Solitude inspires deep furred listening for this writer gone rogue

Its been hard to sit down to tell the next part of this saga … As a writer, storyteller and spiritual seeker, I’m continuing to mine for meaning in my foray into solitude on my first camping trip, documented in the previous post. It turned out to be a true pilgrimage – but that concept / revelation / realization came to me slowly, as I started to wake up to a new deeper older ancient rhythm… What came to mind was Philip Shepherd’s “brain in the belly” concept written about so aptly in The Sun Magazine April 2013 issue interview “Out of Our Heads.”

In Shepherd’s New Self, New World he explores the implications of the little-known fact that we have two brains: in addition to the familiar cranial brain in the head, there is a “second brain” in the gut. This is not a metaphor. Scientists recognize the web of neurons lining the gastrointestinal tract as an independent brain, and a new field of medicine — neurogastroenterology — has been created to study it.

According to Shepherd, there is a good reason that we talk about “gut instinct.” If cranial thinking sets us apart from the world, the thinking in the belly joins us to it. If the cranial brain believes itself surrounded by a knowable world that can be controlled, the brain in our belly is in touch with the world’s mystery.

Owls were prevalent at the reservoir. Right behind my tent, two old pines housed several hoot owls. I walked underneath the canopy at sunset, and several took off on their evening hunt. Another landed above me in splendor. It was so inspiring. I found a bouquet of feathers underneath in the fragrant pine needles – a bounty I treasure. These will show up in art projects I’m certain.

Incredible full moon rise over the hills at San Luis Reservoir.

A whale of a tale

I almost don’t want to jinx it trying to articulate what I discovered in my solitude. It was so visceral. Unexpectedly so, though I did ask for a clear sign that there is a Guiding Spirit.  This was way more than a momentary clear sign – this was the mother whale sliding along side and taking a chunk out of my consciousness with her unfathomably large mouth – a cavern in its own right…. Her baleen jaws came down along my right side from the crown of my head to below my right scapula. A fissure opened up like a spring in the rocks of the caves I crawled into at Pinnacles National Park.  In an earlier post, The Only Way Out is Through, I tell the harrowing tale of getting lost in another set of caves at this remote Condor refuge.

Like a cartoon drawing I “saw felt” my body tear open and peel away a layer exposing this crevice that was an EAR of its own – letting in this stream of sound – thick viscous earthly fecund force of nature whale song – mixed with owl hoots ringed by wolves baying – wings flapping, red crested woodpeckers swarming, feathers opening in a flutter of excitement, gurgling springs, my breathing, the throbbing of my heart, feeling/hearing my blood steam jungle through my pulses …

Does that give some idea how momentous this is? I was laying on the ground, having succeeded in isolating myself from humanity for long enough to actually tune into this realm of what … natural phenomenon? Sound scape of spires and swooooopppps rik-o-shaying off the inside of my own crystalline walls?

Astoundingly beautiful golden California hills at sunset.

Of caverns and anchors

I rooted myself into this gulping yaw, fastening molecular structures hard and fast onto every facet I could. I knew this was a turning point, the pivot of passage into cavernous new territory. That voice sound ambient ancient rumble I heard is now mine, to guide me along the animal instinct ley lines of the topography of the unknown I have fallen into.

It was this sensual viseral space I needed to anchor myself. When I find myself gripped by this sickening anxiety in my gut, I slip under my mind’s radar and into my body awareness muscle memory of this anchor. Remind myself I have nothing to fear. Reality will continue to present itself in its many and varied phantoms and phenoms. No doubt. No matter what I do, it will unfold. Stressed or blessed I will be HERE in the NOW stepping onto the high wire one step at a time. Don’t look down, don’t look back – breathe, stay present, trust, keep moving.

So I come to this juncture. I’m in the woods, at the seashores, in California’s largest reservoir, learning my way through building fires, erecting a tent, facing the darkness of the night in the campgrounds and finding my resilience in solitude and simplicity. I can do this. I can find myself in this quiet, spacious earth. I can steer into the perfect job, the perfect companion, the perfect abode – and leave the ‘perfection’ to be defined by Spirit.

And here I am. Listening. With my little ear, and my BIG SHAGGY RAGGED EAR. Dancing into the lightness of moment-by-moment awareness, in the midst of strangling dark caverns of fear. Every day I turn down the covers, place my feet squarely on the red oak floor, breathe in and lift myself up into the morning.

Back at Henry Cowell Redwoods I found myself a little isolated from the other campsites in this alcove … Another encounter with my own fear of lonliness, darkness, you name it. You can’t hide in a tent!

This family was so warm — their names escape me, but I remember the dogs were Princess and the vicious Smokey. We met at the San Luis Reservoir and I had fun in their kayak. We shared tales of working in hospice, driving tow trucks, reinventing oneself to find work.

Incredible full moon rise over the hills at San Luis Reservoir.

Astoundingly beautiful golden California hills at sunset.

Showing off my camp cooking skills at the remote reservoir. You really have to be willing to get dirty when you camp. Just have to surrender to it.

A red tail hawk welcomed me into the San Luis Reservoir campgrounds, followed by several owls in the trees at my campsite.

Bade Baba Nityananda’s shrine in the Oakland SYDA Ashram is a touchpoint on any pilgrimage. An enlivened murti, you can feel the pulsating power of his presence.

Tomales Bay in Point Reyes was warm and inviting.

The girls sought shelter from the heat on Limantour Beach near Pt. Reyes.

Chloe meets her first miniature horse, LadyBug.

Intriguing sculpture in Pt. Reyes is dedicated to children who die young – inspired by one little girl who drowned in the vicinity.

Bountiful gardens at friends Pat and Scott in Pt. Reyes.

Gramma Jean isn’t a fan of a lick on the face from Princess!

If there’s a lap available, it becomes Princess’s throne! This sand artist is sculpting a shark chasing a duck.

I was always welcomed into the local tribes, especially by the kids, who of course loved the dogs.

My set up at New Brighton Beach. The girls are ever on the lookout.

Chloe looks a bit worried as this little one gets in close.

At my first camp site in Henry Cowell Redwoods, I joined novice campers on their first trip as well. Everyone was so eager to connect, reach out and listen, talk, share, hug and eat together.

Society “drop outs” find interior meaning in alternative life style as storytellers of the Indian Saints

Storytellers Ganga and Tara speaking in Woodland Hills at meditation teacher Carmen Joy‘s home (center in white shawl), meeting place of great beings. I’m in the back row far right.

In these days of intense technology that allows global communication, coupled with the Western dream to have ‘the good life’ that has been exported into every culture we touch, it’s rare to meet Americans who choose to live outside of that norm. We are so bombarded with information its hard to imagine that we really DO have a choice.

I recently met a couple, Ganganath and Tara Leela, who made a dramatic decision 14 years ago to give up their jobs on Wall Street and in high tech and go rogue. They started exploring spirituality and living on the edge. Seven years ago they moved to India, and since have traveled the exotic country collecting stories of saints. They live happily hand-to-mouth giving talks about their experiences all over the world. The testament to FAITH, they move about on the grace of their path, and receive donations to keep their work going. Miracles seem to unfold before them and follow them – from plane tickets to places to stay.

