Voice In The Wilderness

My 2012 Birthday Memory Run

2012-01-11T18:45:00.001-08:00

Another cycle in my life has arrived and I performed my annual ceremony this morning. I went down into the Arroyo Seco, and ran 57 laps for my “birthday memory run.”

It was cold and overcast down in the canyon amidst the sycamores, alders, and oaks, and the weather seemed to parallel my being born into the world with ignorance of the ways of man. The fact that there was no one around seemed to further make the point that we are each born into this world, alone and naked.

I began my run, one lap for each year, while trying to re-live that year as I ran. I was able to more fully get into the past feeling of being there, and actually living it.

Suddenly there was this Conscious awareness, “me,” and it was looking out at a very strange world through my new eyes. “What is this strangeness?” I thought. I found myself crying as I ran through these early years, as I often cried back in the mid to late 1950s in my Pasadena home. Why did I cry? I was fed, clothed, warm, and there were no abuses. But I felt an indefinable feeling that something was wrong and that I was no longer a part of the Eternal Oneness that I’d been connected to.

But how could I have told anyone about that? Even now, it’s difficult.

I ran around the large body of water, surrounded by still fallen branches from the recent heavy winds.

As I ran, I realized how we all take everything for granted, and we question too little, much to our detriment. We seldom ask “Why?” and we quickly join the herd in trying to get better, get more, outdo, make money, make more money, go to school so you can get a job, and get married. These are the things we all do. They are expected. We do so automatically. And we end up with barely any time to look at each of our choices, and each thought, to see where our choices are taking us.

I felt much empathy for my parents, two people who were like gods to me as a child, and who in fact struggled like every one else in their day to day challenges. How blind I was!

I looked for real love, and sometimes found it. My life with Dolores was full of ups and downs, and successes and failures, and a rich tapestry of struggling to find meaning in life, all the while working to fit this into the necessities that society and others impose upon us.

I saw my various projects that brought me and others happiness and fulfillment, though my mind went to the many projects that I did not get done. I wrote in my notebook these projects so I could take action this year.

I saw the birds and heard the squirrels and a cool breeze sung in the treetops as I neared the end of my life’s review.

Life is sweet and short, and, as we’ve all been told, this is it and there’s no dress rehearsal. I smiled inwardly at my circle of friends and family, and hoped and prayed that 2012 will be the best year ever, the transformational year of change, as reflected in the fulfillment of the 13th Baktun of the Mayan Long Count calendar. Yes, 13 means “good luck” to Mayans!

It was a great run, and I thank each of you who have been a part of this wonderful

2012 and the Maya Calendar

2012-01-01T08:17:00.000-08:00

On December 30, 2011, the Los Angeles Times published a cartoon on their editorial page titled “Teenage Mayan Prankster,” with two youth saying “Yeah, predict the world will end in 2012… that’ll really freak ‘em out.” What’s wrong with the cartoon? They are shown carving a large image of the popular Aztec calendar!

The cartoon is an example of the general ignorance about the Mayan calendar, and what it might mean for this year.

So, for starters, there is a real Maya calendar and yes, one large cycle ends on December 21, 2012, and another cycle begins. But there are no predictions whatsoever about “doom and gloom” by the Maya.

[Scroll down and read my 2012 Blog of January 4, 2011, where I speak about this in more detail.]

WHAT HAPPENED WHEN I WAS IN GUATEMALA

2011-12-18T19:41:00.001-08:00

[photo by Sunny Savage; Richard Nyerges at right]

I was sitting in a bus, driving through the Guatemalan countryside when I got the call that Richard had died. I was troubled, and upset, and saddened that I’d not see Richard again. I began to think over some of our life together. I thought mostly of childhood incidents, and they mostly made me laugh.

-- The haircuts Richard and I would get from our father. My father would sit us up on highchair in the garage and the whole neighborhood could watch the spectacle of a poor haircut.

-- Or our early morning paperroutes when we were out in the neighborhood on our bicycles when everyone else was asleep.

-- Once Richard left the house when my father told him he couldn’t, and my father was so mad that he got in the car and drove over to Santa Rosa and Highland screaming the whole way. He dragged Richard into the car and was screaming and slapping him all the way home, much to the entertainment of all the other children in the neighborhood.

-- I was often surprised when Richard was overly protective of me as his younger brother. Once, while walking home from school, an older boy said something to me, and I just ignored it. But Richard went over to this boy and punched him more times than I could count, and the boy limped away, and I was shocked at his reaction. Yet, I gained a new respect for him.

But mostly, when I heard of his death, I was sad. He’d not be around anymore, even though we probably only talked once a month or so. The last time I saw him was at Jonny’s memorial. I realized that life is short and precious, and we don’t always get all the time we think we need, or deserve.

I remember many years ago when I felt bad, or had some problem, I could always call my parents and talk. I would talk for an hour or so with my mother, and it always made me feel better, and hopeful. Then both parents were gone, and I discovered that I could Still talk to them, which I do almost daily. I just don’t get the same responses anymore.

We could do the same with Richard too, and he will feel your support. Even if you don’t believe this, you can talk to him still and feel better yourself.

The following two days in Guatemala were particularly painful, not entirely but partly because of thinking about Richard. One night I spoke with a friend, Doug, and Doug told me many things, including that my pain wasn’t because of Richard’s pain, but because of my own fears about life, and that was very insightful. Doug told me that night that Richard would appear to me in my dreams. But Richard did not appear to me that night.

The following day, I was participating in our class on the meaning of the Mayan glyphs, and later did a meditation while light music was playing.

When I closed my eyes, I found myself on a large flat mountaintop, not unlike the top of one of the many pyramids we were visiting. Richard was there with me, smiling. He didn’t say anything, but we held hands and began to dance in a circle, slowly at first. We smiled and laughed as we held hands and twirled. We laughed, and Jonathan joined the circle, as we talked lightly about how much fun it was. Dolores joined, and my mother and father joined, smiling. My mother said, “Aren’t you going to invite us to dance?” and we all laughed and continued to dance in this circle.

It was such pure, child-like enjoyment, and others, seeing our delight, quickly joined. Helen joined the circle, and Tom and David and Gilbert quickly joined. Pam, Michael, and Jeffrey joined. Spouses and children joined and the circle got bigger and louder and we were singing and smiling and it was like a Michael Jackson “We are the World” songfest, except the music was more like the Jewish folk song Hava Nagilah. [If you don’t know this song, you should listen to it right now on YouTube to get a feel for my dream].

We went round and round and friends began to join – I saw the neighborhood friends join with Richard – Lee Keller, George Sotello, Babbit, Jim Billups, and I saw the many family friends join the dance – Paul Martinez and Carlos Frausto and the deFazios and people kept joining, friends of Richard and friends of his friends and the circle got larger and larger, and the music was like this celestial angelic music and we moved as one and we smiled and we felt a oneness that you just want to feel on earth but you rarely do.

The circle got larger and larger and as we danced and moved we all began to see that we were all one family, one organism, and we recognized that if I hurt you, I hurt myself, and that if I steal from you, I steal from me, and that if I cause pain to you, I cause pain to myself. We were all moving and there was no fear, no pride, no lies, no prejudice, no Democrats, no Republicans, and Richard in his bright green shirt, was smiling broadly.

As the circle continued and everyone felt their oneness with each other, and with Richard of course, I saw flashes of bright white light all around us – believe me, this would make a great music video!

While we danced, Richard was on the far side of the circle and he said, Don’t cry for me. I said, People are sad. Why not cry. He said, Don’t cry. Just live better. Live your life, and be good. Live better and respect each other and be good to each other. Do that in my memory.

My meditation ended.

So, in Richard’s name, I thank every one of you for being a part of this wonderful circle.

ON GIVING THANKS

2011-11-21T09:47:00.001-08:00

I’ve written extensively on the contributions from Native Americans, contributions that are usually forgotten. These include foods, medicines, political ideas (including the U.S. Constitution and method of government), and much more.

Now that Thanksgiving is nearly upon us again this year, it’s appropriate to thank those people who helped the earliest settlers to survive. By “thanks,” I mean tangible forms of thanks, such as direct gifts to Native families who are still suffering from economic hardship. Look folks, their land was stolen from them as the flow of European culture rolled over them. Now they are the “forgotten minority.”

Casinos haven’t come to all the tribes, and even casinos are not the panacea that they are made out to be.

Yes, also give thanks to God! You should humbly give thanks for your bounty and your blessings. And this does not require you to consume massive amounts of food!

I gave a talk at the Sunday Spiritual Studies at WTI. I was describing the great diversity of Native Americans here in what is now Canada, U.S., and Mexico, with as many as 5000 distinct languages and/or dialects at the time of European contact. The cultural practices and religious ideas are likewise diverse. The Native Americans were never a homogenous group of people.

As a prelude to why we as Americans should give tangible thanks to Native Americans, I attempted to answer the very complicated question of “Who are/were the Native Americans?”

I hope to write this up into a full report with all the details, but for now, here is the basic outline and reference list of my report.

1. Scientific American, November 2011, The First Americans. A report showing that the “first Americans” were here far longer than previously thought.

2. “Red Earth, White Lies” by Vine Deloria, demonstrating that the “Bering Strait Theory” is just that, a theory, based on very little fact.

3. The case of Kensington Man, whose unofficial test showed that he was related to the Ainu of Japan.

4. “The Zuni Enigma” by Nancy Yaw Davis, who shows amazing connections between Japanese and the Zuni. Her theory is that Japanese Buddhists left earthquake-wracked medieval Japan and sailed across the Pacific to Southern California, eventually migrating inland to the Zuni territory.

5. “Pale Ink” by Henriette Mertz, detailing two visits by Chinese to the American west coast, one about 2000 B.C. and another about 400 A.D. She compares some uncanny connections between the Maya and the Chinese.

6. “He Walked the Americas” by L. Taylor Hansen, a collection of fables, legends, stories, and songs from assorted Native American tribes who speak of a holy man or prophet who came from the sea and spread teachings among all tribes.

7. National Geographic, December 1972, article “Mounds: Riddles from the Indian Past,” page 783. Page 794 and 795 shows a conch shell that was dug from a mound. A drawing on the conch shell shows rowers on a boat with an obvious symbol of Tanith, a Carthaginian lunar goddess of the Phoenician pantheon. How did that get there?

8. “America B.C.” by Barry Fell, a fascinating account of the many people who came to America before Columbus, and the evidence left behind.

9. “Cahokia, Ancient America’s Great City on the Mississippi” by Timothy Pauketat.

And there was much more in this fascinating exploration of the diverse roots of the people who became the First Americans. I hope that reading some of the books listed here will help to expand your perspective.

Was Jesus Black?

2011-11-09T08:59:00.001-08:00

Christmas is coming, and soon we’ll be entrenched in all the Christmas themes. In a recent conversation, a friend casually said to me, “Well, you know Jesus was black, don’t you?” Needless to say, this led to a long conversation.

I researched this over 15 years ago, and did find that there is sufficient Biblical evidence to say that Jesus was indeed of mixed ancestry, including African. But whether or not that makes him “black” depends on whose definition you use.

Many have heard of the “black Madonna” and believe that to be a carryover from when everyone believed Jesus had African ancestors in his lineage. But that’s not “proof,” anymore than we can say it’s “proof” that Santa Claus is black because we saw a black Santa Claus last Christmas in Harlem.

Where is the proof? I have actually seen Old Testament quotes used to “prove” that Jesus was black. But you can’t use Old Testament quotes for proof, since those quotes were written before Jesus was born!

And you really can’t rely on the book of Daniel or the book of Revelation for proof of Jesus’ African ancestry either since those books are highly symbolic and prophetic and subject to diverse interpretations.

Many of the Old Testament quotes that are used to “prove” that Jesus is black are King James translations, and if you read from another Bible translation – such as the Lamsa Bible translated out of the Aramaic – there would be no “evidence” whatsoever there to suggest anything about Jesus being black.

The key to Jesus’ ancestry is to look at the genealogies listed in the Bible, specifically Luke 3: 23-31, and Matthew 1:1-17. Note carefully that most such lineages list only the male line, but there in these lineages (both a bit different, by the way), we are told of at least four of the women in Jesus’ genealogical line. These are Rehab, Ruth, Tamar, and Bathsheba. Rehab (also spelled Rahab) was a Canaanite. Tamar was probably a Canaanite. Bethsheba, often referred to as a Hittite, was more likely Japhethic, that is, not a descendant of Ham. (However, this is not clear). Ruth was in the line of Ham.

Now, who was Ham? Who were the Canaanites and Hittites?

According to Genesis 9:19, all mankind descended from Noah’s three sons: Shem, Ham, and Japheth as they spread throughout the world. Ham’s descendants became the black people who settled in Africa, and parts of the Arabian peninsula. His sons were Cush, whose descendants settled in Ethiopia, Mizraim, whose descendants settled in Egypt, Put, whose descendants settled in Libya, and Canaan, whose descendants settled in Palestine. The descendants of Cush were the main populace of the Cushite Empire, which extended from western Libya to Ethiopia and Nubia, all of present day Egypt, and the Arabian peninsula into the mountains of Turkey. They spoke several languages and had skin pigmentation ranging from dark black to medium brown.

It takes a bit of study to ascertain who these people were – and there were other possible African women in Jesus’ lineage as well – but, in general, when we are speaking of Cushites, Canaanites, descendants of Ham, etc., we are speaking of Africans. It is entirely possible that this wasn’t a big deal when the scriptures were written since Jesus’ racial background would have been regarded as common knowledge.

Still, nowhere in the Scriptures can one find definitive descriptions of Jesus’ ethnicity or physical appearance. It just isn’t there. But the clues are there. He was obviously a Jewish rabbi, trained in the Jewish ways, whose background included people from all parts of the known world at that time.

Was Jesus black? It all depends upon how you define “black.” He was clearly a cosmopolitan man.

Road Kill Bill, R.I.P.

2011-10-24T16:27:00.000-07:00

News item, dated October 13, 2001.
“Wild Bill” Found Dead in Park Bushes Wednesday.

Christopher Nyerges at the memorial "gravesite" for William Barrios, aka "Road Kill Bill"
-- photo by Francisco Loaiza

A transient known locally as “wild Bill” was found dead at 12:53 p.m. Wednesday afternoon in the bushes of Hahamongna Park, confirmed Sgt. Debra Herman of the Crescenta Valley Sherff’s Station on Thursday night.

“We – everyone at the station here – have had contact with him several times,” Herman said.

“Wild Bill” is formally known as 54-year-old William Pluma Barrios, who was christened with the nickname for allegedly being intoxicated in public (allegedly??) and yelling at people, which has led to many calls to the station. The park, which is right across the street from La Canada High School, was known as Barrios’ most frequented area. (His “most frequented area”?? He LIVED there!)

Barrios cause of death is still not known, as the coroner’s office is awaiting test results which could arrive in a few weeks, said Lt. Brian Elias of the county coroner’s office. However, Elias added that there is no suspicion of foul play in Barrios’ death.

[You can find a photo of Barrios on Facebook or Altadena Patch. Use the term "Wild Bill"]

XXX XX XXX

I was saddened to read the above news notice – in fact, I was first alerted about his death by a phone call from Francisco Loaiza.

I encountered Road Kill (as he said he preferred to be called) about 30 years ago, when he would camp in the area around Gould Mesa about two miles north of JPL. In the last 6 or so years, he lived further south in various spots in Hahamongna Watershed Park, and we “talked” often. He would often break into poetry or wild laughter, but we had some semblance of coherency. When he learned who I was one day, he ran into his lean-to and came back with a dog-eared copy of my “Guide to Wild Foods” book, which he said taught him a few local wild edible plants.

Over 3 years ago, when Helen Sweany attended one of my classes, she left her pack behind. She called me to go find it, but it was gone. A few days later, a bus driver called Helen. The bus driver was given Helen’s pack by Road Kill, and Helen got it back intact, with nothing removed! Road Kill told the bus driver that he really enjoyed reading Helen’s notebook about wild foods and survival.

Today, October 24, I recorded a podcast in honor of Road Kill next to his last camp, where someone erected a stone memorial in his honor. You can listen to the podcast on Preparedness Radio Network, with the date October 27, 2011.

Here is the poem I wrote about Road Kill back in 2008. When I gave him a copy, he smiled and then let out a wild laugh. I think that meant he liked it.

ROAD KILL BILL

Road Kill Bill was rarely seen
He lived under a tree in oak grove park
He was maybe 50, not a teen
Whose homeless life seemed so stark

For weeks we’d see him come and go
But we never together talked
we’d hear his loud alone discourses
caused some fear, car doors were locked

But he never caused us harm
Just a man living life
Under the oak trees he lived
Coming from a life of strife

One day Helen she forgot her pack
When I went back to get it, twas no more there
Helen called me few days later
Saying her pack got back, an answered prayer
A bus driver was given it
And then it was passed to Helen
Found by Road Kill Bill, given to bus driver
Bill was an honest man, not a felon

'Well, I’m not speaking for his past
For I only knew this incident
But finally one day he talked to us
After the outing he said “hi,” coincident
With us wondering who he was
Bill’s the name, they call me Road Kill
Yes he lived in the bush, said he
A lively man, dynamic still
This large man called Road Kill Bill
A scary visage but a friendly guy
Wanting to talk with others still
Who simply asked us Why
And how, do you make fire with stick
Can you really do it
Or is it just a trick
And he told us of reading Tom Brown
Of tracking deer and shelter making
He teethless told us how to improve our fire
And he smiled to see that we were not just faking

Road Kill accepted my apple
To give to his friend the deer
“For my toothless mouth
Cannot chew it, I fear”
Said he lost his teeth
In some past jailtime fight
I wanted to ask why he did time
But feared it would not be right
To open the door of frightful fights
And memories bad and invoking pain
So I just smiled back at him
My curiosity I did restrain

I told him Helen was so pleased
To get pack back with book of notes
He simply nodded that he’d done the deed
He was not a man of many coats
Just living life under a tree
In plain sight for any to see
Wild man of the oaken land
shakes you with his strong hand

When you travel this life
Of valleys and hill
You may sometimes reflect
Upon Road Kill Bill

Food he gets from here and there
No air conditioning, not a care
Bathroom and water are nearby
Wild hair with a simple tie

Not a life that all would live
Most have money that flows through a sieve
On all “necessities” that Bill doesn’t use
Such luxuries can be a noose
Are they Right or wrong
Are they good or bad
These are things that Road Kill Bill
Hasn’t had, and isn’t mad

Lives simply under oak tree
Watches animals that he does see
Bothers no one, uses little
Why should anyone him belittle

Probably not a saint
But carbon footprint zero
His lifestyle make you faint
But could he be a hero?

Written August 23, 2008

THINKING ABOUT DOLORES

2011-09-30T10:18:00.000-07:00

Dolores' birthday is October 2, Sunday, and so I am thinking about her death, and the memorial we held for her. I always enjoyed her mother's book, "The Winds Erase Your Footprints." It's a true story her mother wrote about her best friend who married a Navajo man and went to live on the reservation during the Great Depression.

(You can read my Memorial to Dolores at http://www.christophernyeges.com/ and clicking Memorial).
We read passages from the book when we had a "63rd birthday commemoration" for Dolores.

Here is a passage. (The book can be obtained anywhere, plus at the Store at http://www.christophernyerges.com/)

Here is what I read, from Chapter 7, The Sing:

And then Shimah was telling him about the yellow pollen. Juanita could almost follow the story by her mother-in-law's excited gestures. Shimah's face was strong and tense, no room for gentleness, and her voice carried a new undertone--like fear. Only her hands seemed natural, although excited, as she gestured. Strange that Shimah should tell about the yellow pollen, rather than ask the rider about himself, about news which he was surely carrying. Of what interest could the yellow pollen be to him?
But he was interested. He leaned forward as though better to hear her words; his eyes narrowed and his face looked very grave. He asked many questions. Shimah answered and sometimes Yee-ke-nes-bah. Through their conversation one word seemed to repeat itself until it began to echo and re-echo in Juanita's mind: ma-itso . . . ma-itso.
...And then Lorencito began to talk seriously to Luciano; Juanita heard the work ma-itso repeated again and again. Shimah sat nodding her head as her oldest son talked, occasionally adding a word to what he was saying. Luciano turned to Juanita; his face was marked with gravity as was his older brother's. "Lorencito says that it is not safe to keep this from you any longer; I should tell you now."
Juanita waited. Her mouth and throat felt suddenly dry. She could not have spoken. Her thoughts raced: this is in some way connected, ma-itso and yellow pollen. Perhaps it's all connected, all of the puzzling and unexplained things that have happened. And somehow, the looks on their faces, Shimah's and Lu's, Yee-ke-nes-bah's and Lorencito's, are a little bit frightening.
"Before we came here," her husband began, "when I tried to tell you about everything which might seem strange to you, I didn't tell you about ma-itso--the wolf clan. One reason, it no longer seemed as believable to me as it once had; perhaps all the years in school did that; anyhow, in Hollywood I seldom thought of it. When we came here, my mother told me the wolf clan was still strong in Cañoncito. I didn't tell you then because I could see no reason why they would try to harm us. But to be sure you were safe, my mother and sisters watched you every minute.
"There were times when I almost told you, those times when you were upset about things you didn't understand. And yet I hated to frighten you needlessly. Already there was so much for you to worry about. It seemed better to wait until I had a job, until we were living in town and then tell you. "But now two things have happened which make me sure the ma-itso is for some reason after us. I found yellow pollen in an X mark on my hat brim, and today my mother found pollen on our clothes. That is their warning. Lorencito thinks you will be safer if you know about this evil thing." A hundred questions sprang to Juanita's lips, but her husband went on talking, interrupted now and then by Lorencito or his mother.
"The wolf clan is as old as the Navajo tribe. From the beginning some men turned certain powers, which should have been used for good, toward evil things. Corn pollen, used for blessing, is used by the ma-itso as a warning to a person marked for death. And death does not come in a usual manner; it comes in a round-about way which cannot be easily traced. The victim sickens suddenly; sometimes his mind leaves him. No Medicine Man can cure him. Sometimes the victim meets with a mysterious and fatal accident.

Goodbye Jonathan

2011-09-07T08:41:00.000-07:00

JONATHAN NYERGES
June 18, 1982 – September 1, 2011

Nine of us stood there at dusk on Sunday at the intersection of Baldwin and Palm in Arcadia. It was where my nephew Jonathan died in a motorcycle accident the previous Thursday.

He was driving north-bound on Baldwin when man driving westbound on Palm turned onto Baldwin. He crossed Baldwin to go south, but he probably didn’t see Jonathan. The impact killed Jonathan instantly and the small SUV was toppled, with the driver dying later in the hospital.

We friends and family members stood by the make-shift shrines erected by Jonathan’s friends. In the middle of the street, on the traffic island, were signs and letters to Jonny. On the sidewalk at the base of the traffic light were a dozen or so candles, a small motorcycle, others trinkets, lots of flowers, and many good wishes written in chalk on the sidewalk and curb.

We talked about what happened, or, how we thought it might have happened. I took photos. Then I noticed all the various colored spray paint marks in the middle of the street. They were the marks made by the police to define the accident scene. Richard and I tried to figure out what the markings meant. We couldn’t figure it all out, but we thought we recognized marks for the main part of the motorcycle. We stared at a spot where Jonny apparently fell.

The sky was red with awesome clouds, and drops of rain had begun falling lightly. Rain, any rain, was a rarity in early September in California. As we silently stood, we listened for Jonny as the cars roared by. I heard Richard continuing to describe what happened, and listened to his hopes that somehow it was all a dream and Jonny would ride up their driveway on the motorcycle. The sky began to light up in an electrical storm. These were huge flashes of multi-branched light quickly followed by the crack of thunder. I took it to be Jonny’s goodbye to all of us who stood there honoring his last stand, where his 29 years ended.

I reflected on the few but happy interactions I had with Jonathan. Helen and I last saw him at Tina Frausto’s Fouth of July party in Altadena. He was there with motorcycle helmet in hand. He was happy and we enjoyed our short talk.

I remember when I went to a mailbox shop one day in Sierra Madre when I needed something notarized. The man behind the counter smiled as he refused my money for his work. It was Jonny who recognized me. He was happy, and smiled in his generosity. He always seemed so happy to see me, even though we only saw one another very seldom. I’d always hoped that I’d have the time, or make the time, to develop a closer relationship with my nephews and nieces. Now there would be no more chance with Jonny.

I knew through his father – my brother Richard – that Jonny loved bikes and motorcycles from an early age, and that he was – like his two brothers Michael and Jeffrey – a whiz when it came to the technical things like computers.

I wish I could have known him better. Now it is too late.

I know the pain too well of losing someone we love. When my wife Dolores died, I felt empty and lost and depressed for a long time, and close friends offered me much support. Now is the time for friends and family to do all they can to offer your loving support and physical support to Richard and his family.

After Dolores died, my mentor shared with me something to keep in mind with all our living loved ones. This is an urging for how all of us should begin interacting with each other, all the time.

FARE WELL SONG TOO-SELDOM SUNG

This could be the last time that I see you;
either you or I could die before we meet again;
so please know that I deep-admire your admirable traits
and laud your ceaseless efforts to perfect your soul
and elevate your character (and that of everyone you interact with).
I hope we interact again (in this life or the next);
but if we don’t
I want that you should know
my heart has been enriched by having had you in my life
and hereby do I wish you Godspeed
in your up-and-onward sojourn through Eternity.

Labor Day 2011

2011-09-06T11:37:00.000-07:00

A review of “Razor’s Edge”

We were in a small field and a small stream was trickling by. We created an ember with a bow and drill, and then put the ember into a wad of mugwort. We blew it into a flame, and then created our small fire between two rocks. We balanced a #10 can over the rocks, and heated water. Soon, we added coffee grounds to the water, and then strained our coffee through a clean sock into each of our cups. The hobo coffee was delicious and then we began to warm our stew made from beans and wild greens.

It was Labor Day in Highland Park, and we gathered for the annual WTI event [www.wtinc.info] to discuss the meanings of “real labor,” and to consider why we do what we do all life long, and whether or not there are better alternatives. Our focus was upon those peripatetics throughout history who could not go along with their society’s norm, who knew there was a better way, and who worked to share this insight with their fellow man.

