their skin.

The Nabataeans don’t make it to our history books chiefly because there is little record of their culture, but Roman writings depict them as a democratic people. Unlike their nearby counterparts, the Nabataeans rejected slavery. They also welcomed diverse people and religions alongside their own. And, for all their prosperity, the Nabataeans did not desire power. They didn’t seek out war, and indeed, tried to avoid it. When the Romans turned their sights on taking over Petra, the Nabataeans reportedly declined to fight.

While the living museum that is Petra, is something everyone should see in their lifetime, for me it is the values of the Nabataeans that will remain forever in my heart. In the end whatever we build, whatever we material advancements we achieve, history has taught us that all civilizations come to an end. But what if the legacy we leave is also one of a civilization that shared its fortune with those less fortunate, one that protected its land for the future generations, one that welcomed others to its shores, and one that was committed to unity and peace? That would be a legacy worth leaving, and it is also a possibility.

(This article was written originally for Books for Better Living.)

The Greatest Show is in the Meadow

In Inner Ramana, scribed by one my teachers, Regina Dawn Akers, the comparison is made between the mind and the circus. That, for a time (maybe lifetimes), we are fascinated by the circus. We love the acrobats, the trapeze artists, the sword swallowers and bearded ladies. We love the bright colors, the music, the costumes, the lights, the gasps, the drama, the cheers,… the drama.

But, deep within us “there is a desire […] to settle within the meadow that surrounds the circus tent”, and a vague feeling, much like an old memory, that it is there in the meadow where we will be met with an everlasting tranquility, and a show more beautiful than we could ever imagine. A real show.

The circus is the mind as it springs forth thoughts that grab our attention and draw us into the story of how many clowns will fit into the car, or, in daily life, how important we are, or how terrible we are, and what was said by whom to who, and the ecstasy of getting what we want, and the heart-wrenching disappointments of not getting what we want.

There’s a joke I was told by a tour guide in Ireland: My previous job was a trampolinist in a circus. It had its ups and downs.

Our lives, dictated to by the mind, can be like this — lived in perpetual ups and downs.

But if we don’t follow the minds’ thoughts, if we just open the curtains and watch the show from outside for a while through self inquiry practices and meditation, then the feeling of the sun on the back of our necks, and the grass under our feet becomes more compelling than the show inside the tent. And, with practice we notice a quiet love for the meadow, so that even away from our meditation cushions we stop stepping through the curtains, until eventually we live our daily lives with its ups and downs, but we remain fully outside, laid down among the wild flowers watching the clouds pass in the blue sky above.

I was reminded of this teaching watching The Greatest Show last weekend — the musical movie of P.T. Barnum’s life. I have no idea how accurate the depiction was, but the storyline seemed to show this lesson beautifully. Barnum has a family he is smitten with and seems to live an idyllic, if what humble, life with them in New York City. But he longs for more excitement, and so starts a circus.

After a few years of success, however, Barnum’s thoughts turn away from the circus, and he declares he wants to give people what is real, rather than what is fake.

It is as if this point is his awakening — that he longs for something more meaningful, and senses it exists. But, instead of choosing the meadow, he chooses another show — one more opulent, more grand. He chooses the opera, the very epitome of drama, and its promise of high society and respect — the opposite to his time in the circus where he was loved by the common people.

Not long into his tour with his opera star, he realizes he has mistaken what “real” is, and his journey ends in sorrow for all who know him.

Realizing all he has lost, Barnum returns home long enough to revive his circus, but he has understood that the circus is no longer what he desires — now he chooses the meadow. He retires from his role as ringmaster, and chooses to spend the rest of his days with his family.

A wonderful reminder that the meadow was always there, and is always there if we can let go of the allure of the circus of the mind.

Orion, Betelgeuse and a Dwarf go up a Mountain

In one of the many tales regarding Orion, I just love this one, and it puts a whole new spin on Betelgeuse in my mind…

Orion had inherited a few things from his fathers Zeus, Hermes and Poseidon. He was handsome, athletic, could walk on water, and was the size of a giant. But he also inherited a few less welcoming traits … he was something of a brute, and believed he could get whatever he wanted. And what he wanted as he became a young man, was Merope – the daughter of the King of Chios – who we know better as one of the Pleiades.

In order to win her hand, Orion, with his trusty hunting dogs, hunted and killed every wild animal in the kingdom of Chios, but still the King was still not prepared to hand over his daughter. So one night, Orion, lustful after several flagons of wine, climbed up into Merope’s bedroom and raped her.

The King was furious, and called on the gods to take revenge – and one heard – the God of Darkness, Erebus, who crept up on Orion while he was sleeping and slashed his eyes – blinding him.

