Sunday, May 20, 2007

Meditation

This image of Kwan Yin is a photograph taken by Robert Moody
of the statue at the Zen Center at Green Gulch Farm in California.

I’ve never been there, but the st
atue beckons me. See
http://www.math.ualberta.ca/~rvmoody/rvmphoto/index.html



The Grace Carving the Stone: Kwan Yin

Every act of mercy she

Unseeing

Offers each of us

Dissolves the remote perfection of heaven,

The hope wherein she dwelt for so long.

She knows now

That need will outlast her.

There is no humility, only acceptance.

Here on this earth,

This mortality.


Kwan Yin

Understanding

The price of insight

Let go

That sharp knife

Life’s suffering

Broke her open.

Every atom of her being

Cracking and scattering in the wind of sentience,

Borne over the world at the moment of arising,

The endless atoms of her immortality.

See, open your mouth

That sweetness in the darkness of your being,

That flavor is the invisible shard of

Her dissolving grace

The small seed of heaven,

Taking root in your life.


In every act of separation

In every loss

In all your suffering

In this cleaving,

Life’s conundrum

The grasping fist of emptiness,

Mercy is generated.


Melody Carr
5/20/07


Friday, May 11, 2007

Whales and Other Submerged Phenomena

This is an article I wrote in 1992 about meditation and perception, it's a favorite of mine.

From the Fall 1992 issue of Center Voice, newsletter of the Center for Sacred Sciences


This afternoon I went for a long walk by the ocean. The beach is rocky here at Yachats and displays a surprising fierceness at high tide. As I walked waves would rush up the narrow inlets between rocky fingers of land and shatter high overhead. In places the water has battered the rocks so hard underground channels have been carved beneath my feet. In one spot a few feet away from where I am now sitting, the roof of one of these channels has caved in and when waves smash into each other inside it, a rainbow-filled geyser crashes uproariously out of the hole.

There are so many singularities here at the ocean’s edge that the power of mindfulness, “a clean, bare attention” to what is happening, seems easy to sustain. Yet noticing the distinct qualities in each realm of consciousness, one of the basic steps in a practice of inquiry, is not easy. The ocean’s presence is so striking, sensory experience feels unified and seamless. How can I divide it up? Here is the sound of ocean. Listening, I try to hear it as sound. What is it that I experience when I hear this? I listen not for the roar of ocean, but the quality of the sound as a part of awareness, distinct from what I see, touch, feel . . .

It’s hard. The sound is so evocative, it’s difficult to distinguish it from a feeling of expansiveness as I sit here, and what is the sense that I feel as pressure and vibration in my body? Sound? Touch? And the rhythmic nature of what I hear—is this sound or something else? I am aware that as I follow what I thought was sound, it runs into multiple channels of awareness, just as the water rises up in a mass and breaks into thousands of separate rivulets on the rocks and trickles down to the sea.

You know those Gestalt images in psychology books, optical illusions in which you can see the profile of a young woman one instant and the profile of an old woman the next—but you can never see the two profiles at once? Each distinct, imaginary image is created from the same set of lines. They’re not really separate: one image becomes foreground, the other background. They’re polarized, symmetric—objects located exactly in the same space. The image you see submerges the other, which goes—where?

Are the boundaries between things, the solid world of objects we experience simply a trick of the way we focus on the whole? When we shift focus we find our easy definitions unraveling. Think—is everything carved out of our awareness like this? “What we see, we see / and seeing is changing, “ Adrienne Rich said in her poem “Planetarium.” As we isolate boundaries with our attention, we begin to see their imaginary nature. But baring enlightenment, new boundaries rise up in their place. Our attention shuttles back and forth, within/without, weaving this seemingly seamless whole (and it is!) into its familiar shape.

Much later—people around me are pointing, binoculars out, staring at the sea. I squint out over the water, amorphous specks in my vision resolving into—seabirds? Anomalies of waves? A puff of froth and a shadow. It’s true, it’s a whale.

He’s not so far out. But he never quite emerges. I see the long dark sleek shape of him rise imperceptibly, so that after the fact I think “oh!” and then he glides by and disappears like the fabled sea serpent, the merest sinuous line on the water’s surface. All the late afternoon he stays, almost in one spot, rising and disappearing like that other fabulous beast, the final object in consciousness, the self, leaving behind only a cloud of vapor. I have been staring so long at the space where he appears that at times I don’t realize if I’m still seeing him or not.

I think perhaps it’s time to go, but I am reluctant to abandon watching him, hoping that he will emerge so I can see him clearly. I feel just as I often do when I meditate, anticipating the reward of insight that remains stubbornly submerged in the familiar sea of habitual experience.

