Marion Woodman: A Life Truly Lived

A life truly lived constantly burns away 

veils of illusion, burns away what is 

no longer relevant, gradually reveals 

our essence, until, at last, we are strong 

enough to stand in our naked truth.

 

― Marion Woodman

 

Some Thoughts on Mel's Story and How We Can Help

 

Two days ago was the first time that I saw Mel standing on the corner of Fourth Plain in Vancouver as I exited off northbound I5 when heading home from errands. Most often, if someone is standing there at the light with their little sign, it is Joseph. But on this sunny afternoon it was someone different, someone I hadn't seen before. He was tall, Caucasian, maybe 65, his face wrinkled and looking exhausted.

I was grateful that the light had just turned red so that I could stop and have just a few moments with this new person. He was looking down working on his little sign as I approached. I caught a quick glimpse of "VET" written on his piece of cardboard, but then quickly focused on looking at the human being. I opened my window, arm outstretched with my usual combination of $1 + a double granola bar. "Here you go!, here you go!," I stated to get his attention.

The tall man looked up and walked to my window. He looked so deeply sad as I gazed into his eyes and smiled. "You're the first person who's stopped in 1-1/2 hours. The first one." I affirmed how sad that was. He went on. "People think they know. They think they know. But they don't. They have no idea. Heartbreaking."

Those were his exact words. They are etched in my heart and mind. And there was simply no doubt whatsoever that this was the truth, that this was the painful reality for this hurting human being.

My eyes began to well with tears. "I'm so sorry," I said. And I reached for an additional $5 bill in the pouch that I always keep handy that's filled with many $1s, a few $5 bills, and a $10 bill. As I handed him the $5 I asked, "What's your name?" "Mel." "Mel, my name is Molly. I'm happy to meet you. You matter."

This only took a few moments. Then the light turned green and I had to move on. "Bless you!," I hollered out my window as I drove off. "God bless you," Mel said.

And I cried all the way home. And I felt angry. Really, really angry! Why in the hell was I the first person in 1-1/2 hours! Damn that so many of us turn away! And fuck this brutal economic system that we live in that impoverishes people! And it was a tsunami of outrage and grief that coursed through my body, heart, and soul.

I weep now...

There is also this humility because once I was among those who turned away all the time. And it's one of the reasons why the brilliant film "Don't Look Up" (https://www.netflix.com/title/81252357) resonates so deeply with me. Here in America we are indoctrinated into not "looking up." Over the years as the eyes of my own heart and soul have gradually opened, I've come to recognize how it is that we don't see what's right in front of us — or what's inside us. 

And the two certainly go together. If our own deeper pain is unconsciously cut off from our consciousness, then our capacity to actually see and hold with compassion the pain and suffering of our fellow humans and other beings will inevitably be impaired. And we'll turn away. We won't "look up." And we will not be aware of how we are treating other hurting human beings, animals, the planet as through their pain, suffering, and losses are invisible.

Have you ever felt invisible before? I certainly have. And, oh!, how painful it is to not be seen, cared about, valued, respected. Such a basic need this is — for others to care about us and our well-being. And for us to care about our own well-being. And to put our caring into action.

 

 

There are many reasons why I used to turn away from people standing on street corners with their little signs asking for help. I didn't want to see them. They were invisible to me. I didn't want to see their pain, their humanity, their trauma. It scared me. And I was still in the early years of embracing, healing, and transforming my own deep trauma and losses. So looking at and seeing, truly seeing the deep pain of others was something I resisted. Again and again and again.

Then, little by little, things began to shift. One of my clients from my work as a caseworker with Child Welfare told me many years ago that the 65 year old woman who I passed all the time on the corner near our offices with her little sign asking for help was his grandmother. The day came not long after that he told me that she had died.

Yes, I'd also heard all the stories and reasons why I should turn away — "Don't give them any money because they'll just spend it on drugs." "They could get a job if they wanted to." "I don't give out money to anyone standing on a corner, but I donate money to the homeless." Etc., etc.

Still, gradually I began to actually look a little more deeply at the growing numbers of those who were standing on corners with their little signs asking for help. And I began to give out a dollar bill here and there, always trying to size up who was worthy of my help. I cringe today as I write these words, but that is the truth of where I was at. There was still a lot of work to do on my judging mind, a lot of work to do to transform my judgments into compassion. And as I saw more and more through the lens of compassion, then I could see the pain. And my capacity for empathy grew. And grew. Very much so including for myself.

