“The truth is nobody can own anything. That was an unheard-of concept among indigenous people. We invented that.” ~ Tom Shadyac.

Moving across an ocean as a child, trading a grey and gloomy city life for that of a tropical rural town, meant that my relationship to the rhythms of the earth and moon changed.  It was clear from our first Sunday in Chapelton, Jamaica, that people had a different way of developing relationships.  My father was gifted a rooster (we named him Reginald, Reggie for short).  A few Sundays later, along came Henrietta.  And so I became the feeder of chickens, learning that some eggs (if fertilized by the busy and noisy Reggie) would hatch into the most perfect baby chicks!  The gift giver was quite surprised to know that Reggie had not been killed and eaten for Sunday dinner!

Seasons in the Caribbean are not the dramatic swings from cold winter to the green buds of Spring; a (hopefully, if you’re lucky) warm summer to the colorful autumnal falling leaves.  In the Caribbean the seasons may be known for the presence or absence of rainfall.  Or perhaps by the fruits that are plentiful at that time of year.  During mango season, the saying goes, there may be enough mangoes to ‘stone dawg’ (throw at dogs).

So I learnt to pay attention to different signs.  During the dry season (which in some years became a drought), the earth would crack open, green bushes would dry up, people would stare at the sky and hope that a wisp of a cloud would grow and develop into something wet.  ‘What a heat!’ people would remark to each other.  The produce in the market would not be as plentiful; the choices not as colorful.  On the other hand, during the rainy season, you could rely on torrential downpours every afternoon.  Rain would drum on zinc rooves; travel would be curtailed.  Umbrellas provided little protection from the elements.  Yards would turn into mud pits, cars often digging deeper and deeper if you tried too hard to get out of the swamp.  Kids would bathe in the rain, laughing to feel the stinging drops cooling a hot humid day. And the land would be green again, reminding us that patience is one of the secrets of life.  Wait long enough and everything changes.  Nothing lasts forever.

I have always been fascinated by stories involving Native Americans, Third Nation People.  One of my favorite novelists (Tony Hillerman) wrote detective stories set in the Southwest USA, in Navajo Nation.  His main character Jim Leaphorn leant heavily on his traditional view of the world to solve mysteries.  He would place thumbtacks on his map of the area that represented sites of any information related to the crime he was investigating.  He believed in patterns, noting that even when you can’t see a pattern, if you step back far enough, one will emerge. 

One thing that indigenous people all over the world seem to have in common is a respect both for the earth on which they live, and the wisdom of their elders.  Whenever I read something that resonates deeply with me, or that sounds like a way of life we should all be following, I often feel a bit jealous, why am I not one of the indigenous people of the world?  Why didn’t I grow up learning healing medicine; learning to read the signs Mother Nature places in our way; learning that we should not see ourselves as owners of the land, but as stewards, custodians.

It occurred to me very recently that I, along with all of the inhabitants of this earth, am indigenous to this planet earth.  Unfortunately, along the way many of us have been relocated (either forcefully or by choice) to a place far removed from our ancestral roots, and even further away from those practices that are based on a respectful relationship with the land that feeds and houses us.  And in doing so we have given up living for the communal good in favor of individual greed.

It is common in these toxic times, to talk about triggers.  For those who have gone through trauma (whether in childhood or as adults), severe reactions may be provoked through ‘triggers’, whether visual or verbal.  We often see notices on documentaries or news items of upcoming topics that may prove ‘triggering’ for those with a history of such events.  Those of us fortunate enough to have no such fears may be impatient with such notices, we may tire of having to police our own speech, may be impatient with those affected. I am reminded of the old saying, that we should walk a mile in the shoes of such a person, before we judge how they should feel or react.

About a year ago I saw a meme that spoke about ‘glimmers’.  These are things which are the opposite of triggers, moments that cause feelings of joy, of safety, of hope.  Apparently a clinician (Deb Dana) coined the term used in ‘polyvagal’ therapy, a way to balance the fight or flight response.  Glimmers may be seen in small things, a beautiful sunset, the movement of a bird hopping from limb to limb, the smell of coffee brewing.  But most of all it requires each of us recognizing these cues, looking for the sparkle of the sun on the water, listening for a woodpecker tapping on a tree trunk, paying attention.

For me, as I try to make sense of an America where heavily armed masked men drag women from cars; tear-gas non-violent protestors; shoot people in the head, I have to focus on the sight of  approximately 30 saffron clad Buddhist monks walking (some of them barefooted) from Texas to Washington D.C. to bring promote peace, compassion and non-violence.  In a world dominated by news of wars, of occupation, of military might, this handful of men armed only with flowers, is drawing the attention of local communities.  At first spectators were few, but in the last few days, as they walked (daytime only) through South and North Carolina, along rural roads and through city centers, crowds of people have thronged them.  The glimmer that stole my heart, was seeing a young boy standing at the roadside with eyes closed, hands held in front of his chest in ‘Namaste’ style.  While others in the crowd were handing flowers to the monks, one monk stopped in front of the boy, tapped him on the chin, and handed him a few flowers.

This simple act of walking, exuding compassion and peace, has touched thousands.  It has tapped into the longing for a better way of relating to and connecting with each other.  Like the (mostly White) Minnesotans who are showing up to protest the thuggish and violent treatment of their (mostly non-White) neighbors, Americans are demonstrating that there is a better way of being.  The United States may have a long way to go to correct the systemic racism being played out in front of our eyes, but the People have the Power, and we are all in this together.

This Friday morning, I hope you can find glimmers in your day to counteract the anxiety-laden world.  I hope you can get back in touch with the rhythms of the earth.  I hope you can reach out to an elder and share in some of the wisdom they have to offer. 

Have a wonderful weekend, Family!

One Love!

Namaste.