World Literature

A muddy hoof print, coyote scat filled with bones, a blood tinged feather. The world speaks with signs.

Crooked calligraphy in a mossy branch, a Stonehenge ring of toadstools, tall thistles bending into an archway. The world speaks in symbols.

A bumblebee rolling in a flower, bull sea lions slapping fat necks in combat, a rattlesnake shedding its first skin. The world speaks in moments.

New growth on a charcoaly redwood; the full swing of the seasons; evaporation, clouds, rain, rivers, creeks, and oceans: the complete water-table. The world speaks in circles.

A wave rolling in, hail on gravel, a boulder rumbling down stream, a rockslide, thunder. Wind: through dry grass, among eucalyptus branches, whistling past a cliff face. Ice cracking, brush under foot, wingbeats. The world speaks.

-------------------------------

This World Literature is the subject of much writing and contemplation, by myself and countless others, stretching back long before a crude wall divided the world of man and the world of nature. Indeed many of us write and think about the wild because its presence in our lives is like a phantom limb, long gone, but still felt – and, of course, the stump is obvious.

The Wild is a vast physical place, and it is a habitat for mind as much as body. I see Wilderness as a knowledge system, not to be deconstructed, rather to be experienced in its completeness. Each being, thing, or event in the wild, is the wild. Every anything is a sentence in a chapter in a story, and each sentence stands alone, a complete tale told perhaps with a single syllable. In this wild library books are nested within books within words within letters. The headwaters of creation flow infinitely in all directions. The present moment is experienced in all places simultaneously. The axis of the Universe turns on every point in the Universe. Aha!

It goes without saying, the library is full of adventure and wisdom – cost of admission is careful attention, a peaceful mind, respect, and playfulness. And you have to leave human chatter at the threshold, like all libraries, it’s best to be quiet.

"Down to Earth – Reflections on Humanity in the Esalen Farm and Garden" by Noël Vietor

Recently a President of an enormous corporation based in South Korea joined the Esalen Farm and Garden morning harvest as a volunteer. As I set him up to harvest kale, he said, “I know this is simple work but I imagine there must be more to it. How do you do this? How do you connect with this land and these plants?”

I picked up a handful of the garden soil and encouraged him to do the same. I gave him my rap: “After winter rain, our soil appears in high contrast between black humus resulting from forty years of tender stewardship, and glimmering shards of abalone, remnants of the native Essalen people who dwelled here up to 5,000 years ago. The Esalen land has a powerful ancestry, and farming is appropriately ancient work. We Farmers and Gardeners feel a deep sense of honor continuing this sacred practice of cultivating soil, plants and spirit.”

As a businessman in Seoul with a 4-hour daily commute, he could not remember having touched soil in decades. “This is very special for me,” he said, eyes twinkling.

I love facilitating a visitor’s reconnection of body, mind and spirit to the earth through this work. In our modern societies and cultures, we are “richer” and longer living than ever before — yet a feeling of emptiness or disconnection persists en masse. We meet our basic needs through the purchase of goods or services, curating rather than creating the material of our existence. Is it possible that the self-sufficient acts of our ancestors — growing food; weaving clothes; concocting soap; building houses — were fundamentally creative, expressive aspects of humanity, which we unknowingly ache and long for now?

As Brother David Steindl-Rast reminded me recently, “humus”, the dark decomposed material in soil, reveals its sacred power through its etymologic connection to “human”, “humor” and “humility”. This supports my belief that growing beautiful food humbly expresses my creativity, connects me to my body, the universe and the present moment, and reforms my conditioned conception of “richness”. My mentor and Farm and Garden Manager Shirley Ward regularly rejoices “We’re rich!” as hearty beets or neon pink chard emerge gloriously in the morning hours.

We plant the seeds of our wild ideas now, and as former Farm and Garden Manager Steve Beck once wrote, “look forward with the hope that arrives every spring” to see what germinates in the coming years.

Noël Vietor serves as Coordinator of the Esalen Farm and Garden – Esalen is an educational retreat center in Big Sur California

On the Long Trail with Raven & Crow

I was riding my bike along 16^th Street, scowling as I passed my least favorite yoga studio in the universe. Upon turning onto Dolores I heard two ravens calling in alternating rhythm from the tall steeple of a church. Dark clouds loomed in the distance and rain began to fall. I thought to myself, a bit sadly, this is the most metal moment of my life.