They are currently in Los Angeles, conducting their free seminars on the ecstatic Siddhas of India – both living, and in those who have taken Mahasamadhi – the ultimate death into enlightenment.

Slideshow of the Siddhas

Ganganath and Tara Leela are currently offering a free seminar called “Secrets of the Siddhas – Health, Longevity and Enlightenment” that summarizes the amazing experiences they have had during the past seven years in India. It includes photos and video of many sacred places they visited and beautiful saints they met, including their trip to the 2010 Kumbha Mela in Haridwar, India. In addition to the seminar, they will also offer a series of workshops, in which they will teach powerful ancient techniques for spiritual development from the ancient Indian spiritual tradition.

This middle aged couple gave me pause to consider the choices we make every day and the things we take for granted. Having spent 4 months traveling in India in 1982, I know the hardships first hand. I could not live their lifestyle, but I question how much longer I want to be in the grind of Los Angeles, maintaining the Western lifestyle of supporting a home in Southern California and all the attendant expenses and life choices. As a writer, storyteller, and communications professional, my work can be done from anywhere. But this is where I have my roots, and so much of life seems to flow to me here in urban Los Angeles.

So here is their story in their own words.

From their website: http://www.universalfellowshipoflight.com

Ganganath and Tara Leela are international spiritual teachers who teach the Universal Path of Truth and Love. For over forty years, they have studied many wisdom traditions including Vedanta, Advaita, Tibetan Buddhism, Taoism, Sufism, Yoga and Zen.

Ganganath and Tara Leela have been teaching meditation and self-discovery for over thirty years. They have taught meditation to thousands of people around the world and have started Dharma centers in America, Europe and Asia. They are not gurus who are looking for followers, but rather serve as “spiritual friends” who share profound spiritual knowledge that enables each person to become aware of the unlimited luminous being that they truly are.

Ironically, they can do all the staging of their travels remotely from India – using – you guessed it – SOCIAL MEDIA on the World Wide Web. So these days you can step out of the main stream and “Into The Wild” and still stay to connected to all that is happening in cyberspace in real time. What would these Siddhas think about this ‘virtual world’ we’ve created for the global mind meld?

Into The Wild: Into the Wild addresses the issues of how to be accepted into society, and how finding yourself sometimes conflicts with being an active member in society.^[12] Most critics agree that Chris McCandless left to find some sort of enlightenment.^{[12][13] [14] [15]} He also tries to find his way in the wild with as little material possessions because “it made the journey more enjoyable.” ^{[16] [17] [18]} His taking risks to extremes was eventually his hubris which led to his downfall. ^{[16] [18] [19]}

Baseman hits all the bases at Skirball with ‘The Door Is Always Open” retrospective, replete with social media

Gary Baseman talks about his painting of birches at the opening of the Skirball “The Door is Always Open” Retrospective

A retrospective at such a young age (53) is unusual but telling for this prolific artist, Gary Baseman. His show opened last night at the Skirball Cultural Center with a creative “House Party” – a theme carried throughout. Baseman is from a family of Holocaust survivors, and touchingly reproduced his family home inside the walls of the museum.

The show’s moniker, The Door is Always Open, is a direct sentiment of Gary’s father, and used in honor of him. Replete with his whimsical and sometimes macabre images in 2 and 3 dimensions, the rooms contain actual family furniture, and collections of memorabilia that was sometimes disturbing. The books of survivor stories were part of the display – stories his parents kept, but did not have the heart to read.  Baseman himself led a group of media and guests through the dining room, bedroom, studio, hallway and more, accompanied by Skirball curators who help tell his story.

Gary’s voice sometimes trembled with emotion as he talked about his family and how they survived the terrifying times – one painting in particular touched me.  The birch forest that is inhabited by his ancestors, nightmarish edgy cartoon creatures peeping in and out of the dark trees harkens to the story of his father’s escape into the forest where he sought refuge from the murderous invaders intent on extermination.

As we walked through the Baseman ‘house’ live characters played among the rooms, bringing to life the dream fantasy reality of Gary’s art. The use of social media was prolific, as snapshots were tweeted, blog posts formulated, and video clips hit the internet. The Skirball social media savvy was in evidence with a special hashtag set up to give communicators a great way to tap into the stream of consciousness that was all Baseman, All the time – #basemanshome.  The site filled up with images from the Open House with Nightmare & the Cats on stage with Gary painting, along with the creatively inventive ways the Skirball staff made the work accessible and interactive – with mask making, mural painting using cutouts of Baseman’s iconic images, games to win t-shirts, buttons and stickers.  It was a Mardi Gras of friends and patrons, like the set of a Fellini film, ala Los Angeles.

It was the first day of my volunteering at the Skirball Cultural Center, where I feel a kinship to their mission to bring the community together to foster and nourish LA culture for Angelenos of every hue and background. More than being part of the art market, exhibitions of art, support of the arts – the Skirball is about the FUNCTION of art in building society. I’m starting out under the generous wing of Marilyn Delanoeye, VP of Hospitality and Private Events. I’ll be using my business acumen and strategic planning skill set to assist with a new technology system, Ungerboeck, brought in to help capture the elaborate planning needed to support the prestigious organization that attracts so many special events to celebrate life’s passages. Especially with the new, spectacular Guerin Pavilion scheduled to open this fall. I’ll be doing a case study for my UCLA Social Media Marketing Class (http://www.smmucla.blogspot.com), with Huffington Post scribe Beverly Macy, on how to use Social Media as the perfect way to bring the opening of the Gurerin Pavilion to the forefront of the Los Angeles crowd, and beyond, as international organizations are drawn to our vivacious city.

What a way to start off at this incredible place of Spirit Manifested – with The Door is Always Open. I intend for this to be the beginning of a flourishing, powerful passage for me, aligned with an organization with heart and soul, as I reinvent myself as a communicator in the world of art, spirit and creativity.  Thanks, Skirball, for putting out the welcome mat.

Whimsical icon wallpaper added another bizarre touch to the rooms.

Wallpaper

Wallpaper detail.

In the gallery house with the crowds listening to Gary.

Peeking around the corner for a photo op.

Greeting one of Gary’s creatures, who has human teeth sewn into its mouth.

In the living room with Gary.

Welcoming the press.

Lovely Libertas decorates the table.

Jaguar illustration shows humor and whimsey.

Family gathering at Baseman house.

Gary thanks the Skirball curators with a custom icon key.

Game of Cranium.

Playing Cranium.

Gary sits at his first drawing table, his parent’s coffee table, as media rep tweets about the gathering.

Photographers abound

Gary discusses his birch forest painting.

Gary with one of his dream girls in the replica of his bedroom, complete with his icon wallpaper.

Altar

Gary Baseman talks about his painting of birches at the opening of the Skirball “The Door is Always Open” Retrospective

Gary Baseman presents Skirball curators with a handmade key to his parents home.

Mirror Mirror on the wall, who’s the smartest of them all – Maxine of Vanitygirl

Students being photographed with vanitygirlhollywood.com Maxine Tatlonghari at UCLA Extension class in Social Media (smmucla) in April, 2013.