Such peripatetics could have included Jesus, Socrates, Ghandi, Pythagoras, and many others.

As we enjoyed our coffee and beans, we moved to a nearby makeshift shelter where an outdoor TV had been set up. We sat in the shade as we viewed and discussed the original version of “Razor’s Edge.”

The story begins in 1919, post World War I, where the author Somerset Maugm, describes one of the most unusual individuals he’d ever encountered. The main character, Larry, survived the last battles of WWI, but his fellow soldier, right next to him, was shot dead. That caused an indelible mark in Larry, and it led him on his search for the meaning of life, his life, life in general. It meant Larry found himself unable to settle down, and wandered to Paris, and to a monastery in India. Meanwhile, we see what happens to Larry’s childhood friends as they pursue their ordinary life, the very life they wanted for Larry.

I first viewed this movie when it was on TV in the middle of the night, a restless night when I could not sleep and I was asking the very questions that Larry asked himself. What is this all about? Why do I do what I do? What should I do? Why is everyone so unhappy with me if I do not do as they want?

The original black and white version of “Razor’s Edge” remains an inspiring classic, and I strongly recommend that you view it, and put yourself in Larry’s shoes.
Did Larry ever find his answers? He said he found some of his answers, though not all, and that he might never find all his answers. But while in India, while alone outdoors as the rising sun made its appearance, he experienced what some would call a Oneness with The All, and felt that he were a part of God. It was an experience that he could barely describe in words, and one which he thought back to often.

That was what I did on Labor Day.

Some "Economic Survival" Considerations

2011-08-23T10:06:00.001-07:00

Here is some “food for thought” adapted from the last chapter of my “How to Survive Anywhere” book (published by Stackpole Books, available from Amazon.com, or ChristopherNyerges.com.).

It would be the height of naivete to discuss the full picture of “survival” and not bring up money. Money is an integral, inescapable part of life in any specialized and organized society. Talk show host Tony Brown once said “If I’ve been accused of over-emphasizing money, it’s because I place money right up there with oxygen as a necessity.”

Whole libraries have already been written by the folks who live their lives 24/7 in the pursuit of money. You know, Suze Orman, Loral Langemeier, and all the folks that tell you how to make a meaningful income by investing, or buying real estate, or whatever. If you feel you are lacking in this area, you owe it to yourself to explore those who have already succeeded in this arena.

For our purposes here, let’s look at “money” in a meaningful context.

None of us really needs money, per se. We need (and want) those things that money buys for us. This means that if we focus upon the acquisition of money per se, we may simply be bumbling ahead with our lives, assuming that the acquisition of money is itself an important goal.

We should define our goals in life, and we should recognize that although money can help to accelerate our achieving many goals, money cannot replace our desire and drive to achieve and accomplish that goal. In other words, the desire to accomplish and to produce results, and to establish working networks with other people is far more meaningful to our life’s goals than is “money.”

Knowledge and self-education is perhaps the most important first step to increasing your survival awareness, and allowing yourself the possibility of making new choices. This concept was the subject of the last chapter of our Extreme Simplicity: Homesteading in the City book, where we explored the four illusions of money. Fear and greed are the primary factors that drive our economy. If you allow fear or greed to drive you, you cannot make the best decisions.

Once you recognize that much of our personal thinking, and public broadcasting, about “economics” is counter-productive to our “economic survival” (and automatically impinges upon other facets of survival as well), we inevitably look for personal solutions. What can I do? What can I do, especially if I am in a limited situation? What can I do now?

GOALS
Begin by defining your goals very specifically. Write them down. Record some short-term goals, but also your long-term goals. These must be goals that you deeply desire to achieve, and they should be goals that you can achieve. Plus, you might have a list of goals that you must achieve (e.g., I must have $1700 for my mortgage each month or I lose my home!). For each goal, you should be able to record at least three concrete steps that you can take – whatever your current financial situation – to achieve these goals. Bring other people into your analysis. Don’t try to do this alone.

Also, consider the broadest ramifications for your “goals.” Are they benefiting more than just myself? Are these goals that might facilitate friends, family, neighbors to work together (thus increasing our survival quotient)?

In “Beautiful Mind,” the movie about the life of John Nash, the mathematician who developed “game theory,” Nash quotes Adam Smith (often referred to as the father of modern economics) as saying “The best result comes when everyone in the group is doing what’s best for themselves.” In other words, your self-interest should serve the group. It is better for the society that you not lose your home to foreclosure. Nash saw that Adam Smith, while correct, was incomplete. Nash enhanced Adam Smith’s axiom to” “The best result comes when everyone in the group is doing what’s best for themselves – AND the group.” It was clear to a mathematician that thinking about others is definitely in your best “survival” interests.

Obviously, this is just food for thought. The practical applications are up to you to find, and to put into action.

Here are some financial-related principles to ponder, and to experiment with. Think of them as tools for survival and enlightened living

1. As ye give, so shall ye receive.

2. Always lead with an offer. (Don’t expect someone to care about you just because you are “in need.” Before you ask for help, find out how you can benefit the other person).

3. Make every place better for your having been there. (This is true “Appreciation”)

4. What blesses one, blesses all. (Another way of saying “all ships rise in a rising tide”).

5. Discover the “magic” of Tithing. (Even financial advisor Suze Orman suggests that you give to the church or charity of your choice).

6. Pay back your debts

7. Barter and exchange. (You’d be amazed at the sorts of relationships that can develop when money is not involved.)

In Search of Real Survival, part 2

2011-07-29T09:22:00.001-07:00

An Interview with Vine Deloria, Jr.

I had to chuckle when I heard a “survivalist” say that he’d like to see the collapse of society so that he could start over from scratch. Really? Why would someone sitting behind a computer, driving a truck, and buying what he needs at the local grocery store want things to fall apart? Though such persons are usually clueless as to what it actually takes to start a society “from scratch,” such sentiments do reveal a deep discontent with our current state of affairs.

History is full of folks who attempted to create a breakaway society, usually in search of a better, more idealistic, maybe even utopian, way of life. That’s how our American experiment began, at the expense of the Native Americans. This is how and why the Amish live they way they do, and persevere despite the ridicule of their neighbors.

Hippies of the 1960s and ‘70s also tried to create separate communities, “communes,” where they could farm, dance and sing, and attempt to put into practice whatever religion and politics they developed. Let’s examine the hippies.

A few years ago, I had the opportunity to interview Vine Deloria, Jr. for Wilderness Way magazine. Deloria was named by Time magazine as one of the greatest religious thinkers of the 20th Century. Among his approximately two dozen books, he wrote “God is Red,” which Wilma Mankiller (former Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation) called “the flagship book of Native American spirituality.” (Deloria passed away at age 72 in November of 2005).

Among other things, I spoke with Deloria about how hippies presumed to imitate Native Americans in both look and practices.

The reason that the hippie movement failed, Deloria told me, was not just because of drug use, though that was a significant factor. Hippies failed, said Deloria, because they failed to grasp the value of organizing tribally, and they ignored the value of customs. “I think they failed for lack of discipline and lack of commitment,” he said. “People tried to create communities from scratch and it didn’t work. People were sincere, but they often lacked anything in common except a rebellious spirit. And in fact, a lot of Indian communities today have the very same problem. Extreme individualism is chaos and unjust to everyone.”

Deloria also blames television and popular media for presenting a false picture of what traditional Indian culture was and is all about, so those who do sincerely try to pursue that end up pursuing a counterfeit.

“In the world of ideas,” continues Deloria, “Indian culture becomes a kind of deli where people pick and choose what they want to practice. Much of the appropriation is the projection of wishful thinking on different Indian symbols, such as the vision quest, sweat lodge, using the pipe, etc. My fear was that with so many Indians living in the cities with no experience with reservation communities, some of them would begin to think that the frauds actually represented the true tribal cultures. I can remember how popular the Billy Jack movies were and many Indian youths thought the ‘ceremonies’ in that movie were what people actually did. A lot of it sounded good to people who knew nothing about Indian culture. And simply being an Indian in the urban area does not somehow magically mean you know anything of the traditional tribal culture.”

It was an insightful interview with Deloria on a variety of topics where he shared – if you read between the lines – how to succeed at making a meaningful community, based upon following certain patterns from the past.

Unfortunately, the interview was never published in Wilderness Way because the owner/publisher told me that “It might offend Christian readers.”

“How on earth would they be offended?” I challenged.

“Because his book is called ‘God is Red,’” said the publisher.

I was shocked at his narrow-mindedness, and suggested that he read such books as “The Pipe and Christ,” or Joseph Epes Brown’s “The Sacred Pipe” to see that there is less dichotomy between pure tribal religion and pure Christianity than meets the eye. This is not to imply that Deloria did not criticize Christianity. He certainly did, but Deloria was an “equal opportunity” criticizer, criticizing what he saw wrong in both Native American practices, Christianity, and elsewhere.

For example, he harshly criticized televangelists such as Oral Roberts who once told his followers that he needed about $10 million for his new building or “God would take me home.” He analogized televangelists to mainstream Christianity as the travelling pop shaman to traditional tribal religion.

“Except the televangelists are much worse,” he explained. “They thirst for political power whereas the medicine men, even the phoneys, simply want some public recognition and status.”

There is no shortage of guidelines from the past or present for “the right ways to live.” It is silly to think that everything must be destroyed in order to create a higher and better way of life.

Deloria brought up just a few of the principles that anyone can work to put into practice: Discipline, organizing within a community of like-minded people, and valuing your traditions and customs.

Additionally, whenever anyone brings up “The Old Ways,” it usually refers to such things as valuing family, home, respect for elders, respect for your surroundings, cooperation with others, and the ability to adapt.

Anyone wishing to seek the meaning of Real Survival cannot go wrong by beginning to apply these simple principles into your daily life.

In Search of Real Survival

2011-07-27T09:08:00.001-07:00

All of us who have devoted our lives to studying and applying skills of survival are well aware of the periodic events which beset us all: wars, droughts, floods, hurricanes, earthquakes, economic collapses, etc. Some are “acts of God,” and many are acts of man.

The practical skills of survival are direly needed by all of us. And yet, the media continues to serve up “reality” shows that provide little or no practical skills in our day to day living.

Shows like Survivor, Man vs. Wild, Survivorman, and their offspring can be amusing, but are designed more for entertainment value rather than providing anything of real value. These shows which often depict buff individuals in a wilderness setting often showcase the worst of human nature in order to keep us glued to our seats.

Though it amusing, and often nauseating, to see hungry men and women eating snakes, rats, and grubs, there seems to be little relevance to the millions of modern urban dwellers.

What then is real survival all about?

Our food-related survival skills necessitate our knowledge of urban food production, such as growing fruit trees, raising vegetables in limited space, raising chickens, making compost.

We need to educate ourselves to the what foods have great nutritional value, and which do not. If we cannot grow at least some of our own food, we should support those farmers at local farmers markets who are providing local quality food.

Real survival in the modern world includes practical knowledge of economics. How can you get more for less money by spending less and earning more. You can begin by separating need from want, and then you should re-evaluate everything in your life that is touched by money. Ask yourself, “How can I obtain this thing, or service, or skill, without money?” Is it possible to trade or barter?

And then there is the ages-old good advice for how to soundly deal with material things: why buy new if used will do? Don’t discard if it can be made into something else, etc.

Economic collapse of a country’s currency has happened many times, usually due to the over-extension of the leaders who controlled the purse strings, and who considered themselves more deserving than the general populace. A collapse of a country’s currency forces the people to deal with stark, basic, everyday needs and concerns in a harsh manner until something new is developed.

While it is true that learning how to trap and eat a rat means you don’t have to worry about food from the store in the event of an economic collapse, it is far better to involve yourself in the practical and philosophical underpinnings of the society so that such a collapse doesn’t happen in the first place.

As our material abundance and technological advances continue, we become more and more dependent upon things which we cannot control. We’re fast on the path to a “Blade Runner” or “THX1138” world.

If you’re worried about our future, the answer does not lie with a loin-clothed man with a spear, since a thriving meaningful culture requires vastly more than that. Real survival must encompass a working knowledge of politics, economics, ecology, health, and so much more.

Our answers lie in making the time to educate ourselves to the things that really matter in life. For that matter, in today’s information-glutted world, it’s a real challenge to discern between useful and useless information, between entertainment and education, between that which leads us to freedom and that which merely titilates.

If we desire to be a part of the solution to the ails of modern civilization, then we must choose to not live our lives driven by fear and greed. Yes, real survival means that we must change ourselves first.

Sometimes, we have to realize that we’ve been hypnotized, and that we must fight our own ignorances. Real survival means that we must become like children again, and realize that there is no dishonor in going back to Square One. By reassessing everything that we think we know, and by asking questions anew, we may discover a new found joy in our very existence.

The pursuit of material survival is too often compassionless. We need compassion for each other if we want to have a society that is worth living in.

William Blake once summed up the essence of Real Survival when he stated, “I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother, and I found all three.”

REMEMBERING RON HOOD

2011-06-23T21:23:00.000-07:00

[Ron Hood died in his sleep on Tuesday, June 21, 2011]

Everyone knew Ron Hood. For me, he was the one relatively local person who was teaching the survival skills I wanted to learn. I knew of Ron long before I ever heard of Tom Brown. I knew about Larry Dean Olsen from his Outdoor Survival Skills book, and wanted to attend Olsen’s classes in the wilderness, but they were a long way from home, and I had no money.

So I studied ethnobotany close to home, from whomever I could. Sometime in the late 1970s, I was invited on a Los Angeles television talk show to talk about survival. The three guests were me to talk about wild foods, and Ellen Hall of WTI to talk about survival clothing, and Ron Hood. That was the first time we met. I recalled Ron as a somewhat thin man, about 10 years older than me, who brought a scientific mind to survival topics.

Occasionally, when drought and disaster and survival were in the news, Ron and I were often interviewed for the same news items. The media called me the “soft survivalist” and Ron the “hard survivalist.” Ron’s policy was “shoot first, ask questions later,” and my policy was why kill an animal at all if you can eat plants.

Ron was a Vietnam veteran, and was teaching at Northridge when I knew him. I would hear of his Sierra excursions from time to time.

Many years passed, and I often wondered what had become of Ron Hood. I learned that he’d moved to Idaho, and was now making the Wood’s Master survival videos, and had cannily obtained the survival.com URL.

Ron’s videos went into great detail on how to make a fire, build a shelter, make traps and snares, and more. Ron was doing all this, and showing how to do it right, in the proper context, way before there were the ridiculous survival game shows (e.g. Survivor), and before the appearance of Man vs. Wild or Survivorman.

In 2000, when I began working for Fox TV’s X Show, I got many of my ideas for what skills to demonstrate to the TV audience from Ron’s videos. Some skills I learned for the first time from his videos, such as how to make the primitive cross bow, the figure 4 deadfall trigger, and snares.

I think it was 1993 when a death brought Ron (and Karen) and I a bit closer. I was leading a Wild Food Walk on Memorial Day when a close friend of Ron’s dropped dead. Ron and I shared many conversations about Martin Kruse, and Ron had told me that he wished he had been there in Martin’s final moments.

By the early 2000s, followers of Hoods on-line Forum started having their get-togethers around the country, calling themselves the “hoodlums.” I participated in a few of these, as did Dude McLean and Alan Halcon. These get-togethers segued into our annual Dirttime event, where we taught survival skills for a week in the wilderness. Ron came to many of these, the last being at Lake Silverwood in the San Bernardino Forest in 2009.

Ron inspired a whole generation of outdoor skills practitioners. His death comes as a shock to me and many others. We all send our condolences to his wife Karen and his son Jesse.

I am sure everyone has many Ron Hood stories. These are mine.

"To Sleep With Anger"

2011-01-19T11:21:00.000-08:00

On Martin Luther King Day day at our annual WTI gathering, we watched “To Sleep With Anger,” a 1990 film directed by Charles Burnett. The film is about a black family residing in South-Central Los Angeles. One day, an old acquaintance (Harry, played by Danny Glover) come to visit the Gideon and his wife Suzie. Harry seems to be a good old friend, but always seems to stir up trouble. The family already had some conflicts but they seemed to get worse when Harry was there.

Eventually, Gideon has a stroke, and Babe Brother, the younger son, is heavily influenced by Harry. Babe Brother is about to leave his wife. The older brother, Junior, confronts Babe Brother before he departs and a fight erupts – with a knife. The mother tries to break it up and her hand gets cut, and they rush her to the hospital.

The incident brings many of the family’s conflicts to the forefront, and seems to unite them in a positive way once all recognize the negative influence of Harry, as Harry is asked to go.

To me, “To Sleep With Anger” is a classic film, full of the issues that any family faces. Indeed, much of this reminded me of my semi-dysfunctional family with our many failures and some successes.

Sometime in the mid-1990s, I went to a viewing of this film where Mr. Burnett was there to talk to the crowd and answer questions. It was a wonderful event. I’d already seen the movie but was compelled to see it where I could talk to the writer and director.

I asked him about some of the little details, like the young boy trying to play the horn, and the boy who fed the pigeons. These were little details that added a depth to the movie, though they had nothing to do with the plot. Mr. Burnett told me that that boy represented him, which made me smile. Watch the movie, and see how the boy and his horn practice somewhat frames the movie.

And Harry – who does he repesent? You have to see it and figure it out for yourself.

The movie won several awards, but I had never heard of it before a friend pointed it out to myself and Dolores back in the mid-90s.

“I think this is a great movie,” I told Mr. Burnett. “So why do you think it’s gotten so little attention?” Burnett’s answer was quick, and initially surprised me.
“Because there are all black actors,” he said matter of factly. “Really?” I said. Well, in fact, there were a few token whites in the movie, like one of the paramedics. Still, the movie was so good, capturing “family-ness” so well, that I just naturally assumed people would be color-blind and go see it and enjoy it and benefit from it.

Anyway, if you haven’t seen it, it can be rented or purchased at video places. I hope you view it and enjoy it like I did.

2011 Birthday Run

2011-01-11T17:51:00.000-08:00

I arrived around 8 a.m. at the Lower Arroyo casting ponds to do my annual birthday run that I’ve done for about 32 years now. I mentally divided the lap around the pool into seasons, and attempted to review each year of my life with each corresponding lap.

The day was overcast and cool, and somehow I felt very much in the past. In fact, as I ran, I had the sensation of viewing a single life, in the sense that it is only one life, no more, no less, and that I should attempt to derive lessons from the life that I “take with me.”

During childhood, I realized, perhaps more than ever before, all the opportunities that my parents afforded me. While we did not have the best nor happiest family, there was a stable home and regular meals. I realized that I was hungry for something as soon as I was able to think about things. And I pursued that something better, something more, in just about everything I did, which included poetry, painting, drumming, long conversations with friends about the meaning of life, gardening, meditation, and even drugs.

In many ways, that was good, since I had the chance to attempt to think for myself, and make mistakes, and attempt to evolve my own value judgements. On the other hand, I really should have had more parental guidance. I think I wanted much more pressure, and I felt I was able to do so much more at an early age. Nevertheless, I don’t harbor a bit of resentment towards my parents. I love them more than ever, and talk to each of them daily – despite that both have been deceased for many years.

I saw my life as the pursuit of meaning, of love, and of home, though I don’t think I realized it in those terms all those years. All too often, I did like everyone else does and engaged in the pursuit of money, thinking that money would provide my life with real meaning, love, and home. I think I still battle that one, since we all need the things that money can help us achieve, but we actually don’t need money, per se.

I cried the hardest when I thought of my acts of cruelty towards Dolores before we got married. It wasn’t intentional, and we were both homeless at the time (1984), and we managed to overcome that. But it still pains me, and I vow every day to not let my darker side ever overtake my actions again. And money never can buy love. Money bought our house, but we had to make it a home, which is an art, and requires love. And therein, in the act of lovingly creating a home, we found meaning.

And time goes on. When Dolores died two years ago, I relived that pain while running, and felt her soft hand caressing my forehead, saying both hello and goodbye.

By the time I finished running, I was in physical pain. I still, as I write these words, feel in that timelessness that the birthday run afforded me.

I realized, to my chagrin, that much of my life I was a taker, expecting others to carry the ball for me. Lately, I feel I am again somewhat imbalanced, giving, not receiving as much. So my gift to myself is to continue to seek the mysteries of life, to seek meaning, love, and home, and to allow myself to receive as much as I give.

In many ways, I felt that I died today, that some part of me died away, and that I am like a new child eager and ready for a new life. Too bad I am a new child in this broken down body….

On the Road to 2012

2011-01-04T11:05:00.000-08:00

In December, I had the opportunity to travel to Yucatan and to visit Mayan sites under the guidance of Miguel Angel Vergara Calleros, PhD. Calleros is the author of numerous books on the Maya. He was the director of cultural services at Chichen Itza for several years and is one of the foremost authorities on the archaelogical site of Chichen Itza. Additionally, he studied with a Mayan shaman for 17 years, and now continues to share in classes and seminars about Mayan spirituality.

Among other things, I was going to learn about the significance of the December 21, 2012 date to the Maya. For example, were there any actual predictions about 2012? Did the Maya predict that the world would end? Did they predict doom and gloom? Did they predict anything at all?

But I wasn’t going to learn these things in a vacuum. I was going to spend nearly two week immersed in Maya culture, learning significant aspects of their beliefs, spirituality, and monumental architecture. I would learn about 2012 in the proper context.

I arrived in Merida by airplane in early December, ready for a week of travel to pyramids and caves and cenotes.

On our first day, I was pleasantly surprised that Calleros was not only incredibly knowledgeable about Mayan history and archaeology, but was also a true metaphysician who constantly drew parallels between the exoteric world of rocks and inscriptions to the inner esoteric world of my own soul and my own body.

“As above, so below,” he would often tell us.

We began by visiting Mayapan, the last place where Kukulkan was know to reside. Kukulkan, aka Quetzalcoatl, was referred to as the Mayan Christ, a visitor who came from afar, who uplifted the people, and who created Mystery Schools whose ancient universal teachings are still preserved in stone.

We visited Izamal, where the top of a major pyramid had been leveled to create a large cathedral in the colonial days. There, on the large sprawling plaza of the cathedral, Pope John Paul II came in 1993 to ask forgiveness of the native people for the atrocities committed by the Spanish and by the Church. Ten thousand native people showed up to see the Pope and to hear his plea for forgiveness.

Later in the day, we had lunch at Mani, where in 1562 the zealous Bishop Diego de Landa ordered the burning and destruction of Mayan codices and artifacts. Even though de Landa didn’t understand what the artifacts meant, he was convinced that they were contrary to the teaching of the church.

“This destruction was akin to the burning of the library of Alexandria in the ancient world,” said Calleros. Interestingly, as an afterthought, de Landa thought there might be something of value in the Mayan writings and he saved 4 codices from destruction, and began to write down everything he could recalled in his famous document, “Relacion de Cosas de Yucatan” (History of the Things of Yucatan). It is because of de Landa’s writings that much of the Maya writings have been translated and understood.

At each site we entered, Calleros taught us how to enter in reverence, and how to depart the site with reverence, much the way a devout person would do at their chosen church or mosque. He performed ancient Mayan ceremonies at most sites – at the pyramids, in a cave, at a cenote, on the beach at sunset. When we gathered around his just-assembled altar, he prayed to the six directions, and we sent offerings of seed to the six directions.

To me, much of the ceremony was reminiscent of the Catholic Mass that dominated my childhood, though the Mayan ceremonies were outdoors, natural, and pre-Christian.

One night, Calleros and Richard Jelusich talked about the Mayan calendar. Like our own modern calendar, the Maya had different divisions of time which they kept track of. We have the day, the week, the month, the year, the millennium, etc. The Maya counted time by the number of days that have elapsed since a day that corresponds to our August 11, 3114 B.C. (The significance of that date is unclear).

The divisions of time that they kept track of were one day (called a “kin”), 20 days (called a “uinal” – roughly a month), 360 days (called a “tun” – roughly a year), 7,200 days (called a “katun”—19.7 years), and 144,000 days (called a “baktun” – 394.26 years). Thus, a calendar glyph would be represented by 5 symbols, and a number to indicate how many days in each of the periods have elapsed. The “Long Count” of the Maya calendar is the time it takes for 13 baktuns, counting from August 11, 3114 B.C. This Long Count is a period of 5,125.36 years, and that cycle ends on December 21, 2012. However. the following day does not begin the 14th baktun, but rather, the count from 1 to 13 begins again. One Long Count ends, another begins.

“The calendar doesn’t end,” says Calleros. “It just begins another cycle. It just rolls on, just like our modern calendar that never really ends.”

There are no predictions about anything at all pertaining to December 21, 2012. This is due in part because the Maya who wrote these inscriptions have been long gone. Still, there is nothing in the recorded records about doom and gloom. In fact, there is hardly any mention about 2012 at all. Only one stela mentions it.

Calleros acknowledges that lots of folks are simply making things up to sell books and fill seminars. “But, the Maya would have celebrated such a cycle ending, just like everyone today celebrates the New Year.” Calleros is aware that many are treating 2012 with great fear, largely due to ignorance.

Over the course of nearly two weeks, we went to many pyramid sites, remote villages, beaches, caves, and cenotes. One late night ceremony deep in a cenote was exceptional. Equally exceptional was participating in a Mayan ceremony on the beach of Campeche while the sun set.

We looked at plumed serpents in stone, crystal skulls, red jaguars, and living mysteries. Throughout it all, Calleros emphasized that the meaning of “Mayan sacrifices” was that we must let our egos die if we want to transform ourselves and bloom spiritually. “Don’t polish the stones of the pyramids,” he’d tell us. “but polish the stone of your temple and improve your character.” We should be less concerned about the external crystal skulls, and more concerned about the skull within. The crystal skull, we were told, represents our own Christ within.

We learned that the secret to 2012 is everywhere. The secret is within you and it is within the cross shape of every pyramid, and within every tree. In fact, there is no secret at all. 2012 is everything and nothing. It is the ending of the 13 baktuns of the Long Count as another Long Count begins. It is a time, therefore, of increased awareness and internet connections that allows us to be instantly connected. It is a time of potential, and like any other such time, it is entirely up to us to fit ourselves to be ready for such opportunities.

