On Death

A STORY ABOUT DEATH

It was Memorial Day 1998, and I had scheduled to conduct a wild food outing at Pasadena’s Hahamongna Watershed Park. Since it was Memorial Day, my topic for a short discussion at the end of the outing was “death.” Hahamongna Park -- formerly called Oak Grove Park -- is the site of one of the Gabrielino Indian villages along the Arroyo Seco.

It was a cool and overcast day as participants for the wild food outing gathered in the parking area of the park. Among the half-dozen participants who showed up for the outing was Martin Kruse, a bearded, burly bear of a man who looked like he’d be more at home in the 19th century. He introduced himself and told me that he’d long wanted to meet me, that we both wrote for many of the same publications and had many friends in common, such as Ron Hood. Martin and I chatted as the other outing participants listened, and he told me about his work with archery and primitive bow-making.

I was struggling with almost-a-cold and with a stiff back, and so I felt almost not there. I wanted to just keep walking and to breathe deeply of the fresh air of the overcast day, but we walked slowly as everyone asked me countless questions about wild flowers, weeds, flowers, mushrooms, ground squirrels, and poisonous plants.

When we encountered poison hemlock, one woman seemed particularly interested. It turned out her interest was more than academic. Before her father died a few years earlier, the medical establishment managed to keep his body painfully alive for a few weeks beyond when he normally would have died. She said she wished she had known of a way to bring about a quick and painless death. I made no value judgement on her commentary, only saying that I regard each moment of life as sweet, and that death comes all too quickly for most of us. I explained that I was wholly against the idea of suicide, that I wanted to find ways to live longer, not shorter. Then we talked about other things.

We walked down in the flat area of the large expanse of the park, where the wet mud had hardened, capturing countless animal tracks. Martin told us how to differentiate between coyote and dog tracks. He identified crow and other birds, showed us how to recognize the tracks of squirrel and rabbit. He’d obviously done a lot of tracking during his time hunting with a bow.

I later learned from Martin’s father that this was a favorite place of Martin’s when he was much younger. He’d come here and spend a week or two and study nature and tracks and practice with his bow. When we saw the deer tracks, Martin showed us how the deer’s hind foot had stepped into its own track just laid by its front foot. Martin said that only the female walks this way, that the male’s gait is different. He told us that the size of the hoof print meant it was a female deer about a year and a half old. I could tell that Martin enjoyed telling us all about the track.

We walked out to the middle of the flat area to see some old shelters I’d built with one of my classes a few years earlier, though the rains had washed them away. We headed back to the picnic area with the plan to continue identifying wild greens, and collecting enough for our wild food meal that is customary on all these walks. Then I’d share my brief Memorial Day commentary that I described on the printed schedule as “Considering Death.”

I led the way back to the oak trees. Within seconds, someone in the rear called out. Martin had fallen. I first thought it was a joke, and ran to him. It was no joke. His face already looked purple. The man who had been walking with him said he’d not tripped -- he just fell. You could tell by his hand position that he didn’t trip. I tried to rouse him, but it was quickly obvious that he was “out.”

Several of us moved Martin into what we assumed would be a more comfortable position, and that wasn’t easy! Martin was a big guy. And then -- since I was the only one who knew the area -- I ran to a phone to call 911. This was before the days of ubiquitous cell phones. Within 10 minutes, before I even got back to the group and Martin’s flat body -- paramedics from the City of Pasadena were on the scene, attempting to revive him. They all worked like a highly-coordinated team, speaking among themselves only briefly and in terms we didn’t understand. They were what we call a “well-oiled machine.” They carried him into the ambulance and took him away.

I could tell that the remainder of the outing participants were in varying degrees of shock. It had all been like a dream, and now Martin was gone. When one paramedic was asked what he thought about Martin’s chances of recovery, he only said “I can’t do that.” Still, we all knew it was serious. We recalled one paramedic yelling “full arrest” to another when they arrived at the scene.

So there we stood in the cool afternoon breeze, contemplating death in the most sobering manner possible. I explained to everyone my death lesson -- which hardly seemed appropriate now. I didn’t talk everyone through the intended exercise -- I just explained a process that I’d done many times on Memorial Day.

Write a list of all those close people in your life. Then, close your eyes, and imagine getting a phone call telling you that they have just died. For most people, there are tears and a feeling of regret that they never told that person something. You write down all those things you wanted to say to that person. Then, since these folks are still alive, you then go and call them or write them or see them in person and tell them. This is a very profound exercise, and in many ways can be called “healing.”

But we didn’t actually go through this exercise. We were in no mood for an “exercise.” Someone had just died in our midst. We had to deal with it. We talked about how important it is to live each moment with intent, with joy, with soberness.

We talked about the stages that one passes through in the after death state, and how Martin will experience peace, but will also experience a life-review, a state of purgation, a state of heaven, and eventually another embodiment. One guy muttered, “I don’t believe in reincarnation.” I knew with this last point that I was treading on ground that some categorize as “religious beliefs,” so I didn’t push the matter. I just suggested that anyone interested read about it in Harold Percival’s Thinking and Destiny and decide for themselves.

At that moment, none of us knew yet that Martin would not recover, that he had in fact died, and that he died in a place he loved. Nor had we known that Martin had a heart pacer, and an artery to his heart that was narrow. We were aware that he’d had surgery -- probably to the heart -- because we opened his shirt and saw the scar. I noted that Martin had been smoking his pipe during most of the outing. While that couldn’t have been good for his health, I considered the ceremonial ramifications of tobacco smoking. What had really brought Martin there on that day? I felt goose bumps at first, thinking that on some level he wanted to be there, enjoying the natural world, meeting as two souls in the place he loved, near the old Indian burial ground, on his final day.

A German woman who’d been on the outing, Walti, told me that we should not feel sad. “It was quick,” she told me later. “What better place to die.” I could not help but agree with her. In his final moments, he was surrounded with friends that he’d only met that day, trail compadres who shared a common love of the outdoors, all brought together at this time and this place to witness his passing.
Though I barely knew him, I felt closer to him in death.

Of course, I told Dolores about this when I got home. I was a bit shaken by the experience. It was Martin’s wife who later told me that Martin died doing what he loved doing, and that it was probably the best of all possible outcomes that he died in that manner. She also said that the family felt Martin was living on “borrowed time,” that they felt he should have died (according to what the doctors said) five years earlier.

Dolores seemed very thoughtful about all this, and said that possibly Martin’s Doer (his spiritual Self) knew that his body was going to die. Coming to my outdoor outing brought him into contact with my Doer, my spiritual Self, which could have been a final uplifting act, whether or not each of us realized it.

Dolores was never one who engaged in flattery, and she always kept me humble. She knew that we were not perfect and that we had a long way to go. Yet, we continued to work at and struggle on the Spiritual Path of perfection and evolution. It was always “fall down seven times, get up eight times.” In our perspective of a morally-bankrupt, and spiritually dark world, we did feel that we represented a light in the darkness. Yes, often a flickering, barely noticeable light, but a light nevertheless. It is to that Light that Dolores believed Martin was coming to, and it was with that desire that he took his final breath. And that was good for Martin.

MOON

Self-discovery seems to be the ultimate quest for each of us. Who am I, what is my purpose in life.

I was watching a segment of “The Last Wave,” and Charlie the elder asks the Richard Chamberlain character, “Who are you?” It seemed to be a question that Chamberlain was not used to hearing, or answering.

I picked up a DVD of “Moon” with Sam Rockwell, having heard nothing about the movie. The cover reads “the hardest thing to face is yourself.”

“Moon” gives us an opportunity to look at what we mean by self-identity. It allows us to consider that much of what we call “me” is nothing but a construct, a collection of memories, but very little of what is real.

I don’t want to give the plot twist of the movie away, but I strongly recommend it as a vehicle for self-analysis and self-discovery. Don’t look at it as “just a science fiction story.”

Later in the day, my mentor asked me, “Do you believe that you are real?” Rather than glibly answer, “of course I do,” I considered what “Moon” was forcing me to consider. I realized that we never satisfactorily answer this question because we don’t delve deeply into the meaning of “me” and “I” as well as the meaning of “real.” In this case, I was considering the definition of “real” as per the writing of Percival in “Thinking and Destiny” where he equates “real” with a level of Conscious Light.

Anyway, watch “Moon” and let’s discuss further.

Death and Resurrection

During Easter of 2010, I spent the morning with a few close friends discussing the theme of the day. After we were finished with the more intellectual side of things, we viewed selected segments from a few movies to see the Death and Resurrection theme in action, either literally or figuratively.

We first watched some scenes from Whale Rider, where the grandfather does not want to acknowledge that the little girl (Pai) is the one destined to be chief. Finally, after Pai dives into the water to retrieve a whale bone (the boy who would have retrieved it earlier was to be chief, but no boy found it), she also helps a beached whale get back to sea. The whale was apparently responding to Pai, to the fact that Pai is the chosen one. But Pai goes into the deep with the whale, and is retrieved, hospitalized, and finally acknowledged as the future chief. A touching and beautiful story!

Next, we watched Powder, an incredible movie all around. Powder was born the night his mother was struck by lightning and died. Needless to say, Powder was unusual, highly intelligent, and electromagnetic. In many ways, this is a secular story of the Christ.

Then we watched some scenes from the very-moving Jesus of Nazareth, where Robert Powell played Jesus. We were most interested in the scene where Jesus went to dinner at the house of Matthew (the tax collector). Simon-Peter watches from the door as Jesus tells the story of the Prodigal Son, about the son who died spiritually and was re-born by his return to his father.

This Death and Resurrection theme is common in many movies, such as Pow Wow Highway, and Smoke Signals, and Robert Redford’s The Clearing. The Clearing is a fascinating study of the complexities of personality, but I found the final line the best: If you love me, then I have everything I need. It was beautiful, compelling, thoughtful. To understand that phrase was to understand the meaning of life, and the how the death is a necessary part of rebirth, whether we are speaking spiritually, literally, or figuratively.

