Dreaming of Iona

To be drawn to observe and write about nature is not a withdrawal from the world, but a coming to know the divinity in all matter. ~ Clare Cooper Marcus

Recently I finished reading an extraordinary book: Iona Dreaming: The Healing Power of Place. I found it while searching Google for spiritual travel guides for Scotland. The author, Claire Cooper Marcus, writes about the six months she spent on a tiny island in Scotland named Iona. This island at the edge of the world helped her heal during two bouts with cancer and taught her invaluable lessons about place, relationship, and love.

As I read the book I was stunned over and over again by parallels between my life and hers. Her first introduction to Scotland (as will be mine in a few short months) was Findhorn. She believes in the power of place and spent her career teaching and writing about it. Dreams play an important role in her life and during her time on Iona she called her dreamworker weekly to discuss her dreams. Synchronicity plays a role: the book relates many incidents of waking and dream life mirroring one another, of chance encounters, of nature reflecting her emotions. She is interested in Celtic spirituality, she talks to fairies, she struggles with ego-ambition. I found in her a kindred soul.

How could I not, when she writes things like this: Dreams are "the compost of the psyche, a rich medium promoting our future growth."

And: "What the world needs now is not just environmental activists, but also quiet observers and poets of the environment whose words and images speak to people in ways that will arouse deep emotions about nature and, in turn, perhaps trigger their own moral outrage about what we are doing to our planet-home."

She speaks my language. And she's encouraged me, through her healing retreat to Iona, to find a place of my own to which I can retreat and deeply connect with myself. It's a yearning I've felt for quite a while now. I've found a few days here and there when I can slow down, but I need an extended time to go out to some natural landscape in order to go within. This is my quest, to find the time and the place to do this. Cooper Marcus has lit the fire that will light my way on this journey. I do not know where this place might be, but I have hints: Scotland, Iceland, Big Sur, the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, the Baltic Sea. I also do not know when I will be able to do the deep work of retreating, but I can feel that it is not far off. My soul and the land are calling.

Being Held

Nature never gives up on us. ~ Mark Coleman

Last weekend I got out to enjoy the 70+ degree weather that graced Northern California. I reflected on how a year ago I was cooped up inside recovering from a second surgery to remove a cyst from my ovary. I felt immensely grateful to have gone a year without needing a third surgery and I gave thanks to my body for its hard work healing itself. I relished the ability to climb steep green hills and feel the warm wind on my face.

I reached a high point and looked out at the vista. Two falcons soared on thermals. Mt. Diablo peeked out behind the hills straight ahead of me and the undulating valley rolled out before me. I felt incredibly alive.

Skipping down the trail I started to feel the urge to be with a tree. Not any tree would do...I kept walking until I felt drawn to an oak standing right at the side of the trail. I put my arms around its trunk which was slightly further around than my arms would reach. I stood there, hugging that oak for a long time, feeling its deeply grounded and steady energy between my arms. I started to cry, letting the oak and the earth take my pain. Relief washed over me as I allowed my emotions to flow. After a few moments I kissed the tree's rough bark, wiped the tears from my cheeks, and continued down the path.

Although at times during the last year it's felt like I've been given up on, I knew in that moment that Mark Coleman's words are true: nature never gives up on us. She is always there and she is not going anywhere. She is the most stable thing in my life even with her changing moods and despite the way we've altered her. That tree might not always be standing, and an earthquake could open up the land that holds its roots, changing how the land looks, but Nature will always be there. I take immense comfort in that.

The Fog

Last Monday I visited Limantour Beach in Point Reyes National Seashore, a beach that's become a refuge for me. When I left my house that morning, I drove through fog so thick I couldn't even see Mount Diablo. Clouds hugged the hills along the freeway, and the grayness threatened to wipe out everything.

Upon reaching the west side of the Caldecott Tunnel, I once again saw the sun. For some reason the fog hadn't reached Oakland or Berkeley or even San Francisco. It hung above the north bay, the Berkeley hills, and parts of Marin County. Once on the Richmond Bridge, I was inside dense fog again, the bridge disappearing in the distance. It looked as though I might drive right up into the clouds.