When Orion woke to find himself blind he was mortified – not because he realized his terrible deeds, but because he was furious at the King for having punished him, and he needed his eyes back to seek revenge.

So he sought out Hephaestus, the god of fire and masonry to help him. Hephaestus gave Orion his son, the dwarf Cedalion, to carry on his shoulder to act as his eyes, and told them to head to the highest mountain on Earth to wait for the Goddess of dawn, Aurora, who would return his sight.

I love this picture depicting Orion, his loyal sidekick, Sirius the dog, and Cedalion the dwarf on his shoulder from the 1971 book “Stories of the Stars” by Denise Vale. This story and image now make me reconsider Betelgeuse as the shoulder of Orion – what if, instead, Betelgeuse is the head of Cedalion, aloft Orion’s shoulder, bathed in the bright orange glow of dawn?

Winter – A Love Story

I have fallen in love with a most unexpected candidate. It happened, as love often does, over a period of time. There was a stroll in the park where, among the naked trees, I walked through a gallery of a hundred different-shaped pieces of art — summer homes curated by mocking birds, starlings, cardinals and robins, and now abandoned in the crooks where barren branches meet bare trunks.

There was that morning where I woke up to a blanket of white that turned the concrete yard into Monet’s snow scene, and the smell of ice on rivers 120 miles north engulfed my nostrils snuffing out the odor of exhaust and subways.

There was the night so crisp and clear that it felt possible to just reach my hand up, pluck the moon out of the sky and pop it into my mouth, knowing it would have tasted of mountain tops and honeysuckle. And underneath Capella I wished for better mittens so I could stay out just another hour.

Winter…I had never expected to like it, let alone love it. The final straw, however — the one that led to the fall — was the flash of red of a downy woodpecker’s head against a snowy bough, the scarlet wing of a male cardinal, and the cornflower blue of six blue jays at the feeder. When the Earth lays herself bare, when the curtains of leaves have gone, when the canvas becomes shades of white and grey, another beautiful world can be seen.

I’d missed it all — for years I’ve hibernated the minute the Christmas gifts are unwrapped until the yellow of daffodils trumpet the arrival of spring (which in the North East U.S. can be four long months).

Years ago I had started writing a poem about a summer fairy who sleeps all winter, and therefore misses the season’s treasures. Yesterday, bizarrely, I came across it yellowing in an old box as I was clearing out a closet. Perhaps it wanted to be found. Now that I have begun to see the gifts of winter, I might just be able to finish writing it.

Part of the Never-Ending Story

This image of Orion and its Cloud Complex by Rogelio Bernal Andreo has got me transfixed this week. Orion the mighty Hunter and his belt is such a familiar constellation to us that we often don’t even pause to wonder what secrets it may be holding, and yet here in this mosaic, stitched together so beautifully, we can see just how wondrous Orion really is.

There is Barnard’s Loop – that red gaseous crescent moon shape on the left. There’s the Witch’s Head Nebula down in the lower right that I’m still not quite certain isn’t Falkor the Luck Dragon flying our hero Atreyu through the universe.

Just above the left-hand star of Orion’s Belt (Alnitak) we find the Flame Nebula, and just under it, the eerie Horsehead Nebula emerging out of the dark. And then in the lower centre, the incredible Great Orion Nebula we can even see with our naked eye.

But this is just scratching the surface. There’s an open cluster of stars, three of which are perfectly aligned north to south, Collinder 69, that lie in the face of Orion  – when was the last time we even gazed upon our Hunter’s face? And then the Reflection Nebula… The list goes on and on.

It is the myth of these constellations that really lights a fire in my heart, and Orion, seen the world over, has birthed thousands of tales and legends. Looking at this image one can’t possibly help but think of Orion as mythic. And it raises the question, what is myth? Does it have to be an ancient tale of a great Hunter who, in his pride, was stung by a scorpion? Or a tale of a Belt that in the South Pacific is instead a canoe taking fishermen heroes out to sea?

What if a myth is also a story of an exploding star (did you know Betelgeuse, that red star on the left shoulder of Orion may explode as a supernova in the relatively near future and that humans on Earth will see it?), or a tale of how humans saw an eerie horse or witch’s head in the sky above? Or, of a face that is rarely looked at yet wears three distinguished stars across a cheek… Where does the myth end and where does it begin? Or perhaps, what we discover is that it is all a myth. Life throughout space and across time is simply a beautiful, fantastical, unimaginable, rich mosaic of a story, and how lucky we are to be part of it.

Why We Need the Wild…

“The clearest way into the Universe, is through a forest wilderness,” said John Muir. There have only been a handful of times in my life that I have felt this connection—between myself and the Universe—and they have indeed happened in the wilds.

