All persons more than a mile high to leave the court.
Rule #42
“We live in a kind of dark age, craftily lit with synthetic light, so that no one can tell how dark it has really gotten. But our exiled spirits can tell. Deep in our bones resides an ancient singing couple who just won't give up making their beautiful, wild noise. The world won't end if we can find them.”
-Martin Prechtel
Living rather unrooted for several decades now has offered both inconceivable gifts and dizzyingly daunting challenges. The perspectives offered by dwelling for extended periods of time within the shoes of vastly opposing vantages have graced me with both deeper understandings and far more questions than answers. For all of it, I am grateful. The opportunities nomadic life offers for learning and the sheer joy of seeing new landscapes are experiences I would never trade. Yet as I age (this week, on Friday the 13th, just before the solar eclipse glides overhead, I will turn *42), I find myself yearning for Home again. This lifelong quest, this blessed pulsing melancholy, this hiraeth has become a constant companion of mine who takes on different forms at different stages along the path. Recently, she sings to me with mysterious curiosity pertaining to stability, intergenerational commitment to Place, a strong forging of kinships and the actual, tangible building of something. It is a longing that feels not my own, a yearning for a material reality unlike anything we now see today, hinting of things shared by distant relatives who long ago abandoned hope. And it drives me now.
Soon my family and I will return to my wife’s native home in Northern Thailand. There we will nestle in once more into all the daily goings on within our beloved community there, Pun Pun Center for Self Reliance, an eco-village focused on keeping alive cultural seeds. This is where we have been primarily living for over a decade. Rarely do we realize how much life changes us until we are thrust into greatly contrasting environments. Coming back to America after so much time spent abroad has made me realize how seemingly incapable I have become at pursuing the so-called “American Dream”. I see how much my fellow country men here hustle, how much this society glorifies being busy, how seldom people genuinely rest and not only does it trouble me, but after seeing how drastically differently things can be done, how much simpler, less extractive and violent life can be, and after having softened as such, having adopted the ways of village life, the communally directed ways of living that orchestrate by means of intergenerational, interspecies kinship, flourishing by means of shared, self motivated responsibility and an overall commitment to health and well-being over the accumulation of “stuff” and the pursuit of “progress”, well, I dare say I feel I am no longer a prime candidate for life here in the so-called “free” world, if in fact I ever truly was.
…Yet, I feel a deep commitment to this place, and an indescribable love. The Land and the people of what most now refer to as “America” have been my most constant companions, my deepest relations. I share their grievances, which is not a thing to be taken lightly. This is not to say we all know the same struggle, we don’t, but their is a unique weight that comes from calling this particular land home, one that we who were born here on Turtle Island all share. In Thailand, few understand the curious grief the orphans of America know. Having never been colonized, having never (with exceptions to be sure) been forced to leave their home, few in that place experience hiraeth, which is a feeling both the colonizer and the colonized ironically feel mutually, for neither is truly home after the unthinkable actions of an invasion of another’s homeland takes place. And although I don’t wish upon anyone this strange feeling of impossible longing, it is a curious riddle that seems to bind us all together here in the “west”, whether we are aware of it or not. And as much as it has caused me great sadness throughout my journey thus far, it has also fueled me with great empathy, compassion and fierce determination as well.
No matter how hard we in the West work, no matter how much money we make, how many degrees we acquire, how many awards we earn, no matter how much we activate “self-determination”, and learn how to position ourselves in seemingly powerful ways, as long as we continue to pursue our quest for sanity and home without deeply recognizing **where we actually came from (where all our stuff come from too… where all our seemingly special ideas come from too... where all our…), break the silence and finally properly recognize whose land we actually stand upon now, who these people were and are and what visions they held and still carry, and do so with the real intention to make reparations, not merely hollow statements, so we can all properly metabolize what has truly been lost in our mad quest, recognize and honor who (both human and non-human) has been killed and displaced along the way, what cultural narratives, mythological masteries, educational institutions, spiritual teachings, languages, rhythms, etc have been destroyed in this misguided effort to heal an ancient sadness of which, over time, has only grown stronger and has transformed into a monstrous post-human rage of insatiable appetite, apathy and hate, we will never truly be at home, anywhere. For home cannot be bought! Home is earned. Home is a sacred gift bestowed upon those committed to living well in a place, intergenerationally, in accordance with certain Agreements we in the “west” seem to have forgotten long ago, blinded as we have become by the new gods of science, single stories, manifest destiny and technology.
And yet, this place still speaks to me. Unlike anywhere else. The cries of unknown heroes whose land my ancestors stole are heard clearly as I roam canyons at dawn. The lost beauty and intergenerational care they carried as they courageously lived in ways that did follow the Agreements, no doubt making many mistakes along the way, as humans do, is seen painted in cavern walls, in the trails of medicinal plants clearly planted intentionally by them here long ago, with us in mind. The Mountains and Rivers of this Land feel like the elders I never had. They have been my closest mentors throughout this bardo-like existence… I love it here. As hard as it is to see beyond the madness of modernities curse, its cruel, consistent plundering of all that is left of The Wild, as painful as it is to reckon with the reality that most of what we have been taught is far from true, that most of the story we have been told is but a made up tale to justify theft, I was born here. I have had many relatives die here. My blood is composed of this stolen soil. This place… unlike anywhere else… is my home.