Movies can be great teachers of life-lessons, if we choose the movies carefully, and if we actively seek out the lessons within.

By the way, we often view movies this way at Holy Days and holidays at the WTI commemorations in Highland Park. If you live nearby, please join us. Check the schedule on this web site, or contact me.

How I Spent Good Friday

When I was growing up, I can recall sitting in church for at least three hours on Good Friday. The large Catholic church was always packed with people, and the air circulation was poor. The aroma of incense was overwhelming and the distant drone of the priest in Latin was hypnotic. It was a solemn day and we usually fasted, but I had to nearly pinch myself to stay awake. I wanted to feel that special something, that painful and profound loss, and the coming joy; which was the very essence of the Easter celebration.

I always liked Easter, and I marveled at reports from the Phillippines where a few pilgrims every year would allow themselves to be nailed to a cross. Most could only endure the agony for three or four minutes, and they often fainted. Once removed from the cross, they would be cared for by waiting nurses and doctors. That’s certainly a far more intensive way of commemorating Good Friday than I was used to. Still, I wondered: Is there any inherent benefit in harming one’s body in that way? Does hammering nails in your palms make you more “spiritual”?

Years later, in the late 1970s, I began to attend a Survival Training School in the Highland Park district of Los Angeles. This school was somewhat akin to a martial arts school, except that we were constantly pushed in the direction of self-improvement, as opposed to competition with others. Throughout our various exercises and breathing regimens and runs and limit breaks and field events, it was constantly stressed that we were pushing our personal limits, that we were “waking up” our unused brain portions, and that we were using pain as a tool to grow, not as something to be avoided. There was constantly a spiritual dimension to our classes.

Through this school, I learned a unique way to commemorate the Christian Good Friday, and for nearly the last 20 years, I have observed Good Friday in a unique and most dynamic manner.

Students would gather at our class site and prepare themselves by doing a series of regular physical activities. Once a personal limit was broken, each student would then select a heavy log, which we referred to as “crosses.” Each student’s job was to silently carry the heavy cross up and down the dirt pathway to the school until they could no longer carry the burden. We were to remain silent during the entire time, and focus entirely on deep and regular breathing, and upon the specific martial arts-style walking that we’d been taught in class. It was called kamae-striding, a focused way of walking with knees bent, back straight, toes always straight ahead.

We were instructed to select a “cross” that was heavy so that we’d quickly go into a level of pain and exhaustion. On most years, I selected a cut section of a telephone pole, and would begin my very slow walking, breathing, thinking, up and down the dirt path.

The pain for me has usually been so intense that I could focus on nothing else. Thus, I was constantly challenged to find an internal way to deal with the pain, to breath, to focus on the fact that we are spiritual beings and not just the body.
Participants are told, “Pain is OK. Expect to be challenged by thoughts which say `I can’t’ or `I hurt.’ Acknowledge them, but do not fall to them.”

Dauring one of my past cross-bearings, the pain to my upper arms and back was unbelievably intense. I didn’t think I could continue. I wanted it to end. My arms ached. I stopped after going up and down the path three times. My intense pain had triggered an altered state of awareness, and I recall considering the phrase, “Jesus died for our sins.” I got up, continued the cross-bearing, and reflected on the meaning of those words.

As I slowly moved up and down the path, drenched in sweat, wracked with pain, I began to become one with the pain of humanity, the agony, the suffering, the ignorance, the horror of having no way-shower, no guide, being alone in the darkness. I found myself offering my pain to humanity: the mistakes, the blind gropings, the sin. It was then that I realized what Jesus meant. He literally offered up his pain, not for his personal benefit, but for those in dire need. This offering of pain was as real as if he wrote a check and sent it to someone. The giving was real, not allegory. The gift of pain served as strength to others.

Yet, this is no way meant that humanity -- that individuals -- do not need to balance inequities. We must sill pay for our debts and sins. Forgiveness is not synonymous with forgetting.

I would not have gained this insight through intellectual study. I earned this realization via the tool of controlled pain. I had made pain my ally. Obviously, pain for the sake of pain is pointless. But pain can be specifically applied and used as a tool. It can wake one up like nothing else.

As I say, this is just one of many personal insights that I have had while doing this unique cross-bearing.

When I performed the Cross Bearing today, I considered the value and power of Truth, and saw new meaning in the phrase, “What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”

Zone Therapy

DOLORES’ UNIQUE RESULTS FROM ZONE THERAPY

Dolores kept notes on just about everything, not just the more mundane things such as daily “to do” lists and her daily planning, but her impressions from her various experiments in life and in thinking.

I found one notebook that she kept to chronicle her work with zone therapy. Zone-therapy can be described as a finger acupuncture to the feet. Dolores attended a Spiritual Studies class on this topic on Sunday April 10, 1988. This is what she had to say:

“During the Spiritual Studies Zone Therapy Lesson, I pressed on the area noted as ‘pineal.’ It hurt. I felt odd for a few moments but kept pressing. Awhile later, when Christopher and I arrived at the Flea Market [Dolores and I somewhat regularly sold things at various local flea markets], I suddenly realized I was experiencing a range of information about people and things that I didn’t have normal access to. In the same ‘way’ that I know details about my personal friends and belongings, I ‘knew’ details about strange people and objects.

“I ‘knew’ one person had children, for example. Another person caused me to recoil because their personal atmosphere was repellant. I ‘knew about’ strangers as if they were familiar. Items-for-sale were also familiar. I felt that a coffee grinder that Christopher wanted to buy had ‘a bad atmosphere’ – maybe it had been in a bar.

“This broader-range of information was disconcerting but I acted with the idea that this information was only for myself, as it this were just more of my working fund of details.

“I went to the hot dog stand, and the server looked real kinky, and I wondered to myself if I might get a disease from the food he handled. Another person approached while I was standing there and he said, ‘Any healthy food here?’ and the server said, ‘No, just good old American junk.’ I took this as a direct instruction to my doubts, and I left immediately.

“There were other instances of this ‘unusual information,’ then, after awhile, I seemed to return to ‘normal.’”

Wow! This kind of thing became somewhat “normal” as we would practice zone-therapy, and many, many of the other disciplines we were taught through our Spiritual Studies classes. What is the explanation? Could it be that the stimulation of the pineal zone on the foot released some chemicals which caused Dolores’ brain to perceive more?

I have had similar – though not identical—experiences when I received zone therapy. In my case, the zone therapy resulted in a heightened perspective, even a feeling of timelessness.

Dolores would use one of the standard charts on the subject. The one that Dolores kept handy was called “Rainbow-Coded Foot Reflexology Chart” published by Inner Light Resources from Tampa, Florida. The chart shows the bottom of a foot, divided into sections, with each section corresponding to some part of the body.

Here are the instructions for doing zone-therapy, as written in Dolores’ notebook:

1. State aloud to therapee what area you’re working on, or searching for.
2. Take charge of the foot you’re working on. Place it where it’s best for you to focus.
3. Consciously make every finger movement one of Conscious Upliftment.
4. Key to Zone Therapy: direct application of intense pressure directly on the junctions and meridians (that is, inches-along meridians, rather than “rubbing the feet”).
5. Use ch’i flow through the fingers.
6. Relax the fingers.
7. Use the fingernails as needles.
8. Use opposing fingers.
9. Wean-from any need to use a lubricant. Must practice directing will to have body-oils flow where and when needed.
10. Work to bring Zone Therapy into the realm of Real Thinking. Tell therapee “focus on glow of radiant healthy energy flooding into the body part I’m working on.”

In Dolores Zone Therapy notebook, I found some notes written by her teacher. There was a cartoon of the bottom of a happy foot, which had a big smiley face and was dancing. Underneath this foot were the words “stress control.” The teacher, Kina’u, suggested that Dolores work with others to begin dealing with stress control via Zone Therapy. Kina’u emphasized that it should not be a disguised “foot massage,” but that it should follow the above guidelines, and literally make the feet happy.

Kina’u added that when one is doing Zone Therapy properly, it is “for the Self,” not “for the other person.” In other words, he wrote, “if my fingers, with their zones, are pressing against someone else’s toe, with their zones, who, in reality, is ‘getting a Zone Therapy’ and who, in reality, is ‘giving a Zone Therapy’?”

Needless to say, there is much more to the science of Zone Therapy. Reading Dolores’ old notebook brought me back in touch with the path of natural science that so much of our “modern world” has rejected, and continues to scoff at.

The Death Seminars

Dolores and I enjoyed conducting classes in our home. For a period of time during the mid-1990s, we discontinued renting out the front unit of our duplex, and we used it for meetings and classes. Some weeks, we’d have up to five classes, but usually we’d have two to three a week. These would be classes based upon the metaphysical studies we were doing in association with WTI, or they were survival and self-reliance classes based upon how we lived our lives. We called this enterprise Gateway, and we published a monthly schedule of our classes and lectures.

One night, we offered a class called “What Happens After Death.” About 10 people showed up for this one, which was a large class for our small meeting room.

We began by telling everyone that this was not some sort of religious exercise, nor was anyone required to “agree with” or “believe” anything we were telling them. Rather, we simply asked that they consider the scenario that we’d be sharing as a possibility, and that we would not consider “arguments” or “debates” about it. In other words, something does “happen” to us after our body dies. This “something” can range from “nothing” to reincarnation to “going to hell” and many other possibilities.

We were students of Harold Percival’s “Thinking and Destiny” book, and we explained that for this class, we’d be sharing his version of what happens after we die. Obviously, Dolores and I considered this version to be not only acceptable, but possible and plausible.