Talk about energy… Maxine Tatlonghari  of Vanitygirlhollywood.com has more than enough to fill a room.  As a guest speaker in my UCLA extension Social Media Marketing class (smmucla) Maxine’s passion was infectious. Social Media success story, and hence an enthusiastic proponent, she started her company with a simple idea – a lighted mirror used in salons and television and movie studios – for home use. Amazingly she cornered the market and has had phenomenal growth.  But the buzz for vanitygirl mirrors is not about this simple concept. It’s about the world Maxine has created around it. She parlayed her extensive marketing experience into an ambiance of pampering. What I found intriguing is that she really only markets ONE THING. A LIGHTED MIRROR. That’s it – one that sits on the table, one that hangs on the wall, one that is part of a booth, with various accessories. But consumers who buy them are buying an idea – that they are the star of their own story. Maxine’s genius that she is that uses social media to reach out to a hungry audience that wants to look good and feel pampered, and she capitalizes on her gregarious nature to reach out and connect using the popular social media tools – Facebook, YouTube, Twitter and Instagram.

It’s a great example of how social media works to bring merchandise to market in a totally new way, by creating a whole world of connections to the “IDEA” of what vanity mirrors are. The connection to beauty, glamour, celebrity, Hollywood is alluring, especially in these lean times – so the simple act of installing a mirror that ‘reflects’ all that goodness, abundance and caring for oneself is – well pure genius. Vanitygirl makes you want to be part of that world of simple elegant luxury, every day when you look in the mirror, and reinforce that you are worth taking the time to take care of yourself, look your best, and be confident.

Meeting Maxine Tatlonghari of vanitygirlhollywood.com at Social Media Marketing class UCLA Extension, April 2013

So what does that mean to me? A writer, visual artist, and communications professional? Maxine gives a person the confidence to believe in your own voice – to be your own authentic self, to put yourself OUT THERE in the social media sphere consistently with enthusiasm and intelligence. Create your own ambiance – become the go-to expert on what you LOVE and want to be part of – GO FOR IT. Using verve, persistence and self confidence, put your thoughts on the screen, and get yourself seen for who you are.

Mirror Mirror on the wall – who’s the coolest, smartest, savviest one of all?  MAXINE!

Mirrors from Vanitygirlhollywood.com

Lightening strikes – twice – initiating an irreversible ‘butterfly effect’

Lightening in Austin

At the end of my last post about getting lost in a cave, I said, “I’m confident if I keep putting one foot in front of the other, eventually I’ll emerge into the stars. And I haven’t even told you the story of when I was struck by lightening this summer… that tale is yet to come.” These stories are archetypal trails of my passage. 

Zippppp … wham … lightening STRIKES 

I intended to relate my experience on the new moon in July of being struck by lightening. Which I will describe, with much greater significance than I expected. For on Tuesday of last week, April 2, 2013, my dear friend of 30 years, Marc Austin, was struck by lightening on a walk in Austin, Texas. It threw him to the ground so hard, he broke his neck. Witnesses found him face down, but conscious and able to speak. By the time he reached the hospital he was on breathing assistance and had lost all feeling in his body.

Barbara and Marc Austin at their son Nick’s wedding to Madison, March 2013

When Barbara, his wife of 26 years, arrived she knew he was not coming back. They spent the next four agonizing days communicating with winks, and a few whispered goodbyes struggled out around the breathing tubes, before determining with their two children, Nick (26) and Elizabeth (22) that it was Marc’s wish to let go. Saturday, Marc graciously stopped breathing on his own and slipped away. Just like that. He was gone. The brilliant light of this 61 year old force of nature was extinguished. Marc was funny – always laughing, always cheerful – so funny he COULD actually have been a stand up comedian at one point in his artistic career. And now. Boom. Zap. He’s gone. And we mirror him, slammed face down into the mystery of death.

I had just visited the Austin family of Austin, Texas, in March for the wedding of their eldest, Nick to the lovely Madison. The occasion turned into a rousing five day sleepover with plenty of laughter, joy and general merriment. Memories were etched into time and space that we had little idea would be even more precious now that Marc has so suddenly left us.

Marc Austin photographing wedding flowers

Not once, but twice – lightening strikes

Now my experience holds more significance, and yet so much less. Ten months ago, in July 2012, I was in a fire circle in the piney darkness on an Encino hillside to welcome the new moon. Quintessential urban shamans, we chanted, drummed and rattled away what we wanted to let go of, what was no longer serving our greatest good, and conjured what we wanted to bring in to move us along the path. Having just been laid off, I had a lot to let go of. And more to bring in as I embraced reinvention.

Fire ceremony

The ceremony completed, the group of 10 or so converged indoors to partake of some delicious food offerings. Notably, there is little rain in the Los Angeles desert. Without warning, a freak downpour began. Being a Southerner, I love a warm rain. I ran outside, stripped down to enjoy the rain, then dove into the chilly pool. Suddenly a loud clap of thunder erupted, with a flashbulb of lightening.  This prompted me to get out of that cold pool pretty quick.

The clouds passed quickly, so undaunted I moved toward the hot tub. Just as I was stepping in, another burst of thunder clapped and I heard a sizzling sound above me.  I looked up, and a streak of gas blue light was zigzagging toward me at ‘lightening speed’ with the crackling sound of high wires, and a distinct smell of ozone. In that split second I froze, already drenched, one foot in the pool, one on the stone steps. “In or out of the water?” my mind raced.

The lightening hit the top of my head, swirled around my body lighting it up with that effervescent blue and shot down my leg, bursting blue light into the water. I lit up like a incandescent blue bulb. Literally. Like the center of a gas flame with a tinge of gold on the edge. I was stunned – every hair standing up, adrenalin and excitement blasting my body. The only man in the group was the closest witness, running out yelling ‘you better get out of the water!”

“Too late! Did you see that??? I lit up!” Others had come out by then. We were all shocked that I had been hit with no injury. Little did I know that this was a sign of more to come. And with a very devastating outcome. More than just an archetypal allegory. The Tower card of the Tarot comes to mind – apocalyptic deconstruction of all one assumes is real.

Dramatic lessons

“We’re all in this together, and none of us is getting out alive!” Lily Tomlin

Death is a powerful teacher about impermanance. No hiding. No delusions. If you don’t get that you are lucky to be here, says Thor, take that you silly human! Lightening! Boom!

Now to witness the butterfly effect we are studying in my Social Media Marketing class at UCLA (www.smmucla.com), also known as ‘chaos theory.‘ How will the loss of Marc affect those he left behind so abruptly? Like that butterfly wing creating a storm half a world away. Chaos is NOT a THEORY in this aftermath – its a REALITY.

UCLA Class Instructor and author Beverly Macy writes,” In complex, turbulent environments, speed in recognizing opportunities and responding is essential.” While she may be referring to our real time social media phenomenon, I see far reaching and near reaching meanings echoing ‘Carpe Diem’ to move close to those we care about, and things we value and speedily respond with compassionate lovingkindness.

The initial ripple for me is to channel Marc’s contagious cheerfulness and humor. His brightness and creativity. No Eeyore here. More of a Tigger. or perhaps philosophical Piglet or Pooh. To take ahold of my life, use my multiple talents and make sure I find Meaning in it and Do Something Meaningful with it. That’s the only way it will mean something to anyone else.

Marc Austin. I will miss you. Flap those butterfly wings and let us feel your spirit.