Note: Though there are now numerous 2012 books flooding the market, the only one I’d recommend is “The 2012 Story: The Myths, Fallacies, and Truth behind the most intriguing date in history” by John Major Jenkins.

"Merry Christmas"

2010-12-20T23:59:00.000-08:00

“Merry Christmas!” said my Jewish friend when he greeted me with a smile. “Merry Christmas,” I replied. I asked him if it ever bothered him that nearly everyone greets with “Merry Christmas” during December.

“Not at all,” he told me. “I mean, Hannukah is over, and I recognize that 90% of Americans are Christians.”

“What do you think about people saying ‘Happy Holidays,’” I asked.
My friend laughed. “When people ask me that, I ask them, ‘What holiday are you referring to?’ Most say nothing, but some say, well, it’s New Years too.”

It was refreshing that my Jewish friend was OK with the “Merry Christmas” greeting. In fact, he liked it. “I don’t expect the vast majority to conform to me,” he explained.

Fair enough. Then why has our society become cowardly in its political correctness so that we delete “Merry Christmas”? Are we really worried that it might offend someone?

Yes, there are other holidays: the secular Kwanzaa invented by a Long Beach State College teacher in the 1960s for African Americans, New Years (though most Chinese celebrate not January 1 but the Chinese New Years which usually falls in early Februrary), pagans who simply celebrate the solstice, and the month of Ramadan which sometimes falls near December, but not often since it moves forward through the calendar.

On the radio, a Christian man told the radio host that he didn’t celebrate Christmas because it was a lie. The host was shocked. What is the lie?, the host asked. The man said that he didn’t like the tale of Santa Claus, and that Jesus wasn’t born on the winter solstice. The host, in so many words, called the man an idiot.

But the conversation brought back memories of my researching the roots of Christmas back in my teens, when I discovered that Christmas in its present form was observed in pre-Christian days. Initially, this led to my disenchanted with the social norm of Christmas celebrations. If this isn’t really about the birth of Jesus, I wondered, why should I participate in this pagan practice. But over the years, I’ve come to have a rather different point of view about how to regard this odd Christmas holiday which is really a mish-mash customs from all over the world from various times. (Read the Golden Bough if these details interest you.)

First, a bit of history. Yes, it is true that the so-called “pagans” observed the solstices and equinoxes as their high holy days. In fact, nearly all religions in the past did so. “Pagan” originally referred to the country people who lived outside of Rome-proper, but gradually became a derogatory term for non-Christians.

We do not know when Jesus was born. The scriptures provide clues but no exact dates and no indication that this followers ever made a big deal about his birthday.

Though this raises eyebrows, it is a fact that Jesus was not a Christian, but a Jewish rabbi, most likely from the Essene sect. Since Christianity had not been invented yet, he observed the Jewish holy days, such as the Passover he was observing during the “last supper.”

And for the record, his name was not “Jesus Christ.” Look up “Christ” in your dictionary. “Christ” was a term referring to the Annointed One, referring to a messiah or savior. The original Hebrew term for his name was most often translated as Joshua, but was always translated “Jesus” to differentiate him from the other Joshua. A more accurate rendering would be Iesu, or Yeshua, ben Josephus or ben Pandira depending on which scholars you believe.

His followers changed their holy day to Sunday, in part to attract the “sun worshippers,” and also to separate themselves from the Jewish Saturday Sabbath.

But by the 4th Century, Constantine had a vision and declared Christianity the official religion of the kingdom. He Christianized all the “pagan” holy days, which is how the birth of the Sun celebration at the winter solstice morphed into the Birth of the Son, which we now call Christmas.

In fact, the observation of the winter solstice has been regarded with great reverence for as long as we can tell. During this winter’s deep, the sun was in its lowest part of the sky as it rose each day. Four days after the solstice, the rising sun appears to rise further north on the horizon – the sun has risen! This astronomical event has long had great metaphysical and personal value to the vast numbers of those people who have observed and celebrated it.

Though you may have many opinions about whether or not it was fair and square for the church to have stolen and renamed the pagan holy days, that does not make it inherently wrong. In fact, there is no inherent wrongness to it at all. As with most things in life, its value is wholly up to us, to use the timing for spiritual upliftment and growth, or not.

Interestingly, Christianity isn’t the only religion in recorded history which has a crucified savior, or a “Christ.” Nimrod, Mithra, Kukulkan (aka Quetzalcoatl) are just a few of history’s other “Christs.”

If we see that “Christ” is a Principle, and not just a person, we realize that the phrase “Merry Christmas” is indeed universal, ancient, and timeless. We can then also see that “Merry Christmas” is an appropriate greeting for this season for all people, of all backgrounds. It is the ideal blessings that we need to give to each other. It is a greeting that binds us together, and shouldn’t divide. It is a greeting that tells us we are all more alike than different, and that it is each of our destinys to let the universal Christ blossom in our hearts.

CHRISTMAS INSIGHT

2010-12-17T09:49:00.000-08:00

Sometimes we get so caught up in the problems of now and tomorrow that we simply disable ourselves to live in the moment and enjoy the miracle of life. I’d been so focussed on solving my own and other people’s problems, of growing older, of seeing friends die, of the consequences of financial mismanagement. I’d barely realized I’d fallen down the rabbit hole of not seeing the incredible that is before me.

After a late night meeting, I drove home, nearly mid-night, through the Arroyo Seco and along the Rose Bowl. The coolness of the night was refreshing, invigorating. I breathed deep and found myself looking anew at the enchanting hillside landscape that has always been hidden in plain view. I realized I’d been looking but not seeing. A lone coyote runs along the rode. Further along, a skunk hides from view by swiftly descending a storm drain. A melodic bird sings. The landscape is alive and bright, and I marvel at the late-night runners still engaged in their exercises.
Though my body aches with the scars of aging, I found that my mind was fresh, young, awakening again after a long sleep. I felt 17 again (or was it 14?) when I knew that I was immortal, eternal, a part of all things. I breathed deeply, and found great joy in the Eternal Now that was before me, the Eternal Now which always is. I experienced this same Eternal Now when running and motorcycling through the Arroyo Seco years ago, and when I would stand in the rain and feel its miracle.

I had been feeling anxious, worried, concerned, and though nothing had changed, I now felt free, hopeful, curious. I wanted to share, and I began to sing and think of poetry. But I quickly realized there is nothing that needs to be done. To experience the moment is sufficient, to go fully into the beauty of the moment, and to feel the past, and present, and future, all ripe with possibilities and discoveries, all in this moment.

I could now see the lights of the city and the peaks of the Angeles Forest with its occasional twinkling lights. I come by here every day, but somehow this was a new land, a magical land, the land of my mind. I began to wonder about the lot of man, working endlessly at jobs that are not enjoyed, to pursue more and better things, never defining real goals except maybe "retirement," which is not a real goal. I felt sad, and a gust of wind sobered me up, telling me to be concerned about my own choices, to refine my own daily actions and not to dwell on whatever it is that other people do or do not. The wind freed me of yet another pointless anchor—the thinking about what "other people" do or don’t do.

Be here now. Wasn’t that the title of an old hippie book? Be here now. Easy to say, hard to do. But it has become the main dictum in my inner religion, and though I have no church, the Arroyo Seco is the closest I’ve found. It is my homeland, my place of work and dreams, my place of endless adventures and ongoing discoveries. It is my Walden Pond, my Field of Dreams, my Golden Pond. It is simultaneously nothing and everything. It is a vehicle through which I continually find myself, still that same Self, still in that same body (for now), still eager to learn and to grow.

I finally got home and stood outside looking at the stars, feeling the cool evening wind. It felt good to be "up," and to know the fight is not over. I could feel the meaning of Bodhi-Dharma’s insightful words: "Fall down seven times, get up eight! Life starts from NOW."

And I began to realize, isn’t that the Christmas message? To rise again from the darkness, to be reborn again from the depth of the winter, to rediscover our inner self and our neighbor in this darkest time of the year? I felt a deep inner appreciation for whatever it was that provided me with this insight, this knowledge that I am apart of everything and everyone. I realized then that to truly experience the real meaning of Christmas I needed to create the environment so that the Christ-within can be born again within my own soul.

Thoughts on Giving Thanks

2010-11-23T08:24:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday of the year. Even moreso than Christmas. It is our uniquely American holiday where the family gathers, where we remember our roots, we share a meal, and we give thanks.

But look how quickly such simple and profound holidays get perverted. Today, we hardly know what “giving thanks” even means, and so the act of giving thanks is lost on most of us. Newscasters talk about “turkey day,” as if all there was to the day was eating turkey. Interestingly, most folks would not know whether or not they were eating turkey, or eating crow, and most of the time we’re doing the latter, figuratively speaking. Then, when we have barely taken the time to consider the notion of “giving thanks,” we get up early on the following “black Friday” to rush around with the mobs “looking for a good deal” to help us celebrate the consumer-driven commercial craze into which we’ve morphed “Christmas.”

Wow! How did we get here? What can we do about it? Let’s take a moment to look at the roots of Thanksgiving.

In the history of North America, we are told that the first historic Thanksgiving Day was in October of 1621. After a successful harvest that year at the Plymouth colony, there was about a week of celebrations. The local Indians and the colonists joined together, with the Indians generally showing the colonists (mostly city folks) how to hunt for the meal which consisted of fowl, deer, duck, goose, and fish. Corn bread, wild greens, plums, leeks, and many other vegetables (wild and domestic) were shared in this celebration. Interestingly, there is no evidence that wild turkey or wild cranberries (totally unpalatable without cooking and adding sweeteners) were part of the menu.

In fact, some historians question whether or not there were any religious overtones at all on this “first Thanksgiving,” citing such evidence as the archery and firearms games, and the running and jumping competitions, which they say would never be done at religious ceremonies by the Puritans.

Some say that the “first Thanksgiving” was just another Harvest Festival.
What then is it, if anything, that sets the American (and the Canadian) Thanksgiving celebration apart from any of the other myriad of Harvest Festivals?

The pilgrims experienced a severe drought in the summer of 1623. That season, they were totally dependent on wild game and wild plants, and owed their survival largely to the English-speaking Indian Squanto. In their lack, they refocussed upon their real purpose for coming to this new land. They sought to establish a time to give thanks for their spiritual bounty, in spite of the fact that they had no material bounty that year.

A harvest festival implies revelry and fun because of the material bounty; by contrast, a day of thanks is intended to remind us that there is more to life than the physical bodies and material food. The day of thanks is set apart so that we do not lose sight of our spiritual heritage, which is the real bounty.

Both Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July are the times that Americans have traditionally set aside to reflect upon the concepts of “freedom” and “giving thanks.” The purpose of such special times of reflection is to see how well we have done during the past year, and determine what corrections we should make if we find that we are veering away from our chosen path. It should not be a time of merely “having fun.”

Most of us have made the choice to abandon using the Thanksgiving day as a time of reflection, either personally or publicly. And thus, the Day of Thanksgiving continues to degenerate and we veer further and further from fulfilling any special destiny that may have been fulfilled by the people of the United States.

As long as we confuse “giving thanks” with “eating a lot of really good food,” the practical effect is that Thanksgiving today is little more than a Harvest Festival. “Giving Thanks” is a particular attitude which accompanies specific actions. Perhaps sharing our bounty with the needy would be a better Thanksgiving activity than eating large volumes of food. More to the point, perhaps we should use Thanksgiving to give thanks where it is due -- to the American Indians who have become the “forgotten minorities.” Rather than “eat a lot,” perhaps we could send blankets, food, or money to any of the American Indian families or nations who today live in Third World conditions.

To me, the essence of Thanksgiving was the coming together of two cultures, trying to work together under trying circumstances. Yes, they shared a meal. Food sustains us. But it was not about food, per se. They practiced with their bows and guns, a sign of mutual preparedness. And in their own ways, they “prayed to God,” in the ways that were appropriate to each culture.

The notion of a Supreme Intelligence was common to the Indians and the new settlers to the Northeastern coasts. That this was so is well-documented in William Stolzman awesome book, “The Pipe and Christ: A Christian-Sioux Dialogue.” He shows many of the similarities, and differences, between the native religion and the mostly Christian Europeans who began to occupy what became the United States and Canada. Similarly, these distinctions are well laid out in Vine Deloria’s classic work, “God is Red,” which Wilma Mankiller once declared to the be closest thing to an Indian Bible that’s ever been written.

By the way, much has been said about the term “Indian,” supposedly because Columbus thought he was in India when in fact he never got beyond the Carribean islands. But not everyone agrees with that linguistic conclusion. For one, India was not called “Indian” in the late 1400s. Some have suggested that it was the phrase “en Dios” (with God) that Columbus used to describe how the native, who lived simply and were perceived to be “close to God,” was the actual root of the term “Indians.” It is still debated.

Anyway, once we get to Halloween every year, we’re in the end-of-year Holiday mode that include Thanksgiving, and then Hannukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, and New Years. These could be special events that lead to our spiritual enlightenment, and evolution, but we have to fight to make them so.

There is much to be thankful for on Thanksgiving, whether we give thanks to friends and family, thanks to God, and thanks for our relative bounty.

But we really should not forget our national roots. Don’t just give lip-service thanks to the Native Americans whose land was taken. Rather, find those organizations that are actually providing real assistance to Native Americans in poverty, such as many of those living in the third world conditions so prevalent on today’s reservations.

On Death

2010-10-29T09:33:00.001-07:00

A STORY ABOUT DEATH

It was Memorial Day 1998, and I had scheduled to conduct a wild food outing at Pasadena’s Hahamongna Watershed Park. Since it was Memorial Day, my topic for a short discussion at the end of the outing was “death.” Hahamongna Park -- formerly called Oak Grove Park -- is the site of one of the Gabrielino Indian villages along the Arroyo Seco.

It was a cool and overcast day as participants for the wild food outing gathered in the parking area of the park. Among the half-dozen participants who showed up for the outing was Martin Kruse, a bearded, burly bear of a man who looked like he’d be more at home in the 19th century. He introduced himself and told me that he’d long wanted to meet me, that we both wrote for many of the same publications and had many friends in common, such as Ron Hood. Martin and I chatted as the other outing participants listened, and he told me about his work with archery and primitive bow-making.

I was struggling with almost-a-cold and with a stiff back, and so I felt almost not there. I wanted to just keep walking and to breathe deeply of the fresh air of the overcast day, but we walked slowly as everyone asked me countless questions about wild flowers, weeds, flowers, mushrooms, ground squirrels, and poisonous plants.

When we encountered poison hemlock, one woman seemed particularly interested. It turned out her interest was more than academic. Before her father died a few years earlier, the medical establishment managed to keep his body painfully alive for a few weeks beyond when he normally would have died. She said she wished she had known of a way to bring about a quick and painless death. I made no value judgement on her commentary, only saying that I regard each moment of life as sweet, and that death comes all too quickly for most of us. I explained that I was wholly against the idea of suicide, that I wanted to find ways to live longer, not shorter. Then we talked about other things.

We walked down in the flat area of the large expanse of the park, where the wet mud had hardened, capturing countless animal tracks. Martin told us how to differentiate between coyote and dog tracks. He identified crow and other birds, showed us how to recognize the tracks of squirrel and rabbit. He’d obviously done a lot of tracking during his time hunting with a bow.

I later learned from Martin’s father that this was a favorite place of Martin’s when he was much younger. He’d come here and spend a week or two and study nature and tracks and practice with his bow. When we saw the deer tracks, Martin showed us how the deer’s hind foot had stepped into its own track just laid by its front foot. Martin said that only the female walks this way, that the male’s gait is different. He told us that the size of the hoof print meant it was a female deer about a year and a half old. I could tell that Martin enjoyed telling us all about the track.

We walked out to the middle of the flat area to see some old shelters I’d built with one of my classes a few years earlier, though the rains had washed them away. We headed back to the picnic area with the plan to continue identifying wild greens, and collecting enough for our wild food meal that is customary on all these walks. Then I’d share my brief Memorial Day commentary that I described on the printed schedule as “Considering Death.”

I led the way back to the oak trees. Within seconds, someone in the rear called out. Martin had fallen. I first thought it was a joke, and ran to him. It was no joke. His face already looked purple. The man who had been walking with him said he’d not tripped -- he just fell. You could tell by his hand position that he didn’t trip. I tried to rouse him, but it was quickly obvious that he was “out.”

Several of us moved Martin into what we assumed would be a more comfortable position, and that wasn’t easy! Martin was a big guy. And then -- since I was the only one who knew the area -- I ran to a phone to call 911. This was before the days of ubiquitous cell phones. Within 10 minutes, before I even got back to the group and Martin’s flat body -- paramedics from the City of Pasadena were on the scene, attempting to revive him. They all worked like a highly-coordinated team, speaking among themselves only briefly and in terms we didn’t understand. They were what we call a “well-oiled machine.” They carried him into the ambulance and took him away.

I could tell that the remainder of the outing participants were in varying degrees of shock. It had all been like a dream, and now Martin was gone. When one paramedic was asked what he thought about Martin’s chances of recovery, he only said “I can’t do that.” Still, we all knew it was serious. We recalled one paramedic yelling “full arrest” to another when they arrived at the scene.

So there we stood in the cool afternoon breeze, contemplating death in the most sobering manner possible. I explained to everyone my death lesson -- which hardly seemed appropriate now. I didn’t talk everyone through the intended exercise -- I just explained a process that I’d done many times on Memorial Day.

Write a list of all those close people in your life. Then, close your eyes, and imagine getting a phone call telling you that they have just died. For most people, there are tears and a feeling of regret that they never told that person something. You write down all those things you wanted to say to that person. Then, since these folks are still alive, you then go and call them or write them or see them in person and tell them. This is a very profound exercise, and in many ways can be called “healing.”

But we didn’t actually go through this exercise. We were in no mood for an “exercise.” Someone had just died in our midst. We had to deal with it. We talked about how important it is to live each moment with intent, with joy, with soberness.

We talked about the stages that one passes through in the after death state, and how Martin will experience peace, but will also experience a life-review, a state of purgation, a state of heaven, and eventually another embodiment. One guy muttered, “I don’t believe in reincarnation.” I knew with this last point that I was treading on ground that some categorize as “religious beliefs,” so I didn’t push the matter. I just suggested that anyone interested read about it in Harold Percival’s Thinking and Destiny and decide for themselves.

At that moment, none of us knew yet that Martin would not recover, that he had in fact died, and that he died in a place he loved. Nor had we known that Martin had a heart pacer, and an artery to his heart that was narrow. We were aware that he’d had surgery -- probably to the heart -- because we opened his shirt and saw the scar. I noted that Martin had been smoking his pipe during most of the outing. While that couldn’t have been good for his health, I considered the ceremonial ramifications of tobacco smoking. What had really brought Martin there on that day? I felt goose bumps at first, thinking that on some level he wanted to be there, enjoying the natural world, meeting as two souls in the place he loved, near the old Indian burial ground, on his final day.

A German woman who’d been on the outing, Walti, told me that we should not feel sad. “It was quick,” she told me later. “What better place to die.” I could not help but agree with her. In his final moments, he was surrounded with friends that he’d only met that day, trail compadres who shared a common love of the outdoors, all brought together at this time and this place to witness his passing.
Though I barely knew him, I felt closer to him in death.

Of course, I told Dolores about this when I got home. I was a bit shaken by the experience. It was Martin’s wife who later told me that Martin died doing what he loved doing, and that it was probably the best of all possible outcomes that he died in that manner. She also said that the family felt Martin was living on “borrowed time,” that they felt he should have died (according to what the doctors said) five years earlier.

Dolores seemed very thoughtful about all this, and said that possibly Martin’s Doer (his spiritual Self) knew that his body was going to die. Coming to my outdoor outing brought him into contact with my Doer, my spiritual Self, which could have been a final uplifting act, whether or not each of us realized it.

Dolores was never one who engaged in flattery, and she always kept me humble. She knew that we were not perfect and that we had a long way to go. Yet, we continued to work at and struggle on the Spiritual Path of perfection and evolution. It was always “fall down seven times, get up eight times.” In our perspective of a morally-bankrupt, and spiritually dark world, we did feel that we represented a light in the darkness. Yes, often a flickering, barely noticeable light, but a light nevertheless. It is to that Light that Dolores believed Martin was coming to, and it was with that desire that he took his final breath. And that was good for Martin.

MOON

2010-04-20T09:48:00.001-07:00

Self-discovery seems to be the ultimate quest for each of us. Who am I, what is my purpose in life.

I was watching a segment of “The Last Wave,” and Charlie the elder asks the Richard Chamberlain character, “Who are you?” It seemed to be a question that Chamberlain was not used to hearing, or answering.

I picked up a DVD of “Moon” with Sam Rockwell, having heard nothing about the movie. The cover reads “the hardest thing to face is yourself.”

“Moon” gives us an opportunity to look at what we mean by self-identity. It allows us to consider that much of what we call “me” is nothing but a construct, a collection of memories, but very little of what is real.

I don’t want to give the plot twist of the movie away, but I strongly recommend it as a vehicle for self-analysis and self-discovery. Don’t look at it as “just a science fiction story.”

Later in the day, my mentor asked me, “Do you believe that you are real?” Rather than glibly answer, “of course I do,” I considered what “Moon” was forcing me to consider. I realized that we never satisfactorily answer this question because we don’t delve deeply into the meaning of “me” and “I” as well as the meaning of “real.” In this case, I was considering the definition of “real” as per the writing of Percival in “Thinking and Destiny” where he equates “real” with a level of Conscious Light.

Anyway, watch “Moon” and let’s discuss further.

Death and Resurrection

2010-04-13T19:36:00.000-07:00

During Easter of 2010, I spent the morning with a few close friends discussing the theme of the day. After we were finished with the more intellectual side of things, we viewed selected segments from a few movies to see the Death and Resurrection theme in action, either literally or figuratively.

We first watched some scenes from Whale Rider, where the grandfather does not want to acknowledge that the little girl (Pai) is the one destined to be chief. Finally, after Pai dives into the water to retrieve a whale bone (the boy who would have retrieved it earlier was to be chief, but no boy found it), she also helps a beached whale get back to sea. The whale was apparently responding to Pai, to the fact that Pai is the chosen one. But Pai goes into the deep with the whale, and is retrieved, hospitalized, and finally acknowledged as the future chief. A touching and beautiful story!

Next, we watched Powder, an incredible movie all around. Powder was born the night his mother was struck by lightning and died. Needless to say, Powder was unusual, highly intelligent, and electromagnetic. In many ways, this is a secular story of the Christ.

Then we watched some scenes from the very-moving Jesus of Nazareth, where Robert Powell played Jesus. We were most interested in the scene where Jesus went to dinner at the house of Matthew (the tax collector). Simon-Peter watches from the door as Jesus tells the story of the Prodigal Son, about the son who died spiritually and was re-born by his return to his father.

This Death and Resurrection theme is common in many movies, such as Pow Wow Highway, and Smoke Signals, and Robert Redford’s The Clearing. The Clearing is a fascinating study of the complexities of personality, but I found the final line the best: If you love me, then I have everything I need. It was beautiful, compelling, thoughtful. To understand that phrase was to understand the meaning of life, and the how the death is a necessary part of rebirth, whether we are speaking spiritually, literally, or figuratively.

Movies can be great teachers of life-lessons, if we choose the movies carefully, and if we actively seek out the lessons within.

By the way, we often view movies this way at Holy Days and holidays at the WTI commemorations in Highland Park. If you live nearby, please join us. Check the schedule on this web site, or contact me.

How I Spent Good Friday

2010-04-02T22:17:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, I can recall sitting in church for at least three hours on Good Friday. The large Catholic church was always packed with people, and the air circulation was poor. The aroma of incense was overwhelming and the distant drone of the priest in Latin was hypnotic. It was a solemn day and we usually fasted, but I had to nearly pinch myself to stay awake. I wanted to feel that special something, that painful and profound loss, and the coming joy; which was the very essence of the Easter celebration.

I always liked Easter, and I marveled at reports from the Phillippines where a few pilgrims every year would allow themselves to be nailed to a cross. Most could only endure the agony for three or four minutes, and they often fainted. Once removed from the cross, they would be cared for by waiting nurses and doctors. That’s certainly a far more intensive way of commemorating Good Friday than I was used to. Still, I wondered: Is there any inherent benefit in harming one’s body in that way? Does hammering nails in your palms make you more “spiritual”?

Years later, in the late 1970s, I began to attend a Survival Training School in the Highland Park district of Los Angeles. This school was somewhat akin to a martial arts school, except that we were constantly pushed in the direction of self-improvement, as opposed to competition with others. Throughout our various exercises and breathing regimens and runs and limit breaks and field events, it was constantly stressed that we were pushing our personal limits, that we were “waking up” our unused brain portions, and that we were using pain as a tool to grow, not as something to be avoided. There was constantly a spiritual dimension to our classes.

Through this school, I learned a unique way to commemorate the Christian Good Friday, and for nearly the last 20 years, I have observed Good Friday in a unique and most dynamic manner.

Students would gather at our class site and prepare themselves by doing a series of regular physical activities. Once a personal limit was broken, each student would then select a heavy log, which we referred to as “crosses.” Each student’s job was to silently carry the heavy cross up and down the dirt pathway to the school until they could no longer carry the burden. We were to remain silent during the entire time, and focus entirely on deep and regular breathing, and upon the specific martial arts-style walking that we’d been taught in class. It was called kamae-striding, a focused way of walking with knees bent, back straight, toes always straight ahead.

We were instructed to select a “cross” that was heavy so that we’d quickly go into a level of pain and exhaustion. On most years, I selected a cut section of a telephone pole, and would begin my very slow walking, breathing, thinking, up and down the dirt path.

The pain for me has usually been so intense that I could focus on nothing else. Thus, I was constantly challenged to find an internal way to deal with the pain, to breath, to focus on the fact that we are spiritual beings and not just the body.
Participants are told, “Pain is OK. Expect to be challenged by thoughts which say `I can’t’ or `I hurt.’ Acknowledge them, but do not fall to them.”

Dauring one of my past cross-bearings, the pain to my upper arms and back was unbelievably intense. I didn’t think I could continue. I wanted it to end. My arms ached. I stopped after going up and down the path three times. My intense pain had triggered an altered state of awareness, and I recall considering the phrase, “Jesus died for our sins.” I got up, continued the cross-bearing, and reflected on the meaning of those words.

