Turning Over the Money-Changers' Tables

A view at the base of the pyramid at Chichicastenango, Guatemala

Growing up in a Catholic family, I have always had a special reverence for Passion Week, perhaps the holiest of all the Christian holy days. The climax of this tradition begins on Palm Sunday with Jesus’ entry into the city of Jerusalem on a mule while palm leaves and garments are laid in his path by his followers. He is widely acknowledged as a healer, though some are upset that his actions are drawing so much attention.

Then, later that day, or the next day, he becomes enraged by the “money changers” and ubiquitous vendors along the way to the temple, and knocks over many of these booths.

Of course, it is no different today. Every holy site on earth is packed with vendors and their booths of trinkets that they hawk to every tourist who passes by. These booths of vendors are found around the Vatican, the Church of Guadalupe in Mexico City, Chichen Itza, the Egypt pyramids, etc., ad nauseum.

Jesus knocked over the merchants’ tables because he felt their very presence in the temple desecrated a holy site. This didn’t garner him many friends, especially not the merchants who felt justified in their commerce. This act set the stage for the various accusations, arrest, trials, and crucifixion.

Today, commerce seems to run and rule every aspect of our lives. Everything has a price and scant few protest the gross invasion of commercialism, on billboards, on our e-mail, on the bus-stop, in the bus, on the bus, at every sporting venue, on the clothing of bicyclists and car racers, etc. Yet, we somewhat draw the line at our religious locations. Somewhat.

Jesus recoiled that the work of the Temple seemed to be just the work of commerce. Let it be done elsewhere, he argued. Of course, his actions were radical, and noteworthy, and look how he was “rewarded” for trying to separate commerce from “the house of God.”

I once experienced what I felt was very similar to what Jesus felt that day.

I was in Guatemala on a Mayan study and tour, we drove to the town of Chichicastenango. It was said to be a sacred city where the oldest version of the Popul Vuh exists. We were going to visit one of the holiest Mayan sites, which was once a pyramid in the town, upon which a Catholic cathedral had been built a few hundred years ago.

To get to this site, we had to walk through several blocks of narrow passageways, densely populated with booth after booth selling jewelry, artworks, fabric, clothing, food, herbs, and all manner of trinkets. There was no escaping the throngs of vendors, to whom any eye contact meant maybe you wanted to buy what they had. The narrow passageways were so thick that you literally had to bump shoulders with everyone else, and the hired tour guide yelled out to all of us to carry our daypacks in front of our bodies to thwart pickpockets.

I began to feel that I had descended into a hell of sorts. I had not been feeling well, and I had just learned two days earlier that my brother had died. I was in the mindset of entering into a Holy of Holies, but to get there you had to pass through the gauntlet of the most overt commercialism imaginable. I withdrew deeply into my self, something next to impossible to do in such a public place.

Eventually, our group all arrived at the base of what was left of the whitewashed pyramid. At the top was the cathedral, where the church today allows the Mayans to practice their traditional religion. We would eventually enter the church and hear about its history, and see a Mayan priestess performing a ritual in the middle row of the church.

But outside, with the din of voices and screaming all around, the merchants booths were set up right to the edbe of the pyramid. People sat on the pyramid, and near the base, copal was continually burned and black smoke poured heavenward. The narrow passageways of all the corridors of booths led to this pyramid, and a constant throng of passersby moved constantly this way and that.

I felt awestruck by that unique spiritual “something” that was an inherent part of this special place. But why had the commerce been allowed to invade and over run this site. At least no vendors were allowed into the church yard or church!

But outside, at the base of the pyramid, I had a clear mental picture of the wrath of Jesus back at the Temple of Jerusalem, knocking the vendors tables over. I could see the Rightness in what he did. I felt such a strong desire myself – to be rid of the hawkers of ware in that holy place.

There was no way I would kick over a table of jewelry or other goods. For one, I was not feeling well and didn’t have the strength for such an act. For another, I was well aware that I’d be spending time in some out of the way Guatemalan jail cell, and that notion was very unappealing. I simply took in the moment, tried to feel the reality of the commerce that has overtaken us, and looked forward to my departure.



Yes, Easter is about the death and ressurection, a theme that is found in numerous religious traditions world-wide. It is a worthy theme to study and to plumb its mysteries. It is all about each of us allowing our ignorant ways to die, and to allow our spiritual divinities to be resurrected from the ashes of our pointless lives. But don’t forget that Jesus desired to kick out the love of money from the spiritual temple. That too is something that each of us should do in our own private lives.

And if and when we get the courage to actually do this, do not expect your friends and family to smile in approval. You would be wise to look at story of Jesus to see what you should expect, and to plan accordingly.

Dealing with 2012 Fears

When I was in Guatemala last winter, one of our impromptu teachers was a man who operated a jade store and Mayan museum. He explained the creation myth to us from the Popul Vuh, and then began to speak about the Long Count of the Mayan calendar.

“But it seems like a lot of people really want the world to end!” he said, as we all laughed. He went on to explain – as my group heard over and over – that there are no predictions from the Mayans about the “end of the world” or doom and gloom. Some poor journalists must have thought they heard “end of the world” when it was only “the end of one calendar cycle.”

“Yes, anything could happen,” he continues, “but it’s good to stick to facts. The Maya don’t say anything about the end of the world. In fact, they have dates listed for several thousand years from now. If they thought the world was coming to an end, why did they use those dates?”

Our main teacher, Miguel Angel Vergara, speaks after the laughter dies down. The December 21, 2012 date completes the 13th Baktun of the Long Count calendar, a 5,125 year long period of time. To the Maya, 13 was the number of completion, transformation, spiritual advancement. So why do so many think of it as a “bad luck” number, Vergara asks us. He offers an answer. Perhaps it is because we know that spiritual transformation is hard work, and it means leaving behind our bad habits and vices. Perhaps they do not want to evolve, he said. To those people, 13 is thought of as “unlucky” because they do not want to give up all the things that hold back their evolution.

Vergara then asked us to list our fears about the 2012 date – either our own fears or fears that we have heard others voice.

The list was predictable, and he wrote them on his white board.

The Unknown.

Death.

Suffering and pain.

Family.

Losing things.

Vergara then addressed these “fears” one by one.

Yes, the unknown is a mystery, he told us. He paused, and then emphasized to us that the past is the past, and is over. The future is the unknown. It is only the present that is our real gift. There fore, we need to simply focus on the present, and not let our minds run away in the past or the future.

Death. Yes, we will all die. We will. And so? Accept it, and then live your life fully.

Suffering and pain. Again, Vergara said, yes, life is full of suffering and pain. That’s life. It has nothing to do with 2012.

Concern for our families. Vergara smiled and said, “They will survive without us.” He acknowledged that everyone is concerned about their families and this is natural. But we need not have an imbalanced worry about whether or not someone else might or might not survive a situation. Just carry on with living your life.

Lastly, he addressed the notion of losing things. We will lose things, he said. That’s life. Whether in catastrophe or in ordinary life, we lose things.

Vergara paused and said loudly, “Think! You all of us have ALL that you need. You have cars, money, homes, and you still suffer. What are you fearing? You are all like millionaires [sometimes he would say billionaires] compared to most of the people in the rest of the world.

“We buy what we need at the supermarket. We have lost our inner warrior. We are weak and we are comfortable. We don’t want to fight.

We need to change our thinking and become fighters again. Nothing is ever for sure.

When I used to visit a friend, we’d go outside and pick oranges outside from the tree. Today, the children are busy texting and they don’t even want to go into the kitchen.



What is the best formula to recover this part of ourselves?

He offered many solutions. He described ceremonies that we could perform to reconnect with the earth, and our divinity. He said Love, Real Love, is a part of our solution. Vergara added that “Ninety-nine percent of the time we fail to solve our problems because we don’t knock on the door of divinity. We think that our ego will solve our problems. We know all the things of the outside world, but we don’t know our Self. Are first task is to Know Thy Self.”

He emphasized the need to avoid fear, and go forward with our purpose in life.

“All these fears,” said Vergara, “are phantoms created by the media. The main purpose of life is Self-Realization.”

ON WILLOW

SPEAK TO US ON THE WAYS OF THE WILLOW

A lesson in learning how to learn


The wise man of the forest had been hailed by the people of the land, the eager pilgrims, to teach another lesson in the ways of nature. “Speak to us on the ways of the willow, oh kind sir,” asked one of the pilgrims. “The people are in great need, and it would benefit them greatly to learn the secrets of the prolific willow.”

The wise man listened intently, and told the pilgrim that he would teach the lesson on the morrow, and that the pilgrim should bring the families to the spot in the river where the willows grow around mid-day.

“Oh thank you kind sir,” said the pilgrim. “We shall be there, eager and ready to receive your lessons.”

On the following mid-day, the wise man was at the willows early, as the pilgrims began to trickle in.

It was a cool day as the pilgrims gathered around the riverbed area, near the tall and drooping willows.

“Oh, kind sir,” asked the elder pilgrim. “It is so chilly in this area. Perhaps we can build a small fire to warm up before you begin your talk?”

