Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a very Happy New Year to all of you!
May the coming year bring greater peace, protection, and abundant blessings to the world of nature and the whole earth – to all peoples, to all the animals, the trees and plants, the rivers, the oceans, the mountains, the forests, and to all wild lands. May they all be blessed.
Peace.
The white moths
Of time listen
To the silken threads of the moon glisten.
Indeed,
Perhaps it is time, not the world
That needs
To end?
For the world of men
Has dimmed,
Grown cold, like Mars,
And is no more.
Only the sting
Lingers,
The bite of ignorance past.
In the mists of Scotland,
There is hidden magic.
Where did Agni go when he went?
He fled away across the hills
Where no one could find him,
And left the land bereft of warmth.
But he did not truly
Go,
And the moonlight,
Amethyst,
Falls on the whole lake, dreamed in snow.
No one has gone,
Only the gray wraith
Of doom
Who cursed the morning
From the chill tomb.
No one is lost
On the sharp footfall
Of the descent,
Because the eagle watches
Through the ice-clawed
Storm.
The rain still
Slips
Down the rock-ringed hill.
The eyes of the deer recall
The face of sunshine, and the breath
Of the seas that sing
On the shore
Where the fingers of dawn
Awaken the sky.
The flowers of the sun
Beckon
The dragon,
Silver-pawed;
Black cows stand
In the peace of the meadow.
The calf trips
Through the tall grass.
Trees grow their leaves.
The shy
Calico cat leaps into the valley of tulips.
The frog calls the rain.
The white
Horse is the moon who wanders.
The raven is the night,
Daughter of Shani,
Born of the cosmic
Egg, the feathers of the yew,
The elbows of the eon.
Who guessed
That owls live in the stones too,
And Europe’s
Neanderthal;
The rags of clouds, of cloth
Unfurled,
Fly to where, who can tell?
In the river sails the incarnate trout
Of golden gill.
By what temple did you used to rest,
Your wooden bowl in hand?
Who lit the lamps for you
When the moon went out
And time fell?
Would the rain come again?
Broken branches
On the Great War’s trenches,
The snow was too heavy.
The dancing of branches,
The singing of stars,
Time to go north,
Fleet deer of spring,
Gone with the white-crowned sparrow.
In whose soul does the lily dwell?
Is the deer the eternal grace of the forest?
© Sharon St Joan, 2019
Photo: publicdomainpictures.net
You who flame fire into the dark afternoon,
Who shelter the white-crowned sparrow
Under your wandering wing,
You see how all is gray, in the darkening day,
In the echoing mist –
All wreathed in gray,
Where trees think deeply in the tall
Forest;
Black-hooded ravens cast rain-running spells.
Gray cliffs tower against the horizon.
Trees far older than the father of the winds and the snow
Stand still
From world to ebbing world, eon to eon;
Long-needled pine
Trees grow
Under the pall
Of the sky, beyond the silver hill,
Down to the core
Of the earth below.
Who tells
Each star her sacred place?
Rainmother – you stir
The simmering pot
Of beginnings and endings,
Eternal soul,
You rest on the shimmering serpent
Who floats coiled on the pearl-gray sea,
That rises and falls through the many
Bleak winters of nevermore.
Mother of all,
You bring
The radiant, bright
Bowl
Of peace.
Rainmother,
Friend to the mystery of becoming,
There appear the enchanted geese
Who seek solace
From the harsh sea-winds and the coming night.
Soon,
They hear the bells
Begin to ring
Far out on the gathering waves, singing
“Know now that there is no lasting woe,
But only the glad grace,
Given,”
Only the lone,
Clear call
From the rock-ringed shore
Of worlds that were
Before.
Shot
Downriver,
Broken loose once more,
The cold-clogged, ice-bound floes
Of Vritra –
That pale sliver of ill-intent –
There then arise the flowering days
Of flocks of golden meadowlarks;
Beneath the cliffs, the opal-eyed, frog-ruled,
Rain-pooled,
Rushing
Waters of worlds that are meant
Again to shine;
Fear not – abhaya mudra
Your voice, your name – a flame still and always
In the numinous dark.