How challenging it is for an old man or woman to, in the twilight of their life, after striving so hard to attain a dream believed to be in alignment with righteous ideals to suddenly discover and admit that all effort was in vain, for in fact the view which for so long seemed certain, so clear and sacred was instead disastrously erroneous and ultimately untrue. Yet how noble, how courageous, when only a few short years remain, is the one who, upon learning all this, does not pretend that there is a way to simply adjust the course somehow, to make it “greener”, or more “democratic”, but instead admirably admits he/she/they has been wrong, and with this knowing humbly refrains from journeying yet further in the wrong direction, finally refrains from digging their heals into the side of their loyal horse, lets go of the reigns altogether, weeps beautifully and allows the one below them, who for so long has been neglected and abused, overseen and forgotten, the one who actually knew all along the true way home, to finally lead the way.
I don’t know where I am going with any of this. And I suppose this is the point. None of us do. America prides itself in being #1! We always have an answer. But the truth is, for most of the deepest matters ailing our culture of orphans now is that, we have no clue what we are doing… and we are not in control. These are certainly urgent times. Yet what is needed now more than ever, may simply be for us to rest. A great releasing of the reigns seems essential now. The collective body of modernity, it seems to me, would gain much from simply admitting defeat. We were wrong. We made a mistake. Let’s not try to fix what cannot be fixed. Let’s instead step aside and gracefully let it rot, like Autumn leaves slowly turning into good soil.
Something bigger than our limiting narratives is bubbling under the surface of post-modernity. The world is calling us back home. As I reflect over my time here in the U.S., I tip my hat in deep recognition to all my peers doing what they can with the curious tools that empire has given them. It isn’t all in vain, yet we all know deep in our innermost heart of hearts, when gifted those rare moments of contemplative reflection, that we can’t go on like this forever. At some point, we have to surrender, at some point, we have to stop hustling. We have to surrender, be human again and trust.
What does building a house mean when it no longer requires buying dead trees extracted unceremoniously from places we have no relationship with, have never cried with, drank tea with? What does community mean when we don’t have to schedule in playdates weeks in advance but are free to allow our children to spontaneously show up as their innocent soaring spirits dictate? What does success mean when not determined by the GDP but by the amount of leisure time afforded with family and friends each day, how healthy the soil is and how abundant are the berries that grow wild in the protected forests nearby?
May we live into the answers to these questions collectively, reverently and slowly with fierce determination, commitment and genuine maturity.
Thank you America. Your utter chaos seems to inspire me still, like the meandering frolicking of the wild coyote. I will miss you and, gods willing, my family and I will return again. And again and again and again…
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A deep bow.
A lotus for you…
*42… any guesses where the title of this weeks essay comes from?
Hint: Grow further down the rabbit hole…
If any of you were considering becoming a paid subscriber, now would be an excellent time to activate that noble yearning. Hard to believe it’s been nearly one full year since the good people at Offshoot (A Growing Culture) suggested I begin sharing my writings. It’s been a wild ride thus far and I hope you are enjoying what we are exploring here together. My aspiration is to continue offering (most) of my work weekly without erecting a paywall. Each week an increasing number of people join us here for a good read and a ponder (last week nearly 3,000 readers were warmed by our wordy fire!) If everyone of these readers generously offered $5 a month we could easily begin a fund to offer proper donations to all the artists and teachers, activists, parents and poets who I derive much of my own inspiration from whom I so desperately yearn to financially support myself (maybe you yourself are among one of these magical beings)! I know in my heart we can generate a new gift-like economy based on reciprocity but it takes bold, regular, active participation from all of us.
I have some exciting visions for the year ahead and will be sharing with all of you these dreams soon. But the main thing is I want to keep challenging business-as-usual, placing faith in the generosity of big-hearted, big-minded, simple-living people and trust that we will continue co-creating grass-roots networks of emotional, cultural, and yes, even financial support. I (we) cannot do this work without you. We all need each other. Please, if you can, consider becoming a founding member, or becoming a paid monthly subscriber, whatever suits your fancy and financial reality. Your kind support (birthday gift!) means the world to me and my family and allows this work to continue being offered freely for those not currently experiencing financial abundance.
All blessings.
Gregory Pettys
This weeks Song of the Week comes from Prehistoric Delinquent and The Relative Minors. They are a marvelous, deeply soulful family band lead by my mentor, teacher and friend, Martin Prechtel AKA Byron Mandible. Martin Prechtel has worked tirelessly his whole life to keeps seeds of culture alive and now his beautiful flowering human sprouts are singing and offering us all new life in song. Please, have a listen (and support them by purchasing their new vinyl!).
Our opening quote this week also comes from Martin Prechtel. It is a quote from his fantastic book, The Unlikely Peace at Cuchumaquic, The Parallel Lives of People as Plants: Keeping the Seeds Alive… which you can purchase here.
#maypeaceprevailonearth
** dance by Cara Judea Alhadeff.