Thursday, December 3, 2015

Capitalism and Native Americans - Essay



This is ostensibly a letter to a dear and deeply respected family member. I doubt he’ll ever see it, but I find myself defining and refining my own thoughts via the ample food I am given through interaction with my family. They’re truly great people; we just disagree on some fundamental points. The situation that brought this essay about was a conversation we had at breakfast. 
You said something this morning about the casinos helping the Native Americans. Something about that statement struck a chord in me, but I needed to sit with it in order to winnow the wheat from the chaff of that reaction, to see what was egoic aversion to any simple answer to the white’s interaction with them and what rang deeper within me. I definitely felt something move in my heart. And, after pondering it for the past few hours, I think I have come to some conclusions about what it was that did so.

No doubt the casinos have had an effect. Some have been huge financial successes, others have closed after a few years and left yet another scar upon the People. I think my issue was with the idea that money fixes the challenges that the Native People face. After spending quite a bit of time with them, I am entirely convinced it does not, nor will it ever. Who’s at fault for this is not the issue. It has more to do with the nature of money, which is never a permanent fix in and of itself – just ask the majority of lottery winners. I have come to understand that it is nothing more than a convenient transfer of energy and intent. It can truly reveal to ourselves more about who we are in many cases. Now, if a person has only a sufficient amount of money to live and they spend it to survive, it won’t say much. After all, we all want to survive. But when there is a surplus, things get more interesting. There are plenty of stories in the media about the trouble that politicians, movie and sports stars conjure up with their surplus cash. It’s easy to see in some cases where their priorities lie, what their values are, what their intentions are. For example, look at the recent Lamar Odom situation. He was found passed out and critically ill in a Nevada brothel. It’s no good to condemn the man – we are not in his shoes – but the event does indicate a few things about his values, at least at the time he made those choices.

Money is also the oil that makes the machine of capitalism work. Without a convenient means of trade, capitalism is a very unwieldy economic system. Money makes it so we don’t have to trade with chickens and sugar beets, for instance. Mr. Odom might have been far more sexually frustrated (yet safer) if he’d had to find a dealer and a brothel that happened to be short on beets and chickens, assuming he had a surplus to trade. Money makes it work far smoother. Better even, it turns out, than gold; although it was gold that prompted some of the men, women and children that settled illegally into the Northern Plains in the late 1800’s to risk their lives. To the Natives of that day, gold was a worthless, soft metal they found lying in creeks, particularly in their most sacred lands, called “The Heart of All That Is”: the Black Hills. They found that it made the white men crazy and were amazed at its power over them; so much so that they would even risk their lives for it - and put the lives of their women and children at risk as well. The whites would lie, cheat, steal, kill…all for this strange metal that somehow conferred power.

The Natives were eventually conquered by a numerically superior race that had no morals that were not overseen by their love of money. It could be argued that they were motivated by a desire for greater freedom, but this is irrelevant. It takes money to buy freedom – such as it is – in a capitalist system. In other words, if you love freedom in that system, you have to love money to an extent. Money is the measure of your love of freedom; not against other men but against your own circumstance. The wealthiest Americans don’t love freedom a billion times more than a homeless man. Since neither can live off the land, both are tied to circumstance and character and a desire to work within the system – or not –to gain independence within the system. Whether this is true freedom or not is a subject for discussion elsewhere. Suffice it to say that if not the love of money, the settlers’ motivation was at least the idea of freedom, and that can be as powerful as the real thing. At any rate, at the time of the “settling” of the West, that desire for the freedom that money can buy coupled with real industriousness, intelligence and insight, had created opportunities in the implements of warfare for many, many years before the whites finally decimated the Natives in the late 1800’s in arguably the last real genocidal act against them by the US government at Wounded Knee. The whites had better weapons, more soldiers and more ammunition than they. And they had a desire to possess the land that the Natives roamed, where they would be at least freer, where capitalist wealth could be had with hard work and sacrifice. Moreover, the religion of the conquerors told them the land was theirs to do with what they wanted, in so many words. One just had to run off the Natives first – clear the land, so to speak - and make wise financial choices from there and God would uphold them. This many of them did. The system was in place and the draw for many was irresistible.

Fast forward a couple hundred years. The White’s “assimilation” of the Natives has largely worked. No one on a reservation thinks they can survive off the game on the res. They all know they need a job, a house, a car. In short, the vast majority of them need money to live. There are a few left in the outer reaches of some of the reservations that survive off their sheep herds and what they can glean from the land and trade with distant neighbors. Some of the true medicine men and women live this way to this day. But these decrease in number year after year.