A brief explanation about Percival is required. He claimed in the preface to his monumental “Thinking and Destiny” book that he “came to” the information that he shares by means of what he calls “Real Thinking.” He further defines “Real Thinking” as a four-part process. The first step is the selection of a topic and turning the Conscious Light on it. (The Nature of Conscious Light is addressed repeatedly in his book). Next comes the fixing and cleansing of the subject, which is done by training the Light upon it. Then, the third step is to reduce the subject to a point, which is done by focusing Light upon it. This is what we would call "concentrating.” Lastly, by following this procedure, with the Light focused on the point, the result of this Thinking is a “Knowing” about the subject.

He provides no bibliography, no references, no “proofs” for anything he proffers except that the reader can do his or her own Real Thinking for verification. In general, Percival describes the evolutionary path that each of us should be on to awaken our minds of which we are composed. In fact, he says we really have no choice in the matter, that the purpose of life is to evolve, sooner or later.

Upon body death, according to Percival, we “automatically” go through a series of steps, which he initially describes as a brief overview on pages 240 to 253. He describes a specific order of 12 events, which includes a life-review, a judgement, a heaven-state, etc.
So, the purpose of our “What Happens After Death” class was to emphasize that all of us WILL die, and that “something” WILL then occur or begin, even if that something is “nothingness.”

After our brief explanation, we asked each participant to lie on our floor.

“Now you have just died,” we announced, and we covered each person with a sheet to further simulate the death experience. We then read through the after-death stages, one by one, slowly, in the darkened room, asked each participant to work hard to fully feel the experience.

Talking through this process took about 45 minutes.

Then, we got through the entire cycle, and explained that these steps could actually take several hundred years of earth time. Then it would be time for being reborn into a suitable and appropriate family, in the place on earth that we’ve earned for ourselves.

We turned on the lights, and removed the sheets, and let everyone take a few minutes to get their eyes adjusted to the light. Slowly, each person opened their eyes and slowly got up, and sat down in a chair.

We began to share significant experiences that each person had. A few folks were very quiet and would not talk at all, but others were very talkative. Some were even in tears.

We closed the class by telling everyone that they had not died tonight, and they everyone now has a “new opportunity” to still “do the right things” since they were still alive in a body.

We shared some freshly-made coffee-elixir and healthful cookies, and we discussed a few of the upcoming classes and poetry readings that we’d be having in the coming weeks. But no one was interested. Most everyone was strongly affected by the experience, and they wanted to ask more questions, which we tried to answer. As usual, we didn’t feel like the most perfect examples in the world, but we knew that “the future” is all the result of each and every choice that we make, second by second, and the consequences of those choices. To make the wisest possible choices every second of one’s entire life required a unique sort of sobriety and focus which itself required a unique lifestyle regimen to maintain – and, of course, those details were the subjects of our on-going classes.

THE ROOTS OF SAINT VALENTINE’S DAY

by Christopher Nyerges

Valentine’s Day. Hearts. Chocolates. Flowers. Pretty cards to your sweetheart. The newspaper advertisements tell us what Valentine’s Day is all about: jewelry for your loved one, chocolates, and sexy underwear for your wife or girlfriend. So this is nothing more than a day to flirt and arouse passions in your loved ones, right?

Hold on! At least one of the newspaper advertisements says “Saint” Valentine’s Day. What’s that all about?

That’s right. February 14 is the day set aside to commemorate a real historical person named Valentinus. With just a little bit of research, we learn that this Valentinus person was stoned, clubbed, and beheaded in about the year 270 A.D. He was violently killed by an unruly mob. That’s the meaning buried there in that word “martyr.” But why? And how have we come to associate Valentinus with chocolates and hearts and lovers?

It turns out that there were at least two people called Valentinus – possibly more – who lived in the 2nd and 3rd Centuries. One – who the Catholic Church now called Saint Valentine – was beheaded in 270 A.D.

Another Valentinus lived about a century earlier and founded one of the most important sects of Gnosticism. He was born in Egypt and educated in Alexandria. He settled in Rome during the reign of Pope Hyginus and taught there for more than 20 years. He attracted a large following to his beliefs, due in part to his intelligence, his eloquence of speech, and his forceful arguments.

But the teachings of this Valentinus differed in some ways from the Christian church of that time, and thus he was not selected for the office of Bishop. So Valentinus broke off from the Christian church, left Rome, and continued to develop his doctrines.

There are no original surviving documents from the teachings of Valentinus. So, if you want to discover what he actually believed and taught, you have to study fragmentary quotations found in the writings of his orthodox Christian opponents. Through research, we learn that Valentinus was influenced by Plato (the main source of the teachings of Socrates), Zoroastrianism, and Christianity. Valentinus also spoke of a spiritual realm which he called Pleroma, which consisted of a succession of aeons, or “emanations,” evolving from an original divine being. These aeons have been described as the layers of an onion, with each layer being a wholly complete reality.

The term Gnosticism came from the word “gnosis,” defined as spiritual knowledge. Those who followed this line of study were called the Gnostics, and many were referred to as Christian Gnostics. But by the third century, the more orthodox Christian church (and the political power of the day), decided to oppose and persecute the Gnostics. By the end of the third century, Gnosticism as a distinct movement had largely disapppeared.

Now, here’s the quiz: Where in all this did you hear anything about chocolates, hearts, greeting cards, bunnies, jewelry, roses, or lace underwear? Plus, there doesn’t appear to be any historical connection with any of the individuals named Valentinus with the date of February 14.

It turns out that in the pre-Christian days, there was a celebration in honor of Lupercus, a pastoral god, sometimes identified with Faunus or Pan. Faunus is depicted as having the body of a man but the horns, pointed ears, tail, and hind legs of a goat. That is, Faunus is more or less identical with the satyr, who was said to be lecherous, lustful, and always ready to party.

The pre-Christian observance of this day was called Lupercalia, which fell on February 15. Most of what people do today in the name of “celebrating St. Valentine’s Day” has its roots in the ancient feast of Lupercalia. On Lupercalia, cards were given (often with subtle or overt sexual overtones), and men reportedly chased women through the streets (sounds somewhat like Mardi Gras).

It is difficult to ascertain why the commemoration of Valentinus was used to supplant, uplift, and supercede the already-existing commemoration of Lupercus, but that’s what happened. Yet, very little of the trappings of modern St. Valentine’s Day have anything to do with the historical Valentinus.

And that’s really a shame, since Valentinus was as important as perhaps Socrates or Pythagoras, and yet most of us only associate him with the silly commercialism of Lupercalia’s remnants.

Certainly it’s possible that the Church engineered this substitution so that people would elevate their practices on this day, though there is no evidence that that has happened.

So rather than waste money and time on chocolates and red cards, why not take the time to study something meaningful about the great teacher Valentinus. Do this with your loved ones, and your family. You may discover that much of what he taught is very much relevant today.

I CANNOT FOREVER MOURN

I wrote this poem back in March of 2009.
I hope you like it. Someone told me, after looking at this blog, that "I don't like poetry." I responded, "No one was forcing you to look at my blog. If you have chosen the self-imposed limitation of telling yourself that you don't like poetry, then why didn't you just click-away to somewhere else? My poetry is for folks who appreciate poetry!" My acquaintance just mumbled as he walked away. So... for those of you who do enjoy poetry, please enjoy!


I CANNOT FOREVER MOURN

The day you died
I was by your side
You withdrew deep inside
I hugged you tight, as I cried
Your time had come, I could not hide
I wanted badly to the facts denied
But did not bring you back, though I tried
And something deep inside me died.

You meant so much, we lived as one
You were my moon, I was the sun
Together many battles won
Some lost too, which wasn’t fun
As fact sunk in, my mind was stunned
No more time, it was all done
As memories view and cried a ton
would never again have your hot cross bun
as baking bread your dharma was
You fully entered the thing you does
You didn’t question, ask why, just because
didn’t concern about what’s the buzz

Three months later I still daily cried
Was something that I tried to hide
Laughter too I often tried
Was good for me for time to bide
And one day George of Burbank said
Why aren’t you mourning? Got another friend?
I only laughed, as face I read
Thinking hard on what he said.
How much longer shall I mourn?
I can’t cry forever, must be reborn
Even though so deeply inside torn
I must force smile and seek new morn
Dolores wills it, she says to me
I see her smile in dreamtime see
As telling me true of my life key
Of how to live, of how to be
Of need to face sun, go forward free
Explore the meaning, in every tree
To love Otis, Popoki, even bee

It’s time for me to be reborn
I cannot forever mourn.

031309

THE COURT

[written while waiting in probate court 02/02/10]

Legal world of halls and courts
Paying fines, and collecting torts
In front of judge expose all warts
Lawyers nose buried in thick reports.

The thin veneer that looks so clean
But under the surface there’s so much mean
Can only survive if the mind is keen
And you present yourself as outwardly clean.

It’s a wonderful institute that we’ve created
Keeps us from killing our neighbors hated
Gives us a chance to keep our word as stated
Punishes actions of bullies baited.

But is it Justice, or for what is Right?
Is it for these things in court we fight?
Shouldn’t it elevate us to new moral height
Isn’t the goal that we see the Light?
Sadly, what happens in court is not all that bright
Keeps us from killing our neighbors with might
Somewhat relieves our deep night fright
Barely keeps us civil in our moral blight
Has little to do with what’s wrong or Right.

Is it about Justice, what’s objectively Best?
Or are the resolutions of these matters only guessed?
Where we find out our life is only a test
Where our eyes are opened before final rest?

Sadly, we’ve not achieved this lofty goal
For now we play a pretenders role
Rather than a diamond, we’ve chosen a coal
Would that our courts were concerned with our soul.

ON EAGLE'S WINGS

This is a poem I finished last night (1/30/10). It is about Dolores, who I have been thinking about as I am finishing a book about significant aspects of our life together. I hope you enjoy the poem -- I am also working on a book of poetry. Will I ever publish it? Who knows. Everyone raves over the "poets" who don't rhyme and who rant and rave as they angrily read their "work," whereas what I write seems unfit for public consumption, due to the fact that it has a point, it rhymes, and it generally has rhythm. Anyway, please enjoy!


