Crush Their Butts June 1, 2011

 Following is one of my favorite poems. It was written by Gary Snyder at a Sierra Club wilderness conference in 1969, and depicts our favorite bear in jeans and ranger hat as the reincarnated Virocana Buddha.

Despite the problematics of putting out forest fires that might actually be beneficial, Smokey remains a powerful character in the American imagination. The poem came to my mind this morning after listening to the news. Oy, do we need this bear and his vajra-shovel now.

———

Smokey the Bear Sutra

by Gary Snyder

Once in the Jurassic about 150 million years ago, the Great Sun Buddha in this corner of the Infinite Void gave a Discourse to all the assembled elements and energies: to the standing beings, the walking beings, the flying beings, and the sitting beings — even grasses, to the number of thirteen billions, each one born from a seed, assembled there: a Discourse concerning Enlightenment on the planet Earth.

“In some future time, there will be a continent called America. It will have great centers of power called such as Pyramid Lake, Walden Pond, Mt. Rainier, Big Sur, Everglades, and so forth; and powerful nerves and channels such as Columbia River, Mississippi River, and Grand Canyon. The human race in that era will get into troubles all over its head, and practically wreck everything in spite of its own strong intelligent Buddha-nature.”

“The twisting strata of the great mountains and the pulsings of volcanoes are my love burning deep in the earth. My obstinate compassion is schist and basalt and granite, to be mountains, to bring down the rain. In that future American Era I shall enter a new form; to cure the world of loveless knowledge that seeks with blind hunger: and mindless rage eating food that will not fill it.”

And he showed himself in his true form of

SMOKEY THE BEAR

• A handsome smokey-colored brown bear standing on his hind legs, showing that he is aroused and watchful.
• Bearing in his right paw the Shovel that digs to the truth beneath appearances; cuts the roots of useless attachments, and flings damp sand on the fires of greed and war;
• His left paw in the Mudra of Comradely Display — indicating that all creatures have the full right to live to their limits and that deer, rabbits, chipmunks, snakes, dandelions, and lizards all grow in the realm of the Dharma;
• Wearing the blue work overalls symbolic of slaves and laborers, the countless men oppressed by a civilization that claims to save but often destroys;
• Wearing the broad-brimmed hat of the West, symbolic of the forces that guard the Wilderness, which is the Natural State of the Dharma and the True Path of man on earth: all true paths lead through mountains—
• With a halo of smoke and flame behind, the forest fires of the kali-yuga, fires caused by the stupidity of those who think things can be gained and lost whereas in truth all is contained vast and free in the Blue Sky and Green Earth of One Mind;
• Round-bellied to show his kind nature and that the great earth has food enough for everyone who loves her and trusts her;
• Trampling underfoot wasteful freeways and needless suburbs; smashing the worms of capitalism and totalitarianism;
• Indicating the Task: his followers, becoming free of cars, houses, canned foods, universities, and shoes; master the Three Mysteries of their own Body, Speech, and Mind; and fearlessly chop down the rotten trees and prune out the sick limbs of this country America and then burn the leftover trash.

Wrathful but Calm. Austere but Comic. Smokey the Bear will Illuminate those who would help him; but for those who would hinder or slander him,

HE WILL PUT THEM OUT.

Thus his great Mantra:

Namah samanta vajranam chanda maharoshana Sphataya hum traka ham nam

“I DEDICATE MYSELF TO THE UNIVERSAL DIAMOND.BE THIS RAGING FURY DESTROYED”

And he will protect those who love woods and rivers, Gods and animals, hobos and madmen, prisoners and sick people, musicians, playful women, and hopeful children.

And if anyone is threatened by advertising, air pollution, television, or the police, they should chant SMOKEY THE BEAR’S WAR SPELL:

DROWN THEIR BUTTS CRUSH THEIR BUTTS DROWN THEIR BUTTS CRUSH THEIR BUTTS

And SMOKEY THE BEAR will surely appear to put the enemy out with his vajra-shovel.

• Now those who recite this Sutra and then try to put it in practice willl accumulate merit as countless as the sands of Arizona and Nevada.
• Will help save the planet Earth from total oil slick.
• Will enter the age of harmony of man and nature.
• Will win the tender love and caresses of men, women, and beasts.
• Will always have ripe blackberries to eat and a sunny spot under a pine tree to sit at.
• AND IN THE END WILL WIN HIGHEST PERFECT ENLIGHTENMENT.

thus have we heard.

(may be reproduced free forever)

A Toast to the Contra Community January 25, 2011

It doesn’t feel like winter in Sonoma County right now, with glorious 60-degree sunny weather and the hyacinth buds shyly considering peeping out. But as we know the wet is only on pause temporarily, the warmth feels even more sweet.

In winter, even a warmish one, pleasures grow smaller. We sit by the hearth (or far-lesser equivalent, the DVD player) and take in stories, go for walks, clean our homes of old cobwebs, and eat delicious fattening things – an ancient strategy to ensure our survival through the cold dark times of little food.