So I’ve been sitting a long time now, the tide is out, and I am aware of how the clarity of the noonday light has changed. The late afternoon sun spreads a milky golden light over the water. Everything calms down, recedes slightly into the distance. A seal’s head pops up in the surf, gilded like everything else with the mellowing light. A haze forms on the horizon. This novelty contains its own reassurance. Even without whales visible there is something to see, something that may not be seen when whales emerge.

—Melody Carr

Coyote Mapping the Landscape



Coyote Mapping the Landscape

Coyote
Finds the world wide open
Everywhere he goes
He smells the happiness of
River bottoms
Tall mountains
Dusty arroyos.
He sees
Birds wing into flight
Snakes scroll through dirt
Deer browse along trails.
He hears
Mice and jackrabbits
Bustle through bushes
Insects whir past
The far-off thunder grumble
Over distant ridges.

Over mountains and valleys he travels
Tongue lolling, nose raised
Into the sun
As it rises up from the cool of dawn
To witness Coyote's shadow
And then slides melting down the heat of day
Over Coyote's dusty back.
Moonlight traces his track
Through the silver-furred Coyote landscape.
Mapping and measuring with his senses
Everything he smells
And everything he hears
And everything he sees.
Everywhere he passes the world is taking shape
In olfactory remembrance,
Coyote canniness left on the nearest bush or rock.
This known universe: Coyote cartography.

For Peter Eberhardt, mapmaker

Happy Birthday, Peter! Melody, 5/7/07

Saturday, April 28, 2007

Nonviolent Communication: A Language of Life by Marshall B. Rosenberg.
Puddle Dance Press, 2003. Paper, $17.95.

I attended one of Marshall Rosenberg’s workshops when he came to Eugene in May 2004. His vision of nonviolent communication inspired me; it seemed so hopeful and so possible. Rosenberg has undertaken dialogue and teaching of the NVC process in many places all over the world where violence and hatred have flared. I was very impressed by his book and want to learn more.

In an interview in The Sun Magazine (Feb 2003) Rosenberg described how he helped rapists and the women they had raped communicate with one another, a dialogue that traveled past rage and remorse, even beyond conventional concepts of apology and forgiveness. In the introduction to that interview, D. Killian says that Nonviolent Communication is “more than a technique for resolving conflict. It’s a different way of understanding human motivation and behavior.

Rosenberg says “NVC is founded on language and communication skills that strengthen our ability to remain human, even under trying conditions. It contains nothing new; all that has been integrated into NVC has been known for centuries. The intent is to remind us about what we already know—about how we humans were meant to relate to one another—and to assist us in living in a way that concretely manifests this knowledge.”

The first step in this transformation is the separation of observation from evaluation, especially in situations that provoke crisis and emotional confrontation. Observation means paying attention to the actual actions or events as opposed to making a judgment of these actions or events, and addressing only what concretely happens. This isn’t always easy. Rosenberg quotes Krishnamurti, who remarked that observing without evaluating is the highest form of human intelligence.

Discerning how we feel in relation to what we are observing is the second step in the NVC process. As I was reading Nonviolent Communication the night before the workshop I found Rosenberg saying something very simple that I kept thinking about before I fell asleep. He says all feelings originate from needs. This idea struck me like a revelation—I had never clearly made the connection that feelings arise as the expression of needs. It seemed that feelings just happened and I was often uneasy about the unfathomable or uncontrollable quality of many feelings I had; I would try to argue myself out of them. To Rosenberg, feelings are based in needs for universal human necessities: autonomy, celebration, integrity, interdependence, physical nurturance, play, spiritual communion. When these needs are acknowledged and met, we are joyful, confident, energetic, inspired. When they aren’t, we become angry, confused, distressed, overwhelmed, and sad.

Teaching people to comprehend and respect how their feelings are based on what they need (in this context, in this moment) is the third step of Nonviolent Communication. Self-communication is as important as listening to someone else—it is even essential to being able to listen to someone else.

In the workshop I became interested in something else Rosenberg said. He was speaking about anger. In my environment lately, there have been a lot of anger and communication difficulties, so I wanted to understand how to work with anger. Rosenberg said anger was not a true feeling. Or perhaps he said it was not precisely a feeling. He said that anger was always based on a judgment—an evaluation. That every instance of anger contains a “should” or an “ought.” This is the root of all violence, he said. Violence starts in this judgment of how things are supposed to be, or what is right—of what is deserved. In speaking about communication that blocks compassion, he emphasizes the importance of distinguishing between value judgments and moralistic judgments. We all make value judgments based on our beliefs about what matters in life. We make moralistic judgments of people and behaviors that fail to support our value judgments, e.g. ‘Violence is bad. People who kill others are evil.’ Had we been raised speaking a language that facilitated the expression of compassion, we would have learned to articulate our needs and values directly, rather than to insinuate wrongness when they have not been met. For example, instead of “Violence is bad,’ we might say instead, ‘I am fearful of the use of violence to resolve conflicts; I value the resolution of human conflicts through other means.” To think in terms of what we feel and need leads us toward life-affirming communication.