 

Because don't we all want to be held with compassion? I think we do.

 

And one by one by one, the veils of the deep fog I'd unknowingly been living in continued to lift. And I could see. I mean, I could really see — see with the eyes of my heart. And then I had to Act.

 

 

It's been a gradual evolving process for me. I went from treating hurting humans standing on street corners as invisible to giving out a dollar here and there to giving out a dollar or more to every single human being that my hand could reach. And I knew by then that what their sign said, what they looked like, if they were addicted or mentally ill, if they were a vet, and whatever their gender or race or ethnicity — none of that was what really mattered. If someone is standing out on a corner begging for help, they need it. Period. And they are worthy of caring and compassion. Period. And they have trauma, they all have trauma. Period. And, yes, I don't know their stories. I just know without any doubt whatsoever that they are suffering.

 

And I know what it's like to have trauma and be invisible. The invisibility of my twin brother pushed him to suicide on January 30th, 1978. And I simply do not want to treat anyone as invisible anymore. And I won't. I won't.

 

Everything continues to evolve for me. I'm learning and expanding all the time. A month or two ago a light bulb went on and I realized — Oh,! I could hand out a double granola bar with the $1 or $5 bills. And, bottom line, it's not about the money or the food. It's about putting love, compassion, and caring into action. What matters is looking at another human being and smiling at them through the eyes of my heart and letting them know that I see them and I care. They matter. We all matter. We do.

 

Once upon a time, the kindness, generosity, and caring of others saved my life. And helped me to grow into who I really am. So many are lost to who they are. And largely this is because of the heartless patriarchal systems rooted in domination rather than partnership that indoctrinate us into rugged individualism, worshiping the wealthy and justifying their wealth, and again and again and again, turning away. Don't Look Up. Don't see what's in front us of or inside of us. Turn away. 

 

And we can change this. We can. Each and every day there is something that all of us who live with privilege can do to help. There are countless ways that we can act to alleviate the suffering in our world and for those standing out on our street corners. Even just the smallest actions can make all the difference. 

 

Bless us all, no exceptions.

💗

Molly  

 

May all beings be filled with loving-kindness.

May all beings be free of suffering. 

May all beings be happy and at peace.

🙏🙏🙏 

 

Robin Wall Kimmerer: Action On Behalf Of Life Transforms

Action on behalf of life transforms. Because the relationship between self and the world is reciprocal, it is not a question of first getting enlightened or saved and then acting. As we work to heal the earth, the earth heals us.

In some Native languages the term for plants translates to “those who take care of us."

Knowing that you love the earth changes you, activates you to defend and protect and celebrate. But when you feel that the earth loves you in return, that feeling transforms the relationship from a one-way street into a sacred bond.

This is really why I made my daughters learn to garden—so they would always have a mother to love them, long after I am gone.

Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair. Not because I have my head in the sand, but because joy is what the earth gives me daily and I must return the gift. 

The land knows you, even when you are lost.  

* * * * *

Each person, human or no, is bound to every other in a reciprocal relationship. Just as all beings have a duty to me, I have a duty to them. If an animal gives its life to feed me, I am in turn bound to support its life. If I receive a stream’s gift of pure water, then I am responsible for returning a gift in kind. An integral part of a human’s education is to know those duties and how to perform them.

Know the ways of the ones who take care of you, so that you may take care of them.
Introduce yourself. Be accountable as the one who comes asking for life. Ask permission before taking. Abide by the answer.
Never take the first. Never take the last. Take only what you need.
Take only that which is given.
Never take more than half. Leave some for others. Harvest in a way that minimizes harm.
Use it respectfully. Never waste what you have taken. Share.
Give thanks for what you have been given.
Give a gift, in reciprocity for what you have taken.
Sustain the ones who sustain you and the earth will last forever. 

All powers have two sides, the power to create and the power to destroy. We must recognize them both, but invest our gifts on the side of creation.

* * * * *

To love a place is not enough. We must find ways to heal it.

