Finding our Bearings

A week or so ago, Jess and I took a walk through the sacred land that is the home of the Dzogchen community in Buckland, Massachusetts called Khandroling. Tradition states that this land is populated by Buddhist spirits called Dakinis who protect over the woods and waters of the place and look out for those beings who visit the refuge to seek enlightenment. Along the path, we stopped at the pond to sit and meditate on its banks; our mindfulness was interrupted, or perhaps enlivened, by the loud sound of a very large animal sloshing through the reeds at the far end of the water. Too far from us to be visible, we carefully approached the other side of the pond to be greeted not with the sight of moose antlers or beaver splashes, but with the even more distinctive sound of a great animal shaking the water from her fur coat. We watched and waited, changing our position, silently requesting the being to show herself, but to no avail. Walking back to our meditation spot, we tried to resume but were excited and a bit shaken by the encounter and thus quietly ambled back down the hill towards our car.

A couple days later, after Tropical Storm Irene's arrival, we were at a gathering of the community and spoke with one man who has spent many weeks on the land working on a new meeting hall to be completed in Summer 2012. He mentioned to us that perhaps the animal with whom we had become acquainted was a bear, as over the years one had been sighted close to where we imagined the rustling and shaking to be emanating. We had seen a young black bear once before, in northern Ontario sitting up eating berries from a roadside bush, but this occasion seemed different -- with only sounds to guide our perception, our imaginations had embellished the encounter into mystical proportions. Did she see sense us as we sensed her? What could the animal's presence represent? Through this experience, what are we supposed to learn? The idea that today comes to mind is a version of what Donna Haraway refers to as "regard," of holding one in your regard, paying respect and deference to other beings with attention. We held the bear in our regard, bearing respect for its presence (various puns intended), but did the bear hold us in the same light?

When I returned home to our apartment in New York, on the top of the toilet where we keep our most thought-provoking publications, I found a photograph of a white ghostly bear haunting the cover of the August 2011 National Geographic. The Kermode or "Spirit" bear as it is known, is a native of a unique ecosystem in northern British Columbia, now under threat by the international development of an oil pipeline to run from the Alberta Tar Sands to the coast of the Pacific and eventually to the future car-drivers and energy consumers of China and Japan. The Gitga'at First Nation tribe, who shares the bear's unique coastal rainforest home, is now struggling to stem the tide of industrial development and inevitable environmental degradation that this project would create. While these photographs, and the potential mammalian suffering they uncannily convey, inspired a different sort of regard from me, both of these bear encounters reminded me of the frightening threats we currently face. The logic of oil cannot measure or account for this animal's certain form of grace. Nor can we easily reconcile their losses with the supposed gains that would come by vanquishing the "bear market" - a task seemingly critical to our national security and solvency, and Obama's 2012 election campaign. And so these various spirit bears seem also to be somehow affiliated with the environmental activists who have recently demonstrated against the Keystone XL pipeline to run from Alberta to the Gulf of Mexico, and been arrested for doing so in front of the White House. I wonder if these activists have witnessed the quiet aura of sensing an animal in the woods. I hope they seek to demand others to contemplate not only the greed and over-consumption this pipeline represents, but to the devotion and respect these animals demand of us. For it might do us some good to sidestep the slightly hysterical and rabid political feelings circulating these days with that other deeply political position that is found in our attendance to the grace of all living beings.

And so on the eve of my return to teaching, writing, and running around in circles, I'll sign off with a poem by Mary Oliver about other bears, birds, and foxes.

"October"

1
There's this shape, black as the entrance to a cave.
A longing wells up in its throat
like a blossom
as it breathes slowly.

What does the world
mean to you if you can't trust it
to go on shining when you're

not there? And there's
a tree, long-fallen; once
the bees flew to it, like a procession
of messengers, and filled it
with honey.

2
I said to the chickadee, singing his heart out in the green pine tree:

little dazzler,
little song,
little mouthful.

3
The shape climbs up out of the curled grass. It
grunts into view. There is no measure
for the confidence at the bottom of its eyes --
there is no telling
the suppleness of its shoulders as it turns
and yawns.

Near the fallen tree
something -- a leaf snapped loose
from the branch and fluttering down -- tries to pull me
into its trap of attention.

4
It pulls me
into its trap of attention.

And when I turn again, the bear is gone.

5
Look, hasn't my body already felt
like a body of a flower?

6
Look, I want to love this world
as though it's the last chance I'm ever going to get
to be alive
and know it.

7
Sometimes in late summer I won't touch anything, not
the flowers, not the blackberries
brimming in the thickets; I won't drink
from the pond; I won't name the birds or the trees;
I won't whisper my own name.

One morning
the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident,
and didn't see me -- and I thought:

so this is the world.
I'm not in it.
It is beautiful.

Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, 60.

Earthquakes, Hurricanes, and Stillness

On Tuesday I was sitting on the couch editing my chapter on Atwood's Surfacing and felt a slight rumble. Here in Conway, Massachusetts you might believe this to be a unique occurrence, but energy has an odd way of working around here - some folks are just used to quakes, whether they manifest as spiritual, emotional or physical jolts. I was interested by the academics who posted on Facebook that they believed the quake was simply a manifestation of the momentum or angst that end of summer writing can produce. At our solitary work stations, sometimes we can forget the movement and flexibility required to study and write. My struggle, and maybe some of yours, is to find the middle ground between movement and stillness, peripatetic anxiety and boring stasis. The energetic bumps in the night are just reminders of this need for balance.