We dreamed together while awake
Our ancient bonds we could not escape
We saw the path our life would take
We wanted Real, we eschewed fake
We prepared to survive a big earthquake
And Dolores’ dharma was bread to bake

We studied symbols that came our way
Secret message in our path did lay
Words in ads, numbers on license and house
Tatoos on drums that were made in Taos

We recorded, studied what it meant
Timely messages from above were sent
Saw hidden message in coffee cup
Patterns in clouds made us look up
Sometimes say change your way, repent
Or confirmed path was true to full extent
Pursued ethical business to help pay rent
Though at times we barely had a cent.

A great trip we took to Tahlequah, OK
Later in Gallup, and the pipe we did smoke
Followed Red Path as best we could
Shared our lessons in the neighborhood
Lots of ups and downs and in betweens
Often wish we met when in our teens
Towards end, Dolores business of boarding dogs
Renting to students, ebay, and writing blogs
She was quite a gal with talents many
I often linked her to our Henny Penny
She loved to dwell in Hawaii world
When her Eagle was present, her spirit unfurled

But time goes on as time it does
We all lose all that we loves
It was Dolores’ time, and she moved on
But I still can’t believe that she is gone

In my heart she’s with me always
In my mind I can view her gaze
If my mind-ear listens, I hear her phrase
I see her now where spirit Eagle plays
Where there are no bright colors, only grays
In the land I can’t reach, my eyes only glaze
Where she serves her bread on golden trays
Where she faces east to morning rays
Oh, that my end would be like hers, my heart prays
Dolores, you will be with me to the end of days.

2010 Birthday Run

I’d like to share with you my 2010 "birthday run." Since the mid-1970s, I have commemorated my birthday by doing a "birthday run," where I go to a local track and run one lap for each year, and recall the events of each year as I run. This year I ran around the casting pool in the Arroyo Seco. I enjoyed the coolness of the Arroyo and the wooded atmosphere.

I carried my little notebook with me to jot down significant memories. This year, it seemed that I was able to somewhat effortlessly get into my life re-view. The details of my life are not especially important (except to me). Rather, I’m sharing this so you can feel the value of doing such a life –review on your birthday.

I began the run and the memories began to flow quickly.

I recall in 1956 being aware of my father, and feeling great compassion for him. I had no idea what challenges he faced at that time, but I realized in retrospect that I always took my parents for granted. And this feeling of compassion was quickly followed by a feeling of fear and dread. "Where am I?" I wondered, here in this new body, being born into this strange Pasadena city.

By 1958, as my awareness began to grow, I felt that there was great magic in the world – real magic and wonderful things – that I was not yet experiencing. I assumed that adults all knew about these truly wonderful things, but I eventually learned that adults did not. In fact, most adults were the enemies of magic and wonder.

By the late 50s, I realized I was "learning" from my older brothers. This means I learned mostly bad things, learning to tame the dark side in order to be "cool," or accepted. I was both attracted to this dark side, and repelled by it.

I also felt a great attraction to the idea of being a priest. This seemed to be the possible path to the magic, and my mother often talked to me about this, though it was not a formal path that I would ever take.

I couldn’t yet read when in Kindergarten, but a Japanese girl in my class would read comics to me. My mind was awakened by the magic of words, and I was spellbound that another classmate had a skill that I lacked.

I realized that I didn’t talk much by first grade, but watched and observed others very closely. I received a lot of attention in October of 1961 when, during art class, I made a picture of a witch flying through the air on a broom, while everyone else made jack-o-lantern images, as instructed. In retrospect, I thought perhaps this was a sign to me of some past-life affinity to Wicca.

While running, I began to talk to Dolores, and looked up to see clouds in the sky that seemed to be Dolores "talking" to me. Then a V-formation of squaking ducks flew by, which made me happy, and made me feel that there is always hope.

I ran through grammar school this way, recalling significant incidents that affected me. But I realized now that I had a very little world, with very narrow horizons. I went to school, watched TV, did homework, went back to school. I felt that I needed, and should have had, far greater challenges even then.

By 1967, there was the allure of drugs, and I recall how marijuana opened my mind to world that was similar to the magic I believed existed. But I quickly realized that the mind-world of drugs was doing me no good: my health suffered, I had no friends, I was unproductive, always late, and unable to keep my word, so I quit taking any drugs.

My parents got a divorce, and eventually they got back together again. I was unable to see my parents as real people with their own life, and realizing this has made me far more compassionate towards them. I went through a period of great depression, and felt alone even though there were always people around. Maybe my parents knew no other way, but children at that formative age really need parents to be with them closely, and guide them into future endeavors. I was clearly ready for a lot.

I healed my pain by becoming a Buddhist, writing poetry, learning to play the drums, and starting martial arts. It was the beginning of a new life for me, and I felt a whole new world opening to me by the time I started 9th grade at St. Francis High School. I looked back now at the ridiculousness of wanting to be "in," and yet I spent a lot of time in that pointless pursuit.

Time flowed so quickly. I went to John Muir High school in 10th grade, and met Janice, who would be my first wife years later. I went to Ohio to get "back to the land" on my grandfather’s farm, and found that there was no life there for me. I traveled to Mexico, studied Spanish, visited pyramids, but still felt that I was not where I should be. I returned home, went to Pasadena City College and studied botany and journalism, and began Wild Food Outings in 1974, and a path of writing that has continued to this day.

I moved to Highland Park and Janice and I married in 1979, and I felt that I was on top of the world, despite my great ignorances. I was deeply involved in my studies with the non-profit WTI, and research and writing, and thought that I was to change the world. My marriage with Janice seemed OK, but we divorced after about 3 years, followed by a short period of homelessness by me.

Now, looking back, nearly all my "problems" could have been avoided if I had followed the principles I was saying I believed in: always keep your word, get it right from the beginning, don’t pursue purely material things.

My relationship with Dolores had begun and we got married when I was working at a Christian Science church in 1986. We had a fantastic first anniversary at our new home. I recall having such an awe of Dolores, seeing such vast potential and ability that she didn’t even see in herself. It seems we never see ourselves as others do. We pursued our dreams together. During our years together, I saw that we often were on slightly different paths, but we took the time to communicate and tried to solve the problems that arose. We did this a lot, as were by no means perfect.

I began to teach at Escalon (for developmentally disabled adults) and Dolores would often pick me up and we’d go shopping together. It was a happy time for me, and I could not help but cry as I ran, thinking back of all the little things I could have done better for Dolores and for our relationship

We had a wonderful trip to Tahlequah, OK for the Commemoration of the Trail of Tears in 1989 –we’d studied the Cherokee language together and wanted to visit our teacher in Oklahoma.
I quit that job and worked with Dolores at her Rainbow Garden Service for awhile, one of the many businesses that she would eventually start.

We began a pencil business, went to craft shows, wrote articles. It all went so fast, like a whir. I was like an observer seeing these events flow by, not realizing how rapidly flows the river of time. Maybe it was the oxygen, and running around a body of water, but I was deeply re-experiencing my life as I ran.

I saw myself take on the editor job of the Mensa magazine, redoing my Guide to Wild Food book, my writing for American Survival Guide magazine, and teaching cooking classes with Dolores at our home. We saw the Y2K fear come and go, and it forced us to put in solar electricity and solar water heating. Both my parents died, and Dolores assisted me in "being with" them during that time. We wrote our Extreme Simplicity book, and appeared on Huell Howser’s show. And I did some TV work, showing survival skills as Nature Man on Fox’s X show.

I always knew that everyone dies. Yet it was so hard to deal with it – my canine pal Cassius Clay died and I felt I lost a part of myself.

I loved it when Dolores came to the farmers market and sold her linens and antiques. It all went too fast. I could not help but focus on Dolores in the last years, our arguments, attempts at resolution, all my errors, and finally Dolores’ illness and my assisting her around the clock. She called it "Christopher’s Heavenly Hospital" as I took care of Dolores, kept the room warm, listened to music, and made plans for our future. I didn’t think Dolores would die, and my life was very dark with inner chaos and unspeakable sadness when she died. We’d become closest, best friends in our final weeks, and during my last year – my last lap of running – I couldn’t concentrate on much else but Dolores, and how I wished things were different. It felt that my tears were scarring my face.

When done running through my life, I sat with Nicole and tried to relate some of this – the "what to do" things, like keep your word, and do the right thing, and how times just flies, all the things we hope we learn before it is too late to matter. Nicole was a wonderful support, and organized a group of friends on the evening of my birthday. It was impossible to relate to everyone all the details of the run – except that I felt it was so good to have done the run. It was not simply a "review," but a re-living while re-feeling what had happened. It was truly as if I’d died, experienced a review of my life, and was born-again. It seemed to be my most significant run ever.

Upon reflection, I realized that all the "sayings" and rules we get from our priests and rabbis and parents were indeed survival tools of the utmost sort, designed to keep us on a straight and narrow path, the only path to real freedom and true peace.

Merry Christmas to All -- Pagans and Christians alike

--and Happy Hannukah, Winter Solstice, and Kwanzaa.

An exploration of our Deep Winter Commemoration

As a nation with short-term memory, eager for the "next thing," it is no wonder we have no sense of history or a sense of the context in which our current traditions were established. The current Christmas tradition is a good example where we seem to have lost our sense of tradition, history, and the concept of "majority rules."

First off, let’s go back to the beginning. Jesus, a Jewish rabbi, did not establish the "Christmas season." It had already been in full-swing for a millennia or more before his time, in the form of the Winter Solstice commemorations of the "old Religion" of Mythraism (et al). Once Saint Paul proactively altered the basic Jewish dietary practices, and made things a bit easier for "new converts," Christianity took root as a distinct sect, apart from its Jewish roots. Whereas Jews called everyone else heathen (those who lived on the heath, or common) or goy, the New Religion of Christianity called everyone else "pagans."

