I have been reading through a collection of Aldo Leopold’s classic nature writing, A Sand County Almanac as well as some essays from Round River. Leopold was a naturalist who appreciated the beings of the wilderness both as he relied on them for food and fuel, but also as autonomous animals, plants and places. One of the themes that has resonated strongly with me is that of poignant loss. Throughout his writings, he mourned the extinction of native species, whether from a particular habitat or in entirety. He wrote a remarkable eulogy on the extinction of the Passenger pigeon, and spoke the finals days of a solitary old grizzly bear that was the last of its kind on a mountain in Arizona. And, of course, there was his famous description of killing a wolf and her pup for no reason other than that they were wolves, and how deeply that affected him.

But none of these deaths and extinctions were taken in solitude. Each time Leopold provided a great deal of exposition illustrating just how intimately woven together were the single animal or species, and everything else in the ecosystem. Reading these leaves one with the distinct sense that we are only now realizing the extent to which extinction permanently affects a place, and that our new-found awareness is no consolation to the systems that have suffered such a devastating blow.

In one essay, Leopold speaks of particular animals holding the numenon of a place. The numenon, in this case, is the linchpin of a place’s identity–while the loss of any species changes a place, the numenon is one that especially carries the immeasurable, yet still perceptible, spirit of that place. In one case:

Everyone knows, for example, that the autumn landscape in the north woods [of Wisconsin] is the land, plus a red maple, plus a ruffed grouse. In terms of conventional physics, the grouse represents only a millionth of either the mass or the energy of an acre. Yet subtract the grouse and the whole thing is dead. An enormous amount of some motive power has been lost. (*p. 146)

And in the case of an individual animal, the grizzly bear nicknamed Bigfoot:

No one ever saw the old bear [on the mountain Escudilla], but in the muddy springs about the base of the cliffs you saw his incredible tracks. Seeing them made the most hard-bitten cowboys aware of bear. Wherever they rode they saw the mountain, and when they saw the mountain they thought of bear. Campfire conversation ran to beef, bailes, and bear. Bigfoot claimed for his own only a cow a year, and a few square miles of useless rocks, but his personality pervaded the country…[after his death] Escudilla still hangs on the horizon, but when you see it you no longer think of bear. It’s only a mountain now. (*p. 143-5)

Arguably the more charismatic animals, plants, and places are often seen as the most irreplaceable, when in fact all are important and often it’s the tiny ones on whose backs and stems the rest of the ecosystem rests. But if we look instead at the greater concept of the numenon as Leopold uses it, rather than just the individual species chosen for it, it’s a great deal like the Genius Loci, the spirit of a place. And all of the above are representatives of what gives a place its unique qualities, the je ne sais quoi, even if we can’t put a label to those qualities themselves. These are not quantifiable in the way that bird counts and the momentum of a waterfall are. They’re exceptionally subjective; it’s arguable that those of us who value a place for what it is create its spirit, while we cannot make a land developer or oil baron see beyond the cash value of the physical natural resources. It’s an aesthetic judgement, but no less crucial for that.

Hence, representatives. Or, perhaps, mascots if you will. They are as close as we may get to identifying the spirit of a place, and what we choose (consciously or not) to represent a place-spirit (literal or metaphorical) says a great deal about our relationship to that place. I find it unsurprising that the very first bioregional animal totem to contact me once I moved to Portland was Scrub Jay, as there were several of them living in the trees right outside my first apartment here. It’s not that there weren’t other animals, but the nocturnal raccoons, and the subterranean earthworms, just weren’t as noticeable. And over time, Scrub Jay’s boldness (and sometimes downright obnoxiousness) came to embody the things I love (and sometimes despise) about this city as I’ve gotten to know it better. In the same way, the more secluded but still charismatic Steller’s Jay was the perfect analogue out in the wilderness areas of the Columbia River Gorge. For me, Portland without scrub jays, and the western portion of the Gorge without Steller’s jays, would no longer be the places I have come to love, more than any other of the irreplaceable species here.

So here’s an exercise for you this weekend: think about, or even visit, one of your favorite places, wilderness or otherwise. Consider what the numenon, the place-spirit, the je ne sais quoi, of the place is for you personally, and what being(s) you would most sorely miss if they were gone from there forever. Whose absence would have the most impact? And why are these important to you? How does your connection to that being (or small handful of beings) affect your relationships with the rest of the system? Consider these, and move forward with them.

* Block quotes from A Sand County Almanac: With Essays on Conservation from Round River by Aldo Leopold, published 1986 by Ballantine Books, New York.

Back in March, I went to visit my parents in Missouri. While I was there, I was horrified to find that the first little patch of scrub woods that I considered “my territory”, as it were, had been completely bulldozed and turned into a pharmacy. There wasn’t a single bit left. What made it worse was that I had intended during this visit to pick up a few more physical traces of the place to go with the pine cone from there on my place altar, because I knew that at some point there’d be no more chances. I guess I was just a little too late.

At the time, I did some immediate processing to try to work through my shock and pain. I wanted to reach out and know that I wasn’t alone in that feeling of deep loss for this place. Since then, I’ve slowly and carefully been uncovering those feelings. I haven’t done a full funerary rite just yet, but the potential is growing.

I keep finding myself going back to my ecopsychology shelves for supporting material in this process. I feel like so much of neopaganism is about hearkening back to places across the ocean, or abstracting places and things into spirits and deities. While the totems and gods have places in my path, this raw, visceral pain calls for a more immediate, physical connection. That place that died is not the place of Artemis, or of totems, but of a child’s wonder at an emerging butterfly and pieces of sandstone that sheltered garter snakes, of poplar trees reaching past the power lines overhead.

So I find inspiration in things that have spirit, but are not necessarily dealing with literal spirits, like the Altars of Extinction project spearheaded by Mary Gomes, a well-known figure in the field of ecopsychology (but also published in Reclaiming Quarterly). In this ritual project it is species, not spirits, that are remembered and called upon. Altars are built to creatures driven to the edge and over, whom we will never see again on this earth because of our excesses. These are centers of grieving for these losses, for the physical animals and plants gone forever.

And I look to the writings of Joanna Macy, whose engagement with collective and personal grief began with protesting against nuclear facilities, but expanded into a greater understanding of how we as individuals and communities feel the loss of the world around us. While all of her writings that I’ve read have been inspirational, I continue to be awestruck by the Council of All Beings ritual that she co-wrote. Again, it is the physical beings that are mourned. And our feelings of being overwhelmed and powerless in the face of so many traumas on a global scale as well as personal are also approached with care and compassion.

I do not say this to speak as though compassion and grieving, and connection to physical beings, have never had a place in neopaganism. But it seems sometimes that many of us spend so much time with our heads focused on what’s going on in the spirit world, waiting for a sign or symbol from another plane, that we get a bit detached from this one. And in the same way, the dominant American culture, that informs so much of American neopaganism, does not offer a place to grieve for the loss of places, of species, of entire systems. I see a lot of “celebrate nature and its cycles” rituals, and I occasionally see places for pagan funerary rites and the like. And I know other individual pagans have suffered similar losses, from the overwhelming sympathy I received when I wrote about my own grief.

But there’s a decided gap in overarching American neopagan spirituality when it comes to grieving greater systems and patterns, and it parallels a similar gap in the dominant culture. We don’t talk about grieving for the environment, perhaps because we’re conditioned to approach the problems from an analytical, let’s-find-a-solution perspective. We’re expected to remain constructive about it all. We don’t have a setting where it’s okay to cry ourselves to pieces over the imminent extinction of many of the wold’s big cats–or some of the most vulnerable little plants. If we treat the loss of a place as being on par with the loss of a person, we’re often seen as having unusual priorities, or being “too sensitive”, or even not caring about people enough.

Perhaps I’m suffering from tunnel vision, though. Maybe I just haven’t been seeing the discussion and the practice of grieving for places and species and ecosystems in neopaganism the way I’ve seen it in ecopsych. Am I missing something? Do you, dear readers, have resources and angles I haven’t found? You gave me a pleasant surprise when so many of you resonated with my loss of my sacred childhood place–perhaps you’ll show me that there’s more going on in intesive grief-work in neopagan spirituality than I had thought.

In the meantime, I continue to meditate on my loss, and to contemplate how I want to move forward from it. There will be a place and a time set aside, when the right place and time come together.

Postscript: The photo below is of the creek near the place where I moved to next, across town. This place still exists, albeit in a much more heavily developed form than when I met it two decades ago. I have no pictures of the place I lost, and there are no photos that I know of that show it as I knew it, as by that point it was an isolated open lot next to a dilapidated apartment complex, and no one else seemed to particularly care about it. But I wanted to leave at least a little beauty at the end of this, as it was difficult to write.