It’s easy to look at the reservations, which are third world countries unto themselves in the midst of one of the most prosperous nations on earth, and think of course more money would help the people. Adding to the confusion are anecdotal stories of increased wealth and prosperity among some tribes and individuals affected by the casinos. But more money will not help this people, as long as the “grass grows and the water flows”, a recurring phrase in some of the broken treaties between the tribes and the government of the trespassers.

That’s because the Native Americans (not to mention vast samples of the white populous) have a spiritual problem that far supersedes their financial struggles, as prolific as they are. The reason for this is they are a people whose spiritual DNA knows only how to live with the land as a relative, not as a thing to be conquered. The financial system, on the other hand, tells them that the land has to be thought of as dead, as an asset. Finally, they’re “Indians”, so staying on the res gives them some financial benefit as long as they remain there that is hard to pass up. Their Native spiritual life is dead, yet they are reminded every day they are Indians via their placement on the res. So what happens is a kind of amalgamation of watered-down Native religion coupled with the problems that come with deep poverty. Well, one might ask, why don’t they fix their spiritual problems by becoming Christian? It’s not that easy because modern Christianity, for the most part, doesn’t hold a candle to their Native spirituality.   

To say the Native American’s lived their religion is a trite statement. They had no religion. What they had were spiritual practices that bolstered their already present and apparent connection to Creator. In other words, their spiritual connection to Creator via the earth as an oracle was augmented by their daily lifestyle. On the other hand, a religion has boundaries in the form of commandments and dogma. All this supposedly comes from above, independent of the earth itself. The Native spirituality had neither formal dogma nor commandments. The Native either walked in integrity and connection with Creator or he didn’t. No one could tell another man what to do – that was the job of Spirit. Of course within ceremonies there were and are acceptable ways to act. But this was because in a ceremonial situation there is a recognized intercessor that organizes a “container” for the prayer of the group. This is done to maintain a certain order because they knew from long experience that that a container worked for such things. It was and is the intercessor’s responsibility to organize things in such a way that honors the Creator in all His/Her forms and that keeps the participants safe, spiritually and physically. So it makes sense to follow the instructions. Other than that, a person had their character to guide them, assisted in very real ways with the spirits of nature that were always present, whose language was familiar to them. It is important to realize that to the Native all things have a spirit. In other words, their spirituality is animistic. Everything is alive, from a mountain like Mt. Shasta – a sacred land to this day to many different spiritual seekers in disparate modalities – to oceans, lakes, animals, birds, clouds, lightning, planets, fire and fish to mention a few things, not to mention the earth herself. To this people, not only do “all things denote there is a God”, but all those things have their own voices, souls and personalities that speak for God. A badger may tell a woman walking in the woods to stand her ground in the coming days. A sacred plant like mullein may appear in a man’s dream and he may find it useful in the events of the next few hours. All these are the Voice of Creator to the Native American. The mouse is as wondrous as the eagle when he speaks his message because again - and this cannot be over emphasized – it comes from God, The Great Mystery or in Lakota, Wakan Tanka (wok-AHN TAHN-ka). A man’s earthly experience is full of this Voice,  from how his body operates to the things he experiences during the day.

Or it was.

To say that things are not this way now for the majority of Natives is a vast understatement. As previously mentioned, like the whites the Natives have become addicted to distraction, which takes the form of inane television shows, harsh and discordant music, food devoid of nutrition and overly sweet, porn, drugs, alcohol, self-hatred and self-gratification. Their sky has become polluted both literally and metaphorically and money has also become a God to many. The earth that once spoke all day, every day, has been paved over. The voices of the animals that once spoke Creator’s words to them have been run off. In short, they have become like their conquerors, with a two-fold exception: less money and less opportunity to make any. But again, throwing money to a soul-sick people is less than a temporary fix. Sad experience has shown that money given to any entity, from soul-sick individuals to soul-sick nations, will only increase the symptoms of their illness because they will use that new abundance in ways that only make their illness all that much more apparent and dangerous, just like Lamar Odom did.

The odd thing is that this change away from their ancestral spirituality was mandated by the conquering nation. Sacred objects were taken and smashed or trashed or placed in museums. Ceremonies were outlawed. Medicine people, innocent of any crime other than practicing their spiritual traditions, were placed in prison and brutally mistreated by enforcers of laws created by a government that supposedly held freedom of religion in high regard. War leaders and suspected troublemakers were summarily executed without a trial. But worse than any of that, children were forcibly taken and placed in the care of Christian leaders. Their hair was cut – a very significant slap in the face for a Native young man – they were forbidden to speak their language, they were made to wear uniforms and adopt the religion of the nation that had killed their way of life, with all its meaning and connection.