© Sharon St Joan, 2019
Photo: publicdomainpictures.net
In the beginning
And the ending
And the beginning
Stand unbroken
The chimes of the mists
Of evermore, where the raven,
Black king of prophecy,
Of shining forests,
Greets
The rain and the sun,
And awaits
His mate
On the juniper heights,
Hearing the humming croak
Of the frog in the creek
And all the crowds
Of tadpoles
That awoke
In the sands,
In the sparkling rains.
Later,
The wise
Long-eared owl
Walks in the snow,
In the midnight of winter,
Silent,
As she has always done,
Remembering the bubbling lakes of spring
Where crystal flowers flame
In the sunrise,
Where Ganesha’s smile
Illuminates
The fateful dark; where the coyote’s howl
Sings a lullaby, a gentle
Enchantment, laughing, sly.
Where the broken bridge
Of time bends along
The rushing waters of the gorge, transient,
Leaving.
Yet the presence of eternity remains
In the eyes – at once meek
And brave – of the young cottontail.
On a silver-winged hill,
Under a bright cowl of numinous clouds,
The ravens
Call
Still
In the trail
Of the rains
0f a distant day.
Until
The gold feet
Of the setting sun
Run
Over long roads through the juniper trees –
Through the scattered scrub oak.
White cliffs, gateways to eternity,
You who bear the scars
Of rain and winds and storms, who
Give earth blessings,
Who speak silently through
Ancient seas long gone – where you were born,
Through awareness beyond our own,
You talk with the stars
From a far ancient country, long worn
Away,
And yet to be again;
When
You recall the song
Of the mountain bluebird
Who had no name
The song no longer heard,
Sung long ago,
In mystic nights
That left no trace.
Now, after a while,
Tall,
On a high ridge
The pine tree
Stands,
Unafraid, in the ice and snow
Singing still,
Under the haunting moon of grace,
A moon of many petals,
Beyond the tides that rise and fall,
On the plateau above, he stands
And writes with fire in the sky
On a clear and wind-swept day.
©Sharon St Joan, 2019
Photo Credit:
By the smoke-ringed rains,
Where a time that never really was,
Of butterflies
And bees
That buzz,
Begins,
A tall bird stood
Who came from the forest
Of alder trees
From the winding wood,
Alone, wandering,
Seeking a way of speaking,
Remembering the tales of an ancient day,
Forgetting the present,
Standing still in the wind,
Watching the fish for a moment,
In the sea, leaping
In the sunlit sea,
In the lights that danced,
Star-finned,
Hearing the distant call
Of dolphins,
And the laughter of otters
Who lived in the bay,
In the haunted lagoon,
Among the phantom ships,
So tall,
With opalescent sails.
But no one is there,
Where
The seas on the shore so gently fall
Where the melodies of the moon
Encircle the stones that arise
Where the fairies
Sang and spun their magic spells
Still the tall bird dwells
By the shore, wading,
His toes, he dips,
Entranced
By the unseen beings all around,
Watching and waiting
Waiting and watching,
And listening
To the sound
Of the worlds of the sea,
In the mist of many lilies,
In the trails,
In the trains
Of mist,
Walking over the wide waters,
Listening
For the bells
To chime,
The bells that are certain to ring,
The bells in the echoes, beyond all time.
Photo credit: ID 121845856 Tahir Abbas / dreamstime.com
What is – and who?
Within the age-worn masks of maya
There is only the one,
Where the clouds slip over the blue
Skies
Like white kites, wind-blown,
Scattering –
Then
Gone.
In the midnight
Before the dawn
History’s nightmares of desecration
Crack like jack hammers –
Then they have flown,
Away,
Gone
By the hour
Of moonrise,
When
Only the deep desert remains,
Only the ethereal,
Wise stones,
Only the clarity
Of the presence that never wanes,
Only the one
Who becomes all beings, and
Who by day
Sings within the luminous song
Of the cactus wren,
Perching where the wind stirs
On the high pine bough,
Overlooking the shifting sand
Of the shore,
Strewn with bitter bones,
The fading fires of empire;
There is only the one who shines in the white
Petal
Of the dogwood tree,
Tipped on the cliff-height;
Or who looks through each of the thousand,
Awakening emerald eyes
Of the cobra,
Drifting from cosmic wave to wave,
Never to settle
For long
On the rolling, green-winged sea,
The many-hooded cobra – the couch for Narayana,
While he is dreaming now
And evermore;
There is everywhere only the one,
Only the single
Flower,
Brave,
The unfolding power,
Brahman,
Within all the many, mist-blown masks of maya.