In my years of practicing totemism, I’ve noticed that it is much easier for we human animals to connect to other animal beings. And we are especially biased toward those animals that more resemble us—mid-sized, erring on the side of larger, mammals, very often carnivores or omnivores. If we deviate much, it’s usually to birds, our living dinosaurs. Reptiles and amphibians are rarer, and if you want to get into the downright exotic work with a fish or an invertebrate. (Rather sad that the greater portion of animal life forms in the world can be boiled down to the one word “invertebrate” in this case.)

Still, we recognize in animals something of ourselves. I recently watched with great fascination a three-part series called Walking With Monsters. This featured the struggles of animal species prior to the dinosaurs, and focused especially on those animals that would eventually evolve into us. Even those species alive today who deviated far away from us early in the ancestral tree still share common ancestry, and we resonate with that.

But animals are not the only, or even the most numerous, living beings on the planet. Plants outnumber us, and represent an entirely different lineage (other than the very earliest sparks of life from whence we all came). The biology of a plant is very different from our own in every aspect, from how they gain nutrition to their manner of reproduction, and even the molecules they absorb from the air. Perhaps it is this seemingly alien nature that makes it harder for us to relate.

And perhaps it’s because we take them for granted, too, that fewer of us work with plants as totems, as opposed to a few dried herbs in a spell or magical pouch. Plants are all around us. We can see them, plant them, even destroy them with relative ease (kudzu not withstanding). But animals—those are more fleeting, especially those in the wild, and moreso those larger, shyer beings that can only be seen in their territory if we take ourselves far away from our own. Even professional nature documentaries are made of the tiny fraction of the camera crew’s entire time and film—most of it is waiting, and traveling, and too-brief glimpses.

So we focus on the lions in the savannah, and ignore the grasses and trees where they lie in wait for their prey. We hike in the forests in search of wild birds to photograph and count, but the canopies in which they sing and nest are often given little notice. And in the same way we overlook the totems of plant species while working with the animals. Who ever talks to the totemic White Sagebrush while smudging with the pungent dried leaves of one individual plant? And what of Douglas Fir, whose children line the Columbia River Gorge and further? And what of the totems of cooking herbs, and garden plants, all of which we rely on to live?

I admit I’m guilty of this, too. I’ve only more recently, since starting on a more formal shamanic path in the past few years, been looking less at animal totems as detached, floating spiritual beings to call into a ritual, and more as part of a vibrant spiritual community containing not only individual spirits, but archetypal totemic beings, of animals, plants, landforms, and more. I’ve written about my relationship with Fir, but because so many of my plant totems have been silent totems—perhaps more due to my doing than theirs—I haven’t had as much understanding of how I work with them.

But I am more and more an adherent of bioregional totemism, which takes totems in context, just as animals exist in an environment that is just as much alive as we are. And so while a lot of what work I have done with plant totems is still quiet and personal and not ready to share yet, I have been taking the time to extend my own awareness and cooperation beyond those of flesh, bone, eyes, and the intake of oxygen.

To our readership: I’ve been rather busy as of late, and haven’t had as much time for writing. I’ll be back to it soon enough, but in the meantime I wanted to share something I wrote two years ago over on my personal blog. It’s a concept for which I’d like to see get more exposure and feedback; paganism often tends to go to many of the same sources over and over again for inspiration, and in my studies and practices in ecopsychology I’ve found a wealth of useful material for my path. Here’s one gem I’d like to share with you:

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I’ve always had issues with the “Maiden, Mother and Crone” triad (which shall be referred to as MMC from here on out) in neopaganism. It stems from Robert Graves filtered through Wicca, but seems to have bled over into generic neopagan lore. While originally it was intended to describe certain supposed trinities of goddesses, it has since been applied erroneously to human women as well. Neither deities nor humans seem to do so well when shoved into archetypal pigeonholes–while I may see totems as archetypal in nature, it’s as representations of all qualities and associations of their given species, not as “Brown Bear is the Healer, Grey Wolf is the Teacher”, etc.

It’s the humans in specific I’d like to talk about here. As someone who is deliberately childfree, I already have reason to dislike the MMC’s focus on the uterus and its functions as defining characteristics of what it means to be female [2012 note - never mind the outdated limitations of "woman" as being defined as "has a uterus"]. I used to subscribe to that whole concept that “fertility” could be symbolic as well, dealing in creative endeavors like artwork as one’s “children”. But that still limits women to “creative”, “fertile” and “nurturing” roles–as I mentioned to someone on my Twitter account, what about “Little Hellion”, “Hostile Corporate Takeover Organizer” and “Crazy Cat Lady With Attack Bengals” as archetypes? These are pretty limiting, too.

And then there are the awkward attempts to shoehorn men into similar categorizations, like “Youth, Warrior, Sage”, which at least have a little less dependence on the functionality of one’s reproductive organs, but are still unnecessarily limiting.

And this led me into irritation and annoyance with the whole gender binary thing and the Western adherence to strict dualities which seems to be especially pronounced in the States.

And then I got pissy about people mistaking the map for the territory.

And then I decided to finally write this damned essay, which has been bouncing around in my head half-formed for gods know how long.

See, I was changed a few years ago when I read Bill Plotkin’s Nature and the Human Soul. It’s not as well-known or appreciated as its predecessor Soulcraft, but it was a really formative book for me. That’s where I first learned about the concept of ecopsychology, which isn’t so much a specific school of psychological thought as it is an approach to both theroetical and applied psychology that automatically factors in the human relationship to nature along with relationships to the self, other humans, etc. It ties in beautifully with animistic beliefs and practices and gives additional structure to these concepts. In fact, a number of ecopsychologists employ core shamanic techniques in their clinical practices. And this was the book that led me to research local graduate school programs to find whoever had ecopsych classes available, which in turn completely changed my life on a lot of levels.

Anyway, what makes this book pertinent here is that Plotkin has designed what’s essentially an ecopsychological developmental theory. The book focuses on what he has labeled “The Wheel of Life”. It’s modeled on Erikson’s eight stages of human development. However, where Erikson’s stages are largely tied to one’s neurological development and, to a lesser degree, chronological age, and also are weighted more heavily toward children and adolescents as developing human beings, Plotkin’s eight stages are not so strictly scheduled, and in fact a person may not necessarily go through all eight even in a natural lifespan. While the stages do correspond to Childhood, Adolescence, Adulthood and Elderhood (as Plotkin terms them), these are more based on psychological maturity than physical age. A person may be well into physical adulthood, but still be somewhere in one of the two Adolescent stages in Plotkin’s model.

Additionally, the tasks that Plotkin proposes for each of the eight stages are much different from the tasks Erikson described in his model. Where the latter is based primarily in self-development focusing on life as part of human society, Plotkin creates a connection between the internal and external environments, as well as the human and nonhuman components thereof. There’s also a strong element of the Hero’s Journey, albeit without Campbell’s gendered interpretation thereof, in the development of the human being in the Wheel of Life. In fact, it’s entirely gender-neutral, which I thoroughly appreciate.

It’s a wonderfully pagan developmental model, though it’s not at all religious. I tend to recommend ecopsychology as a resource for nature-based pagans because it synthesizes psychology with mythology, spirituality (without specific religious trappings) and, of course, ecology. Again, it doesn’t espouse a specific school of thought; one culture’s mythology is not seen as superior to another’s. Rather, the function of mythology (and the other elements of ecopsychology) is what is explored and applied–similar to how I work with the function of shamanism in my culture rather than any prescribed, specific type of shamanism.

I would like to propose the Wheel of Life as an alternative human developmental model in neopaganism, replacing the constricted, outdated, and ultimately historically inaccurate MMC triad. This goes for any and all derivatives, which are necessarily based on a flawed system. I haven’t used it nearly as much as I would like, but it’s something that I have integrated into my personal, private view of myself for a while now. Nature and the Human Soul is still in print, and I can’t recommend it enough, whether as an alternative to the MMC, or simply as an effective structure for greater understanding of the self.

So you may have noticed I was pretty quiet throughout February as I was out of town for a significant portion of the month. First, I headed north to Seattle to vend at FaerieCon West, and then just a few days later my partner and I drove down to San Jose for PantheaCon. On our way back, we took the laid-back scenic route up the Pacific coastline, since I hadn’t seen the coast south of Newport, OR, and we were both in sore need of a vacation.

Travel is both a benefit and a challenge of my self-employment. On the one hand, I get to go to new places, or revisit ones I haven’t seen in a while. On the other, though, I end up feeling rather dis-connected from my home territory. I am a homebody at heart, and while I love a change of scenery as much as anyone, I’m also glad when I see the Portland skyline and Mt. Hood off in the distance.

