Walk. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. (Camino Fiction)

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Barb Morris Camino de SantiagoTHIS IS A SCENE FROM MY CAMINO NOVEL-IN-PROCESS. PLEASE SEE THE FIRST EXCERPT, “THE MESSIES,” WHICH INTRODUCES THE NOVEL AND WHY I’M POSTING THIS WRITING IN ITS RAW STATE.

The next town is coming closer. Martha doesn’t want to be with people tonight. She wants to sit with this place in her soul. Enter it and not be distracted. Not have to interact. She understands now those peregrinos who have passed her, unspeaking, earbuds in, no eye contact. They were simply finding solitude.

The gravel Camino becomes a cobbled street as Martha enters the town. She looks for an albergue with a bench and flowers out front – it’s her rule to look for flowers. Three doors up on the right – geraniums – Las Aquedas. The door is open. The hospitalero* is seated behind a rickety blue table covered with paper, his guest register open on top of the pile.

“Hola, señor. ¿Tiene una cama?”

He looks up, taking her in kindly. “Sí, señora. Tengo una cama para usted. Bienvenídos. Pasaporte y credential*, por favor.”

Martha shrugs off her backpack and digs out her American passport and pilgrim credential. The hospitalero writes her name, passport number, and nationality in his register. Solemnly he inks his albergue stamp, presses the stamp carefully into her credential, and dates the stamp. In this way, she’ll prove her journey to the volunteers at the pilgrim office in Santiago to receive her compostela* at the end of this ridiculous walk. “¿Cuanto cuesta la cama?,” she belatedly asks.

“Seven euro,” he answers, in English. “If you want breakfast it will be ten.”

“Breakfast, please. Grácias, señor.” She hands him a €10 note, picks up her backpack, and goes to find an unclaimed bed. As late as she is, it’ll almost certainly be a top bunk. Which makes the inevitable peeing in the middle of the night an unwanted adventure, but so far so good. She hasn’t killed herself yet. All the bunks along the walls are claimed, top AND bottom. This albergue, like many others, has crammed more beds in to take advantage of the increased pilgrim traffic since Americans and Koreans have discovered the Camino.

Damn Martin Sheen*, she thinks, not for the last time. And, also, bless him, Lord. That, too. I’m here because of him. And so are all these other people. She spots a bottom bunk smack in the middle of the big room full of bunk beds – almost all with backpacks propped beside them and a few clothes – shirts, pants, socks – strewn on them. Most hospitaleros frown on pilgrims putting backpacks on the beds. She’s not sure why.

Some of the beds have clotheslines strung in front, with towels draped on them for a little privacy. She puts down her backpack, sits on the bed, and carefully takes off her shoes and socks. Then, slowly, she removes the betadine-soaked gauze from Max to see how he’s grown. He’s thriving. Tonight, she thinks, it’s time to try the needle and thread. Enough is enough. Crocs on, she gathers her albergue clothes, towel, washcloth, and Dr. Bronner’s lavender castile soap (the all-purpose Camino cleaner), being careful to remember her ziploc-bagged passport, credential, cash, and credit cards, and goes in search of the showers.

Would these be co-ed?, she wonders. Would the hot water last? Would there even be water pressure? How long will it take her to figure out the controls? Would there be a way to keep her clothes and valuables dry? Would the lights go out mid-shower? Would there be a door, even? There wasn’t, always. So many unknowns, every night. And every night, it seems, she learns another thing she’s taken for granted that is evidently up for grabs in a Spanish albergue.

After the blessedly warm shower, she washes her other pair of underwear, her socks, and her t-shirt. Everything else could wait a few more days. Out comes the all-purpose Dr. Bronner’s lavender castile soap again – lavendar to repel bed bugs, an occasional problem on the Camino. Some peregrinos wash their clothes in the shower, also frowned upon by hospitaleros and other pilgrims.

Supper, as she promised herself, she eats alone.

The next day, as usual, she’s one of the first ones out the albergue door. Even though she paid for breakfast the night before, she’s left at the crack of dawn. Not before the crack of dawn, like some potentially annoying peregrinos who strap on their headlamps when it’s still dark and rustle their belongings into their packs and creep, they think quietly, out the albergue while the stars are still out. She’s not that driven.