At the beach, the fog touched the sand. I could only see a few yards and people seemed to emerge from another dimension as they walked toward me. The sun hid. The place felt ethereal, dreamlike. I found a place on the bluffs to sit and listen to the sound of the waves and immerse myself in that liminal space.

I thought about how I'd gone in and out of the fog several times that weekend. My home in Concord remained socked in for most of the weekend but Berkeley, Oakland, San Jose, and other parts of the Bay had been sunny. Each day I'd left my foggy home and traveled into sunny clarity.

Grief has moved through my life in this way lately. Sometimes I feel a rush of warmth, a break in the clouds when things seem bright and clear and real. Other times I feel lost in a fog, unclear of my direction, unsure if the road really goes straight ahead or disappears into nothingness. Just when I feel I've escaped the fog altogether, it creeps back in in the night, clinging to the edges of my psyche the way it hugs the hillsides.

As I sat on the bluff at Limantour, the clouds started to break up. I could see clear sky and then the sun burst through, warming my face. I realized that although the fog always returns, there will be moments of clarity, of warmth. There will be times when I can see the path ahead and take some more steps. And maybe the fog is there to make sure I don't try to move too fast. It slows me down and asks me to pause, to become quiet, to reflect. Just as I did on that bluff at the edge of the world.

Dream Tribe: Nature Dreaming

In my latest Dream Tribe post, I discuss synchronistic dreams I've had about events connected to nature. We're all connected and we're all dreaming about (and as) Nature. We might not notice it in our everyday lives, but I believe if we start to pay attention to our dreams and to Nature in waking, we will start to notice patterns of nature dreaming.


Check out the post to find out more.

Walking My Path

Back in November I attended the Earth Medicine Alliance's first conference. The Bay Area nonprofit is just about a year old and this was one of its first public offerings. From the moment I found its web site a few months earlier, I knew this would be a group to align myself with. But it wasn't clear until I soaked up the positive energy of that conference just how closely this group would match my values.

After feeling completely alive and juiced at the conference, I decided to attend the annual members retreat later that month. We gathered at the edge of the continent where the Pacific meets the land. On our first night, as we participated in ritual visioning, a powerful storm blew and boomed outside, punctuating our intentions. The people gathered there spoke from their hearts, sharing their hope that we can bring back an Earth-honoring culture.

I left the retreat feeling full and knowing I'd find a way to help the organization grow and thrive. And last week I was accepted as a member of the board of directors. It gives me great joy to know that working with this organization is going to allow me to connect with many more people who share my conviction that humans and nature must be reconnected. I feel, too, that I've just stepped more firmly on my path. What a fantastic feeling.

Terrapsychology Anthology Available...And I'm In It!

 

For a really long time I'd had the goal to have a book published that includes both my words and my images. I'm so happy to say that with the publication of the terrapsychology anthology Rebearths: Conversations with a World Ensouled my dream has come true!

My photograph graces the cover of the anthology, which includes the writing of many different scholars who look at the world through the lens of terrapsychology, the study of the interaction between the psyche of the planet/the land/place and the human psyche.

In addition, my paper Embodying the Power of the Storm is one of the chapters included in the book. I feel honored and privileged to be part of this excellent group of writers (some of them were my classmates at JFK!). Accompanying my chapter are a few more of my photographs.

I am grateful to Craig Chalquist, who edited this work, and who first introduced me to terrapsychololgy in his Planetary Psychology class at JFK University. Finding out about this field of study lit a fire under me that has yet to burn out.

Head on over to Amazon and get your copy! You won't be disappointed. It's also available on Kindle.

Speaking at CIIS

I'll be speaking as part of International Education Week at the California Institute of Integral Studies on November 15. I'm excited to have the opportunity to get the word out about the TerraPlaces project and meet several other like-minded souls!

Here's the info:

"TerraPlaces: Deep Communion with Nature"

Monday, November 15

11 a.m.

