Some people love this time of year.  Others love when it’s over.  Some people fall in love during this season.  Others sing Blue Christmas along with Elvis.  Most people proclaim they hate the crass commercialization of the holy days; and then fall in line at the mall.  I’m fairly certain true believers – those that think December 25 marks the actual day of the Christ child’s birth are a minority.  But who wants to pass up a chance to have fun, feast and get together with family? 

        I like a good celebration.  Stories of hope and renewal, new birth, new life, and the return of the light inspire me.  Perhaps like some, I’ve struggled over the years to find the true meaning of Christmas.  World peace eludes us.  Inner peace can get lost in holiday turmoil.  Sometimes I long for solitude.  Other times I want to get lost in the crowd.  Finding the right balance isn’t easy for me, and I gather I’m not alone in this search because so much has been written about the stress of the Holidays and how tough this season of joy can be.

        This week, my local paper ran an article on how to beat the blues during the Holiday season.  The author interviewed a man with a master’s degree in psychology and over 30 years experience in psychotherapy.  A sidebar listed the 12 pitfalls of Christmas in relation to getting the blues.   Coming in at number 5 was loneliness, followed by number 6, family togetherness.  Interesting placement, I thought.  Side by side, one extreme to the other – it almost seems they should cancel each other out.  And yet, there they were putting a smile on my face and getting me thinking about Christmases past.

        In my younger years, I belonged to more than one extended family.  Trying to be in two places at once, staying long enough to keep anybody happy, and having too little time alone with my true love was an annual dilemma.  There was definitely too much family togetherness during those years.  Hot, crowded rooms, loud voices, and clouds of cigarette smoke made for many murky memories.  Then, one year, my true love and I weren’t able to make it home for the holidays.  There weren’t enough vacation days to allow for travel and celebration.  So we stayed at our place, just the two of us. 

        Art supplies were my wish list and after I opened them, I spent Christmas morning playing with new watercolors.  He spent his with a new book in his hands and he steadily turned the pages, putting it down only to stoke the fire in the fireplace or refill a coffee mug.   We left the house in late afternoon for dinner with friends.  We brought wine and a hostess gift.  When dinner was over, we gratefully conceded when our hosts asked us to stack the dishes and stay out of the kitchen.  It was a no-stress holiday, and I remember it fondly. 

        Much later in life, I was leaning more toward number 5 than 6.  I was living in the south and I didn’t want to face the cold or pack heavy winter clothes.  I was single and money was tight.  I put up a tree in my apartment, spent time with friends and was relieved to be able to avoid the hassles of long-distance holiday travel.  It seemed like the best plan until Christmas morning.  I was snug on my couch, lights twinkling before me, fire crackling in front of me and I suddenly missed the chaos family togetherness brought to the holidays.  So I called home for a reality check and I wasn’t disappointed.

        My mother’s twin sister had had a spat with her husband.  She was staying at mom’s house with her cats.  (Mom has a dog).  My sister and her husband separated before the holidays and she was living at mom’s house with her large Labrador puppy -- a breed some consider hyperactive.  My creative aunt has a talent for making extravagant holiday bows.  Each gift she gives is a work of art.  When I called home and explained to mom that I was feeling a little blue, thinking maybe I’d made a mistake in not coming home for the holidays, she laughed loudly into the phone.  “Honey,” she said, “you picked a good year not to come home.  Imagine your Aunt’s 23 packages laid out on the living room floor awaiting their final holiday touches (the bows were in mind).  Then see your sister coming through the front door with that dog that is really a pony in disguise.  Can you picture the look on your Aunt’s face as the dog bounds over the bows, the cats scatter to the back rooms and all 5 animals begin barking and meowing at the same time?”

        Mom was making a few strange noises herself.  She stopped chortling long enough to tell me to “Sit on your couch in your quiet home and sip your tea.  This place is a mad house and if I could, I’d run away and spend the day with you!” 

        Happy Holidays!

SHE WOULD HAVE BEEN SWEET SIXTEEN THIS YEAR

      I went to the farm in Wisconsin where She was born to celebrate Her birthday.  I’ve been going there for over 15 years and it still amazes me that no matter what is going on in my life, I feel great peace when I go to the place She lived.

            In the early years of Her birth dozens of folks showed up to celebrate.  This year there were just a handful of familiar faces.  I imagine what brings them is the same sense of gratitude that draws me back as often as I can get there to pay my respects.

            Having been raised in the white world causes me to question my commitment to my annual pilgrimage.  How sane is this inexplicable connection I feel to a big brown beast that passed on over five years ago?  These days I’m able to dismiss that question and others like it that rise to stir my self-doubt with a smile.  No claim to sanity here; only allegiance to the Great Mystery of it all.