But she relishes the half hour or so before sunrise – the brightest stars are still shining, and there are only a few other pilgrims as the sky lightens and she walks through a mostly quiet village – the only sounds the crunch of her shoes, the tap of her poles, early birdsong, and roosters waking up. She loves this time, she’s discovered, when rural Spain smells like wood smoke and sheep shit. She’ll stop for breakfast – toast and café con leche – at the next village. For now, it’s just good to walk. Hospitalero coffee is never as good as the café con leche she’ll get in the bars. And somehow the toast isn’t as good either.

What is it about Spanish toast anyway? Who knew a 60-year-old American woman could walk for miles fueled only by toast?! Surprising – she who spent decades as a carbophobe. She sort of lives for Spanish bread. With jam and lots of butter, at breakfast. And a chocolate croissant for a snack. And tortilla. Ensalada mixta* for second lunch or for dinner, because it’s the only vegetables she’ll get all day. Fresh-squeezed orange juice she’ll discover later.

I want to travel, Martha thought. I want to live in Spain for awhile. I want to really BE here. Maybe a volunteer hospitalera? I promise myself I will not let myself be tethered. I will not let myself be caged. What’s an Airbnb in Madrid in July and August? Or Glasgow? Or Belfast?  Or London? Or Galway? It’s so easy to get tied down. No No No.

Her mind panics. How would I support myself? How would I live?

And then there it is. The Voice. Writing and art, Martha. Writing and art, poppy seed. Writing and art and living REALLY cheaply. What do I need, after all? Clothes (a few), a place to sleep, food to eat, a way to keep clean, a way to make a living (computer and art supplies?)… I don’t need so much. I don’t need a car. I don’t need a wardrobe. I’d LIKE a little dirt.

All of this as she walked the first couple of miles of the fifteen she had planned for the day. She already knew it was going to be one of those Camino days full of voices – days that were coming more and more frequently. Shirley McLain’s* got nothin’ on me, she thought.

We make choices that lock us in before we know any better, she saw. We believe the lies about achievement and career and A to B to C in proper order. We believe the lies about rules and earning love through compliance and being useful to others. I just want to be WILD. I just want to be free for a change. That’s what I want. That’s all I want. 

And immediately the fear and the doubts creep in. As she walks she can feel them. They’re a constriction around her heart. I’ve never even written so much as a short story, she thinks. And what about helping people? Aren’t I supposed to help people?? I’ve never sold a painting. I’m going to make a LIVING at this?! What the FUCK am I thinking?!

Then below the panic, below the fear, the ground, she heard the Voice say, “Artist.”

You are my artist. You are one of my artists. You are one of my poets and painters and storytellers. You have the heart for this work. You’ve been a teacher. Thank you, my dear. Those kids needed you, and I’m grateful. Now it’s time for something new and deeper and unknown. Teaching was the freest path you could take when you believed the lie that you had to earn MY love and your worth.

I don’t know how to do this, she answered. Also, who ARE you?

You know who I am. The Earth Voice continues. When you feel afraid, it’s because you’re believing something that’s not true – like there’s a right way and a wrong way, you have to look competent, you have to be right, you have to get it right. There is no such thing as right.

Martha thinks: But how will I do this without a plan?

Earth answers: Here’s the plan, dearest: there is no plan. We don’t need no stinkin’ plan. (The Voice is evidently a fan of classic movies.) You show up and create – let out all that stuff inside you – bottled up and wanting to move through you – and that’s the plan.

Martha answers, This is crazy. This is batshit. You know that, right? 

Then, after a few minutes of walking, she whispers, Can I really DO this?

What would happen if you didn’t, my love? replied Earth. My strong beautiful artist, I love you so much. You are SO strong. There’s no statute of limitations on creativity, dearest. There’s no statute of limitations on being who you are.

*CAMINO PLACES, NAMES, AND THINGS WHICH WILL NEED TO BE DEFINED, OR PERHAPS I’LL INCLUDE A CAMINO LEXICON.