Room 607

California Institute for Integral Studies

1453 Mission Street, San Francisco, CA 94103

And here is the flier...if you can attend the entire day, I highly recommend it!

In other news, I attended the Earth Medicine Alliance conference this past weekend and found it a wonderful experience. The organizers are heart-centered, soulful people and I think you should check out their web site right now and consider becoming a member. They are doing important work in the world.

Harvest Moon and Equinox

For a personal fall equinox and harvest moon celebration, I decided to visit Lime Ridge Open Space this evening. It's nearby and there are many hills from which I could easily glimpse the moonrise.

As I walked up the first hill from the parking lot, I was stopped in my tracks by seeing a barn owl hovering over the field ahead of me. I watched it hover, fly forward a few feet, hover some more, and do this same pattern while making a circle over the field. Eventually it caught dinner and flew with it to a nearby tree. Seeing an owl within minutes of arriving was a beautiful sign.

I climbed a small hill to a bench and awaited the moon. The evening was warm and peaceful. A few other moon enthusiasts were out as well, including two women who found a spot and began doing yoga and a small ritual.

I watched white-tailed kites hover over the fields as well and saw one swoop down and catch it's dinner. I heard the squeak of the animal it caught. Witnessing this made me catch my breath in amazement. I saw a rabbit run across the trail a few feet ahead of me. And then, I saw the moon.

It rose majestically from behind the hills, tinged orange from the sun's last rays. I did a small ritual of my own, reading a list of things I am ready to let go of, and welcoming in whatever the universe has in store for me. I included some pretty big items on the list this time around; it's time for some major clearing in my life. I teared up while sharing the list with the moon. It felt like a benevolent and generous guide holding space for me.

I walked down the hill and was greeted by one more barn owl that flew right toward me and then veered off to my left over a hill. I could not have asked for a more magical evening. I came home feeling uplifted and relaxed.

You can see an entire set of photos of the evening on my Flickr page.

Fall TerraPlaces Project Launched

Autumn begins this week, we get to enjoy a gorgeous harvest full moon, and we also get to revel in the launch of the Fall TerraPlaces Project!

During this three-month phase we'll be exploring the connection between place and dreams. How do landscapes show up in our dreams? How does a deeper connection with the land affect our dreams? I'll be teaching you how to foster a more in-depth relationship with both the land and your dreams. We had a fantastic time during the last phase sharing our places with one another and I can feel the momentum growing already with this new phase. Come and join us!

Finding Our Place

I feel so much joy about how the TerraPlaces project is coming together. In just two weeks we've grown from six to 31 members and the numbers increase daily. We have participants from Australia, the UK, Europe, and the US. We all share a deep love of place and I can tell this from the responses people have shared about their experiences sitting with their special spot the last two weeks.

One member is sitting with an inviting strip of forest just outside Minneapolis. Another will commune with a lake in Maine. Still another will walk a path in Oakland, tending to the land by picking up the trash that daily accumulates there. We've talked about the Milky Way (something I've never seen) and people have guided me to local spots where I might catch a glimpse. We've shared how even our front porches, backyards, and decks provide us a link to the natural world. From cicadas to hummingbirds to deer, we're visited by our animal brothers and sisters and we revel in it.

Here are a few snippets from my journal entries:

August 4: "I immediately tried to find the redwood tree I'd had in my mind as 'the spot.' I couldn't find it. It's like it wasn't there, this amazing tree I'd created in my mind. I knew I'd visited a beautiful redwood there before, but 'the tree' hid from me this time. So instead I walked the concrete path, grumpy about how many people were there and angry I only had a little time to spend.

I ended up at a large pine tree with smooth bark that caught my attention. Lance pointed out that six crows sat in the tree. I looked up and had trouble seeing them at first, but they slowly appeared. Crows. I wasn't sure what to think about that. Lance sat down in the grass and I joined him, promptly putting my hand in bird shit. I felt defeated. A very emaciated woman walked by, telling her husband she was glad she'd be able to go to the doctor tomorrow. Seeing her felt right: I, too, was emaciated, but in an emotional sense. This divorce and the other circumstances surrounding it have left me exhausted, drained.