When I consider all this, it is brutally apparent to me that this is not the work of the humble teacher from Galilee whose kingdom was not of this world. This is something else. Only a people devoid of compassion and the influence of the Holy Spirit would act as the settlers of the West did. To say the Natives deserved it because they hadn’t accepted Jesus and that the whites were somehow chosen to punish them to conversion or death makes me slack-jawed with wonder at such so-called logic. If that’s how your God acts, you can have him. I want no part of it.  

So there it is. It appears to me that a sick nation without morals, compassion, vision or soul conquered the Native Americans and, like a virus, changed them into their own image. It was Manifest Destiny, a sad philosophy that continues to this day in spirit as our nation sees fit to “protect our way of life”, “protect our interests abroad” and enact laws that continually restrict our domestic freedoms. They’ve paved over the fields, leveled mountains and decimated forests, scattering the creatures that speak to the “two-leggeds” if they would only pause to hear, cutting all humankind off from the many voices of Creator.

And that’s something that money alone can never fix.  

Shamans and Christians - Essay



I have a problem with people who call themselves shamans. And these days, there are a lot of them out there.
The problem I have is that in any indigenous culture there are healers, workers of what some might call earth magic. I’ve studied about these medicine men and women, and even know a couple, or have known them. As near as I can tell, they suffer tremendously from their call, “gift” or whatever you wish to call it – a curse, maybe – to do what they do. And what they do is serve the people. Their entire lives are given to their craft, much like John the Baptist who wandered the deserts, or the Old Testament prophet Samuel, whose mother presented him to a holy man for training as repayment for favor from her God. One might think that holy men and women who dedicate themselves to Creator might lead a charmed life. But on the contrary, their lives are not neat. They often suffer from madness or trickery from spirits whose joy it is to inflict such games upon the living, if those two things can indeed be separated, madness and spiritual trickery. They often operate without the tidy boundaries of dogma, learning the rules of their calling and practice as they received them from their teachers or from the spirits directly, with slight changes as needed. When they make mistakes, the consequences can cost their lives, or make a further wreck of them without warning or a way back to anything resembling an orderly life. They often live alone and if they have a partner they often live apart from their communities. They enjoy few physical comforts; fewer than the inhabitants of the people they serve, anyway. I have a friend that is studying with Naguals in the mountains in northern Mexico. One of these men, these healers, is over a century old and has never visited a city. He has sequestered himself away from the madness of human culture for the whole of his life. He has had no choice. His spirit helpers have mandated this from him. Not because he couldn’t handle the city, but because he would not be able to clearly hear their voices over the distracted, paved-over din, would not find the plants with whom he holds conversations as clear as you do with your next door neighbor, would feel a barrier that you and I don’t even know exists. Can you imagine? He’s never been to a restaurant. Never driven a car, let alone owned one. He’s never had a deep fried shrimp. But his consistency has earned him a reputation for integrity, a strict adherence to a certain set of ideals that infuse him with a peace that speaks like the voice of a tree, or a spring, or a sunset. So his people come to him, asking for assistance. And as the helpers dictate, so he acts, serves, heals … or not. He doesn’t claim to know anything. The point is that his life is not up to him, neither his lifestyle nor the results of the ceremonies he leads. He gets out of the way and does as he was taught or as he is told to do in the instance of service and accepts the outcome. Sometimes he learns as he goes, is taught in the moment. He is not wealthy in the ways you and I would think of wealth, and he doesn’t seek notoriety. After he heals, he just goes back into his little hut and does whatever is next to do.  
I have immersed myself to the best of my ability in a couple indigenous cultures, northern Native American spirituality and a form of Andean energy work that might be called shamanism. I have prayed and suffered and learned and cried and bled and driven literally thousands of miles to do so, to be taught, to feel connected to Creator in ways that I cannot feel in any other way. These things are most precious and sacred to me and I am beginning to have consistent experiences that are inexplicable to me along the lines of serving others, working in these ways. The peace I feel is thick, stonelike, grounding, yet ethereal. But I am so far removed from my friend’s teacher and other similar shamans, medicine men and women, holy healers with whom I am acquainted both directly and indirectly, that I would never say I am a shaman. If I am pressed I may say with a roll of the eyes that I am a shamanic practitioner for lack of a better term, but even that I would do apologetically. To take upon myself that sacred moniker would be disrespectful to those that so respect life that they do not come into contact with blood for any reason, that do not know what central heating is, that walk wherever they go, whose music is the wind, whose television is the sky, who know a language that we all knew at one time and that is now understood almost exclusively by the keepers of wisdom as old as stone - and those melancholy souls who are being called that way. And may God help them.
Like all true holy men and women, Jesus was a serious anomaly in his day. No one really knew what to make of him. Even Peter got it all wrong and tried to take Malchus’ ear off when Judas came to deliver Jesus to the raging rulers of the Jewry, both Israelite and Roman. What did Jesus do in response?