When I go to a new place, one of the very first things I do is connect with the Genius Locii, the Spirit of the Place, or, as I prefer to call it, the Land. The Land isn’t so much a sharply defined being, so much as it is the amalgamation and overlapping of the many spirits and denizens of a given place or ecosystem—the animals, plants, waterways, geologic formations, and other characteristics. Each of these contributes its spirit to the Land, and even cities have this conglomerate place-spirit or personality.

There’s a certain ease to connecting to the Land that I’ve always had no matter where I’ve gone. When I go to a new place, I can feel my energy begin to shift to meet it, wrapping myself into the nooks and crannies where I best fit. It’s part of what made the road trips I had this past month so much richer.

Portland’s spirit and I hit it off almost immediately when I moved here in 2007, and my relationship with this place is stronger than almost any I’ve experienced. I had a job in less than a month, and local totems made themselves known to me even faster than that. It’s a good home base for exploring the surrounding area, and even with the rough spots in my personal and professional lives, Portland has caught me and buoyed me up in ways no other place has.

Seattle was like returning to a former significant other with whom there was the mutual agreement to just be friends, and which bloomed into a solid friendship at that. I lived there for a year before moving to Portland, and while it wasn’t a good living fit, it’s still one of my favorite places to visit. The Land there bears me no ill will, either, and I feel welcome in Seward Park and on the busy commercial Piers alike.

The little bit of San Jose I’ve gotten to see was a tougher nut to crack, as it were. I’ve not seen much beyond rows of hotels and bail bond agencies, plus the massive, sprawling airport, and the trickle of the Guadalupe River. But I went dancing at a goth night at a club while I was there this last time, and gained a new appreciation of this Land and what it had to offer—as I fell into trance with the heavy bass, surrounded by my fellow human animals, I felt that gritty spirit open up just a bit more, just a touch more friendliness.

And then there were the massive redwoods north of the San Francisco Bay. And the bluffs overlooking the central California Pacific coastline. And Rio Dell, a little grid of a town along Highway 101 a little outside of Eureka. And I could almost feel the shift as we crossed over into Oregon, the boundary of the mountains providing a rocky segue. Each of these was its own Land, and each greeted me with its own curiosity and welcome.

Truth be told, I can count on one hand the number of places where I felt uncomfortable and unwelcome—driving through Gary, Indiana, for example. I’d been in heavily industrialized and polluted places before, but something there wailed and moaned like a tortured haunt, and I was glad to move on. Still, I gave that place as much room to greet me as any other, and opened myself up besides.

And that’s what I do. I go into every new or known place open and welcoming, curious, and looking for what is beautiful about the Land. I want to know what makes the place itself, and over time I’ll get to know the ugly details underneath. But in the beginning, whether it’s the first visit or the hundredth, I greet the Land as though I’ve been waiting my entire life for that moment. And the Land, no matter what Land, has almost always responded with similar enthusiasm. And we just continue that with each other, no matter how our relationship changes over time, like greeting a partner with a kiss and a strong hug.

I know other people whom I respect greatly who would never be so uncautious as I am when entering a new place. I’ve heard the stories of angered spirits, haunted that lingered, bad luck. I don’t doubt their veracity. I’ve simply not experienced them myself.

So if you do as I do, and open yourself up to each new place, allow yourself to be aware also of potential pitfalls. Don’t assume that anything that goes wrong ever (didn’t get the job you wanted, cat got fleas in the new house, car got a flat tire while traveling through, even the heebie-jeebies) is a sign that you’ve angered a local spirit. Sometimes life just happens. But do be aware if something really just doesn’t feel right about the place you’re in. If your intuition says “Move on,” then get going to the best of your ability. If you get an undeniable sign that somebody somewhere doesn’t like you being there, or that you trod on the wrong stone, investigate with both openness and skepticism.

But don’t be afraid to open up anyway. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Be respectful, yes, but allow yourself enthusiasm, too. Whether you’re going someplace new, or simply returning home after a weekend on the road, treat the Land as though it’s your first meeting, and greet it with all your heart and soul. Greet the Land with love.

First of all, thank you to everyone for your diversity of responses on my last post, We Do Not Return to Nature. We Are Already There. And especial thanks to John for his thoughtful response post and the continuing discussion there. The issues of urban sustainability and the overall human infrastructure are things that I feel deserve more attention, both in relation to spirituality and connections, and in the broader discourse of the human condition. (Or, in short, “this is important, y’all”.)

I feel I didn’t make myself entirely clear, despite my best efforts, and so I want to pull out a few ideas for further elaboration and clarification. These are in no particular order, and are more a series of rambling talking points than a cohesive essay.

–I feel it was assumed that because I was only speaking of non-human entities as connections in this ecosystem, that that is all I was discussing, as though these living beings were a lifeline to a more “pure”, non-human nature. That is not so, and I want to make that clear right now. I brought up the maple tree and the scrub jays because they are fellow living creatures that have adapted to this urban ecosystem, and I thought they might be easier for readers to relate to. However, I also learn from the buildings and the pavement and how they change (and are changed by) both the microclimate and the weather, as well as affect the larger systems of waterways, animal migration routes, erosion, and so forth. I call cities ecosystems because they are supports of a network of living beings, and non-living land masses, some of which are human-created.

–Humans are animals. Our cities and other creations may be unique, and our ability to both conceptualize and create may be wholly unlike anything else achieved by any other known species on this planet. But they are still created by humans, and I feel it is divisive and dis-connecting to think of humans and our creations as “not natural”. It is in part our perception that we are separate from nature that has caused many people to ignore the impact we have on the rest of the world, because we feel we don’t have to pay attention–it’s “not our problem”, or so we think. So many people have no idea where, for example, their food comes from. If we recreate the story of the city to include how it is connected to other ecosystems, we start rebuilding those perceptions of connections that have never entirely gone away, and we can then foster more responsibility all around. But as long as we keep telling people that cities are dis-connected from the rest of nature, they’re going to keep acting like it–and we see where that’s gotten us all.

–Telling urban dwellers that they’re bad people for living in cities, or that they can’t be as good a bunch of environmentalists as rural people, or otherwise playing who’s superior to whom, is counterproductive. Insulting someone or insinuating that you’re better than they are is a great way to alienate them. Not a good idea with potential allies. If you assume that cities are full of people who are self-centered, materialistic, corrupted, etc. then you’ve already started on the path to alienating them. Same thing with assuming all rural areas are full of nothing but small-minded hyper-conservative bigots. And so forth.

–There are crappy things about both cities and rural areas. I am fully aware of the negative impacts of cities as they currently are constructed and run, as well as the greater issues of human overpopulation, resource mismanagement, and environmental degradation. However, I do have to thank Pashy for pointing out that rural areas still do benefit from the harmful infrastructures that also support cities–over the road trucking and other non-sustainable resource transport, fossil fuels, commercialized agriculture by way of Monsanto and Archer Daniels Midland and the like, and so forth. Neither cities nor rural areas in the US (with very, very few and very small exceptions) are self-contained pods where all the food, water, shelter, electricity, and heat come from closed-circuit, sustainable sources, and I’ve yet to see a rural area that didn’t have some form of landfill or other waste disposal and that didn’t consume plastics and other non-biodegradables. All of us are contributing to the problems, one way or another, all communities of all sizes have people working toward sustainability, and the solution is not to demonize one form of living over another, but to entirely rework the entire human infrastructure to a sustainable point.

–There are also good things about both cities and rural areas. There are restorative properties to wilderness places that are unique to them, wholly unlike anything found in cities; even I head out to the Gorge frequently for refreshers. The country is a lot quieter, auditorily and otherwise. Trees and other living beings can make urban areas more comfortable and friendly places to be. Cities offer a wider variety of people on average, and so can offer more support to some minorities (depending on the city and the area), and more people means more human resources available for problem-solving and large-scale manufacturing of things like medications. Every community, large or small, has its own personality, and some of these are nicer than others regardless of population size. We have good things we can learn from all human communities, and these are great starting points for fixing the rest.

–We have seven billion people on the planet. This is not likely to change any time soon without a severe epidemic, drought, comet, etc., and a longer-term de-population involves a lot of education, availability of and education about the use of birth control, changes in attitudes toward population and repopulation, improvements in the general lot of women worldwide, and a whole slew of other things that will take a LONG time to change. So for the time being we have to figure out where to put all these people. Just spreading us out isn’t the answer. Many non-human species rely on places far away from even a few humans to be happy, and will avoid even the most sparsely human-populated areas. If we dispersed all seven billion of us into rural areas, each with acreage, we would be so spread out that many more species would feel too crowded. Most people lack skills to be able to live off the land, and that’s not going to change quickly. So for many reasons, we do need cities as places to concentrate a large portion of the human population.