The next morning I returned, determined to have a better experience. A cold wind blew that made the park uninviting. I wandered to a stand of redwoods next to the outdoor pool. I saw several mushrooms blooming and felt uplifted: a sign of life. Then I noticed several Corona bottle caps as well. Light. Light in the darkness. I took a breath. I walked around a while longer and then left."


August 9: "It was much quieter at the park than during the day...there was no pool noise and fewer people overall so I thought I'd be more relaxed and happy. Soon, however, the highway noise overtook it all. After a while it was almost all I could hear, drowning out the sound of the wind and birds. I tried to allow it to be there but I found myself becoming more and more annoyed. I tried to focus on the beauty around me: the tree silhouettes darkening against a lavender sky, the feel of the redwood trunk behind me, the soft dirt under my hands. I breathed in the cool breeze. And still the cars and trucks haunted me.


I realized I must make room for the highway noise. The more we resist things, the more they push back. Somehow, I want to find a way to hold the reality of the highway and still enjoy the nature that surrounds me at the park. Somehow, I have to find a way to hold cities and nature. And here I am, setting up a duality. There must be a way to better integrate cities and nature so the flow is there, so it's not a this vs. that situation."

It's a learning process. I relish the idea of seeing where this practice takes all of us as we visit our places between now and December. 
 

TerraPlaces Project

I am so thrilled to announce that a project I cooked up is launching this Sunday, August 1!

It's called the TerraPlaces Project and it is all about connecting with nature. My goal is to gather people from around the world to participate in the project, which is a study to determine the effects of being in the presence of nature.

I'd love for you to join us! The only requirements: choosing an outdoor space to sit with and sharing your experiences on our web site. The benefits to you could include reduced stress, greater connection with your environment, and closer ties with family, friends, and the flora and fauna that inhabit your chosen place.

Have a favorite spot next to a tree or on a shoreline? Or wish you could spent more time outside? This is the perfect way to incorporate more nature into your life.

The first phase of the project begins August 1, so sign up soon!

And once you've joined us, visit our Facebook page.

Loving the Tarantula

For my entire life I've been terrified of spiders. Even the teeniest speck of a spider brought on panic attacks as a child (and who am I kidding...two years ago a black widow nearly scared me literally to death). I remember some story about a black widow being in my crib, but I don't know if it's true. I do remember the black widow that came crawling out of the faucet one day when I was about to take a bath. And all the black widows that made webs on the foundation of the house who terrorized me as I helped my mom plant marigolds. Me and spiders just didn't mix.

The last three months of college in Boulder I lived in the basement of a townhouse. Desperate to find a place, I'd taken the first one I saw. The day I moved in the former tenant casually said, "By the way, this place has a lot of spiders." Alarm bells sounded in my head. I went into full panic. How could I live there?! Just then, a big spider lumbered out of the closet. It was a long three months. Every morning, as I sat peeing in the tiny bathroom, one or two spiders would crawl out of the space occupied by the water heater (and a spider colony, apparently) and come to wish me a good morning. Or sometimes they sat in the bathtub, and spiders always look bigger contrasted against white bathtubs. These spiders met with a watery grave.

Other spiders in this house weren't so lucky. They were doused with Raid. And so was I. Perhaps all my health problems can be traced to living in a Raid bomb for three months.

Even though I thought the only alternative to going crazy from panic was killing these creatures, I didn't feel good about it. I just didn't want them near me...and especially not on me. 

One spider almost caused me to wreck my car. It was a gorgeous fall afternoon in Denver. I pulled out from the light at 6th and Speer and as I did, I looked to my left. I detected movement on my arm. My heart raced and then I saw it: a small, white, creepy-as-hell spider. I shrieked and flung my hand to whisk it off of me. Then I remembered I was driving. I looked up just in time to avoid hitting the car in front of me. Shaking terribly, I pulled into a gas station. I searched the car...it couldn't have gotten far. The spider crawled out from under my seat and met its death: pounding by ice scraper. 