Without speaking, the wise man of the forest collected a long straight piece of dried willow. It was about as thick as a pencil, and about a foot and a half long. He took another dead and dried piece of willow branch, about as big around as his fist and maybe a foot long. As the pilgrims watched, the man of the forest first took his large knife and split the branch in half, and then further split the half so he had a flat rectangular piece of willow. All the pilgrims watched carefully as the wise man made a little triangular cut into the edge of the wood, and then he began to press the pencil-shaped piece of willow onto the flat piece. The wise man pressed hard, and begun to spin the willow drill onto the flat piece of willow, and soon smoke flowed from the friction. The wise man continued to spin thusly, and smoke poured out from the drilling. Soon, there was a red-hot ember in the dust that the wise man created.

The wise man quickly collected a bunch of dried willow bark from a dead branch, and scraped it with his knife to create a fluffy bunch of thin bark. He deftly placed the little ember into his nest of fluffy willow bark, and carefully blew on it until it puffed into a flame. He then placed it into a circle of stones, and added dry willow sticks so that the fire could grow and the pilgrims could warm themselves.

The wise man then began to collect his thoughts for his talk, when the leader of the pilgrims spoke up again.

“Kind sir, I don’t want to trouble you, but we have an elder here with pain in his legs. He cannot stand or sit comfortably on the floor. Is there something we can do for him?

The wise man nodded, and then proceeded to cut some of the dried and dead willow branches, those that were the straightest. He also peeled some long strands of the willow bark and put it to the side. First, the man of the woods created a square from the willows, and securely lashed the square. He then carefully measured, and then cut, willow branches that he then lashed to the square like legs, and the square because the seat of a chair. Taking a few more thick willow logs, he split them so they were flat, and secured these to the seat of the make-shift chair.

The wise man then helped the elder into the chair, cautioning him to sit carefully.

By now, the pilgrims had warmed some rice and vegetables on the fire, and one lamented to the wise man, “Too bad we didn’t bring forks and spoons.” The wise man whirled around back to the willows, and carefully trimmed pencil-thin twigs about 10 inches long. He passed several pairs of these to the pilgrim, saying only “chop sticks.” The pilgrims eagerly took these and began to eat their vegetables and rice.

By now, much time had passed and the sky was darkening.

As the wise man considered how to deliver his talk on the virtues of the willow, another pilgrim spoke up saying, “Kind sir, I have a terrible headache. Is there anything that I can do to help?”

The wise man nodded, and then carefully peeled off some fresh willow bark. He put the shredded green bark into a metal can, added water, and set it into the coals of the fire. After a few minutes, the wise man poured the tea-colored water into the pilgrim’s cup, and asked him to drink it. “The willow bark is nature’s aspirin,” he explained.

By now, the sky was darker, the children restless, and a cold wind began to pick up. The leader of the pilgrims looked about and decided they should depart for the day. As everyone was packing and getting ready to depart, he spoke up loudly for all to hear, saying, “We are all so thankful that the wise man of the woods came here to teach us about the wonderful willow, but we are very sorry that there was no time for him to teach us anything.”

The wise man tried to conceal his smile as he walked out of the canyon with the pilgrims.

Sun Bear

“If your religion doesn’t grow corn, I don’t want to hear about it.” – Sun Bear


I’ve always liked that quote from Sun Bear. I’ve even seen it on a bumper sticker. Sun Bear created what he called a modern tribe, the Bear Tribe, with both Indians and non-Indians who were interested in self-reliance and living in a traditional tribal society.

After he died, the tribe scattered and the popular magazine, Many Smokes, was no more.

His famous quote arose from various people who would talk to him about their religion or philosophy, and he grew tired of the highly esoteric, New Age, mind-religions and beliefs. He felt that you should always question the beliefs you hold dear, and that these beliefs should sustain and support you. They should “grow corn.”

Sun Bear and his followers traveled around the U.S. and the world, sharing his teachings, a blend of traditional Native ideas and beliefs, as well as his modern spin on what it takes to live self-sufficiently, and “in balance.” He encountered many other beliefs and –isms, and philosophical concepts.

At their farm they produced their own food, built their buildings, and actually created the world they wanted to live in. I don’t know what specifically caused Sun Bear to make his pronouncement, but I suspect it was theabundance of cults and gurus back in the 70s and 80s where the followers ran around, selling trinkets and holy objects, doing their best to support the leaders, in the name of “doing God’s work.”

Another side to this quote is that we should not divorce our day-to-day life with our beliefs. We should apply the principles that we say we believe in towards the problems we face. We should apply what we believe even when it is inconvenient to do so.

So basically, Sun Bear is telling us that if your religion or philosophy or belief system is not practical, or productive, or useful on all levels, then he didn’t want to waste his time on it!

Celebrating the Dandelion

Peter Gail of Cleveland has written the book that contains everything you’d ever want to know about the common dandelion. He calls it “The Dandelion Celebration,” 151 pages that might surprise you if you’re one of the many gardeners who despise dandelions because they grow in lawns. My father was one of those people, and when I was a child, he’d pay me a nickel for every dandelion that I dug out of our front lawn. But it turns out that dandelions are not trash, they are treasures. Peter Gail shares all of this – and more – in his celebration of the dandelion.


Gail begins by telling us some of dandelions’ complex and long history of food and medicine. He shows us comparisons of dandelion’s nutritional content with other common wild and cultivated foods. We learn that dandelion is the richest source of Vitamin A and magnesium, in his study, as well as a rich source of most of the tested minerals. It is richer in beta-carotene than carrots.

Despite the media attention given to broccoli, collard, and spinach, it turns out that lambs quarters, amaranth, and dandelion -- three common weeds – are far more nutritious than their cultivated counterparts.

There is page after page of the health benefits of eating dandelion, so why don’t more people eat them? Because dandelion is bitter.

So Gail has collected over 600 dandelion recipes, and he includes many of his recipes in this book for turning this bitter weed into a tasty dish. He tells us how to use the roots, leaves, flowers, and hearts. There are recipes for some very unlikely dandelion dishes, like dandelion ice cream, dandelion waffles, and dandelion pie. There are also the standards, such as dandelion wine and coffee.

It’s a great book and should be in your library. Check our Store to get your own copy. Spiral bound for easy-use.

As Gail says, “If you can’t beat ‘em, eat ‘em!”

A Mini-Tale of Semi Urban Survival

On January 11, I performed my annual birthday ritual of running one lap for each year, and recalling the details of each year as I ran. After I was done, and after I took a remarkably hot “memory bath” outdoors, and after rubbing my body with Peuvian mint leaves, I met with Urban Nature Girl Helen at Whole Foods in Pasadena to share a light birthday lunch.

Helen’s schedule only permitted her a brief time in the early afternoon, so we met and ordered our soba noodle soup. We also purchased some juice, and a small raspberry cake that we’d split.

My legs and hip were still buzzing from the 57 years of memories, and I was in relaxation mode as we sat for our noodles. We talked about my run, and my memories.

Then it was time for our cake. I was about to cut it when Helen informed me that it was “essential” to blow out a candle, even a small one. She found a little twig to use as the “candle,” and she told me to go ahead and light it so I could blow it out. I had my magnesium fire starter with me on my keychain, but it didn’t seem appropriate to use that inside Whole Foods. I asked her if she had a Bic or matches in her purse. She didn’t. I had very little with me since I had been running. I went out to my car to find matches or a lighter, but didn’t have either. My excuse was that this was not the car where I kept much gear. I then searched my pack to find matches or a Bic. Nothing. I know this seems hard to believe, but I couldn’t even find a knife!

I went back in and told Helen not to bother, that we’ll just have the cake without a candle. She just gave me that look, which meant that we would have a candle. She got up and said she’d find a candle and matches. When she came back, she had neither a candle, nor matches, nor a lighter, since this “green” store sold none of these essentials for life. But she did come back with a pack of incense sticks. She told me to go ahead and light an incense stick, and keep the flame going long enough to blow it out.

Ok, yes, but I still only had my magnesium fire starter and no knife.

“You don’t have a knife?” she chided. “You’re supposed to be some sort of survival guy,” she said, as we both laughed. “Don’t tell me that you can’t make a fire.”

So, I pulled out my little P39 can-opener from my key chain and used it to laboriously scrape my magnesium to get a tiny pile of shavings. It took maybe five minutes to get even a small pile of shavings, which we then bunched up into a small piece of a napkin. Then I practiced sparking the sparker on the magnesium tool with my little can opener, which wasn’t easy, but if I held everything just right, I was able to produce some sparks.

“OK, ready?” I asked Helen. She held the napkin and the incense stick as I carefully scraped the striker with my P39, and the napkin lit, and she quickly lit the incense stick and stuck it into the top of the cake. She even managed to click a photo before I blew out the “candle,” which meant I will get my wish that the world will not end in 2012 and all my goals will be achieved.

We ate the little raspberry cake, laughing about how long it took to get that fire. And no one at Whole Foods even seemed to notice our little drama since we were over in one corner of the store.

And yes, it did feel better to make that little fire in such an unexpected place and unexpected time, rather than to slink home hanging my head in shame.

My Pal Otis

When it was clear that my pot-bellied pig Otis was dead, I wrapped him and carried him to my car, and drove him to Highland Park where I buried him in the “family graveyard.” I had prepared a hole for him west of where I buried Cassius Clay. Helen and I had to dig the hole a little deeper because Otis was a bit bigger than I realized. I wanted to bury him deep enough so that stray dogs wouldn’t come by and disturb his body. After we buried Otis, we put some flowers on his grave, and I placed his “Otis, Kansas” license plate (which I always kept on his gate) nearby. On her music-device, Helen then played a song, Aad Guray Nameh by Shatam Kaur, as we sat thinking about Otis for a bit. I was sad, but I knew that Otis had a good life and a long life, for a pig!

