Diving Deeper

Found objects: natural art

Outside the cabin where I live chimes, windspinners and other hanging art catch the light and breeze of the day.  Inside, I like to create mobiles from found objects, like the two pictured here.  The feathers catch any air movement and turn them also.

Both mobiles have masks of death in them, the first a skull (as yet unidentified) and the second a turtle's shell. A metal coyote belt-buckle and hematite pendulum allude respectively to the calls of darkness and the wild blood in all of us.

Author of  Soulcraft Bill Plotkin says: 'The Underworld Journey awaits those who already hear mystery whispering in their day and night dreams, in unusual occurrences and encounters, in water or wind, and whose profound longing is to sense and navigate life by these deep currents'.  The mobiles remind me of those currents.

Tom Crockett's book The Artist Inside also talks of exploring the images of sleeping and waking dream states for creative expression (finding, arranging, altering and making).  These simple practices connect me with place and with deeper levels of meaning in my engagement with the land and its beings.

 Coyote's dreams: image copyright Sara Firman 2011

Homage to a tree: logres (poem)

 

 Logres by Sulis


After a despairing
moon
I circled
the clearing
clambering
over the fallen
trees
the fallen
nights
the once shining realm
fading

Decaying
white bells
a glimpse of
ladies tresses
an orchid orchestrating
the fall
in amongst the low
moss of memory

The kingdom
severed
from inspired contact

The purity and glory
of Logres driven away
by rejection
arrogance
loss of faith
a sudden pervasive
decay
withering the land
strange mists obscuring
vision

Impossible
to have missed this
this beacon of life
rooted and reaching
unscathed
ancient
rite
here.

Questing for Healing Waters: California to Oregon

Native americans often called hot springs by names that translated as some variant of 'medicine springs' - they recognized the healing value of these mysterious warm waters.  The pacific northwest is blessed with a profusion of springs and a recent visit there reminded me of a journey I took a decade ago at the start of my water quest.  Here it is, with updated links.

An encounter with golden seal

 


First encounters with plants about which we know nothing - not the name or the human use - can be opportunities to let them speak for themselves.  Later, we can do our research perhaps; but first comes the magic of beginner's mind, which can sometimes match existing knowledge and sometimes hint at more.  Here is the story of my first encounter with Golden Seal.  Spot the water connection.

[I was on a herb walk led by Sasha Daucus of the Golden Light Center.  I cannot reveal the place since this plant is rare in such abundance as we found it.  But I can tell you that walks with Sasha in the Ozarks bioregion are a treat!]

........................................................................................................................................................

I'm squatting on a flat grey rock behind the wooden outhouse part way up a wooded slope and under a canopy of trees. The rest of the herb group have gone to find their own spots around the log cabin that perches on a rocky bluff just the other side of the outhouse.

I wanted to stop here and find out why the plant that calls to me today has chosen this place.  It's an herb that has been over-collected in the wild and our guide told us that she has rarely seen a patch this size, though it is still nothing compared to how it used to be. 

My bloodroot (3 poems by Sulis)

Bloodroot (Sanguinaria canadensis) has a special significance for me, linked to my sense of belonging in the Ozarks.   When spring arrives, I begin to look for its distinctively protective leaves and sudden single flower.  This past weekend, I found it tucked into a verdant path beside the river.  I have also planted it in a moist depression in the West quadrant of my Medicine Wheel garden beside the cabin.

These plants have bright red sap in their roots that flows like blood if they are cut.  I placed it in the West on the Wheel because of the association with the Color Red.  I might just as well have chosen it for the North, associated with White, as the flowers are striking and white.  North is also connected with tribal roots, which the name Bloodroot conveys for me. 

Mostly though, for me these 'medicine' plants represent resurrection, the blood of wounding and the white of mourning (in some traditions) or purification.   These perfect spring ephemerals bring a feeling of hope after any long winter of discontent.  They are the first plants that ever spoke to me, and I don't mean metaphorically*.

Here are three poems referencing Bloodroot:



Talking with Plants by Sulis, 29 March 2006

As if you shouted!
Your white face catches my eye,
Shows me my bloodroot.

As if you shouted!
And I came running to you,
Hearing my calling.

As if you shouted!
The end to a long winter,
My own sap rising.

As if you shouted!

Lilith by Sulis, 26 March 2006

From the dark and dankness
Out of the depths of no-time
Came Lilith, and said:

"In the deep dampness
At the feet of trees
Grows my soul ~
Moss green and flowing

Out of death and decay
In the slowness of winter
Grows my heart ~
Bloodroot cloaked in stillness

Beneath the shallow murkiness
Fed by constant seeps
Grows my strength ~
Arrowhead vibrantly spreading

Along hidden shaded banks
Sheltered and fertile
Grows my nourishment ~
Nettle sharp and cleansing."

Through the shadow of dreams
Carrying my longing
I heard her, and went.