Butterflies

“Death and hopelessness provide proper motivation for living an insightful, compassionate life.”

“To think that we can finally get it all together is unrealistic. To seek for some lasting security is futile. To undo our very ancient and very stuck habitual patterns of mind requires that we begin to turn around some of our most basic assumptions. Believing in a solid, separate self, continuing to seek pleasure and avoid pain, thinking that someone “out there” is to blame for our pain – one has to get totally fed up with these ways of thinking. One has to give up hope that this way of thinking will bring us satisfaction. Suffering begins to dissolve when we can question the belief  or the hope that there’s anywhere to hide. …  At every turn we realize once again that it’s completely hopeless – we can’t get any ground under our feet. … We begin to connect with fundamental restlessness as well as fundamental groundless spaciousness.” 

When Things Fall Apart
~Heart advice for difficult times
Pema Chodron, Tibetan monk

The only way out is through

Rolling away the stone … or … the night I got lost in a cave

Quiet. Whoossshhhh. Quiet.

I mean QUIET. LOUD quiet. No denying its quiet quiet. No sound – void – empty – where the rush of your pulse in your own temples is a freight train barreling though the cavern inside your skull.

Painting of Balcony Cave and Milky Way

Earth womb entrance

Dark. Soil dark. Center of the earth dark. Invisible cloak dark. Absence dark. Black swirls of matter dark. Can’t see your hand in front of your face dark. Eyes pulling in pushing out searching for light dark. Mind races to identify – NOTHINGNESS. No sound. No light. No dark. No breath. Yes breathe.

Return to the womb dark. Where the pulsing sensation is your own heart, the sound is your fluids rushing up and down the interior rivers of your corporeal form. The visual forms you perceive are the insides of your eyelids filled with memory of form, light, visceral shape. Floater swims past locked into the fluid of your eye – which suddenly expands into horseshoe nebula and spiraling pre-stellar gases; iridescent in the sea of silver soil darklight.

I’m in the womb of Mother Earth. Deep inside the largest cavern of the Balcony Cave in Pinnacles State Park. Standing still, no flashlight, at 9 o’clock at night, alone, in the bowels of the earth. It’s July, I’m all alone in the middle of the night, lost in this place where there is no sound, no light, no other living creature that I can detect. I feel the ancientness of this place. The echo’s of other beings who have passed this way drum deep in my subconscious. Others who have listened to this quiet, and found solace. I know that some greater consciousness is in play here – there is no way I will ever be in the space again. Alone, at night, in a cave. So I will myself to swallow my fear and just be there. Fully present. For as long as I can stand it. Until I become so still, micro movements take over, and a gentle swaying of my body takes over. I sense the movement of the sphere of earth, keeping me balanced upright, in my body. I don’t want to sit or lie down – I want to hang in space held up by the energy of the vastness.

Black HOLE has a whole new meaning to me now. Groundlessness, no reference points in time or space, is an actual PLACE.  The meditation practice of being in the moment, suspended between breaths, is all I have. I know in all my cells that this is a lesson, a dance lesson, a life lesson, a practicum for what IS to come in my unfolding journey. Savor and learn deep in my bones. No fear. No anxiety. A kind of breathless joy at being part of the life force. Adrenalin must be pulsing through every pore at this point.

Finally, I feel I have had enough – I’m filled to the brim and can no longer be still. So I turn on my feeble flashlight, and continue to look for the deepest darkest hole, because that is where I need to enter to get Out.  What a metaphor. The only way out is in deeper.

As I climb, I find these palm sized arrows of white paint every so often on the cave walls, reassuring me that I am in fact heading SOMEWHERE…. I have to crawl on my hands and knees in spots, like a spider to scale the walls – and NOT think about anything creepy crawly that might be climbing alongside me. Eventually, I reach the surface and wham!  The sky opens up from this little crack into a density of stars the like of which I have only seen in Montana. The Milky Way unfurls like a flag across the sky and I am humbled.

I continue to climb through the upper cave that is formed of boulders that have loosened and fallen into the fold of the Mother, like a birth canal. This symbolism is not lost on me. So I go in and out of the dark, with patches of stars blazing through the moonless night as I traverse the distance.

Finally Finally Finally Slowly Slowly Achingly I reach the end and for the first time I am afraid. There is a steel bar doorway that could be locked up in front of me – and it strikes me that the first time I feel really fearful, it is a manmade object that confronts me. Not Nature. Turns out it was open, so I emerge into yet another obstacle course that requires I crawl upwards on all fours making it impossible to hold the flashlight. The smooth rock seems to have just the right hand and toe holds, so I keep moving, praying my knees hold out and I don’t fall backwards.

Resurrection

Eventually when I reach the top it takes another 20 to 30 minutes of searching the scree slope through wiry brush before I find an actual trail.  When it widens and flattens out, I allow myself to lie down, drink the bit of water I have left, and eat the quarter apple and dried bit of cheese I have saved. I watch the sky move above me and marvel at the shooting stars, knowing the Spirit wanted me to be here, having this perfect survival experience to inspire me when the rough waters ahead bear down on me.

How did I get here?

Pinnacles State Park, Soledad, California, August 14, 2012

This has been a time of archetypal experiences for me. As it nears Easter, all the symbols of the time of emergence from the tomb bring me back to that extraordinary event that happened this summer.

I was driving back from Santa Cruz after visiting my daughter, Emily, who just graduated from UCSC in photography and anthropology. One of the places I like to explore is Pinnacles State Park in Soledad. It’s a nice break in the 6-hour drive. A beautiful place that provides incredible stone formations that offers a refuge to the California Condor.

It was early afternoon, and I figured I’d have a few hours to wander. I stopped at the Ranger station and saw several excited people standing outside looking up at sky. A condor had been spotted, and it was the first time one had been seen this far from the Pinnacles. The young woman ranger told me about a trail that led to a series of caves. She told me to bring a flashlight, as it was quite dark inside, but only half mile or so from the parking lot, so I’d have enough time to explore before dark.

It was nearly 100 degrees, so I put on shorts, hat and sunscreen. I had a bottle of water, a flashlight, and a little snack for the few hours I’d be walking. I set out ready to explore a new direction into the park. There were a few other hikers I passed, but it was a weekday, so pretty quiet. I made sure to take note of my surroundings, as I know I have a tendency to wander unaware of taking into account landmarks and have been lost twice hiking. Though it was supposedly less than a mile, it took longer than I thought because of the terrain. After about an hour, passing though a beautiful rugged landscape, noting a few trail markers – very small and near the ground – mentioning areas where you could rock climb. My destination was Balcony Cave. Reaching it, I had to climb down a steep rock face into the entrance. The day was clear and bright – very dry. I had my iPhone with me, taking photos as I went. I noted it was about 4 pm when I got to the cave. I wasn’t getting a phone signal or able to use the map features, but could use it as a flashlight. I came upon an actual human made iron gate that could be closed when the passage way was unsafe due to water, weather or whatever.

I climbed down into the caverns and felt the ancient echos of the space. It was a passageway formed by large boulders falling into a narrow crevice, hence the name “Balcony Cave.” As I climbed deeper into the cave, it began to look like passageways you might see in Old Jerusalem – I could feel the presence of history – imagined how many people had passed though the ages – what they were like, what the place was like, what rituals they might have performed in the quiet space.  It was so cool, still, clean. Quiet. So so quiet.  The initial passage way was lit by cracks and spaces between the rocks above. I felt the passage of time. Of human beings. Of natural and unseen forces.