So I guess I'm a recovering spider murderer. It doesn't feel good. But I am trying to make amends. Sometime in the last year my heart flipped over and I started to care for spiders. Not love, mind you, but I developed a respect and admiration for them. They're pretty amazing. They create incredible webs. And many cultures believe they are symbols of the goddess. So that changed my mind. I started to wonder if Spider was one of my totem animals. I had no trouble accepting Bear and Owl, but Spider? Hmmm.

Somehow, it sank in and I embraced spider as sacred. I placed the Spider card from the Medicine Cards on my altar. And I declared a moratorium on spider murder both at home and at work. Now they spiders are relocated. I have also spoken with the spiders and told them the house rules: they can live with me as long as they don't get on me. If they break that rule, I can't guarantee my reflexes won't kick in. No one's tried it yet. 

But the biggest change came last week on a hike with a friend in Mount Diablo Regional Park. (You may remember that this is the place where I first encountered Owl. It's a magical place...I've seen a mole, quail, and a coyote there as well.) We were out at dusk, our favorite time to be in Nature. At one point I looked down and saw my friend about to step on a tarantula! I yelled out, but couldn't articulate what I wanted to say. 

Luckily, she stepped right over it. That's when I realized I wasn't afraid. Instead, I wanted to see it. I wanted to watch it, take it in. I could appreciate its beauty, its fragility. It was big, at least the size of the palm of my hand. And yet, I had no desire to run away. I told my friend in amazement that this was the first time I'd seen a tarantula and not panicked. The last time I saw one, I was the one who almost stepped on it. As soon as I saw it I jumped several feet to the right and had a panic attack. This time, I didn't want to leave the tarantula. 

Eventually we sauntered off on the trail. I couldn't stop thinking about the tarantula. And I knew then that I'd accepted Spider as a totem, because that tarantula is in my heart even now.

Afraid of the Wild

I realized a while ago while visiting my favorite oak tree that I am still afraid of the wild. For all the writing and talking I do about getting into nature, there are some things I can't bring myself to do just yet. Like walk through knee-high grass in summer for fear of ticks, for instance.

My mom works for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and that means I grew up with a more-than-healthy concern for Lyme disease. As I stood at the edge of the trail, facing the magnificent tree that I've sat under so many times, I just couldn't budge. I'd never been there when the grass was high, so I'd never had to confront this particular fear. 

I tried talking myself into walking right through that grass without a care so I could lean up against the tree's wide trunk and take in branches and sky and Mt. Diablo and rolling hills. But it didn't work. I hiked further up the hill and sat under a much smaller tree right next to the trail where I wouldn't have to touch any grass. I felt like a wuss, like I had failed somehow. The view isn't as good from that tree; there are too many cookie-cutter houses and strip malls below. Leaf-blowers whined and car motors rumbled and there was too much smog. And right before me was miner-stripped Mt. Zion's deep ridges, a stark reminder of the damage we do to Nature. It didn't quite create the mood I'd hoped for. But, the view did echo my inner landscape: one in which I'm still afraid of bugs and diseases and dirt. A landscape of separation.

I think that's when the tiny iridescent-green beetle came to visit. It landed on my hand and stayed for a long while, tromping around. Eventually it settled on my finger and I was able to take a picture. I sat with that beetle, watching its antennae waving in the wind. It seemed to have achieved the relaxation I longed for. So I settled back and took its example, content to let the breeze tickle my face. Later, another beetle joined us. It landed in a container where I'd put cherry pits and carrot nubs. I got it to crawl on my other hand and I tried to see if the two beetles could be friends. It didn't work out. The second beetle soon flew off. The first beetle and I shared the space for a bit longer and then it left as well.

I like to think that beetle came as an ambassador from the wild. It visited to say, "Hey, we're not so bad. Get to know us. Don't shy away. And relax already." I don't know if the beetle cured my fear of ticks, but it did encourage me to slowly become more courageous about exploring the wild.

