We Will Sing
:::an unlikely peace:::
My teacher, Martín Prechtel wrote an extraordinary book entitled The Unlikely Peace at Cuchumaquic: The Parallel Lives of People as Plants. It is a powerful book. It covers a lot of ground. Among other marvelous revelations offered in its 445 pages, a detailed account of a small but grand tribe of people living along the shores of Lake Atitlan, Guatemala is elegantly portrayed. These Tzutujil Mayan people, when met with an unthinkable avalanche of natural disasters, cultural genocide and brutal warfare managed to bypass the inner despair most of us in the modern world are met with when even small battles confront us. Prechtel shares with the reader how these people managed to continue living gracefully, even as absolute obsoletion seemed imminent. As empire there went about its vicious, centuries’ long routine of killing beauty, further stretching its hateful tentacles around what vestiges of ancient light remain, these people held steadfast in there efforts to nonetheless be ever-filled with joy. They carried with them, an Unlikely Peace.
I’ll assume we all understand why such an account is so powerful to come in contact with at this time. Peace is possible, but maybe not the version of peace we generally think of when considering what peace might be. Modernity wants us to feel safe and secure. The schools of thought that now dominate the world would have us believe that discomfort is avoidable, that with the right technology and leadership all our problems can be fixed. What the people Prechtel speaks of in his book know that most of us in the so-called “civilized” world seem not to is that in reality, nothing is safe. Nothing is solid. Nothing is certain. The best we can do then is not build walls, invest in life insurance plans, nor build an even stronger military or organize a counter revolution, because contrary to this arrogant settler colonial view, none of this will prevent the lords of change, death and decay from doing what they do. Death, my dear friends, is inescapable.
All civilizations eventually fade. And may the gods help us should we ever succeed in ridding the world of all opposing views for then we just might really learn how truly terrifying death can be. But what we are capable of doing, as understood by the Tzutujil, is being beautiful now in a noble, collective effort to keep alive That Which Gives Life, for the benefit of a time beyond now. We can live small lives that are big in meaning, love and depth. We can make beauty, even in ugly times. And we can share all this with those around us in the same grand fashion as was orchestrated by the musicians aboard the Titanic when they persistently played their instruments even as that ship began to sink, knowing full well they weren’t going to get paid for that gig…
Titanic's orchestra; Top: John Clarke; Percy Taylor. Middle: Geroges Krins, Wallace Hartley, William Brailey. Bottom: Jock Hume; John Wesley Woodward; not pictured: Roger Bricoux
…
A friend stopped by our farm yesterday. She, like me, is a recovering academic. Try as we might, we can’t seem to fully shed our obsession with long-winded debates that carry on for hours and leave us with little more than a desire for more tea. I no longer view such meandering philosophical battles as all that useful. Oh they may inspire a conversation more noble than the usual gossip heard ‘round any village fire but what good does philosophy do if not embodied, enacted and made to sprout? I recall a conversation I once had in university with the great Anishinaabekwe activist, Winona LaDuke. She told me a short tale then about her father, Sun Bear. When she was a student at Harvard University he came to visit her while she was studying at that fancy ivy league school and told her, “You are a smart young woman, but I don't want to hear your philosophy if you cannot grow corn!”
As my dear friend, Samsuda and I chatted endlessly, sipping tea and eating passion fruits, hard working villagers laughed and sung in adjacent rice paddies, heroically engaged with the holy work upper class city folk loathe and are generally woefully incapable of doing. By the end of our conversation they had nearly harvested an entire field of rice. Their efforts will result in many people being well fed. The time Sam and I spent chatting on the other hand will have done little more than fuel our obsession with trying to solve “problems” we think are everywhere. Our faces were grim at the end of our long debate while the faces of the workers were light and covered with big, tired smiles, the Land herself seems to be glowing from the intoxicating sound of all there singing… Yet, this is who we are; “successful”, “modern”, “well-educated” university grads and old habits die hard. So, we sipped our tea and did what we do.
“You are a smart young woman, but I don't want to hear your philosophy if you cannot grow corn!”