As academia becomes more market-driven, and we frantically scramble to prove our expertise in the form of conference papers, articles, books, blog posts, etc., it might be useful to consider the Classical foundations of scholarly life. The work of the mind for centuries, if not millennium, has often been paired with physical activity and spiritual contemplation. Greek philosophers often comment on Socrates walking in contemplation, or standing for days at a time, without moving, in the face of a literal military siege. Montaigne confesses that he has a quick and steady walk, but he "knows not which of the two, my mind or my body, I have had more difficulty in keeping in one place." The balance between cognitive and physical movement and our capacity for stillness appears to be an enduring challenge. This week, as I struggled to stay sitting and finish a chapter draft, I found there was nothing better than taking a long walk in the middle of the day to shore up my creative energy and revive my focus for further contemplation.

And so we might consider the impending hurricane as a test of this balance between stillness and movement. I'm happily holed up in Massachusetts and will be waiting out the storm at a retreat center Tsegyalgar East with Jess. We are both thinking of our friends and family in New York, however, who will have to endure a lack of mobility this weekend, and face the frightening absence of public transportation. Perhaps we can think of this storm as Mother Nature's way of reminding us to practice being still. She asks us to take a break from our harried daily routine, sit without our laptops, our cell phones, and our grab-bag of worries, and to be present to the constant wanderings of our inner selves that we often ignore or take for granted. Be restful friends, and remember, the subway will be closed only for a little while.

Beginnings

On this August evening, I'm house-sitting with my partner in Lebanon, NH, writing a dissertation chapter on Margaret Atwood's Surfacing and feeling the wetness sink in to my bones from almost 36 hours of straight rain. Hunkered over the dining room table with my companion machine (a laptop), my sweets (chocolate - my lady is in the woods), and my procrastination (a piano and a pile of Brahms, Bach and Chopin), I look out the leaded glass window to a tall hill of ferns, firs, and late season snapdragons. It is this image you see behind me in the photograph alongside this post - a scene quite different from the lovely brick wall our Manhattan apartment's windows frame into steady, unchanging blocks of brown and grey. It is always a gift to be able to change frames, especially if they involve the colors green or blue.

I've thought about creating this blog for quite a while now. I'm slowly making my way into claiming the identities of "professor" and "academic," rather than the more digestible and performable mantle of "student." Part of this practice of self-naming is to bring out into the open some of the questions and quandaries that continue to pester me as I make my way in the fields of literary and cultural criticism. For the past couple of years, the most pressing, audacious and often silenced quandary over which I've muddled is the state of spirituality in higher education. When I speak of critical spirituality, I believe this is in service of re-invigorating the spirit, the soul, and even the divine as key components in understanding the realms of academic thought and pedagogy that I call my home. To make spirituality critical is to salvage the concept of spirituality from 1) the commodification and shallowness that popular culture forces upon us, 2) the disdain and snickering that can emerge when we dare to speak its name in the classrooms and lecture halls of our secular universities and 3) from the fear-mongering and hatred that religious fundamentalism brings. To inhabit a critical position of spirituality is therefore to consider how social phenomena such as faith, Being, mysticism, and mindfulness emerge in the context of our desires, our systems of representation, and our ecological and communal lives. I'm not sure how I'll be addressing these issues in this blog, but I imagine my posts to emerge from the everyday experiences I have on the streets of New York, where I currently live, on my more rural travels, and in my research and scholarly conversations.

This blog's somewhat simple and less than distinctive name is formed from the combination of ecology and spiritual "Ecospiritual," but it holds many other unvoiced identities within: queer, feminist, Christian, Buddhist, Midwestern, musician, caretaker, healer. All these different selves that cohabit within seek a central goal: to restore a more hopeful, sustainable, compassionate and communal way of life to our society. And it seems to me that spirit is central to this process too.

So for this first post, please take a look at a note of positive news: The passing of the Universal Declaration of the Rights of Mother Earth in Bolivia this summer, which follows Ecuador's Rights of Nature that passed in 2008. When feeling down after reading the recent profile of Michelle Bachmann in the New Yorker, feel free to read the text of the Universal Declaration. Despite my dis-ease with the discourse of rights in feminist circles, and with the recent passing of the "right" to gay marriage as thousands of children remain parent-less because gays and lesbians cannot legally adopt, it does seem to alter the framework when we consider trees holding similar (not necessarily equatable) inalienable rights as white men. Although I am not a specialist in Bolivian or Ecuadorian politics, it does seem likely that the passing of this historic legislation may have been influenced by indigenous forms of eco-centric religion. Bolivia's current president Evo Morales is the first indigenous citizen to be elected to this position in the nation's history. You can find other positive news here. It's a little hippy-dippy, but a helluva lot better than Fox.

Oh and here was what my Friday night looked like -- in honor of Surfacing...