There are still mushrooms to be had. The other day I enjoyed a breakfast of wildcrafted Elfin Saddles scrambled up in butter with garlic, green onions, eggs and misc herbs, o yum. I found them along the irrigation ditch near my cottage. They’re black and gnarly and easily hidden in the dried grasses, so you’ve got to use sharp eyes to spot them.

And we gather together to dance. I especially love contradancing, both to dance it and to call the dances. I love the tunes too, and someday will get past the mediocre stage of playing musical instruments enough to play for dances. For now, though, it’s all about the feet and the voice and the deep connection to others through shared joy.

*

Here’s a toast written specially for the contra dance community, delivered at midnight on New Years Eve 2010.  The North Bay Country Dance Society asked me to give it. You likely didn’t, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

*

A NYE Toast to the Contra Community

by Tina Fields

 

Gather together – the time is nigh,

The old year it comes to an end.

And we have could certainly done much worse

Than to spend it here, dancing with friends.

 

The skirts they flew; the notes danced too

As the fiddlers raised a tune –

It’s the dark of the year, but as luck’s with us here,

Our spirits feel bright as in June.

 

As we think on our lives, and all we’ve survived

We may notice some new aches and pains.

Seems with every year passing there’s some treasure lost,

But the joy that sustains us remains.

 

So let’s toast to the dance and this circle of joy

And the company gathered here – wow!

Raise your glass high; bid the old year goodbye

And the New Year, come in: Welcome Now!

 

(Everyone: Welcome Now!)

*

Bright blessings to you in 2011. May this year bring you wonderful food, friends, and fun.

And may you continue to receive such good wishes, even long after the official giving-new-years-blessings time is past.

Really Seeing a Tree January 2, 2011

I travelled much in my youth,

and continue to today.

In Cambridge, Massachusetts (near Harvard Square)

between the papers and discussions,

I walked outside

seeking asylum from the reeking of my mind

(my brain so numb I had to consult my notes

to remember my own words!)

The first time out all day.

A one-block walk was all I had time for. But grace

has a way of descending in strange times.

I met a golden maple,

glowing with evening light leaves

and I stopped, entranced. For years I stood,

looking up, feeling her skin, awed.

Looking at the dancing lights, looking at the bark patterns,

the movement, the subtle colors.

And Seeing,

falling into the beloved through the eyes.

 

It would take me the whole day

to draw the intricacies of this thumbnail-sized piece of bark

in as much detail as I could,

and even then that would not begin

to scratch the surface of what was there.

How long for the entire trunk?

let alone the branches, the roots, the changing leaves,

the entire living body of this tree?

And then there are the changes!

Every day brings new differences –

“Oh no, I have to do the painting over again,

that leaf has been nibbled; another is yellow today!

And the third from the left is gone!”

Several lifetimes would be needed

just to observe this one tree,

and even then skimming, a thin summary

of its possibilities.

 

Amongst travelling people, strange shifts can occur in fall.

I have left lovers because I felt bored with them,

thinking I knew all there was to know

yet now

I feel ready to settle and be contented

knowing one tree, and

its birds who visit,

its leaf changes,

its singular song in the wind.

Falling into one millimeter of bark

at a time –

This for the first time is satisfying;

it’s enough.

 

Maybe I am approaching middle age:

Small things hold tremendous import

and easy ability to renew my soul.

 

– Tina Fields

Rocksong October 10, 2010

*

Tonight I go alone

to the Stone-People-Lodge

To the drumming in the lodge

To the people calling, chanting

down the bones of ancient eagles

and the deities of granite near

a pregnant fir tree humming,

offering sap that danced out freely

in the Dreamtime of our mothers

who perceive us in their future

which is Now, as we are waiting

in their lodge of seven colors

like a rainbow bridge of feathers –

insubstantial in our bodies;

only present in our yearnings

in our brayings

in our dreamings; there

our bodies they are gleaming

with the cleansing

and the healing

and the long-awaited joining

with the elder tribal peoples

sister raven

grandma mugwort

So then will come the sound of angels

tying all our lives together

in the falling of their fire

and the raindrops in their wingsong

Burning breathing

smokedeyes squeezing

as the tears release from from spirits

at the deaths of all our baggage

We are joined by silver navel cords

to all of Our Relations

we are dancing in the Moebius strip

of despairing elation

Dance the memory of Realtime

Dance the flow of sap in pine trees

Dancing out of sacred lodges

in the sun,

never alone.

***

This poem was written to the sound of an internal rattle while waiting for a ride (in a shopping mall, of all places) several hours before I was to go into my first Inipi ceremony with the late Wallace Black Elk. Everything that came in the poem also later came to pass in the tipi.  It was nice of the spirits to provide a program!