 

The Little Door (Camino Fiction)

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Barb Morris Camino de SantiagoThis is a scene from my Camino novel-in-process. Please see the first excerpt, “The Messies,” which introduces the novel and why I’m posting this writing in its raw state.

Two massive wooden doors block the cathedral entrance– they’re at least twenty feet high and ten feet wide, each. They’re made of slabs of oak six inches thick joined together, carved with birds and flowers and creatures and vignettes from the lives of the saints, with enormous latches and locks. Martha doesn’t have a prayer of opening these doors. But then she notices, in the right corner of the right hand door, a little door. It’s about five feet tall and two feet wide, carved to blend in with the massive cathedral door of which it is a part. She tries the human-sized handle. The door creaks on its hinges. She pulls the small door toward her and steps onto the bottom piece of oak over which the door swings. She perfectly fits this little door. She stands on the threshold, peering into the darkness beyond, and stops.

She thinks, I’m no longer who I was, and I’m not yet who I’m going to be. If I go in, I’m no longer out. But backing out doesn’t seem to be an option. Neither is staying put. I seem to have lost part of myself.

This inner darkness will change me. Do I want to be changed?

After some moments, Martha steps onto the stone floor of the cathedral. She feels the rough stone through the sole of her shoe. It’s cold and hard. She sets her backpack down on one of the hundreds of rush-seated wooden chairs, takes off her shoes and socks, and begins walking through the dark cathedral. She feels every hill and valley of the cold hard floor with her sore tired blistered bare feet. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time, arms outstretched, hands wide open, she walks, eyes looking up and around as the dark begins to be cut with dust-filled shafts of light from clerestory windows so high she can’t see them, only the sunlight they admit into this filmy cavernous space. She breathes the old cold air stirred by currents of incense and lilies. In the north transept is a shrine to St. Agatha, who’s proudly holding her platter of breasts. Martha sits on the wooden pew in front of the altar. One lone candle burns at the saint’s feet

I should be MOVING. Yet here I sit, inside this quiet cold dusty ancient space that seems to be abandoned and empty. I have crossed the threshold. I’ve entered the unknown space. I’ve answered the invitation.

 Now what?

A hymn tune wafts through her mind: “Immortal, invisible, God only wise, in light inaccessible hid from our eyes. Un___ing, unchanging, the ancient of days la la la la la la thy great name we praise.”

Martha hears those words as if for the first time. How rude. If God doesn’t change, and being unchanging is the ideal, now can little in-process me ever hope to be holy? Did the Desert Mothers strive for unchangingness? Was that their goal, with their fasting and praying and body-denying life?

 I don’t want to do that. I want to make peace with being a woman in process. And not only make peace, but celebrate. Affirm. HONOR. Honor my yearning and striving and efforting and growing – HONOR my fits and starts and dead ends. Because they are all part of the process. Even the years I’ve spent stuck were part of my journey. What a load of bullshit – that there’s only one way to be and my job is to find it and be it and never change it. God the Father will never be an affirming God for me. Never.

So here Martha sits, inside this Spanish church, having entered through the little door. She’s getting better at waiting for the next step to show up. She’s learning not to rush. It’s taking awhile to learn not to rush. Some days she’s only walked ten kilometers. It may take her three months to get to Santiago. Maybe longer. But she’s so tired of going in a straight line from point A to point B, never deviating, focused on the goal, covering the material with > 80% success as determined by weekly benchmarks, quarterly testing, and annual achievement scores. She just wants to sit and wait and be a human woman who sits and waits when waiting is called for, and who moves with purpose and strength when movement is called for.

This time, in this dark church, is a time for waiting. She’s given up questioning these seemingly strange impulses that seize her unpredictably. She’s becoming an instinctual being – following a deeper, more rooted guidance system than the map in her backpack and her frenzied brain. She’s becoming feral – a creature following her gut and her heart and her nose, rather than Brierley’s* stages. Sometimes her body throms, like at the track to Eunate*. And she’s learned to pay attention to salivating as a sign of portents.