© Sharon St Joan, 2019
Photo credit: T.Voekler / This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license. Wikipedia 1024px-Sacred_lotus_Nelumbo_nucifera.jpg
Within the bowl
Of translucent roses,
A star-sung reality.
The meaning is the soul
Of the word; which word?
The unseen hand weaves
Together the forest mists
Into the far, far lights – the hooked beak of the bird,
The blue
Green mountains, the cliffs,
The spirit houses
Which have ever been present
In the depths beyond time,
More real than the silver sparkling leaves
Of the aspen trees
Near the flickering domain
Of the sage
Grouse,
More real than the turning tidal sound of the seas,
More real than the fog-bound whiffs
Of bison noses
In the cold-trodden winters of the plain.
No, you cannot find them in the bending
Desert sage –
Until they are within you.
You who?
Beyond the swift-footed fires of the sun,
Beyond the leaping waters that hurl
Themselves from heights
Down steep mountain rocks,
Beyond only the winds that curl
Along the empty docks
Of the shipyards of forgotten time,
The spirit houses, within earshot of the sounding chime
Of eternity,
Remain
Each one,
Radiant,
In the light-toed, gray-winged rain
That blows through all the realms from age
To age to age
To snow-enchanted age,
While the wild horse
Runs with his herd
His ancient course,
His hooves flying,
Dancing,
Through wind-lit streams of moonbeams.
© Sharon St Joan, July 2019
Photo: ID 113986688 © Heather Mcardle | Dreamstime.com
Where the essence of the rain echoes
The magic beyond time,
There, as anyone knows,
There is no time.
Only the bluebirds that flit quickly
From branch to beaded branch; only
The far, jasmine-flowered eyes
Of the deer that trails beyond the tree;
Only the elusive tower
In the clouds where that ancient spirit stays
To watch and then simply to remain.
Only the One who is all,
Only the breath of the boat of the moon,
In misted shawl,
Mother of the silver pathways,
That run along the creek-enchanted stones
Of greening moss and deepening mystery.
Soon,
With the fleet
Ears of the listening hour,
Ever-perceptive,
Those black-robed ravens
(Who live,
Long,
In joy, where we do not,
In the bitter knocking wind of winter’s bones)
Will hear the exultant wail of the coyote,
(Who has never been wrong
Yet always was held ever, in
The bright-leaved essence of the rain)
Will hear now, so clearly, the tumbling power
Of the dawn over the rain-sung mountains,
Where the ringing song
Is heard to rise
Then wane,
Beyond the rock-encircled climb
To the fire-striking feet
Of Hamsa, the knowing swan
And then, anon,
Will chime
In peace the single mystic gong
That folds up the wandering wings of being.
© Sharon St Joan, 2019
Photo: Pkspks / “This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license.”/ Wikipedia
Out of the ashes of the end
Arises the Phoenix.
Who is this Phoenix
Who flies through flashes
Of burning embers,
Who extends
Her black-enchanted wings
From the horizon
To the wind-streaked high plateau,
This one who ever dies,
Yet flies
Again
With golden beak
And brown-laked eyes
That seek
Only those stories, spoken lore,
True and raven-wandering?
Mountain air gleams;
Glittering stars talk
And walk,
And wend their way
Among the hidden crannies of the skies
And know
Where eagles slip through time’s illusion,
Eagles who remember every eon
And recall the wisdom
Of the glad-winged Hamsa
Who hears,
Even now, the dawn-invoking, distant drums
Of long-gone dreams.
After the flames of desecrated towns
Leave strange, fossilized soils,
After the blanched wicks
Of all the candles have been snuffed,
And volcanic plumes fluffed
Aloft in sobering winds,
After the great ending,
The air clears
Of dim, smoke-laden whiffs.