Setting aside my longing for a more metal-mythic experience, I actually wish to discuss our cousins the crows and ravens, and their whole stately named family: Animalia Chordata Aves Passerformes Corvidae. Our relationship stretches back into time immemorial; in fact, the Corvidae tribe enters the fossil record about 17 million years back, we appear in our earliest form just 4 million years ago.

Crows and ravens are primarily scavengers, although I have seen a crow snatch a still squeaking mouse out of the tall grass. There is an assumption among many people (lay and scientifically minded alike) that predators possess the greatest intelligence among animals. We marvel, and rightly so, at the way a lion pride mounts its attack on a zebra herd – they carefully control and study the herd’s movement, identify the weakest member, and then isolate and overpower them.

The need to track prey, interpret signs, remain inconspicuous, and (in some species) organize hunting parties, surely requires a thinking brain. Some scavengers, however, seem to posses a cunning that far outstrips that of a predator, able, as they are, to thrive in the world with considerably less effort. “Work smarter, not harder” said Scrooge McDuck, world’s richest duck, and coincidentally a distant relative of this essay’s subjects.

Ravens will sometimes lead a wolf pack to prey, knowing that they can pick at the carcass when the dogs are done. Indeed Raven would do the same for our ancestors, leading indigenous hunters to herbivores unawares. This action may seem simple, so permit me to break it down for you: the raven finds a still living, large animal that he would like to eat, he knows he is incapable of killing it, so he sets off to locate a suitably intelligent and strong predator, or group of predators, somehow he communicates his intention and leads the way to the prey, the predators kill it for him, and he waits his turn to eat.

This behavior denotes a level of awareness present in the animal kingdom that I seldom hear dialog about, and even less so in regards to birds specifically. Raven seems to know the animals and their roles. He knows who eats whom, and where to find both. He can dream of an outcome and bring it into being, devise a plan and act upon it. He not only participates in the (eco) system, but also observes it, spectates from above, and arranges the players to his best advantage.

Crow and Raven loom quite large in the mythos of many primary cultures, often taking on the archetype of Guide, or Watchman; their ontological role reflecting their keen awareness and “real world” habits. Additionally many members of the Corvidae family possess an ability to mimic. Certain African and European raven species can repeat human words. A Norwegian acquaintance of mine had a pet raven that called him Pappa in a croaky voice (making him the most metal dude I’ve ever met, by a wide margin). The stellar jays (also Corvidae) of my watershed do pitch perfect imitations of redtailed hawks. It follows that in many majik traditions Crow is given to shape shifting. Some sorcerers are allied with these birds and can transform into crows themselves. Don Juan, Carlos Castaneda’s mentor, was a famous Crow Magician.

So, do the roles, behaviors, and abilities of beings in this world shape our myths? Or does the Subtle World of Spirit inform this Solid Place? I prefer to sit on the fence here. Not because I am afraid to commit to an opinion, but because I think it is entirely possible, even likely, that both are true. The World, spirit or otherwise, is created and discovered in the same moment. Which is to say an act of discovery is an act of creation, which is to say an act of creation is an act of discovery… now that’s a long and winding path! May Raven lead the way.

(paintings by John James Audubon)

Ancient Friendship (camping journal 26/VIII/10)

My brother and I sit and watch the fire late into the night. Put a stick in and watch the smoke unfurl, wrap around our fingers, float to the moon. The wood sings, clicks, crackles, squeals, and pings. We like the song too.

Mostly we sit quietly but eventually we pontificate on the pleasures of fire… the feeling of safety and warmth… the endless variations of smoke, flame, ember, and sound… and our ancient friendship.

I am reminded of something my friend said a few months ago, he said “there’s a reason an orange tastes sweet to me, and a reason I can look at a waterfall for hours, it’s because we grew up together.” My brother agreed it was a beautiful way of saying it. So the world is relationships, some old, some newer. Our relationship with fire certainly qualifies as ancient.