            I sat again on the farm where She lived and stared at bison in a pasture while the sun beat down on me and the flies swarmed around me.  What is it about their magic that brings meaning and insight into otherwise ordinary sights and sounds around me?  I stood in the field She once walked and drew strength to face the challenges before me.

            Ancient stories from the mouths of Elders weren’t told to me in my youth.  In my late middle age I read about Primitive Mythology, the Masks of God and thank Joseph Campbell for his masterpiece that teaches me.  I learn about elementary ideas and ethnic ideas and innate influences and take hold of beliefs I can embrace as truths, they too bring me comfort.  And I know I will return again and again to the place where my inner world began to open to me.

I’d planned a day-long float trip on the Wisconsin River a wide waterway known for its steady gentle current and sandy bottom.  I was taking the trip with a less-experienced paddler; but that was no problem because we knew there would be no rapids, no waterfalls, no boulders midstream and no need for helmets.  Having just returned to the heartland after several years in the mountains of western North Carolina, I was still adjusting to the terrain.  Flat land and slow moving water meant a relaxing afternoon cruise downstream with plenty of time for swims from sandy banks and a picnic on a mid-river island.  A day where I could put into practice some of the good advice I’d heard so often:  “Take it Easy, Go with the flow.  Remember, “Don’t push the River, It flows by itself.”   

            We drove to the outfitters, handed over the plastic and signed the release.  It was a short ride to the boat landing.  We loaded the canoe and strapped in our gear before I had a chance to look at the water.  The river (wide and shallow at this point) looked like a lake.  The wind had picked up.  The sky was cloudy.  The waves across the water were tipped with white caps.  I realized I couldn’t tell which direction was downstream so I turned to our guide who pointed into the breeze.  I looked into his eyes for a hint of laughter.  There wasn’t any.

            He gave us some good advice:  “Head straight across and once you get to the other side stick to the shoreline, stay out of the wind and you’ll be able to float with the current.”  I nodded my head too full of doubt to respond.  The refund policy on the rented canoe was limited to rain-outs.  I took a deep breath, grabbed hold of the gunnels, stepped in and shoved off.  It had been nearly a decade since I’d had a paddle in my hands, but with that first stroke I remembered how to lean forward and pull back from my waist to make up for the fact that I don’t have much strength in my arms.  I put as much reach into each stroke as I could manage and paddled even though I was certain we were being blown further upriver faster than we were getting across.  As we neared mid-stream, I noticed we were the only boat on the water and there was nothing but woods along both banks.

            We felt lucky.  In a little over two hours from home, we’d found what we felt was a beautiful, isolated, unspoiled section of the river.  The clouds cleared and the sun came out.  We’d chosen to go on a week-day because we wanted to avoid the crowds.  And we did.  On the ten mile trip, we met about the same number of people.  Being out there mostly alone was very relaxing.  Except, of course, we couldn’t just float down the river. We fought the headwind across the water and turned downstream before pulling up our paddles.  Then, we seemed to be standing still.  Our trip was supposed to last three hours.  With the wind in our face, it could easily take six.  At one point the battle against the wind was so intense I regretted not having a flashlight along – thinking we might still be on the water far from our resort destination until after the sun went down.  Long after my arms started to ache, the wind was still whipping up the water stirring up who knows what as well as old tunes.  “I’m older now, but I’m still running against the wind.” 

“What are you doing here -- You’re not even native!”  Said the man standing before me.  Long black braids framed his face which reflected an angry scowl.

            I had set up my table and was busy stacking books and laying out my business cards on top of it.  “Well…”  I stumbled, “I wrote a book…”

            “You don’t belong here,” he insisted.   He was truly trying to run me off, and as I backed away from his anger, another man appeared at my elbow defending my right to remain at the Pow-Wow. I already had permission from the organizer to join the other vendors in the space beyond the dancers’ ring.

            A Pow-Wow is a gathering of native peoples.  It is an almost ancient rite, a ceremonial coming together in celebration.  It is a way to honor Spirit through dance and performance of ritual.  It is a way to connect with kindred souls.  Some say it is a place for learning and sharing beliefs and traditions.  I was also there to share an experience.

            It was an experience so profound it changed my way of life.  My way of thinking.  What I believed in.  It took me off course; but put me on a path.  It shook me awake and turned me inside out.  It happened on a farm where a White Buffalo lived.  Many considered Her to be a sacred being.  But the first time I saw Her, She was a curiosity to me.  The white man who owned Her had no idea why thousands of people were showing up at his farm to pay homage to Her.  Nearly 15 years from the time I first saw Her, I am still growing in understanding of who She was and what She represents.

            Her story is described in the Legend of the White Buffalo Calf Woman.  It is an ancient tale; yet, it has captivated me in these modern times.  The magic of mythology is that it directs us to those images primal symbols within that cause us to feel connected to something much bigger than ourselves.  Once the connection is made, the reunion that coming home to the true place of spirit can begin.