“Suffer ye thus far,” is what is in Luke’s record, and he healed Malchus on the spot.
Peter was so distraught that he threw down his sword and kind of gave up for the night. Can you imagine what he felt? Here he was, one of three men besides Jesus who had been on the Mount of Transfiguration, where he observed Jesus conversing with notable angels and heard the voice of God, and yet when he tried to defend his Lord in the only way he understood, he was rebuked and his effort reversed by the very “man” he was defending. I believe he was sulking when he was approached three separate times that night by people that correctly accused him of being a disciple of the doomed Jesus, and that when the cock crowed for the third time, fulfilling Jesus’ prophesy of his denial of him, he wept bitterly in deep confusion, frustration and fear. It wasn’t until he was truly converted that he knew how to serve. But significantly, that came after he gave up a feeling that he had the answers about what to do in the situation.
To restate, Peter mistook some very basic tenants of Jesus’ teachings until he gave up the idea that he knew what to do when confronted with physical harm to his teacher (and possibly himself). I find this fascinating in and of itself, but in light of what I see happening among Christians today, even more so.
The shaman has been taught to do what he does. He sacrifices the things of this world, although it’s not as much a sacrifice to him as much as one might imagine. Sacrifice is felt most acutely when one is used to the thing being sacrificed. It’s not hard for me to be ground-bound since I don’t know what it’s like to simply take wing like a bird. If I did and was then told that I could never fly again, that would be difficult no matter the benefit. Besides, a true shaman is so conversant with the spirits of all things on levels that are quantum to say the least, that the things of the spirit are just more interesting than an X-Box, a grilled-stuffed burrito or (insert semi-useful product of western culture here). More importantly, the shaman approaches his life as infused with spirit. Everything is sacred in its pure essence. The two are not disconnected in any way, life and spirit, in any moment. Everything he does affects everything in his sphere. All things see him, too, all the time. There is never anywhere to hide. And yet he goes into ceremony unknowing, letting go of his desire for a certain outcome. He’s learned that it is not up to him. This is deep spirituality, because there is no instance in the true shamans life where he is disconnected from his helpers. He can’t afford to be. And in that instance where the patient is on his table and his rattle is in his hand and the sage is wafting as it does through the air and this looks just like another situation he has experienced before, he still has to be entirely open to a change in the rules in that instant coming from his spirit helpers.
We are in a situation that may be the undoing of humanity. This is not an overstatement. Guerrilla warfare on a worldwide basis will have effects so globally devastating that we cannot imagine the outcome with our protected, conditioned minds.  It will be most effective to approach the challenges we face much as a shaman approaches a situation where a healing ceremony is called for, for healing is precisely what is needed now. We should have our tools in hand, have created sacred space (both metaphorically and literally), and most importantly, let go of the notion that we are in control, that we know what to do. It’s ok to have ideas, but just as the shaman knows to get out of the way and let God do the work, we have to be willing to admit that while this situation has its familiar portions, it is also very, very different from anything we’ve experienced in the history of humanity. The fact that different people are involved – no Hitler or Pinochet are around - makes it subject to any number of variables we have no way of foreseeing.
If we are people of faith, we will infuse a degree of humility into this situation. You may be seeing this, but I am not. What I see is rampant fear and attendant anger and millions of Peters with their hands on their swords, awaiting any reason to fall upon the wicked. I see a hatred for the foe surpassed only by those that strap bombs to their bodies or gun down innocents… but we see that among ourselves too, do we not? Colorado Springs? A holy jihad a little closer to home than Paris or Palestine? A break in the ranks of opinion of what a true Christian is? Or is it? Some people think the Colorado Springs antagonist did a most Christian thing as he defended the unborn and punished the “wicked”. So there is a break. Maybe this sense of confusion is akin to some Muslims wondering how anyone considering themselves Muslim can kill non-combatants? This tragic event has the seeds of compassion within it for all of us as we look across the aisle.
We have an opportunity here. I don’t have the answers, but God does. What can we control? Our own small sphere that is similar to the room where a shaman rattles, drums and chants. He can control his sacred space and then he lets go, doing his best to have compassion on those he is called to serve, on those that may seemingly be beyond assistance. And then he listens.
May each of us that have taken upon us the name of Jesus in whatever capacity, whether we regard him as a teacher of deep wisdom or God incarnate, consider if we are truly followers of Jesus or merely Christian-practitioners. Let us not sully the name of Jesus or those that truly devote themselves to the kind of deep spirituality that listens rather than speaks, that does not pretend to know, that wishes for the best outcome in a difficult situation – whatever that might be; the Thomas Mertons, Meister Eckharts, St. Francis’ that lived deeply in a state of acceptance, of humility, of denial of the kinds of things that might keep them from hearing the many voices of God. In short, we need to become converted, radically accepting, fundamentally changed.  
May we ask ourselves, “are we followers of Jesus… or merely Christian-practitioners”?   