As I slowly moved up and down the path, drenched in sweat, wracked with pain, I began to become one with the pain of humanity, the agony, the suffering, the ignorance, the horror of having no way-shower, no guide, being alone in the darkness. I found myself offering my pain to humanity: the mistakes, the blind gropings, the sin. It was then that I realized what Jesus meant. He literally offered up his pain, not for his personal benefit, but for those in dire need. This offering of pain was as real as if he wrote a check and sent it to someone. The giving was real, not allegory. The gift of pain served as strength to others.

Yet, this is no way meant that humanity -- that individuals -- do not need to balance inequities. We must sill pay for our debts and sins. Forgiveness is not synonymous with forgetting.

I would not have gained this insight through intellectual study. I earned this realization via the tool of controlled pain. I had made pain my ally. Obviously, pain for the sake of pain is pointless. But pain can be specifically applied and used as a tool. It can wake one up like nothing else.

As I say, this is just one of many personal insights that I have had while doing this unique cross-bearing.

When I performed the Cross Bearing today, I considered the value and power of Truth, and saw new meaning in the phrase, “What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”

Zone Therapy

2010-02-17T19:39:00.000-08:00

DOLORES’ UNIQUE RESULTS FROM ZONE THERAPY

Dolores kept notes on just about everything, not just the more mundane things such as daily “to do” lists and her daily planning, but her impressions from her various experiments in life and in thinking.

I found one notebook that she kept to chronicle her work with zone therapy. Zone-therapy can be described as a finger acupuncture to the feet. Dolores attended a Spiritual Studies class on this topic on Sunday April 10, 1988. This is what she had to say:

“During the Spiritual Studies Zone Therapy Lesson, I pressed on the area noted as ‘pineal.’ It hurt. I felt odd for a few moments but kept pressing. Awhile later, when Christopher and I arrived at the Flea Market [Dolores and I somewhat regularly sold things at various local flea markets], I suddenly realized I was experiencing a range of information about people and things that I didn’t have normal access to. In the same ‘way’ that I know details about my personal friends and belongings, I ‘knew’ details about strange people and objects.

“I ‘knew’ one person had children, for example. Another person caused me to recoil because their personal atmosphere was repellant. I ‘knew about’ strangers as if they were familiar. Items-for-sale were also familiar. I felt that a coffee grinder that Christopher wanted to buy had ‘a bad atmosphere’ – maybe it had been in a bar.

“This broader-range of information was disconcerting but I acted with the idea that this information was only for myself, as it this were just more of my working fund of details.

“I went to the hot dog stand, and the server looked real kinky, and I wondered to myself if I might get a disease from the food he handled. Another person approached while I was standing there and he said, ‘Any healthy food here?’ and the server said, ‘No, just good old American junk.’ I took this as a direct instruction to my doubts, and I left immediately.

“There were other instances of this ‘unusual information,’ then, after awhile, I seemed to return to ‘normal.’”

Wow! This kind of thing became somewhat “normal” as we would practice zone-therapy, and many, many of the other disciplines we were taught through our Spiritual Studies classes. What is the explanation? Could it be that the stimulation of the pineal zone on the foot released some chemicals which caused Dolores’ brain to perceive more?

I have had similar – though not identical—experiences when I received zone therapy. In my case, the zone therapy resulted in a heightened perspective, even a feeling of timelessness.

Dolores would use one of the standard charts on the subject. The one that Dolores kept handy was called “Rainbow-Coded Foot Reflexology Chart” published by Inner Light Resources from Tampa, Florida. The chart shows the bottom of a foot, divided into sections, with each section corresponding to some part of the body.

Here are the instructions for doing zone-therapy, as written in Dolores’ notebook:

1. State aloud to therapee what area you’re working on, or searching for.
2. Take charge of the foot you’re working on. Place it where it’s best for you to focus.
3. Consciously make every finger movement one of Conscious Upliftment.
4. Key to Zone Therapy: direct application of intense pressure directly on the junctions and meridians (that is, inches-along meridians, rather than “rubbing the feet”).
5. Use ch’i flow through the fingers.
6. Relax the fingers.
7. Use the fingernails as needles.
8. Use opposing fingers.
9. Wean-from any need to use a lubricant. Must practice directing will to have body-oils flow where and when needed.
10. Work to bring Zone Therapy into the realm of Real Thinking. Tell therapee “focus on glow of radiant healthy energy flooding into the body part I’m working on.”

In Dolores Zone Therapy notebook, I found some notes written by her teacher. There was a cartoon of the bottom of a happy foot, which had a big smiley face and was dancing. Underneath this foot were the words “stress control.” The teacher, Kina’u, suggested that Dolores work with others to begin dealing with stress control via Zone Therapy. Kina’u emphasized that it should not be a disguised “foot massage,” but that it should follow the above guidelines, and literally make the feet happy.

Kina’u added that when one is doing Zone Therapy properly, it is “for the Self,” not “for the other person.” In other words, he wrote, “if my fingers, with their zones, are pressing against someone else’s toe, with their zones, who, in reality, is ‘getting a Zone Therapy’ and who, in reality, is ‘giving a Zone Therapy’?”

Needless to say, there is much more to the science of Zone Therapy. Reading Dolores’ old notebook brought me back in touch with the path of natural science that so much of our “modern world” has rejected, and continues to scoff at.

The Death Seminars

2010-02-15T09:29:00.000-08:00

Dolores and I enjoyed conducting classes in our home. For a period of time during the mid-1990s, we discontinued renting out the front unit of our duplex, and we used it for meetings and classes. Some weeks, we’d have up to five classes, but usually we’d have two to three a week. These would be classes based upon the metaphysical studies we were doing in association with WTI, or they were survival and self-reliance classes based upon how we lived our lives. We called this enterprise Gateway, and we published a monthly schedule of our classes and lectures.

One night, we offered a class called “What Happens After Death.” About 10 people showed up for this one, which was a large class for our small meeting room.

We began by telling everyone that this was not some sort of religious exercise, nor was anyone required to “agree with” or “believe” anything we were telling them. Rather, we simply asked that they consider the scenario that we’d be sharing as a possibility, and that we would not consider “arguments” or “debates” about it. In other words, something does “happen” to us after our body dies. This “something” can range from “nothing” to reincarnation to “going to hell” and many other possibilities.

We were students of Harold Percival’s “Thinking and Destiny” book, and we explained that for this class, we’d be sharing his version of what happens after we die. Obviously, Dolores and I considered this version to be not only acceptable, but possible and plausible.

A brief explanation about Percival is required. He claimed in the preface to his monumental “Thinking and Destiny” book that he “came to” the information that he shares by means of what he calls “Real Thinking.” He further defines “Real Thinking” as a four-part process. The first step is the selection of a topic and turning the Conscious Light on it. (The Nature of Conscious Light is addressed repeatedly in his book). Next comes the fixing and cleansing of the subject, which is done by training the Light upon it. Then, the third step is to reduce the subject to a point, which is done by focusing Light upon it. This is what we would call "concentrating.” Lastly, by following this procedure, with the Light focused on the point, the result of this Thinking is a “Knowing” about the subject.

He provides no bibliography, no references, no “proofs” for anything he proffers except that the reader can do his or her own Real Thinking for verification. In general, Percival describes the evolutionary path that each of us should be on to awaken our minds of which we are composed. In fact, he says we really have no choice in the matter, that the purpose of life is to evolve, sooner or later.

Upon body death, according to Percival, we “automatically” go through a series of steps, which he initially describes as a brief overview on pages 240 to 253. He describes a specific order of 12 events, which includes a life-review, a judgement, a heaven-state, etc.
So, the purpose of our “What Happens After Death” class was to emphasize that all of us WILL die, and that “something” WILL then occur or begin, even if that something is “nothingness.”

After our brief explanation, we asked each participant to lie on our floor.

“Now you have just died,” we announced, and we covered each person with a sheet to further simulate the death experience. We then read through the after-death stages, one by one, slowly, in the darkened room, asked each participant to work hard to fully feel the experience.

Talking through this process took about 45 minutes.

Then, we got through the entire cycle, and explained that these steps could actually take several hundred years of earth time. Then it would be time for being reborn into a suitable and appropriate family, in the place on earth that we’ve earned for ourselves.

We turned on the lights, and removed the sheets, and let everyone take a few minutes to get their eyes adjusted to the light. Slowly, each person opened their eyes and slowly got up, and sat down in a chair.

We began to share significant experiences that each person had. A few folks were very quiet and would not talk at all, but others were very talkative. Some were even in tears.

We closed the class by telling everyone that they had not died tonight, and they everyone now has a “new opportunity” to still “do the right things” since they were still alive in a body.

We shared some freshly-made coffee-elixir and healthful cookies, and we discussed a few of the upcoming classes and poetry readings that we’d be having in the coming weeks. But no one was interested. Most everyone was strongly affected by the experience, and they wanted to ask more questions, which we tried to answer. As usual, we didn’t feel like the most perfect examples in the world, but we knew that “the future” is all the result of each and every choice that we make, second by second, and the consequences of those choices. To make the wisest possible choices every second of one’s entire life required a unique sort of sobriety and focus which itself required a unique lifestyle regimen to maintain – and, of course, those details were the subjects of our on-going classes.

THE ROOTS OF SAINT VALENTINE’S DAY

2010-02-09T18:54:00.000-08:00

by Christopher Nyerges

Valentine’s Day. Hearts. Chocolates. Flowers. Pretty cards to your sweetheart. The newspaper advertisements tell us what Valentine’s Day is all about: jewelry for your loved one, chocolates, and sexy underwear for your wife or girlfriend. So this is nothing more than a day to flirt and arouse passions in your loved ones, right?

Hold on! At least one of the newspaper advertisements says “Saint” Valentine’s Day. What’s that all about?

That’s right. February 14 is the day set aside to commemorate a real historical person named Valentinus. With just a little bit of research, we learn that this Valentinus person was stoned, clubbed, and beheaded in about the year 270 A.D. He was violently killed by an unruly mob. That’s the meaning buried there in that word “martyr.” But why? And how have we come to associate Valentinus with chocolates and hearts and lovers?

It turns out that there were at least two people called Valentinus – possibly more – who lived in the 2nd and 3rd Centuries. One – who the Catholic Church now called Saint Valentine – was beheaded in 270 A.D.

Another Valentinus lived about a century earlier and founded one of the most important sects of Gnosticism. He was born in Egypt and educated in Alexandria. He settled in Rome during the reign of Pope Hyginus and taught there for more than 20 years. He attracted a large following to his beliefs, due in part to his intelligence, his eloquence of speech, and his forceful arguments.

But the teachings of this Valentinus differed in some ways from the Christian church of that time, and thus he was not selected for the office of Bishop. So Valentinus broke off from the Christian church, left Rome, and continued to develop his doctrines.

There are no original surviving documents from the teachings of Valentinus. So, if you want to discover what he actually believed and taught, you have to study fragmentary quotations found in the writings of his orthodox Christian opponents. Through research, we learn that Valentinus was influenced by Plato (the main source of the teachings of Socrates), Zoroastrianism, and Christianity. Valentinus also spoke of a spiritual realm which he called Pleroma, which consisted of a succession of aeons, or “emanations,” evolving from an original divine being. These aeons have been described as the layers of an onion, with each layer being a wholly complete reality.

The term Gnosticism came from the word “gnosis,” defined as spiritual knowledge. Those who followed this line of study were called the Gnostics, and many were referred to as Christian Gnostics. But by the third century, the more orthodox Christian church (and the political power of the day), decided to oppose and persecute the Gnostics. By the end of the third century, Gnosticism as a distinct movement had largely disapppeared.

Now, here’s the quiz: Where in all this did you hear anything about chocolates, hearts, greeting cards, bunnies, jewelry, roses, or lace underwear? Plus, there doesn’t appear to be any historical connection with any of the individuals named Valentinus with the date of February 14.

It turns out that in the pre-Christian days, there was a celebration in honor of Lupercus, a pastoral god, sometimes identified with Faunus or Pan. Faunus is depicted as having the body of a man but the horns, pointed ears, tail, and hind legs of a goat. That is, Faunus is more or less identical with the satyr, who was said to be lecherous, lustful, and always ready to party.

The pre-Christian observance of this day was called Lupercalia, which fell on February 15. Most of what people do today in the name of “celebrating St. Valentine’s Day” has its roots in the ancient feast of Lupercalia. On Lupercalia, cards were given (often with subtle or overt sexual overtones), and men reportedly chased women through the streets (sounds somewhat like Mardi Gras).

It is difficult to ascertain why the commemoration of Valentinus was used to supplant, uplift, and supercede the already-existing commemoration of Lupercus, but that’s what happened. Yet, very little of the trappings of modern St. Valentine’s Day have anything to do with the historical Valentinus.

And that’s really a shame, since Valentinus was as important as perhaps Socrates or Pythagoras, and yet most of us only associate him with the silly commercialism of Lupercalia’s remnants.

Certainly it’s possible that the Church engineered this substitution so that people would elevate their practices on this day, though there is no evidence that that has happened.

So rather than waste money and time on chocolates and red cards, why not take the time to study something meaningful about the great teacher Valentinus. Do this with your loved ones, and your family. You may discover that much of what he taught is very much relevant today.

I CANNOT FOREVER MOURN

2010-02-08T16:23:00.001-08:00

I wrote this poem back in March of 2009.
I hope you like it. Someone told me, after looking at this blog, that "I don't like poetry." I responded, "No one was forcing you to look at my blog. If you have chosen the self-imposed limitation of telling yourself that you don't like poetry, then why didn't you just click-away to somewhere else? My poetry is for folks who appreciate poetry!" My acquaintance just mumbled as he walked away. So... for those of you who do enjoy poetry, please enjoy!

I CANNOT FOREVER MOURN

The day you died
I was by your side
You withdrew deep inside
I hugged you tight, as I cried
Your time had come, I could not hide
I wanted badly to the facts denied
But did not bring you back, though I tried
And something deep inside me died.

You meant so much, we lived as one
You were my moon, I was the sun
Together many battles won
Some lost too, which wasn’t fun
As fact sunk in, my mind was stunned
No more time, it was all done
As memories view and cried a ton
would never again have your hot cross bun
as baking bread your dharma was
You fully entered the thing you does
You didn’t question, ask why, just because
didn’t concern about what’s the buzz

Three months later I still daily cried
Was something that I tried to hide
Laughter too I often tried
Was good for me for time to bide
And one day George of Burbank said
Why aren’t you mourning? Got another friend?
I only laughed, as face I read
Thinking hard on what he said.
How much longer shall I mourn?
I can’t cry forever, must be reborn
Even though so deeply inside torn
I must force smile and seek new morn
Dolores wills it, she says to me
I see her smile in dreamtime see
As telling me true of my life key
Of how to live, of how to be
Of need to face sun, go forward free
Explore the meaning, in every tree
To love Otis, Popoki, even bee

It’s time for me to be reborn
I cannot forever mourn.

031309

THE COURT

2010-02-04T19:57:00.000-08:00

[written while waiting in probate court 02/02/10]

Legal world of halls and courts
Paying fines, and collecting torts
In front of judge expose all warts
Lawyers nose buried in thick reports.

The thin veneer that looks so clean
But under the surface there’s so much mean
Can only survive if the mind is keen
And you present yourself as outwardly clean.

It’s a wonderful institute that we’ve created
Keeps us from killing our neighbors hated
Gives us a chance to keep our word as stated
Punishes actions of bullies baited.

But is it Justice, or for what is Right?
Is it for these things in court we fight?
Shouldn’t it elevate us to new moral height
Isn’t the goal that we see the Light?
Sadly, what happens in court is not all that bright
Keeps us from killing our neighbors with might
Somewhat relieves our deep night fright
Barely keeps us civil in our moral blight
Has little to do with what’s wrong or Right.

Is it about Justice, what’s objectively Best?
Or are the resolutions of these matters only guessed?
Where we find out our life is only a test
Where our eyes are opened before final rest?

Sadly, we’ve not achieved this lofty goal
For now we play a pretenders role
Rather than a diamond, we’ve chosen a coal
Would that our courts were concerned with our soul.

ON EAGLE'S WINGS

2010-02-01T08:44:00.000-08:00

This is a poem I finished last night (1/30/10). It is about Dolores, who I have been thinking about as I am finishing a book about significant aspects of our life together. I hope you enjoy the poem -- I am also working on a book of poetry. Will I ever publish it? Who knows. Everyone raves over the "poets" who don't rhyme and who rant and rave as they angrily read their "work," whereas what I write seems unfit for public consumption, due to the fact that it has a point, it rhymes, and it generally has rhythm. Anyway, please enjoy!

We dreamed together while awake
Our ancient bonds we could not escape
We saw the path our life would take
We wanted Real, we eschewed fake
We prepared to survive a big earthquake
And Dolores’ dharma was bread to bake

We studied symbols that came our way
Secret message in our path did lay
Words in ads, numbers on license and house
Tatoos on drums that were made in Taos

We recorded, studied what it meant
Timely messages from above were sent
Saw hidden message in coffee cup
Patterns in clouds made us look up
Sometimes say change your way, repent
Or confirmed path was true to full extent
Pursued ethical business to help pay rent
Though at times we barely had a cent.

A great trip we took to Tahlequah, OK
Later in Gallup, and the pipe we did smoke
Followed Red Path as best we could
Shared our lessons in the neighborhood
Lots of ups and downs and in betweens
Often wish we met when in our teens
Towards end, Dolores business of boarding dogs
Renting to students, ebay, and writing blogs
She was quite a gal with talents many
I often linked her to our Henny Penny
She loved to dwell in Hawaii world
When her Eagle was present, her spirit unfurled

But time goes on as time it does
We all lose all that we loves
It was Dolores’ time, and she moved on
But I still can’t believe that she is gone

In my heart she’s with me always
In my mind I can view her gaze
If my mind-ear listens, I hear her phrase
I see her now where spirit Eagle plays
Where there are no bright colors, only grays
In the land I can’t reach, my eyes only glaze
Where she serves her bread on golden trays
Where she faces east to morning rays
Oh, that my end would be like hers, my heart prays
Dolores, you will be with me to the end of days.

2010 Birthday Run

2010-01-13T08:57:00.000-08:00

I’d like to share with you my 2010 "birthday run." Since the mid-1970s, I have commemorated my birthday by doing a "birthday run," where I go to a local track and run one lap for each year, and recall the events of each year as I run. This year I ran around the casting pool in the Arroyo Seco. I enjoyed the coolness of the Arroyo and the wooded atmosphere.

I carried my little notebook with me to jot down significant memories. This year, it seemed that I was able to somewhat effortlessly get into my life re-view. The details of my life are not especially important (except to me). Rather, I’m sharing this so you can feel the value of doing such a life –review on your birthday.

I began the run and the memories began to flow quickly.

I recall in 1956 being aware of my father, and feeling great compassion for him. I had no idea what challenges he faced at that time, but I realized in retrospect that I always took my parents for granted. And this feeling of compassion was quickly followed by a feeling of fear and dread. "Where am I?" I wondered, here in this new body, being born into this strange Pasadena city.

By 1958, as my awareness began to grow, I felt that there was great magic in the world – real magic and wonderful things – that I was not yet experiencing. I assumed that adults all knew about these truly wonderful things, but I eventually learned that adults did not. In fact, most adults were the enemies of magic and wonder.

By the late 50s, I realized I was "learning" from my older brothers. This means I learned mostly bad things, learning to tame the dark side in order to be "cool," or accepted. I was both attracted to this dark side, and repelled by it.

I also felt a great attraction to the idea of being a priest. This seemed to be the possible path to the magic, and my mother often talked to me about this, though it was not a formal path that I would ever take.

I couldn’t yet read when in Kindergarten, but a Japanese girl in my class would read comics to me. My mind was awakened by the magic of words, and I was spellbound that another classmate had a skill that I lacked.

I realized that I didn’t talk much by first grade, but watched and observed others very closely. I received a lot of attention in October of 1961 when, during art class, I made a picture of a witch flying through the air on a broom, while everyone else made jack-o-lantern images, as instructed. In retrospect, I thought perhaps this was a sign to me of some past-life affinity to Wicca.

While running, I began to talk to Dolores, and looked up to see clouds in the sky that seemed to be Dolores "talking" to me. Then a V-formation of squaking ducks flew by, which made me happy, and made me feel that there is always hope.

I ran through grammar school this way, recalling significant incidents that affected me. But I realized now that I had a very little world, with very narrow horizons. I went to school, watched TV, did homework, went back to school. I felt that I needed, and should have had, far greater challenges even then.

By 1967, there was the allure of drugs, and I recall how marijuana opened my mind to world that was similar to the magic I believed existed. But I quickly realized that the mind-world of drugs was doing me no good: my health suffered, I had no friends, I was unproductive, always late, and unable to keep my word, so I quit taking any drugs.

My parents got a divorce, and eventually they got back together again. I was unable to see my parents as real people with their own life, and realizing this has made me far more compassionate towards them. I went through a period of great depression, and felt alone even though there were always people around. Maybe my parents knew no other way, but children at that formative age really need parents to be with them closely, and guide them into future endeavors. I was clearly ready for a lot.

I healed my pain by becoming a Buddhist, writing poetry, learning to play the drums, and starting martial arts. It was the beginning of a new life for me, and I felt a whole new world opening to me by the time I started 9th grade at St. Francis High School. I looked back now at the ridiculousness of wanting to be "in," and yet I spent a lot of time in that pointless pursuit.

Time flowed so quickly. I went to John Muir High school in 10th grade, and met Janice, who would be my first wife years later. I went to Ohio to get "back to the land" on my grandfather’s farm, and found that there was no life there for me. I traveled to Mexico, studied Spanish, visited pyramids, but still felt that I was not where I should be. I returned home, went to Pasadena City College and studied botany and journalism, and began Wild Food Outings in 1974, and a path of writing that has continued to this day.

I moved to Highland Park and Janice and I married in 1979, and I felt that I was on top of the world, despite my great ignorances. I was deeply involved in my studies with the non-profit WTI, and research and writing, and thought that I was to change the world. My marriage with Janice seemed OK, but we divorced after about 3 years, followed by a short period of homelessness by me.

Now, looking back, nearly all my "problems" could have been avoided if I had followed the principles I was saying I believed in: always keep your word, get it right from the beginning, don’t pursue purely material things.

My relationship with Dolores had begun and we got married when I was working at a Christian Science church in 1986. We had a fantastic first anniversary at our new home. I recall having such an awe of Dolores, seeing such vast potential and ability that she didn’t even see in herself. It seems we never see ourselves as others do. We pursued our dreams together. During our years together, I saw that we often were on slightly different paths, but we took the time to communicate and tried to solve the problems that arose. We did this a lot, as were by no means perfect.

I began to teach at Escalon (for developmentally disabled adults) and Dolores would often pick me up and we’d go shopping together. It was a happy time for me, and I could not help but cry as I ran, thinking back of all the little things I could have done better for Dolores and for our relationship

We had a wonderful trip to Tahlequah, OK for the Commemoration of the Trail of Tears in 1989 –we’d studied the Cherokee language together and wanted to visit our teacher in Oklahoma.
I quit that job and worked with Dolores at her Rainbow Garden Service for awhile, one of the many businesses that she would eventually start.

We began a pencil business, went to craft shows, wrote articles. It all went so fast, like a whir. I was like an observer seeing these events flow by, not realizing how rapidly flows the river of time. Maybe it was the oxygen, and running around a body of water, but I was deeply re-experiencing my life as I ran.

I saw myself take on the editor job of the Mensa magazine, redoing my Guide to Wild Food book, my writing for American Survival Guide magazine, and teaching cooking classes with Dolores at our home. We saw the Y2K fear come and go, and it forced us to put in solar electricity and solar water heating. Both my parents died, and Dolores assisted me in "being with" them during that time. We wrote our Extreme Simplicity book, and appeared on Huell Howser’s show. And I did some TV work, showing survival skills as Nature Man on Fox’s X show.

I always knew that everyone dies. Yet it was so hard to deal with it – my canine pal Cassius Clay died and I felt I lost a part of myself.

I loved it when Dolores came to the farmers market and sold her linens and antiques. It all went too fast. I could not help but focus on Dolores in the last years, our arguments, attempts at resolution, all my errors, and finally Dolores’ illness and my assisting her around the clock. She called it "Christopher’s Heavenly Hospital" as I took care of Dolores, kept the room warm, listened to music, and made plans for our future. I didn’t think Dolores would die, and my life was very dark with inner chaos and unspeakable sadness when she died. We’d become closest, best friends in our final weeks, and during my last year – my last lap of running – I couldn’t concentrate on much else but Dolores, and how I wished things were different. It felt that my tears were scarring my face.

When done running through my life, I sat with Nicole and tried to relate some of this – the "what to do" things, like keep your word, and do the right thing, and how times just flies, all the things we hope we learn before it is too late to matter. Nicole was a wonderful support, and organized a group of friends on the evening of my birthday. It was impossible to relate to everyone all the details of the run – except that I felt it was so good to have done the run. It was not simply a "review," but a re-living while re-feeling what had happened. It was truly as if I’d died, experienced a review of my life, and was born-again. It seemed to be my most significant run ever.

Upon reflection, I realized that all the "sayings" and rules we get from our priests and rabbis and parents were indeed survival tools of the utmost sort, designed to keep us on a straight and narrow path, the only path to real freedom and true peace.

Merry Christmas to All -- Pagans and Christians alike

2009-12-15T22:00:00.000-08:00

--and Happy Hannukah, Winter Solstice, and Kwanzaa.

An exploration of our Deep Winter Commemoration

As a nation with short-term memory, eager for the "next thing," it is no wonder we have no sense of history or a sense of the context in which our current traditions were established. The current Christmas tradition is a good example where we seem to have lost our sense of tradition, history, and the concept of "majority rules."

First off, let’s go back to the beginning. Jesus, a Jewish rabbi, did not establish the "Christmas season." It had already been in full-swing for a millennia or more before his time, in the form of the Winter Solstice commemorations of the "old Religion" of Mythraism (et al). Once Saint Paul proactively altered the basic Jewish dietary practices, and made things a bit easier for "new converts," Christianity took root as a distinct sect, apart from its Jewish roots. Whereas Jews called everyone else heathen (those who lived on the heath, or common) or goy, the New Religion of Christianity called everyone else "pagans."