After all, Otis lived over 19 years. My vet once told me that that was well over twice the average life for a pot-bellied pig. He’d gotten much slower in the last two years, and in the last six months, he was slow and unsteady on his feet, and he began to eat less and less.

He was up every day to eat when I was gone to Guatemala for two weeks in early December of 2011. But when I got home, Otis was lying on his bed and just grunted when I greeted him. I hugged him and I hand-fed him, and I felt that he experienced a certain ease that I was back. But I could also tell that he was on his way out.

I felt a great empathy for Otis. He was a big guy, for sure, but his personality was such that he always seemed like a little boy. I told him that everything was OK and that I was happy we had a good life together. I thanked him. I told Otis that it was OK to go on, if it was his time, if his body had become a burden. I whispered in his ear that it was OK, and that I loved him. He just grunted his friendly “oink” in return. Otis never got up, and he died a week later, on Hannukah.

It was the spring of 1993 when Otis came into our family. Dolores and I had talked about getting a pig, and the pot belly “craze” was fading out. Though we toyed with the idea of breeding pot-bellied pigs, Otis had been neutered, so that was not a viable idea. But that was OK, because we fell in love with Otis right away.

We learned a lot about the nature of “pig-ness” during Otis’ life. In fact, this was partly why we got Otis in the first place – we were going to learn about the nature of pig-ness, which is also an aspect of human-ness.

We learned that he certainly had a good memory, especially as it related to food. He once discovered a bag of carob pods that I had in the living room, and he nearly ate half the bag before I caught him. After that, any time he got into the house, he always went right to that spot where the carob had been.

Though we’ve heard that pigs are very smart, you can’t really compare them to dogs, for example. Dogs might not have pigs’ great memory, but they seem smarter due to their loyalty to their masters. I’m sure that Otis always recognized me from other people, but loyalty? I don’t think so. Pigs don’t seem to want or need close affinity to people in the way that dogs do. Nevertheless, later in his life when Otis was mostly alone, we did develop a “closeness.”

Yes, Otis was a pig, and yet he was such an individual! I learned to know what his sounds and grunts meant, so I knew when he was happy, when he felt threatened, when he was worried, and when he liked (or disliked) someone. His range of vocal sounds was broad and fascinating.

For his last few years, our cat Popoki would sleep with him, often lying on Otis’ big belly, which was always very warm. The two of them seemed to not just tolerate one another, but appeared to be good pals.

Since a pot-bellied pig’s expected life is about 7 to 9 yeas, we estimate that he was about 200 years old (by human standards) when he died.

Finally, when I went to Guatemala in 2011, Otis greeted me when I came back. He was lying down and didn’t get up. I tenderly rubbed his big nose and hand-fed him some hay. I kept him covered, and comfortable, and felt sad that my friend was departing.

And though I was sad, I felt a certain inner joy that he lived a long life with me, and that Helen was there to help me bury him and give him a special ceremony. I thought that I would go through a period of great sadness, but I didn’t. We had a good life together, and I was able to be there with him in the end of his very long life. I feel that some part of Otis will always be with me.



Postscript: A few days after I buried Otis, when I parked my car near his pen, I heard his distinctive oink. A trick of the mind? I like to believe Otis was saying goodbye to papa.

My 2012 Birthday Memory Run

Another cycle in my life has arrived and I performed my annual ceremony this morning. I went down into the Arroyo Seco, and ran 57 laps for my “birthday memory run.”


It was cold and overcast down in the canyon amidst the sycamores, alders, and oaks, and the weather seemed to parallel my being born into the world with ignorance of the ways of man. The fact that there was no one around seemed to further make the point that we are each born into this world, alone and naked.

I began my run, one lap for each year, while trying to re-live that year as I ran. I was able to more fully get into the past feeling of being there, and actually living it.

Suddenly there was this Conscious awareness, “me,” and it was looking out at a very strange world through my new eyes. “What is this strangeness?” I thought. I found myself crying as I ran through these early years, as I often cried back in the mid to late 1950s in my Pasadena home. Why did I cry? I was fed, clothed, warm, and there were no abuses. But I felt an indefinable feeling that something was wrong and that I was no longer a part of the Eternal Oneness that I’d been connected to.

But how could I have told anyone about that? Even now, it’s difficult.

I ran around the large body of water, surrounded by still fallen branches from the recent heavy winds.

As I ran, I realized how we all take everything for granted, and we question too little, much to our detriment. We seldom ask “Why?” and we quickly join the herd in trying to get better, get more, outdo, make money, make more money, go to school so you can get a job, and get married. These are the things we all do. They are expected. We do so automatically. And we end up with barely any time to look at each of our choices, and each thought, to see where our choices are taking us.

I felt much empathy for my parents, two people who were like gods to me as a child, and who in fact struggled like every one else in their day to day challenges. How blind I was!

I looked for real love, and sometimes found it. My life with Dolores was full of ups and downs, and successes and failures, and a rich tapestry of struggling to find meaning in life, all the while working to fit this into the necessities that society and others impose upon us.

I saw my various projects that brought me and others happiness and fulfillment, though my mind went to the many projects that I did not get done. I wrote in my notebook these projects so I could take action this year.

I saw the birds and heard the squirrels and a cool breeze sung in the treetops as I neared the end of my life’s review.

Life is sweet and short, and, as we’ve all been told, this is it and there’s no dress rehearsal. I smiled inwardly at my circle of friends and family, and hoped and prayed that 2012 will be the best year ever, the transformational year of change, as reflected in the fulfillment of the 13th Baktun of the Mayan Long Count calendar. Yes, 13 means “good luck” to Mayans!

It was a great run, and I thank each of you who have been a part of this wonderful

2012 and the Maya Calendar

On December 30, 2011, the Los Angeles Times published a cartoon on their editorial page titled “Teenage Mayan Prankster,” with two youth saying “Yeah, predict the world will end in 2012… that’ll really freak ‘em out.” What’s wrong with the cartoon? They are shown carving a large image of the popular Aztec calendar!

The cartoon is an example of the general ignorance about the Mayan calendar, and what it might mean for this year.

So, for starters, there is a real Maya calendar and yes, one large cycle ends on December 21, 2012, and another cycle begins. But there are no predictions whatsoever about “doom and gloom” by the Maya.

[Scroll down and read my 2012 Blog of January 4, 2011, where I speak about this in more detail.]

WHAT HAPPENED WHEN I WAS IN GUATEMALA

[photo by Sunny Savage; Richard Nyerges at right]

I was sitting in a bus, driving through the Guatemalan countryside when I got the call that Richard had died. I was troubled, and upset, and saddened that I’d not see Richard again. I began to think over some of our life together. I thought mostly of childhood incidents, and they mostly made me laugh.

-- The haircuts Richard and I would get from our father. My father would sit us up on highchair in the garage and the whole neighborhood could watch the spectacle of a poor haircut.

-- Or our early morning paperroutes when we were out in the neighborhood on our bicycles when everyone else was asleep.

-- Once Richard left the house when my father told him he couldn’t, and my father was so mad that he got in the car and drove over to Santa Rosa and Highland screaming the whole way. He dragged Richard into the car and was screaming and slapping him all the way home, much to the entertainment of all the other children in the neighborhood.

-- I was often surprised when Richard was overly protective of me as his younger brother. Once, while walking home from school, an older boy said something to me, and I just ignored it. But Richard went over to this boy and punched him more times than I could count, and the boy limped away, and I was shocked at his reaction. Yet, I gained a new respect for him.

But mostly, when I heard of his death, I was sad. He’d not be around anymore, even though we probably only talked once a month or so. The last time I saw him was at Jonny’s memorial. I realized that life is short and precious, and we don’t always get all the time we think we need, or deserve.

I remember many years ago when I felt bad, or had some problem, I could always call my parents and talk. I would talk for an hour or so with my mother, and it always made me feel better, and hopeful. Then both parents were gone, and I discovered that I could Still talk to them, which I do almost daily. I just don’t get the same responses anymore.

We could do the same with Richard too, and he will feel your support. Even if you don’t believe this, you can talk to him still and feel better yourself.

The following two days in Guatemala were particularly painful, not entirely but partly because of thinking about Richard. One night I spoke with a friend, Doug, and Doug told me many things, including that my pain wasn’t because of Richard’s pain, but because of my own fears about life, and that was very insightful. Doug told me that night that Richard would appear to me in my dreams. But Richard did not appear to me that night.

The following day, I was participating in our class on the meaning of the Mayan glyphs, and later did a meditation while light music was playing.

When I closed my eyes, I found myself on a large flat mountaintop, not unlike the top of one of the many pyramids we were visiting. Richard was there with me, smiling. He didn’t say anything, but we held hands and began to dance in a circle, slowly at first. We smiled and laughed as we held hands and twirled. We laughed, and Jonathan joined the circle, as we talked lightly about how much fun it was. Dolores joined, and my mother and father joined, smiling. My mother said, “Aren’t you going to invite us to dance?” and we all laughed and continued to dance in this circle.