An almost full moon, high in the early morning, lights up our camp completely. Mars is closer this night to me and the planet than it has been since man named it and began to follow its movements. “Close” but still very very far, just a big white spot. Despite the distance Mars and I grew up together too.

Though Mar’s song is subtle and his dance much slower than the fire, people have watched and listened. Even though I must seem absurdly fast, tiny, and brief, Mars sees me too. Old friends talking again.

Dursu Uzula

Dursu Uzula is a film in Russian made in Siberia by master Japanese filmmaker Akira Kurosawa in 1975. The plot is simple and goes as follows: Russian soldiers are exploring/mapping the wild far-east of their territory in 1902, by chance they encounter a trapper named Dursu Uzula who in turn becomes their guide.

Dursu is an Asiatic indigenous man of the region, in the parlance of the time he is known as a Goldi. I am assuming that this is a term for a certain ethnic group of the region, possibly a term used only in the early 1900’s; regardless of the actual meaning, the sound of the name casts Dursu (movie and character) in the right light… I conceive of it more as a title, Dursu is the Goldi because his precise knowledge and way of being is approaching its “golden years” in the rapidly modernizing world.

He is golden like leaves in partial decay, or the afternoon sun on an icy lake (frozen in the night, and thawing in the mid-day). This Goldi is a man of autumn, because he is the keeper of knowledge and awareness that was so rapidly in decline even in the early 1900’s.

With perfect knowledge of place Dursu is woven into the land, surviving by (what seems now to be) a super-sense of deep ecology that was already receding. The time of indigenous people, even in far-flung places, was almost over, and much of their ancient wisdom lost. Dursu sees this loss reflected in the attitudes of the Russian men he leads through the forest; he often mocks the soldiers comparing them to children because they notice so little.

Dursu meanwhile expresses expansive awareness and compassion for all beings, living and non-living, referring to all things in broken Russian as “men”. He expresses concern that stretches well beyond himself and his immediate situation, revealed in a scene where he repairs an abandoned shack in the forest and fills it with dry wood, matches, and rice, on the off-chance that someone will pass the hut and be in need.

His awareness too is far reaching, it reaches, in fact, beyond the limits of the land he knows, even this planet. Dursu (pointing to the sun): “this men is most important men, he dies, all men die…” (then pointing to the moon) “this men is also very important.” Dursu seems to know the truth: we are all in all.

Despite Dursu’s rich knowledge of place, the fragility of man is painted across this picture, as are notions of loss, and pain. Even when we are one with the wild, the world is still full of danger, and suffering arises anew. But we strive and strive and strive. By including fear and darkness this film dodges the sappy over-glorification/de-humanization of the indigenous man, Dursu is not set apart from the sufferings and sorrows of modern men… sorrow it seems is timeless and universal.

Lovely too in this movie is the dear friendship that develops between Dursu and the Russian Captain/Cartographer. The Captain’s reverence for Dursu is shown again and again in the film, and although he lacks the wild wisdom of the Goldi, the Captain is a compassionate and gentle spirit too, which brings in a hopeful view for this future-past. Although we loose some of our ways (and maybe even we loose our way entirely) the human heart is still ancient and good.

Mushroom Mirror

[a continuation from Autumn & the Death of the Buddha, which can be seen below]

Now we stumble into the territory of the mushroom and the mind. The universe, in Buddhist terms, is a series of mirrors… in Buddhist mind-science we investigate some things that are impossible to know (such as death) by investigating other aspects of being, which are a reflection of the same cycles… this is the origin of such theories as reincarnation.

The natural world is an endless cycle of spring, summer, autumn, winter, and spring again, and so it follows that the nature of consciousness, and of the human soul, would be a reflection of that cycle, now renamed: birth, life, death, void, and rebirth. Some of the cycle we can see directly (birth, life and death), and some of it we can only see reflected (void and rebirth). The mushroom’s ecological role, its historical significance in Buddhism, and its potential effects on the human mind also appear to be reflective.

Without the mushroom the world would become an impassable heap of detritus. Without various fungi, and like organisms, decomposition of dead plant and animal matter cannot occur fast enough to keep up with the cycle of death and birth. Waste is broken down, and refined by mushrooms as they build themselves of it; the chaotic clutter is clarified as a mushroom. This process is reflected in the human mind when our ways of seeing are clarified and refined by eating certain mushrooms (psilocybin).