Martha’s been seeing drawings and paintings in her mind for awhile now, on the Camino. She sees the ink and water colors she’d use to paint THIS place. The clerestories far above, where the sun shines in straight lines, illuminating the swirling dust – the windows would be ink drawn in strong lines. The shaft of sun is yellow watercolor. The stone of the church is blueblackgrey wash. And the dust is droplets of some dark color, splashed over it all with a fine spray from a toothbrush.

And what does the shaft of sunlight illumine? For the sun has climbed higher in the sky so the shaft reaches further down into the sanctuary, the heart of this dark cavernous space. Martha sits and watches the sun as it moves lower and deeper into the darkness — slowly, inexorably illuminating a gilded altar, upon which are a cloth, two vases with plastic flowers, two unlit candles, and a crucifix.

She’d hoped for more – a sign, a symbol, a portent. What she got was more of the same.

Perhaps the waiting – the responding and the waiting – was the point.

She heaves herself up onto her hurting feet, feeling the stiffness and the cold that’s seeped into her bones from this tired cold place, and walks back through the dark church to where her shoes and backpack wait beside the little door inside the big door. She heaves it open and steps over the threshold back into the bright, hot Rioja sun.

Time to find a bar, have a café con leche* and something sweet, she thinks, then walk a few more miles before finding tonight’s albergue*. A little time sitting in the sun would feel so good. I’m tired of feeling cold. Maybe Cola Cao* instead of café? Mas calories y menos caffeine.

Martha walks to the bar across the plaza from the church. She hadn’t noticed it an hour earlier when she’d crossed this plaza, feeling pulled toward that little door and wanting to know what was on the other side of it. Now, sitting in the sun with a cup of hot milk, a packet of Cola Cao, and a slice of tortilla*, she rests her feet on the plastic chair opposite her and looks critically at the church. Templar* architecture, she now sees. All thick walls and fortress lines. It fairly bristles with animosity – full of the self-righteousness of those men who built her a thousand years ago. Of course there was nothing there for her. Why had she expected otherwise?

The Camino, she realizes, is the same. Or could be, depending on how a peregrina* walked it. It could be a straight line from Point A (SJPP)* to Point B (Santiago), walked with focus and no tolerance for deviation from the goal, following Brierley’s* stages religiously. One could learn something about one’s self that way, she supposed – that’s how education is set up, after all. A linear progression from Point A (preschool) to Point B (grad school). Or, she thinks, the Camino could be a jumping-off point for exploration and return. It could be organic, although the pilgrim who walked it that way would definitely be swimming against the prevailing current. A pilgrim could use the Camino for general direction, swirling away and coming back as inspiration and yearning struck.

So why doesn’t anybody walk it that way? And why couldn’t I walk it that way?

 Maybe I got meaning from that cold hard church after all.

*Camino places, names, and things which Will need to be defined, or perhaps I’ll include a camino lexicon.

The Messies (Camino Fiction)

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Barb Morris Camino de Santiago

I walked the Camino de Santiago with my husband in 2014. Last year I had a vivid Camino dream about a small door within a large door that opened into a Templar church. From that dream emerged a series of scenes that have become the bare bones of a novel. I’m posting some of the scenes in their raw form, starting with “The Messies.” I’ve done some revising for readability; however, in the spirit of Martha’s messies, what you have here is pretty much how this scene emerged onto the page. It’s not perfect, and I’m letting it out anyway. I invite you to share your reactions in the comments.

The hero of my story is Martha, a newly-retired school teacher walking the Camino de Santiago by herself. This scene happens about ten days into her Camino, a journey which will take her about six weeks altogether.

I am a mess, Martha thinks. I am just a mess. Maybe I’ll always be a mess. Maybe being messy is just how I am.

Of what does this mess consist? Memories, dreams that never saw the light of day, abandoned goals and desires – What do I do with all this mess?

Walking by myself I can’t be distracted. The lid wiggles loose and the messies start to crawl out. Am I big enough to contain my messies? There are so many of them! They seem vaguely malevolent. They’re wild and angry, exulting in their newfound freedom and room to roam. They surge out of the jar and crawl all over my insides. I can feel them clinging to my chest wall and hanging on my heart. They’re crawling all around inside me. They crawl up into my arms and down to my hands. They gleefully grab my organs and skitter down my legs. They’re so glad to be free – these messies. They’re blue and black and red and green, with wild fur and eight legs and googly eyes and fangs. I’m afraid of them. They’re a little crazed, a little frantic.