I sat in meditation, and felt the palpable sensual presence of Spirit fill me and hold me. Eventually I heard voices coming from the entrance. It was a girl my daughter’s age, also named Emily, and her brother Andy, with a child and a few friends. I had a brother Andy who died at 48 in a car crash.  They told me there were more caves further on and offered to show me the way.

I willingly followed, and knew I would never have done it alone. Just beyond the passageway we emerged from was a steep drop into a hole. They reassured me that once I got down into it, it opened out, and I could climb through.  It was exciting and fun- making me face my trepidation about small, dark spaces. It was remarkably dry and clean, due to the intense heat. Nothing seemed to live down there – not even bats. It was extremely dark, and intensely quiet.  The only sensation I felt was a breeze against my cheek that felt like a breath.

Emily and Andy showed me these painted arrows on the cavern sides that showed you the way. At the very center was a huge cavern that led out to a steep cliff ledge where a waterfall develops in the wet season.  They took my picture, and I looked back and took theirs.  When I got to the top, I turned to go back to my car, supposedly a half mile away.  I walked confidently, drank the rest of my water, proud I had faced down the cave. I walked, and walked and walked. And after an hour, then another hour, I was nowhere near the parking lot where I left my car. I kept thinking it would be just around the next bend. There were a few signs but I never realized I was not reading them right. It was about 7 pm by then and I was starting to get scared. Suddenly I saw the rooftops of some building and breathed a sigh of relief. I thought I must have just come to the other end of the parking lot. But no, this was a lot full of Ranger trucks and unoccupied buildings.

A ghost town.

Finally I heard some raucous music and followed the sound. I came to the front porch of one of the cabins, and looking through the screen saw two little girls dancing to the radio. I knocked and they called out, ‘DADDY someone’s at the door!”

I was almost in tears explaining I was looking for my car.  He talked to me through the screen – didn’t even ask me to come in. “I’m exhausted,” I said. I’ve been walking since 4 pm. Where am I?”  Eventually he let me, and a woman emerged from another room. The two girls stood back staring. They brought out a map and explained I had walked the entire park to the other entrance. No one would be going that way till morning. It was a 3-hour drive.  “I can’t possibly walk all the way back at this point,” I lamented. “Oh no, you’ll be fine. We’ll give you some water and food; drive you to the trailhead – that’s as far as we can take you. Just don’t go back through the caves and you’ll be fine. We did see a family of bobcats recently, but they won’t be interested in you.”

Pushing back my tears, and disbelief, I accepted an apple, cheese stick and goldfish crackers. The woman climbed into a truck and waved me in. “We’ll let the ranger know at the other entrance that if you don’t show up by midnight to go look for you.”  I was dumbfounded. I figured they live here, they trust I’ll make it and are sending me on my way – they must know something I don’t. They hadn’t offered a bathroom, a cot, a map. Just showed me the door. And you know what happened.  I put one foot in front of the other, started to recite the 180 verses of the GuruGita and smiled at my destiny. Three times along the path, at the edge of dusk, a little black bird landed and led me on. A guide?

So now here I am months later, still in the dark in my life, not knowing which direction the light will come from. Where will the reference points emerge? What shape will they take? What will the path look like when it is revealed? I’m confident if I keep that foot going one in front of the other, eventually I’ll emerge into the stars. And I haven’t even told you the story of when I was struck by lightening this summer… that tale is yet to come.

Earth womb entrance

Painting of Balcony Cave and Milky Way

Pinnacles State Park, Soledad, California. 8/14/12

Goddess Ridge Moonrise Pinnacles State Park, Soledad, California. 8/14/12

Pinnacles State Park, Soledad, California, August 14, 2012

Pinnacles State Park, Soledad, California, August 14, 2012

Wired for storytelling

“Man is in his actions and practice, as well as in his fictions, essentially a story telling animal.”
~Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory, 1981

Storytelling is our birthright – we’re born with it, we crave it, we use it to make sense of our world. It was our first instinct in the caves to draw narrative pictures on the walls with whatever materials would make a mark.

Cave drawing of animals shows humans have recorded stories from time immemorial.

I consider myself first and foremost a storyteller, using various mediums and venues to get my message across. That’s why I chose this topic to explore as part of my Social Media class at Drury University. In his paper “Narration as  Human Communication Paradigm: The Case of Public Moral Argument , Walter R. Fisher explores what the human propensity for storytelling means in society.

If I understand him correctly, Fisher puts forth the idea that it is narrative – words/deeds that have sequence and meaning for those who live, create or interpret them – only have meaning in a storytelling context. Further that public moral argument only takes on sensible meaning in a cultural context understood by the layperson and the experts engaging in the conversation. To make sense and meaning of ordinary experience, stories are needed. “The ground for determining meaning, validity, reason, rationality and truth must be a narrative context: history, culture, biography and character. Facts and experience need some narrative that can bind the facts of our experience together into a coherent pattern. Quoting theologian Goldberg, “The meaning and significance of life in all of its social dimensions require the recognition of its narrative structure.”

Children of the Week written by William Theodore Peters; illustrated by Clinton Peters, 1886

Here is a Victorian moral tale that was one of my favorites from childhood. I collect illustrated story books from this era, and inevitably the stories are tragic moral tales that show the reader what will happen if they don’t act in accordance with the mores of the day. This to me is a good example of Fisher’s premise that narratives need to have some fidelity to human truth, and create a relationship in the readers’ mind to the consequences of their own behavior.

Red Indian Head Penny relates the stories of the Children of the Week to Alexander

In Children of the Week, the story weaves around an copper Indian Head penny given to a little crippled boy by a shop girl. The penny comes to life and tells the boy the tales of all the children of the week. You’ll see what an influence this story could have on an impressionable young mind. And how the moral of being kind is played out in melodramatic detail.

The Angel and the Pansies: Saturday’s Story

Once upon a time…. there lived a little maid named Liechen, who had a tiny brother called Paul.  Now Liechen was an unpleasant girl and nobody liked her.  She plagued and tormented every one she knew. Even Baby Paul who was so sweet and gentle that the robins would fly down and eat out of his puggy hands. … even Baby Paul was a miserable baby when ever Liechen undertook to entertain him. She carried him upside down, smashed his toys, interrupted his naps, made him scream, pinched him on the sly, or prevented him from comfortably swallowing his fist.

Liechen crying over the death of Baby Paul.

But Liechen was not allowed to keep her brother very long; for sometimes it happens when we do not value the blessings we possess, they are taken from us.

There came a day when Baby Paul no longer toddled through the flowers in search of robins and sunbeams. The roses in the round cheek turned white and pale; the fringed lids were drawn closely over his clear, blue eyes. They laid a spotless rose on his bosom and all the people wept.  Leichen hid her face in the cool grass and wept, and thought bitterly of all the unkind things she had said and done to Baby Paul. But it was too late. The wind, flowers, birds, cat all murmured, “Shame!”  