Let’s stop a minute and examine that now-derogatory term. The Pagani were originally country folk, those who lived outside the grasp of Roman power. The term had no religious overtones. But gradually, those who chose to cling to their old traditions were then called "the pagans," meaning anyone else but us. It was no different than Muslims looking down their noses at non-Muslims, the so-called "infidels."

By the time the Fourth Century rolled around, the new Christian Church was also the dominant political power. Church and State were one and the same. And a savvy leader – Constantine – realized that while it was easy to declare Christianity the "official religion," it was less simple to change the hearts and minds of the people. So what did he do? He stole Christmas fair and square from the pagans. He "Christianized" all of the Old Religion Holy Days, and declared that they were now Christian, with new names in some cases. This is why the Druid Feast of Samhain became All Hallows Eve, and the ancient Ishtar became Easter, and why we have the odd St. Valentines day traditions, a throwback to Roman time. And the ancient Winter Solstice commemorations morphed into The Mass of Christ (Christ-Mass).

Most of the basic symbols of the modern Christmas season pre-date Jesus: the wreath, the mistletoe, the evergreens, gift exchanges, cards, the decorated tree.

Astronomers and historians know with certainty that Jesus was NOT born on or near the Winter Solstice due to the clues given in the New Testament. For example, animals are not in the fields in late December, and there was no comet or conjunction of planets that coincided with that time of the year, and the census that caused Mary and Joseph to travel did not occur in late December, etc.

Santa Claus is a latter-day addition, from an actual bishop in the church, Nicholas of Asia Minor who gave gifts to needy families around the already-established Christmas season. Known as Saint Nicholas, his name is rendered into something that sounds like "Santa Claus" when translated into other languages.

So, all this said, why are we afraid to say "Merry Christmas"? We stole the Holy Day fair and square from the Pagans, who are still free to commemorate Winter Solstice. There is no conflict, and there is no real issue in terms of State-sponsored religion.

Atheists and sue-happy litigants should attend to their own matters, and keep their long noses out of the business of others that does not in any imaginable way "hurt" them. How do the "stolen from pagans Christmas commemorations" in ANY way hurt or harm atheists, or others of different religions? If Christianity, in whatever form, is the will of the majority of the people, how is that harmful?

No one in the broader society, after all, objects if Japanese celebrate Obon widely in their own communities, or when Muslims commemorate Ramadan as they see fit, or when Jews commemorate Hannukah, Yom Kippur, or any of the other well-established Holy Days. Nor is there any objection as those of African descent celebrate the "new" secular holiday of Kwanzaa.

The Christmas holiday is unique and special for millions of people. It is the time of least light, when our minds and bodies and emotions yearn for "the light." It does not really matter that Jesus was not born on Christmas day if that is the day millions of Christians choose to commemorate it. What matters is that we use the symbols of these days to remind ourselves of our spiritual heritage – something ALL people share. We are ALL, after all, descendants from the same Spiritual Father and Spiritual Mother.

This should be an uplifting time for all, when we joyously and sincerely embrace others, and wish them a Merry Christmas, a Happy Hannukah, a wonderful Winter Solstice, the best Kwanzaa, and a happy New Year!

THE YEAR OF NO CHRISTMAS

[This is part of a book about growing up in Pasadena]

A few years later when I was perhaps 10, my brothers and I were particularly bad and misbehaving and belligerent one autumn. My mother gave us several warning and threats and a few "beatings" in her ceaseless attempt to get us to obey. But I don’t know what was wrong with us that year. It was as if we were afflicted by some unseen infection. Or maybe it was what all teens go through when they believe they know more than their parents. So my mother said,

"Keep it up and there will be no Christmas this year." Of course, my mother didn’t control the calendar. She just meant "no gifts." That threat did at first affect our behavior, but then we’d go back to our nonfeasant and malfeasant ways. There were numerous threats, as November rolled into December, but things didn’t substantially improve.

Now, I was at the age where I began to think about things, and the relative unfairness in the world, and the questioning of authority. But I also wondered why we should receive gifts at Christmas. By this time, I was aware that Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus at this time, and that it was primarily a religious holiday. I just didn’t get the whole gift thing –not that I minded receiving. But because I lacked an understanding of the whole picture, the idea of "no gifts" didn’t seem that threatening to me.

Thinking back, our bad behaviour that year was likely the trickle-down defiance from our oldest brother. David was never a defier, certainly not an open defier, but the defiance of Gilbert the eldest would have trickled down to Thomas, to Richard, to me. We were not an ideal family, and I am sure I have suffered my entire life due to unnecessary defiance and the disrespect that I showed to my parents. Did my parents deserve respect? In retrospect, of course they did, though the question would have been irrelevant then – like the pot calling the kettle black.

We were not saints, so who were we to point out hypocrisy in our parents? Anyway, by mid-December, the word was out: No Christmas this year. We were schizophrenic about this. "Oh, we don’t care," we sassed, but inwardly I believe we each felt a deep dismay at our own inability to live up to our household’s very simple standards. I felt particularly dismayed that I had been no better, and that I was swayed along with the tide of my older brothers’ mob mentality. No Christmas. "She won’t follow through on it," Tom told us with assurance. But inwardly, I felt my mother had to follow through, otherwise her word would mean little to us, and she’d gain little by "being nice." I don’t recall what my father had to say about this, but it wasn’t much.

So, sure enough, Christmas came, and we went glumly into the living room to a fire and the usual Christmas tree, but there were no gifts. We went to church and we talked with our schoolmates. When they talked about what they got for Christmas, we just found ways to change the subject. We had a quiet Christmas dinner.

One of my brothers told his friends that my mother was mean, but I never did that. I knew we deserved nothing, and I felt a certain euphoric sense of justice in her actions, and I respected her more because of it.

Interestingly, in certain ways, I felt closer to my mother after that, was more obedient because I simply felt better doing what was expected of me, and I never complained. Despite a seeming lack, it was actually one of the best Christmas’ ever, where I received the most fitting possible "gift" – the ability to quickly experience that my choices and actions have consequences.

The story about my mean mother gradually got out into the neighborhood, and my mother once again became the topic of conversations, mostly criticizing my mother. I always remained silent, trying to listen to both sides. But I only heard one side—no gifts – from those who truly lost the meaning of Christmas, whose sole focus for Christmas seemed to be the acquisition of things. So I slowly was given a second "gift" by my mother’s action – a unique insight into the all-too-common mundanity of most people’s very narrow thinking.

DISCOVERING SANTA CLAUS

[This is a short selection from a book I am working on about growing up in Pasadena]

Christmas was always a special time, though in my very earliest memories, there were no religious overtones. I was taken to church every Sunday, of course, but the Christmas decorations and gatherings were all something that happened at home, not at church. When I was too young to speak, I realized that Christmas was the season that happened during the coldest time of the year, and it meant that we’d have a fire going in the fireplace, people would be coming over, and there’d be lots of gifts and food.

My earliest specific memory was when I was told that Santa Claus could come to our home and bring gifts, and that he had some way to figure out where I lived. I didn’t know exactly why, but there was a great mystery about this fat, bearded, red-suited Santa man. People spoke about him in hushed tones, and would even sometimes stop talking about him when I came near.

My brother Tom told me that Santa Claus would come down the chimney – something I found hard to believe considering how fat he appeared in the pictures. We both peered up into our fireplace one day and wondered how Santa could get through the narrow passageway.
"Plus, doesn’t dad have a screen over the top of the chimney to keep the pigeons out?" Tom asked. I didn’t know. "I hope he remembers to remove it for Santa."

On Christmas Eve, our dad showed us a plate of cookies and a pot of coffee that had been set out for Santa.

We barely slept, and I tried to not sleep so I could be the first to rush out and catch a glimpse of this Santa. But I fell asleep, and Tom woke me and Rick. We jumped out of bed, and ran down the hall. We weren’t particularly interested in gifts, but we wanted to catch Santa. We were too late, but the three of us carefully examined the remaining evidence. There were no cookies left on the plate – only crumbs – and there was only a small amount of coffee left in the cup. Tom held the cup and carefully peered into it, and then Rick and I stared into the cup, the proof that Santa had come and departed.

"See?" said Tom. We all continued to stare into the cup a while longer, as if it might reveal some secrets to us.

In a few more years, I noticed that people didn’t fully hide their comments from me when speaking about Santa Claus. "He believes in Santa Claus?" was met with muffled response. What an odd question, I thought. Why shouldn’t I believe in Santa Claus?

When I actually learned about this mythical aspect of Christmas, I did go through a period of confusion and even anger at the world of make-believe perpetrated entirely by adults and foisted upon me. I suppose I felt bad because I really wanted to believe in Santa Claus, and I felt that he was a positive figure. And I had been told to "be good" for Santa Claus, and that Santa Claus knew everything I was doing. I was very puzzled by all this, but I got over it.

PLANTING THE ASHES

[Note: This is part of a book Christopher is working on about his lessons and experiences with Dolores' death, and how they both dealt with issues of death during their marriage.]

As Dolores wished, her body was cremated. In about three weeks after her death, a brown box was delivered to me which contained her ashes. It was heavier than I expected. We received it too late for the Memorial we held in the back yard a week and a half after she died, otherwise we might have planted a tree that day.

The search was on to find the ideal tree to plant over Dolores’ ashes. The first choice was breadfruit, a Hawaiian tree, in honor of Dolores’ love of things Hawaiian, and her feeling of a connection to those islands, and the memory of her having lived there. But there was no breadfruit to be found. If anyone would have a breadfruit tree, I figured Steven Spangler of Exotica would have it, but he told me that the tree would not grow here unless in a greenhouse. That wouldn’t do.

So then I tried to find a terebinth tree, rich in symbolism and seemingly ideal to memorialize Dolores. But could not find one. I was told by a botanist at the Huntington Garden that there weren’t any of these trees in North America. I sought a certain species of fragrant lilac, a certain variety of deodar, and other trees. Each of these inquiries took time, and it was clear that we should not wait too long for such a memorial.