The world of perception is similarly cluttered with debris, and waste, in this case: language, memory and associations… mind leaf-litter. Now we travel deeper into concepts like phenomenology and thusness, ideas that would fill this and many blogs if we were to start excavating thoroughly… should you be interested and uninitiated I recommend reading Heidegger for a western take, and Dogen for an eastern one. Here is my understanding…

Instead of seeing the fabric of the world as it is, we see it as it has been described. We do not usually see a tree when we look at a tree, we also do not see the complex and beautiful ecosystem in which it is woven (and of which it is also weaver), instead we identify that living object as tree because it fits a description, a memory, a string of words and thoughts. We also seldom see past the words and associations themselves, and it is even more seldom that we understand some part of the world not as a separate entity, cut-off and categorizable, but in fact as an inseparable aspect of the whole.

We cannot be fully present if these problems persist, we cannot perceive the true thusness of any one thing, nor can we perceive the Oneness of all things. Our mind needs a mushroom; whether it be a real mushroom (like a psilocybin), or a reflective practice (like meditation).

The mushroom helped the Gautama Buddha sew his cells back into the earth, to unbind his subtle-self from his body. His life was a life of symbols, a life of instruction, so I am inclined to consider why he pointed to the mushroom in his last moments… probably not to turn us all into psychedelic-trippers (although the people of Nepal were certainly aware of these mushrooms, which they used and called “Traveling Plants”)… The Gautama was, I think, pointing once again at the mirror, which reflects another mirror, and so on and so forth as we reflect each other, as the universe reflects us, as "the entire moon is seen reflected in a single dew drop"(quote from Dogen), as the path of self liberation is revealed in a single mushroom. The series of reflections, as in the “tunnel” made by two mirrors, is endless, as are the cycles themselves, as are the mysteries we contemplate.

Happy autumn to you!

photo notes: taken by Fletcher Tucker in 2009, on Orcas Island Washington

Why I Stopped to Look

I began to investigate a murder as I got out of my car to photograph the corpse of an adolescent black-tail deer. She was struck down by a car or truck, possibly moments before Noël and I saw her in the road. Her body was cold, but the blood had not even begun to dry, nearly neon-red and shinny in my headlights.

There are those among us who would call this photo morbid; those who would see only the sad fact that our (human) systems brought about the untimely and unnatural end of this young being. They are both well meaning perspectives; they offer a framework for compassion, respect, and awareness in their own way. Certainly I do not wish to scandalize this animal with my photos, nor do I wish to ignore the relatively tragic impact of human intrusion (in this case roads and autos).

I stopped to investigate, searching not for the fingerprints of the killer, but in fact for the fingerprints of death itself. On this trail, laid afresh, I must contemplate absence more than presence, void instead of form. Subtle though they are, the dark, the cold, and silence are the tracks and leavings of eternity. So far, this appears more morbid than the photo. But I am actually speaking about a sense of wonder.

By this corpse I marveled at the completeness of death, and simultaneously at the magnificence of consciousness. When consciousness left that deer, so did the deer. I did not stand in the road by a doe; I stood rather in the absence of one, a void-doe, a no-deer. So much was clear upon seeing the strange, clouded forms that were once eyes, and upon hoisting it up (to place it off the road, to prevent further endangerment of drivers and scavengers, Noël’s good idea), touching the once-flesh, feeling its weight devoid of the warmth and grace that creates “deer.” Its body was always just a magnificent puppet made of grass and soil, rain and salt, electricity and movement. It is amazing how immediately and irrevocably someone (person or animal) simply becomes the land, deposited as a lump of earth at his or her moment of death. We rely only on ephemeral cell walls for boundaries, separating out bodies from silt, separation contingent upon the breath… when it leaves so do the boundaries, not over time, but in an immeasurable instant.

This is why I stopped to look. It is, I think, effortless to sense these aspects of being, life, death, and consciousness, if you take a little time in the presence of a dead animal; dead humans are, of course, less accessible (practically and emotionally), but could inspire the same awareness… some of what we are also leaves, and some too becomes earth. These are glimpses of lights almost imperceptibly subtle, ideas so huge I cannot get far enough away to take them in. Even so, there is clarity in the calm, cool space left by those who have left; though I have no final conclusions. This, like all, (murder) mysteries is left unsolved, but I investigate none-the-less, grateful simply for the chance to do so.