I Felt Bad - Prose



I Felt Bad

I felt bad, so I ate three candy bars in one sitting.
Then I felt better.
Then the good feeling wore off, and I felt worse because my body felt run down
And my soul felt depressed.
And I was disappointed in myself for eating three candy bars in one sitting
And disrespecting my body.
It was good at the time, but I was over it.
And the thing I felt bad about was still there.
It didn’t care.
It just looked at me from the closet.

The next day I felt bad, so I drank eleven beers myself.
Then I felt better.
Then the good feeling wore off, and I felt worse because my body felt sick
And my soul felt depressed.
And I was disappointed in myself for drinking eleven beers
And getting sloppy drunk.
It was fun at the time, but was over it.
And the thing I felt bad about was still there.
It didn’t care.
It just looked at me from the closet.

The next day I felt bad, so I watched football for eight hours straight.
Then I felt better.
Then the good feeling wore off, and I felt worse because my body felt ignored.
And my soul felt depressed.
And I was disappointed in myself for neglecting pretty much everything important
And wasting a whole day on something that doesn’t have any lasting benefit.
It was fun at the time, but I was over it.
And the thing I felt bad about was still there.
It didn’t care.
It just looked at me from the closet.

Now it was time to get serious.

“I’m going to church,” I said.

Then I felt better.
Because he told me things I could understand, and everything made sense to my mind.
Then the good feeling wore off, and I felt worse because… the good feeling wore off.
And my soul felt depressed.
I was proud of myself for trying...
But what the hell?
It felt good at the time, but I was over it.
And the thing I felt bad about was still there.
It didn’t care.
It just looked at me from the closet.

But I did see it blink.

The next day I went to India to seek a holy man.
Then I felt better
Because he told me things I couldn’t understand, and everything seemed so poetic.
Then the good feeling wore off, and I felt worse because now my mind was fully confused.
And my soul felt depressed.
And I beat myself up for all this meandering
And all the money squandered
And my life seemed crooked
And even my mind was lost, let alone my heart.
It felt good at the time, but I was over it.
And the thing I felt bad about was still there.
It didn’t care.
It just looked at me from the closet.
   
But it’s triumphant smile dropped just a hint.
But I was now thoroughly pissed.
And since I still had a week to go in India
I went back to that Holy man
And cried
And cussed
And yelled
But he just looked at me
With eyes like the Thing In My Closet
But wiser and far kinder
And told me
To go home
And learn to sit
And learn to breathe
And learn to quiet the mind that thinks it has to
Eat
Drink
Distract Itself
Be more “spiritual”
In order to stop seeing the Thing In The Closet
He said that I was the guru
And that he was nothing
And that I am always connected to life
If I choose the moment and stop fighting it
And that connection to life
Is all I am seeking.

“But that Thing is scary,” I told him.

“You are the guru,” is all he said.
And I was dismissed.

When I got home
I changed some things
I learned to sit still
I learned to breathe in and out slowly
I learned to quiet the mind
I stopped eating, drinking and busying myself
To distraction
To keep me from looking at
The Thing In The Closet.

Over time, the Thing started to change.
 
It turned vaguely human.
It shrunk.
It turned into a child.
Eventually I could see
That the child
Was myself
That time so long ago
That I had felt
Alone.

--Aspen Marley
December 3, 2015




Dandelions and War - Poem



Dandelions and War

A field of dandelion
White heads beneath blue sky
I mowed them all down.
The field looked great
For a week.