We had felt the presence of Dolores very strong through December and early January, but she seemed further afield now in that different sort of work that someone must be engaged in once their body dies. So I decided to plant Meyer lemons, a tree that Dolores enjoyed because not only did it provide food, but also fragrance and medicine, and it was drought-tolerant.

Finally, we planned the event for Saturday, February 7, 2009 at 3 p.m. Alvin Toma provided the two Meyer lemons – we planned to plant two trees, symbolic of all things two, like frontal column and spinal column, like Boaz and Joachim. We planned the trees so that Dolores’ trees would watch over and overlook where her dogs were buried.

On Saturday, Talal and I spent an hour finding the just-right spots for the trees. Where I first placed them, still in their pots, seemed symmetrical, but as we looked at it, we realized one would have much more shade than the other. So we moved the trees and finally found the just-right spots, where one would walk down the path and through the two lemons, into the dog cemetery. We dug two holes and built up the hillside on the outer edge of the holes so they’d be secure and not wash away.

Soon guests came. Prudence, Julie, Racina all helped with the site preparation. Nicole and Candace came, as did Mike, and Ben, and Jonathan, and Mel. Even an Hungarian woman showed up after seeing the notice in the L.A. Times. I beat the sacred Taos drums as guests arrived, drums passed down in Dolores’ family, now to me.

We began by filling and touching our cups, and sharing a Toast to Dolores.
We read poesic arts works, and discussed death. A few words were spoken about Dolores. Then we went to the trees. Everyone gathered around. I cut Dolores’ last garment in two, the garment that she wore on her last days. It was a long gray cotton night shirt, and I put half in each hole, explaining how it would be also good for the tree to maintain moisture during dry times. I cut a few inches of my hair and added it to each hole. We put some Otis (our pot-bellied pig) manure into each hole.

Then it was time for the ashes. The dust from which we came and to which we return. I opened the brown box and found a plastic bag inside. I opened the tie. Inside was the dense white ash. I knew that Dolores was no longer her body, but I also knew that this was left of the body within which Dolores resided. I reached into the plastic bag with my hands and took a handful of the powder and placed it in one hole. I put about half of the power into each hole. My hands were white with Dolores’ ash, which gave my hands a silky feel. I saved a little ash to see if anyone else wanted to save some, but no one did. Everyone had been so very quiet. (I was later told, privately by four different people, that they had never seen human ash before, and that they were a bit shocked that I handled them with my bare hands. Prudence told me it seemed like an act of Love. I can only say that it seemed like the right thing to do, to not have fear or repulsion for the ashes of my beloved, but to touch them.)

Then we planted the trees, everyone pitching in to get the trees aligned and watered.
When done, everyone put a rock around the base, and added a little water to the trees. We read more readings, looked at Dolores’ beautiful and unique photography. I smoked Luther Standing Bear’s pipe, blowing smoke to the four directions, to honor Dolores’ site, where her ashes will nourish the trees, where the fruits will absorb the nutrients from that ash, where we will one day consume lemons nurtured by Dolores’ essence.

The weather was perfect for the event. The rain stopped as we began, and the sky had a unique shade of blue, as large billowing clouds filled the sky. It was the sort of skyscape that you expect to see in classical European art.

Finally, Racina sang a wonderful rendition of "You Lift Me Up" and John Denver’s "Country Road." It was beautiful.We cleaned up and departed, and wished the very best to our dear friend Dolores.

My friend Christopher Reamer could not join us that day, but he wrote, "I am one person who was inspired by Dolores, and will continue to be. Peace to you and her in this awesome journey of life. Christopher Reamer."

TERUMASA'S QUESTIONS

Terumasa – Nami’s friend from Japan – had arranged to visit in December of 2008. Though Dolores tried to work out the details of his stay, she wasn’t really able to fully do so, even with my help. Nevertheless, Terumasa arrived after Dolores had already died. In the few remaining days before Fikret returned to Germany, Fikret taught Terumasa how to feed the dogs and perform several of the tasks that Fikret had admirably taken on.

In the evenings of late December and early January, I would often sit with Terumasa and Nami and have dinner together, often watching television, and always trying to converse with Terumasa. Terumasa was a noble man who exuded greatness. I loved to be around him, and wished that our language barrier was reduced.

One late afternoon, after we had the backyard memorial for Dolores, a few people lingered in the backyard and living room to talk. Terumasa sat there next to me, with Mel sitting there listening. Terumasa looked at me while we talked about Dolores. He said, "Christopher," to gain my attention.

"Christopher," he repeated with great concern in his voice.
"Why are we born? Why are here? Why do we live this life? Why must we experience all this pain?" He paused. He was about to cry. He added, "Why do we die?"

We were all silent for a few moments. Joe Hall looked at me, wondering what I would say. Joe had previously made it clear to me that he didn’t believe in reincarnation, so I suppose he wanted to see how I would respond. Mel commented, "Those are the questions, alright."

I nodded to Terumasa. What could I say? Should I offer my opinion as to the meaning of life and death in a few simple words with the attempt to cross the chasm of our English-Japanese divide.

"Yes, what is this all about?" I asked rhetorically. I felt that I was certainly able to intellectually approach those questions, but I did not feel emotionally up to it in that moment.

"Let’s talk about that some more soon," was all I offered.

Eventually, only Joe Hall and Mel remained talking, and when I finally walked Mel to his car, he turned and said, "We should get together and talk about Terumasa’s questions. I’d really like that."

"OK," I told him. "We will, but you have to promise to come." Mel said OK.

About a month later, on Thursday January 29, we planned Boy Voyage party for Terumasa, who would be actually departing Saturday morning. We invited many people, and planned to have Japanese tea and Japanese food.

We set up an outside table up on the hill at the wildlife sanctuary, with lights and a table full of dinner. Nami came up with Terumasa and we invited them to sit down. It took a little while for Terumasa to realize that this was a party for him. He laughed loudly when he realized this was a surprise for him!

We filled our tea cups and touched them together for our toast, reciting the words of a little cartoon – Love Is…

Then, all holding hands in a circle in the darkness of the evening, we recited a work called "Friendship Bridge."

Then, after asking Terumasa about the details of his departure, and what he’d be doing back in Japan, we made the effort to answer his questions. Prudence and I prepared with different parts of the book "Thinking and Destiny" by Harold Percival, along with our own insights.

We didn’t want our bon voyage to Terumasa to become a strict metaphysical study, but rather we wanted to provide some preliminary answers to his serious query. It was as much for us as it was for Terumasa.

We decided that we were born upon this world in order to continue our spiritual evolution. Each of us added some comments to this, but everyone seemed to concur that this is why we are here, and which is why we are here to live this life.

The subject of pain was much more complex. Yet, we quickly denounced the notion that our pain is something given to us, or done to us, by "god," as is so often averred by religious zealots. In fact, in all the cases of individual and large scale pain that we could list, we felt that we are our own worst enemy. We men and women are the sources of pain on the earth, which usually come about by some violation of natural law, some breaking of the Ten Commandments, not abiding by the Golden Rule, and by partaking of the Seven Capital Sins. Our pain is the result of our own choices, and when we learn from our pain and our choices, we – if we are intelligent – learn to make other choices.

This was a big topic, but again everyone was in agreement that we bring our own pain upon ourselves, and that pain is largely unavoidable.

Then we talked about death. Prudence read from "Thinking and Destiny" and pointed out that death can be a friend to our Spiritual Self, that our bodies are simply not destined to live forever, and that – like it or not – we will all die as part of our long progress towards spiritual perfection.

This was not wholly agreeable to all, but the topic of death is so full of emotion and opinion and religious dogma that we did not attempt to have agreement all around, and that was OK.

By now we were feasting on some delicious Japanese fish and soup, and we gave Terumasa some gifts to take back to Japan. He really enjoyed the roll of the new George Washington brass dollars that he was given.

We all exchanged phone numbers and emails and we all hugged. It was clear to all that change was coming soon, and that this wonderful warrior would soon be gone. By 9:30, we all departed, and on the following Saturday morning, Terumasa flew away to Japan.

VISITING SWITZERS

Since the Angeles Crest Highway was opened last week, and since I heard that it might be closed again with possible mudslides in the coming rainstorm, I drove up there this morning. It was quite a sight to see mile after mile of grey and black hillsides from the Station Fire. I noted that lots of new growth was here and there, such as sprouts from Laurel Sumac, and chamise, and grasses.

I wanted to see Switzers, so I parked there along the road, and happened to see my great mechanic, Raz from Eagle Rock. He was all smiles and telling me about his reactions to the burn.

I walked down the quiet road and examined the camp -- I was happy to see that the fire left the bridge, the outhouses, all the tables intact! The fire came right down to the river bottom in places, but didn't burn through the bottomland where all the tables and infrastructure are located.

I saw bear scat, and portions of a recently killed deer on the trail in the camp. The trail was all covered with leaves, and it all had an abandoned feel to it. But I was very happy to see the picnic area more or less intact.

I even spotted a yucca plant in full bloom, as if the fire tricked it into thinking it was April.

I took many pictures, and really enjoyed my morning jaunt. But it cost me $75 in the ticket that was on my windshield, payable to some agency in North Carolina! Oh well.....

THE MOMENT OF DEATH

December 9, 2008
[Part of a book I am working on about Dolores, and our life’s lessons]

It had been a tough week so far, and it was only Tuesday morning. Dolores’ left leg had continued to get swollen the last few days, while her right leg appeared thin from her weight loss of the previous month. She was still only "eating" juices, mostly frozen, and I was constantly worried that she still could not hold down anything more solid.

And I slept lightly and sporadically Monday night, as most nights the previous weeks. I had the occasional dark nightmares which would wake me up, and then I’d try to fall back into a light sleep.