The last essential step in NVC focuses on requests. These are concrete actions that we’d like to request of others “in order to enrich our lives” as Rosenberg puts it. “When our needs are not being fulfilled, we follow the expression of what we are observing, feeling, and needing with a specific request: we ask for actions that might fulfill our needs.”

What makes Nonviolent Communication so powerful is empathy. Empathy in Rosenberg’s view is based on an active process of deep listening and acceptance. It’s based on responsibility for and recognition of one’s own feelings and needs and the capacity to express them without judgment. Rosenberg says eloquently on page 4 of Nonviolent Communication that he “developed NVC as a way to train my attention—to shine the light on consciousness—on places that have the potential to yield what I am seeking. What I want in my life is compassion, a flow between myself and others based on a mutual giving from the heart.”

June 2004

Thursday, April 26, 2007

.

The Revenge of Gaia: Earth's Climate Crisis and the Fate of Humanity. James Lovelock. Basic Books, 2006. Hardcover, $25.00.


Climate change and global heating were just faint shadows on our horizon only a few years ago. Now our perception of the future is changing radically with the daily news of melting ice caps and rising carbon dioxide levels. These questions are becoming critical: what’s really going to happen to the earth’s climate and what should we do?

The United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) just released its latest report on climate change (on April 6th) and already it has generated controversy because the U.S. government and others forced the scientists authoring the report to tone down or edit out some of its most serious warnings and predictions. See the IPCC website for information at http://www.ipcc.ch/. Another very useful site to visit is RealClimate: http://www.realclimate.org/.

While most scientists agree that the earth will be profoundly affected by upcoming climate changes, they are still assessing the timing and the extent of the impact. We are just beginning the process of understanding and accepting the significance of these changes as individuals and as communities.

Reading James Lovelock’s book, The Revenge of Gaia was a challenging experience, as I absorbed his perspective and attempted to come to terms with what he says. The book is quite readable, but it’s also provocative.

Lovelock, the scientist who originated Gaia Theory, has one of the most drastic views of what is going to happen as a result of current climate change trends. In his book he states that it’s now too late to prevent the earth from passing very soon into “a morbid fever that may last as long as 100,000 years.” He says that we’ve past the point of no return and that global heating is in an accelerating feedback loop. He believes that sometime within this century, much of the earth will become uninhabitable and that basically the human race will become reduced to “a few breeding pairs in the Arctic.”

The book generated much talk when it came out last year because of these statements and because of Lovelock’s view on what we must do in the face of crisis. Lovelock espouses the use of nuclear power to prevent “the lights from going out” on civilization. He believes that nuclear power is the only energy option efficient enough to provide a slower transition to a world where so much that we’ve taken for granted has vanished.

Lovelock sees development and progress as a catastrophic way to relate to the earth. He writes that most of human history reflects a war on Gaia, a war in which we attempt to increase our domination of the natural world and make it serve our interests. The destructiveness we’ve wrought has destabilized the regulatory systems of the earth and the result is our own destruction and that of our habitat. He further argues that so much of what the Greens and other environmentalists envision as sustainable development is really a continuation of this short-sighted perspective. In his view, we have passed a time where we can consider any kind of development and growth. We must now embark on a retreat, giving up the idea of economic growth, though Lovelock envisions a sustainable retreat. He wishes to minimize the problems we will encounter in feeding people by creating synthetic food, for example. He also envisions the possibility of setting up massive screens in space that would shield the earth from some of the warming that is about to become so lethal.

Lovelock is opposed to the use of wind power because the turbines destroy the natural countryside and, he believes, cannot generate enough power efficiently. He thinks other sources like solar power also suffer from lack of cost-effectiveness and efficiency.