–This is why I am a huge supporter of reworking human communities of ALL sizes to a sustainable model, such as those proposed in Green Metropolis. There are ways to address issues of overcrowding, pollution, social injustice, and other problems inherent to all human infrastructure. Cities can be made so that they are more walkable to cut down on the need for fossil fuel transportation; manufacturing and other resource production can be localized to avoid the long-distance transport that all communities, large or small, rely on. Public transit can be improved in rural areas so that not everyone has to have their own car to drive twenty miles to a grocery store or drive in to work five days a week. As to social justice? While there is certainly bigotry everywhere, I know that I have found it easier to find support as a queer, progressive, pagan person in cities where I am more likely to find people who support and agree with me than in conservative small towns, though certainly there are more progressive small communities as well. So we look at ways that minorities in both cities and rural areas have survived and thrived, to create a more socially sustainable human infrastructure across the board.

–So. Restating my main point after all these varied and scattered thoughts: To change the human infrastructure overall for the better, we first have to reclaim the most obvious manifestations of it–cities. And it all starts with our perceptions of them. If we perceive them as blights, then we abandon them to their fates, and they just get worse and worse. If we perceive them as just another part of nature, albeit one that is heavily and uniquely human-dominated, then we start the shift back to seeing us and what we create as connected to everything, and increase our sense of responsibility to the All.

Please, if something seems unclear, ask me for clarification rather than making assumptions.

You notice how the URL for this section of the Pagan Newswire Collective has the word “nature” in it? Of course. It’s specifically for nature-based pagan religious and spiritual discussions and ideas. I would bet that the majority of people who think of “nature” are thinking of open areas that have a minimum of human impact, where the signs of humanity are reduced or even almost entirely eradicated. And I feel that’s a grave shortcoming in our perceptions.

I want to share with you one of my very favorite quotes. It’s a statement by Richard Nelson, quoted in The Sacred Earth: Writers on Nature and Spirit, edited by Jason Gardner (emphasis mine):

It’s dangerous to think of ourselves as loathsome creatures or as perversions in the natural world. We need to see ourselves as having a rightful place. We take pictures of all kinds of natural scenes and often we try to avoid having a human being in them…In our society, we force ourselves into a greater and greater distance from the natural world by creating parks and wilderness areas where our only role is to go in and look. And we call this loving it. We lavish tremendous concern and care on scenery but we ignore the ravaging of environments from which our lives are drawn.

This is a perfect image of how we have separated ourselves from the rest of nature. Not separating ourselves from nature, but separating ourselves from the rest of nature. That’s been the entire problem all along. Numerous factors ranging from religion to the Industrial Revolution have systematically convinced many portions of humanity that we are “above nature”, that “nature is to be used”, and otherwise referring to “nature” in the third person—nature the It as opposed to nature the Us.

This whole idea that we have to go out to the woods or the desert or the coast in order to “be with nature” just continues that disconnection, whether it’s disconnection through devaluing nature as “beneath us”, or disconnection by hyper-romanticizing nature and only looking for its supposedly “pure” manifestations—those that are relatively untouched by humans.

Nature? Nature is everywhere. Nature is the flora in our gut and in the sewers. Nature is the moss growing on old house shingles. Nature is the wind blowing through skyscrapers, in cities whose presence changes the microclimate. Nature is the sun that shines and the rain that falls on every place above ground. And humans? Humans are nature, too. Our big brains and bipedal stance are the adaptations we evolved in order to survive the challenges of being ground-dwelling, omnivorous, hunter-gatherer-scavenger apes. Our cities and buildings are exaggerated manifestations of our nest-building instincts, tempered with aesthetic self-awareness.

And remembering that we are nature reconnects us to everything else. If we remember we are nature, that we cannot separate ourselves from nature, then we come to realize that our cities and other habitations are part of ecosystems—dramatically changed ecosystems, but there nonetheless. We may find that suddenly the issues that affect the environment are immediate—not out in the woods somewhere where we can ignore them, but right here, in our bodies and homes and streets. We can still value the wilderness, but we no longer ghettoize nature as being “out there somewhere that we escape to”.

That’s a very valuable point: the idea that we “escape to nature”. Isn’t it sad that we in the cities feel we are escaping from something that isn’t nature, when in reality nature is all around us? I instead propose that when we are speaking of relatively human-free places, open, quiet areas, we speak of “wilderness” instead of “nature” as a defining term. Wilderness contains an element of primal quality, but without the overarching completion of “nature”. It gives us some way to delineate between the Hoh rain forest on the Olympic Peninsula, and paved-over downtown Seattle, without denying that these places are still family to each other, the blood connecting them embodied in the intertwining waters of Puget Sound and surrounding ways.

I question the reliance on wilderness as the primary representative to humans of nature. If we are convinced that we can only connect to nature in places away from other humans, then not only are we betraying our poor, disconnected species, especially those who have no choice but to live in cities, but we are also betraying the urban ecosystems as valid representatives of nature. We have abandoned any attempts of making cities healthier places to live for everyone, not just the people rich enough to be able to afford to “escape” on the weekends. We privilege rural animals and plants while taking the urban ones for granted—“dirty pigeons”, “disease-carrying rats”, and “weeds”.

My Therioshamanism blog has had the John Muir quote “In the silence of the wild, we find the home we lost in the city” at the top of it ever since I started it in 2007. I don’t agree with it any more, though I’ve not yet found a good substitute for it just yet. I don’t feel I have lost anything in the city, at least not anything that I can’t find here as well. While I love my trips to the Columbia River Gorge and other wilderness areas, I don’t value them above my talking with the maple tree across the street from my apartment or the scrub jays that vweeeeet though the neighborhood. And it is here in the city, not in the wilderness, that I have found, discovered, returned to the knowledge that I am nature. I joyously embrace the fact that this place is nature as much as Mt. Hood, as much as the Columbia River Gorge, as much as any of the wilderness places I have fallen in love with over time.

For like me, the maple and the scrub jays and all our neighbors are continuing the cycles of nature in this human-strong place, with all its benefits and challenges. I can’t get that experience when I am sitting next to Wahkeena Spring, or at the top of Devil’s Rest. The trees and the jays and I must learn the lessons of nature in this unique place, remember that there are lessons of nature to be learned, and share that remembering with others. If we can accomplish that remembering together then we have more hope, not of destroying cities and losing what is valuable in them, but of bringing our urban nature places back into greater harmony with the rest.

In the previous section of this series, I discussed a guided meditation to help you find animal totems associated with the three basic evolutionary parts of the human brain, the reptilian, old mammalian, and new mammalian parts of the brain. If you have not yet read the first two sections, please go back and read them here and here so that this section will make more sense.

Once you have identified these three totems, here are some ways to work with them and beyond:

–Spend time each week meditating with each totem, and on the part of your brain and its bailiwicks that each corresponds to. Where do you see each part of your brain coming into play in your everyday life? Are there any situations in which you could be more balanced, perhaps bringing the rational thought of the neocortex (new mammalian brain) into play when you’re perhaps too worried about something and your limbic system (old mammalian brain) could use a little calming?

–If you find yourself in a situation where you need more balancing, ask the totem of the part of the brain you want help from to give you aid in that moment. For example, if you’re feeling unmotivated about something, talk to the totem of the reptilian part of your brain to figure out why that might be, and what you could do to give yourself more incentive to act.

–When interacting with others, how do you see the various parts of their brains potentially coming into play? Does this help you understand them better? How are your two brains communicating? Are you trying to approach them on a primarily new mammalian level, while they may be in a more defensive, reptilian mindset?

–What about interacting with other species of animal? Often they have been belittled as being “lesser” than humans, even though we have gone through the same evolutionary processes they have. Can you relate to them more knowing that you share some similar brain structures? Do you understand the other animals and their motivations better? Do you give them more respect for what they are, rather than what they are not?

–While this particular meditation dealt with just a few points on the long line of our evolution (or, rather, various diverging lines of evolutionary history), you can use it to find other extinct totems, to include those of ancestral species before the rise of reptiles. If you found yourself connecting to still-living species, try asking them for help in traveling further back in evolutionary time, perhaps asking one totem to introduce you to its ancestor, and then that ancestor introducing you to another, and so forth. You may want to check your work against a known timeline of evolving species as you go along.