Bloodroot by Sulis, 21 April 2007

Sound of boots
on dry leaves
crisp, crushed
over and over
until the dust
trickles down

Closed still
a green bud
her heart
down below
in thin soil
roots bleeding

She felt it
Neptune's* trident
poking prongs
into dreams
and she bled
invisibly

High on the bluff
wind touches
pain like a kiss
new leaves shiver
and her heart
knows it's OK

She wonders why
it isn't her job
to save him
she doesn't
blame him
no rain came

A broken twig
dangles on a vine
somewhere below
worry falls
like water
over a bridge

So she holds
the image of a bud
that will open
a white flower
that will turn
toward the sun

*Astrologically speaking, Neptune comes up often for me.  Here's a note from Donna Cunningham's book Astrology and Spiritual Development that relates to the reference in this poem, written as I  prepared myself (albeit unconsciously) to leave a partner whose behavior had become frightening: 'Astrologers talk about Neptune as being bondage, slavery, and passivity, in some of its more negative aspects.  When you are in bondage to someone or something on the material plane, it generally IS destructive.  On the spiritual planes, however, we can transmute these qualities into SURRENDER, a state of being that can have tremendous power to change our lives.  Neptune is both surrender and healing....'

For more on:

• the Medicine Wheel Garden see: Creating outdoor sacred spaces in nature
• talking to plants see: Direct perception of nature: a book review (Buhner)

Spring rains in the Ozarks

A story about my previous home in the Ozarks entitled Spring Rain was published in the April 2005 issue of Missouri Conservationist.  The subtitle - A spectacular storm teaches us how precious and life-giving water is - was especially heartening to me since in writing this piece I was also endeavoring to divert my increasing frustration and concern about gravel mining on our creek into a more hopeful channel. 

In the months that followed its publication I was charmed at the encounters I had with locals, whom I had not previously met, who wanted to tell me how much they loved that creek and enjoyed my writing about it.  This made me realize that the Missouri Conservation Department magazine was closely read by people I never imagined might do so.  The article is now online and can be read in full here.  Two extracts:

Easter eggs: poems by Sulis

Easter 2010

The sweat lodge like a hologram
around a mossy nest of lava rocks
gathers in all dreams and wishes
then waits for the Moon's blessing

Rain infused with pollen and prayers
has color-washed the land overnight
wind goes dancing down new paths
made for secret anticipated discovery

Spring flowers are my Easter eggs
hidden in a woven basket of trees
a forest fortress transformed into
a nest with a fluffy pale green rim

Inside each shell-like bud, an eternal flowering.



The first Sunday after the full moon following the vernal equinox is designated for Easter.  In my experience, it is also very often the time when spring truly arrives here in the Ozarks.  This year was no exception.  A perfect soaking rain and warm temperatures brought the season on with customary suddenness. 

The oak buds burst open and so did many of the most delicate early spring ephemeral flowers, like the  bird's foot violet you'll see below, found in a rocky glade at the end of one of my newly created forest paths. Water gushed along the seasonal creek in the ravine beside our cabin and the whole forest sang.

Spring is my favorite season, and I would be sad to miss bearing witness to its short-lived but wonderfully invigorating progression.  Included here are two poems written for Easter of 2010 (above) and 2008 (below) that unintentionally carry similar imagery -  my partner Joe and I like to celebrate the full moon before Easter with a sweat lodge ceremony. 

Here it is in mossy splendor - the nest of grandfather lava rocks is pictured as a detail at the start of this post.

Winter colors: the spirit of place

In the world of home interiors, natural tones, are often boring neutrals.  Yet the natural world is never boring or neutral.  Even in winter, colors abound.  One winter, when I lived in a cabin beside an Ozark creek, I decided to enliven my white-walled living space.  I didn't anticipate that, not only would it end up being an interior I felt more at home in, but that the change would also blurr the boundary between my indoor world and the outdoors. 

When I scanned the color-wheel for paints, I thought I was selecting on the basis of the ceramic floor tiles, the artwork and fabrics that were already in the space.  I wanted colors that would bring out the less visible, accentuate the least obvious.  Many of the paintings in the room were seascapes and the fabrics and furnishings came from exotic countries - none of it was typical of the rural Ozarks.

The colors I chose had names like Veiled Violet, Heart of Palm, Complimentary Cream, and then a combination of all of these merged on one wall in a textured faux finish (one of my ex-husband's skills).   Admiring the results, I noticed that these names could be 'localized' as Stone Violet, Sycamore Skin, and Switch Grass.  The glass doors overlooking the creek, reflected this subtly changing color palette.

The Desert House: a story

      
'That tamarisk', the realtor said, pointing at the feathery green-grey tree generously shading the north side of the house, 'is probably home to a king snake'.  A harmless snake, I knew it would slither out to scout for less-friendly members of its species each evening.  A  king snake was a good omen.  Also called 'salt cedar' that tree would drop a mess of needles and kill any plant under it, the woman derisively informed me.  'Take it out straightaway'.  I knew to be wary of her.