Let’s stop a minute and examine that now-derogatory term. The Pagani were originally country folk, those who lived outside the grasp of Roman power. The term had no religious overtones. But gradually, those who chose to cling to their old traditions were then called "the pagans," meaning anyone else but us. It was no different than Muslims looking down their noses at non-Muslims, the so-called "infidels."

By the time the Fourth Century rolled around, the new Christian Church was also the dominant political power. Church and State were one and the same. And a savvy leader – Constantine – realized that while it was easy to declare Christianity the "official religion," it was less simple to change the hearts and minds of the people. So what did he do? He stole Christmas fair and square from the pagans. He "Christianized" all of the Old Religion Holy Days, and declared that they were now Christian, with new names in some cases. This is why the Druid Feast of Samhain became All Hallows Eve, and the ancient Ishtar became Easter, and why we have the odd St. Valentines day traditions, a throwback to Roman time. And the ancient Winter Solstice commemorations morphed into The Mass of Christ (Christ-Mass).

Most of the basic symbols of the modern Christmas season pre-date Jesus: the wreath, the mistletoe, the evergreens, gift exchanges, cards, the decorated tree.

Astronomers and historians know with certainty that Jesus was NOT born on or near the Winter Solstice due to the clues given in the New Testament. For example, animals are not in the fields in late December, and there was no comet or conjunction of planets that coincided with that time of the year, and the census that caused Mary and Joseph to travel did not occur in late December, etc.

Santa Claus is a latter-day addition, from an actual bishop in the church, Nicholas of Asia Minor who gave gifts to needy families around the already-established Christmas season. Known as Saint Nicholas, his name is rendered into something that sounds like "Santa Claus" when translated into other languages.

So, all this said, why are we afraid to say "Merry Christmas"? We stole the Holy Day fair and square from the Pagans, who are still free to commemorate Winter Solstice. There is no conflict, and there is no real issue in terms of State-sponsored religion.

Atheists and sue-happy litigants should attend to their own matters, and keep their long noses out of the business of others that does not in any imaginable way "hurt" them. How do the "stolen from pagans Christmas commemorations" in ANY way hurt or harm atheists, or others of different religions? If Christianity, in whatever form, is the will of the majority of the people, how is that harmful?

No one in the broader society, after all, objects if Japanese celebrate Obon widely in their own communities, or when Muslims commemorate Ramadan as they see fit, or when Jews commemorate Hannukah, Yom Kippur, or any of the other well-established Holy Days. Nor is there any objection as those of African descent celebrate the "new" secular holiday of Kwanzaa.

The Christmas holiday is unique and special for millions of people. It is the time of least light, when our minds and bodies and emotions yearn for "the light." It does not really matter that Jesus was not born on Christmas day if that is the day millions of Christians choose to commemorate it. What matters is that we use the symbols of these days to remind ourselves of our spiritual heritage – something ALL people share. We are ALL, after all, descendants from the same Spiritual Father and Spiritual Mother.

This should be an uplifting time for all, when we joyously and sincerely embrace others, and wish them a Merry Christmas, a Happy Hannukah, a wonderful Winter Solstice, the best Kwanzaa, and a happy New Year!

THE YEAR OF NO CHRISTMAS

2009-12-13T12:34:00.000-08:00

[This is part of a book about growing up in Pasadena]

A few years later when I was perhaps 10, my brothers and I were particularly bad and misbehaving and belligerent one autumn. My mother gave us several warning and threats and a few "beatings" in her ceaseless attempt to get us to obey. But I don’t know what was wrong with us that year. It was as if we were afflicted by some unseen infection. Or maybe it was what all teens go through when they believe they know more than their parents. So my mother said,

"Keep it up and there will be no Christmas this year." Of course, my mother didn’t control the calendar. She just meant "no gifts." That threat did at first affect our behavior, but then we’d go back to our nonfeasant and malfeasant ways. There were numerous threats, as November rolled into December, but things didn’t substantially improve.

Now, I was at the age where I began to think about things, and the relative unfairness in the world, and the questioning of authority. But I also wondered why we should receive gifts at Christmas. By this time, I was aware that Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus at this time, and that it was primarily a religious holiday. I just didn’t get the whole gift thing –not that I minded receiving. But because I lacked an understanding of the whole picture, the idea of "no gifts" didn’t seem that threatening to me.

Thinking back, our bad behaviour that year was likely the trickle-down defiance from our oldest brother. David was never a defier, certainly not an open defier, but the defiance of Gilbert the eldest would have trickled down to Thomas, to Richard, to me. We were not an ideal family, and I am sure I have suffered my entire life due to unnecessary defiance and the disrespect that I showed to my parents. Did my parents deserve respect? In retrospect, of course they did, though the question would have been irrelevant then – like the pot calling the kettle black.

We were not saints, so who were we to point out hypocrisy in our parents? Anyway, by mid-December, the word was out: No Christmas this year. We were schizophrenic about this. "Oh, we don’t care," we sassed, but inwardly I believe we each felt a deep dismay at our own inability to live up to our household’s very simple standards. I felt particularly dismayed that I had been no better, and that I was swayed along with the tide of my older brothers’ mob mentality. No Christmas. "She won’t follow through on it," Tom told us with assurance. But inwardly, I felt my mother had to follow through, otherwise her word would mean little to us, and she’d gain little by "being nice." I don’t recall what my father had to say about this, but it wasn’t much.

So, sure enough, Christmas came, and we went glumly into the living room to a fire and the usual Christmas tree, but there were no gifts. We went to church and we talked with our schoolmates. When they talked about what they got for Christmas, we just found ways to change the subject. We had a quiet Christmas dinner.

One of my brothers told his friends that my mother was mean, but I never did that. I knew we deserved nothing, and I felt a certain euphoric sense of justice in her actions, and I respected her more because of it.

Interestingly, in certain ways, I felt closer to my mother after that, was more obedient because I simply felt better doing what was expected of me, and I never complained. Despite a seeming lack, it was actually one of the best Christmas’ ever, where I received the most fitting possible "gift" – the ability to quickly experience that my choices and actions have consequences.

The story about my mean mother gradually got out into the neighborhood, and my mother once again became the topic of conversations, mostly criticizing my mother. I always remained silent, trying to listen to both sides. But I only heard one side—no gifts – from those who truly lost the meaning of Christmas, whose sole focus for Christmas seemed to be the acquisition of things. So I slowly was given a second "gift" by my mother’s action – a unique insight into the all-too-common mundanity of most people’s very narrow thinking.

DISCOVERING SANTA CLAUS

2009-12-13T09:46:00.001-08:00

[This is a short selection from a book I am working on about growing up in Pasadena]

Christmas was always a special time, though in my very earliest memories, there were no religious overtones. I was taken to church every Sunday, of course, but the Christmas decorations and gatherings were all something that happened at home, not at church. When I was too young to speak, I realized that Christmas was the season that happened during the coldest time of the year, and it meant that we’d have a fire going in the fireplace, people would be coming over, and there’d be lots of gifts and food.

My earliest specific memory was when I was told that Santa Claus could come to our home and bring gifts, and that he had some way to figure out where I lived. I didn’t know exactly why, but there was a great mystery about this fat, bearded, red-suited Santa man. People spoke about him in hushed tones, and would even sometimes stop talking about him when I came near.

My brother Tom told me that Santa Claus would come down the chimney – something I found hard to believe considering how fat he appeared in the pictures. We both peered up into our fireplace one day and wondered how Santa could get through the narrow passageway.
"Plus, doesn’t dad have a screen over the top of the chimney to keep the pigeons out?" Tom asked. I didn’t know. "I hope he remembers to remove it for Santa."

On Christmas Eve, our dad showed us a plate of cookies and a pot of coffee that had been set out for Santa.

We barely slept, and I tried to not sleep so I could be the first to rush out and catch a glimpse of this Santa. But I fell asleep, and Tom woke me and Rick. We jumped out of bed, and ran down the hall. We weren’t particularly interested in gifts, but we wanted to catch Santa. We were too late, but the three of us carefully examined the remaining evidence. There were no cookies left on the plate – only crumbs – and there was only a small amount of coffee left in the cup. Tom held the cup and carefully peered into it, and then Rick and I stared into the cup, the proof that Santa had come and departed.

"See?" said Tom. We all continued to stare into the cup a while longer, as if it might reveal some secrets to us.

In a few more years, I noticed that people didn’t fully hide their comments from me when speaking about Santa Claus. "He believes in Santa Claus?" was met with muffled response. What an odd question, I thought. Why shouldn’t I believe in Santa Claus?

When I actually learned about this mythical aspect of Christmas, I did go through a period of confusion and even anger at the world of make-believe perpetrated entirely by adults and foisted upon me. I suppose I felt bad because I really wanted to believe in Santa Claus, and I felt that he was a positive figure. And I had been told to "be good" for Santa Claus, and that Santa Claus knew everything I was doing. I was very puzzled by all this, but I got over it.

PLANTING THE ASHES

2009-12-09T13:47:00.001-08:00

[Note: This is part of a book Christopher is working on about his lessons and experiences with Dolores' death, and how they both dealt with issues of death during their marriage.]

As Dolores wished, her body was cremated. In about three weeks after her death, a brown box was delivered to me which contained her ashes. It was heavier than I expected. We received it too late for the Memorial we held in the back yard a week and a half after she died, otherwise we might have planted a tree that day.

The search was on to find the ideal tree to plant over Dolores’ ashes. The first choice was breadfruit, a Hawaiian tree, in honor of Dolores’ love of things Hawaiian, and her feeling of a connection to those islands, and the memory of her having lived there. But there was no breadfruit to be found. If anyone would have a breadfruit tree, I figured Steven Spangler of Exotica would have it, but he told me that the tree would not grow here unless in a greenhouse. That wouldn’t do.

So then I tried to find a terebinth tree, rich in symbolism and seemingly ideal to memorialize Dolores. But could not find one. I was told by a botanist at the Huntington Garden that there weren’t any of these trees in North America. I sought a certain species of fragrant lilac, a certain variety of deodar, and other trees. Each of these inquiries took time, and it was clear that we should not wait too long for such a memorial.

We had felt the presence of Dolores very strong through December and early January, but she seemed further afield now in that different sort of work that someone must be engaged in once their body dies. So I decided to plant Meyer lemons, a tree that Dolores enjoyed because not only did it provide food, but also fragrance and medicine, and it was drought-tolerant.

Finally, we planned the event for Saturday, February 7, 2009 at 3 p.m. Alvin Toma provided the two Meyer lemons – we planned to plant two trees, symbolic of all things two, like frontal column and spinal column, like Boaz and Joachim. We planned the trees so that Dolores’ trees would watch over and overlook where her dogs were buried.

On Saturday, Talal and I spent an hour finding the just-right spots for the trees. Where I first placed them, still in their pots, seemed symmetrical, but as we looked at it, we realized one would have much more shade than the other. So we moved the trees and finally found the just-right spots, where one would walk down the path and through the two lemons, into the dog cemetery. We dug two holes and built up the hillside on the outer edge of the holes so they’d be secure and not wash away.

Soon guests came. Prudence, Julie, Racina all helped with the site preparation. Nicole and Candace came, as did Mike, and Ben, and Jonathan, and Mel. Even an Hungarian woman showed up after seeing the notice in the L.A. Times. I beat the sacred Taos drums as guests arrived, drums passed down in Dolores’ family, now to me.

We began by filling and touching our cups, and sharing a Toast to Dolores.
We read poesic arts works, and discussed death. A few words were spoken about Dolores. Then we went to the trees. Everyone gathered around. I cut Dolores’ last garment in two, the garment that she wore on her last days. It was a long gray cotton night shirt, and I put half in each hole, explaining how it would be also good for the tree to maintain moisture during dry times. I cut a few inches of my hair and added it to each hole. We put some Otis (our pot-bellied pig) manure into each hole.

Then it was time for the ashes. The dust from which we came and to which we return. I opened the brown box and found a plastic bag inside. I opened the tie. Inside was the dense white ash. I knew that Dolores was no longer her body, but I also knew that this was left of the body within which Dolores resided. I reached into the plastic bag with my hands and took a handful of the powder and placed it in one hole. I put about half of the power into each hole. My hands were white with Dolores’ ash, which gave my hands a silky feel. I saved a little ash to see if anyone else wanted to save some, but no one did. Everyone had been so very quiet. (I was later told, privately by four different people, that they had never seen human ash before, and that they were a bit shocked that I handled them with my bare hands. Prudence told me it seemed like an act of Love. I can only say that it seemed like the right thing to do, to not have fear or repulsion for the ashes of my beloved, but to touch them.)

Then we planted the trees, everyone pitching in to get the trees aligned and watered.
When done, everyone put a rock around the base, and added a little water to the trees. We read more readings, looked at Dolores’ beautiful and unique photography. I smoked Luther Standing Bear’s pipe, blowing smoke to the four directions, to honor Dolores’ site, where her ashes will nourish the trees, where the fruits will absorb the nutrients from that ash, where we will one day consume lemons nurtured by Dolores’ essence.

The weather was perfect for the event. The rain stopped as we began, and the sky had a unique shade of blue, as large billowing clouds filled the sky. It was the sort of skyscape that you expect to see in classical European art.

Finally, Racina sang a wonderful rendition of "You Lift Me Up" and John Denver’s "Country Road." It was beautiful.We cleaned up and departed, and wished the very best to our dear friend Dolores.

My friend Christopher Reamer could not join us that day, but he wrote, "I am one person who was inspired by Dolores, and will continue to be. Peace to you and her in this awesome journey of life. Christopher Reamer."

TERUMASA'S QUESTIONS

2009-12-07T13:03:00.000-08:00

Terumasa – Nami’s friend from Japan – had arranged to visit in December of 2008. Though Dolores tried to work out the details of his stay, she wasn’t really able to fully do so, even with my help. Nevertheless, Terumasa arrived after Dolores had already died. In the few remaining days before Fikret returned to Germany, Fikret taught Terumasa how to feed the dogs and perform several of the tasks that Fikret had admirably taken on.

In the evenings of late December and early January, I would often sit with Terumasa and Nami and have dinner together, often watching television, and always trying to converse with Terumasa. Terumasa was a noble man who exuded greatness. I loved to be around him, and wished that our language barrier was reduced.

One late afternoon, after we had the backyard memorial for Dolores, a few people lingered in the backyard and living room to talk. Terumasa sat there next to me, with Mel sitting there listening. Terumasa looked at me while we talked about Dolores. He said, "Christopher," to gain my attention.

"Christopher," he repeated with great concern in his voice.
"Why are we born? Why are here? Why do we live this life? Why must we experience all this pain?" He paused. He was about to cry. He added, "Why do we die?"

We were all silent for a few moments. Joe Hall looked at me, wondering what I would say. Joe had previously made it clear to me that he didn’t believe in reincarnation, so I suppose he wanted to see how I would respond. Mel commented, "Those are the questions, alright."

I nodded to Terumasa. What could I say? Should I offer my opinion as to the meaning of life and death in a few simple words with the attempt to cross the chasm of our English-Japanese divide.

"Yes, what is this all about?" I asked rhetorically. I felt that I was certainly able to intellectually approach those questions, but I did not feel emotionally up to it in that moment.

"Let’s talk about that some more soon," was all I offered.

Eventually, only Joe Hall and Mel remained talking, and when I finally walked Mel to his car, he turned and said, "We should get together and talk about Terumasa’s questions. I’d really like that."

"OK," I told him. "We will, but you have to promise to come." Mel said OK.

About a month later, on Thursday January 29, we planned Boy Voyage party for Terumasa, who would be actually departing Saturday morning. We invited many people, and planned to have Japanese tea and Japanese food.

We set up an outside table up on the hill at the wildlife sanctuary, with lights and a table full of dinner. Nami came up with Terumasa and we invited them to sit down. It took a little while for Terumasa to realize that this was a party for him. He laughed loudly when he realized this was a surprise for him!

We filled our tea cups and touched them together for our toast, reciting the words of a little cartoon – Love Is…

Then, all holding hands in a circle in the darkness of the evening, we recited a work called "Friendship Bridge."

Then, after asking Terumasa about the details of his departure, and what he’d be doing back in Japan, we made the effort to answer his questions. Prudence and I prepared with different parts of the book "Thinking and Destiny" by Harold Percival, along with our own insights.

We didn’t want our bon voyage to Terumasa to become a strict metaphysical study, but rather we wanted to provide some preliminary answers to his serious query. It was as much for us as it was for Terumasa.

We decided that we were born upon this world in order to continue our spiritual evolution. Each of us added some comments to this, but everyone seemed to concur that this is why we are here, and which is why we are here to live this life.

The subject of pain was much more complex. Yet, we quickly denounced the notion that our pain is something given to us, or done to us, by "god," as is so often averred by religious zealots. In fact, in all the cases of individual and large scale pain that we could list, we felt that we are our own worst enemy. We men and women are the sources of pain on the earth, which usually come about by some violation of natural law, some breaking of the Ten Commandments, not abiding by the Golden Rule, and by partaking of the Seven Capital Sins. Our pain is the result of our own choices, and when we learn from our pain and our choices, we – if we are intelligent – learn to make other choices.

This was a big topic, but again everyone was in agreement that we bring our own pain upon ourselves, and that pain is largely unavoidable.

Then we talked about death. Prudence read from "Thinking and Destiny" and pointed out that death can be a friend to our Spiritual Self, that our bodies are simply not destined to live forever, and that – like it or not – we will all die as part of our long progress towards spiritual perfection.

This was not wholly agreeable to all, but the topic of death is so full of emotion and opinion and religious dogma that we did not attempt to have agreement all around, and that was OK.

By now we were feasting on some delicious Japanese fish and soup, and we gave Terumasa some gifts to take back to Japan. He really enjoyed the roll of the new George Washington brass dollars that he was given.

We all exchanged phone numbers and emails and we all hugged. It was clear to all that change was coming soon, and that this wonderful warrior would soon be gone. By 9:30, we all departed, and on the following Saturday morning, Terumasa flew away to Japan.

VISITING SWITZERS

2009-12-06T20:51:00.000-08:00

Since the Angeles Crest Highway was opened last week, and since I heard that it might be closed again with possible mudslides in the coming rainstorm, I drove up there this morning. It was quite a sight to see mile after mile of grey and black hillsides from the Station Fire. I noted that lots of new growth was here and there, such as sprouts from Laurel Sumac, and chamise, and grasses.

I wanted to see Switzers, so I parked there along the road, and happened to see my great mechanic, Raz from Eagle Rock. He was all smiles and telling me about his reactions to the burn.

I walked down the quiet road and examined the camp -- I was happy to see that the fire left the bridge, the outhouses, all the tables intact! The fire came right down to the river bottom in places, but didn't burn through the bottomland where all the tables and infrastructure are located.

I saw bear scat, and portions of a recently killed deer on the trail in the camp. The trail was all covered with leaves, and it all had an abandoned feel to it. But I was very happy to see the picnic area more or less intact.

I even spotted a yucca plant in full bloom, as if the fire tricked it into thinking it was April.

I took many pictures, and really enjoyed my morning jaunt. But it cost me $75 in the ticket that was on my windshield, payable to some agency in North Carolina! Oh well.....

THE MOMENT OF DEATH

2009-12-01T12:19:00.001-08:00

December 9, 2008
[Part of a book I am working on about Dolores, and our life’s lessons]

It had been a tough week so far, and it was only Tuesday morning. Dolores’ left leg had continued to get swollen the last few days, while her right leg appeared thin from her weight loss of the previous month. She was still only "eating" juices, mostly frozen, and I was constantly worried that she still could not hold down anything more solid.

And I slept lightly and sporadically Monday night, as most nights the previous weeks. I had the occasional dark nightmares which would wake me up, and then I’d try to fall back into a light sleep.

I don’t recall if Dolores called me to wake me up or if I just hopped up and checked on her. But I could tell something was really wrong. Dolores seemed to be in a state of shock. It wasn’t something she said but just the way she was. I could tell she was struggling, and that she was distant. The room was cold and I was immediately upset with myself that I had allowed the fire in the corner wood stove to die down. I went to Dolores and asked if she needed anything. She seemed to have difficulty talking, and asked me to turn her from side to side, something I often did.

But this morning was different.
I felt a panic and my body was instantly in a light sweat. The room was cold but not icy. I asked
Dolores how she was. She responded that she wanted to be turned. I rolled her over to her other side. She could not get comfortable. I rolled her a few times, and she was trying hard to find a comfortable spot, which was difficult.

I told Dolores that I was going to call Prudence, that I needed help. She said no, don’t bother. I could tell that Dolores simply didn’t want to be a bother to anyone else. She knew that Prudence had to go to work and was concerned about Prudence.

"I’m going to call her," I told Dolores, for I could tell Dolores’ body was in trouble. She didn’t look right, and there was a bit of bloating. I had been hoping that Dolores would get much better and that we’d go to Hawaii. We had laughed about going to Hawaii two days earlier. Now I was panicked.

I got Dolores some of her iced juices to suck on and then I continued rolling her from side to side. She could not get comfortable.

Prudence arrived and began massaging Dolores’ bloated leg. My panic subsided, and I somehow clicked into a clinical perspective so I could keep my emotions under control. Deep inside I was crying deeply, praying deeply to whatever Life Force and gods controlled our part of the universe. I wanted Dolores to live and I wanted to continue the momentum of our renewed relationship. I knew that Dolores said she was content to do this body purging, as she called it, come what may. But I also know that she wanted to live. She often told me all of the things she still wanted to do. The publication of so many books and cards. The promotion of all the works of her mentor. The renewal of her relationship with her daughter Barbara. A second chance, she said. We had watched a movie called the Second Chance, and this made Dolores’ face so bright and alive. We both knew that we would go forward together, another chance, and that a bright future awaited us. Dolores could not die.

Prudence and I spoke little, and we worked on Dolores’ legs and body like two workers who had done this a million times. We were doing what we felt needed to be done, in accord with what Dolores was telling us. I later learned that Prudence hid her panic well, and she experienced more fear and panic than I did.

I was glad to do all that I could for Dolores. We’d lived the better part of our lives together. We’d had our ups and downs, and for better or worse, our lives were completely intertwined. I wanted Dolores to live and be healthy as naturally as I wanted that for myself.

Dolores seemed less able to guide us in what we were doing. We kept rolling her from side to side, kept on some music, and Dolores worked the swollen leg. It was exhausting, and Prudence was reaching her limit before she had to go to work. I called Julie.

Julie came quickly and we both continued to massage Dolores legs and feet. One leg was emaciated and the other was swollen. She had good sensitivity in her soles. I began to talk to Dolores constantly even though she was less and less responsive. My mind was racing. Should I call the paramedics? If I do, what if she dies in their care and doesn’t recover? Then I would not be able to fulfill her final wishes? Plus, Dolores didn’t want to go to a hospital.

Julie and I continued to turn her body from side to side, and I tried to get her to drink liquids. By 11:30 a.m., she had become unresponsive, though she kept asking me to turn her. It seemed that a sort of panic overtook Dolores’ mind, and she wanted me to roll her rapidly from side to side, as if it was impossible to be comfortable. Julie watched in silent wonder, and maybe fear.

After a half hour of this, I worked on massaging Dolores arms, and Julie worked the feet. Dolores was silent. She rolled a bit, and then I watched as Dolores seemed to pull up into herself—hard to describe. I watched as her face pulled up into itself, as there was some inner pain Dolores was experiencing. I knew she was going, but didn’t want to believe it. Her face pressed into the pillow and the elasticity that you normally see in the skin of the face wasn’t there as her face froze into a death pose. I closed her eyes, motioned to Julie that Dolores had died, and I lay down next her, and hugged her for the next 30 minutes as I could barely breathe through my choked tears. My best friend was gone.

In many significant respects, parts of me died with Dolores, and yet many parts were awakened.

CHRISTMAS CHEER

2009-12-01T11:04:00.000-08:00

Memories of Christmas Season 2008

[This is one small section of a book I am writing about my life with Dolores, how we lived, and how we dealt with death.]

In the days after Dolores died, I still spent my evenings with Nami and Fikret and Nellie (the little dog that Dolores boarded), cooking dinner, sharing dinner, talking over television. Both Nami and Fikret were living in rooms in the front part of the duplex. Nami was from Tokyo, working at a Japanese firm in downtown Los Angeles while she earned her CPA license. Fikret was a student from Germany who’d be going home in a few days.

That December was dark, pressing, my mind a constricted box of sorrow and loss.
RW had earlier suggested to Dolores that she take Nami and Fikret to see the annual Griffith Park festival of lights, and Dolores had mentioned it to Fikret. I brought it up to Fikret and he wanted to go. I think he was more concerned about me getting out and "getting normal" than he was about seeing some electric light display. Anyway, he arranged with Nami to go one evening after Nami got home from work, and I drove.

I had never seen the light show either, and though I was in no mood for "joy," I wanted Nami and Fikret to feel happiness, and the joy of the season that the youth can best appreciate.
My mental state was very constrictive, narrow, even subdued horror. It was as if I’d been hit in the face with a 2x4, and I could not see beyond my shocked pain. But I tried, with great effort, to "enjoy" an evening out with Nami and Fikret as best I could. It was the weekend after Dolores died. Nami got home early from work, and it was already dark. Fikret made a very light meal – more of a snack – for everyone before we drove off to Griffith Park in my Jeep. I was preoccupied with now living a life turned upside-down, with no perception of light at the end of my tunnel.

Fikret and Nami were noticeably happy, upbeat, and they seemed to be happy to be doing something with me. Fikret had come on a few field trips with, but I’d only gone out rarely with Nami. I know they were both fully cognizant of my pain and I think they were being happy because they wanted me to be happy. I think that the lights of Griffith Park were a very minor attraction.

As we drove, we spoke about their day, and other light matters. I always enjoyed talking with Nami over dinner about what sort of day she had at work, and what new English words she learned. We drove into the large expansive parking lot east of the Los Angeles Zoo, and drove around until we saw where to park for the festival of lights. People parked their cars, and then boarded buses which set sail every 15 minutes or so, or until the buses were full. The three of us were the first to enter a bus, so we got the seats we wanted. A few adults filed in, and then a whole group of school children came in and filled the bus. The driver turned off the lights, and we were off down the two miles or so of the electric light display.

