Rituals
In 2016, I created an eight-pointed papier mâché sculpture that could contain the writings of people offered intentionally for this work. The purpose was to create interactive artwork on Orcas Island that was inclusive and embracing of all cultures. I used the native crow as a source for the image, transposed sculpturally onto the star. Then added branches, wheat, and local rosemary and sage to flesh out the object—with the intention that these elements would become part of the ceremonial fire when the object was to be ignited. A large smudge effigy.
People were invited at various locations in the community to add their thoughts, and anything they wished to share, privately or not, fastened to the art. Collectively, these offerings served as a community smudge. The object was placed at two of the main locales where people gather: Enzo’s, a coffee house open on all holidays, and, Roses Bakery Cafe, a harbinger of the Slow Food movement. Patrons from both locations participated. Unfortunately, neither of these destinations exist as of 2022.
The effigy was also situated outside of the performance area for a multi-media event at the Orcas Center called Return of the Sun, which featured technological lighting, stage wizardry, and music by the Seastars to celebrate the Winter Solstice.
From there, the effigy traveled to Moran State Park where it was lit near the Polar Bear Plunge on New Year’s Day. Serendipitously, this annual event was initiated by a native Cedar, which composed the pyre, is highly respected and honored by Coastal Salish Peoples.
Aspects of this participatory art relate to the Northern European Wickerman—effigies that burn on New Year’s Eve—and Fennoscandian bonfire traditions on the Winter and Summer Solstice—part of my ancestral roots which I have observed in Finland.
The work was created at my studio, SOUL artspace, with assists from Victor Hartney, Travis Baker, Cate Kelly and Greg Stevenson.
I create these types of interactive installations from time to time. They are documented in our local community, as well as in other countries. My work is all self-financed, including inviting regarded local and international artists to participate.
John Raymond Berry / Artist Statement 2022
Rituals and Installation
Non-monetized Public Art and Community
Orcas Island and Elsewhere
A Letter from the Curators
It is no surprise that submissions for this issue revolved around thoughts and dreams of an etheric realm, some to throw into the fire, some to float up and infuse a collective perspective. The power of words poured out of our community. Fire cannot ignite without air. Air stimulates and controls how large the fire grows. As we ignite, we shed, we open, we illuminate. As air blows stronger, so do the flames within the fire. SOURCE paper is a platform for expression. As curators, we help shape the architecture of thought, words and creativity, honoring collective offerings. This is an invitation to listen, to watch, to learn and to dissolve what is no longer needed. It is our goal to continue to be a vessel for what arises in our community and to inspire its form through an accessible and intriguing creation. We thank you for all that you continue to express through SOURCE. Welcome to Issue Number Two – FIRE + AIR.
In Peace,
Jaime + Kelly
A sound precipitates air, then fire, then water and earth - and that’s how the world becomes.
— Joseph Campbell
This issue has been Copy Edited by Heidi G. Bruce
Luka’s Flight
Performed by Tiffany Loney
Filmed by Bruce Loney
Music by Peter Kater
Edited by Ben Luna
Dancing with the Dragon
It’s not what I expected, this dance with rage. In a culture that has warned me my anger will consume me, that my rage will destroy me, I only (willingly) let it go so far.
Take tiny sips, and quickly look the other way. Pushed down and quieted for too long, the anger sometimes escapes me in a smoky haze...almost without warning, at some insignificant misstep. I feel it well up, and I try to run, or hide, or find something to deflect it, or just set the damn thing off and get it over with. Unacceptable. They might say. And to be certain, to be ill-timed is to be ill-fated, causing hurt to those I love the most. It’s not what I want. Why are you doing this? And I am ashamed of myself. Of this fire. And in this way, I continue to fear it. Continue to dread it. Continue to be repulsed by the flame, repulsed by the burning embers sizzling quietly in my solar plexus. Please just be quiet. Please be still. Please be nice. Please go away. Go away! And so it goes on.
But this night is different. It pulses with mystery. Pulses with hearts beating true. Within the web my sisters and I have woven, within the tight basket of our willow branches, of our mutual love, respect, and courage...I let it all go. I don’t call in the rage, I don’t expect it. But here it is, and here I am, and it is time. Heart open, hands drumming, feet stomping. As a scream, a guttural roar, tears through me, as I close my eyes and let the sensation rock me, as the fire burns up and through me... I let it all go. I am not afraid. The drumming continues. I am Mother Bear, letting her fierce warning blast away those who would dare threaten her young. Ready to destroy. I am Tiger, calling up the depths of the jungle to my aid. I am Dragon, deep in the cave. Deep in the dream. I feel no separation between my rage and these predators, these warriors. I am Kali. I breathe fire. I am not afraid.
And as I direct this rage OUT, out of my body, out of the solar plexus where it has been held, suspended, tightly coiled and dangling like bait in the Lion’s den, for years, for generations...as my cells remember this cleansing fire...as I do this, the blaze opens upwards and outwards from its center, flickering now at the edges of an ink-black well. A deep obsidian tunnel, of the darkest dark, of which there seems to be no bottom, no end. A ring of fire surrounding a great abyss. The flame does not consume me. It invites me in. It is silent. I am still.