–If you don’t already do so, think of yourself more as a human animal. Emphasize the animal part, not in the Hollywoodized version of the “wild (wo)man/cave(wo)man”, but a human being who is the latest in one line of evolved animals. See how you fit into your ecosystem as an animal, eating, drinking, sleeping, etc. Do you feel more kinship to the other animals, both living and extinct? How about connection to the land?

–Practice being very physically aware of yourself-as-animal. Walk around and otherwise move your body, and notice how your limbs are still very much like those of a quadruped, how your knees and back especially still hearken back to before we began to walk upright (and like to remind us, sometimes painfully, that the evolution isn’t done yet!). Imagine what it might feel like to shift your form backward in your evolutionary history to that of a proto-mammalian ancestor, or an earlier reptile, and even further back to aquatic ancestors. If it helps, read up on some comparative anatomy before you try this exercise.

–You may also wish to ask one or more of your “brain totems” to show you a bit of what their physical counterparts’ forms were like. If you feel comfortable, try to accentuate the part of your brain that is associated with the totem you’re working with; if you’re working with your reptilian brain totem, imagine that you are primarily concerned with the basic needs of survival, defense, territory, and reaction.

These are just a few paths you may choose to explore from here. Feel free to explore beyond them, and to experiment.

Ultimately, the point of all this is to be more familiar with yourself as an animal, with how your motivations, thoughts and feelings are largely inherited from our species’ ancestors. Rather than shoving down our animal selves, we can learn from other creatures how to use these various levels of our brains, the hard-wired seats of our minds. Our comparative neurophysiology shows us our heritage; we have only gained ignorance by trying to push it away. Let us embrace ourselves as human animals. Let us learn to balance what is unique to us with humans, with all that humanity has been built on. Let us become the best human animal beings possible.

In my last post, I introduced the model of the triune brain (reptilian, old mammalian, new mammalian) as a structure for basic understanding of yourself as a human animal, not just a human being. If you have not yet read the first part of this series, please go and check it out over here before reading on, as it will help you make sense of this second portion, for it is here is where we can put the theory into practice.

What you’re going to do in this meditation is meet with totems that can help you learn more about the origins and the purposes for the reptilian (territoriality, basic instincts), old mammalian (more complex care of young and family, basic emotional capacities), and new mammalian (more complex social and communication skills) parts of your brain. The meditation is only meant to be an introduction to these totems; you certainly can’t learn everything there is to know in one exercise! Think of it as a starting point; I’ll give you some ideas for where to go next later on.

Before you begin, there is one thing to consider—do you want to specifically work with the totems of species that are considered most likely to be our direct ancestors, or of species that simply share the same general brain structures we have? For example, let’s say you want to learn more about the old mammalian brain by working with the totem of an animal whose most advanced neurological development is at that level. Would you prefer to specifically seek out Thrinaxodon, a cynodont closely related to the as-of-yet-undiscovered exact predecessor species of all mammals, humans included? Or would you rather work with the totem of an extant species of primitive mammal which is not a direct ancestor of ours, such as American Opossum?

Either way, prepare to do some preliminary research. There’s plenty of information on animals still alive today, but not quite as much on extinct ones, especially older or less charismatic species. Here is a good starting point for researching our likely direct ancestors; as with anything on Wikipedia take it with a bit of salt, but also make use of the cited resources for further research.

It may seem a little like “cheating” to go into a guided meditation with certain species more at the forefront than others, but considering how difficult traversing your own psyche can be, working with animals you know more about can help give you more of an anchor as you dig in deeper. Let the meditation choose the specific animals for you, though. Go in with a good amount of information in your conscious mind, and allow your subconscious to make use of the material.

Keep in mind, too, that these are animal totems; as archetypal, spiritual beings, they are comprised not only of the natural history and traits of the species they spring from, but also the animals’ relationships to other species, including humans, as well as our myths and folklore about them. So while talking to a physical animal, especially in light of the differences of our brains, may not be feasible, animal totems are entirely different sorts of beings themselves.

The Meditation

Get comfortable in a quiet place where you can be undisturbed for at least an hour. Sit or lay down as you see fit. You can even dance if it will help you travel into the right mindset. Let go of your everyday cares and concerns, and relax.

Focus on your head. Feel your attention going inward, into your head, through your skull, and into your brain. The first place you enter into is the new mammalian brain.

Remember your social skills, the basic interactions between humans. Think of how we socially interact, the structure and processes of how we choose who to communicate with, who is close to us and who isn’t, how we collaborate and come together. Then think of how other higher-order mammals do the same. What makes us unique? How are we like other mammals in that respect?

Envision an animal coming toward you that represents the new mammalian brain and its origins. Let it approach you. Greet it, and see if you can engage it in conversation. Find out why it has arrived in this part of your brain. Once you’re done with this conversation, thank the totem for introducing itself, and bid it farewell.

Next, move deeper into your brain. Feel yourself move through the new mammalian brain, and into the old mammalian brain. Remember all the times you’ve felt deep, seemingly uncontrollable emotions, good or bad. Feel the bonds between you and those closest to you; don’t think about them, just feel them. Then think about mammals caring for their young, cleaning them and keeping them safe. Think about how other animals show care for each other—sadness when a fellow creature dies, joy at reunion with one who has been away.

Envision an animal coming toward you that represents the old mammalian brain and its origins. Let it approach you. Greet it, and see if you can engage it in conversation. Find out why it has arrived in this part of your brain. Once you’re done with this conversation, thank the totem for introducing itself, and bid it farewell.

Now, move to the deepest part of your brain, down at the base of the skull. This is the oldest part of all. Think of any situations, perhaps an emergency if you’re comfortable, where you simply acted without thinking. Remember the basic impulses of survival—sating hunger, finding rest, acquiring resources. Think of all the animals do to survive; think of fish, and amphibians, and reptiles, and others, all working to live each day.

Envision an animal coming toward you that represents the reptilian brain and its origins. Let it approach you. Greet it, and see if you can engage it in conversation. Find out why it has arrived in this part of your brain. Once you’re done with this conversation, thank the totem for introducing itself, and bid it farewell.

Then envision yourself traveling down your spine, and let your awareness expand throughout your entire body. Feel yourself back in your entire self, and when you are ready, open your eyes and come back to full waking awareness. Ground yourself as needed.

Write down or otherwise record as much as you can remember of who the totems were and what they may have said, with as much detail as possible. You may find that you don’t actually recognize an animal, especially if it’s some obscure extinct prehistoric critter. Do your best to sketch it out and otherwise record its physical traits, and then compare it to pictures of known extinct animals. Totems, especially those who no longer have a living physical connection to this world, can sometimes appear a bit “warped” in appearance, as part of their existence hinges on our awareness of them; as our species’ memory of them fades, so can the image we still have of them shift as well. Do your best with what you have, and if you end up with a “nameless” totem, it doesn’t mean you can’t still work together.

As mentioned before, this meditation is just the start. In the third and final section, I’ll give you some ideas on where to go from here, now that you’ve been introduced to these totems.

The human brain is a fascinating thing. I had already learned a good deal about it just in personal reading, but when I went through my graduate program to get my counseling psych degree, I got a lot more up-to-date information. For example, I learned about the triune brain—the idea that we have the reptilian brain (the basal ganglia, the most primitive part of the brain), the paleomammalian brain (the limbic system) and the neomammalian brain (the neocortex). What I also learned is that this model is overly simplistic, that it doesn’t correspond as neatly to actual reptile and various mammal brains as is popularly assumed. Also, some non-mammalian species exhibit levels of intelligence and behavior that rival neocortical capacities, without an actual neocortex in the brain. And all mammals have some neocortical development, just not to the degree of humans. So, in short, the triune brain model has fallen out of favor due to its flaws.

Still, as very brief shorthand, the “reptile”, “old mammal” and “new mammal” models of the different sections of the human brain work if you keep its limitations in mind. It’s a good set of mnenomics to remember that the oldest portion of the brain (“reptile”) is that which is associated with primitive territorial and aggressive/defensive actions, the next part (“old mammal”) has diversified into more complex behaviors surrounding the care and feeding of young and other family as well as the first development of emotions, and the newest portion (“new mammal”) has even more complex social and communication skills, as well as planning and foresight.

My interest in it here is as a model for self-reflective meditation. Even as highly developed as we humans are, our brains often get the better of us, particularly the more primitive portions. We still can fall prey to uncontrolled and unexamined anger, territoriality (literal and symbolic), fear, and other such impulses. We fear the Shadow-self and often try to excise it. And the more primitive self sometimes manifests as unnecessary violence that too often gets justified in the name of religion and other ideologies. Wars are massive groups of “reptiles” in territorial conflict.