Then Adi Sesha of the thousand, bright-singing,
Emerald crowns,
Older than all the many worlds before,
Older than the trees of time, ever ancient,
Floats again
On the timeless mist
Of eternity,
Lifting, on his linked coils,
The light form of Narayana,
Radiant,
Who slumbers,
Resting.
Then the Phoenix
Rises through the amethyst
Height,
Over the land where lilies still grow
In the backwaters
Not far from the rainbowed sea,
In the rain,
In the truth where only
The innocent curlews, nesting,
Play by the rocky shore
On a gray, moon-bent day
There the waves crash, exuberant,
Against the granite cliffs.
©Sharon St Joan, 2018
Illustration: Phoenix detail from Aberdeen Bestiary, Public Domain, Wikipedia
Not just a physical thing…
By Sharon St Joan
The earth is not just a physical thing. The same is true of the trees, the flowers, the clouds in the sky, the mountains, the rivers, the valleys, the oceans. And, of course, all the animals.
The other day I listened to a spokesperson for a major environmental organization explaining on national television the reasons why it’s not a good idea to log the Tongass National Forest in Alaska. I’m not going to give his name because I’m about to criticize him – even though he spoke well and gave good, rational arguments. But I felt there was an essential element missing. I don’t honestly remember all the points that he made, but they may have gone something like this. The Tongass National Forest puts a significant percentage of the earth’s oxygen into the air. It is the largest temperate forest in the world. It is a treasure for many people who visit it. It protects many wild species by providing their habitat.
During the interview, footage was shown of this incredibly spectacular land – tall cliffs covered in green forests rising up out of clear lakes.
I do absolutely completely understand that in trying to defend old growth forests from logging and other destruction, it is useful to appeal to concerns that are meaningful to most people. It is helpful to stress the importance that the forest has for human health – replenishing the earth’s oxygen – it is also much loved and enjoyed by visitors. It is the essential habitat for so many animals, and wild animals – really all of them – are quite endangered. The forest is useful, it is loved, it is rare now on the planet, and it is important to take care of it. Absolutely!
A missing element
But there is a missing element, which is a very key element. The forest – quite apart from its value to humans and other animal species – also has an intrinsic value all its own. Its value does not lie solely in its usefulness to human beings or in its beauty as perceived by humans. The forest is not just a thing. It is not an object – and this is true of the entire earth. The trees, the rivers, the cliffs, the lakes, the sagebrush, the moon and the sun overhead, the clouds, the birds – these are not just physical things. They have a spirit.
So, what is the point of actually saying this – of making sure that we mention it often, whenever possible? Of speaking up, without being intimidated or being afraid of being ridiculed? After all, it wouldn’t be the first or the last time that people laugh. As long as we do not mention what we see as the truth, then we are ceding the most important point to the side that wishes to objectify the world of nature. We are tacitly agreeing that the natural world really only has value if it is beneficial to us as humans – or has value only by preserving habitat for wild animals so that we may go and visit them or at least watch them on film.
But ceding this point is not right. It is not correct.
Protecting the earth isn’t all about us as humans.
It is the objectification of the natural world by human beings – especially in modern times, and especially in the west (where this worldview originated) — that is the root cause and the justification for the destruction of the earth which is taking place all around us. It is our collective alienation from the natural world that gives some the excuse basically to kill nature. We’re not just talking about climate change – though it is that as well – it is also the very direct, immediate destruction through industrialization and pollution – drowning the earth and the sea in chemicals – and removing the sand that holds water that prevents drought.
A great many people, myself among them, feel that all the beings of the earth have a spirit and a spiritual dimension – not only the animals, but also all the trees and the plants, and even the rocks, the cliffs, and the oceans. They are not just physical things. This is not as odd a concept as it might seem. Virtually all tribal peoples and all ancient peoples saw the earth this way. It is only the modern world that differs from this age-old, traditional view. It is the modern world that is the outlier – and perhaps not coincidentally, it is the modern world that is dismantling all the life of the planet more rapidly than any society that has gone before us. So, are we modern people as wise as we think we are? Perhaps we are simply more decadent, and farther removed from the basic truths of existence.