Just as the guardian king snake hides in the debris around the tree, there are layers to sift through before truth and purpose are revealed.  The friend who lived nearby in the high-class gated community where he re-posed for a while to make millions had been victim to that.  As summer came harshly in, he had dug up the trees on his newly acquired plot and shifted them to spots more preferable to him - slowly and shamefully they died.  Then squirrels arrived and dug up his ground cover, as if in subtle vengeance. 

In the picturesque seaside town on the southern Californian coast where I had been living, awkward yuppies strolled restlessly up and down in front of the chic restaurants and boutiques and homes they owned only at weekends.  Pacific Coast Highway lived up to its grand name - cutting beach-goers off from the sand, giving sightseers fast passage.  Local newspapers wrote sad articles about the planned suicides of dispirited bohemians who had hung on, and brash mansions encroaching on unruly cottages. 

The little oasis my new husband had rented for decades had been sold to developers; and we were out.  A  cheery contractor told us the owners intended to rip out its heart, chop down the trees, and add the expected generic features.  Our visitors had always commented with delight on the zany cracked tiling, the brilliant stained glass set into wonky windows, the friendly plants creeping through the vent panels, the bejeweled spider's webs.  They didn’t notice the absence of a dishwasher; but the new arrivals would.

So we were taking a look at a place the agent called 'way out there'; Cost-co and nouvelle cuisine were a half-hour away.  You reached the ranchito either by rounding the mountains at the base of which date palm oases drank up the water that crept through an active fault line; or by the long waves of a road that crossed Sky Valley, as broad as its name.  On the corner of Happy Valley Drive, a low-slung brick house with a wide wooden porch nestled behind brave desert plants. 

The place seemed to offer an oasis for any desertion of the soul.  This desert defied its outward appearance with its underground supply of water; just as even the saddest or baddest of us have deep-running souls waiting to be drawn upwards.  In the front yard was a huge rock pool fed by natural hot water from an artesian well drilled almost 500 feet into the floor of an ancient ocean.  I had the odd experience, standing in the spacious hallway at the center of that desert house, of ley-lines converging.



How easy to imagine peaceful nights closing in over the ring of mountains, candles around the pool, hours of whispered thoughts for bright stars that died long ago.  Human stars, I learned, had stayed there to escape from false adulation.  But the owner was a spiky cactus holding prospective buyers off.  A film set-designer, his breakfast bowls were patiently placed, and never filled in the weeks we went back to view; a paintbox and paper with bright splodges were laid out pretentiously on an artist's desk.  

Back in the coastal city, a well-meaning society lady invited me to join her women's book club at the latest grand hotel.  We gathered in a room of mirrors to stretch in lackadaisical yoga under the sweet approval of a young woman and then rocked along with a black African-American dancer.   I realized that my spirit would dry up in such a place.  The desert needed no mirrors in order to show me myself.   The expansively empty talk that lifted me up and dropped me down like a gullible girl might fade there.

To see life in the desert you must look long and diligently - the tracks of snakes, the camouflages. In the rundown office of the buyer's agent, I went through the form for house-buying.  Sheryl was voluble with local blah.  Changing her tune to match our hopes, she was sure we’d be a great success, sure the waters were wonderful, sure of everything and proof of nothing.  Too many mistakes on those forms for me  - my partner thought she’d called me, admiringly, 'Miss Eagle Eye'; I heard 'Miss Pickie'. 

Sheryl and Joan, the seller's agent, were dealing with a touchy owner.  They were nice only up to a point, the point with the money.  Money was behind all those expansively empty words I heard.  When it didn’t come tumbling out of the glittering pinball machine at the pull of the lever, they were off to the next station.  I didn't want to be mistaken for a pinball machine.  The local native American Indians were gambling on it, drawing the crowds to their gaudy casinos along the highway to the desert. 

The house was not for us, though I still think of it.  Of how certain places stand on geological power points that I can feel, and others may not.

(Adapted from an essay by Sulis/ Sara Firman, written November 2001.)  

For more on snake medicine see Snakes (two poems by Sulis).

Direct perception of nature: a book review

 

My perceptions of the natural world and the power of non-verbal communication between its elements (from rock to plant to animal) have been stimulated by living in the diverse bioregion of the Missouri Ozarks and working with water as a therapeutic medium.

Several books by Stephen Harrod Buhner have shown me what is possible, in terms of understanding life and one's place in it, if you are willing to step out of the everyday linear paradigm and into the all-pervading non-linear (oscillating) vibration that is life.

This month, in a workshop on developing intuitive skills for aquatic physical therapists, I'll be sharing his approach to direct perception in an adapted exercise from Ch. 12 'Depth Diagnosis and the Healing of Human Disease' of the book I have reviewed below.

Direct perception is a way of truly knowing, not thinking, what is going on inside a person that some people call intuition. The intention is to know the person's problem, and what it needs, by perceiving them directly, without any judgment.

How often does any of us do that?