Mourning the Gull

This morning I awoke with the following dream:
I am swimming in a bay watching two gulls sitting in what looks like a car from a rollercoaster. It's floating in the air. One of the gulls is badly burned; she looks dark pink and nearly featherless. The car touches down into the bay. The burned gull flies off and the other, healthier-looking gull remains. He cries, mourning the loss of his mate. Then he is hovering over me as I lay back in the water. The water is very thick, like foam padding and it is deep gray. I am surprised it can hold me like this -- I don't have to make any effort. I start sobbing, mourning the loss of the burned gull. I weep and weep. The gull comforts me. Then a big wave comes and pushes me away from the gull. I am sad, but I know we must be separated.

This dream demonstrates my feelings about the dying Gulf of Mexico seabirds and the sea turtles being burned alive as BP tries to clean up the oil. It shows that the ocean will still hold us, that there is still the possibility of relationship even though we have so thoroughly let the ocean down. There is hope.

I'm having trouble mourning the Gulf in waking life...the pain is so tremendous that I don't let myself go there very often. This is the case for most of us: the devastation is overwhelming to the point of numbness. But we still need to try, as much as possible, to feel the anger, the sadness, the pain. Because the numbness is what got us here. It is what has keeps us disconnected from Nature.

Terry Tempest Williams recently wrote a moving piece posted at the Great West Institute's blog.  In it she makes the connection that this wound gushing from the center of the earth is our own wound: "How many people killed, how many communities destroyed, how many ecosystems ravaged, how many species lost, before we will begin to see this dark open wound gushing from the depths of the sea as our own?"

This is one reason why this crisis is so devastating and painful. This is our blood pouring out. We are wounding ourselves. She goes on to say, "Carl Jung has described the ocean as a symbol for the unconscious. May our unconscious death grip on the planet be brought to the surface and released as we seek individual and collective help for the trauma we are inflicting on ourselves and all life on this beautiful, breathing Earth, from our self-destructive behavior and dangerous dance with oil."

This is "trauma we are inflicting on ourselves and all life." It bears repeating because it is important for us to understand how deeply this affects us all. So what is to be done? Must we all just sit with our grief, not knowing what to do, ignoring it, numbing out?

No. We can do several things. First, we can look at our own individual dependence on oil. By now we all know the solutions: biking or walking to work and nearby errands if possible. Cutting way back on consumption. Eating local. These are all good first steps.

But there is more, and Terry Tempest Williams shares this step in her piece: we must bear witness. I bore witness in my dream this morning, as well as in the pelican dream I shared earlier. This is one way to bear witness. Another is to listen to the stories of the dying animals, the dying livelihoods, the dying ocean. Yet another is to look at images, watch video of the damaged waters. And finally, we can literally get ourselves down to the Gulf and see the crisis first-hand. That is what Williams says she will do.

It is not necessary to go to the Gulf physically. We can go there in our minds, in our hearts. Watch your dreams: you may be traveling there at night. As Williams writes, "We can bear witness each in our own way, each in our own time, each with the gifts that are ours. The adage, 'all disasters are local,' has never been more true."

Find your way of bearing witness. Transmute the pain and grief into an action you feel comfortable taking. This is the most important work we can do right now.

I Heart TED and Sylvia Earle

Recently I've started spending a lot of time at the TED web site because they partnered with 2009 TED prize winner Sylvia Earle, one of the greatest voices for the ocean.

Every few weeks they upload new content to a series called A Taste of Mission Blue. I highly recommend watching the talks. Here's the text from TED about this project:

"On April 6-10, 2010, inspired by Sylvia Earle's TED Prize wish, a group of 100 scientists, activists and philanthropists set sail on an epic adventure into the blue. During five days of cruising the Galapagos Islands, we developed a new model of radical collaboration that could significantly impact the way we protect our oceans. (For details, read the blog post Ocean Hope at Mission Blue.)

Talks in this theme come from the scientists and ocean lovers onboard Mission Blue Voyage. And start by watching Sylvia Earle's TED Prize wish from TED2009: 'I wish you would use all means at your disposal -- films! expeditions! the web! more! -- to ignite public support for a global network of marine protected areas, hope spots large enough to save and restore the ocean, the blue heart of the planet.'"