I would expect to find grief here. I don’t. I have cried enough, I suppose. I have grieved for lifetimes.I wail in my dreams, for the trees and the oceans and the whales and the elephants and my ancestors, past and future. I’ve known the cries that do not cease. I have known those epic waves of grief since I was very small, letting my hot salty tears and rhythmic sobs rock me to sleep. Letting the sadness hold me. She is so familiar. That child, that river of grief. What I encounter here, in this place of rage burned clean, leaving no ashes, no rubble to speak of...is something very different. Perhaps the fire is so hot, any tears that dare trickle are vaporized and disappeared before I get one tiny sip...and what is left instead?
Peering through this ring of fire, like a small child peering over the edge of the Grand Canyon, I gaze into the abyss with wonder and awe. What gazes back at me hums with calm, hums with magnitude. It is so massive, that it feels small. So unfathomable, that it feels quite clear. Not unlike the feeling that comes over me as I am falling asleep sometimes. Do you know that feeling, as you drift away? The feeling of being so small, yet so incredibly heavy, and somehow floating in space, so far away from everything around? It’s a somatic paradox that enchants me. I’ve come to think this is a splendid feeling, and not so scary at all.
The blackness, the nothingness, I encounter here... undulates with potential, it beckons with possibility, it groans with Power. Silently. It looks me in the eye and does not flinch. It does not comfort. It does not judge. And I see. I see why some might fear it. I see why I too, have turned away from this place for so long. What would it mean to release the anger fully, to walk through the fire, and enter such a place of mystery and manifestation? What if anything was possible? What if we let go of those stories? What if the fire burned up those ideas of who was who and what they did to us? What would be left? Who could we blame? Wouldn’t it be safer, somehow, to hold the rage close? To let its familiar flames flicker on the inside, keeping its hot heat close to our bellies, to our hearts...letting it burn us up slowly, a trade-off for some feeling of control? Like a secret never told. Like a love never spoken. Like forgiveness never given, never released. Wouldn’t that be safer? To cage the Dragon? To let the hurt come slow, through bodies numbed, rather than risk losing it all to the fire?
But I am learning, slow and steady, that withholding is a poor excuse for power, a tragic attempt at control. It keeps me small. Believing I am safe, when actually I am burning to ashes and scrambling to hide the evidence. Withholding passion. Withholding forgiveness. Withholding my voice...my beliefs, my concern, my laughter, my joys, my sorrows, my anger. So tonight, tomorrow, and another tomorrow, I choose something different. I let my heart encounter what it must. I make time for my body to remember without my mind telling it why. I allow my ancestors to speak through me, and I let their pain dissipate. I encounter Peace in an unexpected place. I let fire be fire. I let the Dragon roar. I let my Spirit soar. I am not afraid.
DOWN WIND
I wake up to the beeping of my alarm. I didn’t sleep very well—partly due to the noise of this early winter gale lashing at tree limbs and the metal roofing over my head, at times sending mild shudders through the house. Has my alarm gone off yet? I check my watch: 5:20 am.
I tiptoe down to the kitchen and get some coffee going. As the mocha pot sputters, I check the graphic forecast for wind in our region. It still looks good—winds up to 30 knots, from the southeast, then shifting south and possibly increasing further, not dropping until around noon.
Myself and the crew exchange some brief texts to confirm that we’ll meet at the endpoint of our route, then shuffle people and boards to get 9 of us (plus equipment) loaded into and onto vehicles, and drive the debris-strewn roads to the start of the route.
While struggling into my wetsuit, I eat mouthfuls of food—future energy for paddling and staying warm over the next few hours.
It’s still dark as we load our gear, mask up, and shimmy into a couple cars to drive to our launch spot. On the drive, I’m looking for clues as to how much energy there is in the environment. I can see the tops of fir trees whipping around in the wind, and am pleased that the prediction is paralleling reality.
When we get to our launch spot, 5 miles upwind of the end of the route, we all hustle to get our boards off the vehicles, out of their padded bags, and I struggle into the upper half of my wetsuit. Meanwhile, we’re joking around, helping each other untie boards, looking pensively at the tree tops far above our heads, and stoking each other up for what promises to be a great downwind run.
We make our way to the small pebble beach where we’ll enter the water. Before we all get on the water, we have a brief chat about where and how often we want to regroup, check our total group number, cover basic communication signals, and agree on who will stay close to those with less experience.
Now that we all know the plan, and what to be aware of, we check that our board leashes are securely attached to the boards, and our bodies. To lose contact with one’s board in these conditions would mean a long, energy-consumptive swim, and most likely a bushwhack up to a road, in hopes of finding potential shelter and warmth in a vehicle or house.
Now we’re all on the water, in partial protection of a small, rocky point a hundred yards upwind of us. We get our muscles warmed up on the way to this point, while watching the waist-high wind waves out in the sound proper. It looks good.
The rain is pelting my face like BBs, and my eyes are watering from the wind. At the point, I decide to head out first, and gain a little distance out into the bigger wind and waves by “crabbing” slightly upwind while paddling from my knees on my board to lower my center of gravity. I see a strong gust approaching me, evident in an approaching patch of airborne spray and spindrift. The gust hits me and I don’t fight it, I let it pivot my board such that I am now pointed downwind, towards our endpoint some miles distant. It’s almost full daylight now. I giggle in joy at the fact that we are all out here in this amazing energy, and that we have each other—a small tribe of outdoor enthusiasts, all with a strong connection to, and passion for, the water and the miraculous movement of air which creates waves.
As soon as I’m pointed relatively downwind, I gain my feet on my 14-foot board. As I watch a trough open up in front of me, I put in a few short, strong paddle-strokes. The nose of my board tilts down, and I step back a little towards the tail while I start to accelerate into a surf. Once my board is planing, I keep carving to the right to counteract the push toward shore from the east component of the wind, and I scan right and left for larger sets of waves and deeper troughs.
The wind feels like a giant hand at my back, and the gusts propel me forward with amazing power. At times I can catch a wave, surf down the face, climb up and over the next wave, and end up skipping from wave to wave for amazingly long runs.
Legs burning and lungs expanding for more oxygen, I pop down to straddle my board and wait for us all to re-group. This way we’re never too far from each other should someone encounter any sort of difficulty. Once we’re all together and accounted for, floating like a small raft of sea otters, one of us will start off again, usually with a whoop and a huge smile, propelled by moving air.
Interview With Other Paddler Friends
Interviewed by Matt Nelson
Matt: “What makes for a good downwind route?”
First, a launch location that doesn’t require too much hiking or difficult paddling before you get into the downwind conditions. The run itself should have enough exposure (fetch) to allow for wave development. Paddler James Most says, “Waves coming consistently from one direction are ideal—any size is so much fun. Big waves make for epic surfs, small ones make for energized power-gliding. It’s the cross-chop of waves coming from different directions that can make for a more challenging/difficult time.”
Second, a route that offers an easy “abort” to land. So, shorelines that run parallel to the wind direction are sought. The end of the route ideally lies directly downwind along the paddlers course. Routes that involve exposed crossings, small-target landing areas, high-energy landings (big waves and logs), or offshore winds are much higher-risk, and require increased safety measures—like chase boats and reliable communication devices.
Matt: “How did you get into this aspect of the sport, and what was that like?”
Karl Kruger: “What started as an exercise in abandon and pure joy…has remained so. When my dear friend Matthew Nelson and I started downwind paddling by SUP, it was comical. We had two boards, neither of which was very well-matched to the endeavor. We would trade boards off and on, in the vain hope that a different board might help stop the flailing. We jumped headlong into this new form of play on water. We were both strong paddlers and watermen to begin with, but stepping off shore into storm conditions is humbling for anyone.”
“Gradually, we have gained a level of respectful comfort with paddling in storm conditions. I’d even say that the heavier it gets, the happier we are. I remember crashing every few minutes when we started, while now it is common to stay on plane and in control for miles. Personally, I enjoy a very deep flow state where my brain shuts off, and I can let instinct take over. Subtle shifts in body position and stance, translate to faster speeds and linked waves. Pure bliss…surrounded by foam streaks, breaking waves, and howling winds.”
“Most frequently we paddle south to north in Eastsound near Orcas Island. Southeast winds funnel up the fjord and gain velocity. It is a perfect training ground for bigger ideas. We are working to acquire a small powerboat to access larger waves out in larger bodies of water around the San Juan Islands. During strong westerlies for example, some areas along the Strait of Juan de Fuca can generate 6-8 foot waves. We will have ready access by small boat. Also, in tide rip areas along Haro Strait and Boundary Pass, with wind against current, we will be able to access larger waves, and surf them for miles. With the variety of large bodies of water, plus the component of strong currents and large weather systems, we have a playground on our doorstep.”
“Over the years, we have learned much about board, gear, and paddle design relative to down-winding. We have also gained a tribe. At times, eight or more Orcas Islanders will join Matt and I when the storms come in. Along with the joys and benefits of rowdy weather and water conditions, the community of stoked paddlers it attracts is almost as satisfying.”
Matt: “How do you manage risk/deal with safety while doing this?”
Calvin Croll: “One way we manage risk is by wearing wetsuits, hoods, mitts, and booties. These thick layers of neoprene rubber keep in the warmth our bodies are producing while active. It is pretty amazing how warm you can get when you have a wind-proof layer of insulation all over your body.”
“The other big thing we do to manage risk is stick together. We are constantly counting how many people we can see and making sure no one is dropping too far behind. We set up meeting points where the entire group gets together and checks in before proceeding. That way we can deal with anything as a group (gear issues, trouble paddling, etc). When whoever is in the front stops and the rest of the group starts to gather one by one, there are big smiles all around. Sharing in the experience definitely makes it more enjoyable and safer too.”