My friend asked me how I feel about kids these days zoning out in front of screens all day, about “adults’” increasing incapability to maintain any semblance of real presence with children, the loss of knowing how to facilitate a child’s development without the aid of so-called “professionals”. She enquired too as to my opinions surrounding the increased interest globally in new agey health and wellness cults, (i.e. certified “cacao shamans” who host kirtan chant circles while pouring Ayahuasca and Huachuma followed by “flow” yoga and smoothie bowls). I asked my friend in turn about her feelings regarding growing tensions in the Middle East, A.I., the rising costs of real estate, etc. you know, all the usual distractions force-fed us relentlessly by modernity’s omnipresent talking heads. She mentioned she feels stuck as to how best to move forward with any of it, as if all we have been doing for the last few decades is spin around in circles waxing poetic in trendy coffee shops and the best we can do now is open yoga studios and drink cacao. I agreed.
I have been greatly influenced recently by the views presented by Bayo Akomolafe. A few months ago I began attending classes offered by him and several other thought pioneers I truly admire such as Resmaa Menakem, Sophie Strand, Erin Manning, etc. Inspired I’m sure by much of what I am learning and unlearning from their generous offerings, I shared with my dear sister how I am noticing that my feelings about all these things are veering from their usual course as if some sort of seismic inner shifting has forced my cognitive flow to, well, become less “cognitive”.
I find myself thinking less these days and feeling considerably more. To be sure, little of this is the result of any of my own efforts. It results instead from a curious cocktail of exhaustion, confusion and what I feel is the Great Mother Herself saying, “Shut the fuck up, my child. Rest a while. You have no idea what you are doing. Please, for the love of gods, just stop.”
I am wrapped in a warm blanket of a feeling that suggests if we are ever going to crawl out from this postmodern sea of forgetfulness and finally evolve we, especially those of us born into privilege, will be required to pause. And by pause here, I am not referring to the monstrously uninspiring digital-nomad-influencer-getting-a-spa- treatment-on-a-Caribbean-island kind of pause/rest/ “self care” that seems to be so fashionable these days (*note: this particular kind of rest does have its place and should be offered freely and widely to refugees the world over who for too long have been forced instead to be slaves for the benefactors of the mess we are in.). Rather, the kind of rest I am here referring to entails a passing of the mic to those better suited to speak in these auspicious, transitory times. I.E. A releasing of power. A kind of rest that has us curled up in the fetal position, weeping apologetically before the feet of our Mother who lovingly holds us close even as she is understandably disgusted by us and sings a song we had nearly forgotten in our mad efforts to become greater than Her.
Maturity, and with it possible peace, might only now be found should we be courageous enough to admit defeat and bow before that which we love, that which is love and That Which Gives Us Life. As presidential candidate and public intellectual, “Brother” Cornell West rightfully points out, we are experiencing a kind of spiritual decay as a people and this is not the kind of decay that that will offer new life. This is a kind of decay that causes yet further disease and results from an atrophy of wisdom and empathy. The kind of decay needed now looks more like a well trained gardner tending properly to compost tea. A noble collective effort is now needed to, in borrowing from the words of the great Latinx teacher, activist, etc., Vanessa Machado de Oliveira, hospice modernity.
It’s time to let go. If we can do this, if we can allow ourselves the time and space to truly release the reigns, to grieve and deeply listen to narratives far different than ours, ones that can only come from the sounds of birds’ wings flapping over dismembered beloveds, than maybe we can find again the ability to not react so immaturely to life’s tragedy’s. Maybe then instead of making war we could make beauty. Not sleek sky scrapers, vaccines, iPhones, spaceships and well-groomed politicians but truly beautiful, messy, imperfect, life-loving, human culture. And in so doing, maybe we, like the beautifully dressed ritual farmers of Guatemala whom, when faced with unfathomable horrors that literally shook their world apart, still fearlessly and generously shared collectively what little crumbs they still had with great dignity and grace, could know peace.
She made light [to come forth] from her feathers, she made air to come into being by means of her two wings, and she cried out the death cries for her brother. She made to rise up the helpless members of him whose heart was at rest, she drew from him his essence, and she made therefrom an heir.