Earle also just launched her ambitious and needed project Mission Blue to create what she calls Hope Spots throughout the ocean to help protect critical ocean animals and habitat. Whenever I become discouraged about my own work related to the ocean, I think of Earle and others like her and I keep moving. Continuing to speak for the ocean is the most important thing for me to do right now.

Dreamer of San Francisco

My lovely friend and classmate Linda Mastrangelo wrote an article on me as part of her Dreamers of San Francisco series at Examiner.com. The article describes my work in the world, providing a glimpse into where the universe is taking me. It also talks a little about the the final project I just completed for my master's in Consciousness and Transformative Studies.

And be sure to check out the others featured in this series...dreamers are fascinating people!

Embracing the Pelican

A few nights ago I had the following dream:

I'm standing at the edge of a marsh or wetland. I see a bald eagle flying toward me. It lands in the water, wings out. It comes right toward me. Then it changes into a golden eagle with a strange, long, duck-like bill. It has red-brown eyes that hold sadness. It walks right up to me. I back away slightly and so does the bird. We hesitate. But I realize it wants me to pet it. I begin petting its head and it turns into a pelican. Soon it is right up against my body and it is the same size as me. It rests its head on my shoulder. I feel so much love for the pelican and I want to protect it. As I pet it, its feathers dry off and become incredibly soft. As I pet the pelican, I talk to it, trying to soothe it.

My heart is absolutely breaking at the situation in the Gulf. So many animals are dying: pelicans, sea turtles, dolphins, marlin, shrimp...the list is enormous. The tragic results of our greed and over-consumption are nearly more than I can bear. I wish I were able to save every single bird languishing in the oily Gulf waters.

The collapse of the Deepwater Horizon platform came just 10 days before a major collapse in my own life. At the end of April, my husband and I decided to divorce. I felt everything crash in around me. We were already losing our physical home to foreclosure, and now we are losing our metaphorical home as well. I have to rebuild everything from scratch.

Although my husband and I will remain good friends and the separation has been as amiable as possible, the grief runs deeper than I could ever imagine. As a result of my personal upheaval, I have had a limited capacity to work with the grief I feel over the death in the Gulf of Mexico.

But this dream provided a doorway into that grief. As my mentor Karen Jaenke said when we worked this dream, if I can inhabit my personal grief then I can better hold the collective grief over the oil spill. I am creating a bridge to the collective grief in the dream when I hold the pelican despite my own suffering and attempt to relieve its suffering. We meet halfway, each coming from our own tragedy, in order to heal each other. As I soothed the pelican, I also soothed myself and it soothed me.

I feel stronger now. It's been more than a month since Lance and I made the decision to split. With each day that passes I feel more capable of holding the Gulf tragedy in tandem with my own crises. The next step is to transform this grief into healing, a step I imagine will take many, many months.

Both images courtesy of the International Bird Rescue Research Center

Muir Woods Wisdom

I recently visited one of my favorite places in the world, Muir Woods National Monument, a magical place. The first time I visited I felt I'd stepped into another world, and with each subsequent visit I come to know the forest more and love it more deeply.

However, during this visit I felt strangely separate from the trees, ferns, flowers, and banana slugs. My grief acted as a wall blocking the gentle love that flows from the majestic redwoods. It felt uncomfortable, this separation. The magic couldn't penetrate my defenses and I left feeling numb. I'm so used to having my heart wide open to nature that this nearly broke my heart again.

As I write this, I wonder if this dynamic is what keeps so many of us from connecting more deeply with Nature. We've all been hurt, some of us to our cores and multiple times. The constant crises happening around the world cause us intense grief and sorrow. Although Nature provides powerful healing, our hearts must be open to it before the healing will work. I see that now with an understanding I didn't have before.

Perhaps if I'd had more time (and I'm talking a few days here) the wall might have given way. I know if I'd been there to sit, relax, rest, and listen to the fresh green life growing all around me, that would have made a difference. Instead I hiked for more than two hours, and although it was slow, it was near-constant movement.

Action gets in the way of being. It gets in the way of absorbing and restoring and healing.