Matt: “Why do you get up at the crack of dawn, amidst the cold and dark of December, in the gale-force winds and pouring rain, put on a wetsuit, and go out on the sea on your SUP?”
Leon Somme: “I have a chronic disease that causes constant pain; paddling on a stormy sea is one of my escapes from my condition. It is my mindfulness training, where I have to focus on my attention. When I paddle on a stormy sea, I’m using my whole brain. I taste, smell, hear, see, feel and am proprioceptive to the surroundings. When the wind pushes me onto the face of a wave, my whole being is engaged and immersed with that dynamic, attention-focusing, beautiful sea. I am present only in that moment. I am focused. It is as mindful as it gets. I paddle in storms to be more than alive. This is my cure.”
Shawna Franklin: “As a young child I used to stand with my nose pressed against the screen door so that I could better smell, hear, and see a raging midwestern thunderstorm approach. As the rain started, I was out and running with the screen door banging shut behind me.”
“That inner child is standing on an SUP board now. I am sailing on the sea with the wind pushing my entire body. I also have the feeling of flying. The cold spray is washing my eyes and face and constantly waking me up. I am enthralled with the layers of light and sound. The stormy clouds are reflected on the surface of the sea stretching out in front of me in silver-metallic, undulating ribbons of light. The sound of the wind rages around me and I can shout as loud as I want and the sound of my voice is gone in seconds as if sucked up by a great vacuum. The combination of the exhilarating speed of the wind and waves together with the soft pillowy feel of riding on my board. I am safe. I am warm. I am happy. I am again part of a storm and I know who I am.”
Paddler Brett Bartmasser sums up his feelings about winter downwind paddling in concise perfection: “Shitload of wintertime island fun and camaraderie. And good exercise is a plus!”
Matt: Below are common factors to consider when beginning downwinding on an SUP?
Purchasd equipment: a winter-worthy hooded wetsuit, booties, gloves or mitts, a PFD, board, paddle, and leash
Non-purchased: A good level of fitness. Even with gained proficiency, downwinding is one heck of a total-body workout. As a beginner, it can feel downright exhausting due to the extra energy spent maintaining balance, getting back on the board after falling, and learning technique
Some basic paddling skills, total stability in flat water, and the ability to climb back onto your board and get to your feet multiple times
Familiarity with water-safety, weather, and a realistic assessment of one’s own abilities
Preferably, a partner or two to paddle with. This will increase learning, and will make it safer. When downwinding, go with an experienced person until you have the skills and confidence to plan a route, do a risk assessment, and have the skills to take care of yourself and others on the water. Paddling solo can be rewarding in its intensity and challenge, but comes with much-increased risk, should any injury, equipment breakage, or unforeseen challenge occur.
Fire as a tool of TRANSFORMATION
One of the earliest specialists to step out of the shadows of prehistory is the metalsmith, a man who, even from the beginning, held a curious place in the social order. Sometimes he was held in high regard, sometimes in low - and for obvious reasons. Though he worked hard, his person was dirty; his face was blackened and his clothes burned by the smoke and heat of the fire. On the other hand, the things he made were useful and beautiful, and he had, in addition, the apparently godlike ability to alter the very nature of matter. He could turn dull rock into gleaming metal and could, at will, make his material liquid or solid, rigid or flexible. In very ancient times such changes were regarded as expressions of forces, not infrequently spiritual, within the material itself.
–The Metalsmiths, Cyril Stanley Smith
Creative leaps in the fire arts have always been led by artistic impulses—seeking beauty predated the making of weapons and tools, and that’s where the air element can be inspiring. Fire is reliant on air. Without air feeding the fire there would be no combustion: just fuel, just potential, uncatalyzed, unrealized.
I look into flames every day, whether it’s the glow of the woodstove in the morning, the intense light and heat of the forge fire, or the electric blue arc of a welder. I have an extreme relationship with fire—it is a teacher whose practical qualities can be learned with patience.
Fire commands respect, and it also demands intimacy in order to use it as a tool. I have to get really close, accept the possibility of being burned, and become friends with the fire instead of living in fear of it.
It is the heat that moves the metal, and this heat is my primary tool. When the metal is hot it becomes malleable like clay, it yields to the hammer and can be sculpted into flowing forms that bear almost no resemblance to the supplier’s austere machined cross-sections.
I don’t want to be standing still waiting for my piece to heat up, and I don’t want to have too many irons in the fire because I’m bound to lose one. I have to drop into the flow and have just the right number in the fire, and then it’s possible to be graceful and productive.
There is a cleansing that can happen through the act of applying heat: sweating, thinking, working, dreaming, and thwacking. A cyclical process. Heat, beat, repeat. The work is making me.
BREATH of FIRE
We are in a place in time where the accountability for our actions is of the utmost importance.
We may fall victim to blaming the “other”, but in the end each of us must take responsibility for our perspective and orientation in this world. We have all been born into this planet that unites us, yet crafted by a society that may, or may not, align with our core truth. Transmuting these undesired patterns is our starting point, our unique prescription to evolution.
My first response to COVID was to strengthen myself internally because there were so many unknown factors in the broader world.
From this place I would move consciously with discernment and clarity that best served this being. One of the practices to strengthen my personal sovereignty has been Kundalini Yoga. I share this practice as an offering to help increase your resilience.
The Breath of Fire:
• Rapid, rhythmic and continuous breathing; equal on the inhale and exhale, with no pause between them (approximately 2-3 cycles per second)
• Always practiced through the nostrils with the mouth closed, unless stated otherwise
• Powered from the navel point and solar plexus; to exhale, air is expelled powerfully through the nose by pressing the navel point and solar plexus back toward the spine; this feels automatic if you contract the diaphragm rapidly
• When inhaling, the upper abdominal muscles relax, the diaphragm extends down, and the breath seems to come in as part of relaxation rather than through effort
• Chest stays relaxed and slightly lifted throughout the breathing cycle
• When done correctly, there should be no rigidity of hands, feet, face, or abdomen.
• Begin practicing Breath of Fire for a duration of I-3 minutes. Some people find it easy to do Breath of Fire for a full 10 minutes right away. Others find that the breath creates an initial dizziness or giddiness. If this happens, take a break.
• Some tingling, traveling sensations and light-headedness are completely normal as your body adjusts to the new breath and new stimulation of the nerves. Concentrating at the brow point may help relieve these sensations. Sometimes these symptoms are the result of toxins and other chemicals released by the breath technique. The symptoms may be relieved by drinking lots of water and changing to a light diet.
• Breath of Fire is not hyperventilation, nor is it Bellows Breath
• There are restrictions for doing Breath of Fire while pregnant and menstruating.
Breath of Fire Can Provide these benefits:
• Releases toxins and deposits from the lungs, mucous linings, blood vessels, and other cells
• Expands the lung capacity and increases vital strength
• Strengthens the nervous system to resist stress
• Repairs the balance between the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems
• Strengthens the navel chakra
• Increases physical endurance and prepares you to act effectively
• Adjusts the subtle psycho-electromagnetic field of the aura so that the blood becomes energized
• Reduces addictive impulses for drugs, smoking, and unhealthy foods
• Increases oxygen delivery to the brain, facilitating a focused, intelligent, and neutral state of mind
• Boosts the immune system and may help prevent diseases
• Promotes synchronization of the body’s biorhythms
Practicing The Breath of Fire:
• Sit straight and place hands in Prayer Pose
• Close eyelids 9/10ths; roll eyes up and concentrate at the Brow Point
• Begin Breath of Fire for I-3 minutes
• Then inhale and hold for 10 seconds
• Relax. Stay still and place hands on knees in Gyan Mudra (thumb and pointer
finger touch), palms up
• Watch the natural flow of breath and constant stream of internal and external
sensations. Continue for 3 minutes
• Inhale deeply, exhale
• Repeat this combination 3-5 times
If you have any questions or would like to practice together, feel free to contact me:
jaimebeechum@gmail.com or 415-318-0626
Bullet points are sourced from 3ho.org
Halfway Across the Pacific
Photo by Teresa Moorleghen
One or two things are all you need
to travel over the blue pond, over the deep
roughage of the trees and through the stiff
flowers of lightning – some deep
memory of pleasure, some cutting
knowledge of pain.
For years and years I struggled
just to love my life. And then
the butterfly
rose, weightless, in the wind.
“Don’t love your life
too much,” it said,
and vanished into the world.
From “One or Two Things”
— Mary Oliver
It was a cold and blustery January morning when our plane took off from Seattle. Rain drops slid diagonally across the oval windows as the plane lifted up above that beautiful green city of lakes and bridges. My belly sank as the plane pushed up against gravity, but my heart was happy. I was sitting next to a beloved new friend on my way to see an old friend that I had known since high school. A sense of comfort settled in my bones as I sat between these two friends in time—like bookends on the shelf of my favorite stories. I felt snug here. For more years than I would like to admit, I had suffered from a longing to be somewhere different from where I actually was but, on this winter day, that feeling was nowhere to be found. Eighteen months earlier, my mom had died from cancer and I had sat with her as she took her last breath. It felt like winter had lasted for three years and this trip was a gift to myself after a long stretch of withstanding…a trip to Hawaii, that green and rocky confetti of islands in the middle of the Pacific, created from fire.
We considered ourselves lucky to be seated in the emergency exit row. This meant my tall travel companion would have extra leg room—the second-class version of first class. Lucky us. Our seats were on the right side of the plane, about half way back, near the wing. All I had to do over the next six hours was to sit there. Oh my god. Sit, read, talk, even nap if I wanted. Stare at the water. The last time I had traveled to Hawaii was with a toddler and a six-month-old who didn’t sleep the entire time. The unwinding began. I grabbed his knee, put my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes.
We were headed west in the late morning which meant we were following the sun. Once we broke through the clouds engulfing the coast of Washington, the sun was high in the sky. Over the course of the flight, it would sink ever so slowly and then appear to remain in the same place above the horizon—hovering like a giant orange lantern over the Pacific Ocean, barely moving at all as the sky progressed towards dusk. For a while it seemed that we were just slightly faster than the Earth’s turn away from it.
About halfway through this do-nothing glide over the ocean, I was looking out the window and all I could see was blue. I felt spaciousness and an inkling of calm. And then suddenly I felt the plane lurch and noticeably drop in elevation. My stomach sank and, in the same instant, all of the lights went out. The blood of Irish stoics runs deep in my veins, but this was a moment to take pause. I looked out the window—blue in all directions. Blue, blue, blue. No land, anywhere. Not a single solid thing in sight except for this plane. Just water and air. The blue that soothed just seconds ago now became the watery place of our imminent demise. No solid ground to offer an emergency landing, anywhere. We were three hours into a six-hour flight.
I looked at my friend with wide eyes. “They train for this,” he said, completely calm. “They train to pilot a plane with one engine. It will be fine.” I looked out the window at the blue world around me. Ironically, even within this new situation, there was nothing that could be done but to sit and to continue to do nothing. But still, a mind can wander.
What does a plane do when it hits the water? Would it break into pieces? Would it stay in tact but then take a nose dive into the deep like a submarine going nowhere? Could the pilot land on the water like they did on the Hudson River? When do I use my seat as a flotation device like they depict in the glossy diagrams in the seat pocket in front of me? What happened to that plane they searched for recently in the South Pacific but never found?
A few minutes later, a voice came across the loudspeaker and said, “Good afternoon, passengers. You may have noticed some movement in the plane. The pilots are looking into it and will notify us shortly.” About ten minutes later (or ten hours?) the pilot made an announcement. Using the cool-as-cucumber voice training that I am sure they receive, he explained, “Well, folks, we have lost the use of one of the engines of the plane. But, there is no need to worry, we have another working engine that should get us to Hawaii without any issues. We will be rerouted to Honolulu where there is a longer runway. Again, there is no need to worry. Please sit back and enjoy the rest of the flight.” By then the lights were back on and it was apparent that we were not plummeting to our deaths in the ocean, but continuing to glide in our tiny metal container 30,000 feet above the ocean. I didn’t even hear anyone crying. Why is no one freaking out? They quickly rolled out the refreshment tray.
After the announcement, it was eerily quiet in the cabin. Am I surrounded by zombies or is there really nothing to worry about? What really is there to do in such a moment but hope and believe that the precious metal of this incredible human invention will continue to process the ancient juice of fossils and turn it into enough the energy to keeps this tube full of humans aloft and barreling through the air? And wrecking the atmosphere as we travel to far off places. I looked out at the beautiful blue sky with the orange lantern sun as a vodka tonic warmed my throat. I held his leg, that miracle that is a human’s quadriceps. It is an amazing part of the human anatomy, where the leg muscles come together and then branch apart to attach around the knee and into the calf muscles. I thought of the rock faces these muscles had ascended, glaciers traversed, the rough skin of his hands. I thought of the things I have done, of sleeping in a field in Spain, hitchhiking across California and Ireland, and somehow this soothed me. I had seen this place called Earth; I had done so many things. When I thought of my kids my head extended sideways in pressurized panic, so I tried not to think about what their lives would be like if I was no longer there to take care of them. There was nothing to be done about it in this moment.
There is a scene in one of my favorite movies, Until the End of the World (directed by Win Wenders), where the two main characters are flying over the Australian outback in a small plane and the engine dies. Everything goes quiet like when you turn off a boat motor and start to sail. In the movie, the K.D. Lang song, “Calling All Angels”, starts to play and they coast over the outback unsure of their fate, the shadow of the small plane traversing the red sandy soil below them. In this plane above the Pacific, I am reminded of the feeling of that scene, which is some strange combination of serenity and the possibility of impending doom. Which way will it go? In the movie they have the potential of solid ground to land on, but for us there is only water in all directions.
What would my life mean if it were to stop today?
After the Bloody Marys and vodka tonics were passed out, the flight attendant came to our row and gave us specific directions. She said, “It is your job to not let anyone try to use this exit door.” I gulped. My friend nodded.
As I sat there trying not to think of the worst possible outcome, I also knew that planes do disappear into the ocean. People you love die and bad shit happens out of the blue—right out of the beautiful blue skies. I no longer felt immune to this as I had when I was younger. I knew a mother in Seattle who lost her children in the plane that crashed into the ocean on its way back from Mexico many years ago. She never rearranged their rooms, and made 5 and 7-pointed stars every year (the ages that they were) to remember them. People get cancer and die, and kids get diagnosed with life-long diseases that have no cure. Being up above the ocean with no power over the situation, I felt no illusion that I was immune to tragedy, whether I believed and prayed to a god or not, but I also felt that there was no use in panicking over my death.
The flight proceeded as if nothing was strangely different. All of my fellow humans seemed to adjust to this uncertainty quietly or were very good at hiding their inner turmoil. The sun eventually beat us to sunset and the sky grew darker. A couple of hours later, the captain came back on and said, “Good evening, everyone. We will be arriving in Honolulu in about half an hour. I wanted to let you know that emergency vehicles will be meeting us on the runway as we make our arrival.” As we began to make our descent towards the island of Oahu, the captain came back on and said, “Well, folks, we are making our descent into the Honolulu airport. At this time, we are going to dim the lights so that your eyes can adjust to the darkness. Emergency vehicles will be meeting us on the runway. We ask that all passengers remove earbuds and turn off all devices, and that everyone remains present.” No captain has ever said this on a plane that I’ve been on. What does this mean? Is it code for we might crash on the runway? Remain present for what? Will we then need to open this emergency exit and slide like those cartoon figures down an inflatable ramp?
It is dark by the time we approach the airport and I am squeezing the quadriceps and practicing my breathing. Is it a good sign that we all appear to be calm, or a bad sign? I know there is nothing to be done but to stay present. The wheels hit the runway and the rear of the plane pulls to one side. This pull to one side is called a “yaw” in airplane speak. The plane lists strongly to the right and I hold my breath as we are still going very fast. No one screams and no fires ignite. Eventually, the plane slows…and we land. The plane straightens out in its path and the cabin erupts in applause.
We step out of the plane and the gravity of the Earth has never felt so good against my own leg muscles. My feet touch the exit hallway with joy in my heart and I run my fingers along the woven fabric of the walls. Not far from the gate is an open bar in the middle of the walkway, and I lay my head on the wood of the bar like an altar. I want to kiss it. Medical personnel are walking to the gate and they meet a passenger there who needs assistance. Was it heart trouble? A quiet panic attack? I feel for them. And then I have the best pint of beer of my life, shared with a new friend whom I have never known before. They, too, have just been half way over the Pacific with one engine and made it to Honolulu alive. The three of us talk like we have known each other forever.
The conundrum we then face is that to get to our planned destination we have to get on another plane in about an hour, and hope that this next plane functions and gets us there. What crazy species of ape are we that novelty and adventure are so important that we somewhat casually risk our lives to see new and different places? We finish our beers and say good-bye to the new best friend we will never see again, and get on another plane to the Big Island. The Kona runway is short, the descent is steep and dramatic, and we arrive again, alive. Amazing.
The following day we make it to our final destination along the black lava rocks of the Kona coast, and I am reunited with my old dear friend, my cosmic twin, whom I have known since high school art class. There, gathered with a small group of others, we shake our heads over the fact that the experience my friend and I had had the night before came only one day after the false nuclear attack, when panicked parents thrust their children into storm drains and people feared that Kim Jong-un may have finally lost it. Some agreed that flying over the ocean with one engine seemed scarier than the false nuclear attack had been. As the warm air blew in from the open walls of the lanai, another woman, perhaps slightly stoned, looked out at the blue, blue water where humpbacks can regularly be seen swimming, sighed and said, “Well, maybe we’ve all died and gone to Paradise.”
And, at that moment in time, it did not feel completely improbable.
Photography by S. Martin unless otherwise stated
The RISE AND FALL of the Fire Nation
The sun is pink from all the smoke — no one wants to go outside. At the time of this writing, on the West Coast, we are in the midst of a devastating fire season. It’s unfortunate that in the last few years this annual event has started to feel somewhat normal, but this year is the worst we’ve ever seen.
And since we all breathe the same air, we are paying attention. It has shaken many people out of complacency and into a forced reckoning with the role we play in our changing climate. (It’s a bit simplistic, however, to pin all the blame for these fires on ‘global warming,’ as there are many complex and intertwined factors, which I will note at the end of this essay.)
We are reckoning, too, as a global community, with the power of the elements. The fire, burning up this dry coast. The water, flooding the valleys. The air, flinging itself into tornadoes and hurricanes. The earth, destabilized by deforestation, sliding down onto villages. Natural disasters show us our insignificance against the power of the elemental earth.
We may also bear witness to the sacredness of the elements as we experience them in their corrupted form and realize what we have taken for granted:
Clean air, unspoiled by smoke or exhaust.
Clean water, unpolluted by oil, lead pipes or disease.
Fertile earth, not leached of life by extractive agriculture.
Sacred fire, kept contained, the sustaining warmth of life itself. ***
In this country, and much of the world, the mainstream culture is wildly out of balance: it is the Fire Nation, spreading rapidly, consuming indiscriminately, burning all it touches. Its extractivist, infinite-growth economic model has infiltrated most cultures around the world in its globalist reach, forcing them into its fiery ways: ‘Compete or die.’ We have been indoctrinated to believe that this is normal, and that our fire-worship will not have devastating consequences.
We burn fossil fuels, fire weapons, light fireworks, smoke cigarettes, burn out from overwork, engender violence, block out the stars with streetlights, worship youth and summertime, and dread old age and wintertime.
And how could we not love fire? A lit woodstove on a cold night is deeply cozy, even life-sustaining, and it can be easy to lose ourselves while watching the flames. Yet when we are unable to turn away, the fire requires more of us to keep itself burning. In life we are taught from a young age to transfer our sovereignty to an external authority (be it church, state or online echo-chamber) that will care for us if we comply, but quickly punish us if we step out of line. If we’re lucky, our lives may flare brightly in the public eye for a brief moment.
When the fire has done its work — when the woodstove is full of ashes, when the forest has been turned to charcoal, when the last drop of value has been wrung from the land — repair is up to us.
***
In the animated show Avatar, there are four kingdoms: Earth, Air, Water, and Fire. They once lived in harmony, but the Fire Nation decided to use its coal-burning technology and unstoppable fire-bending to conquer the world. Of course, it ruined countless people’s lives and degraded all kinds of ecosystems along the way. The other three nations put up a fight with their respective element-bending abilities, but were ultimately defeated. Their last hope is the Avatar, a reincarnated being who has mastered all four elements (as well as the spirit element) and lives to keep the world in balance.
Whenever the Fire Nation ships appear in the show, their arrival is first heralded by plumes of black smoke on the horizon and ash falling from the sky. As I look at my own sky today, this is all that comes to mind. We are reaping the karma that our own Fire Nation has sown, experiencing the consequences of the many systems and decisions we unknowingly (or uncaringly) participated in that made this happen.
***
Still, it isn’t a question of ‘us vs. them,’ or even of who deserves the blame for this mess we find ourselves in. It’s not solely the fault of the capitalists, the Americans, or the guys who drive huge pickup trucks. There’s actually no specific group we could single out as the literal Fire Nation — because more than anything, it represents a philosophy, a way of seeing things, that happens to drive the machinery of our modern world. From the first coal-burning engine to the Bakken tar sands, the entire industrial process hinges on the belief that the world contains only dead, disconnected elements that are most valuable when they can be extracted and consumed. It takes no responsibility for the messes it leaves behind, or the collateral damage caused to both human and other life-forms. No one’s children should have to drink carelessly polluted water.
***
So how do we heal ourselves and our land; how do we even start to think about defusing the Fire Nation?
Certain counter-cultural factions might say, “burn it all down.” The urge towards destruction can be strong, especially when confronted with the entirety of the damage this system has caused. Doesn’t it deserve to die? Yet this is an immature response; I would argue that we cannot fight Fire with Fire. Yet we can deny it fuel.
Nor can we counter it with Air, the element of intellectualism, ideas, and logic. Fire needs oxygen to survive, and with enough Air it can become a firestorm. Air has been the language of Fire Nation, and we must use it with discretion.
We must become Water: fluid, adaptable, soothing. Quick to de-escalate enflamed situations. Like martial arts masters, turning the opponent’s energy against them. Taking many forms, filling any container, yet able to wear down even the hardest stone over time. Nourishing all life, bringing new growth to the dead places. Holding Water as Sacred Sacrament, cyclical sustainer.
We must become Earth: grounded, embodied, present. Enlivened in our senses, connected deeply to each other, witnessing and becoming models of abundant, biodiverse interdependence. Embracing the mycelial networks of ground-up, place-based organization, and resource-sharing. Living in right relationship to the Earth beneath our feet, and all who share our space.
***
We live in mythic times. Apocalyptic, even, as the Doomsday Clock edges closer and closer to midnight. Deep ecological and cultural imbalances are darkening the sky, demanding to be accounted for. I acknowledge the great losses being experienced now by our human and non-human relatives. I honor all the species that have vanished in my lifetime, with habitats that can no longer be Home. Yet I trust that the crises we are facing will activate us to choose a New Way, and that the forests will grow back with bountiful biodiversity, being stewarded with sustainable care. As I rise to the grief of this moment, I make the most sense of it all from a zoomed-out perspective, examining our cultural relationship with the Elements, that which is Sacred.
I pray now for rain.
***
The dehydration of Cascadian ecosystems, increase in desertification feedback loops, build-up of fuel load and subsequent catastrophic wildfires that we tend to lump together for comfort and call ‘climate change,’ is systemically complex and involves a lot of factors, all of which have been playing out for the past few centuries. Climate alteration pushes these factors over the edge, blowing bioregional gaskets and attributing to the overshoot of planetary boundaries.
These other factors include:
- Genocide of indigenous peoples and their vast, deeply rooted and invaluable ecological knowledge, cultural traditions, and ways of life which were intimately tied to regenerative land-tending and management practices
- Fire suppression (directly linked to the oppression and attempted eradication of indigenous peoples and their cultural practices, like controlled burning)
- Clear-cutting for lumber and interrupting the biotic pump, changing micro-climates and local hydrological cycles
- Replacing diverse, fire-resistant forests with mono-crops of trees more prone to disease
- Draining of wetlands and damming of watersheds, decimating salmon spawning habitats and salmon populations that provided essential nutrients to forest ecologies
- Extirpation of native grazers like massive herds of tule elk, as well as their predators mountain lion and bear, leading to destructive trophic cascades
- Hands-off, leave no trace attitude toward forest management and lack of ecological participation ~ again, no prescribed burning or thinning of undergrowth with holistic grazing and/or other approaches to large-scale regenerative forestry management.”
(List compiled by Taylor Bright; excerpt)