Sharing Consciousness

I took a walk at my favorite time of day.  No longer day, but not quite night; twilight.  There is so much variety and quick, subtle changes for the senses at this special time of day.  The air was crisp and still, the sky was absolutely cloudless.  The sliver of a waxing moon kept me company as I strolled, block by city block toward the park.  A small bird flys quickly overhead to reach its nest before the fullness of nightfall.

I arrive at the big field crusted over with icy snow, my feet crunching beneath me with every step.  The quality of light and the variety of shades of colors blending seamlessly together across the dome of sky enthrall me.  Rosy hues in the west give way to violet blues, and on into the ever darkening shades and shadows of night to the east.  In this glorious time betwixt and between, the magical, fading light highlights the finery of form of every tree limb and twig reaching toward the expansive sky.  I notice a star twinkling within the framework of high branches, and silently give thanks for this fine moment.  I feel lighthearted, joyful, both a witness and an included participant in this array of shifting light; another mysterious silhouette dancing against the changing palette of color in the space around and between everything.

My experience in nature shows me that I am a person who gets good feelings by joining in and witnessing the beauty of the changing light of day into night."  I enjoy the interplay of light, shadow, colorful hues, shifting energies and the feeling of shrouding mystery in the imminent arrival of the night.  On my way home, it further occurred to me that I love bearing witness to transition in many ways and on many levels in life; in myself, my surroundings, other people, seasons, etc.  It always seems like such an honor to recognize, witness and in some cases, help usher along the fleeting, magical movement of transformation.  Earth spoke to me in my love for twilight, and helped me better recognize my appreciation for the cycles of light and life.

I liked hearing what made others feel good in this activity:

..."glimpsing rainbow colors in the spider web strands that stretch between the newly leafing apple branches."

..."by walking and sitting among trees.  I crawled through some heavy brush and secured myself in the low, open area under a large California Bay Laurel.  I felt attracted to a twig far up in the sunlight.  Focusing on this twig I became aware of the air joining us, as something in me told me to breathe more slowly and deeply, which brought on a feeling of calm and of the grandeur and perfection of nature, a feeling which lasted well after I had returned home."

..."when spending the night alone at a high mountain lake.  It is then that I most easily shed the false boundary between myself and the surrounding world.  And it is then that I recognize at last that we are all one.  It is then that life takes on a new dimension:  half my body uniting with the warm earth, the other half facing the night sky.  I suddenly feel as if I am transformed into starlight reflected in water."

I learned that we are part of the cumulative experience of the living world and the universe, and to everything that is.  We are in dire need of contact with each other and with other living things.  Consciousness is a natural sense and the attraction strands of the web of life are nature's voice in our consciousness, Nature has always provided an enhancement of self-worth and I have always, and will always trust nature.  I am not consciousness, I have, utilize, and share consciousness with the global ecosystem of plants, animals and minerals.

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[Carol Biggs]

August 15, 2007

Pond life this summer fascinates me completely, especially with the companionship of Miranda, my 6-year-old granddaughter.

Several days ago I bought a larger container for the 3 tadpoles on my deck because the fish bowl seemed too small now, and because I thought they would like a deeper "pond."

On Sunday Miranda and I returned the last of the 3 original tadpoles to the big pond so it had a chance to grow as large as the rest of the frog community before moving onto land.

Miranda climbed up the alder tree overhanging the pond so she could watch the tadpole’s reentry into its natural home. The tree branch broke when she put her weight on it, and she slid on her chest and belly down the rough alder trunk, causing a rather large scrape. While she didn't cry, her feelings were hurt because she said the tree made her get scratched and scraped. After a bit of discussion, Miranda understood the tree didn't cause her slide down its rough bark, but rather she stepped on a branch that couldn't support her weight, and gravity took over.

By taking time for this important talk, we prevented a harmful nature-disconnected story from locking in that might have prejudiced Miranda against certain types of trees, or climbing trees at all, for that matter.

In exchange for the newly released tadpole, Miranda brought home for a short visit a tiny frog with only a bit of tail left. Intermittently over the next 2 days I spent time on the deck with the 2 remaining tadpoles who are losing their tails, and the new little frog. For some reason they appeared to be struggling. In time, I realized 3 things:

With disappearing tadpole tails, the newly emerging frogs had a hard time balancing as they swam. Though they were experts at swimming with tails, the transition to feet, legs and no tail took wobbling, floundering, flopping, and sinking, at times falling completely upside down in the water while scrambling with legs and feet to right themselves, as they learned about weight and balance, and how to correct.

Very quickly I realized the water was too deep without easy access to a rest area, so I removed about half the water, thereby exposing to air part of the rock and piece of wood I had placed in their pond. Almost immediately the frog climbed on the rock. Yesterday I moved the piece of wood at an angle so the other 2 tadpoles could climb out of the water. Within a few hours one of the tadpoles had climbed onto the wood and poked its nose into the air.

Watching our frog relations transform from water creatures to air creatures is an extraordinary and priceless education, at times transporting my imagination back eons of lifetimes ago when Coelacanth and lung fish evolved feet and air-breathing mechanisms in order to walk out of the oceans onto earth, and the new oxygen-breathing container, also known as planet Earth’s air.