It was such pure, child-like enjoyment, and others, seeing our delight, quickly joined. Helen joined the circle, and Tom and David and Gilbert quickly joined. Pam, Michael, and Jeffrey joined. Spouses and children joined and the circle got bigger and louder and we were singing and smiling and it was like a Michael Jackson “We are the World” songfest, except the music was more like the Jewish folk song Hava Nagilah. [If you don’t know this song, you should listen to it right now on YouTube to get a feel for my dream].

We went round and round and friends began to join – I saw the neighborhood friends join with Richard – Lee Keller, George Sotello, Babbit, Jim Billups, and I saw the many family friends join the dance – Paul Martinez and Carlos Frausto and the deFazios and people kept joining, friends of Richard and friends of his friends and the circle got larger and larger, and the music was like this celestial angelic music and we moved as one and we smiled and we felt a oneness that you just want to feel on earth but you rarely do.

The circle got larger and larger and as we danced and moved we all began to see that we were all one family, one organism, and we recognized that if I hurt you, I hurt myself, and that if I steal from you, I steal from me, and that if I cause pain to you, I cause pain to myself. We were all moving and there was no fear, no pride, no lies, no prejudice, no Democrats, no Republicans, and Richard in his bright green shirt, was smiling broadly.

As the circle continued and everyone felt their oneness with each other, and with Richard of course, I saw flashes of bright white light all around us – believe me, this would make a great music video!

While we danced, Richard was on the far side of the circle and he said, Don’t cry for me. I said, People are sad. Why not cry. He said, Don’t cry. Just live better. Live your life, and be good. Live better and respect each other and be good to each other. Do that in my memory.

My meditation ended.

So, in Richard’s name, I thank every one of you for being a part of this wonderful circle.

ON GIVING THANKS

I’ve written extensively on the contributions from Native Americans, contributions that are usually forgotten. These include foods, medicines, political ideas (including the U.S. Constitution and method of government), and much more.

Now that Thanksgiving is nearly upon us again this year, it’s appropriate to thank those people who helped the earliest settlers to survive. By “thanks,” I mean tangible forms of thanks, such as direct gifts to Native families who are still suffering from economic hardship. Look folks, their land was stolen from them as the flow of European culture rolled over them. Now they are the “forgotten minority.”

Casinos haven’t come to all the tribes, and even casinos are not the panacea that they are made out to be.

Yes, also give thanks to God! You should humbly give thanks for your bounty and your blessings. And this does not require you to consume massive amounts of food!



I gave a talk at the Sunday Spiritual Studies at WTI. I was describing the great diversity of Native Americans here in what is now Canada, U.S., and Mexico, with as many as 5000 distinct languages and/or dialects at the time of European contact. The cultural practices and religious ideas are likewise diverse. The Native Americans were never a homogenous group of people.

As a prelude to why we as Americans should give tangible thanks to Native Americans, I attempted to answer the very complicated question of “Who are/were the Native Americans?”

I hope to write this up into a full report with all the details, but for now, here is the basic outline and reference list of my report.

1. Scientific American, November 2011, The First Americans. A report showing that the “first Americans” were here far longer than previously thought.

2. “Red Earth, White Lies” by Vine Deloria, demonstrating that the “Bering Strait Theory” is just that, a theory, based on very little fact.

3. The case of Kensington Man, whose unofficial test showed that he was related to the Ainu of Japan.

4. “The Zuni Enigma” by Nancy Yaw Davis, who shows amazing connections between Japanese and the Zuni. Her theory is that Japanese Buddhists left earthquake-wracked medieval Japan and sailed across the Pacific to Southern California, eventually migrating inland to the Zuni territory.

5. “Pale Ink” by Henriette Mertz, detailing two visits by Chinese to the American west coast, one about 2000 B.C. and another about 400 A.D. She compares some uncanny connections between the Maya and the Chinese.

6. “He Walked the Americas” by L. Taylor Hansen, a collection of fables, legends, stories, and songs from assorted Native American tribes who speak of a holy man or prophet who came from the sea and spread teachings among all tribes.

7. National Geographic, December 1972, article “Mounds: Riddles from the Indian Past,” page 783. Page 794 and 795 shows a conch shell that was dug from a mound. A drawing on the conch shell shows rowers on a boat with an obvious symbol of Tanith, a Carthaginian lunar goddess of the Phoenician pantheon. How did that get there?

8. “America B.C.” by Barry Fell, a fascinating account of the many people who came to America before Columbus, and the evidence left behind.

9. “Cahokia, Ancient America’s Great City on the Mississippi” by Timothy Pauketat.



And there was much more in this fascinating exploration of the diverse roots of the people who became the First Americans. I hope that reading some of the books listed here will help to expand your perspective.

Was Jesus Black?

Christmas is coming, and soon we’ll be entrenched in all the Christmas themes. In a recent conversation, a friend casually said to me, “Well, you know Jesus was black, don’t you?” Needless to say, this led to a long conversation.

I researched this over 15 years ago, and did find that there is sufficient Biblical evidence to say that Jesus was indeed of mixed ancestry, including African. But whether or not that makes him “black” depends on whose definition you use.

Many have heard of the “black Madonna” and believe that to be a carryover from when everyone believed Jesus had African ancestors in his lineage. But that’s not “proof,” anymore than we can say it’s “proof” that Santa Claus is black because we saw a black Santa Claus last Christmas in Harlem.

Where is the proof? I have actually seen Old Testament quotes used to “prove” that Jesus was black. But you can’t use Old Testament quotes for proof, since those quotes were written before Jesus was born!

And you really can’t rely on the book of Daniel or the book of Revelation for proof of Jesus’ African ancestry either since those books are highly symbolic and prophetic and subject to diverse interpretations.

Many of the Old Testament quotes that are used to “prove” that Jesus is black are King James translations, and if you read from another Bible translation – such as the Lamsa Bible translated out of the Aramaic – there would be no “evidence” whatsoever there to suggest anything about Jesus being black.

The key to Jesus’ ancestry is to look at the genealogies listed in the Bible, specifically Luke 3: 23-31, and Matthew 1:1-17. Note carefully that most such lineages list only the male line, but there in these lineages (both a bit different, by the way), we are told of at least four of the women in Jesus’ genealogical line. These are Rehab, Ruth, Tamar, and Bathsheba. Rehab (also spelled Rahab) was a Canaanite. Tamar was probably a Canaanite. Bethsheba, often referred to as a Hittite, was more likely Japhethic, that is, not a descendant of Ham. (However, this is not clear). Ruth was in the line of Ham.

Now, who was Ham? Who were the Canaanites and Hittites?

According to Genesis 9:19, all mankind descended from Noah’s three sons: Shem, Ham, and Japheth as they spread throughout the world. Ham’s descendants became the black people who settled in Africa, and parts of the Arabian peninsula. His sons were Cush, whose descendants settled in Ethiopia, Mizraim, whose descendants settled in Egypt, Put, whose descendants settled in Libya, and Canaan, whose descendants settled in Palestine. The descendants of Cush were the main populace of the Cushite Empire, which extended from western Libya to Ethiopia and Nubia, all of present day Egypt, and the Arabian peninsula into the mountains of Turkey. They spoke several languages and had skin pigmentation ranging from dark black to medium brown.

It takes a bit of study to ascertain who these people were – and there were other possible African women in Jesus’ lineage as well – but, in general, when we are speaking of Cushites, Canaanites, descendants of Ham, etc., we are speaking of Africans. It is entirely possible that this wasn’t a big deal when the scriptures were written since Jesus’ racial background would have been regarded as common knowledge.

Still, nowhere in the Scriptures can one find definitive descriptions of Jesus’ ethnicity or physical appearance. It just isn’t there. But the clues are there. He was obviously a Jewish rabbi, trained in the Jewish ways, whose background included people from all parts of the known world at that time.

Was Jesus black? It all depends upon how you define “black.” He was clearly a cosmopolitan man.

Road Kill Bill, R.I.P.

News item, dated October 13, 2001.
“Wild Bill” Found Dead in Park Bushes Wednesday.

Christopher Nyerges at the memorial  "gravesite" for William Barrios, aka "Road Kill Bill"
-- photo by Francisco Loaiza

A transient known locally as “wild Bill” was found dead at 12:53 p.m. Wednesday afternoon in the bushes of Hahamongna Park, confirmed Sgt. Debra Herman of the Crescenta Valley Sherff’s Station on Thursday night.

“We – everyone at the station here – have had contact with him several times,” Herman said.

“Wild Bill” is formally known as 54-year-old William Pluma Barrios, who was christened with the nickname for allegedly being intoxicated in public (allegedly??) and yelling at people, which has led to many calls to the station. The park, which is right across the street from La Canada High School, was known as Barrios’ most frequented area. (His “most frequented area”?? He LIVED there!)

Barrios cause of death is still not known, as the coroner’s office is awaiting test results which could arrive in a few weeks, said Lt. Brian Elias of the county coroner’s office. However, Elias added that there is no suspicion of foul play in Barrios’ death.

[You can find a photo of Barrios on Facebook or Altadena Patch.  Use the term "Wild Bill"]

XXX      XX      XXX

I was saddened to read the above news notice – in fact, I was first alerted about his death by a phone call from Francisco Loaiza.