This is what war is.

--Aspen Marley 
December 3, 2015

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Judge Meant - Story / Pair of Bulls



Judge Meant is slowly killing us. But that’s what he does; he always sentences the shiniest parts of ourselves to death after long confinement. The cougar deep, deep within me will be caged until execution by this cruel man, for that is what is pleasing to him. It’s what gives Judge Meant his meaning. He is self-defined by the definition, categorization and constriction of all Being.  
 That’s because the Judge requires “order” as he alone defines it.

The cougar I am deep inside says no. He wishes to roam, to eat screaming things, to make blood, to snooze in post-coital Pangean sunshine. The cage rattles as fur-lined bone and flesh bangs against metal bar and lock in nature-less confinement. But notwithstanding the noise of the cries, the shouts, the peals of all the animals, there is order enough as the Judge requires. Looking down the seemingly endless corridors where he rules, cage is stacked upon cage. Each contains a pacing, starving, peace-less animal, my soul siblings.

But he is made of light, this great cat, although in earthly physical form he’s never been a cougar. What he is is a shapeshifter. For instance, in his chosen earthly forms he has been rock twice; once kicked down the road for nearly a mile by a tennis-shoed eleven year old girl as she gained courage to face her father, once snow covered granite in Himalayan timelessness, a friend to the clouds, a witness of the rising and passing of the humans. Both those earths passed away into insignificance and after a time of fallow, new “Adams” arrived and the old story restarted again, as it is prone to do ad infinitum. So twice he was stone, once a leaf, twice an ocean, a dozen times a bird. I, the cougar, choose to be human when I feel like a comprehensive challenge. Dying to each incarnation one way, I change back into a cougar made of light, the color and shape of my incandescent borders by choice and fit. Free of those physical borders, I then rest in my favorite forest, awaiting the next Adam.
When Creator says, “Let there be light”, my eyes always flutter open. I am excited to see what next, what new adventure. I stretch. It’s a new dream. What will we create together? What form will serve my development best? How can I serve others? Who wants to go with me? All is open. We just awoke: what dreams will arise anew?

The Judge, in this place of innocent, playful curiosity has no power. Those things, in any incarnation, in any form – spirit, physical or otherwise – are anathema to him. Innocence, playfulness, even most forms of humor make him powerless. But he’s cagey, this Judge. So he silently waits.
Once a Being of Light takes physical form, it usually doesn’t take long.

Too cold.
Too hot.
Too much.
Too little.
This is great.
That blows.
That’s stupid.
That’s the only way I’ll have it.

Those are the easy ones. He throws those to see if they stick. Whispers them, suggests them ever so lightly. If the suggestions do stick, if the incarnation believes them and begins to back them with emotion, he hangs other things off them and they begin to look like...

No one loves me.
They’re evil.
I am the only one that doesn’t…
I am incompetent.
I am right.
I am unworthy.
I am more worthy.  
I am insane.
I am unsafe.
I am unlovable.
I am sick.

These grow, coagulate blood-raw into the only kind of illness that can keep a cougar made of light in a cage. The cougar is captured and placed there by Judge Meant when his earthly incarnation forgets his joy. 

From within his iron cell he roars pain and confusion and in one incarnation an avalanche yielding to gravity covers a Himalayan village. In another, an ocean heaves beyond its bounds, carrying a small boy out to sea, ending his life cold and alone before he was ready. In others, the birds call restlessly. In yet another, a lonely human vomits into a bucket in a cell made of cold, grey stone.

 The cougar paces restless paws and he begins to remember...

I am made of light. No bars can hold me unless I agree to allow them to do so.

I am not good enough?
This abuse is my fault?
They need to be exterminated?
There’s something wrong with me?
I am a failure?
Creator doesn’t love me?

Cougar stops pacing and smiles as only a cougar can. At that very instant a rock tumbles safely into a lonely stream to begin his molecular journey into the earth, an ocean is rocked to sleep by her lunar mother and the birds preen, bathe and sing the sun home in each of their existences. And the man walks into the open, heart first, feeling he sun’s warmth for what seems like the first time in his life.
He is naked but he is free and all is new.

And in one bright whisper the cougar sees that all judgement is false. It has no objective reality. In the truth of his Being, his sacred Is-ness laughs acceptance and the joy of what Is. Fear vanishes.

Hearing laughter, so foreign in the lonely, crowded corridor, Judge Meant turns to see…

Another empty cage.

--Eric Marley
October 25, 2015