This morning, upon removing the cover from the fish tank (to prevent Stellars’ jays from breakfasting upon tadpoles), the frog jumped off its rock and swam to the bottom. The tadpole who has been in my pond much longer than the frog remained on the piece of wood, even with me peering down at it. (Maybe it knows by now I am harmless.) The other tadpole that is not quite a frog was lying on the bottom of the tank. Today I will place another rock or wood perch into the tank. This way I can validate the reality of non-verbal communication with other creatures; that is simply noticing their actions through at least 53 senses.

Another fascinating observation: On the way to froghood, a white mucous substance hung from the feet of 2 of the tadpoles for part of a day, and subsequently was shed. I think this was a skin that protected them in the water. They no longer need this membrane as land creatures, or occasional pond creatures.

(In order to validate this idea, Miranda and I would need to spend time at the big pond when the tadpoles had just evolved to froghood, but still were mostly water critters. Without taking time with more than a few new frogs, we might think our ideas are reality, when something else altogether might be the case.)

The more I am in connection with my deck pond, the more attractions appear. Today I noticed bits of sticks moving in the mud at the bottom of the tank, along with moving black dots and micro water hoppers, even though no air stirred the water. Upon close study, the “sticks” look like larva. Miranda and I want to see one emerging. Maybe they are some of our very favorite dragonfly companions. Looking for them in a book would most likely reveal their identification, but Miranda and I like to learn from our natural attractions for a long time by being with them in their surroundings. That way we benefit from our personal experiences, instead of looking through the eyes of others before we’ve had a chance to look through our own.

This is the grandest education of all, learning first hand from other natural creatures and systems, at the same time exercising at least 53 intelligent senses that guide us to healthiest survival when we give them the opportunity. Each of us is an original. Taking time to learn through our own experiences develops individual intelligence, our creative potential that can be given back to the whole of life.

Who knows, humans might not even need wars any longer if we remembered our ability to communicate with natural systems and creatures!

Miranda was afraid of dragonflies when first exposed. Again, over time watching and listening to my appreciative and friendly responses to these magnificent creatures, answering her questions about whether they would bite or hurt her, and inviting them to come close so we could admire them, Miranda now invites them to land on her hand. I believe one will before summer ends.

I have maintained the fish tank on my deck by replacing the water every few days with mud, water and plants from their native pond, as well as rainwater when available, with the intention of helping them remain connected with their natural home.

Honoring our responsibility to care for creatures we have "borrowed" for a time, so that young Miranda can learn from Life in all its forms, is truly a valuable nature education.

To be continued. . .

From the North American temperate rainforest

Carol Biggs

[Catrien Ross]

Stream Bed Connecting

I wander down along the little stream, a burn really. There is almost no water flowing. Vines tumble everywhere, covering the stream bed, hiding tree trunks and branches, hanging in the air. Today I sense lightness and detachment in myself, my focus is relaxed. Walking is simply walking. As I stop to take a rest my heart gives a little jump and with that I know that I can jump into the stream bed. My rubber boots squelch and squish. Nameless, I say, and close my eyes. I tread lightly, lifting one leg in turn and bringing it down again into the springy softness. With each bounce something bounces in me. I can hear a slight sucking sound. It moves up my body and becomes a smile spreading over my face. The trickle of water invites me to bend down and dip my fingers in its coolness. I touch the soil under the water - mud, small pebbles, river sand - sharpness and softness mixing and falling, falling and mixing. Nameless, I remind myself. I become a type of waiting in the stream bed. Here is the water and here are my fingers in the water. There is a hush of expectancy inside me. I listen to squeaking under my feet, the burble of water moving through the green growth. I feel expansion and a quiet acceptance. I sense a deepening watchfulness. Then on my bare legs comes the sharp pain of insect stings and I look down to see a sudden swarm of gnats around me. I accept that my time here is up and with a silent bow of thank you I turn back toward the path.

[Carole Keene]

It was such a pleasure to reconnect with Francie. I was grateful to her for introducing me to a spot that I had never visited. It was immediately attractive to me. I felt quite at home, and found it to be a quiet and easy/calm space to be in. I connected with the wood ferns, among other things, and was reminded of the activity of matching. They are somewhat fragile looking/seeming, but really quite hardy. I felt connected to that quite strongly for myself.

The Audubon society has taken over the running of the Sims Bayou nature center, and Francie and I talked about the possibilities for PNC activities there. I plan to contact the local Auduboners and see if I can make arrangement to offer something in the fall, when it is cooler and more attractive to folks to be outdoors.

By the way Francie, my car said it was 107 degrees when I left the parking lot! It got down to 103 by the time I got to my destination. It was a very hot day!

Webhugs,
Ck
PS – I am happy to report another glorious raining morning…

carolekeene@sbcglobal.net

[Francie]

On Sun Carole Keene & I reconnected at the urban nature center by my house on Sims Bayou. Carole had a copy of the Webstrings book for me.