I encountered Road Kill (as he said he preferred to be called) about 30 years ago, when he would camp in the area around Gould Mesa about two miles north of JPL. In the last 6 or so years, he lived further south in various spots in Hahamongna Watershed Park, and we “talked” often. He would often break into poetry or wild laughter, but we had some semblance of coherency. When he learned who I was one day, he ran into his lean-to and came back with a dog-eared copy of my “Guide to Wild Foods” book, which he said taught him a few local wild edible plants.

Over 3 years ago, when Helen Sweany attended one of my classes, she left her pack behind. She called me to go find it, but it was gone. A few days later, a bus driver called Helen. The bus driver was given Helen’s pack by Road Kill, and Helen got it back intact, with nothing removed! Road Kill told the bus driver that he really enjoyed reading Helen’s notebook about wild foods and survival.

Today, October 24, I recorded a podcast in honor of Road Kill next to his last camp, where someone erected a stone memorial in his honor. You can listen to the podcast on Preparedness Radio Network, with the date October 27, 2011.

Here is the poem I wrote about Road Kill back in 2008. When I gave him a copy, he smiled and then let out a wild laugh. I think that meant he liked it.

ROAD KILL BILL

Road Kill Bill was rarely seen
He lived under a tree in oak grove park
He was maybe 50, not a teen
Whose homeless life seemed so stark

For weeks we’d see him come and go
But we never together talked
we’d hear his loud alone discourses
caused some fear, car doors were locked

But he never caused us harm
Just a man living life
Under the oak trees he lived
Coming from a life of strife

One day Helen she forgot her pack
When I went back to get it, twas no more there
Helen called me few days later
Saying her pack got back, an answered prayer
A bus driver was given it
And then it was passed to Helen
Found by Road Kill Bill, given to bus driver
Bill was an honest man, not a felon

'Well, I’m not speaking for his past
For I only knew this incident
But finally one day he talked to us
After the outing he said “hi,” coincident
With us wondering who he was
Bill’s the name, they call me Road Kill
Yes he lived in the bush, said he
A lively man, dynamic still
This large man called Road Kill Bill
A scary visage but a friendly guy
Wanting to talk with others still
Who simply asked us Why
And how, do you make fire with stick
Can you really do it
Or is it just a trick
And he told us of reading Tom Brown
Of tracking deer and shelter making
He teethless told us how to improve our fire
And he smiled to see that we were not just faking

Road Kill accepted my apple
To give to his friend the deer
“For my toothless mouth
Cannot chew it, I fear”
Said he lost his teeth
In some past jailtime fight
I wanted to ask why he did time
But feared it would not be right
To open the door of frightful fights
And memories bad and invoking pain
So I just smiled back at him
My curiosity I did restrain

I told him Helen was so pleased
To get pack back with book of notes
He simply nodded that he’d done the deed
He was not a man of many coats
Just living life under a tree
In plain sight for any to see
Wild man of the oaken land
shakes you with his strong hand

When you travel this life
Of valleys and hill
You may sometimes reflect
Upon Road Kill Bill

Food he gets from here and there
No air conditioning, not a care
Bathroom and water are nearby
Wild hair with a simple tie

Not a life that all would live
Most have money that flows through a sieve
On all “necessities” that Bill doesn’t use
Such luxuries can be a noose
Are they Right or wrong
Are they good or bad
These are things that Road Kill Bill
Hasn’t had, and isn’t mad

Lives simply under oak tree
Watches animals that he does see
Bothers no one, uses little
Why should anyone him belittle

Probably not a saint
But carbon footprint zero
His lifestyle make you faint
But could he be a hero?





Written August 23, 2008

THINKING ABOUT DOLORES

Dolores' birthday is October 2, Sunday, and so I am thinking about her death, and the memorial we held for her. I always enjoyed her mother's book, "The Winds Erase Your Footprints." It's a true story her mother wrote about her best friend who married a Navajo man and went to live on the reservation during the Great Depression.

(You can read my Memorial to Dolores at http://www.christophernyeges.com/ and clicking Memorial).
We read passages from the book when we had a "63rd birthday commemoration" for Dolores.

Here is a passage. (The book can be obtained anywhere, plus at the Store at http://www.christophernyerges.com/)

Here is what I read, from Chapter 7, The Sing:

And then Shimah was telling him about the yellow pollen. Juanita could almost follow the story by her mother-in-law's excited gestures. Shimah's face was strong and tense, no room for gentleness, and her voice carried a new undertone--like fear. Only her hands seemed natural, although excited, as she gestured. Strange that Shimah should tell about the yellow pollen, rather than ask the rider about himself, about news which he was surely carrying. Of what interest could the yellow pollen be to him?
But he was interested. He leaned forward as though better to hear her words; his eyes narrowed and his face looked very grave. He asked many questions. Shimah answered and sometimes Yee-ke-nes-bah. Through their conversation one word seemed to repeat itself until it began to echo and re-echo in Juanita's mind: ma-itso . . . ma-itso.
...And then Lorencito began to talk seriously to Luciano; Juanita heard the work ma-itso repeated again and again. Shimah sat nodding her head as her oldest son talked, occasionally adding a word to what he was saying. Luciano turned to Juanita; his face was marked with gravity as was his older brother's. "Lorencito says that it is not safe to keep this from you any longer; I should tell you now."
Juanita waited. Her mouth and throat felt suddenly dry. She could not have spoken. Her thoughts raced: this is in some way connected, ma-itso and yellow pollen. Perhaps it's all connected, all of the puzzling and unexplained things that have happened. And somehow, the looks on their faces, Shimah's and Lu's, Yee-ke-nes-bah's and Lorencito's, are a little bit frightening.
"Before we came here," her husband began, "when I tried to tell you about everything which might seem strange to you, I didn't tell you about ma-itso--the wolf clan. One reason, it no longer seemed as believable to me as it once had; perhaps all the years in school did that; anyhow, in Hollywood I seldom thought of it. When we came here, my mother told me the wolf clan was still strong in Cañoncito. I didn't tell you then because I could see no reason why they would try to harm us. But to be sure you were safe, my mother and sisters watched you every minute.
"There were times when I almost told you, those times when you were upset about things you didn't understand. And yet I hated to frighten you needlessly. Already there was so much for you to worry about. It seemed better to wait until I had a job, until we were living in town and then tell you. "But now two things have happened which make me sure the ma-itso is for some reason after us. I found yellow pollen in an X mark on my hat brim, and today my mother found pollen on our clothes. That is their warning. Lorencito thinks you will be safer if you know about this evil thing." A hundred questions sprang to Juanita's lips, but her husband went on talking, interrupted now and then by Lorencito or his mother.
"The wolf clan is as old as the Navajo tribe. From the beginning some men turned certain powers, which should have been used for good, toward evil things. Corn pollen, used for blessing, is used by the ma-itso as a warning to a person marked for death. And death does not come in a usual manner; it comes in a round-about way which cannot be easily traced. The victim sickens suddenly; sometimes his mind leaves him. No Medicine Man can cure him. Sometimes the victim meets with a mysterious and fatal accident.

Goodbye Jonathan

JONATHAN NYERGES
June 18, 1982 – September 1, 2011

Nine of us stood there at dusk on Sunday at the intersection of Baldwin and Palm in Arcadia. It was where my nephew Jonathan died in a motorcycle accident the previous Thursday.

He was driving north-bound on Baldwin when man driving westbound on Palm turned onto Baldwin. He crossed Baldwin to go south, but he probably didn’t see Jonathan. The impact killed Jonathan instantly and the small SUV was toppled, with the driver dying later in the hospital.

We friends and family members stood by the make-shift shrines erected by Jonathan’s friends. In the middle of the street, on the traffic island, were signs and letters to Jonny. On the sidewalk at the base of the traffic light were a dozen or so candles, a small motorcycle, others trinkets, lots of flowers, and many good wishes written in chalk on the sidewalk and curb.

We talked about what happened, or, how we thought it might have happened. I took photos. Then I noticed all the various colored spray paint marks in the middle of the street. They were the marks made by the police to define the accident scene. Richard and I tried to figure out what the markings meant. We couldn’t figure it all out, but we thought we recognized marks for the main part of the motorcycle. We stared at a spot where Jonny apparently fell.

The sky was red with awesome clouds, and drops of rain had begun falling lightly. Rain, any rain, was a rarity in early September in California. As we silently stood, we listened for Jonny as the cars roared by. I heard Richard continuing to describe what happened, and listened to his hopes that somehow it was all a dream and Jonny would ride up their driveway on the motorcycle. The sky began to light up in an electrical storm. These were huge flashes of multi-branched light quickly followed by the crack of thunder. I took it to be Jonny’s goodbye to all of us who stood there honoring his last stand, where his 29 years ended.

I reflected on the few but happy interactions I had with Jonathan. Helen and I last saw him at Tina Frausto’s Fouth of July party in Altadena. He was there with motorcycle helmet in hand. He was happy and we enjoyed our short talk.

I remember when I went to a mailbox shop one day in Sierra Madre when I needed something notarized. The man behind the counter smiled as he refused my money for his work. It was Jonny who recognized me. He was happy, and smiled in his generosity. He always seemed so happy to see me, even though we only saw one another very seldom. I’d always hoped that I’d have the time, or make the time, to develop a closer relationship with my nephews and nieces. Now there would be no more chance with Jonny.

I knew through his father – my brother Richard – that Jonny loved bikes and motorcycles from an early age, and that he was – like his two brothers Michael and Jeffrey – a whiz when it came to the technical things like computers.