…
I wonder. Can we, the orphaned children of modernity, regenerate a capacity for what buddhists refer to as Right View? Something deep in me knows we once knew how to live with a deep knowing that killing children is wrong, that poisoning air and water is unwise, that harvesting trees faster than they can regenerate equates to madness. I know in my heart of hearts we all still know these acts are not only foolish but utterly unacceptable. What conditions are needed now for a revival of the kind of educations we once knew? The kinds that birthed not passive consumers, but eventual elders worthy of descending from?
My wife tells tales to me of her childhood, before the “aid groups” came to her “undeveloped” village to inform her she was “poor” and “uneducated”. She, and her community carried a far different understanding then of how to live, how to die, how to react to life’s inevitable uncertainties. Her people then walked with a very different understanding of what beauty is, what life is for. Modernity is telling us all a dangerous story. This story makes us numb, unable to appropriately react to unacceptable actions. Yet modernity itself, like all things, will eventually die too. It seems to me, its time has come. It is our duty now, to not start another war with it, but hospice its madness and nurture its decay into life serving humus.
Can we again see breakdowns as beautiful decay? Problems not as “problems” but as necessary parts of ongoing cycles of life, as deified worms in the Holy Compost Pile? Can we create new worlds with change and uncertainty always in mind, know them as revered gods of a wildly complex universe of ever evolving transitions? Can we be brave enough to teach such things to our children early on? Hmm… I wonder.
None of this of course should suggest we are off the hook regarding doing what we must in order to assist in ending forces of oppression, or making proper reparations, rematriations, etc. But if we can muster up the strength to pause long enough to allow Nature Herself to sing again, to share Her timeless aptitude for regenerating forgotten knowledges lying dormant inside all of us in such a way that might re-member our atrophied capacities for compassion, creativity and peace... well, I wonder… Could all together different way of being be again seen?
The hard to swallow point seems to be this; few among us have but even a foggy idea of what to do with the mess we are in. Regarding climate catastrophe, societal meltdown, intergenerational traumas, wars and rumors of war, drug and social media addiction, the failing educational institutions, the failing economies, ugly clothes, ugly architecture, bad music, fast food, etc. etc. etc. No one has a fucking clue. And how wonderful!!! Something we can all relate to. Something so universal and human that one cant help but smile. We may just find ourselves forced by the noble humility such awareness offers that a tenderness grace that allows us to remember how to grieve together, how to pray together, how to ask good questions... and listen to each other may even finally bubble up to the surface of these mysterious time. Who knows, with such a wild possibility so near to us all, we may even be blessed again by Her to revisit our forgotten ability to end war.
I just learned yesterday that I have a second child on the way. To put in mildly, these are strange times in which to be a parent. There is a part of me that shook like a terrified earthquake inside me when my wife told me the news. Yet by the good grace of my elders, my teachers, courageous artists, writers, cultural pioneers, musicians, seed savers, patient mothers and fathers, activists, ancestors I have neglected for too long and sheer luck, I could hear the sounds of those Tzutujil resting beside that quake. They were laughing with each other, preparing a meal to share with others, and singing a beautiful song. A song of living…
May all beings be happy and free.
This weeks song was written by an old friend of mine, Lizzy Plotkin. She is a “place based” musician rooted in the Gunnison Valley of Western Colorado. She offers stories in song form that remind us of our ability as humans to create peace, joy and a connection to a Place in the midst of lifes inevitable sufferings. You can support her and explore more of her magic here:
As always, and all to often not mentioned in these “influencer” times, the only reason any of us know anything at all is because of the hard, loving work of others. Som much of what I shared in this weeks offering came from lessons and stories shared with me, either directly or indirectly from the following brilliant humans. Please take the time to learn more about them.
*and an extra special thanks to Josh Schrei, host of the Emerald Podcast for teaching me about the story of Osiris…
#maypeaceprevailonearth
this had me laughing, in awe, in tears and chills. i soo appreciate that we get to receive these wisdoms through you, tying it all together. anytime you are back in the north fork, you are welcome where we are♡♡♡
Congratulations, Brother. ✨ And again, a wonderfully deep offering that resonates.