Riding on the MUNI June 29, 2010

a poem meant to be spoken aloud

by Tina Fields

*

[Note: The MUNI is a form of public transportation in San Francisco, linked municipal railcars (pictured below).  It sort of shakes up and down when it gets going fast; thus the jogging rhythm of this poem.]

*

So I’m riding on the MUNI…

Yeh I’m riding on the MUNI…

I’m riding on the MUNI…

*

I just came here from Nevada, on the edge of the Great Basin,

where my very nearest neighbor is a cow five miles away;

Where your psyche reaches out, expanding,

breathing out, and listens to the thoughts of birds –

a hawk!  golden spirals overhead;

bloodmind riveted on rustling,

slightest movement in the grasses…

*

And I lurch to San Francisco, where I’m riding on the MUNI

And we’re packed in like anchovies but pretend no one is touching:

With my clothes wrapped tight around me I am riding on the MUNI;

With my thoughts wrapped tight around me I am riding on the MUNI

*

And I’m riding on the MUNI

And I’m riding on the MUNI…

*

And he swoops!  with talons twisted, each in perfect ballerina’s pointe,

exquisite fatal symmetry, dull gleaming in the twilight;

And my heart it hears the mouse scream!

and my mind shrieks bloody victory!

…and  … somehow I’ve got possession of my nearest neighbor’s paper;

got it clutched here in my talons, with a death-grip on Dear Abby…

I’m here, riding on the MUNI,

with ink tickling my tastebuds

and the scent still in my nostrils of fresh literary kill…

*

But a furtive glance around… reveals…

I don’t know if they notice!

All their eyes are hid by glasses darkly gleaming in the foglight,

as we strangers huddle lonely, cradled in each others’ feathers;

With our buttocks jammed together

and our minds like shattered sunlight

as we’re riding on the MUNI.

*

Women’s Laughter June 7, 2010

I recently returned from a weekend trip to Nevada City, where I called a contra dance. This sort of gig is not at all worth it if you think only in terms of money: the pay barely covers the gas for the 7.5-hour round trip drive. It’s a community service, really, albeit a joyous one. But in terms of friendship? Priceless. Serve your community, get served back – with a cherry on top.

What a delight to make new friends with the Monterey-based band The Crabapples (excellent trad music made by smart, funny, warm-hearted people). How lovely to breakfast on what must surely be the best waffles in the universe, containing nuts and mystery ingredients including sweet potatoes, for God’s sake – whoever heard of such a thing? – and covered with strawberries fresh-picked from the garden and blueberries too and yogurt and real maple syrup, made by my medium-old dancing friends Eric Engels and Lisa Frankel (medium-old in terms of how long known, not geriatricity), while sharing stories around a table set for ten.  And how wonderful, on the eve prior, to re-connect with very old friends Kate Winningham and Glen Garrod. I co-raised Kate’s oldest child back in the end times of Disco. You know that it’s a heart connection when you don’t see someone for 13 years, yet being with them again is as easy and sweet as if had only been yesterday.

During the visit, Kate gave me a copy of this poem. It kinda sums up one of the great delights of my life – and hopefully yours, too.

(If you are one of the women with whom I’ve laughed like this, consider this post a big fat thank-you specifically for you. If not, pass it on to your gigglesisters. And when are you coming over here?)

*

Women’s Laughter

Talking the night away

Kitchen sink humour

Laughing like drains

Cackling like crones

.

Hooting like owls

Howling like wolves

Gut wrenching

Belly laughs

.

Filthy jokes

Foulmouthed

Spitting it out

Old bags and bad girls

.

Table thumping

Trivial, tribal

Tremendous

The power

.

Of women’s laughter

.

– Cora Greenhill

——

Pictured in the photo: Alice Murphy, laughing.

Audre Lorde on original authority May 31, 2010

Among the arcane delights in my tiny cottage are a fat file of poetry admired & collected over the years, and another fat collection of photos I’ve taken myself.

Here begin the artistic sandwiches.

————–

What If? – (The Million-and-First Meditation and the Last)

What if we smashed the mirrors

And saw our true face?

What if we left the Sacred Books to the worms

And found our True Mind?

What if we burned the wooden Buddhas?

Gave the stone Buddhas back to the mountains?

Dispersed the gurus with a great laugh

And discovered the path we had always been on?

What if we told the Saviours

We were saved from our first breath

And the healers — If you could heal yourselves

All would be healed?

What if we washed clean of Authority’s ordure

And smelled the fresh smell of our own bodies?

What if, as Eve eating the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge,

We knew the “Patriarchal Curse” a mere natural thunder

Bringing Eden a cleansing rain?

What if, in the lightning’s flash

We saw there were

NO

Mirrors

Sacred Books

Buddhas

Gurus

Saviours

Healers

Authority

And Knowledge was standing stark under the sky

Feet naked to earth

Eyes there for whatever light falls.

What if –?

– Audre Lorde