            Part of Her legend includes a prophesy about an era when the races of humanity will unite.  It will be a time of great peace on the planet.  Of forgiveness and understanding, harmony, unity and above all a respect for the traditional ways of the American Indian.  These ways honor our mother earth and revere her as the source and provider of all our earthly needs.  These days, it appears more obvious than ever that it is time to renew a commitment to honor Mother Earth.  Her goodness has been so taken advantage of.  If she is to heal, it will certainly require a commitment from all of her children to do what’s right for her.

            So then, how can any of her children spend any more time squabbling among themselves?  Who’s right, who is to blame, who is more native, who is the better child and who is more entitled?  These are questions that must be set aside when it comes to answering the most important question:  What needs to be done for her?

            Later, at the Pow Wow, the head man came by my table.  He stood in front of me and explained that every religion has its zealots.  In a compassionate voice he reassured me that Spirit knows intent.  Spirit guides intent.  And later I realized Spirit just may have directed that angry man to lash out at me in order for me to defend my own right to stand my own ground and tell my own story.

I woke to a symphony of songbirds performing outside my bedroom wall.  When I looked through the window, the sky was clear blue.  Across the street is a forest preserve that welcomes me onto its shady pathways whenever I choose to enter.  A canopy of mature hardwoods arches over a woodsy wonderland.  The trail ends at a meadow bursting with color. Daisies, black-eyed susans, queen anne’s lace.  I can name so few of the many flowers gracing the hilltop shimmering in the sunshine.  All this and more inspired a spontaneous Facebook post about being joyful.  And then I saw the news - another video on the situation in the Gulf of Mexico.

       Crude oil is pouring into once blue waters.  Corporate greed coupled with consumer ignorance created a catastrophe.  People’s livelihoods, living conditions and lifestyles have been laid waste.   Animals drenched in oil are dying.  An entire ecosystem is failing.  Fingers are being pointed.  People are angry.  People are sad.  Rightfully so.

       Are you standing with the outraged? It is solid ground for who advocates the right of an international corporation to disregard basic standards of safety in order to maximize profits?  I refuse to join the camp calling for consumers to claim their culpability.  I want safe bike paths and public buses that run on time.  I didn’t sign up for this mess. Yet, I am surely mourning it.  Sometimes I think collectively we’ve been sleeping.  Living not fully awake seems to be the only logical explanation for behaving as though there's no need to revere our earthly home.

      Lately though, I confess I've dreaming.  In my dreams I imagine a master plan formed from a picture much larger than I can see.  I am at most a fleck of light in this infinite tapestry.  Yet, if I claim that speck of cosmic energy as mine and become angry or upset, have negative feelings or emotional eruptions, am I adding dark spaces to a colorful picture?  Would my contribution to the master plan (whether perceived as a perfect picture or a stunning symphony) be off color or out of tune with the harmony being created on the other side?

      The other side of what, some readers may wonder.  And I’d answer with a smile as I try to explain how I believe that this physical world we’re living in is only our imaginary home.  The real world is an invisible arena.  It’s the eternal reality, the one waiting for us when we leave this classroom called life.  Some call it heaven.  The fate of the earth is determined there.  In my imagination I hold onto an image of a more perfect reality that could be created here.  It will reflect the beauty, peace, compassion and love of the other side. If we’re living through the cacophony of individual musicians tuning up in preparation for the great concerto, have faith that they will produce a masterpiece.  Have faith that all is not lost.  Know better times are coming like you know the noise before the symphony is preparation for the well-rehearsed performance.  Know this and take a walk in the woods. 

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I WAS HAPPY TO BE A GUEST ON THE CARRBORO BOOK BEAT CHATTING WITH AUDREY LAYDEN AND PAUL NAGY WCOM  103.5.

YOUR CHOSEN STORY

In Transformations of Myth Through Time, Joseph Campbell writes about his idam – his chosen deity.  He says the deity itself has no existence.  It is simply a picture to put in your mind.  It achieves life if you make it your deity.  Then it becomes the guide of your life.  His personal idam was Pancaksara the deity of reading and scripture.  He said he choose it because he’d learned everything he knew from reading.

After I read about this deity I thought I should adopt it too.  Because, as I mentioned earlier, I love finding a good book with a story that’s going to teach me a bit more about human nature.  But the image I saw of this deity “coming to illumination through reading scriptures” didn’t speak to me. And then I remembered why.

Years ago, I went to see a buffalo that had been born white.  In the Native American tradition, a White Buffalo is considered sacred.  There is a legend, the Legend of the White Buffalo Calf Woman, that explains why this is so.