Children, language, lands: almost everything was stripped away, stolen when you weren’t looking because you were trying to stay alive. In the face of such loss, one thing our people could not surrender was the meaning of land. In the settler mind, land was property, real estate, capital, or natural resources. But to our people, it was everything: identity, the connection to our ancestors, the home of our nonhuman kinfolk, our pharmacy, our library, the source of all that sustained us. Our lands were where our responsibility to the world was enacted, sacred ground. It belonged to itself; it was a gift, not a commodity, so it could never be bought or sold. These are the meanings people took with them when they were forced from their ancient homelands to new places.

Modern capitalist societies, however richly endowed, dedicate themselves to the proposition of scarcity. Inadequacy of economic means is the first principle of the world’s wealthiest peoples. The shortage is due not to how much material wealth there actually is, but to the way in which it is exchanged or circulated. The market system artificially creates scarcity by blocking the flow between the source and the consumer. Grain may rot in the warehouse while hungry people starve because they cannot pay for it. The result is famine for some and diseases of excess for others. The very earth that sustains us is being destroyed to fuel injustice. An economy that grants personhood to corporations but denies it to the more-than-human beings: this is a Windigo economy.  

Something is broken when the food comes on a Styrofoam tray wrapped in slippery plastic, a carcass of a being whose only chance at life was a cramped cage. That is not a gift of life; it is a theft. 

In the Western tradition there is a recognized hierarchy of beings, with, of course, the human being on top—the pinnacle of evolution, the darling of Creation—and the plants at the bottom. But in Native ways of knowing, human people are often referred to as “the younger brothers of Creation.” We say that humans have the least experience with how to live and thus the most to learn—we must look to our teachers among the other species for guidance. Their wisdom is apparent in the way that they live. They teach us by example. They’ve been on the earth far longer than we have been, and have had time to figure things out.

Philosophers call this state of isolation and disconnection “species loneliness”—a deep, unnamed sadness stemming from estrangement from the rest of Creation, from the loss of relationship. As our human dominance of the world has grown, we have become more isolated, more lonely when we can no longer call out to our neighbors. It’s no wonder that naming was the first job the Creator gave Nanabozho.

Joanna Macy writes that until we can grieve for our planet we cannot love it—grieving is a sign of spiritual health. But it is not enough to weep for our lost landscapes; we have to put our hands in the earth to make ourselves whole again. Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair. 

We need acts of restoration, not only for polluted waters and degraded lands, but also for our relationship to the world. We need to restore honor to the way we live, so that when we walk through the world we don’t have to avert our eyes with shame, so that we can hold our heads up high and receive the respectful acknowledgment of the rest of the earth’s beings.  

I want to stand by the river in my finest dress. I want to sing, strong and hard, and stomp my feet with a hundred others so that the waters hum with our happiness. I want to dance for the renewal of the world. 

* * * * * 

To be native to a place we must learn to speak its language.  

The land is the real teacher. All we need as students is mindfulness.

The trees act not as individuals, but somehow as a collective. Exactly how they do this, we don’t yet know. But what we see is the power of unity. What happens to one happens to us all. We can starve together or feast together.

There is an ancient conversation going on between mosses and rocks, poetry to be sure. About light and shadow and the drift of continents. This is what has been called the "dialect of moss on stone — an interface of immensity and minute ness, of past and present, softness and hardness, stillness and vibrancy, yin and yan.

We Americans are reluctant to learn a foreign language of our own species, let alone another species. But imagine the possibilities. Imagine the access we would have to different perspectives, the things we might see through other eyes, the wisdom that surrounds us. We don’t have to figure out everything by ourselves: there are intelligences other than our own, teachers all around us. Imagine how much less lonely the world would be.

Being naturalized to place means to live as if this is the land that feeds you, as if these are the streams from which you drink, that build your body and fill your spirit. To become naturalized is to know that your ancestors lie in this ground. Here you will give your gifts and meet your responsibilities. To become naturalized is to live as if your children’s future matters, to take care of the land as if our lives and the lives of all our relatives depend on it. Because they do. 

Just as you can pick out the voice of a loved one in the tumult of a noisy room, or spot your child's smile in a sea of faces, intimate connection allows recognition in an all-too-often anonymous world. This sense of connection arises from a special kind of discrimination, a search image that comes from a long time spent looking and listening. Intimacy gives us a different way of seeing, when visual acuity is not enough. 

Paying attention is a form of reciprocity with the living world, receiving the gifts with open eyes and open heart. 

I close my eyes and listen to the voices of the rain. 

― Robin Wall Kimmerer  

Quotes from Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, 

Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants