Not Pride, But Hope

I am not proud to be an American right now.

I’m ashamed of our president, of our politics in general, of our national consummeristic identity that says if I want it and I can’t buy it then I’ll take it by force.

I’m not without hope, though.

Our history, as a country is about more than its wars and corruption of leadership responsibilities.

For instance, I’m proud of my great grand father, Ed Archer, who staked a claim on land outside of kenna, NM. He didn’t kill anyone to get it. He was just a man who wanted to find a way to live day by day. He lived with wife and children in a humble dugout until an above ground house could be built. He was the kind of man who would re-light the kerosene lantern for his daughter because she said, “Daddy, I can’t see to close my eyes.”

I’m tired of being identified by our leaders whom I, as an individual, seem to have very little control over.

How can those of us who are just trying to live each day in a way that is kind and meaningful, reclaim our stake in this country?

From where I stand, I need to acknowledge that it wasn’t me or my family who took this land away from those who had first rights to it. I had no control over what happened in our country’s infancy. I don’t like it. I don’t like the idea that someone can force a whole people out of their place just because greed and entitlement so dictate. But I can’t change the past.

I can’t change where my great- grandparents raised their family, where my grandparents lived, or where my mother lived when I was born.

So much of a person’s daily life and world views depend on circumstances far beyond an individual’s control.

I’m trying to find a way to say to my international friends that I was born in America, but that does not tell you who I am, what makes me feel proud or what makes me cringe from shame.

I am the great grand daughter of a man who raised sheep and goats on a homestead in New Mexico.

I am the kind of mother who would turn the light back on so my child could see to shut her eyes.

I am the kind of neighbor who makes a cake for the selfless and hardworking woman who lives next door because she did our yard work, without being asked, when we couldn’t do it.

I’m the kind of American who struggles with health and money and relationships just like everyone in every other country I know.

How can I reclaim my own identity and shake off this national shame? How can I show the rest of the world that I extend my heart and my hand even if my country won’t?

I am not proud to be linked with an image of the America our current politely system portrays, or that of a new country that forced it’s way onto land that didn’t belong to them. But I am not without hope that after a diet of crow, I will be able to stand up, extend my hand and say to anyone from anywhere, “Please, come in and let me get you a cup of tea while we put our heads together and work to solve the problems common to every single one of us, no matter where we happen to be born.”

Joy

Joy Brown is a genius and is the smarter and prettier of the inseparable pair that we were in college.

She and I grew up our soulfulness together. We were nourished with thought food like The Bat Poet, by Randal Jarrell, Finnegan’s Wake and everything Joycey. We were dazzled by Arcularus and James Dickey made us cry while we waited for Godot in the parking lot after classes.

She has begun to channel a colorful portion of her genius into making quilts.

This is after raising baby birds that had to be nursed back to life, making so many beautiful, sturdy baskets and bassinet by hand that she had to dye them because her own blood stained the weave.

She goes with her husband, Michael on trips to disaster areas to feed, clothe, house and comfort people after hurricanes and tornadoes. And this only accounts for one day of the week. Lol.

Anyway, she gave me permission to show case her art a la textile.

Here are a couple of quilts to start. Please keep checking back as I will add more when I get my photos together.

This is a pic from 8/26/19

This one has a fancy three dimensional dog effect

New quilt top came in the mail. I’ll spread it out in a minute

I Don’t Like Him

I don’t know when I started to feel this way, but I really don’t like my shaman right now. He farts and scratches himself and he won’t change his Levi’s if he thinks he can get one more day out of them. He is not a holy man. He is just a man.

I guess every relationship boils down to this: disillusionment.

The woman isn’t captivating anymore; the man is suddenly weak and ineffectual.

It is proving to be the same with shamans, only it has happened much faster than usual.

I still want to meet with him; This might just be temporary disenchantment. I suspect a hidden lesson.

Some of the saints talked about going through dry spells during which their prayers felt phony and they got zero consolation for their spiritual efforts. They said the best thing to do in dry periods was to do the practices anyway because soon the good energy would come back and they would have a deeper understanding of God and the universe. But it is hard to muster up a real prayer when you are not feeling it.

It’s hard to stay with someone when we start to recognize that our dream lover, friend, or beloved project, doesn’t thrill us anymore.

Shaman is inviting me to go deeper into the dissatisfaction. My body resists. I feel sleepy and tired. He tells me to go deeper into the discomfort, to simply observe it.” He says, Remember who you are.” But he is not as intense as I am so it’s not taxing. He says it plain and simple like he’s waiting for something.

(I feel Shaman’s eyes on me now. He is smiling because I am getting his message.)

There is a connection that goes beyond liking or not liking a person. we can get to a point where we are flowing with a natural current of energy. I am trying to develop that kind of awareness

Alcoholics Anonymous has a slogan that encourages members to use respect even if we don’t like what someone says. The spirit in the room is allowed to flow freely because our focus is on “principles before personality.”

Shaman is teaching me to appreciate what I have here and now. The comfortable and uncomfortable are blessings and I am learning to accept them both as grist for the mill.

The mourning dove cries out: :Straw-ber-ry soup! Straw-ber-ry soup.

Voices

Communicating with my shaman is not the same as listening to God. There is a difference between the still small voice and Shaman.

Shaman is a living, flesh and blood man who lives in North America. He is alive and well. He teaches all over the place.

I wanted to be his student but figured I’d have to wait a million years to have the means to travel.

Then, out of the blue I heard him speak. He was in the Quiet World so his voice was inaudible. He said, “Why wait?”

I didn’t believe him right away. I have a lot of the proverbial voices in my head that dowse creative ideas, hopes and dreams as soon as they spark.

“What if you are just a figment of my imagination?” I asked.

“Ha! Imagination is necessary in this kind of work. It’s like the gas in your car. The car takes you places, and that is like the actions you will take from these teachings. But the thing that makes the car go is imagination.

You gotta use your imagination for this; you think I’m gonna do all the work?”

My Secret Shaman

I am told that I am supposed to share this experience. I am at the beginning, so you haven’t missed a lot so far.

I guess I’ve always been able to walk between worlds; there is hardly a veil at all.

When I was sick as a little girl, I’d see the “white faces” looking in on me at night from outside my window. I wasn’t scared of them, but it usually meant I was really sick.

Later on, when I was an old woman and had knee surgery, someone gave me a card with a picture of spirit deer and I recognized the faces I had seen as a little girl. They looked a lot like the deer in this painting only there where at lease 40 of them.

Spirit of the White Deer Carol Cranbury

They looked more like people sometimes, but deer people, if that makes sense.

There were other things that happened that were evidence of the different worlds. I don’t know how else to talk about it. It is all the same world, but there are different realities. Some things happen here, in the Noisy world. Some things happen in the Quiet World. Some things in the Spirit World and so on. It is really very beautiful and not at all confusing when you move from one to the next. It is all very natural.

Now let me get back to the shaman.

I have always wanted to make people feel better. I never wanted to go the doctor or nurse route, although I thought about massage therapy as a possible calling. But whatever I chose, I wanted to work in healing arts.

Now, in my grandmother years, I don’t want to mess with anything other than the deep healing that comes from working directly with spirit and energy.

I have started sharing Reiki with people and I love that. But I am drawn to learn more, and not only to learn, but to be.

Old ladies dream about a lot of things, but becoming a shaman was not an ordinary daydream or wish. It was a calling. I could hear voices (not in the auditory manner of hearing) that told me I could be a shaman. Me! Plain old me.

I am too old to go traipsing off into the mountains or jungles in search of a shaman de jour. I figured if God wanted me to do this work, I’d come across someone who could teach me.

It happened.

Now we meet in the Quiet World for a little while in the mornings. Sometimes he pops in on me when I have a question throughout the day.

He is funny and he can sing!

You’ll learn more about him as we go.

I’ll just tell you what we talk about and what happens from now on, OK?