The buffalo I went to see had been born on a farm in Janesville, Wisconsin.  Her owners were very gracious.  Even though they didn’t understand the reason for Her sacred stature, they let visitors come and see Her.  Many of their guests prayed to Her.  They left offerings.  They cried when they saw Her.  Then they claimed that their lives changed after seeing Her.  They knew they felt changed by seeing Her.

What was She all about?  Part of the Great Mystery, I’m sure.  Because it’s a mystery, it’s probably best not to try to explain it.  Just enjoy the stories.  Enjoy the magic.  And so I did.  For many years I went back to the farm to see Her.  Even after she died, I went back to the farm to remember how wonderful seeing Her there had been.

Once when I was there, I started thinking about all the books I’d read and how hard I’d worked to get an education that would bring me my personal version of the American Dream.  I hadn’t found fulfillment in the part of the dream I was living.  I was longing for something I couldn’t name.  But I knew intuitively that it had something to do with putting the books aside and getting out into nature.  Hiking, biking, canoeing -- doing the things I used to do before I started my quest for the big job in the big city.

And so I left the big job in the city and headed for the hills.  Literally.

I know there is wisdom to be found in nature.  In the birdsong or the whistle of the wind through the woods.  I guess by Joseph Campbell’s definition Miracle, the White Buffalo would be my Idam – except Miracle, the sacred White Buffalo I saw, really did exist.  Doesn’t that make Her an even bigger mystery?

It’s almost springtime.  I’m going outside to learn.

FINDING YOUR STORY

I reached into the open bookcase. I couldn’t read the title on the binding, but I could see the particular book I wanted.  I pulled it off the shelf and laid it in the crook of my arm.  It was Joseph Campbell's Transformations of Myth Through Time.  I hadn’t gotten further than the first page before I found this gem:  "Getting into harmony and tune with the universe and staying there is the principal function of mythology."  At last, a simple explanation for my fascination with myths and legends.

Being out of “harmony and tune with the universe” is not a pleasant feeling.  It’s when your life seems to be running you and you find yourself making decisions based on what you think you should do.  It’s when the concept of believing in yourself and knowing what you were meant to do has not yet risen within you.  It’s when religion doesn’t work and faith isn’t happening and nothing, absolutely nothing, in life makes any sense. 

At such a point in my life, I was grateful to find a story that pulled me out of that funk. Who hasn’t been comforted by a good story?  The one I was thankful to come across is the Legend of the White Buffalo Calf Woman.  I read it after I went to visit a buffalo that had been born white.  A White Buffalo is a sacred symbol to Native American people.  Knowing the Legend makes it possible to understand why Native people consider the animal holy.  I wasn’t raised in the Native American tradition; yet this story spoke to me like none other. 

In Native American belief, the birth of a White Buffalo symbolizes a time for unity among races. For individuals it’s a call to reconnect with traditional faith practices.   Reading the legend, I was reminded of my love for the earth and the role I had to play in society.  And reading Campbell’s work leads me to greater understanding of the role stories have played for people in all societies.  He does much more than tell good stories, he calls to mind the reasons we’re going to agree what the best ones are.  A classic will move us as individuals when it emphasizes elements all of us --members of the world society -- have in common.

I hadn’t planned on book shopping the day I and a couple of friends rode out to the Light Center in Black Mountain, North Carolina.  We were going to the meditation dome before going out for lunch.  On the way upstairs, I stopped by the bookcase and pulled open the glass door. And there it was nestled between dozens of others – just the read I needed to find.

Anyone else have a story about finding a good story at just the right time?

The first news of the day was tough to take.  Tragedy has once again come to the impoverished nation of Haiti.  By now everyone following the news knows it is the poorest country in the western hemisphere and that 80% of its people live in poverty.

What might not be remembered are the news reports from 2008 when the Haitian people were making cookies with dirt and oil and water.  As food prices around the world began to rise, those were the only ingredients some caregivers could obtain to mix up and feed their children.

In the spring of 2000 I  visited Haiti and witnessed living conditions beyond the imagination of most Americans.  Aside from the natural beauty of the Caribbean nation, the inspiring thing about being there was the warmth and friendliness of the Haitian people despite their daily shortages of food and water.  

The tiny nation has a history of revolution and rebellion making it also one of the most politically unstable nations in the world.  That, of course, contributes to its material poverty; but also speaks of the spiritual strength of a nation whose people will continue to fight for their collective rights.

In Reflections on a Haitian Pilgrimage I wrote about the difficulty I was having coming to terms with the disparities of this world.  As tears filled my eyes watching the news this morning, my mind raced to come up with an explanation for the seemingly unending suffering of the Haitian people.  I realize it may seem absurd to be looking for a silver lining in this dark cloud of catastrophe, but in taking this approach I am finding hope that Haiti will receive the humanitarian aid it has long-suffered a need for.