An older, wiser view
It is well-known that Native Americans viewed all of nature as alive and as having a spirit. Among some of these stories and legends, known and not-so-well-known – the Abenaki nation of Maine see the drum as the heartbeat of Mother Earth. The Munsee of Delaware tell of great thunderbirds that cause storms and lightning. The Shoshone people of western states tell stories about the trickster coyote, and his elder brother, the wolf, who is a creator hero. The north wind, known as Winter or Biboon, is the spirit of winter for the northeast woodland tribes, like the Iroquois. The Paiutes of Utah have a story about a mountain sheep who became a star. In other words, all of creation is seen as alive and sentient. There is no sharp distinction between animals and rocks or lakes or other geological features – all are considered living beings. This appears to be true of all tribal people everywhere – from the Americas to the Pacific islands to the native peoples of Australia.
Furthermore, it is not only tribal people who see the world in this way – virtually every early civilization and every civilization which still has some connection with its roots also recognize a spiritual dimension as belonging to the earth and to every aspect of nature – from the ancient Egyptian, and on into modern times – to the Chinese and Japanese, just to mention a few.
The most striking example is the complex, intricate beliefs of Hinduism, which go back perhaps 10,000 years and which, even today are as alive as ever. The moon, the sun, and the wind are among the millions of gods. Every major Hindu god has an animal vahana or vehicle. The rivers are goddesses and the mountains, generally, are gods. All things have life. And, as is stated in the earliest writings, all the gods and all that exists are ultimately part of one God, Brahman. A deep reverence for nature is intertwined with the Hindu worldview.
In March of 2017, The Guardian reported that a court in the north Indian state of Uttarakhand had accorded the Ganges and Yamuna Rivers the status of personhood, citing as precedent the declaration by the New Zealand government of the Whanganui River, long revered by the Maori people, as a living entity. This modern legal recognition of the personhood of rivers is in accordance with the perception of many people all over the world, today, as always in the past.
It is exclusively a modern, western viewpoint to assume that the world of nature is composed of objects or things – that rocks, rivers, mountains have no spiritual nature, and even in the western world, this may be a minority view. Many everyday people acknowledge the spiritual nature of the living world around us. Sadly, it is those who seek to exploit the natural world that talk about it as inanimate, lifeless, insentient – and existing only as “natural resources” to be gobbled up by mining, oil and gas, fracking, and every form of destruction and desecration.
Intrinsic value
For those of us for whom the earth and all the beings of the earth, have an intrinsic value, a profound beauty in and of themselves – the more we say this clearly, the more accessible that view will be to more people – and the more we all will be able to see plainly that the Tongass Forest, for example, is far from being just a resource to be devoured by humans. It is a living entity filled with spirits and presences, and astonishing beauty, which as humans we can only begin to see and appreciate.
Among environmentalists, all perspectives that value the earth are very much needed – scientific facts, legal arguments, and also views that take into account the benefits to humanity. Our lives and happiness do indeed depend on the natural world.
Still, the many millions, billions, of us across the planet, who see the natural world and the earth as spirit, as well as physical, should not be afraid to say so. As is so often quoted, “We belong to the earth; the earth does not belong to us.” The earth is Mother Earth and is a living being – far older, greater, and more worthy of reverence than the human race could ever be.
Standing up for the essential life-essence of the earth is a missing key in the fight to protect and preserve our fast-vanishing planet. We who see the earth, and all of nature, as spectacularly alive with an intrinsic beauty and validity must speak up and not be silent.
It is our alienation, as humans, from the natural world that leads to its destruction, and it is our re-connection with the earth that can hold the prospect of some help for all the myriads of beautiful, majestic, innocent beings with whom we share the planet. So, we must see clearly, and speak bravely.
Photo Credits:
One) Mark Brennan from Oakton, Virginia, United States of America / Wikipedia / This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license. / Tongass National Forest
Two) Donarreiskoffer/ Wikipedia / This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license. / Beech trees in the Sonian Forest, Belgium.
Three) Frank Schulenburg/ Wikipedia / This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license. / Coyote in San Francisco.
Four) Sharon St Joan / River in Karnataka, India, near Mysore.
To learn more:
http://www.native-languages.org/legends.htm
https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/mar/21/ganges-and-yamuna-rivers-granted-same-legal-rights-as-human-beings
© Sharon St Joan, 2019