I wish I could have known him better. Now it is too late.

I know the pain too well of losing someone we love. When my wife Dolores died, I felt empty and lost and depressed for a long time, and close friends offered me much support. Now is the time for friends and family to do all they can to offer your loving support and physical support to Richard and his family.

After Dolores died, my mentor shared with me something to keep in mind with all our living loved ones. This is an urging for how all of us should begin interacting with each other, all the time.

FARE WELL SONG TOO-SELDOM SUNG

This could be the last time that I see you;
either you or I could die before 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 that you should know
my heart has been enriched by having had you in my life
and hereby do I wish you Godspeed
in your up-and-onward sojourn through Eternity.

Labor Day 2011

A review of “Razor’s Edge”

We were in a small field and a small stream was trickling by. We created an ember with a bow and drill, and then put the ember into a wad of mugwort. We blew it into a flame, and then created our small fire between two rocks. We balanced a #10 can over the rocks, and heated water. Soon, we added coffee grounds to the water, and then strained our coffee through a clean sock into each of our cups. The hobo coffee was delicious and then we began to warm our stew made from beans and wild greens.

It was Labor Day in Highland Park, and we gathered for the annual WTI event [www.wtinc.info] to discuss the meanings of “real labor,” and to consider why we do what we do all life long, and whether or not there are better alternatives. Our focus was upon those peripatetics throughout history who could not go along with their society’s norm, who knew there was a better way, and who worked to share this insight with their fellow man.

Such peripatetics could have included Jesus, Socrates, Ghandi, Pythagoras, and many others.

As we enjoyed our coffee and beans, we moved to a nearby makeshift shelter where an outdoor TV had been set up. We sat in the shade as we viewed and discussed the original version of “Razor’s Edge.”

The story begins in 1919, post World War I, where the author Somerset Maugm, describes one of the most unusual individuals he’d ever encountered. The main character, Larry, survived the last battles of WWI, but his fellow soldier, right next to him, was shot dead. That caused an indelible mark in Larry, and it led him on his search for the meaning of life, his life, life in general. It meant Larry found himself unable to settle down, and wandered to Paris, and to a monastery in India. Meanwhile, we see what happens to Larry’s childhood friends as they pursue their ordinary life, the very life they wanted for Larry.

I first viewed this movie when it was on TV in the middle of the night, a restless night when I could not sleep and I was asking the very questions that Larry asked himself. What is this all about? Why do I do what I do? What should I do? Why is everyone so unhappy with me if I do not do as they want?

The original black and white version of “Razor’s Edge” remains an inspiring classic, and I strongly recommend that you view it, and put yourself in Larry’s shoes.
Did Larry ever find his answers? He said he found some of his answers, though not all, and that he might never find all his answers. But while in India, while alone outdoors as the rising sun made its appearance, he experienced what some would call a Oneness with The All, and felt that he were a part of God. It was an experience that he could barely describe in words, and one which he thought back to often.

That was what I did on Labor Day.

Some "Economic Survival" Considerations

Here is some “food for thought” adapted from the last chapter of my “How to Survive Anywhere” book (published by Stackpole Books, available from Amazon.com, or ChristopherNyerges.com.).

It would be the height of naivete to discuss the full picture of “survival” and not bring up money. Money is an integral, inescapable part of life in any specialized and organized society. Talk show host Tony Brown once said “If I’ve been accused of over-emphasizing money, it’s because I place money right up there with oxygen as a necessity.”

Whole libraries have already been written by the folks who live their lives 24/7 in the pursuit of money. You know, Suze Orman, Loral Langemeier, and all the folks that tell you how to make a meaningful income by investing, or buying real estate, or whatever. If you feel you are lacking in this area, you owe it to yourself to explore those who have already succeeded in this arena.

For our purposes here, let’s look at “money” in a meaningful context.

None of us really needs money, per se. We need (and want) those things that money buys for us. This means that if we focus upon the acquisition of money per se, we may simply be bumbling ahead with our lives, assuming that the acquisition of money is itself an important goal.

We should define our goals in life, and we should recognize that although money can help to accelerate our achieving many goals, money cannot replace our desire and drive to achieve and accomplish that goal. In other words, the desire to accomplish and to produce results, and to establish working networks with other people is far more meaningful to our life’s goals than is “money.”

Knowledge and self-education is perhaps the most important first step to increasing your survival awareness, and allowing yourself the possibility of making new choices. This concept was the subject of the last chapter of our Extreme Simplicity: Homesteading in the City book, where we explored the four illusions of money. Fear and greed are the primary factors that drive our economy. If you allow fear or greed to drive you, you cannot make the best decisions.

Once you recognize that much of our personal thinking, and public broadcasting, about “economics” is counter-productive to our “economic survival” (and automatically impinges upon other facets of survival as well), we inevitably look for personal solutions. What can I do? What can I do, especially if I am in a limited situation? What can I do now?

GOALS
Begin by defining your goals very specifically. Write them down. Record some short-term goals, but also your long-term goals. These must be goals that you deeply desire to achieve, and they should be goals that you can achieve. Plus, you might have a list of goals that you must achieve (e.g., I must have $1700 for my mortgage each month or I lose my home!). For each goal, you should be able to record at least three concrete steps that you can take – whatever your current financial situation – to achieve these goals. Bring other people into your analysis. Don’t try to do this alone.

Also, consider the broadest ramifications for your “goals.” Are they benefiting more than just myself? Are these goals that might facilitate friends, family, neighbors to work together (thus increasing our survival quotient)?

In “Beautiful Mind,” the movie about the life of John Nash, the mathematician who developed “game theory,” Nash quotes Adam Smith (often referred to as the father of modern economics) as saying “The best result comes when everyone in the group is doing what’s best for themselves.” In other words, your self-interest should serve the group. It is better for the society that you not lose your home to foreclosure. Nash saw that Adam Smith, while correct, was incomplete. Nash enhanced Adam Smith’s axiom to” “The best result comes when everyone in the group is doing what’s best for themselves – AND the group.” It was clear to a mathematician that thinking about others is definitely in your best “survival” interests.

Obviously, this is just food for thought. The practical applications are up to you to find, and to put into action.

Here are some financial-related principles to ponder, and to experiment with. Think of them as tools for survival and enlightened living

1. As ye give, so shall ye receive.

2. Always lead with an offer. (Don’t expect someone to care about you just because you are “in need.” Before you ask for help, find out how you can benefit the other person).

3. Make every place better for your having been there. (This is true “Appreciation”)

4. What blesses one, blesses all. (Another way of saying “all ships rise in a rising tide”).

5. Discover the “magic” of Tithing. (Even financial advisor Suze Orman suggests that you give to the church or charity of your choice).

6. Pay back your debts

7. Barter and exchange. (You’d be amazed at the sorts of relationships that can develop when money is not involved.)

In Search of Real Survival, part 2

An Interview with Vine Deloria, Jr.

I had to chuckle when I heard a “survivalist” say that he’d like to see the collapse of society so that he could start over from scratch. Really? Why would someone sitting behind a computer, driving a truck, and buying what he needs at the local grocery store want things to fall apart? Though such persons are usually clueless as to what it actually takes to start a society “from scratch,” such sentiments do reveal a deep discontent with our current state of affairs.

History is full of folks who attempted to create a breakaway society, usually in search of a better, more idealistic, maybe even utopian, way of life. That’s how our American experiment began, at the expense of the Native Americans. This is how and why the Amish live they way they do, and persevere despite the ridicule of their neighbors.

Hippies of the 1960s and ‘70s also tried to create separate communities, “communes,” where they could farm, dance and sing, and attempt to put into practice whatever religion and politics they developed. Let’s examine the hippies.

A few years ago, I had the opportunity to interview Vine Deloria, Jr. for Wilderness Way magazine. Deloria was named by Time magazine as one of the greatest religious thinkers of the 20th Century. Among his approximately two dozen books, he wrote “God is Red,” which Wilma Mankiller (former Principal Chief of the Cherokee Nation) called “the flagship book of Native American spirituality.” (Deloria passed away at age 72 in November of 2005).

Among other things, I spoke with Deloria about how hippies presumed to imitate Native Americans in both look and practices.

The reason that the hippie movement failed, Deloria told me, was not just because of drug use, though that was a significant factor. Hippies failed, said Deloria, because they failed to grasp the value of organizing tribally, and they ignored the value of customs. “I think they failed for lack of discipline and lack of commitment,” he said. “People tried to create communities from scratch and it didn’t work. People were sincere, but they often lacked anything in common except a rebellious spirit. And in fact, a lot of Indian communities today have the very same problem. Extreme individualism is chaos and unjust to everyone.”

Deloria also blames television and popular media for presenting a false picture of what traditional Indian culture was and is all about, so those who do sincerely try to pursue that end up pursuing a counterfeit.

“In the world of ideas,” continues Deloria, “Indian culture becomes a kind of deli where people pick and choose what they want to practice. Much of the appropriation is the projection of wishful thinking on different Indian symbols, such as the vision quest, sweat lodge, using the pipe, etc. My fear was that with so many Indians living in the cities with no experience with reservation communities, some of them would begin to think that the frauds actually represented the true tribal cultures. I can remember how popular the Billy Jack movies were and many Indian youths thought the ‘ceremonies’ in that movie were what people actually did. A lot of it sounded good to people who knew nothing about Indian culture. And simply being an Indian in the urban area does not somehow magically mean you know anything of the traditional tribal culture.”