The children spontaneously sang Christmas carols at the tops of their voices. Nami and Fikret tried to follow along: Jingle Bells, Rudolph, Silent Night, all the classics. Mostly, the children sang enthusiastically and loud with lots of laughter for the first verse until the song faded as the children didn’t know the words. After loud laughter, another song would begin.

I could tell they were all having great fun, though I was barely there. I had to shut off most of my painful feelings and emotions and turn on only that part of me that was needed for ordinary interactions with others. I was glad that there was so much happiness in the world, but I was in pain.

I was in a darkness of my own, alone, as if I was severely and suddenly cut off from all that was important to me. Which was, in fact, what happened. After the light show, we returned to the Jeep, and I drove on in a stupor. I asked Nami and Fikret if they wanted to see more Christmas lights, and they said yes. Christmas Tree Lane was impressive, but monotonous to me. Nami and Fikret just said "Oohh," and "Ahhh," and "Look at those, wow!" I tried to explain the history of Christmas Tree Lane, how I grew up just around the corner, and I drove by our family home on North Los Robles.

I didn’t want to go home quite yet. "Going home" would mean that I would go back to the rear duplex alone, would sit there for awhile listening to music or watching TV, feeling the full grief of losing Dolores, by myself. It meant I would go to sleep with my grief, unable to find solace in music or TV. I would turn off the TV and music, and in the darkness I would fall into my abyss of sorrow until I awoke the next day. No, I didn’t want to go home yet.

I told Nami and Fikret that I knew of another Christmas light display and we drove across town looking for it. We never found it, but they got a tour of East Pasadena and Sierra Madre before we stopped for some snacks and finally went home.

We then went into the front kitchen when we got home, and enjoyed some cookies and coffee. We all laughed together and we watched a little bit of a Christmas movie on TV. It was a good evening overall, but it would be a long time before I could feel joy again.

An Unlikely Insight

2009-11-06T08:27:00.001-08:00

What Happened on the Roof on Columbus Day 2009

There I sat on top of the world, contemplating all of creation. I felt wonderful, enlightened, elevated. I felt one with all my dearly departed – Dolores, Cassius, Marie, Frank, Ramah, and others.

But I was not really "on top of the world" – it just seemed that way. I was taking a break from all-day roof repairs, hurrying to beat the coming rain. Full of tar and Uncle Henry’s Solar 278, I sat on the only flat spot on the roof, crossed my legs and breathed deeply. All I could see were the tops of trees and roofs of houses. It was an amazingly beautiful scene, and I could barely believe I was looking out over Los Angeles. I could have easily fooled myself into thinking I was at the border of ruralness and forest. Yet, here I was in the ‘hood, relaxing, seeing things from another perspective and suddenly Europa starts playing on the radio.

Europa. That was Ramah’s song, the song that played as our pit bull Ramah died in my arms 15 years earlier. I never fail to think of Ramah when Europa plays. I breathed deeply, and thought of Cassius Clay too, my pit bull pal who died about a year ago. I closed my eyes and felt Cassie there with me on the roof, by my side. I cried as I began to talk to Cassie, to Ramah, to Dolores, to my mother. How quickly those sounds –- that specific music – took me into the realm of all my departed dear ones. I found that I enjoyed being there with them as I sat there on the roof, and I realized that I also need to simply love more those who are still with me.

The clouds were hugs, dynamic, in shades of gray to the north as they towered over the mountain range. To the west, the clouds were breath-taking, colored in their pastel shades of pink and red by the setting sun.

I’d been feeling hectic the last few days, now rushing on a job that I’d intended to do over a longer period of time. I couldn’t tolerate another storm with leaks all over, and the weathermen were telling us to expect two to four inches of rain. One inch of rain in a 24 hour period is a lot. I was on the roof on automatic pilot. I’d neglected friends, normal niceties, preferred customs. I was in emergency mode to prepare for the rain.

Now, taking a break from this pace, relaxed in cross-legged posture on the nearly flat roof, I breathed again deeply, and let the stress flow out of me, and became one with the sound and the cloud and the wind and the coolness and the love of my dearly departed and the love of my living loved ones. My little sense of "self" dissolved into the bigger picture of "the moment." Wow, I’m alive, I thought. How wonderful that I awoke today from my dream, the "dream of life," that dream that occupies most of my mind most of the time. The dream of illusion, duty, momentum, success, and failure, and so often devoid of feeling. I let my mental words dissolve into nothingness, and became one with the dynamic reality, this moment of NOW, all around me.

I realized that I have lived so much of my life in the seeming-reality of words. Are they real? Or are they merely tools with greater or lesser clarity, greater or lesser accuracy in portraying the "what is" of life? I felt no excitement with words, with their ability to convey something, their facility to lead me into "truth," their wonderful taste and color. In this moment, I withdrew deep into my inner circle and I dissolved into this moment of awareness and I let go, and felt.

Soon, as the wind picked up and I contemplated the unfinished roof and the coming rain, I put my tar-covered gloves back on, and then got up to continue sealing the roof.

The Search for Meaning -- and Home

2009-10-09T08:34:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wake up in the early morning, and I sit out on the front porch, looking down on the fog that slowly ascends up the canyons. I am still far-away in my dream world, trying to make sense of the world I have just awaken to, the "real world." So often this world of ours seems to lack meaning, and I struggle with what to do each day that has meaning.

The quest to "Find Home" seems so universal that my mind dwells on that. "Home" is not a house, but it is the place where your heart resides, where your dreams can be fulfilled, where you can do that which you were destined to do. As I think of these things, I recall a poem I wrote last year. I share it with you now…

TATAVIAM SUMMER

Christopher Nyerges

In flat grassy lands hot and dry
Where mountains rose steeply to the sky
We walked narrow canyon and watched ravens fly
Along fire-burned willows that would not die.
Past acorn pancakes could smell if you try
And buckwheat mush that mama would fry.
A hot summer day, a distant hawk cries
I’m trying to see what the present denies.

Vibrant little village hundreds years ago
Down by river where the waters did flow
Sheltered by rock from the winter winds blow
Open fields where wild crops did grow
Good clay abounds, lots of ochre yellow
And asphaltum seeps back in the canyon low
Back in the willows could see hidden doe
And grew here all the reeds for crafts and show.

It’s Tataviam summer in this wild grass plain
Where men fasted in the cave out of the rain
And social structure kept you from going insane
While families collected the wild grain

It’s Tataviam summer and I’m looking for home
I’m getting tired of my civilization roam
It’s been a hard millennium away from our loam
It’s time to get back to our Tataviam home.

DOLORES' 63rd MEMORIAL BIRTHDAY

2009-10-07T08:48:00.000-07:00

[Note: this is a bit long, but please be sure to read the final message.]

I planned a gathering to commemorate what would have been Dolores’ 63 birthday. It was for Saturday October 3, 2009, the day after her birthday. The full moon was Saturday night – it was the "harvest moon." It may have seemed like a casual gathering, but a lot of planning and preparation went into our small gathering.

Michael and I cleaned up the area around the two trees where we buried Dolores’ ashes earlier in the year, and we made sure that the many steps leading down into the Island orchard were safe and not slippery. We set down strips of carpeting on the terraces so that guests would have a place to sit. Plus, I’d noticed that a raccoon had been coming and digging around Dolores’ two Meyer lemon trees, so the layer of special rocks and quartz and handstones that I’d carefully placed under the trees was now tumbled and jumbled. So I re-aligned these specially-placed stones.

This is Dolores’ gravesite, I kept realizing. This is where I go to commune with Dolores. That is not strictly true, however, since I often feel Dolores with me while walking, while driving, while typing at home. But the grave site is still that one unique spot where her final physical remains are buried, where "she" could overlook the burial site of our three beloved dogs, Ramah, Lulu, Cassius Clay.

I invited 50 friends to join us for the October 3 event, and by Friday – Dolores’ actual birthday – I felt pretty prepared for the gathering.

I drove to the Island around 5 p.m. and set things out in the grave site. I was greeted by both Racina and Nicole, who’d arrived before me. Nicole practiced her violin while I set out pictures and burned white sage. Prudence arrived. Frank Loaiza arrived. Frank never met Dolores but seemed to know her through her writings, and through me. Helena arrived. It made me happy to see Helena, since she, Dolores, and I were partners 15 years earlier producing maybe a half-million pencils for gift shops. We had a good several-year run of the business and became close friends.

We began with a toast. We filled our cups, and as we touched them, I read the Shining Bear work called "Herbs and Meat," which Dolores orated at the closing ceremony of the 1989 commemoration of the Trail of Tears in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. I pointed to a photo that I set up by Dolores’ tree. It was Dolores reading "Herbs and Meat" in the Cherokee amphitheatre in Tahlequah.

The sun was low and it was cool, and I felt an aliveness of the spirit of Dolores as we touched our cups in that act of communion.

I then began the prepared Thinking and Destiny reading, which described each afterlife stage, and compared each lifetime to a day in our life, and compared the death stage to the sleep and dream stage each night. After looking at some photos of Dolores, I told everyone how I intended to continue some of Dolores’ life’s work, such as the corn research I’d be sharing that day.
We all then added some more quartz stones to Dolores’s grave site, and then we planted a little corn patch. For this planting, Frank Loaiza gifted an ear of blue corn that his father had raised for several generations. I had soaked the corn in water for some time, and then we each made little holes in the patch with sticks and planted our corn.

Prudence asked me if Dolores had ever worn long robes and beads. In response, I read a paper Dolores had written about how she made and sold clothes when she lived in Hawaii. Prudence said that she "saw" The Lady Dolores there with us, adorned in what appeared to be blue and maybe tan long garments and beads – like braided with her hair and falling on either side of her face. It was as if the beads were part of her hair. It looked just right.

That made me happy that someone else "felt" and "saw" Dolores presence. I couldn’t remember Dolores dressing like that though, except maybe when she did a SerpentDove reading on the Island and dressed the part like an older Native American woman.

Everyone was quiet as Nicole played beautiful sounds on her violin.

As it was getting dark, we all gathered up the hill around Dolores’ redwood table by lamps, and shared her favorite brand of pie, by Fabes, which had no processed sugar. It was a pumpkin pie, along with coffee-elixir, water, and fruit juice.

I shared some of the details about corn, and how the Hopi and others believed that humans were created way back in time from corn kernels. Plus botanists do not know the exact origins of corn, adding to its mystery.

Despina showed up and we read more of the Thinking and Destiny reading.
At the same time, Racina and Nicole glanced at each other. Nicole looked at Racina and said, "You know Dolores is present right now?" Racina nodded knowingly. A very loving and sweet Dolores proceeded to give Nicole a beautiful "soul hug" and whispered very kind thoughts about her and Christopher right into her ear. Racina then looked at Nicole and said, "Oh my gosh! Dolores is here and she is making me smile!! I just can’t stop smiling…." The next moment Dolores’ spirit lovingly moved around the table…a light and loving presence was shared by many of the guests.

And towards the end, even Mel showed up and joined in our conversation. I also read some corn-related selections from the book by Dolores’ mother, Shiyowin Miller, entitled The Winds Erase Your Footprints, a true story of Shiyo’s friend, a white woman, who married a Navajo man and moved to the Navajo reservation during the 1930s. The section I read pertained to the ma-itso, or wolf clan, which used corn pollen to "cast spells" in what was referred to as "Navajo witchcraft."

Prudence said that while I was reading this, she could "see" Dolores shielding her face with her arm, as if protecting herself from this dangerous information. I shared it to point out that all things have a "positive" and a "negative," and the passage from The Winds Erase Your Footprints described how corn pollen was used for evil purposes.

It was a wonderful gathering to commemorate the special being of Dolores, and to recognize how she affected each of us.

When Prudence, and I, and Revve Weisz further discussed the event the following day, we recognized the positive influence that Dolores was now playing in our lives.
RW pointed out something that both stunned me and made me feel uplifted. He said that there was something I should HOLD in my forethought. It was my (The Christopher’s) miraculously Loving interaction with Dolores (The Lady Dolores, as he referred to her Doer, her Divinity) that totally altered The Lady Dolores’ Doer.

We discussed that for a bit. It was obvious that my interaction with Dolores during her last days changed me, but I had not considered how I had changed her. Prudence and I both witnessed an incredible new being arise within Dolores in those last weeks.

RW added that this radical alteration of The Lady Dolores’ Doer will never be known by anyone else, because I (The Christopher) did it all alone, at a huge personal sacrifice, only to benefit The Lady Dolores and not at all "for show" to anyone else. I cried as I re-lived and re-membered those days.

It was late Sunday, and we were ready to depart. RW then shared what was a final "farewell" message from The Lady Dolores, something that Dolores conveyed psychically to him. It was her URGING for how all of us should begin interacting with each other. But it was also such a universal message that is needed by all people, that I share it here:

This could be the last time that I see you.
Either of us could die ere we meet again.
so please know that I deep-admire your admirable traits
and laud your ceaseless efforts to perfect your soul
and elevate your character (and that of everyone you interact with)
I hope we interact again (in this life or the next)
but if we don’t
I want you to know
my life has been enriched by having known you
and I hereby wish you Godspeed
in your sojourn through Eternity.

FATHER'S DAY 2009

2009-06-09T09:07:00.000-07:00

by Christopher Nyerges

When my father’s 80th birthday coincided with Father’s Day some years ago, I wrote a pictorial booklet for my father which outlined key aspects of our life together. It was my way of thanking my father. My wife Dolores and I went to his home after the wild cacophonous family gathering had ended. We didn’t want an audience in an atmosphere of laugher, sarcasm, and possibly ridicule. I only wanted to share the thank you story with my father in a somewhat serious atmosphere.

Dolores and I brought some special foods, put on some music, and I began my short presentation beginning with my earliest significant memories. I shared with him my memories of how he told me I would be an artist when I grew up. He always told me to put my bike and toys away, so "the boogeyman" wouldn’t steal them. As I grew older, I learned that the world was indeed full of very real "boogeymen" and my father attempted to provide me with ways to protect myself against these unsavory elements of life.

I recalled to my father, while my mother and Dolores listened on, the birthday party adventures, getting hair cuts in the garage, and how my father tolerated my interest in mycology and wild edibles.

Everyone found the recounting amusing, even funny, but there were also tears mixed with the laughter. As with most memories, some things my father recalled quite differently from me, and some he didn’t recall at all. Some things that I saw as life-and-death serious, he saw as humorous, and vice versa.

But above it all, I felt I’d finally "connected" with him at age 80 in a way that I’d never managed to do before. My "fathers day card" wasn’t pre-made by a card company, but consisted of my own private and secret memories that I shared with him. I managed to thank him for doing all the things that I took for granted – a roof over my head, meals, an education, a relatively stable home.

Of course, all our family members – "insiders" – knew that my father was no saint. But I was at least acknowledging the good, and sincerely thanking him for it.

My mother died two years later, and we all knew my father would be lost without her. They’d been married over 50 years. His health and activities declined and he finally passed away on the Ides of March a few years later.

Though his death did not come as a surprise – I was nevertheless left feeling his absence. That early Saturday morning when I learned of his death, I even felt parent-less. My view of the world changed and I was forced to acknowledge the limits of life and the futility of pursuing solely a material existence.

After I learned of his death via a phone call, I walked out into the morning rain, in shock, crying, thinking, remembering. I was not feeling cold or wet, and somehow I was protected by that unique state of mind that enshrouded me.

During the next three days, I did as I had done with my mother when she died. I spent the next three days reviewing my life with my father.

At first I allowed the random memories and pain to wash over me. I talked to Frank constantly during those three days, inviting and allowing him to be with me as we did the life review together. I felt his pain, his frustration, his emptiness and loneliness in his last few years of life. I did nothing to stop the pain of this – I allowed myself to feel it all.

I spoke to Frank as I’d speak to anyone living. I felt his presence and even his responses. I did this for myself as much as for Frank and his on-going journey.

I began to see him as a young man, who met, fell in love, and married my mother. Somehow, this was a major revelation to me. I had never seen my own father in that light before. He had simply been "my father." Suddenly, he was a unique individual, with his own dreams, aspirations, and goals. Amazingly, I’d never viewed him in this way during our life together.

And then, after perhaps 12 hours of this, and miles of walking, I began a more chronological review of my life with my father, point by point by significant point. I saw his weaknesses and strengths, as well as my own. As I did this review, I looked for all the things that I’d done right with my father, all the things I’d done wrong, and all the things that I could have done better. I wrote these down, and the "wrong" list was shockingly long. The "right" list only contained a few items!

I asked my father to forgive me, and I resolved to do certain things differently in order to change and improve my character. I know I would not have imposed such a rigor upon myself had it not been for the death of my father.

A week later, when there was the funeral at the church, I felt that I’d come to know my father more than I ever was able to do in life. I briefly shared to the congregation my three days of "being with" my father, and learning what it was like to be Frank, in his shoes, and how we forgave one another.

More importantly, I shared to family and friends gathered that day the importance of constantly finding the time to tell your living loved ones that you indeed love them, not waiting until they die to say the things that you should be saying all along.

I remember Frank now on Father’s Day, and continue to express my heart-felt thanks for all that he – and my mother – gave to me.

CRISIS OR OPPORTUNITY?

2009-03-09T22:15:00.000-07:00

FINDING THE REAL WORLD BEYOND THE MONETARY WEBBERY

Money. Greed. Fear. The three horsemen of the new apocalypse. Everyone wants a scapegoat – the bankers, Bush, Obama, The Fed, the highly-paid CEOs. But in our zeal to find someone to crucify, we forget that all of us played a role in this economic crisis. Greed fueled the “housing boom” that had to inevitably crash.
An acquaintance told me during the height of the dizziness, “I can’t afford to NOT use all that equity in my home,” as he refinanced his way to debt. “That’s MY equity,” he assured me, not even realizing that “home equity” is a phantom asset. Where did we lose the notion that it is sound and wise to pay off our loans?
In our book “Extreme Simplicity: Homesteading in the City,” we shared in the last chapter some of the illusions of money that most of us carry around with us every day in our brains. We shared our perspective of something called “the four illusions of money,” which we originally read about in the 1979-80 Co-Evolution Quarterly.
One of these illusions is that if we have a lot of money, we will be free to do whatever it is that we feel we want to do. Of course, few people who are victims of this mental illusion ever define what they mean by “a lot” of money, and – amazingly – few take the time to specifically define those things that they “want to do.” I say amazingly, because how can one ever achieve any goal if you have not carefully and specifically defined the goal?
And the reason this idea is an illusion is because when we focus upon money – an abstraction – we tend to then lose sight of the fact that money is a tool to achieve some other goal. How and when did the acquisition of money become a goal in itself?
Of course, in a modern society, everyone has daily needs which are most readily met by money: paying rent or mortgages, buying food, medical needs for the family and children, insurance, gasoline for the car, clothes, etc. These are not the things I am speaking about.
I am referring to the need for us to define, personally, our short-term and long-term goals. Also, we should – perhaps even daily – continue to ask ourselves: What is the meaning of life? Why do I do what I do all day? Am I fulfilling whatever it is that I was born to do? If not, what can and should I do?
I strongly urge you all to read these details in the “Extreme Simplicity” book – and you can get the book from our store at www.ChristopherNyerges.com, or you can get it at Amazon, or any bookstore which can order it.
But here is one way to break free from this particular monetary illusion. List several of your important goals in life. You cannot list “making more money” as one of your goals. Yes, money may help you to achieve your goals more quickly, but you cannot list earning more money as a goal. List those things that you want to do, or achieve, or those skills that you want to master.
List each of these goals on a separate piece of paper. Next, write a simple series of steps that you can see yourself actually doing that leads you in the direction of achieving that goal. Do not list money on this list.
Your steps for achieving your goals should include some of the following: Asking others to work with you to achieve your goals. Asking others to give you things that you need to achieve the goal, or barter with you for objects you need. Consider ways to trade your time or labor so that someone else can give you things or trade consultation or labor so that you might achieve your goals. See?
Begin to see the real world, apart from the webbery of money, and see the people in your life who can work with you to achieve your goals.
Those of you who take these steps, and move forward towards your goals, will find that world seems like an entirely different place. You will discover your brother, and you will find that when two or more of you are working cooperatively towards a meaningful goal, your life will be richer, more meaningful, and your fulfillment will come in the journey.

DOING THE BIRTHDAY RUN

2009-01-20T09:02:00.000-08:00

How I reviewed my life one year at a time

By Christopher Nyerges

[Nyerges teaches classes in practical survival, is the editor of Wilderness Way magazine, and the author of "How to Survive Anywhere," and other books. He can be reached at www.ChristopherNyerges.com]

My new year came Sunday, January 11, my date of birth. So that’s my personal New Year. As has been my custom, I did a birthday run where I run one lap around a track for each year, and review that year as I run. In a sense, I run through my life, looking back at where I started, where I went, what’s happened in between, and seeking whatever lessons I can.

This year, I didn’t do laps around a track, but ran up and down a dirt driveway for each "lap," a distance of about a fifth of a mile.

For me, 2008 had been a year of pain – losing my dog of 17 years on Easter Sunday, and losing my wife of 22years in early December. Christmas and New Year’s burned by in the time warp I was in, not wanting another close person to be gone. I focused hard as I ran my birthday run, trying to re-live my life, trying to really feel, again, what I felt back then, and my pain came back.

My first awareness of being born was that something was very wrong, that I came from some very holy sacred place and now I was back in a human body on this Dark Age planet. I cried uncontrollaby as I ran, just as I did in my first few years of incoherence and confusion. Yet, I slowly learned what it was to be human, and though I never grew out of my feeling of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and forever out of the loop, I learned the ways of man, of deceit, of double-talk, lies, beguilement.

I’d forgotten – until I did my life-review run – that I once knew that I came from some level of purity and Innocence, then descended to human-ness, and then I worked to learn how to "fit in" to the ways of the grown up world. As I ran each lap, I tried hard to just feel it, and to find the lessons that I still needed to learn.

I remember visiting my grandfather in Ohio, and how he yelled at my mother for some petty thing. I was only a child, but I never forgot that puzzling scene. I somehow thought that getting older meant that people grew wiser, more respectful, more controlled – but this was merely one experience that taught me that was not so.

I remembered as a teen stealing cigarettes and other things at local stores, and eventually getting involved in marijuana for a short while. Both my parents were working and there was no one watching. I looked up to the neighborhood "bad boys" who smoked and swore and stole things, and were it not for getting caught and exposed, I could have stayed on that pointless, nowhere path of crime.

Fortunately, I went through some sort of internal renaissance at age 14, and began taking martial arts classes, learning music, and studying Buddhism and philosophy. I saw that I knew next to nothing, and still I looked positively to the future. At age 54 as I ran, I could see that the past is very much alive in all I we do now, and the future is already written by what I think, and do, and feel as I live each moment.

I found I could do my birthday run with mental eyes wide open, facing all my fears, and perceptions of inadequacy.

In high school, I entered into the world of ideas, and the vast potential good that was available for the world if people – if I – lived ecological lives, though I was too naieve at that time to see the vast overwhelming influence of the pursuit of money in most of us.

I constantly felt the frustration of never really learning anything in school, but I learned to play the game, and learned how to play at journalism so that I could write and share ideas. I didn’t learn how to think, nor did I receive any moral rudder of any sort while in school. I simply learned about the tools I needed in order to go forward.

As I ran, I reviewed my travels, seeking something, rarely finding it. I reviewed my search for "real community," and my various successes in this regard. I felt so happy reviewing the time Dolores and I drove all the way to Oklahoma to take part in the 150th commemoration of the Trail of Tears, and Dolores spoke to the gathered audience with a Shining Bear reading. The whole trip was a magical dream.

Amazingly, I came to the realization that I wasted a vast portion of my life in the pointless pursuit of sex, or whatever I thought that meant. I was too dumb most of the time, too driven by my own animal nature, to cognize the difference between Love and Sex. Even studying Eric Fromm’s classic "Art of Loving" – though a step in the right direction – only began to reveal to me that "love" is not what we are shown on TV shows. True love fulfills, yet only sex is fleeting, and a terrible waste of time, and often a destroyer of families and neighborhoods. It was sobering as I ran to see that dark side of sex all throughout my life, something that I have only slowly been able to deal with.

In the last 10 years, I felt both uplifted by my work, and depressed by my own weaknesses and deficiencies. My separation from Dolores was a source of great sadness, but that sadness was later replaced by the inner enlightened joy of two people, respecting each other, freely coming together for certain goals. We worked together for some of the public gatherings we conducted at our WTI non-profit, and many writings, and other projects. So when Dolores made her final transition in December of last year, I felt both devastated, and forced to review all that was good, all that would take me into the future with the world we created.

So many lessons flowed from this run that it would take a book to record them all –most very personal lessons. I remember thinking that Dolores had created a wonderful life for herself, and that I wanted to do the same, and still want that. I also took faith in a quote from Michael Savage, that "Work is the only salvation."

What Happened on the Massage Table

2009-01-14T12:43:00.000-08:00

Falling into inner space

It was already getting dark at the Highland Park farmers market, and my back was hurting me from all the running I’d done two days earlier. My birthday was two days earlier and I followed my two-decades long custom of doing a birthday run where I ran a lap for each year of my life, as I mentally reviewed that year. It had been an awesome run which took me two hours. Anyway, I told my assistant that I was going to get a massage at the shiatsu booth at the market. My back was killing me. Plus I was thinking about my wife Dolores – it had been over a month since she passed away, but I was still missing her very much.

Chiyoki had me lie down on her massage table, and I instantly felt some relief just by lying down. Then she went to work, first on my scalp and then working her way down my back. There’s something about pushing, squeezing, working the flesh and muscle – it was simultaneously painful and enlightening. Something about the pain I was experiencing, both mentally and physically, allowed me to enter into some other twilight-zonish space where time didn’t exist. Maybe the massaging released certain chemicals into my bloodstream and brain – I don’t know. But as Chiyoki continued to twist my arms and knead my back as if it were dough, my mind went into early childhood memories as vivid as yesterday’s breakfast.