I really am going a little crazy, Martha thinks. But let’s go with this: I’ve taken the lid off – the lid has wobbled loose on the Camino. Day after day of walking has jostled the lid loose. Day after day of being a stranger in a strange land has jostled the lid loose, and the messies have taken their chance. They’ve rushed up and out. They’re now crawling around my insides – around my chest between my lungs and chest wall, around my heart, up to my shoulders and down my arms. They like the bones for traction.  

Martha’s mind is going crazy with dismay and worry.

It feels good to have the lid off. It took so much energy and effort to keep them hidden. Oh. They’re different things – some of them are dreams. Many of them are emotions. Some of them are memories. Some of them are joy, too.

 I can see some of the ways I’ve kept the messies bottled up: other-focus, codependence, addiction, busyness, distraction, rule-following, being nice, staying quiet.

 I have to loosen the lid if I need to stuff another messie into the jar. They resist, and they try to escape whenever I open it. I’m pretty good at keeping them contained. But now, here on the Camino, as I walk mile after mile, the lid has loosened enough that they’ve popped it off and they’ve escaped.

 Tonight, in the albergue, someone will say, “Hola, Martha! How was your Way today?”

 My answer, if I wanted to tell the truth, would be, “Today on the Camino I discovered that in my heart I keep a jar full of everything I don’t want to know – the messy things – the inconvenient truths of my life. The sadness I don’t want to feel. The unkept promises and failures. The losses and the rage. The dreams I’ve let languish. The pain and the betrayals I didn’t want to see. All the stuff I didn’t want to do but I did anyway. All the things that didn’t fit with being perfect. And the joy it wasn’t safe to express. Now they’re out. And they’re crawling all over me, inside and out. And I can’t put them back in.

Martha walks, smiling and weeping. She’s beginning to suspect there will be many tears on this Camino. Every pilgrim she meets, she sees their jar of messies. We all have them, she sees. We all have our sequestered messies.

The jar is very old. It was given to me when I was a little girl: “Here’s your jar. Please put into it everything about you that we don’t like. Don’t ask questions. Just do it. No messies allowed. Or aloud. Either one. Your job is to sequester your messies so they don’t bother us. We only want to see the smart, pretty, nice bits. Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter. We’ll teach you how to identify, capture, and contain said messies, since you’re just a girl. Before you know it, you’ll be so good at it you can do it without thinking. Expect to feel listless and depressed at times. That just means you’re doing it right. Anytime you want to do something irrational or have a feeling we don’t like – catch that messy and STUFF IT INTO YOUR JAR. And NEVER let them out.”

 “Oh, and by the way, a little joy goes into the jar with each messy. That’s normal. Pay no attention. Not a cause for concern.”

 It takes a lot of energy to keep the lid on. That’s why I can’t commit to anything else. I have to hold back some energy at all times so I can contain the messies. Don’t ask too much of me. I have to keep the messies in. “Don’t let loose, don’t let down your guard, or the messies will get out.” So no going flat out and giving something all I’ve got. Never let myself get too hungry or tired or enthusiastic or passionate, or carried away with ANYTHING. If I do, the messies will erupt.

For additional Camino information, please click here. 🙂

©barbmorris.com

These Halcyon Solstice Days

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CandlesThere is an old Greek myth about ‘halcyon days’. The idea springs from a story about the halcyon (from the kingfisher family), about which Aristotle has this to say:

‘The halcyon breeds at the season of the winter solstice. Accordingly, when this season is marked with calm weather, the name of “halcyon days” is given to the seven days preceding, as to as many following, the solstice … The halcyon is said to take seven days for building her nest, and the other seven for laying and hatching her eggs.’

These words are from Celtic psychologist and storyteller Dr Sharon Blackie. (Read her post here.)

Sharon goes on to describe her Solstice practice of sharing stories for these dark days – seven days before December 21st and seven days after, when Earth begins her slow turn to the light. I’m adopting her idea for personal use. These cold dark days are fecund days for the human soul – days for deep discernment. I intend to honor them by setting aside intentional time each day to listen to the Earth, to the Holy, to my soul. I wonder what will emerge. Will you join me?