An angel appeared to cruel Leichen who had taunted Baby Paul

An angel appeared to her and took her to a bed of weeds, saying, “all these are the naughty acts you’ve committed.” When Leichen pushed them aside, she found one purple pansy. “The pansy growing solitary there, is a token of your tears of repentance. No one can enter Paradise until their lives are as sweet and holy as this flower.” The angel told her she had to pull up all the weeds, and “for every good deed you do, a pansy will spring up. When the garden-plot is full of flowers, I will come and bear you hence.” 

Leichen was not the same child she had been in days gone by; the flowers of love, pity and compassion were blooming in her heart. She did good works, mended the broken wings of birds and such, until one day the angel reappeared. Taking her to the garden, the angel pointed to the mound, “Look! The pansies are all grown now.” The angel folded her close, and took her to dwell with the Baby Paul in Paradise. 

What a dramatic telling. I was always filled with childish emotion when I’d read this, or it was read to me, and I’d gaze at the pictures. I wanted to be a good girl, so I could go to Paradise too, and play with Baby Paul. Who wouldn’t?? I even copied many of the illustrations in my longing to be part of this quaint storybook.

Baby Paul who was so sweet the sunbeams loved to play in his golden locks & robins would ear out of his puggy hands.

Pansy

To complete this theme, I’ll share with you some of the ideas expressed by Fisher that I resonate with, and I paraphrase. His research reinforces many common themes I find today going around the circles of Social Media storytellers. His findings give me hope, make me realize my path as a storyteller links me in tiI think they speak for themselves, with little explanation. If you agree, or find one compelling, let me know in your comments.

• The idea of human beings as storytellers indicates the general form of all symbol composition: it holds that symbols are created and communicated ultimately as stories meant to give order to human experience and to induce others to dwell in them to establish ways of living in common, in communities in which there is sanction for the story that constitutes one’s life.
• Life is an unending conversation that goes on before we were born; we enter, put in our oar, converse, depart, and the conversation goes on beyond our life.
• Dramatic stories constitute the fabric of social reality, constructions of fact and faith. I propose to add the metaphor of homo narrans to represent the essential nature of human beings. The world is a set of stories which must be chosen among to live the good life in a process of continual recreation.
• Narratives enable us to understand the actions of others because we all live out narratives in our lives and because we understand our own lives in terms of narratives.
• Narrative whether written or oral is a feature of human nature; it crosses time and culture, a universal cultural activity embedded in the very center of the social drama.
• The most compelling persuasive stories are mythic in form. The most engaging stories are mythic, the most helpful and uplifting stories are moral. Per John Gardner, “moral action is action that affirms life.”
• The truly “good” story elevates the humanity of persons to the profoundest moral and metaphysical level the world has known – such as the cosmologies of Lao-tsu, Buddha, Christ, Zoraster, Mohammed. A “bad” story example is Hitler’s Mein Kampt which demeans and denies the humanity of certain persons. “Good” stories reaffirm the human spirit as the transcendent ground of existence. A good story example is the narrative that proposes that people learn these truths: “Life is fullest when one loves and is loved; death is real; and maturity is achieved by accepting the reality of death.” We learn these truths by dwelling in the characters of the various stories, like the Iliad and the Odyssey.

Video on Human Communication, Latrobe University, Australia

The unity of human life is the unity of the narrative quest.
And that quest is for the “good life” for all persons.

Human hands on cave walls show humans wanted to leave their mark

Social Media’s distinct & evolving culture is changing human boundaries

Who will I be today? From http://www.sodahead.com

How is the phenomenon of Social Media affecting modern culture and rules of behavior? Dramatically.
In my Social Media Certification Class at Drury University, we are reading about how anthropologists, ethnographers, linguists and humanistic theorists are studying the evolving phenomenon of Social Media. Sound scholarly? Yes – it is – but it’s also really cool. It’s fascinating to see how a unique culture has formed around this ability to converse instantly. And to contemplate how this has changed our interactions irreversibly. And I’m all about contemplation! Have no fear that we are de-volving! Surprisingly positive patterns are revealed.

Just what is REALITY?
Setting the stage: anthropologists digg deep to study Social Media sub-culture

Expert Michael Quinn Patton explains a research approach called Grounded Theory Method that is being applied to this research. I like this method because it seeks to get close to the subject of study and evaluate based on real experience not possibly biased conceptual theory – hence ‘grounded.’ Rather than coming up with a theory and finding evidence to support it, researchers gather data and evaluate commonality to find threads of experience, then explore inferences and patterns based on that.

Quinn explains in Qualitative Evaluation and Research Methods, “how you study the world determines what you learn about the world.” Grounded theory depends on methods that take the researcher into and close to the real world so that the results and findings are ‘grounded.’ He then quotes Hubert Blumer’s metaphor of “lifting the veils that obscure or hide what is going on. The task of scientific study is to lift the veils that cover the area of group life that one..is studying. Not by substituting preformed images for first hand knowledge”… but by getting close to the area and digging deep with care and respect to observe accurately. As a storyteller, this is of keen interest to me, as people tell their unique stories as they change their personas, taking on Avatars in Second Life, and idealized identities in online dating services. Did you hear of the case where a woman divorced her husband because he was spending more time online with his Avatar wife?

It also resonates with my Mindfulness and Siddha Yoga meditation practices where you focus on the breath to bring you into the present moment, to observe, lift the veils of past and future, and become grounded in the pure present. Witnessing the play of the world and seeing each person as an actor on the life stage is a very high practice.

Ethnographic research asks “What is the culture of this group of people?” The idea of culture is a guiding principle in that “every human group that is together for a period of time will evolve a culture. Culture is that collection of behavior patterns and beliefs that constitute standards for deciding what is… what can be…standards for deciding how one feels about it, what to do about it, and how to go about doing it.”

Rules of Engagement: how social media changes our behavior
Translate: Did I really need to hear that?

Phantom phone booth

It was once inconceivable that you’d air your personal concerns in front of others, without so much as an “How do you do?” Now it’s incredible to me how many people walk around in public on cell phones discussing the intimate details of their lives for all to hear. Me among them. From health concerns to romantic nothing is sacred.

Take Five sculpture by Anne Heimann, toys with reality showing herself as a masked woman among real chairs, instruments and drawn figures.

As my aunt, Anne Heimann, a veteran New York City artist quipped, “It used to be you thought someone was a bit tilted when they were talking to themselves out loud on the streets of Manhattan. Now its one side of an actual conversation into some Star Trek device!”

So that’s one boundary shift we all witness and probably demonstrate. Humans now act ‘as if’ there is some kind of barrier between us and the rest of the world, as we stroll around plugged into headphones and blue tooths. Like we are in the proverbial phone booth. Working in cubicles did a good job of reinforcing this ‘illusion of privacy.’

More subtle, far-reaching and probably evolutionary are the changes in what is acceptable in human discourse and interaction. What are the implications of not being able to see who you are communicating with? What rules apply? Who can you trust? Is that 12 year boy in the model airplane chat room really a boy? Is that 25 year old woman sharing her opinions on the latest fashions in truth a market researcher? Is that handsome guy on the latest dating service the real deal – with his high income, Harvard degree and Ferrari? Guess again. And how do we jump from being familiar online to meeting in person and assuming a false intimacy that in previous society would take time to develop. This is a quandary and a frustration I have felt when a relationship jumps ahead without the comfort of the courting rituals that allows one to become comfortable with the physical presence of another. This is one behavior boundary I choose to curb. It takes time to find depth of meaning – even in cyberspace.

Santa Cruz living statue of vintage baseball player. That’s one way to make a living

Who are you anyway?

Using the research model discussed above, Jennifer A.H. Becker and Glen H. Stamp published a communications study, “Impression Management in Chat Rooms: A Grounded Theory Model” exploring social interactions online. Citing the study: “Impression management is the process by which individuals attempt to control others’ perceptions.” The premise is that “misrepresentation to present oneself in the most positive light is prevalent and to be expected in (all) social interaction.” This is just how we are wired. No matter the culture, ethnicity or age – we want to be accepted, loved, and in control. The study examines how this manifests in the fishbowl of online chat rooms. Becker and Stamp do a revealing exploration of “how individuals who regularly engage in chat room discussions understand and experience their own online encounters with regard to impression management behaviors, including misrepresentation of self.” They document this rather than imposing their theory – observing, recording and then forming an opinion of how these behaviors have shifted to accomodate the instantaneous in the now of the internet.

Chat rooms are stages for intense identity play
Managing other people’s impression of us is a survival response. We all do it. We all want to be seen in the best light. Human nature. But how extreme it becomes when we can literally create an identity, play with it, see how it fits and then toss it away is really interesting. Chat rooms are the perfect place to engage in impression management. People literally take on “Avatars” to play with new roles they imagine for themselves. Personal reality takes on new meaning.

The chat room forum reveals that human drivers behind the behaviors are consistent: Desire for acceptance, the desire to create and develop relationships, and the desire for identity experimentation. This is what makes us want to control and manipulate what impression we make on our world – be in a chat room, a Second Life adventure, or a dating site.

What does this mean for us as we navigate this new world? According to Becker and Stamp, the reduced social cues are compensated for by sending a greater number of messages. Participants try out new identities and strategically present favorable information about themselves. They gauge what the chat participants are looking for, and act in accordance with the ‘rules’ they perceive. These interactions sometimes lead into phone or in-person relationships.

Interestingly, the participants of the study observed that they recognized they couldn’t really convey their whole personality online, and not many actually took their chat room encounters beyond the forum. “Impression management primarily happens to create and maintain a favorable image of the self (Arkin, 1986). The ability to project a desirable image to others also enhances self-image and increases psychological comfort.” For the geeky misfit, this is proving to be a good thing – a way to be successful in interactions they’d be too shy to initiate face to face. But in say a scientific forum, people actually listened and looked up things on Google to sound knowledgeable enough to keep the conversation going. And that’s really an opportunity to learn and stretch in ways one might not in the course of day to day interactions.

I loved this statement: “These ‘mediated communication channels’ … offer individuals opportunites to strategically manage ambiguity.” Ambiguity. Wow. That’s sounds impressive! To be able to manage “doubtfulness or uncertainty of meaning or intention” is a good skill to master!

Though there was a filter they could use to find suitable chat partners – such as age, sex, location and interests, many said they tried on different identities to experiment. Now, because they knew they were doing this stretching of the truth to be more attractive, they were aware that they should be suspicious of the authenticity of other participants. Some even went to lengths to solicit information on the participants and changed their identities accordingly. All had created a fictitious identity at least once. They perceived they could ‘be who they wanted to be’ and recognized managing the impression you made on others was central to ‘trying out new identities.’ A more malicious use of this was sited by a young woman who posed as a lesbian to try to discover the identity of another chat room participant she suspected of being a lesbian, in order to out her in their small town.

Roll playing is not a bad thing to practice. Kind of like an online Cotillion where you learn the intricate and nuanced steps of mannered social interaction. Efforts see if you can improve your social skills are reinforced immediately. Another positive aspect, according to the study was the expertise it took to stay in the conversation. “To become an expert communicator requires considerable experience, mental concentration and keyboarding skill.”  Voila! Thus evolved the shortened online language – the ubiquitous LOL (laugh out loud), ROLOL (rolling over laughing out loud), giving people a shorthand to keep the flow of conversation. To keep up with conversation, express your creativity and get a response, you have to “embellish your text thoughts with abbreviations and emoticons to express sentiment. Chat slang is essential.” Gotta know the lingo to jive with the folks.

Such terms as a/s/l (age/sex/location) can reveal a bunch of info quickly that determine whether a chat partner will move forward with the conversation or move on. As does your screen name – positive names attract chat partners – so “Buttercup” is more fun and popular than “The Reaper” or “KD9830.” Misrepresentation is selective and rampant – “its part of the mastery of the chat room cultural practices to participate in selective presentation of self to appear more appealing.” Sounds like human nature to me!

This video shows a master of changing identity. He makes a living out of appearing as a different masked character everyday on the streets of Santa Cruz, bringing the cheerful sounds of the accordion to that eclectic village on the sea. 

While those of us not born in the digital age might fear the effects on the younger set, this study shows the people came to realize that the online relationships did not readily translate to offline ones. Sometimes those that did formed primarily around common interests such as sports, fashion, art. Same as life on Terra Ferma. The realization was expressed by one young man who found that the it was only through face to face interation that a meaningful romantic relationship could be developed – the barrier being the lack of trust that someone was portraying themselves honestly.

Disappointment is a good teacher – for one participant. He thought he was talking to a girl with a common musical interests that later turned out to be a boy. Madame Butterfly?

What I really liked the most was the finding that this young man, after intense and harmless experimentation with his identity, believed he came to clearer conclusions about who he was and who he wanted to be. He said, “I learned a lot that it’s important to be true to myself.” He felt he now matured to a consistent identity inside and outside the chat room as “the way my friends online and offline see me is the way I perceive myself.” If only that could be said for the grownups on the dating sites!

Well, that was a really long way around, I know. But I find it interesting. And HOPEFUL. Inclusion, affection, control and identity experimentation were the primary motivations, just like all of us on the planet. Human and animal. We want to be accepted by some tribe, flock, herd. We crave affection. And we want things to make some kind of sense – hence a need to control some aspects of the environment in the whoosh of life that propels us every day. Sounds pretty creative – who needs to pay for acting classes?

On the streets of Santa Cruz where impression management is taken to a creative edge. My dear friend, Jeanne Rodriggs with the masked musician.

I relate this trying on of identities to the teaching of my guru, Baba Muktananda, who teaches about being in Witness-Consciousness, being aware of the actor on your inner stage, who takes on different personas appropriate to the action required in external reality. Who is it that is taking these on, who tells us about it as we are doing it? The inner witness. Cyberspace is actually a way to access that awareness if seen from the perspective of the impermanence of the moment, and yet the continuum of information captured in the realm. Says Baba in Satsang with Baba, page 237, “A meditator should meditate on the inner witness. It is that inner witness which is the goal, the object of meditation. The sages say that the inner witness is without attributes; it is pure consciousness.”
Hang on, my iPhone is signaling me that from somewhere in cyberspace, someone is trying to reach me.

Until next time…

The world is as you see it, so change your glasses.  Baba Muktananda

Baba Muktananda
@Syda Foundation

http://www.shivayoga.org Siddha Yoga Swami Shankarananda answering questions on spirituality.