I was sitting in the kitchen late at night with my mother, talking about all the things we used to talk about when everyone else was asleep. I would be trying to identify plants that I’d collected that day with my many books, while my mother would drink tea and read her newspapers and magazines. "How can God have had no beginning?" I would ask her. "How can the Pope be infallible?" I would ask her. We discussed these matters at length, and she would often say that I should ask the priest. But later, when word got back to her that I was debating the parish priest, she would yell at me and say "Who do you think you are, talking back to the priest?" It was a pleasant memory, whether we agreed or not, since we could sit there and talk, and she died about 10 years ago.

Time was non-existant as Chiyoki worked my back, and the incense from the next booth wafted over me, reminding me of being an altar boy at the Catholic church, and getting up early before school to practice and to help the priest say Mass. Why was I thinking of that? Was it merely the smell of incense triggering a memory? I thought long and hard about spiritual matters of that sort, and was once serious about going into the priesthood, but something along the way disillusioned me. The past was no less alive then as it was now, as the thoughts and ideas coursed through my consciousness, as the music of the Vera Cruz singers down the block rang out and reminded me of travels to Mexico.

Chiyoki began pulling each arm into the middle of my back and I was about to scream, but I just let her do it. I felt my body needed it. And as I relaxed into the pain, I was climbing the Pyramid of the Sun again, standing at the top as I did in 1974, wondering about the people who planned and built such majesty, and wondering what happened to it all. Past, present, future -- all aspects of the same reality. We think, we build, we live, we die. Our parents and families form our character, and then we make choices, and then we do whatever it is that we were genetically destined to do. What was I destined to do, I thought at the top of the pyramid? Does all life, and all culture, end? If so, what is the point of it all?

I was experiencing some sort of mental free-fall, an internal Fellini movie, highlights of memorable conversations, meetings, endings, as the incense flowed, and the singing rang through the street, while my muscles were being given a good beating.

"OK, all done," she finally told me. I got up, put on my hat, and walked back into the market, realizing once again the illusion of time, and the reality that nothing matters in and of itself, but only how we approach what we do, and whether or not we learn from life.

-- Christopher

Brother Can You Spare Some Change?

2008-10-06T13:16:00.000-07:00

A current social commentary
By Christopher Nyerges

They’re telling us on the radio
That change is coming soon
They seem to think that they’re talking to
People living on the moon.

O brother can you spare some change?
I ain’t eaten since noon
The police have made me change my tune
I’ve changed three times since noon.

They’re telling us on the TV
That change is coming soon
I saw the guy who was talking fast
He was born with a silver spoon.

Another bum hit me on the head
He sure looked like a goon
He took what little change that I did have
And he contributed to my ruin.

They’re telling us in the papers
That change is coming soon
They’re lying to us through their red-tie suit
they sound like the outcasts of Dune.

O brother can you spare a dime
I’ve missed a meal another time
I’ve moved my tent three times since full moon
And they’re saying change is coming soon.

They’re telling us on the internet
That change is coming soon
but with no change in my pocket
I can’t even buy a prune.

Please take me to your leader
My life is full of changing tune
I don’t know where I am anymore
I feel like I’m living on the moon.

My life is full of too much change
But I can’t even buy an apple core.
I see the men in their clean suits
But each looks like a whore.

I’m staring out the window
Of the blue bus going downtown
The world was changing around me
There’s just too much change goin’ round.

They’re telling us on the street corner
That change is all the rage
I can’t live forever in the alley
I’m much too old for my age.

But these men in spotless suits and ties
From their open mouths do flow their lies
They speak with straight face and smile
That change will be here in a while

They’re telling us on the billboards
The world’s coming to an end
I don’t have enough change for a sandwich
But there’s plenty for the bailout to lend.

I long so much for the good old days
Back when no one even had a fridge
Back when Wall Street’s big bust hit
and bankers jumped from every bridge.

They’re telling us on the radio
That change is coming soon
They seem to think that they’re talking to
People living on the moon.

092508 – all the talk of change, while the homeless ask me for change, and banks are failing every day – change is certain…

THE SINKING SHIP

2008-10-06T13:12:00.001-07:00

Copyright Christopher Nyerges
Commentary on our current state of society

We’re whirly giggling very fast
Gotta hurry make these profits fast
No time for boring prophets past
Wear white robes, said first will be last
Today we seek the dollar profit
So from his pulpit throw him off it
We no longer need to rough it
Tell the preachers they should stuff it
We’re bright future moving fast
Hair that shines, polyester pants
Cut down more trees to build our plants
Try to ignore Ed Begley’s rants
Our great profit must be vast
Cuz we’re number one, future and past
What matters fresh? Let food be gassed
If dollars there, we’d mine Mt. Shast’
Wild land is a thing I hate
It’s non-performing real estate
Tree-hugging is a weakness trait
Save them a tree for go-away bait

O ye who control the fate
Of our vast land and of the state
Humbly look to what your action’s worth
Can’t you see beyond your wide girth
Don’t you see what your thoughts give birth
Your greed it makes a hell on earth

This greed it now is a pervasive thing
It causes us to no more sing
We hide inside our computer king
And no more does our mind take wing
We’re slaves indeed, our brain’s in sling
No more good fortune does tooth fairy bring

The mystery’s gone and no more awe
Our world is tightened by obey law
Mindlessly with spiritual flaw
Would choke us to death if we only saw
The ever-tightening order control
Little by little heads do roll
We pretend it won’t destroy our soul
But our lives become more grassy knolls
Computer chips, and credit cards
Cell phones, ipods, make us dullards
Our minds drained, no more chance for Bards
We open embrace our prison guards

We’ve met the enemy and he is us
We’re already locked inside blue bus
We justify and say "don’t fuss"
We’re already dead in New World crush

We’ve already made money our god
We’re all in body-snatchers pod
If we don’t like it, we’re called odd
We pretend OK with faceless nod
We’re already dead to spirit within
We’ve all committed too many sins
Maybe we hope for something that’s been
But all we see is grim reaper’s grin

God, there must be way out of here
But can’t be drugs and can’t be beer
Find a way to overcome fear
Can’t jump on comet when it is near

I don’t want to be forever podded
I one day want to say "I got it"
Don’t want life to be ‘bout what I’ve boughted
Want to know the point before I have death-nodded

O ye who control the fate
Of our vast land and of the state
Humbly look to what your action’s worth
Can’t you see beyond your wide girth
Don’t you see what your thoughts give birth
Your greed it makes a hell on earth

Thinking About My Father

2008-06-15T10:37:00.000-07:00

I never liked the manner in which some parents continue to treat their "children" long after they’ve grown up. I remember reading about a 90 year old father who still chided his 70 year old son as if he was still a boy.

As I grew older and lived apart from my parents, I wanted an enlightened relationship. Perhaps "friends" was too much to hope for, but I wanted to be treated as an equal, not spoken down to, but listened to. But how to slowly bring about such a change?My mother was always easier to converse with, and she was much more willing to relinquish her reins of parenthood on her 30-something, and then 40-something, child. My father had much greater difficulty. He grew up in the Depression and lived his life in that mindset. He never fully trusted banks, didn’t communicate much with his children but expected our obedience, and "taught" us what he could via yelling at us.

I have said, jokingly, that I learned everything from my father. His ideas were too often tinged with stubbornness and folklore, and I often took a contrary path to his advice. Mushrooms were messy and dangerous, so I took up mycology. Everything I needed to know about plants was in the grocery store, so I took up botany and ethnobotany. A computer was absolutely not needed, so I learned how to use a computer along with the rest of the world. Oil, high heat, and a teflon frying pan was all that you needed to know about cooking, so one of my brothers became a chef.

Still, he was my father. As the years rolled by in our separate adult existences, I made the effort to get to know my father as a person, to talk to him, to be a real friend. So I refused to go to the normal family holiday gatherings where there was too much food, a nonstop blaring TV, and loud simultaneous talking (and yelling) by everyone. Instead, I would visit the next day and sit and talk with my father and mother, sometimes with a pie or other home-made dish. He regarded it as odd that I’d rather do that holiday meeting the day after everyone else met, and he even once went so far as to call me a "bad son." But as time went on, I could tell he was touched by having us share a reading and small meal the day after. He no longer chided me for non-attendance at family events.

Once, when trying to dissolve the parent-child bonds, I called him and began a discussion.
"Can I call you Frank," I asked.
"Is something wrong?," he responded.
"No, nothing is wrong," I told him. "I’m just trying to have a better relation with you."
"Do you need money? Are you in trouble?" he asked with worry in his voice.
Needless to say, that conversation did not go as planned, but was still a step in the right direction.

When he died (after a long illness), I got the word via an early morning phone call. In a daze, I walked into the moderate rain, crying, talking to Frank. I walked for hours, and I felt that I "reached" him, and he seemed to appreciate our continuing conversation.

I’d learned to love and appreciate him in his final years. He was by no means an ideal father. He was full of strengths, and weaknesses, talents, and flaws. He knew quite a bit of stuff that was not so. But I grew to admire and attempt to emulate his positive attributes, while also attempting to learn from his mistakes and avoid those patterns in my life.

In this way, I can say that my father taught me. I chose to no longer hold him in the mental bondage of "flawed father," just as I had demanded that he no longer hold me in the mental bondage of "deferential son." Rather than see him as a "flawed father," I saw that he was just another individual with his own life’s challenges, trying to make sense of this life, flaws and all.

By trying to see his life through his experience, I found that I could simply accept who he was, my father, one-half of the formula for bringing me into this world. At long last, I felt at peace with my own father, and felt an unconditional love towards him, years after he died.

CASSIE'S GIFT

2008-04-04T15:00:00.000-07:00

"The Greatness of a Nation can be determined by how its animals are treated" – Ghandi

by Christopher Nyerges

[Nyerges is the editor of Wilderness Way magazine, and the author of "How to Survive Anywhere." He can be reached at Box 41834, Eagle Rock, CA 90041, or www.ChristopherNyerges.com]

In memory of Cassius Clay, Christopher’s canine pal of 16 years
I have many fond memories of Cassie, but I remember the end the most right now. I thought that I was taking care of Cassie and helping and saving Cassie – I had to carry him in and out, and was always concerned about his welfare. In the end, I realize that Cassie was helping and saving me. He instilled in me a sense of responsibility and caring that maybe I never had before.

When I walked today, I missed Cassie so much, and I thought about his role in my life. I thought about how I tried to see his dog pictures of the world, how he processes the many smells that he takes so long each day to smell. When I attempted to go into his mind, like Beatrice Lydecker described in her What the Animals Tell Me book, I "saw" a colorful, very dynamic image of flowing geometric shapes that all moved like the wind in varying patterns, in a three-dimensional complexity. To me, it was the complexity of odors that meant so much to Cassie, and very little to me.
Shortly after he died, I asked him to show me his picture, and I "saw" in front of my his big face licking mine. He was telling me that he was happy, in peace, no pain and that I was OK.

As I walked this morning, I thought about Easter Day when Cassie died. Though he had had trouble walking for weeks, he seemed OK in the morning. When I came home in the early evening, it was dark and Cassie was warm but I could not rouse him from his house, and when I pulled him out, I knew it was over, even though I tried to bring him back. There was no music, no singing of birds, just the quiet of the night and the final sounds of his dying body.

As I walked this morning, I realized that Cassie’s gift was his unconditional love. And now that he was gone, I tried to sort out the meaning of that love. I have heard it said that Eternal Life is synonymous with Eternal Love. That Eternal Love is also impersonal. It is universal loving without concern for prejudice or opinion or preferences. It is doing what is right, and not being concerned about my group, or my party, or my race, or my gender, or my family. It is finding those ways of thinking, and of living, that exemplify the Golden Rule, and Jesus’ command to "Love ye one another as ye love your self." Which means we must love our spiritual self, and see that every single one of us is the same.

Cassie taught me to be a better person. He taught me to see that only through impersonal love can we ever find real meaning and harmony. Of course, I feel a personal love for Cassie, and for other close people in my life. But now again, Cassie has made me realize that death is inevitable, and personal love is full of pain and heartache and disappointment. Impersonal loving is not focused exclusively towards one person or animal but is a way of thinking about all life, including all animals. This was Cassie’s gift to me.

NOTE: We held a "fauneral" for Cassie a week after he died. We buried him in the lower orchard, planted a tree over him, and 30 people joined us to talk about our love of dogs and animals.

WHO IS SAINT PATRICK?

2008-03-09T12:11:00.000-07:00

IN SEARCH OF THE REAL SAINT PATRICK

by Christopher Nyerges

Who was Saint Patrick? Really, who was he? Not the mythological story we tell to our children each March 17 in sing-song voices: "Saint Patrick wore a green suit, talked to leprechans (he was probably drunk at the time), and while trying to convert the pagans with a shamrock, he marched all the snakes out of Ireland." Will the real Saint Patrick please stand up?

His real name was Maewyn Succat, born around 385 A.D., somewhere in Scotland, or possibly somewhere else, as there is conflicting historical data on his exact date and place of birth. His baptismal name was Patricius.

Around age 16, he was sold into slavery in Ireland and worked for the next 6 years as a shepherd. Keep in mind that human slavery, as well as human sacrifice, was considered normal for those times.

After his six years in slavery, an angel came to him in a dream, prompting him to escape and seek out his homeland. He actually walked about 200 miles to the coast, where his dream indicated a ship would also be waiting for him. He successfully escaped, and spent the next twenty years of his life as a monk in Marmoutier Abbey. There he again received a celestial visitation, this time calling him to return to the land where he’d been enslaved, though now with a mission as a priest and converter.

Patrick was called to Rome in 432, where Pope Celestine bequeathed the honour of Bishop upon him before he left on his mission.

Patrick returned to Ireland not alone, but with 24 supporters and followers. They arrived in Ireland in the winter of 432. In the Spring, Patrick decided to confront the high King of Tara, the most powerful King in Ireland. Patrick knew that if he had the King's support, he would be free to take his Christian message to the people of Ireland.

Patrick and his followers were invited to Tara by the King of Laoghaire. It was there that he was said to have plucked a shamrock from the ground as he tried to explain to the Druids and the King that the shamrock had three leaves just like the idea of God’s three aspects - The Father, The Son and the Holy Ghost. This was called the Trinity.

Of course, triads and trinities were a common concept among the Druids. In fact, one could argue that the trinity (a term not found in the Bible) was a concept given to Christianity by the Druids, rather than the other way around. Nevertheless, King Laoghaire was very impressed and chose to accept Christianity. He also gave Patrick the freedom to spread Christianity throughout Ireland.

When Patrick returned to Ireland, he treated the "pagans" with the respect implicit in his dream. Part of this respect was attempting to communicate with the Druids on their terms, which is why he used the shamrock as a teaching tool. He also blended the Christian cross with the circle to create what is now known as the Celtic cross. He used bonfires to celebrate Easter, a Holy Day that Christianity supplanted with the already-existing spring equinox commemoration. In fact, he incorporated many of the existing symbols and beliefs into his Christian teachings.

He spent his last 30 years in Ireland, baptizing the non-Christian Irish, ordaining priests, and founding churches and monasteries. His persuasive powers must have been astounding, since Ireland fully converted to Christianity within 200 years and was the only country in Europe to Christianize peacefully. Patrick's Christian conversion ended slavery, human sacrifice, and most intertribal warfare in Ireland.

Patrick was also unique in that he equally valued the role of women in an age when the church ignored them. He always sided with the downtrodden and the excluded, whether they were slaves or the "pagan" Irish.

According to Thomas Cahill, author of How the Irish Saved Civilization, Patrick's influence extended far beyond his adopted land. Cahill's book, which could just as well be titled How St. Patrick Saved Civilization, contends that Patrick's conversion of Ireland allowed Western learning to survive the Dark Ages. Ireland pacified and churchified as the rest of Europe crumbled. Patrick's monasteries copied and preserved classical texts. Later, Irish monks returned this knowledge to Europe by establishing monasteries in England, Germany, France, Switzerland, and Italy.

When the lights went out all over Europe, a candle still burned in Ireland. That candle was lit by Patrick.

Veneration of Patrick gradually assumed the status of a local cult. He was not simply remembered in Saul and Downpatrick, he was worshipped. Indeed, homage to Patrick as Ireland's saint was apparent in the eight century AD. At this time Patrick's status as a national apostle was made independently of Rome. He was claimed locally as a saint before the practice of canonization was introduced by the Vatican. The high regard in which the Irish have held St Patrick is evidenced by the salutation, still common today, of "May God, Mary, and Patrick bless you".

Patrick was not Irish, had nothing to do with leprechauns, almost certainly was not a drunkard, and didn't drive all the snakes out of Ireland. In fact, there were no native snakes in Ireland, though this story is believed to be an analogy for driving out the so-called "pagans," or, at least, the pagan religions.

Patrick was one of the "greats" of history who nearly single-handedly preserved the best of Western culture when much of Europe was devolving into chaos and ruin. He deserves far better than remembering him in the silly ways we do today, such as wearing green, pinching each other, and getting drunk. Rather, he deserves an accurate memory, and our emulation. Unfortunately, like all true Saviors of history, they are either killed off, or relegated to the closet of ridicule.
Perhaps it's time for all of us to re-think how we commemorate this special man, and his vast contribution to world culture.

Earth Day Every Day?

2008-02-27T19:07:00.000-08:00

CHANGE THE WORLD BY CHANGING YOURSELF

Seeking the Path of Practical Ecology

"Live light upon the Earth,
If you would not be earthbound."
-- Shining Bear

I was only a teenager, but I could never get it out of my mind: "How should we be living our lives? Is there not more to life than seeking money, possessions, and pleasure?" These questions, and their countless variations, were the driving force that led me on my path of botany, ecology, indigenous skills, and spiritual evolution.

Back in the early ‘70s, there was the beginning of a heightened ecological awareness, but you were still a "kook" if you expressed an interest in practical survival, and if you expressed concern about the growing ecological crisis.

A lot has happened in 30 years. Things have gotten worse. "Great interest" and "good intentions" of the 1970s did not succeed in materially improve our overall trends in the United States. Our rapid population growth, both from within and without, has only exacerbated the situation.

I spent the last 30 years attempting to learn and to apply the "little things" that I can do, and that anyone can do, to choose to be a part of the solution. It is the way that I maintain hope, and that I can find a way to mentally rise above what seems a hopeless situation.

Besides learning many of the elements of what anyone can do, even if you’re in the cities, I realized that there is no "enemy" out there. The "enemy" is always within. It is my own proclivity to laziness, to choosing the path of least resistance, to choosing something based solely on economics. Though I have not always succeeded, I have attempted to take the time to determine why we’ve even here on this earth for a few score years before we die. It certainly cannot be solely to accumulate a good portfolio.

My pursuit of "what to do?" initially led me to study botany. In botany, and specifically in discovering how indigenous peoples used their floral friends, I realized that food and medicine were richly abundant on this earth. While modern agriculture continues to travel down the high-tech path of genetically modified foods, the most nutritious plants on the earth are still wild plants, plants such as dandelion, purslane, curly dock and other so-called "weeds" that are found in urban areas throughout the world.

Dandelion – richer in beta-carotene than carrots. Purslane, the richest plant source of Omega-3 fatty acids. Curly dock, one of the richest sources of vitamin A. These wild plants, and hundreds more, I have used and taught to thousands of students over the past 3 decades. Acorns still abound, and it is a fascinating path of discovery to collect the acorns and process them in the traditions of the Old Ways. In our urban areas, we can find lambs quarter, a spinach relative that is arguably nature’s best mineral tablet. We find abundant carob trees planted as ornamentals, and these are edible right off the tree, with three times as much calcium as the same amount of milk. Chickweed is a common weed of lawns, rich in vitamin C and a delicious salad plant.
And get this – because chickweed has the audacity to grow on lawns, there is a poison you can buy in most nurseries that promises to kill all the chickweed on your lawn, as well as dozens of other so-called weeds, which are actually good foods and good herbs.

WHY A LAWN?
Why, why, why? It is apparently because "we" believe that there is some socially redeeming value in lawns. We have never cared for lawns, and have always used that space to create compost, and raise such plants as fruit trees, roses, lavender, and edible groundcovers such as nasturtiums, mints, and tradescantia. This is one of the "little ways" we choose to not contribute to the waste of water and fuel that goes into the care and maintenance of lawns. It is one of our little ways in which we can take charge and be a part of the solution.
And we have spoken up when other neighbors cut their "weeds" down to the bare soil. This is as foolhardy as a lawn, even worse, for it dries the soil, reduces the amount of moisture that that soil can release into the local atmosphere, and contributes to desertification.

Once you learn about the uses of plants, you become a confirmed ecologist. You will not want to pull "weeds" pointlessly, and you would not scrape plants down to the bare soil, as so many of the so-called "gardeners" do with their weed-whackers.

It is difficult enough to create a beautiful area where there was once a pointless lawn. It is more difficult to convince others, since most in today’s mindset will not only ridicule you, but will find ways to fight you, legally or otherwise.

It is wise to find ways to become a part of the solution, and it is also wise to go forward with eyes open, to avoid unnecessary battles. It is wiser to convince your neighbors to the vast practicality of what you do, rather than have to fight your neighbors when they suggest your "overgrown lawn" is lowering their property values.

One person may not be able to change the world, but each of us can change ourselves. By studying plants, and learning their value, I have begun to see how botany is related to the health of the soil, and how the health of the soil is related to the network of animal life on that land, and this has led me to see how the health of the wild animals directly affects my health and well-being. This is a science, not a "New Age" word game, and the application of practical urban ecology should be approached as a hard science, where you can observe positive results, and where you can repeat those results if you follow the same procedures.

SURVIVAL SKILLS
I pursue both wilderness and urban survival skills. On most weekends, I conduct field trips where our students learn about using wild plants. We collect woods, and we make fire without matches as people in the past have done for millennia. We teach our students to find natural fibres and make such things as twine, baskets, sandals. We build shelters from branches and leaves. It has become relatively easy to be safe and sound in the wilderness using what nature has provided. But most of us live in the city most of the time.

So we teach and practice urban skills too. Urban skills include such things as making compost, finding ways to recycle just about everything, growing fruits and vegetables, and having battery-operated or hand-powered devices where possible. We have solar heated water, and a small solar electrical system. We would never just toss kitchen scraps into the city trash container, nor would we mindless "pull weeds." Kitchen scraps make good soil, and any wild plants that must be pulled get eaten by us, or the animals.

A side benefit of practicing urban ecology is that you’re a little more prepared if there’s ever a major earthquake or a blackout. But that shouldn’t be your overriding impetus for pursuing practical survival. You should pursue it because it’s the right thing to do.

We have a friend who always carries a cloth napkin of his own when at restaurants. He doesn’t want to participate in the extra paper waste that goes into the napkins. He has even collected other people’s napkins (unused) and took them home to use in various recycling projects. I once told him that the trees still get cut, and that the restaurants still use and discard massive amounts of paper. He reminded me that he wasn’t trying to change the world. He was only trying to do the right thing in his little sphere of influence. "And at least the paper I take isn’t going into a landfill," he told me.

Yes, little things, but little things add up. We carry our used dish water outside and we pour it onto our plants. Of course, this means we must buy safe detergents. All things are related.
We are often confronted with the challenge that things are just too bad, "we don’t want to think about it, and besides, we’re not the problem. What we do is just a small insignificant part of the trash problem." But don’t millions of people make that same excuse?

I hold that view that even if I cannot change the world, I should still make the right choice in those cases where I have choice. To take the path of making wise use of resources is often difficult and often inconvenient. If "karma" has any meaning, then even if I cannot change the world, I do affect my own destiny by how I make my personal choices that pertain to all the resources that I come into contact in my daily life.

I urge us all to work together to find the little ways in which we can change the world by changing ourselves. It is the right thing to do.

"Indian Gaming" is not "self reliance"

2008-02-01T13:19:00.000-08:00

A commentary on Indian Gaming Propositions

A friend asked me, "So, are you voting in favor of Indian gaming?" He was referring to Propositions 94, 95, 96, 97, to be voted upon by the California voters on February 5, which would effectively expand so-called "Indian gaming." [Note: by the time you read this, Feb. 5 will likely have past. Still, the overall principles are important.]

"No," I said, "I’m voting against it."

"Really," my friend retorted. "Don’t you realize that the opposition is actually just other casinos and racing concerns who don’t want more competition?"

I signed. "That might be true," I responded, "but that’s not why I’m voting against it."
I explained to my friend that I vote against any and all gambling measures. It is not a good element for any society to promote get-rich-quick schemes which statistically will get very few people rich. I find it particularly perverse that the native Americans who are now so enriched by gambling profits choose to call this "self-reliance."

That’s an inappropriate use of the phrase, "self-reliance." Self-reliance refers to farming, food processing, manufacturing, creating energy (wind, solar, etc.), building stores, building schools, putting people to work in a self-sustaining way that benefits the society.

Creating and supporting the infrastructure of gambling certainly produces money, but it is not true self-reliance. Gambling fosters the notion that we might get something for nothing, or at least, get a lot for a very small investment. It relies on luck or chance, not skill, merit, or work. Gambling does not pay us! The hopeful gamblers pay to support the gambling institutions. That is, no one really "wins," and most "lose." It is this very fact that keeps "gaming" alive and able to generate so much money.

There are those who feel that native Americans deserve this chance to bring in the needed money to the tribe. This is understandable, given the history of broken promises, of extermination via warfare, and massive deaths brought by the white man’s various diseases. So
I don’t fault the desire, and the need, to grow in financial health. I am against the means to do so, which brings along with it all of the unintended consequences.

It is sad to me that after so long of being the "forgotten minority" in America, the native Americans have hit upon one of the least overall beneficial means to become "self-reliant." By the pursuit of gambling, such proprietors also take on the karma of all that the enterprises generate, and whether native Americans or other gambling operators, they become another soulless lemming in the pursuit of Mammon. So be it, since that has already happened to 95% of us. Let’s just not call this "self-reliance."

It is not spiritually uplifting to the individual or society to choose luck and chance as a means of making one’s living. It invites the underworld so long associated with Las Vegas – money laundering, drugs, prostitution, mafia. How well have our native brothers been holding up against such tremendous pressures which the avalanche of gambling money brings?

I vote against all such measures on principle. It is why I voted against the California state lottery, and why I encourage all thinking individuals to also vote against yet another Trojan horse in our midst.

CHANGE: The Candidates' Clamor

2008-01-18T10:27:00.001-08:00

CHANGE IS THE ONLY CONSTANT IN LIFE
CANDIDATES: Tell us who you are!