[A quote relating to the value of animal-corpse contemplation compared with the short-comings of human-corpse contemplation. In-other-words, why people don't see much beauty or value in dead people.] “Dead humans contain too much horror, I think the vision of eternity is muddled by horror.” - Matthew Wray Robison

photo notes: taken by Fletcher Tucker 2009, near Tomales Bay California

Journal from the Sierra-Nevadas

A bat in the middle of the day flies over my family. A blessing, an omen.

- 10 / VIII / 09

Then bat shit on me in the night, that’s new to me… I’ve been dropped on by birds (song & sea), slipped on dog, marveled at mountain lion, and thrown cow… but never visited by bat scat. Later, lonely owl song far off, looking for companionship.

- 11 / VIII / 09

Thirty-three meteorites seen from the stone plateau of our camp, some with long tales stretching across a quarter of the bowl. Usually “shooting stars” cannot be confirmed, even by yourself, they are like a flash of spirit. Instead, tonight we wowed together (with who knows how many more on the dark side of the Earth). Wonder resounding at the movement way above us, connecting us to the farthest edge of our home.

- 12 / VIII / 09

Blue & white butterfly landed on my journal, I wrote this one second later.

- 13 / VIII / 09

Three ravens in formation fly over, low. Distinguished from crows by the sound of their wings, whoosh-whoosh (like a Pterodactyl), and the depth of their cry. Hours later from the top of a fur tree one raven calls another, its call is answered and together they circle in the air, one left the other right. Far off, just black specks, two more ravens mirror them exactly.

- 14 / VIII / 09

An owl again at nightfall, heard between meteorites, “only” five now. This time not so lonesome, the call is answered a half-octave higher. So they move tree-by-tree, calling out and listening with endless patience, seeking out their partner in song. Whether their corporeal forms ever met I can’t be sure, but their voices meet close to our camp… calling in different pitches in perfect unison. The over-tones ring off the rocks, the air in their bird-lungs vibrates intimacy. I hold my breath in gratitude.

- 15 / VIII / 09

photo notes: taken by Fletcher Tucker 2009, Sierra-Nevada Mountains

Subtle music surrounds us

"We and nature are companions, and although authoritative voices do not speak from clouds, a vast, subtle music surrounds us, accessible via clarity and serenity" - Gary Snyder (quotation from Energy from the Moon)

Try to read everything Gary Snyder has ever written, and I will try too. May he live 10,000 years... if he wants to.

photo notes: from a google image search, photographer unknown.

an Indie Sutra

“Concert at the Gateless Gate – Touring & Non-Attachment”

Surely this show, this song, must end. As soon as the thought of the concert forms its impermanence begins also, expanding and thinning out, in unstoppable entropy. A song, like a life, lasts only as long as the breath, and stretches only in our conceptions past the immediate present moment. It is in this moment that we encounter the most astonishing gift of song, a potentially absolute union of performer with listener, listener with performer, and all listeners with one another. This extends only as far as one’s will to surrender entirely to that moment. Should we be willing… here we are reprieved of boundaries, as musician and audience participate equally in the mind-manifesting that is song-birth.

Though they end, after this show there is another. Despite the frustration or elation experienced during any “gig” the musician must let it go, for it is fleeting and soon to be replaced. Although a generous audience, fine venue, and evening of excellent playing can sustain and up-lift an artist, it cannot actually be preserved. And though inattentive listeners, impolite sound engineers, and many false notes can diminish one’s confidence, the show is soon forgotten by all, and swallowed by the void instantly with no sentiment. There is nothing to be done, no pain to be avoided, no pleasure to be preserved… only what arises as it does.

Thus we find the touring road of music-makers to be actually the road of non-attachment and present-mindedness. So we sing as the gateless gate comes into view, perhaps far off, but always approaching.

- Fletcher M. Tucker, June 2009 (on tour)

photo notes: taken by Gyða Björg Sigurðardóttir 2009, in a cave in western Iceland