So much of spirituality and religion seems to be aimed at quelling or rising above what we perceive as the most animal parts of ourselves, whether that’s sex or violence or desire and need. Sometimes mortification of the body is used; other times, we receive punishment for exhibiting “base” behaviors”. Look at the concepts of sin and uncleanliness when applied to perfectly normal, harmless human behaviors like consensual sexuality. Or we try to escape the body and the physical needs through meditation and projection, and many of us are taught to idealize an afterlife where the gross weight of the body is left behind and we are made “perfect”. In any case, the animal self is all too often demonized and shunned.

Yet the answer is not to further distance ourselves from these parts of who we are as human animals, but instead to reconnect with them. Our increasingly (perceived) detachment from ourselves as animals, the idea that we are “above” or “better than” animals, doesn’t take away the fact that we are animals still, including in our brains. No amount of rationalization or distancing will remove that, nor will any level of supposed transcendence. As long as we are human animals in human animal bodies, we are responsible for our human animal selves, motivations, and actions.

We don’t, of course, need to swing all the way in the other direction and let our ids go wild in order to “be animals”. Yes, we are attracted on a certain level to the idea of unfettered fighting and fucking and competing relentlessly for resources to maximize the likelihood our genes will be passed on. But let’s not break out the blood sacrifices and wild orgies just yet. If we are to give honor to the evolution that has brought us to where we are, let’s not forget the compassion and humane treatment of ourselves and others that we have developed to a high degree (though we are not the only species to possess them). After all, we have seen the atrocities that have occurred when people display little to no control over their more primitive instincts at all. That’s where we get war, assault, selfish hoarding of precious resources, etc.

I propose, instead, a middle ground, one that allows us to aspire to the best of the uniquely human traits we’ve developed as a species, and also the more primitive foundations that we are built on. The goal is to first be able to identify what parts of the brain/self are active at different points, particularly those seen as negative; and second, instead of pushing them away, observing and knowing the impulses and feelings for what they are and thereby letting them have a place while keeping them in check.

And we’re going to do this by looking to our ancestors and our much-extended family for their experience and wisdom. In the second part of this series, I’m going to show you a guided meditation that you can use to contact animal totems that correspond with the various layers of your brain as a way to begin this reclaiming of yourself as a human animal.

When I’m making artwork, I often enjoy having some music or video going on that I can listen to and watch while I work. The other day I finished up watching Carl Sagan’s Cosmos: A Personal Voyage, which I’ve been watching segments of over the past couple of weeks. For those who haven’t seen it, it is an epic, thirteen-hour-long exploration of the Universe we live in, from the atomic level to the entirety of everything, ranging from the Big Bang itself all the way up to the present day. In each of the hour-long segments, Sagan touches on many diverse sciences, as well as history, sociology, psychology, and other disciplines. He puts into layperson’s terms the processes of evolution, the geologic history of the Earth, and the origin of life on this planet and even of the Universe itself.

What I found most invaluable, though, was how the series gives us perspective of where we fit into the grand scheme of things. Until not too long ago, most cultures had a very human-centric view of reality, where we were at the core, and everything revolved around us in importance. Cosmos is both beautiful and controversial because it shows us how very small we are, but also what amazingly intricate and long-lived processes we are an integrated part of. There were many times throughout the series where I was reminded of just how impossibly vast the Universe is, how very tiny the Earth is, and yet also how we ourselves, and everything else, are made of stars–and just how unlikely was the chance that we and everything else on Earth are here today. As humbling as it is to realize just how tiny our “pale blue dot” is, Cosmos also dedicates time to showing what does make us, as a species, so significant in our knowledge of the Universe. As Sagan said in the introduction to the series, “We are a way for the Cosmos to know itself”.

This is simultaneously humbling and inspirational. Much of human religion and spirituality is so heavily anthropocentric our spiritual cosmologies are largely concerned with the interest the Universe and its denizens have in us, and most of our deities are created in our very human image. Many of us never get further than “Earth” and “Sky” as the primordial, “biggest” concept-deities, because that’s how our ancestors understood it to be.* The celestial bodies we most acknowledge are the Sun and the Moon and our closest planetary cousins, but even astrology primarily concerns itself with how the positions of the stars and planets are important to us humans. And yet the Earth, and the visible parts of the Sky, are minute compared to the immensity they, and we, are a part of. It’s humbling because we find more and more that humans are far from the most important collections of stardust, and also inspiring because with every new discovery in biology, in astrophysics, and in so many other disciplines, there’s so much more we can know and explore about Life, the Universe, and Everything, even as laypeople.

I have, over the years, heard pagans and other such folk complain that there’s no real magic in this world, simply because we can’t do things like shoot fireballs from our fingertips or physically shapeshift or heal life-threatening illnesses with a touch. And yet Cosmos is a perfect illustration of the magic that is inherent to this physical reality. Look at evolution, for example. It is not just the “survival of the fittest”, as many oversimplify it. Rather, it is a many-generations-long progression of tiny shifts and alterations, and somehow one ancestral being has offspring which, over millenia, branch off into many diverse creatures. The phylogenetic Tree of Life is full to overflowing with living and extinct beings that are fascinating, beautiful, and inspirational simply by being themselves, without layering on subjective meaning like totemic lore or other symbolism. Or, on a smaller scale, I like to think about photosynthesis. The chloroplasts in plant cells, which are likely derived from cyanobacteria that formed symbiotic relationships with primitive plant cells, take sunlight and turn it into food. All the food we eat is created from sunlight changed into sugars by photosynthesis–we are eating transformed light waves**. How are these things not magical and miraculous, especially the more we know about them?

Cosmos is a massive journey through many of these manners in which star-stuff has formed over billions of years, and I can’t but think of it as revealing why the physical reality I live in is sacred. “Sacred” means “to inspire awe or reverence”, and with each new piece of knowledge about the Universe I acquire, the more deeply I feel that sacredness. Mythos and folklore and divine inspiration are great and beautiful things in the sphere of human experience, but if we are to understand the roots of those experiences, we need to dig into the (sometimes literal) dirt where those roots are grounded.

I think, perhaps, Cosmos could be in and of itself a ritual tool. Thirteen hours is a long time, and while most pagan rituals last an hour at best, there’s also something to be said for an immersive experience. So here’s a suggestion, whether you’ve seen this series in its entirety already or not: Set aside an entire day where you can be undisturbed, either alone, or with other interested, curious and respectful parties. Get comfortable. And then watch Cosmos from beginning to end. (Take breaks for the bathroom and food as needed, of course, but keep them short.) It will be a lot of information, and you may wish to go back at a later time and watch it over again in smaller segments. But this time, simply open yourself to the flow of information, and see how it affects you and your understanding of the Universe.

It may seem odd, on this nature-spirituality-themed blog, to suggest such long immersion in media. Yet not all media is created equal, and this series is much more information about the Universe than what we can immediately observe on our own, condensed into a few hours. Sitting in front of a television won’t show you the spirit of the land where you live, but it can offer you so much more backstory on its geology and biology and ultimate origin than you could get by watching the denizens of the land interact. It’s a complement to direct experiences with nature, not a replacement, and I see it as inspiration to make more forays out of our homes and into the world around us–and, perhaps, to support more exploration beyond where we can currently go. To know about evolution is one thing, but even scientists best appreciate it when they are able to actually see the plants and animals that resulted. (In fact, some of the most glorious marvels written about nature have been penned by scientists, not about things going on in laboratory settings, but our fellow beings in their own habitats–or the habitats themselves.)

Whether you choose to immerse yourself in a thirteen-hour marathon, or take Cosmos in multiple smaller doses, I encourage you to take what you learn and apply it to your experiences in the world around you. I know for myself that having more of the story has enriched my hikes and rituals outdoors, and I hope this can be a valuable resource for you as well.

* Ancient mythos from various cultures worked with what the people of those cultures knew at the time, with great wisdom but without the benefit of high=powered telescopes and other very helpful technology. However, mythology is constantly changing with the times, and a really good example of a modern mythos in the grand tradition that makes use of 21st-century knowledge, I recommend NUP’s own Restorying the Sacred column, with some lovely modern nature myths written by Eli Effinger-Weintraub.

** We are still unable to shoot fireballs from our fingertips. But isn’t it cool that in a way, through photosynthesis, we can eat fire?

Note: a big thank you to all the artists who allowed me to use their images in this post! I encourage readers to check out their galleries at the links in the captions of the pictures.

This is part two of a two-part series; you may read part one here.

There are many purposes for shapeshifting—celebration, drawing on the power of the being you’re changing into, learning to change yourself, etc. There are also many techniques, some stationary, others involving dance and other movement. This version of shapeshifting is quieter, and is primarily for the purpose of creating connection with, and fostering awareness of, other beings. It’s a way to begin healing the rift we as a species have created between us and the rest of the beings we share this world with. It requires a certain level of intimacy; you can’t become a being without having some empathy for it, and the world could certainly do with more empathy all around.