Ironically perhaps, change is the only constant in life. Seasons change. Our bodies change – sickness, health, growing older, losing hair, losing teeth. Economies change, usually fueled by fraud, fear, and greed – no shortages there. Fashions and tastes change, generally fueled by economic interests rather than interest in any immutable values.

We are surrounded by change.

It is thus amusing and childish that each presidential candidate now clamours for "change." I am
for change. I am the best candidate for change. I represent change. I am for the most change, and all its variants, ad nauseum.

Everyone is a distinct individual. Regardless who next sits in the White House, it will represent "change."

Obviously we cannot predict what will occur in the future with absolute certainty. The past provides a clue, of course. But how each individual deals with the unknowns of the moment is determined by their inner character. So rather than tell us the obvious – "I will bring change" – as if change, per se, represents some sort of universal panacea – tell us what you believe. Tell us your values. Tell us specifically how you regard each of the many problems we face, and tell us your vision of the implementation of solutions.

To tell us that you are the candidate of "change" tells us nothing, except that you’ve jumped on the bandwagon of an empty slogan.

There will be change, yes, we know that. Tell us why we should vote for you. What is your vision for the nation? What specific economic principles do you embrace, and why? How should we be, or not be, meddling all over the globe? What should we do short-term and long-term in Iraq? Should we or should we not secure our borders? Should we be addressing a great moral and spiritual crisis? Or not?

In other words, beyond your smile, your hair, the color of your suit, who are you?

But – and now I speak to the voters – are we easily taken in by the smile, the hair, the color of the tie? Are we too "busy" to investigate in-depth those who would be leader? I hope and pray that such is not the case. If we allow the surface appearances of the candidates to determine our votes, than we have once again become our own worst enemy, and it will

Another Year -- Doing the Birthday Run

2008-01-13T13:33:00.000-08:00

Since 1976, I have commemorated my personal New Year, my birth-day, by running a lap for every year at a local track. I mentally divide the lap into the months, and review what I was doing each season as I run through my life and review it all.

This year, my throat was rough and breathing was difficult, so I chose to run around the casting pool in the lower Arroyo Seco. It’s certainly not as big as a typical ¼ or 1/5 of a mile lap at a school, but it still took me about two and a half hours to run the 53 laps of my life.

When I got there last Friday morning, it was a bit overcast, and I thought it wouldn’t work to run around this artificial body of water. But it was actually a remarkably pleasant and uplifting experience. There was a bit of mist in the air from the water, and leaves were everywhere. It was quiet, and birds were in the trees. It was very much like running in a forest around a lake, though I was not far from downtown Pasadena.

In the early years, up to about age 11, I was struck by how great an impact "older people" had on me. I don’t think most adults realize how much influence we actually have on very young people, but I knew that I was strongly influenced, for better and worse, by parents, older brothers, other parents in the neighborhood, friends of older brothers, and even unknown people who would tell me something, or command me to do something.

I didn’t feel closely supervised or mentored in any specific way, and I realized that allowed way too much time for trouble to occur—which often did. While I ran, I was feeling how I wished I had been firmly guided into a very strict environment. Of course, I know I would have initially rebelled but would have reaped the rewards today of such a youthful discipline. But I wasn’t doing too much analyzing as I was running – I was simply trying to see it all again, to live it all again and to see what I should learn.

It was clear that many of my life patterns and habits were established in these first ten years, a point probably well-established to psychologists, but one that I hadn’t felt personally.

Interesting, I ran though my school years, moving to the farm, my interest in plants, writing, and various jobs as an objective observer. I saw my mind come up with great plans and great ideas, some achieved, some not. I saw how life just goes on. You make a goal, achieve it or not, and if you do achieve it, that plateau is never as interesting as the struggle to get there. So you go on. I ran through marriage, and divorce, and various places of residence, and I cried at my own lack of understanding of others in my life.

When I was done running, I felt that the major insights this year were that I should continue to work with young children, who are so impressionable, and I should do my best to provide good guidance in a truly insane world. I also felt that, beyond such goals as money and work and career and homes and all that stuff, what really matters is how I deal with the people around me. It was all very humbling, because I have vast room for improvement.

Run done, I went home, added herbs to my bathtub along with bath salts, and soaked and reviewed personal goals for the next hour.

Even though my body was a bit on the sick side, and I was nearly in a dream-state much of the time, it was a wonderful and uplifting day because the run enabled me to look at myself, and to look for ways to improve.

I thought you’d enjoy hearing about my experience. There are other details about how to do the Birthday Run – let me know if you’re nterested

SURVIVAL EDUCATION

2007-10-16T10:55:00.001-07:00

ON LEARNING ABOUT WILD FOODS
Christopher Nyerges

[Nyerges is the editor of Wilderness Way, and the author of Guide to Wild Foods, How to Survive Anywhere, and other books. He has conducted wild food seminars and field trips since 1974. For information on his books and classes, contact Box 41834, Eagle Rock, CA 90041, or www.ChristopherNyerges.com]

Back in high school, my friend Rocky and I ran together on our school’s cross country team. Often, when doing a longer practice run, we’d run back to our school in the Arroyo Seco wash just north of the famous Rose Bowl. Though the wash was once a wild stream bed where the local Native Americans lived, it was now a paved irrigation channel. But in spite of the cement, there were still spots where you could find cattails, watercress, and other water plants. Rocky and I learned about watercress during our running days.

Watercress was by far the most prolific low-growing plant in the wash. We both shared an interest in edible wild foods, but there were not as many resources 35 years ago for identifying plants as there are today. When we first began wondering about the plant we thought could be watercress, we each took a sample home and compared it to the pictures in the various books that we each had. We also showed samples to the school’s botany teacher, who confirmed it was watercress.

After that, we would pinch a little of the watercress plant each time we ran through the channel, and take it home to cook. We never ate that watercress raw in salads because the purity of the water was very questionable.

Learning about wild foods was an adventure, and it required a bit of a Sherlock Holmes persistence. There simply weren’t very many people around who could answer our questions about wild plants, and there were just a handful of books that we could use. Today, there are books, videos, on-line sources, and many more people who are able to answer questions about wild food identification.

Back then, I worked after school at the Altadena Public Library and would always check out every book they had on wild foods and botany. I regularly used Euell Gibbons’ "Stalking the Wild Asparagus" and Bradford Angier’s "Free for the Eating."

After I thought I’d identified the wild mustard plant, a friend in my math class, John Ball, showed me a line drawing of the wild mustard from one of Bradford Angier’s books. It looked nothing like the plant that I had assumed was wild mustard. It took us a few weeks to learn that we were both correct. I was looking at the young lyrate mustard leaves, and John was showing me a picture of the older mustard plant that had grown tall and gone to seed.

But it took us several weeks to ask other people, and go collect plants, and to all the footwork required to learn one plant! And this is why you can never wholly depend on books and videos alone in order to positively identify wild foods. You must see the actual plant in the field and you must have an expert point it out to you.

This means you must seek out classes and field trips wherever they may be offered, and be the best student.

During high school, I went on an all-day desert field trip to learn about desert plants. I was told that I was privileged to be in the presence of the botanist, since he knew more than anyone about the desert plants. OK, good, I was hyped up. So Mr. Botanist shows a plant and tells us about it. He goes to the next plant, shows it to us and talks about it. I break his stride and ask him to tell me again the name of a plant, and I try to test myself by asking about similar plants I saw along the trail. I was apparently upsetting Mr. Botanist’s program, and it was made clear to me very quickly that I should listen and take notes, but to not ask him to repeat things. Wow! What a non-education! I came away from that desert outing learning nothing. So, yes, you to find real teachers-in-the-flesh, but keep in mind that some may be less dynamic and engaging than others.

Some very distinctive plants can actually be positively identified by a picture in a book alone. John Ball and I studied pictures of miner’s lettuce during a break in our math class, and we both felt that it would be an easy matter to identify such a very distinctive looking plant. The miner’s lettuce has a round saucer or cup-shaped leaf with a flower stalk that grows right through the middle.

On a following weekend, John had been hiking up in the local mountains and he told me discovered a patch of the miner’s lettuce, and he ate some. He told me about the patch the following Monday. After school, I bicycled over to the base of the mountains and hiked up a steep incline about a half-mile in the chaparral-covered hillside. Sure enough, near the top, I found the delicate miner'’ lettuce plants, looking just like it does in the pictures. I carefully studied it, pinched some leaves, and slowly savored the delicate flavor. I pinched off enough leaves to fill a small bag, and headed back down the hillside and bicycled home.

That night, I had my first watercress salad and cooked watercress greens. To me, it was the culmination of a long adventure and mystery, all mixed up with the tales of the California 49ers, and California Indians. I let my brother and father taste a little, and I expected them to share my excitement. "It’s OK," was all they blandly responded after their cautious taste.

Oh, well, I was still thrilled to have learned and tried a new wild plant. I experimented with different miner’s lettuce recipes for the next two weeks before going on to learn another new plant.

SOME GOOD WILD FOOD REFERENCES:
"Wild Edible Plants" by Donald Kirk, Naturegraph Publishers [Box 1047, 3543 Indian Creek Road, Happy Camp, CA 96039], 1975. Though largely focused on western plants, this includes more plants than most books. The pictures are generally not sufficient for positive identification.

"The Forager’s Harvest" by Sam Thayer [W5066 Hwy 86, Ogema, WI 54459]. Clearly, this books leads the pack of the many wild food books available. Though focused on eastern plants, there are clear photos of the sequences required for identifying, harvesting, and processing wild foods. A must!

"Guide to Wild Foods and Useful Plants" by Christopher Nyerges [Chicago Review Press]. Though written in the west, most of the plants can be found throughout the U.S. Each plant is described in detail, along with edible, medicinal, and other uses. Photos are too small. Excellent appendix on edible plant families. [available from www.ChristopherNyerges.com]

"Stalking the Wild Asparagus" by Euell Gibbons. A classic read, though you may need another source to positively identify the plants. Commonly available new or used.

WILL THERE EVER BE "WORLD PEACE"?

2007-10-12T08:52:00.000-07:00

Finding Lessons in The Lord of the Flies

Christopher Nyerges

[Nyerges is the editor of Wilderness Way magazine, and author of "How to Survive Anywhere," and other books. For more information about classes and books, go to www.ChristopherNyerges.com or Box 41834, Eagle Rock, CA 90041]

Several of us were sitting around a table at Swork in Eagle Rock, drinking coffee, and discussing the problems of today’s world. We were discussing the challenges that parents have with out-of-control children, the Iraq war, terrorism, and other issues.

We began our discussion by analyzing two somewhat misleading questions often asked by Sunday morning pundits: One, why does God allow all the trouble and evil in the world? And Two, will we ever experience a world in harmony, in peace?

The first question is easy to deal with. God has nothing to do with the trouble in the world.
Period. Why do we blame God (or Universal Consciousness, or whatever we call God) for the results of our own ignorance and hypocrisy and preferences? We are agents of free will, are we not? We are the architects of our future, though most of us create our future in a willy-nilly, accidental way, not realizing that every inner secret choice and desire, and every word spoken, and every action, is creating destiny and the "future." But we choose to pretend that this is not so, and when we experience the worst nightmares of our own making, we blame God. As Fred Renich wrote, "We must become increasingly aware of our ever present tendency to use the mercy of a loving God, and his readiness to forgive, as an excuse for careless living."

Question Two is a little harder. Will there ever be peace on earth? Not just cessation of hostilities, but actual harmony among nations and people, and mutual respect that creates an environment of growth (inner and outer), real prosperity, and upliftment.

To answer this question, we have to ask ourselves, What is the obstacle to this harmony? Perhaps the best way to get a handle on this question is to look at all the ways in our own personal lives where disharmony exists. In our relationships, among our work peers, among our family members, among neighbors, among the differing members of our community.

All too often, we find that our problems are caused because we choose to think limbically, we make choices subjectively, based on who we like, and preferences to my family, my people, my religion. We have not been taught or trained to focus upon universal principles or objective reality. If we make decisions in familial or group disputes simply by choosing my side, my group, my religion, rather than upon what is objectively right, then we foster disharmony.

It is nearly always wrong to have a blind adherence to defending "my group." I strongly recommend you read and study Eric Hoffer’s classic book "True Believer."

And this is where the way we train our children to think comes in. If we have been trained to "take sides," and "defend my family" and to filter all our judgements through subjective ideas, we become inept as community and national leaders. If we rise to national leadership with all our preconceptions about other people, we become part of the problem. We become Democrats or Republicans, believing our side is right and the other is wrong. We become Sunni or Shia, knowing we are right and the other is wrong. We think as black or white or brown or red, and we believe that the others are wrong. We think as Catholic or Protestant and consider the other beliefs wrong. Etc.

It is our very belief that keeps us in our limbic brain, thinking primitively, mentally residing in a Dark Age.

It is not as if "answers" are not abundant. But we filter the answers through our subjective minds, and the typical human response is to kill off, imprison, marginalize, or ridicule to obscurity all the world’s great answer-givers.

Perhaps the greatest "answer" to the many problems of human existence is the command to Love your neighbor as yourself. Or, the command to do unto others as you’d have them do to you.

Will there ever be harmony on earth? Must the human condition continue to worsen? Perhaps it is time to think about saving and improving our self, and being less concerned about "saving the world."

As his sipped the last of his coffee, and looked out the window at the cars racing by on Eagle Rock Blvd., one member of our group, Gary, said that each and every one of us is like the boys stranded on the island in Lord of the Flies. In each moment of our daily life, we make choices. We can choose to be uplifted and civilized, or we can choose animalistic anarchistic choices. Each choice, and the consequences of those choices, creates the reality we live in. And in that sense, we are each the architects of our future. Once we find harmony within, there will be hope that there can be harmony in the world.

ON BEING I-PODDED

2007-10-10T17:21:00.000-07:00

The Technological Invasion of the Body Snatchers

[Nyerges is the editor of Wilderness Way magazine, the author of How To Survive Anywhere and other books, and an outdoor field guide. He can be reached at Box 41834, Eagle Rock, CA 90041, or www.ChristopherNyerges.com.]

It was hot – beastly hot – so I went to a local coffee shop to drink iced tea. Maybe I would meet someone and engage them in good old-fashioned conversation. I purchased my iced tea from the new and shiny counter of the new and shiny coffee house. I sat in a comfortable chair and read my newspaper. I hadn’t paid attention to the other patrons in the coffee shop but I noted it was very quiet.

Looking up from my cool beverage, I saw that there was only one person per table, each wholly engaged in their laptop world. There was some light jazz playing in the room, but I seemed to be the only one tapping my foot to the music of Dave Brubeck. Everyone had wires in their ears extending to some hidden source. Everyone was tuned into something else, somewhere else, and no one was tuned into the here and now. A full room of lonely, separated, non-communicating people. No conversation would be possible.

I went outside to enjoy the cool evening breeze and maybe make conversation with fellow sojourners. One man sat alone outside but spoke in hushed tones as he waved his arms. No, not a crazy man, but a man who was elsewhere on his cell phone. The other person outside was a woman, also alone and yelling into the abyss of her phone. I would be making no conversation out here, I realized. Everyone was somewhere else.

I felt disoriented, like a stranger in strange land of techno-toys. I got in my vehicle and drove away.

I went to Trader Joes, did my shopping, and noted that nearly half the shoppers were not here now, but chatted away on their cell phones to people somewhere else. Some had wires extending from their ears.

One man entered with a silver device wrapped around his ear, Star Trek-like, and he was obviously elsewhere as he talked to unseen recipients. I hailed him with my hand, and inquired about the object.

"It’s my I-pod," he said enthusiastically. "I couldn’t live without it."

A friend told me a story about his cousin who plays on a sports team at a local college. The team takes a school bus to the other school, plays the game, and then all the students sit in their own private I-podded musical worlds as they bus home.

"Don’t you all talk?" the student was asked.
"We don’t do that," was the reply.

What a depressing world we’ve devolved into. I can recall bussing home from high school track meets, listening to "Papa Was A Rolling Stone" and all us boys sang along in comraderie, whether we lost or won. How have we descended to the point where it is regarded as better to reside in a safe little podded world.

It would be instructive for today’s over-teched youth to go watch the original Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and replace "pod" with "I-pod." We are all being podded, and without a fight.
During our recent blackout, I sat outside in the cool darkness of the evening with no cell phone, no lights, no TV, no telephone, no e-mail, no electronic gadget which would pod my mind and rob my time. It was a deep pleasure to be alone with myself, to think about life, and life’s important questions, with no chance for google or wickipedia to presume to know my inner answers.

Though I marvel at our technological advances, I cringe with sadness to realize what we have all lost.

2007-10-10T17:16:00.000-07:00

THE LORD OF THE FLIES

by Christopher Nyerges (with commentary from Castaway)

A plane crashes on some remote island, and only the British school children survive. They learn to hunt, to make fire (using Piggy’s specs), to enjoy themselves. Then the battle for power begins. One side is for rules and laws, and the other side wants to live by rule of might.
"Lord of the Flies" has been widely viewed and widely discussed. What does it mean? What does it tell us about our basic human nature? Is our desire to do good and cooperate with others a skill that must be learned and maintained?
The movie (and book) begins with the boys experiencing a sort of innocent paradise, as they swim and cavort and learn about foods in their adult-free world. The obvious need for leadership results in a vote between Ralph, who represents order and the rule of law, and Jack, who represents immediate fulfilment of desires, power, and even savagery. Ralph wins the election.
In the beginning, Ralph and Jack are not depicted as being all that different. Indeed, they are friends. Ralph is set on doing the best for all, helping the weak, making sure that everyone is fed. Jack seems more intent on his own power ambitions.
A conch shell is chosen as a sign of leadership, and an indication of who has the "floor" during meetings. But Jack forms his own band and moves away from Ralph. Jack chooses to disregard the blowing of the conch. That choice leads to further division and animosity. Eventually, the conch is destroyed when a boulder rolls onto it, symbolizing the loss of one of the symbols of their chosen civility.
Jack’s group steals Piggy’s specs to make fire, another strike at cooperation and civility. Jack’s group also lets the signal fire go out, showing that Jack has lost his focus of trying to get off the island.
In analyzing The Lord of the Flies, countless analogies have been used to describe the social dichotomy that it shows, such as users vs. takers, or producers vs. consumers, or urban vs. rural, or primitive vs. civilized, etc. Perhaps it is the same old story of Cain vs. Abel, or the farmers vs. the ranchers. But is it that simplistic?
Jack and his group finally devolved to the point where murder was justified. Jack and his group started to hunt Ralph. Jack’s desire for total power would be solidified with the elimination of Ralph (the last opposing force). As Jack’s group chases Ralph along the beach, they all confront a force they all have to reckon with – the rescuing sailors. A group of men landed on the island and watch in amazement at the behavior of the "children". The look on the children’s faces express their thoughts. Jack realizes his reign is over; Ralph is relieved his life is saved.
We see something in the childrens’ faces: now they have to account for their actions to a higher power. The choices we make in life have ramification that ripple through our lives. "Ralph" and "Jack" are choices we make every day of our life. What legacy will we leave? What actions will we ultimately be accountable for? The amateur film-makers who created the original Lord of the Flies did so during the boys’ summer vacation. They tracked the lives of the boys who acted in this movie, and the boy-actors were all high achievers in their personal lives. They said that making the movie deeply affected them. Even though it was "just a movie," they realized that it was far better to work hard to choose the way of Ralph, rather than to ever find oneself descending into Jack-ness.

DISAPOINTMENT WITH APOCALYPTO

2007-10-10T17:13:00.000-07:00

VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS
Christopher Nyerges
DISAPPOINTMENT WITH APOCALYPTO

I finally saw the much-discussed Apocalypto movie, directed by Mel Gibson. It was a terrible movie, disappointing in just about every way. Sure, there were great costumes and lots of tatoos and bones sticking out of people’s faces. And the scenery was beautiful. But I watch a movie for some lesson, some point, some redeeming value. I look for a principle of life that I can recognize and hopefully apply the positive aspects to my life. I detected not a bit of that in Apocalypto. The movie consisted of the daily banter among one tribal group, their capture and imprisonment by a more brutal group, and then an unlikely and pointless chase scene.
Mel’s savage leader from the capturing tribe was just the reincarnation of one of the brutal Roman soldiers in the Passion of the Christ.
Apocalypto was a pointless movie and after feeling so disappointed that I wasted two hours, I wondered why Mel took the time to make a movie with no redeeming value, no real insight into human nature, and no particular historical authenticity.
I thought that Mel could have uses the scenario of two factions in a society and the disappearances of societies to make a good point about the human condition. There was the possibility for insight into the Jonestown massacre, and various disappeared societies such as the Moche, and so many others. But there was no such insight provided.
It would be worth while to compare and contrast Mel’s spectacular pointless movie with the original Lord of the Flies, filmed in three months by rookie film-makers with non-actor children. There we saw a classic depiction of the degeneration that occurs when individuals choose to not remain civil, and the two factions that developed as the children followed their respective leaders. The Lord of the Flies not only provided a valuable sociological lesson for generations to come, but it wholly changed the lives of the children actors.
But somehow Mel Gibson missed all the possible lessons that he could have conveyed in Apocalypto. It was simply two hours of great costumes, great scenery, and bodies with exotic tatoos and scars and faces with numerous nose, chin, and ear inserts, all with questionable historical value.
So why should we see Apocalypto? No reason that I can think of.
As an actor, Mel Gibson really has provided us with some valuable lessons in his movies such as The Year of Living Dangerously, the Mad Max series, Signs, and others. He has failed to live up to a high standard in Apocalypto.
A movie should be an open book, a vehicle for upliftment, inspiration, and useful lessons of life. If not, why should we devote our time to seeing it?

POPE BENEDICT AND LOVE

2006-03-10T18:18:00.000-08:00

POPE BENEDICT AND THE MEANING OF LOVE

Perhaps you read the news about Pope Benedict’s first major writing since he became pope? The subject of former Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger’s first encyclical was Love: the meaning of God’s love, erotic love between humans, and the relationship between the two. According to Msgr. Paul Josef Cordes (president of the Pontifical Council Cor Unum, the Vatican’s charities division), the pope’s choice for his first topic was "astonishing." The 71-page document was titled "God is Love" (Deus Caritas Est). Benedict attempted to define at least 3 aspects of the term "love," which he describes as "one of the most frequently used and misused of words."
Consider how freely the term is used. "I love you." "Let’s make love." "The boy really loves his dog." "If you loved me you’d give me what I ask for." "God so loved that world that he gave his only begotten son." Etc. Obviously, not all of these "loves" are the same thing.
Benedict spoke of erotic love (eros, or physical love) as something that is debasing if it is reduced to just sex, especially when it is sold. He writes that eros must be enhanced by spiritual love in order to "achieve a higher and full meaning." He used the term "agape" to refer to spiritual love. He also referred to acts of selfless loving – assisting others, loving your neighbor – as "caritas."
Interestingly, this encyclical was signed by the pope on Christmas day of 2005, but was not released until a month later due to problems in preparing the different translations. Also, according to Vatican analyst Sandro Magister, numerous Vatican documents has languished untranslated as part of a subtle campaign of protest against Pope Benedict (L.A. Times article by Tracy Wilkinson, 01/26/06 A3). Passive aggressiveness in the Vatican?
Perhaps Benedict should have read the classic book on Love, Erich Fromm’s The Art of Loving. Fromm defines Love as an art, that is, something that must be practiced in order to master. He states that in order to master this art it must be of the greatest concern to the individual to learn the theory and to apply it in his or her life.
Fromm says that Love is the answer to the problem of human existence. He then defines the different aspects of love, such as brotherly love, motherly love, erotic love, self-love, and love of God. He explains how the practice of love has disintegrated in modern society.
Lastly, Fromm delineates the practice of this most important of arts. As an art, it requires discipline, concentration, patience, and making it a matter of supreme concern.
I have read Fromm’s book several times, and made many annotations. And though I have only read what others had to say about Benedict’s encyclical (I’ve not actually read it), it still seems as if Benedict is thinking down the same line as Fromm, that they both want us to understand the great necessity of Real Love, and they both want us to eliminate the Counterfeit Love from our own personal lives.
Fromm’s book is readily available from used book stores, and I highly recommend it. What are your thoughts on this subject?

THE TRUE BELIEVER

2006-02-22T08:31:00.000-08:00

The True Believer.
More and more I am drawn back to the wisdom in Eric Hoffer's classic work, "The True Believer: Thoughts on the Nature of Mass Movements."
For example, he write in Chapter 2, "People who see their lives as irremediably spoiled cannot find a worth-while purpose in self-advancement. The prospect of an individual career cannot stir them to a mighty effort, nor can it evoke in them faith and a single-minded dedication. They look on self-interest as on something tainted and evil; something unclean and unlucky. Anything undertaken under the auspices of the self seems to them foredoomed. Nothing that has its roots and reasons in the self can be good and noble. Their innermost craving is for a new life -- a rebirth -- or, failing this, a chance to acquire new elements of pride, confidence, hope, a sense of purpose and worth by an identification with a holy cause. An active mass movement offers them opportunities for both....
"To the frustrated, a mass movement offers substitutes either for the whole self or for the elements which make life bearable and which they cannot evoke out of thier individual resources."

Hoffer wrote his book in 1951, and commented upon Stalin, Hitler, labor movements, and more. It is "must" reading for anyone wanting to grasp world events currently unfolding. For example, rioting and killing due to a cartoon. Are we to belief that the cartoon is what caused that behavior?

I am not a big follower of marching in the streets, though I have done it -- back when we urban areas were being sprayed with malathion, it was a bit too much to remain silent. Still, it is too easy to get swept up in mob mentality.
I was strongly influenced by the wisdom of the early Noah Seminars and the folks that conducted them. They believed that it was important to focus on personal change and growth, and do it within the system. I am also reminded of the words of Barton Boehm, who was quoting his martial arts master Kiyoshi Suzuki: "Be extremely hard on yourself, but be extremely kind to others."

NOTE: My hope is to add new posts at least once a week to stimulate discussion among like-minded individuals. But I will delete any inappropriate language or personal attacks. I hope that that you find this forum for sharing and discussion useful. Christopher Nyerges