One of these memories was in Australia. I had been visiting my aunt who was living and working with local artists in a remote Aboriginal community in the middle of the country. We had taken a drive into the bush, turning left after 40 minutes at an old teakettle that hung on a tree branch, and then driving another 30 minutes until we arrived at an area of canyons splashed with Aboriginal paintings and the structures of old shelters (wiltjas).

It had been a brutal summer, raging at more than 100 degrees for weeks. And while there had been life in the canyons once, it had dried up, or—like the Aborigines—had moved on. All that remained was shriveled trees; spinifex grass; baked, red earth; and dust.

We were about half a mile into our silent hike when we noticed a speck far away on the blue horizon. For about five minutes we watched as it made its way toward us, until finally it came fully into sight—a tiny bird, smaller than a sparrow with red, black and gold feathers. It landed its bedraggled little body a few inches away from us on a brittle branch of a dead tree, and looked at us expectantly.

“It knows we have water,” said my aunt. And so we poured a little into a bottle cap and watched as the impatient bird hopped around our feet in anticipation. It followed us through the brush as we hiked for another 15 minutes, stopping intermittently to share our water, and splash its feathers, before flying on.

Rewilding the Earth

Unfortunately it seems the experiences we have in the wild are few and far between. The Wilderness Act, put in place in the U.S. in 1964, describes wilderness as “an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.” But those places have become far fewer. It only recently occurred to me, while talking to my grandma who is 99 this year, that, when she was born, there were 1.24 billion people on the planet. Now that number is 7.4 billion. And if I live as long as my grandma I may be sharing this planet with 10.5 billion people.

Faced with this rapid and all-encompassing encroachment of man upon the planet’s wilderness, there have been efforts in recent years across continents to reforest and “rewild” Earth. In Europe bison and wild horses have been reintroduced. In Scotland white-tailed eagles and beavers have been released. In Brazil there are attempts to repopulate the golden lion tamarin. In the U.S. and Canada bison are being brought back, and bald eagle and peregrine falcons are no longer on the endangered species lists thanks to successful reintroduction programs.

The momentum has to be continued. While the Wilderness Act has resulted in 110 million acres of land being preserved and protected, in most states it is less than 1 percent of total land.

The Path to Remembrance

We need the wilderness. It is who we are. And we have not forgotten. For all the glass and metal, cloth, noise, and circuitry with which we cloak our existence, all it takes is the sound of air spouting from the blowhole of an orca whale, or the crash of a waves against a cliff, for us to remember that we are supposed to be free, that we are wild.

“In many indigenous cultures there was no word for ‘nature’ because they did not experience wilderness as some ‘thing’ separate or distinct from themselves,” says Buddhist teacher Mark Coleman. It’s hard to imagine—now that we have become so disconnected from our origins—but in these wild moments we have glimpses of understanding, when we realize, says Mark: “Where does the sound of a robin singing and the vibration in our inner ear end?”

If we doubt that our souls remember this oneness, we need only look to the wild. George Monbiot, writer, environmentalist, and rewilding advocate, points to the remarkable story of the boar and the robin. For 700 years, wild boar had been absent from Britain. Once plentiful, they had been hunted and farmed out of existence, and the robins with whom they had a symbiotic relationship had been forced to find a different animal that would unearth grubs with its digging—the human gardener.

In 2009 in the Scottish Highlands a group called Trees for Life began a project to rewild Dundreggan, and in doing so released several boar onto the land. Within twenty minutes, the robins arrived and took up their place alongside the boar. It had been 700 years, but the robins remembered.

Rewilding Ourselves

It is the same for us. When we swim alongside seals, come face to face with a great horned owl, or hear the call of a coyote, our own domestication falls away—we realize we have mistaken our identity. And in that moment of remembrance we let go of all the labels and the opinions, and take up our seat again as part of the whole—not apart from it. We join with the wildness. As I heard “The Forum” founder Werner Erhard once say: “Take all those opinions, all those achievements, and all the things you think you are and go tell it to the stars, and see if they care.”

It’s not that we don’t matter. It’s that what we think matters, doesn’t—and the wilderness reminds us of this every time we meet it head-on. It wakes us up. Faced with its raw, pristine honesty, we catch a glimpse of an “us” without limitations. If open, we come away knowing that the mental constructs we have built must be abandoned for us to return to that state of freedom and oneness.

Search every wisdom teaching and this is the message: The Earth and our spirit are one and the same, and we need only look to Earth to learn who we are. The growing field of spiritual ecology seeks to remind us of this. Search science and the message stays the same. In the words of Albert Einstein: “Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.”