Although you can theoretically shapeshift (non-physically, of course) into any being (and I use that term to refer to animals, plants, waterways, mountains, and more), I recommend choosing a being who is physically close to you, such as a particular tree or waterway near your home, or a species of animal that you see frequently. Even in my fairly urban Portland neighborhood, I still have a huge maple tree right outside my kitchen window. No matter the weather or my state of health, I can still check on “my” tree to see how it’s doing, how many leaves are left today, who’s perched in the branches, and so forth. And I have a good vantage point to watch the crows, fox and grey squirrels, and scrub jays that frequent the tree and surrounding high places.

You’ve already created something of a personal connection there, but let’s talk about taking it further. How much time do you spend every day observing this being? If it’s something relatively stationary like a stone or pond, try to make a daily visit in all weather, at least as much as you’re able. Or, with animals, see if there’s a place where you can fairly reliably see individuals of the species, if not daily then at least regularly. Take note of what you see each time. How does the being change with the time of day, the weather, even the seasons? How does it fit into its niche in the ecosystem, and are there any changes in that over time? What about human impact?

Balance out all this experience with some research as well. Read about the being online and in books; talk to others who have worked with it. Get the objective viewpoint to balance out your subjective observations and impressions, and allow them to complement each other.

This all can be an investment of years. That’s okay. We spend years getting to know other people; it works for other beings as well. Even after you’ve tried shapeshifting to this being, you can still keep up the daily observations, just as you may regularly check in on loved ones.

There’s no single, universal “right time” to make the step from observation to shapeshifting. A lot of it has to do with mutual trust; a being that doesn’t trust you won’t open up, and it’ll be harder for you to be receptive to a being you’re wary of. When you feel the time is right, go to the being. If the being is stationary, ask to sit on, against, or otherwise near it. For animals, sit where you’ve been able to observe them best (hopefully by now they’re used to your presence). If you are unable to be at the place itself, such as for health or safety reasons, find a place at home or otherwise where you can meditate for a while, undisturbed, and perhaps have some reminder of the being you’re connecting with at your side.

If you’ve already “spoken” with the being or a totemic representation thereof, great! If you haven’t done such communication yet, you may wish to use a guided meditation to introduce yourself. Here’s a simple one:

Close your eyes. Relax. Breathe. Be aware of where the being is in relation to you. Imagine a shining cord extending from your third eye to the being—not quite touching, but inviting the being to make that last step to complete the cord between you. Once the cord is complete, greet the being, and begin the conversation. When you feel the time is proper, ask the being for its help with shapeshifting, that you want to have a better understanding of it by becoming, even just a little, more like it. Allow it to answer as it will, and go from there.

If the being isn’t ready, respect that. Keep up your visits, and when you feel ready, try asking permission again (unless you have gotten a very firm “No, never, not at all” from the being).

Once you have gained permission, then it’s time to try the shapeshifting itself. Go back to the place where you can be with the being without disturbance. Close your eyes, breathe, and relax. Be very aware of your boundaries, physical and otherwise—where “you” end and the rest of the world begins. Now imagine those boundaries are becoming much more permeable.

Make physical contact with the being or its representation, and allow the boundaries between you and it to be more blurred. You may feel as though you are “melting” into each other, or you may feel your own form change and move to be more like that of the being. You may even feel you are being carried along by the being, a sort of “rider”; there may even be multiple representatives if you’re working with a very social animal such as schooling fish. Any way it manifests, allow this change to happen, and observe how your perceptions and thoughts change as well.

What is it like to be that being? How does it differ from being yourself? How do you feel? Is it fun? Scary? Do you feel curious? Are some things more important to you now than they were before, and are others less so? How comfortable are you in this form?

Is the being itself staying in contact with you while you shift? Try asking it questions, if you can, or share observations—after all, it’s the expert on being itself!

When you’re ready to come back, thank the being for its help. Then imagine what your body feels like normally, or state your name, your address, and other “human” things. Don’t rush it; allow yourself to ease back in, let the boundaries reform at their own pace. Once you’re awake, take some time to ground. Eat something protein-heavy, observe the way your hands move, recite the lyrics to one of your favorite songs. Do things that gently bring you back to being human.

After you’re done, think about how you feel about the being now. Do you have more empathy for its place in the world, and the challenges it may face? Do you feel differently about yourself and your own place here? What may you have learned from this experience that you didn’t know or understand before?

Do keep in mind that all of your impressions are still processed by your very human brain and mind, even in the depths of the shapeshift. You can’t entirely sever your connection to

being human. It is a good idea to check your impressions against more objective information, and to have sensitivity toward whom you want to identify with. It may not cause much trouble for you to be convinced that mosquitoes really suck other animals’ blood because they want to steal their power. However, shapeshifting into American Mink, and then being convinced that you now have to free all the caged mink at fur farms, is a bad idea, no matter how deeply you may have connected with that totem.

Done with care, shapeshifting can be a highly effective way to be more empathetic toward other beings, to raise our everyday awareness of their presence, and to foster greater consideration of them both individually, and as a society.

There’s a recurring dream I have; it started when I was young. In it, I take my form as a white wolf. I’m in a forest, and the forest is burning. The tall pines and fir trees crackle and split in the flames around me, and I can hardly breathe for the stinging clutch of smoke at my throat. Hot embers scorch the pads of my paws. The tops of the trees begin to topple over, weakened by the flames, and the ground is suddenly made more hazardous with smoldering logs. If I could only find my way out…where is my pack?

I awaken suddenly, panting, startled, thrust back into my skin and flesh and bone all too quickly.

Human legend and lore is full of shapeshifters. Sometimes the changes are literal—physically transmuting the body into that of another animal, or even a plant or stone. Sometimes the person may become a breeze, or a waterway. Sometimes the change is conscious and consensual; other times…not so much.

There are other shapeshifters, too. They include those who take on many roles—Lugh Samhildánach (The Many-Skilled), who excelled at any task given, or polymaths like Leonardo da Vinci. Many people, from thespians to cosplayers, take on a new persona when they don particular clothing; we see this in the wearing of ritual regalia in many traditions as well.

Shapeshifting, for some, is only about taking on a role, wrapping a core self with a persona that may be worn or removed like clothing. But in a more ritualized, spiritual setting, shapeshifting is about becoming something other than ourselves.

The idea of stepping outside of the self and into another is often alarming to the Western post-industrial mindset. It brings up inaccurate images of mental illnesses, or at the very least identity confusion. We are taught that each person has only one identity, and while it may be tweaked a bit here and there depending on whether you’re talking to Aunt Mabel or your secret crush or a job interviewer, you’re still supposed to essentially be you.

Yet to be done fully, shapeshifting necessitates a very deep empathy with another being. Most of us don’t empathize beyond emotions; we allow ourselves to feel with another person’s pain, for example. But to really become another being, we have to open ourselves up beyond that, and set ourselves aside.

I am 23 years old, at my very first pagan gathering, a weekend celebration at Brushwood Folklore Center in New York. Night has long since fallen, and I am at the drum circle, with a fire burning brightly in the center. In my hands I hold my grey wolf skin that I have transformed into a dance costume with carefully tied leather straps. I have spent hours practicing dancing in it in my apartment for the better part of a year, but this is the first time I’ve been brave enough to dance in front of others.

I drape the hide over my head, slip my arms through the same holes that lupine muscle and bone once filled, and tie the hide to my head, wrists and ankles. I feel Wolf the totem, and wolf the spirit, slide over me with the hide, and I suddenly feel I am so much more than myself. I step into the lines of dancers circling around the fire again and again, and I—we, the wolves and I—begin to dance. And soon, it is just I, Wolf-I.

We require an Other place to shift into an Other self. It may be Other only in the sense that one’s physical setting has changed—going from work to home, for example. But the Other place may also be the land of dreams, or the spirit world of journeys, or a physical wilderness unlike one’s home territory—or a deliberate ritual setting.

The dreamland is often the first place we experience shapeshifting of some sort, due to its universality in our experiences, as well as its mutable nature. The dreamland may alternately be described as the subconscious romping ground of our brains and the cumulative inner landscapes we have inherited from our many ancestors, or entry into an entire world apart from us where we might literally meet our ancestors, among other spirits.

As we grow older and become more integrated into relationships with other beings, human and otherwise, we develop the ability to make subtle changes in ourselves according to present company and setting. The shifts are largely unconscious, and we may only be peripherally aware that they’re happening most of the time. By comparing how we present ourselves in various situations, we can begin to better understand the processes by which we change.