I have decided here and now the next time I visit Nature I will have the intention to sit, listen, and heal.

Good Ol' Trickster

Back in October, I went for a hike, the first after my surgery in August. My plan: to connect with the land and find out what it might have to say. I chose the Black Diamond Mines in Antioch, the site of a former mining town revisioned as a regional preserve.

I did not expect to connect with archetypal energies (read: trickster) and learn a powerful lesson about myself, but that's exactly what happened. And I wrote about it as a fairytale, one I've posted over at Katrina Dreamer.

Here's an excerpt to whet your palate:

When she looked up from her thoughts, she stopped dead and gasped. Her left hand flew up over her heart and she uttered, "Oh my god." A coyote trotted along a cattle trail 50 yards away on her right. Its fur matched exactly the yellow-brown early fall grass. Katrina stared as though she saw a deity. She could not move her feet: the sight of the animal rooted her to the ground. The coyote crossed the valley as Katrina silently watched. It appeared unaware of her although she knew it sensed her presence. The beauty of the animal put Katrina in a state of awe. Time stopped. If I could hold on to this moment forever, I would, Katrina thought. Read more.

Communicating With Nature

I talk a lot here about communicating with nature. But what does that mean? Does it mean a tree or a rock or a bird actually talks to you? Does it mean that the tree or rock or bird actually understands what you say back to it?

On a certain level, I believe the answer is yes. I don't mean that the ocean is suddenly going to start talking to you in a booming voice that speaks perfect English. There are many ways of communicating, including through sensations, visions, smells, and signs. Some people, like Dorothy Maclean, one of the founders of Findhorn, do hear a voice in their head when communicating with trees or plants. But others receive the communication in the other ways I've listed.

I am a panpsychist, someone who believes that everything, and I mean everything, in the universe has at least some level of consciousness. I take a broader view than many panpsychists might, and this stems from my work with terrapsychology, parapsychology, shamanism, and the pagan beliefs of my Celtic and Nordic ancestors.

In any case, I regularly communicate with nature. This can take many forms. Sometimes I sit down with a tree and see what it has to tell me. Other times I address the ocean or the land upon which I'm sitting. It could also mean communicating with birds or cats or insects.

There are several ways in which to do this. Sometimes I use my clairvoyant training and I go into trance while sitting with a tree, watching for what the tree has to say. Other times I will get into a meditative state and attempt to speak with the soul of the land, a practice which is the essence of terrapsychology. Or, I might leave my eyes open and watch for synchronicities, which is another way in which nature communicates with us. All of these ways are valid, and all of them work.

If you would like to try communicating with nature, I've found the following meditation to be a good introduction. You can have someone read this to you, or record yourself saying it and play it back. It's best to do this while in nature, but you can do it from your bed as well. Have a journal or paper and pen ready nearby so you can record your experience.

Communicating With a Place in Nature That Calls You
Get into a comfortable position. You can sit up or lie down. Take a few deep breaths, calming your body and mind. Feel for anywhere you are uncomfortable and shift yourself to the most comfortable place you can manage. Allow any thoughts that arise to come up and then let them drift away. Imagine each thought as a balloon that slips through your fingers and flies off on the wind.

Imagine you are in a clearing. You sit amongst grass and wildflowers. You hear the gentle burble of a stream in the distance. The wind gently blows through the trees, touching your skin. Breathe in the fresh air and feel the sun on your back. You see the beginning of a trail before you. Get up and begin walking on the trail. Eventually the landscape will change. You'll start to notice different features. Maybe the forest gives way to a sandy beach. You might find yourself standing in front of a waterfall. Go wherever the trail leads. When you recognize you've found the right spot, find a resting place. Is the setting familiar or foreign? Have you been here before? Open yourself to what this landscape has to say. Ask the land a question, or simply relax and allow it to share its message with you. Stay here for a few minutes.

When you feel you are ready, stand up. Thank the land for being with you. Begin walking back down the trail. When you reach the spot where you started, gently open your eyes and return to the place where you are. When you feel ready, write down your experiences.