It was an insightful interview with Deloria on a variety of topics where he shared – if you read between the lines – how to succeed at making a meaningful community, based upon following certain patterns from the past.

Unfortunately, the interview was never published in Wilderness Way because the owner/publisher told me that “It might offend Christian readers.”

“How on earth would they be offended?” I challenged.

“Because his book is called ‘God is Red,’” said the publisher.

I was shocked at his narrow-mindedness, and suggested that he read such books as “The Pipe and Christ,” or Joseph Epes Brown’s “The Sacred Pipe” to see that there is less dichotomy between pure tribal religion and pure Christianity than meets the eye. This is not to imply that Deloria did not criticize Christianity. He certainly did, but Deloria was an “equal opportunity” criticizer, criticizing what he saw wrong in both Native American practices, Christianity, and elsewhere.

For example, he harshly criticized televangelists such as Oral Roberts who once told his followers that he needed about $10 million for his new building or “God would take me home.” He analogized televangelists to mainstream Christianity as the travelling pop shaman to traditional tribal religion.

“Except the televangelists are much worse,” he explained. “They thirst for political power whereas the medicine men, even the phoneys, simply want some public recognition and status.”

There is no shortage of guidelines from the past or present for “the right ways to live.” It is silly to think that everything must be destroyed in order to create a higher and better way of life.

Deloria brought up just a few of the principles that anyone can work to put into practice: Discipline, organizing within a community of like-minded people, and valuing your traditions and customs.

Additionally, whenever anyone brings up “The Old Ways,” it usually refers to such things as valuing family, home, respect for elders, respect for your surroundings, cooperation with others, and the ability to adapt.

Anyone wishing to seek the meaning of Real Survival cannot go wrong by beginning to apply these simple principles into your daily life.

In Search of Real Survival

All of us who have devoted our lives to studying and applying skills of survival are well aware of the periodic events which beset us all: wars, droughts, floods, hurricanes, earthquakes, economic collapses, etc. Some are “acts of God,” and many are acts of man.

The practical skills of survival are direly needed by all of us. And yet, the media continues to serve up “reality” shows that provide little or no practical skills in our day to day living.

Shows like Survivor, Man vs. Wild, Survivorman, and their offspring can be amusing, but are designed more for entertainment value rather than providing anything of real value. These shows which often depict buff individuals in a wilderness setting often showcase the worst of human nature in order to keep us glued to our seats.

Though it amusing, and often nauseating, to see hungry men and women eating snakes, rats, and grubs, there seems to be little relevance to the millions of modern urban dwellers.

What then is real survival all about?

Our food-related survival skills necessitate our knowledge of urban food production, such as growing fruit trees, raising vegetables in limited space, raising chickens, making compost.

We need to educate ourselves to the what foods have great nutritional value, and which do not. If we cannot grow at least some of our own food, we should support those farmers at local farmers markets who are providing local quality food.

Real survival in the modern world includes practical knowledge of economics. How can you get more for less money by spending less and earning more. You can begin by separating need from want, and then you should re-evaluate everything in your life that is touched by money. Ask yourself, “How can I obtain this thing, or service, or skill, without money?” Is it possible to trade or barter?

And then there is the ages-old good advice for how to soundly deal with material things: why buy new if used will do? Don’t discard if it can be made into something else, etc.

Economic collapse of a country’s currency has happened many times, usually due to the over-extension of the leaders who controlled the purse strings, and who considered themselves more deserving than the general populace. A collapse of a country’s currency forces the people to deal with stark, basic, everyday needs and concerns in a harsh manner until something new is developed.

While it is true that learning how to trap and eat a rat means you don’t have to worry about food from the store in the event of an economic collapse, it is far better to involve yourself in the practical and philosophical underpinnings of the society so that such a collapse doesn’t happen in the first place.

As our material abundance and technological advances continue, we become more and more dependent upon things which we cannot control. We’re fast on the path to a “Blade Runner” or “THX1138” world.

If you’re worried about our future, the answer does not lie with a loin-clothed man with a spear, since a thriving meaningful culture requires vastly more than that. Real survival must encompass a working knowledge of politics, economics, ecology, health, and so much more.

Our answers lie in making the time to educate ourselves to the things that really matter in life. For that matter, in today’s information-glutted world, it’s a real challenge to discern between useful and useless information, between entertainment and education, between that which leads us to freedom and that which merely titilates.

If we desire to be a part of the solution to the ails of modern civilization, then we must choose to not live our lives driven by fear and greed. Yes, real survival means that we must change ourselves first.

Sometimes, we have to realize that we’ve been hypnotized, and that we must fight our own ignorances. Real survival means that we must become like children again, and realize that there is no dishonor in going back to Square One. By reassessing everything that we think we know, and by asking questions anew, we may discover a new found joy in our very existence.

The pursuit of material survival is too often compassionless. We need compassion for each other if we want to have a society that is worth living in.

William Blake once summed up the essence of Real Survival when he stated, “I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother, and I found all three.”

REMEMBERING RON HOOD

[Ron Hood died in his sleep on Tuesday, June 21, 2011]


Everyone knew Ron Hood. For me, he was the one relatively local person who was teaching the survival skills I wanted to learn. I knew of Ron long before I ever heard of Tom Brown. I knew about Larry Dean Olsen from his Outdoor Survival Skills book, and wanted to attend Olsen’s classes in the wilderness, but they were a long way from home, and I had no money.

So I studied ethnobotany close to home, from whomever I could. Sometime in the late 1970s, I was invited on a Los Angeles television talk show to talk about survival. The three guests were me to talk about wild foods, and Ellen Hall of WTI to talk about survival clothing, and Ron Hood. That was the first time we met. I recalled Ron as a somewhat thin man, about 10 years older than me, who brought a scientific mind to survival topics.

Occasionally, when drought and disaster and survival were in the news, Ron and I were often interviewed for the same news items. The media called me the “soft survivalist” and Ron the “hard survivalist.” Ron’s policy was “shoot first, ask questions later,” and my policy was why kill an animal at all if you can eat plants.

Ron was a Vietnam veteran, and was teaching at Northridge when I knew him. I would hear of his Sierra excursions from time to time.

Many years passed, and I often wondered what had become of Ron Hood. I learned that he’d moved to Idaho, and was now making the Wood’s Master survival videos, and had cannily obtained the survival.com URL.

Ron’s videos went into great detail on how to make a fire, build a shelter, make traps and snares, and more. Ron was doing all this, and showing how to do it right, in the proper context, way before there were the ridiculous survival game shows (e.g. Survivor), and before the appearance of Man vs. Wild or Survivorman.

In 2000, when I began working for Fox TV’s X Show, I got many of my ideas for what skills to demonstrate to the TV audience from Ron’s videos. Some skills I learned for the first time from his videos, such as how to make the primitive cross bow, the figure 4 deadfall trigger, and snares.

I think it was 1993 when a death brought Ron (and Karen) and I a bit closer. I was leading a Wild Food Walk on Memorial Day when a close friend of Ron’s dropped dead. Ron and I shared many conversations about Martin Kruse, and Ron had told me that he wished he had been there in Martin’s final moments.

By the early 2000s, followers of Hoods on-line Forum started having their get-togethers around the country, calling themselves the “hoodlums.” I participated in a few of these, as did Dude McLean and Alan Halcon. These get-togethers segued into our annual Dirttime event, where we taught survival skills for a week in the wilderness. Ron came to many of these, the last being at Lake Silverwood in the San Bernardino Forest in 2009.

Ron inspired a whole generation of outdoor skills practitioners. His death comes as a shock to me and many others. We all send our condolences to his wife Karen and his son Jesse.

I am sure everyone has many Ron Hood stories. These are mine.

"To Sleep With Anger"

On Martin Luther King Day day at our annual WTI gathering, we watched “To Sleep With Anger,” a 1990 film directed by Charles Burnett. The film is about a black family residing in South-Central Los Angeles. One day, an old acquaintance (Harry, played by Danny Glover) come to visit the Gideon and his wife Suzie. Harry seems to be a good old friend, but always seems to stir up trouble. The family already had some conflicts but they seemed to get worse when Harry was there.

Eventually, Gideon has a stroke, and Babe Brother, the younger son, is heavily influenced by Harry. Babe Brother is about to leave his wife. The older brother, Junior, confronts Babe Brother before he departs and a fight erupts – with a knife. The mother tries to break it up and her hand gets cut, and they rush her to the hospital.

The incident brings many of the family’s conflicts to the forefront, and seems to unite them in a positive way once all recognize the negative influence of Harry, as Harry is asked to go.

To me, “To Sleep With Anger” is a classic film, full of the issues that any family faces. Indeed, much of this reminded me of my semi-dysfunctional family with our many failures and some successes.

Sometime in the mid-1990s, I went to a viewing of this film where Mr. Burnett was there to talk to the crowd and answer questions. It was a wonderful event. I’d already seen the movie but was compelled to see it where I could talk to the writer and director.

I asked him about some of the little details, like the young boy trying to play the horn, and the boy who fed the pigeons. These were little details that added a depth to the movie, though they had nothing to do with the plot. Mr. Burnett told me that that boy represented him, which made me smile. Watch the movie, and see how the boy and his horn practice somewhat frames the movie.