I don’t recall if Dolores called me to wake me up or if I just hopped up and checked on her. But I could tell something was really wrong. Dolores seemed to be in a state of shock. It wasn’t something she said but just the way she was. I could tell she was struggling, and that she was distant. The room was cold and I was immediately upset with myself that I had allowed the fire in the corner wood stove to die down. I went to Dolores and asked if she needed anything. She seemed to have difficulty talking, and asked me to turn her from side to side, something I often did.

But this morning was different.
I felt a panic and my body was instantly in a light sweat. The room was cold but not icy. I asked
Dolores how she was. She responded that she wanted to be turned. I rolled her over to her other side. She could not get comfortable. I rolled her a few times, and she was trying hard to find a comfortable spot, which was difficult.

I told Dolores that I was going to call Prudence, that I needed help. She said no, don’t bother. I could tell that Dolores simply didn’t want to be a bother to anyone else. She knew that Prudence had to go to work and was concerned about Prudence.

"I’m going to call her," I told Dolores, for I could tell Dolores’ body was in trouble. She didn’t look right, and there was a bit of bloating. I had been hoping that Dolores would get much better and that we’d go to Hawaii. We had laughed about going to Hawaii two days earlier. Now I was panicked.

I got Dolores some of her iced juices to suck on and then I continued rolling her from side to side. She could not get comfortable.

Prudence arrived and began massaging Dolores’ bloated leg. My panic subsided, and I somehow clicked into a clinical perspective so I could keep my emotions under control. Deep inside I was crying deeply, praying deeply to whatever Life Force and gods controlled our part of the universe. I wanted Dolores to live and I wanted to continue the momentum of our renewed relationship. I knew that Dolores said she was content to do this body purging, as she called it, come what may. But I also know that she wanted to live. She often told me all of the things she still wanted to do. The publication of so many books and cards. The promotion of all the works of her mentor. The renewal of her relationship with her daughter Barbara. A second chance, she said. We had watched a movie called the Second Chance, and this made Dolores’ face so bright and alive. We both knew that we would go forward together, another chance, and that a bright future awaited us. Dolores could not die.

Prudence and I spoke little, and we worked on Dolores’ legs and body like two workers who had done this a million times. We were doing what we felt needed to be done, in accord with what Dolores was telling us. I later learned that Prudence hid her panic well, and she experienced more fear and panic than I did.

I was glad to do all that I could for Dolores. We’d lived the better part of our lives together. We’d had our ups and downs, and for better or worse, our lives were completely intertwined. I wanted Dolores to live and be healthy as naturally as I wanted that for myself.

Dolores seemed less able to guide us in what we were doing. We kept rolling her from side to side, kept on some music, and Dolores worked the swollen leg. It was exhausting, and Prudence was reaching her limit before she had to go to work. I called Julie.

Julie came quickly and we both continued to massage Dolores legs and feet. One leg was emaciated and the other was swollen. She had good sensitivity in her soles. I began to talk to Dolores constantly even though she was less and less responsive. My mind was racing. Should I call the paramedics? If I do, what if she dies in their care and doesn’t recover? Then I would not be able to fulfill her final wishes? Plus, Dolores didn’t want to go to a hospital.

Julie and I continued to turn her body from side to side, and I tried to get her to drink liquids. By 11:30 a.m., she had become unresponsive, though she kept asking me to turn her. It seemed that a sort of panic overtook Dolores’ mind, and she wanted me to roll her rapidly from side to side, as if it was impossible to be comfortable. Julie watched in silent wonder, and maybe fear.

After a half hour of this, I worked on massaging Dolores arms, and Julie worked the feet. Dolores was silent. She rolled a bit, and then I watched as Dolores seemed to pull up into herself—hard to describe. I watched as her face pulled up into itself, as there was some inner pain Dolores was experiencing. I knew she was going, but didn’t want to believe it. Her face pressed into the pillow and the elasticity that you normally see in the skin of the face wasn’t there as her face froze into a death pose. I closed her eyes, motioned to Julie that Dolores had died, and I lay down next her, and hugged her for the next 30 minutes as I could barely breathe through my choked tears. My best friend was gone.

In many significant respects, parts of me died with Dolores, and yet many parts were awakened.

CHRISTMAS CHEER

Memories of Christmas Season 2008

[This is one small section of a book I am writing about my life with Dolores, how we lived, and how we dealt with death.]

In the days after Dolores died, I still spent my evenings with Nami and Fikret and Nellie (the little dog that Dolores boarded), cooking dinner, sharing dinner, talking over television. Both Nami and Fikret were living in rooms in the front part of the duplex. Nami was from Tokyo, working at a Japanese firm in downtown Los Angeles while she earned her CPA license. Fikret was a student from Germany who’d be going home in a few days.

That December was dark, pressing, my mind a constricted box of sorrow and loss.
RW had earlier suggested to Dolores that she take Nami and Fikret to see the annual Griffith Park festival of lights, and Dolores had mentioned it to Fikret. I brought it up to Fikret and he wanted to go. I think he was more concerned about me getting out and "getting normal" than he was about seeing some electric light display. Anyway, he arranged with Nami to go one evening after Nami got home from work, and I drove.

I had never seen the light show either, and though I was in no mood for "joy," I wanted Nami and Fikret to feel happiness, and the joy of the season that the youth can best appreciate.
My mental state was very constrictive, narrow, even subdued horror. It was as if I’d been hit in the face with a 2x4, and I could not see beyond my shocked pain. But I tried, with great effort, to "enjoy" an evening out with Nami and Fikret as best I could. It was the weekend after Dolores died. Nami got home early from work, and it was already dark. Fikret made a very light meal – more of a snack – for everyone before we drove off to Griffith Park in my Jeep. I was preoccupied with now living a life turned upside-down, with no perception of light at the end of my tunnel.

Fikret and Nami were noticeably happy, upbeat, and they seemed to be happy to be doing something with me. Fikret had come on a few field trips with, but I’d only gone out rarely with Nami. I know they were both fully cognizant of my pain and I think they were being happy because they wanted me to be happy. I think that the lights of Griffith Park were a very minor attraction.

As we drove, we spoke about their day, and other light matters. I always enjoyed talking with Nami over dinner about what sort of day she had at work, and what new English words she learned. We drove into the large expansive parking lot east of the Los Angeles Zoo, and drove around until we saw where to park for the festival of lights. People parked their cars, and then boarded buses which set sail every 15 minutes or so, or until the buses were full. The three of us were the first to enter a bus, so we got the seats we wanted. A few adults filed in, and then a whole group of school children came in and filled the bus. The driver turned off the lights, and we were off down the two miles or so of the electric light display.

The children spontaneously sang Christmas carols at the tops of their voices. Nami and Fikret tried to follow along: Jingle Bells, Rudolph, Silent Night, all the classics. Mostly, the children sang enthusiastically and loud with lots of laughter for the first verse until the song faded as the children didn’t know the words. After loud laughter, another song would begin.

I could tell they were all having great fun, though I was barely there. I had to shut off most of my painful feelings and emotions and turn on only that part of me that was needed for ordinary interactions with others. I was glad that there was so much happiness in the world, but I was in pain.

I was in a darkness of my own, alone, as if I was severely and suddenly cut off from all that was important to me. Which was, in fact, what happened. After the light show, we returned to the Jeep, and I drove on in a stupor. I asked Nami and Fikret if they wanted to see more Christmas lights, and they said yes. Christmas Tree Lane was impressive, but monotonous to me. Nami and Fikret just said "Oohh," and "Ahhh," and "Look at those, wow!" I tried to explain the history of Christmas Tree Lane, how I grew up just around the corner, and I drove by our family home on North Los Robles.

I didn’t want to go home quite yet. "Going home" would mean that I would go back to the rear duplex alone, would sit there for awhile listening to music or watching TV, feeling the full grief of losing Dolores, by myself. It meant I would go to sleep with my grief, unable to find solace in music or TV. I would turn off the TV and music, and in the darkness I would fall into my abyss of sorrow until I awoke the next day. No, I didn’t want to go home yet.

I told Nami and Fikret that I knew of another Christmas light display and we drove across town looking for it. We never found it, but they got a tour of East Pasadena and Sierra Madre before we stopped for some snacks and finally went home.

We then went into the front kitchen when we got home, and enjoyed some cookies and coffee. We all laughed together and we watched a little bit of a Christmas movie on TV. It was a good evening overall, but it would be a long time before I could feel joy again.

An Unlikely Insight

What Happened on the Roof on Columbus Day 2009

There I sat on top of the world, contemplating all of creation. I felt wonderful, enlightened, elevated. I felt one with all my dearly departed – Dolores, Cassius, Marie, Frank, Ramah, and others.

But I was not really "on top of the world" – it just seemed that way. I was taking a break from all-day roof repairs, hurrying to beat the coming rain. Full of tar and Uncle Henry’s Solar 278, I sat on the only flat spot on the roof, crossed my legs and breathed deeply. All I could see were the tops of trees and roofs of houses. It was an amazingly beautiful scene, and I could barely believe I was looking out over Los Angeles. I could have easily fooled myself into thinking I was at the border of ruralness and forest. Yet, here I was in the ‘hood, relaxing, seeing things from another perspective and suddenly Europa starts playing on the radio.

Europa. That was Ramah’s song, the song that played as our pit bull Ramah died in my arms 15 years earlier. I never fail to think of Ramah when Europa plays. I breathed deeply, and thought of Cassius Clay too, my pit bull pal who died about a year ago. I closed my eyes and felt Cassie there with me on the roof, by my side. I cried as I began to talk to Cassie, to Ramah, to Dolores, to my mother. How quickly those sounds –- that specific music – took me into the realm of all my departed dear ones. I found that I enjoyed being there with them as I sat there on the roof, and I realized that I also need to simply love more those who are still with me.