In the witnessing of the wild, we remember and reclaim our own.  When I got back to the village from the hike with my aunt I sat down with one of the women as she painted. I wanted to understand why art was so important to the Aboriginal community, and I told her about the bird. “And you remembered who you are…” She said. “And now you know why we paint the stories—to remind the young ones of who they are.”

And this is why we must try harder to preserve the wilderness—because if it is ceases to exist for the generations that follow us, not only are we denying them the beauty of witnessing a tiny gold and red bird in a desolate canyon, but we are denying them the chance to remember who they are.

Author’s note: This article was written initially for Wanderlust.com 

Coming Home to Ourselves

In the 18th and 19th centuries in Europe, homesickness was considered a serious illness. Its symptoms were nervousness and melancholy, and unfortunately for patients, doctors argued there really was no cure, other than simply to “go home” and see if it passed.

With the advent of global travel, the idea of homesickness, however, became almost juvenile—something children experience at camp perhaps—and the notion that ‘home’ is more of a feeling than a place lost credibility altogether.

I’m intrigued by homesickness simply because I have never really felt ‘at home.’ It’s a sentiment I know a lot of people share. It’s difficult to describe, but it has a quality of mild unease, of feeling unsettled, off-center perhaps, or a little ungrounded—like there is some place you belong, but you’re not sure it even exists.

This feeling of being homesick is simply an experience along a soul’s journey, and our awareness of it becomes a turning point.
Initially I assumed it was just a side effect of moving around, or not having a partner or family of my own, but as those boxes were ticked and the feeling remained, it became clear that that wasn’t it either. Where was this so-called ‘home’ that I felt but could not find?

The answer came to me on the wings of Shamanic wisdom. There this feeling of being homesick is simply an experience along a soul’s journey, and our awareness of it becomes a turning point. According to the Shaman, we arrive in the world complete, but as we move through life we begin to energetically discard parts of ourselves. Sometimes that is by choice. The things we learn not to like, we disown—a part of our body that we perceive to be ugly; our desires, anger, or emotions that we were once chastised for. And sometimes it is through no choice of our own that parts of us leave. It is said that during traumatic experiences pieces of our soul become so frightened that they scatter.

If we wondered whether a place called home even exists, the Shaman says that yes it does, and our hunch was right—it is not outside of ourselves. It is our soul. The homesick feeling we sense actually belongs to the discarded pieces of our soul calling out to us to be found and welcomed back. Our job is therefore simply to gather those scattered pieces and invite them back in.

How do we do this? In the dictionary, one of the definitions for home is “where we flourish, and where we originate from.” So how do we begin walking back around the outer reaches of the spiral towards the center gathering the pieces of ourselves as we go?

First we can simply breathe a sigh of relief. Just to have the awareness of being unsettled and the desire to feel whole is enough to alert our inner voice to begin teaching us the way. Then it becomes a personal journey of self-reflection—one that should be looked upon with awe, curiosity, and great love. We gather these lost pieces back to us only once, so, as spiritual teacher Matt Kahn says, “Whatever arises… Love that.”

There are many great spiritual practices and tools for uncovering the parts of us we have pushed aside, and there are many Shamanic rituals for soul retrievals, but here is one of my personal favorites.

Making a Nest

Birds have been symbols for pagans, shamans, seers, prophets, and native peoples all over the world. Their ability to be at home soaring in the heavens, and equally at home nesting in a bramble bush close to the earth reminds us that home is within us, not without us.

The practice of “making a nest” was shared with me recently to welcome in a new soul as I was having trouble conceiving, but what I soon realized was that this was a practice calling in the parts of myself that had been discarded and letting them know it was safe to return.

To begin, create an altar area or a small safe place in your home that seems inviting—if you have an altar already that would work.

Then, like a bird, begin to gather things to make a small nest. If you feel a connection to the Earth, you could forage for small sticks, feathers, stones, leaves, and pine cones. But you could also use seashells, crystals, yarn, or paper. It’s entirely your creation, so it can be whatever feels inviting and nurturing to you, and it can look however you choose.

The center of the nest can remain empty allowing room for whatever would like to come back to you, or you can place a symbol like a stone in your nest to as place markers.

Then, this is when our nest becomes an act of great self-care. Every day take time to speak, sing, or read to your nest. Perhaps you will feel called to add new things to your nest such as flowers, photos, trinkets, or gifts, and after a few weeks you may also feel inspired to clean the nest, move it, or re-do it entirely.

As your sense of care and love for this small symbol of your soul grows, notice how parts of yourself you had forgotten arise in your awareness now feeling safe enough to come back in.