And Harry – who does he repesent? You have to see it and figure it out for yourself.

The movie won several awards, but I had never heard of it before a friend pointed it out to myself and Dolores back in the mid-90s.

“I think this is a great movie,” I told Mr. Burnett. “So why do you think it’s gotten so little attention?” Burnett’s answer was quick, and initially surprised me.
“Because there are all black actors,” he said matter of factly. “Really?” I said. Well, in fact, there were a few token whites in the movie, like one of the paramedics. Still, the movie was so good, capturing “family-ness” so well, that I just naturally assumed people would be color-blind and go see it and enjoy it and benefit from it.

Anyway, if you haven’t seen it, it can be rented or purchased at video places. I hope you view it and enjoy it like I did.

2011 Birthday Run

I arrived around 8 a.m. at the Lower Arroyo casting ponds to do my annual birthday run that I’ve done for about 32 years now. I mentally divided the lap around the pool into seasons, and attempted to review each year of my life with each corresponding lap.

The day was overcast and cool, and somehow I felt very much in the past. In fact, as I ran, I had the sensation of viewing a single life, in the sense that it is only one life, no more, no less, and that I should attempt to derive lessons from the life that I “take with me.”

During childhood, I realized, perhaps more than ever before, all the opportunities that my parents afforded me. While we did not have the best nor happiest family, there was a stable home and regular meals. I realized that I was hungry for something as soon as I was able to think about things. And I pursued that something better, something more, in just about everything I did, which included poetry, painting, drumming, long conversations with friends about the meaning of life, gardening, meditation, and even drugs.

In many ways, that was good, since I had the chance to attempt to think for myself, and make mistakes, and attempt to evolve my own value judgements. On the other hand, I really should have had more parental guidance. I think I wanted much more pressure, and I felt I was able to do so much more at an early age. Nevertheless, I don’t harbor a bit of resentment towards my parents. I love them more than ever, and talk to each of them daily – despite that both have been deceased for many years.

I saw my life as the pursuit of meaning, of love, and of home, though I don’t think I realized it in those terms all those years. All too often, I did like everyone else does and engaged in the pursuit of money, thinking that money would provide my life with real meaning, love, and home. I think I still battle that one, since we all need the things that money can help us achieve, but we actually don’t need money, per se.

I cried the hardest when I thought of my acts of cruelty towards Dolores before we got married. It wasn’t intentional, and we were both homeless at the time (1984), and we managed to overcome that. But it still pains me, and I vow every day to not let my darker side ever overtake my actions again. And money never can buy love. Money bought our house, but we had to make it a home, which is an art, and requires love. And therein, in the act of lovingly creating a home, we found meaning.

And time goes on. When Dolores died two years ago, I relived that pain while running, and felt her soft hand caressing my forehead, saying both hello and goodbye.

By the time I finished running, I was in physical pain. I still, as I write these words, feel in that timelessness that the birthday run afforded me.

I realized, to my chagrin, that much of my life I was a taker, expecting others to carry the ball for me. Lately, I feel I am again somewhat imbalanced, giving, not receiving as much. So my gift to myself is to continue to seek the mysteries of life, to seek meaning, love, and home, and to allow myself to receive as much as I give.

In many ways, I felt that I died today, that some part of me died away, and that I am like a new child eager and ready for a new life. Too bad I am a new child in this broken down body….

On the Road to 2012

In December, I had the opportunity to travel to Yucatan and to visit Mayan sites under the guidance of Miguel Angel Vergara Calleros, PhD. Calleros is the author of numerous books on the Maya. He was the director of cultural services at Chichen Itza for several years and is one of the foremost authorities on the archaelogical site of Chichen Itza. Additionally, he studied with a Mayan shaman for 17 years, and now continues to share in classes and seminars about Mayan spirituality.

Among other things, I was going to learn about the significance of the December 21, 2012 date to the Maya. For example, were there any actual predictions about 2012? Did the Maya predict that the world would end? Did they predict doom and gloom? Did they predict anything at all?

But I wasn’t going to learn these things in a vacuum. I was going to spend nearly two week immersed in Maya culture, learning significant aspects of their beliefs, spirituality, and monumental architecture. I would learn about 2012 in the proper context.

I arrived in Merida by airplane in early December, ready for a week of travel to pyramids and caves and cenotes.

On our first day, I was pleasantly surprised that Calleros was not only incredibly knowledgeable about Mayan history and archaeology, but was also a true metaphysician who constantly drew parallels between the exoteric world of rocks and inscriptions to the inner esoteric world of my own soul and my own body.

“As above, so below,” he would often tell us.

We began by visiting Mayapan, the last place where Kukulkan was know to reside. Kukulkan, aka Quetzalcoatl, was referred to as the Mayan Christ, a visitor who came from afar, who uplifted the people, and who created Mystery Schools whose ancient universal teachings are still preserved in stone.

We visited Izamal, where the top of a major pyramid had been leveled to create a large cathedral in the colonial days. There, on the large sprawling plaza of the cathedral, Pope John Paul II came in 1993 to ask forgiveness of the native people for the atrocities committed by the Spanish and by the Church. Ten thousand native people showed up to see the Pope and to hear his plea for forgiveness.

Later in the day, we had lunch at Mani, where in 1562 the zealous Bishop Diego de Landa ordered the burning and destruction of Mayan codices and artifacts. Even though de Landa didn’t understand what the artifacts meant, he was convinced that they were contrary to the teaching of the church.

“This destruction was akin to the burning of the library of Alexandria in the ancient world,” said Calleros. Interestingly, as an afterthought, de Landa thought there might be something of value in the Mayan writings and he saved 4 codices from destruction, and began to write down everything he could recalled in his famous document, “Relacion de Cosas de Yucatan” (History of the Things of Yucatan). It is because of de Landa’s writings that much of the Maya writings have been translated and understood.

At each site we entered, Calleros taught us how to enter in reverence, and how to depart the site with reverence, much the way a devout person would do at their chosen church or mosque. He performed ancient Mayan ceremonies at most sites – at the pyramids, in a cave, at a cenote, on the beach at sunset. When we gathered around his just-assembled altar, he prayed to the six directions, and we sent offerings of seed to the six directions.

To me, much of the ceremony was reminiscent of the Catholic Mass that dominated my childhood, though the Mayan ceremonies were outdoors, natural, and pre-Christian.

One night, Calleros and Richard Jelusich talked about the Mayan calendar. Like our own modern calendar, the Maya had different divisions of time which they kept track of. We have the day, the week, the month, the year, the millennium, etc. The Maya counted time by the number of days that have elapsed since a day that corresponds to our August 11, 3114 B.C. (The significance of that date is unclear).

The divisions of time that they kept track of were one day (called a “kin”), 20 days (called a “uinal” – roughly a month), 360 days (called a “tun” – roughly a year), 7,200 days (called a “katun”—19.7 years), and 144,000 days (called a “baktun” – 394.26 years). Thus, a calendar glyph would be represented by 5 symbols, and a number to indicate how many days in each of the periods have elapsed. The “Long Count” of the Maya calendar is the time it takes for 13 baktuns, counting from August 11, 3114 B.C. This Long Count is a period of 5,125.36 years, and that cycle ends on December 21, 2012. However. the following day does not begin the 14th baktun, but rather, the count from 1 to 13 begins again. One Long Count ends, another begins.

“The calendar doesn’t end,” says Calleros. “It just begins another cycle. It just rolls on, just like our modern calendar that never really ends.”

There are no predictions about anything at all pertaining to December 21, 2012. This is due in part because the Maya who wrote these inscriptions have been long gone. Still, there is nothing in the recorded records about doom and gloom. In fact, there is hardly any mention about 2012 at all. Only one stela mentions it.

Calleros acknowledges that lots of folks are simply making things up to sell books and fill seminars. “But, the Maya would have celebrated such a cycle ending, just like everyone today celebrates the New Year.” Calleros is aware that many are treating 2012 with great fear, largely due to ignorance.

Over the course of nearly two weeks, we went to many pyramid sites, remote villages, beaches, caves, and cenotes. One late night ceremony deep in a cenote was exceptional. Equally exceptional was participating in a Mayan ceremony on the beach of Campeche while the sun set.

We looked at plumed serpents in stone, crystal skulls, red jaguars, and living mysteries. Throughout it all, Calleros emphasized that the meaning of “Mayan sacrifices” was that we must let our egos die if we want to transform ourselves and bloom spiritually. “Don’t polish the stones of the pyramids,” he’d tell us. “but polish the stone of your temple and improve your character.” We should be less concerned about the external crystal skulls, and more concerned about the skull within. The crystal skull, we were told, represents our own Christ within.

We learned that the secret to 2012 is everywhere. The secret is within you and it is within the cross shape of every pyramid, and within every tree. In fact, there is no secret at all. 2012 is everything and nothing. It is the ending of the 13 baktuns of the Long Count as another Long Count begins. It is a time, therefore, of increased awareness and internet connections that allows us to be instantly connected. It is a time of potential, and like any other such time, it is entirely up to us to fit ourselves to be ready for such opportunities.

Note: Though there are now numerous 2012 books flooding the market, the only one I’d recommend is “The 2012 Story: The Myths, Fallacies, and Truth behind the most intriguing date in history” by John Major Jenkins.