Let’s Stop Comparing Ourselves to Trees.

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It’s fall in the Northern Hemisphere.

You know what that means, right?

Yup, pumpkin spiced everything.

And also blog post after blog post about letting go. Relaxing into the dark. Transformation. Transition. Change. About how we should be like trees and gracefully let the dead things fall away.

I’ve been guilty of it myself. (See header image.)

And yet. We’re not trees.

Please stop comparing yourself to a tree.

Humans and trees diverged very early in life’s evolutionary journey. Humans went on to evolve a large brain, with a cerebral cortex that knows it’s housed in a body that will die, and so the mind fears. A lot.

Maybe trees have fears, too, when fall comes and they feel their dead leaves drop away. Maybe they resist, too, just like we do.

I’ve been exploring ways to navigate transitions more kindly. My kids are self-sufficient adults, so I’m transitioning from active parenting to empty nester. I’m actively exploring nature-based spirituality, so I’m transitioning from Episcopalian to who knows what. I’m an entrepreneur, so I’m transitioning from fitting into a defined job to being in charge of my own work. My body continues to age, so I’m transitioning from young-ish woman to juicy crone.

Dying and rising and doing it all over again comes pre-installed in Earthlings. All Earthlings. Trees. Rocks. Water. Ravens. Humans. Change is not optional.

I’m finding that knowing who I am, having a sense of my core identity, the essence of “me,” is helpful. Knowing and staying in touch with my heart is one key to sane cycling and changing.

Just as a tree’s identity remains when it stands bare to the winter winds, I will still be “me” when outer identitifiers (mom, teacher, Christian, young …) fall away.

My heart identity lives in my body.  It makes sense to me, then, that deeply knowing myself and living from my core starts with loving and paying attention to my body.

Who you are lives in your body. Deeply knowing yourself and living from your core starts with loving and paying attention to your body, in whatever form that takes for you. I suggest regular body scans, baths, movement, sweaty work, long walks – whatever feels delicious. “Let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.” (Mary Oliver)

Be warned, though. Your body is wild. Paying attention to your body means feeling your feelings. It means sitting with your pain and your joy. Giving yourself the gift of self-compassion.

We are not trees. For humans, with these brains that scream fears night and day, it helps so much to know and trust our hearts. To know that our bodies tell the truth, while our minds often don’t.

When we know who we are, the stuff we cling to that isn’t ours anymore, perhaps never was ours, can fall away like last year’s leaves.

(Would you like to explore navigating the changes and seasons of your life with kindness? I offer a free discovery call. Click here for details.)

 

Why Keep Cascade-Siskiyou National Monument? Here’s Why.

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Why we need the Cascade-Siskiyou National Monument

Cascade-Siskiyou National Monument: Pilot Rock from Boccard Point (Photo by Barb Morris)

Here’s my response to a Bend Bulletin editorial signing on to Interior Secretary Zinke’s leaked memo recommending that Cascade-Siskiyou National Monument be shrunk. You can read the Bulletin’s editorial here.

Thank you for your recent editorial “Cascade-Siskiyou should be shrunk” (September 20, 2017), which concludes with these sentences: “Unlike his predecessors, Zinke clearly sees the value of keeping public land open to the public and assuring that earlier promises such as those given when the O&C Lands were set aside in 1937 be honored. It’s difficult to argue with either.”

I deeply appreciate our American right to free speech and this opportunity to respectfully argue with both statements.

 

  1. Public lands, including the Cascade-Siskiyou National Monument (CSNM), are, and will remain, open to the public. The CSNM proclamation and expansion simply changes the designation of these public lands. In fact, these lands are more open to more people than when they were managed primarily for timber production. There are roads throughout the Monument. Existing hiking trails have been improved and new trails constructed. Hunting has improved due to BLM management for mule deer winter range. Tribal cultural sites are better protected and more accessible. Private property owners’ rights of way are explicitly preserved. The expansion proclamation includes the directive to plan for mountain bike and snowmobile access. I could go on.