The clouds were hugs, dynamic, in shades of gray to the north as they towered over the mountain range. To the west, the clouds were breath-taking, colored in their pastel shades of pink and red by the setting sun.

I’d been feeling hectic the last few days, now rushing on a job that I’d intended to do over a longer period of time. I couldn’t tolerate another storm with leaks all over, and the weathermen were telling us to expect two to four inches of rain. One inch of rain in a 24 hour period is a lot. I was on the roof on automatic pilot. I’d neglected friends, normal niceties, preferred customs. I was in emergency mode to prepare for the rain.

Now, taking a break from this pace, relaxed in cross-legged posture on the nearly flat roof, I breathed again deeply, and let the stress flow out of me, and became one with the sound and the cloud and the wind and the coolness and the love of my dearly departed and the love of my living loved ones. My little sense of "self" dissolved into the bigger picture of "the moment." Wow, I’m alive, I thought. How wonderful that I awoke today from my dream, the "dream of life," that dream that occupies most of my mind most of the time. The dream of illusion, duty, momentum, success, and failure, and so often devoid of feeling. I let my mental words dissolve into nothingness, and became one with the dynamic reality, this moment of NOW, all around me.

I realized that I have lived so much of my life in the seeming-reality of words. Are they real? Or are they merely tools with greater or lesser clarity, greater or lesser accuracy in portraying the "what is" of life? I felt no excitement with words, with their ability to convey something, their facility to lead me into "truth," their wonderful taste and color. In this moment, I withdrew deep into my inner circle and I dissolved into this moment of awareness and I let go, and felt.

Soon, as the wind picked up and I contemplated the unfinished roof and the coming rain, I put my tar-covered gloves back on, and then got up to continue sealing the roof.

The Search for Meaning -- and Home

Sometimes I wake up in the early morning, and I sit out on the front porch, looking down on the fog that slowly ascends up the canyons. I am still far-away in my dream world, trying to make sense of the world I have just awaken to, the "real world." So often this world of ours seems to lack meaning, and I struggle with what to do each day that has meaning.

The quest to "Find Home" seems so universal that my mind dwells on that. "Home" is not a house, but it is the place where your heart resides, where your dreams can be fulfilled, where you can do that which you were destined to do. As I think of these things, I recall a poem I wrote last year. I share it with you now…


TATAVIAM SUMMER

Christopher Nyerges

In flat grassy lands hot and dry
Where mountains rose steeply to the sky
We walked narrow canyon and watched ravens fly
Along fire-burned willows that would not die.
Past acorn pancakes could smell if you try
And buckwheat mush that mama would fry.
A hot summer day, a distant hawk cries
I’m trying to see what the present denies.

Vibrant little village hundreds years ago
Down by river where the waters did flow
Sheltered by rock from the winter winds blow
Open fields where wild crops did grow
Good clay abounds, lots of ochre yellow
And asphaltum seeps back in the canyon low
Back in the willows could see hidden doe
And grew here all the reeds for crafts and show.

It’s Tataviam summer in this wild grass plain
Where men fasted in the cave out of the rain
And social structure kept you from going insane
While families collected the wild grain

It’s Tataviam summer and I’m looking for home
I’m getting tired of my civilization roam
It’s been a hard millennium away from our loam
It’s time to get back to our Tataviam home.

DOLORES' 63rd MEMORIAL BIRTHDAY

[Note: this is a bit long, but please be sure to read the final message.]

I planned a gathering to commemorate what would have been Dolores’ 63 birthday. It was for Saturday October 3, 2009, the day after her birthday. The full moon was Saturday night – it was the "harvest moon." It may have seemed like a casual gathering, but a lot of planning and preparation went into our small gathering.

Michael and I cleaned up the area around the two trees where we buried Dolores’ ashes earlier in the year, and we made sure that the many steps leading down into the Island orchard were safe and not slippery. We set down strips of carpeting on the terraces so that guests would have a place to sit. Plus, I’d noticed that a raccoon had been coming and digging around Dolores’ two Meyer lemon trees, so the layer of special rocks and quartz and handstones that I’d carefully placed under the trees was now tumbled and jumbled. So I re-aligned these specially-placed stones.

This is Dolores’ gravesite, I kept realizing. This is where I go to commune with Dolores. That is not strictly true, however, since I often feel Dolores with me while walking, while driving, while typing at home. But the grave site is still that one unique spot where her final physical remains are buried, where "she" could overlook the burial site of our three beloved dogs, Ramah, Lulu, Cassius Clay.

I invited 50 friends to join us for the October 3 event, and by Friday – Dolores’ actual birthday – I felt pretty prepared for the gathering.

I drove to the Island around 5 p.m. and set things out in the grave site. I was greeted by both Racina and Nicole, who’d arrived before me. Nicole practiced her violin while I set out pictures and burned white sage. Prudence arrived. Frank Loaiza arrived. Frank never met Dolores but seemed to know her through her writings, and through me. Helena arrived. It made me happy to see Helena, since she, Dolores, and I were partners 15 years earlier producing maybe a half-million pencils for gift shops. We had a good several-year run of the business and became close friends.

We began with a toast. We filled our cups, and as we touched them, I read the Shining Bear work called "Herbs and Meat," which Dolores orated at the closing ceremony of the 1989 commemoration of the Trail of Tears in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. I pointed to a photo that I set up by Dolores’ tree. It was Dolores reading "Herbs and Meat" in the Cherokee amphitheatre in Tahlequah.

The sun was low and it was cool, and I felt an aliveness of the spirit of Dolores as we touched our cups in that act of communion.

I then began the prepared Thinking and Destiny reading, which described each afterlife stage, and compared each lifetime to a day in our life, and compared the death stage to the sleep and dream stage each night. After looking at some photos of Dolores, I told everyone how I intended to continue some of Dolores’ life’s work, such as the corn research I’d be sharing that day.
We all then added some more quartz stones to Dolores’s grave site, and then we planted a little corn patch. For this planting, Frank Loaiza gifted an ear of blue corn that his father had raised for several generations. I had soaked the corn in water for some time, and then we each made little holes in the patch with sticks and planted our corn.

Prudence asked me if Dolores had ever worn long robes and beads. In response, I read a paper Dolores had written about how she made and sold clothes when she lived in Hawaii. Prudence said that she "saw" The Lady Dolores there with us, adorned in what appeared to be blue and maybe tan long garments and beads – like braided with her hair and falling on either side of her face. It was as if the beads were part of her hair. It looked just right.

That made me happy that someone else "felt" and "saw" Dolores presence. I couldn’t remember Dolores dressing like that though, except maybe when she did a SerpentDove reading on the Island and dressed the part like an older Native American woman.

Everyone was quiet as Nicole played beautiful sounds on her violin.

As it was getting dark, we all gathered up the hill around Dolores’ redwood table by lamps, and shared her favorite brand of pie, by Fabes, which had no processed sugar. It was a pumpkin pie, along with coffee-elixir, water, and fruit juice.

I shared some of the details about corn, and how the Hopi and others believed that humans were created way back in time from corn kernels. Plus botanists do not know the exact origins of corn, adding to its mystery.

Despina showed up and we read more of the Thinking and Destiny reading.
At the same time, Racina and Nicole glanced at each other. Nicole looked at Racina and said, "You know Dolores is present right now?" Racina nodded knowingly. A very loving and sweet Dolores proceeded to give Nicole a beautiful "soul hug" and whispered very kind thoughts about her and Christopher right into her ear. Racina then looked at Nicole and said, "Oh my gosh! Dolores is here and she is making me smile!! I just can’t stop smiling…." The next moment Dolores’ spirit lovingly moved around the table…a light and loving presence was shared by many of the guests.

And towards the end, even Mel showed up and joined in our conversation. I also read some corn-related selections from the book by Dolores’ mother, Shiyowin Miller, entitled The Winds Erase Your Footprints, a true story of Shiyo’s friend, a white woman, who married a Navajo man and moved to the Navajo reservation during the 1930s. The section I read pertained to the ma-itso, or wolf clan, which used corn pollen to "cast spells" in what was referred to as "Navajo witchcraft."

Prudence said that while I was reading this, she could "see" Dolores shielding her face with her arm, as if protecting herself from this dangerous information. I shared it to point out that all things have a "positive" and a "negative," and the passage from The Winds Erase Your Footprints described how corn pollen was used for evil purposes.

It was a wonderful gathering to commemorate the special being of Dolores, and to recognize how she affected each of us.

When Prudence, and I, and Revve Weisz further discussed the event the following day, we recognized the positive influence that Dolores was now playing in our lives.
RW pointed out something that both stunned me and made me feel uplifted. He said that there was something I should HOLD in my forethought. It was my (The Christopher’s) miraculously Loving interaction with Dolores (The Lady Dolores, as he referred to her Doer, her Divinity) that totally altered The Lady Dolores’ Doer.

We discussed that for a bit. It was obvious that my interaction with Dolores during her last days changed me, but I had not considered how I had changed her. Prudence and I both witnessed an incredible new being arise within Dolores in those last weeks.

RW added that this radical alteration of The Lady Dolores’ Doer will never be known by anyone else, because I (The Christopher) did it all alone, at a huge personal sacrifice, only to benefit The Lady Dolores and not at all "for show" to anyone else. I cried as I re-lived and re-membered those days.

It was late Sunday, and we were ready to depart. RW then shared what was a final "farewell" message from The Lady Dolores, something that Dolores conveyed psychically to him. It was her URGING for how all of us should begin interacting with each other. But it was also such a universal message that is needed by all people, that I share it here:

This could be the last time that I see you.
Either of us could die ere we meet again.
so please know that I deep-admire your admirable traits
and laud your ceaseless efforts to perfect your soul
and elevate your character (and that of everyone you interact with)
I hope we interact again (in this life or the next)
but if we don’t
I want you to know
my life has been enriched by having known you
and I hereby wish you Godspeed
in your sojourn through Eternity.