Carole & I met about 6 years ago at a Reconnecting with Nature class that she led and it was good to meet again after being in this group together.

We did a connecting with the webstrings while we were there. I was on a platform looking out at the bayou which is still in its undisturbed state as it was when I was a child growing up. My attention was 1st caught by bubbles in the water which I thought was a turtle but turned out to be a very large catfish, then my attention was drawn to the bird sounds, the butterflies and dragon flies crossing my field of vision, then across on the other side of the bayou high in a tree irridescent light reflecting from a large orb weaver spider web and as I continued to look at it the large red spider in the center of the web became visible. I thought of how this bayou was my major connecting source with wildlife and the web of life as a child and of my sense of adventure and exploring the unknown when we would build tree log bridges to cross the bayou and explore the woods on the other side. At the park near me the bayou has been manicured and robbed of its wildness which is still preserved in the area by the nature center but yet some wildlife still survives and continues to be a strong webstring for me to connect with the web of life/nature. Love, Francie

[Catrien Ross]

The Touch of Understanding

Standing under the cherry tree I wrap an old towel around my right hand. I have asked permission to be here and I feel invited. With my eyes closed I begin feeling the trunk with my left hand. My fingers pick out each horizontal gnarl - the myriad striations that make cherry bark so distinctive. The bark feels rough, scratchy. I reach out and touch a leaf on a lower branch. It is soft, but firm, with prominent ribs. I finger each one, rubbing the leaf gently between my thumb and index finger. I concentrate, learning the contours of the leaf through touch alone. People who cannot use their eyes for seeing do this, I think - absorbing information through fingertips attuned to the finest nuance. My fingers feel extra sensitive, as if the cells and skin are opening to a new awareness. My hearing, too, seems more acute. I listen as my fingers explore the bark.

Now I try with my towel-wrapped hand. If I push against the towel I can feel the hardness of the trunk. But the details are unavailable. My right hand feels muffled, deadened. It is clumsy and unseeing. Inside the towel my fingers can still move but my interaction with the tree is altered. I could be touching anything and it would not matter. My sensation is restricted, there is no flow of tangible energy between the tree and me. I sense the loss of a familiar and precious part of me.

With my eyes open I repeat the exercise. Now that I can use my eyes I receive the gift of beauty in the pattern of the cherry bark, in the delicate structure of the leaf. My towel-wrapped right hand remains unfeeling. It cannot acknowledge the individuality of what it touches. I realize that I sense loss because I know how it feels without the towel. But what if being wrapped in a towel is the only reality one knows? When one grows up isolated from sensory experiences, muffled against the aliveness of the natural world - what kind of human being does one become? I think the answer is evident all around us.

So another important thing I learned from this activity is that it is important to know what we are missing when we deaden our sensations. If we are already deadened to begin with then we don't much care about our interactions within the wider world of nature and in our human relationships. The sensory awareness is just not there. When we feel dead it is impossible to sense the life around us. This leads to an interaction with people and nature that supposes that everything is as dead as we are and it does not much matter how we behave. Life loses its vital authenticity - our sense of aliveness in a living world disappears.

I felt grateful to have been shown how precious my sensory experiences are - that my ability to sense is an essential interaction that I would not like to be without. I felt gratitude, too, that the tree could meet someone like me - a human who touched the bark with a sense of reverence. For a moment we shared our common sense of wonder in each other as a living entity.

[Catrien Ross]

Togetherness

My experience in nature shows me that I am a person who gets good feelings when I simply sit down on the ground in the garden somewhere and do nothing but wait and watch. Sitting on the soil, among the flowers, I am no taller than most of the plants. A Japanese bee buzzes by my left ear. It enters a flower. It is tiny, striped, furry, expert and efficient. It flies to the next flower. The little bee does not seem to mind my presence and I am calm in its presence. There is a baby grasshopper on a leaf. It, too, is tiny, not yet green - it is still a kind of light bark color. And what is this strange thing waving back and forth? It is a baby stick insect. The movements fascinate me - it is so thin, the legs so long, it balances, seeming so precarious, then it moves, then balances again. It is almost transparent, not at all like the dark brown of the adult. The young in nature all have their phase, their color, their way of testing the world. The ground on which I sit feels so good, so comforting. The breeze brushes leaves against my cheek. The sun is warm on my head. I can hear so many sounds of insects, so many songs of birds. Overhead is the vast sky. A crow flies into the tall cedar trees. I am a part of all of this, and it feels so right, as if this is how it should be. Every living thing, every part of every thing, including me, is simply what it is. I reach out and lightly touch the petal of a rugosa rose. The texture is soft yet strong. Connection. I bend forward to catch its perfume and breathe in deeply. Connection again.

When we simply are, when we make time to reconnect, then we create moments for Earth to speak to us. I am learning that Earth speaks to us constantly, but in our daily lives we humans are typically so involved with our out-of-nature activities that we cannot hear the voice of the Earth. Earth is communicating in so many non-verbal ways. I am learning more and more how good it feels to listen for the voice of the Earth. I am learning to listen.