 

  1. Of course we can, and should, revisit land use decisions made eighty years ago. In 1937 we knew virtually nothing about biodiversity, ecosystems, population growth, human impacts on the environment, and climate change.

In 1937, “biodiversity” wasn’t even a word. Biodiversity wouldn’t be talked about until the 1980s. Ecology and Conservation Biology as disciplines within science were decades away. Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac, about the interrelationships of living and non-living beings and managing for the health of the land as a whole, ideas now widely accepted, wouldn’t be published until 1949.

In 1937, Oregon’s population was 1,025,000 and California’s was 6,300,000. In 2016, Oregon’s population was estimated at 4,028,977 and California’s at 39,500,000. That’s phenomenal growth. Along with that growth comes dramatically increased pressure on the land.

In 1937, automobile ownership per capita was still low. People who did have cars didn’t drive into the backcountry lightly. Cell phones, plastic water bottles, GPS, and the internet were decades in the future.

In 1937, we didn’t have any inkling that our climate would change, and that the CSNM’s biodiversity would be a crucial sanctuary for species threatened by extinction.

There are approximately 2.5 million acres of O&C Lands in Oregon. The Cascade-Siskiyou National Monument contains about 40,000 acres of O&C land, and much of that 40,000 isn’t actually timber-producing for various reasons. At most, that’s 1.6% of O&C taken out of timber production, hardly significant in the grand scheme of things. This debate isn’t about timber production. It’s about values.

The Cascade-Siskiyou National Monument sits at the confluence of three mountain ranges. One of these ranges, the Siskiyou Mountains, is an unusual east-west range which forms a high-elevation land bridge between the Klamath and Cascade Mountains. This bridge has allowed plant and animal species to travel back and forth for hundreds of thousands of years. As a result, plant species diversity in the CSNM is incredibly high. High plant diversity leads in turn to high diversity of bird and insect species. Diversity is necessary for healthy life on Earth to persist and evolve. We imperil our survival as a species when we destroy vital habitat for ourselves and our non-human relatives and neighbors.

We knew none of this in 1937.

The Cascade-Siskiyou National Monument has been studied up one side and down the other since the 1980s, when the concept of biodiversity first emerged.  There are millions of acres of public land better suited for timber production, grazing, and OHV riding. Let’s maintain the Cascade-Siskiyou National Monument’s bountiful diversity of plants and animals as best we can, given the realities of 2017.

I Want Transformation and I Want It NOW.

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The waiting part of transformation is HARD, at least for me. I want to just do the change, and do it quick. Unfortunately, that’s just not how transformation works. Unlike our get ‘er done culture, what happens in that chrysalis can’t be rushed. (See this previous post for more about change, transformation, and the difference between them. Today’s post goes deeper into #5, about the predictable pattern of change.)

My hypothesis is that the obligatory waiting phase is why I resist necessary transformations. I hate that in-between thing so much. (And if I haven’t done the grieving I need to do with any change, transformation pretty much stops.) All those messy feelings, when we just want to feel bright and shiny and good at life, right?

I’ve been finding these words helpful when I feel myself resisting the necessary waiting phase of transformation. It’s an excerpt from John O’Donohue’s blessing “For the Interim Time.”

As far as you can, hold your confidence.

Do not allow your confusion to squander

This call which is loosening

Your roots in false ground,

That you might become free

From all you have outgrown.

 

What is being transfigured here is your mind,

And it is difficult and slow to become new,

The more faithfully you can endure here,

The more refined your heart will become

For your arrival in the new dawn.

 

I love that the poet speaks of enduring faithfully. I love that he speaks of loosening roots and becoming free, and how he acknowledges that it’s a difficult and slow process to become new. Mostly I love that he describes the interim time as a time when our minds are being transfigured.

Stay present here and now, in your body. Spend time in nature, and pay attention to how this amazing Creation in which we are embedded actually works. A flower blossoms when it’s ready, and not a minute before. Hold your confidence. Allow your roots to loosen. Faithfully endure and allow your mind to be transfigured. You are becoming new, which is a holy enterprise.

Be faithful to your metamorphosis.

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