The Truth about Aaron Swartz’s “Crime”

Aaron Swartz in 2009. One person remembered him as a “a complicated prodigy.”
Photo: Michael Francis McElroy/The New York Times

Worth reading to get more insight on the recent suicide of a brilliant young man.  The Truth about Aaron Swartz’s “Crime”.

We’re discussing how this reflects on copyright issues in my Social Media class forum at Drury University. More to come on that front. My thoughts are mixed, since I am a writer, photographer and visual artist. I want artist’s intellectual property to support us to do our creative work, but I also believe in free access to information. What are your thoughts?

Mine are ambiguous – how do creatives support themselves in an open access free information system with no copyright protections?

 

Damaged kitten dream – What does it all mean?

Charming Tortoise Shell Calico kitten – a favorite breed – especially if fluffy.

What do dreams tell us? Who is talking to us in the dream? Who remembers it and tells us what we dreamt? What messages are surfacing from unknown realms? Interior cyberspaces? As I explore Social Media in a class at Drury University and consider how humans are conjuring up myriad ways to converse across time and space, I wonder how it is affecting my dreams. In this post, I examine my latest dream journey. As an artist and writer, I relish these interior excavations.

Context: in real life, I am in a class learning about all these cyber tools of Social Media, so my brain is swamped and my physical body is cramped around the computer tossing and turning new concepts and tactile demands. So my consciousness is swimming as I fall asleep, trying to balance both sides of the brain…

In the dream, I am with my friend Patricia Thomas, artist. [In real life – I’ve just seen her show at SLATE Gallery in Oakland – and in the dream the images are floating.]

Some of her images are nuclear warning signs in stark black and white – whirling disks of energy – malevolent and marvelous. One of her sculptures is a series of chandeliers wrapped obsessively with furry yarn that look organic, sinewy, alive and feline. Pat and I went to grad school together at University of Montana, Missoula. She’s functioned as my artistic conscience for years and is a frequent dream companion.

Home page of Slate Contemporary Gallery featuring Patricia Thomas show: Periodic Tales

Visiting Pat’s show at Slate, January 2013

Embarrassment of Riches – series of chandeliers wrapped in wool

We are creeping down stairs from the space where her images float in an unstructured dream room. The stairs go from solid to decrepit as we descend and emerge into a primeval topography. I see out of the corner of my eye a kitten – a tiny Himalayan – fluffy cream with brown head, paws and tail. [In real life I actually did rescue just this creature from a garage in Oakland right outside of Bade Baba Nityananda‘s temple – she was very wild. Sapphire was her name, and though she became quite docile, even affectionate, she was always a surprise biter. She refused to live inside when I moved to Topanga, so spent her days in the crook of an old tree just off my deck. I called her the Cheshire Cat and she merged with an owl one day and is still one of my Spirit Guides.]

Willow is my current Himalayan who looks just like my first – Sapphire. I saved Willow from the jaws of a coyote, but that’s ANOTHER story…

In the dream, I catch the little kitten and snuggle her. She doesn’t fight me – she purrs in my hands. Just a little bit of a thing. Chinchilla soft. Pat and I realize there are more, and bend down to see where they are.  We look under the branches into a little den. There is an old grey cat there, gazing to the side – obviously the mother.  There are multitudes of kittens – some just day old with eyes still closed, some older and fluffing out like little birds. I pick up one and realize it’s not healthy. It’s little face is gummy with snot and the eyes are swollen closed. Another has no front legs – just stumps that are infected. Has it been eaten? Affected by nuclear fallout? I can’t tell – I’m just distraught. I want to take the healthy one, like I did in real life (I actually left several orange and grey kittens to their own devices, and captured Sapphire with a towel.)

So Pat and I are discussing what we should do. Intervene? Take them to a shelter to be adopted, or put down if they are damaged? Or should we – God forbid – let nature take it’s course? The dilemma was never resolved, as I woke up.

Upon waking, I haven’t been able to shake the dream from my mind.

I see all kinds of meanings, and tap into a memory from my teens. I lived with my family in an old farm house called “The Loft” in Liberty Corners, New Jersey (home of the Kienast Quintuplets). The house was plain white clapboard – it had been the main house of a working farm that was still in business. We rented the farmhouse, and the farm was managed from off site. It was Loft’s Lawn and Grass Seed – acres of the most beautiful green spread in all directions. The farm also supported pigs – droves of them – huge hogs that laid 18 piglets in a litter – in long rows of barns down the hill, an a big white bull named Napoleon. Legend has it that it had been there since the Civil War – but who really knows. The house had been a lodge at some point, boasting 5 fireplaces and a living room that was 70 feet long with huge beamed ceilings. It was known to have housed George Washington – but in that part of New Jersey that was the theme of the day in these old houses – and I suppose he must have wandered from house to house of the night to have stayed in all that are boast this claim. But I diverge.

The Loft farmhouse in Liberty Corners, New Jersey. I still haunt this old place in reoccurring dreams.

The Loft has 30 rooms – and still stands today as a Montessori School. Seven bedrooms, 7 baths, 5 fireplaces and 2 staircases.  More about the Loft later in another post or I’ll never get to the point. Suffice to say my family constellation was forever altered by our habitation at The Loft. I was 14 or so, and had two bedrooms down the hall from each other, with a beauty of a bathroom between that had a black and white tile floor with steps down to the bath tub.

Into one of the rooms I brought my pregnant Tortoise Shell Calico cat to settle in. Did it never occur to us to fix the poor thing that had to contend with several males? One was named Chopper after my first beau – a huge red orange Manx that was a sweetie pie. Anyway, the Tortie gave birth to a litter of uncountable numbers and colors – grays, oranges, tabbies, torties, black tigers – just an awesome array. I helped her birth them and cleaned them off as best I could. (Where the heck were my parents??)

I built an obstacle course cardboard boxes and tubes in anticipation of a playful pack. Unfortunately there were too many for the available nipples of the mother – how many are there anyway? 6 maybe? And did she have 8 or 9 kittens?  Apparently the Tortoise Shell is the most prolific of all kitties – to her demise! One of my favorites that looked just like mom was not making it to enough feedings, and though I helped her when I was there, she developed sores at the corners of her mouth – perhaps from her own scratching, or from fighting off the others. She didn’t make it and I cried and buried her in the green house in the back, alongside my little black bunny, Martin Luther.

That’s my dream and my memory. Damaged kittens. Me. My past, my present awareness of the potential devastation we can wreak in the NUCLEAR and CYBER AGE as signified by Pat’s work. Slipping from cyberspace to dream space. Whoa – what a lot to digest – as I open my mind to Social Media and it’s implications in this era of instantaneous and constant documentation of human existence, and the potential extinction at the push of button of the entire planet in that same instantaneousness if that is even a word. And how the dream world compares to the floating in and out of cyberspace we participate in on a daily basis.

Steven Pressfield in The War of Art ponders this phenomenon, in his dream of Largo, page 128, that conveyed to him that “The power to take charge was in my hands: all I had to do was believe it. Where did this dream come from? … What was its source? And what does it say about the workings of the universe that such things happen at all?

Signing off…. into dream land.  What are the muses going to reveal tonight?