It is interesting and, to me, disturbing to see that nuclear power is being given renewed consideration again by many governments and utilities, and arguments advanced by Lovelock are among them. Lovelock argues that the actual evidence for low level radiation creating health and environmental problems in places like Chernobyl flies in the face of accepted thinking, because there isn’t any real evidence of these problems. He says that isolation of Chernobyl and the surrounding countryside after the accident has actually proved to be of great benefit to the environment. Because humans have shunned this area it is a now flourishing wildlife refuge. I admit that I found some of what Lovelock said about low level radiation to be potentially plausible, or at least open to greater investigation. I think it would be wonderful, if true, that radioactive contamination turns out to not have such terrifying impact on the life. Lovelock cites sources for a lack of environmental problems at Chernobyl and also even at Hiroshima and Nagasaki, where he argues, the rate of cancers in the population that survived direct atomic war is only a small percent above that of other unaffected populations in Japan. But in spite of Lovelock’s arguments, I’m not convinced that nuclear power is a good choice. The time and cost associated with building nuclear power plants seems a significant obstacle and the risk of terrible misuse of nuclear energy for weapons cannot easily be discounted, especially in a chaotic time. I’ve read encouraging news about wind and solar power lately that causes me to think that Lovelock is too dismissive of these sources of energy.

What Lovelock wants to do is prevent massive suffering as the earth systems and resources we’ve depended on suddenly begin to collapse and he sees the strategy he outlines as the only really effective way to do that.

The biggest problem I have with Lovelock’s thinking is the contradiction between what he says is the human war on Gaia and the kinds of solutions he proposes, which are essentially technological and really require the use of the resources of large corporations and governments. He envisions dividing land into three equal areas: one for human living space; one for growing crops; and the last area reserved for regenerating the natural world, the organ systems of Gaia. While in many ways this is an admirable concept, it also seems to require the use of force to begin such a system and to maintain it. It raises the issue of what management we accept as the price for salvaging some of the human and natural world.

Lovelock seems focused on these large-scale, resource-intensive solutions as the only way to prevent catastrophe. He doesn’t really discuss ways whereby individuals can find or be empowered to make changes, to create solutions on a smaller scale, because, it seems, it is too late for such incremental sorts of change. Thus there is no concept of economic or social transformation except on the most drastic top-end level, which is perhaps the most disturbing and disempowering aspect of the book.

Is Lovelock right about the extent and timing of climate change? Well, on one level perhaps we should simply act as if it’s true. But it can also be a call for transformation in our way of life that’s undertaken by each of us. If climate change is as catastrophic as Lovelock predicts, then it is just as important to provide a path of individual and community action. I was very impressed with Stephan Harding’s view in Animate Earth of service to Gaia. If being in service to the greater good of the planet and to the life on it is primary, no matter what the outcome, then I think we can begin to be at peace with Gaia. This means letting go of belief in control. We focus on a life of positive actions and greater balance here and now. I think there is also hope for a meaningful future in this giving. We live in ways that give back to the human and other communities we are an intrinsic and inescapable part of. This is the role of humans as stewards of the garden, our home.

For a brief summation of some of Lovelock’s views as expressed in The Revenge of Gaia, see this article he wrote at http://www.countercurrents.org/cc-lovelock200106.htm.

Sunday, April 22, 2007

Nature, perception, light and color


It's strange, years ago I loved Klee's painting Ad Parnassum intensely. I was looking at it again and realizing what I've been painting lately is strikingly akin to this, on so many levels. How fascinating to see this--like a sudden mirror. I don't know if it has been subconsciously influencing me or whether I am just in a very similar place. Perhaps both. Parnassus was the mountain where the muses dwelt, and it was also the location of the oracle of Delphi, where the Pythoness, the priestess of Apollo (though long before that she was the oracle of the earth goddess) sat on her tripod within the mountain prophesying.

Now I really want to explore what Klee was up to with this technique. The ideas about nature, perception, and color and the kind of experimentation that Klee and others were up in the early part of the century was once really was compelling to me and I find that it's starting to happen all over again. It's quite interesting because it also intersects with Goethe's ideas about perception and observation that Stephen Harding speaks of in his book Animate Earth as well. But it is the centrality of color that fascinates me the most.

Traveling toward that universe . . . the pilgrimage to the mountain, the world of inspiration and vision . . .


"A turning point in Paul Klee's career was his visit to Tunisia with Auguste Macke and Louis Molliet in 1914. He was so overwhelmed by the intense light there that he wrote: Color has taken possession of me; no longer do I have to chase after it, I know that it has hold of me forever. That is the significance of this blessed moment. Color and I are one. I am a painter. He now built up compositions of colored squares that have the radiance of the mosaics he saw on his Italian sojourn." http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/klee/

Robert Delaunay, letter to August Macke, 1912
"Direct observation of the luminous essence of nature is for me indispensable. I do not necessarily mean observation with palette in hand, although I am not opposed to notations taken from nature itself. I do much of my work from nature, "before the subject," as it is commonly called. But what is of great importance to me is observation of the movement of colors. Only in this way have I found the laws of complementary and simultaneous contrasts of colors which sustain the very rhythm of my vision. In this movement of colors I find the essence, which does not arise from a system, or an a priori theory." http://www.artchive.com/artchive/D/delaunay.html