Ritual is a deliberate shift. We put on special vestments, create ritual space, and utilize items that are unique to that setting. We may still remain ourselves, though yet a different part thereof. But some of us also become other beings entirely through invocation and similar rites. While our earlier experiences with shapeshifting may seem to be out of our hands—literally—practice does make perfect, or at least better.

Drumbeats carry me into the journeying state; I can still vaguely feel my left arm pounding the beater against the horsehide drum held by my right. However, it is an arm covered in white fur. The fingers are shorter, stubbier, ending in claws, and growing less and less human as I watch. Were I to return to my physical form, I would find myself just as human as ever. But here, in the spirit world, my human form melts away—wolf-form is easier to travel in, easier to protect myself in. And there are beings who will only speak to me in this form, too. Humans can be scarier than wolves, you know.

Consciously shapeshifting into another being, especially with the aid of a representative of that sort of being, can be one of the most powerful acts of magic. The effects may be wide-ranging.

On an individual level, we may go places we couldn’t otherwise, in spirit and in emotion and in mind. We can break out of personal ruts, learn valuable lessons from the beings we become that we can then bring back to our human lives, and strengthen our imaginations and other creative spiritual skills.

We also stand to learn more about the world around us, to be more aware of the importance of other beings and places. It is harder to disregard someone that you have been yourself, even for a short while. Indeed, for many people what is most sacred is that in which we are most able to immerse or surrender ourselves.

Those sacred things that allow us to temporarily blur or remove our boundaries vary from person to person. I have limited my anecdotes to my experiences with Wolf and wolf spirits—partly due to tradition, and also to show that it’s possible to work with the same energy/being in different forms of shapeshifting. But it is quite possible to connect with a variety of animals, plants, stones, waterways, places, and yes, even buildings and statues and parks, through shapeshifting. This holds true whether it’s on an individual scale, or something as potentially elaborate as Joanna Macy’s and John Seed’s Council of All Beings.

In my next post, I’ll be offering more practical information on methods of shapeshifting, with a special emphasis on practicing it as a way of connecting with other beings.

I am not a huge fan of “nature” as being separate from humanity. The perceived divide of “natural” and “artificial” may seem like a way to emphasize the non-human nature that we often seem to ignore, but it still reinforces the idea that we are somehow divorced from natural processes and cycles, especially in cities. I do, however, favor the concept of “wilderness”. It evokes a place where humans have not had nearly as much of a dominant place in the ecosystem, and we can see more of what the rest of nature is like when we are just another critter in the woods (or fields, or desert, etc.).

Like many other Portland residents, while I live in the city proper, I do get out quite a bit to the wilderness areas that surround the metro region. Usually I’m off to hide somewhere in the Columbia River Gorge or spending a couple of days at the coast, but I’ve ranged further at times, depending on the situation.

This is a lifelong habit, this seeking less human-populated places for recharging and respite. When I enter the wilderness, I feel as though I am immersing myself in a rich, lush energy, though the nature of that energy changes

from place to place. The treasures of the deserts of Eastern Oregon are of a distinct quality compared to the conifer forests of the Gorge. And the genii loci of these places are their own beings as well, though like the boundaries of the places, large and small, they shift and blend and overlap, less distinct than our linear minds might prefer.

As much as I might like to stay immersed in wilderness forever, I also recognize that I am an urban creature. I have wants and needs and obligations that require more connectivity of a human sort. And, admittedly, I like comfort. Snow hiking is much more fun when I know I have a warm home to go back to.

But I don’t want to forget these places I’ve been, nor the often deep spiritual experiences I have while in their embrace, whether tender or terrifying. And so I collect small, single souvenirs for each place—a small stone, a Douglas fir cone, a piece of driftwood, a pheasant feather. I even got an antique glass jar lid from a local wetland that had been cleaned up after years of garbage being dumped there. And for every thing I take with me, I leave a bit of myself: hair, energy, water for a plant if I’ve enough to share. They come home with me, and I mark them with the date and the place as their number has increased with each place I become acquainted with.

They used to have their own shelf, but eventually they migrated over to one of my two primary altars. You can see them scattered around the top of it here, amid the small stone animals I’ve used to signify directional totems for many years.

The relocation of those stones and sticks and such is significant. For years I had a fairly typical generic Wicca-flavored neopagan altar, with the directional markers (animals, of course) plus the tools I used back then (athame, wand, etc.) and my image of Artemis, all from various places around the world and having more abstract than immediate symbolism. Once I began to embrace shamanism–and bioregionalism–more deeply, the tools I no longer used so often ended up on a second altar specifically for ritual implements old and new, and that’s when the gifts from the land spirits made their move.

It’s a beautiful weaving, actually. The centerpiece of the altar is a ceramic wolf-themed jug I made back in high school when I was first getting involved in paganism, and it represents me; it’s decorated with a pair of scrimshaw fossilized ivory necklaces that were instrumental in the processes that brought me to the Pacific Northwest. Immediately surrounding it are the four animal statues—Grey Wolf/North, Brown Bear/West, Red Fox/South, and Red-tailed Hawk/East—that survived the shift from my early neoshamanism and neopaganism, through my chaos magic explorations, and on into my more formal shamanic path. They represent the roots of my practice, like a volcanic core of basalt that has survived the erosion of softer stone surrounding it over time.

Radiating out from them, oriented toward the places they came from, are the reminders of the places I’ve been. They ground my practice more deeply in the place I am at. Not only have the spirits of place taken me in, but their other denizens have as well, and increasingly my altars are covered in gifts from other locals—the mule deer leg bone that is the handle of the beater for my drum, or the portrait that Steller’s Jay requested I get from the artist Ravenari in lieu of illegally possessing molted jay feathers.

Looking over these gifts, I can remember for a few moments—or longer, if I wish—what it was like to climb Dog Mountain in a November storm and nearly be blown off the summit; or the first time I met the Pacific Ocean; or the time I retreated to Bend, Oregon and found solace in the deserts there. I can remember the wildlife, and the plants, and the stones, and all the beings that come together in these places, just with these few small reminders.

And they’re all invitations to come back, to reconnect, whether physically or through journeying spiritually. Even the places that scared me weren’t out to get me; I simply wasn’t observing enough respect for them. Every visit is a chance to try again, to go in deeper, to give more of myself to the land spirits and see what happens next.

Late Autumn is a very special time for me. Yes, Samhain has come and gone, and the air gets colder, and it’s time to toss extra blankets on the bed. But what really gets me excited is green tomato soup.

I am an urban gardener. Sadly, I am not fortunate enough to be able to rent, let alone own, a house here in the middle of Portland. But I don’t need to in order to grow things. Since I moved here, I have put in a small vegetable garden every year, no matter where I’ve lived. This year was the most challenging, since all I had was a small porch, about thirty inches by six feet. But I stuffed it with containers of herbs and carrots—and tomatoes.

Tomatoes are the ultimate example to me of locavorism and why it’s important. Like most Americans, I grew up with grocery stores that had all kinds of produce year-round, even in the dead of a Midwestern winter. I didn’t really have a sense of seasons; I just knew that there were some parts of the year where the watermelons didn’t taste quite as good.

It wasn’t until I read Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life that it really hit me that food wasn’t always available all the time. I mean, I knew on some level, but when you grow up in a nation where you can get bananas any time of year, you’re in great danger of forgetting where food comes from. This problem is compounded even further when more and more families, due to finances, time restrictions, and even basic accessibility, favor pre-packaged, overly processed “food products” over fresh fruits and veggies and other base ingredients. Farmers may as well as be an alien species for all that many people here are concerned.

And it’s getting worse. I am 33 years old; I grew up in a small Midwestern town, in a household where good food was thankfully abundant. My grandmother and mother both gardened, and salads were common fare. I also grew up around a lot of farms, so I was aware of what cows, pigs and other livestock looked like.

Contrast that with this video from Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution, where school children from just a year or so ago have trouble identifying tomatoes, among others. (Okay, I would have had trouble with eggplant, too, but tomatoes?)

So I suppose that as I got older and got involved in more sustainability geekery, I saw myself as trying to turn the tide, and maybe balance out some of that lack of understanding and exposure. I started my own garden in every apartment I moved into once I hit the Pacific Northwest in 2006. I learned to use a pressure canner. I tried more recipes from scratch. And I always had tomatoes.

Which is rather odd, since I used to HATE them. Some of it was age, since our tastes literally can shift over time. But until, as an adult, I tried a fresh tomato straight out of my garden after years of only having access to mealy, watery things in the store and restaurants, I was hooked. I’d planted the vines so I could make pizza sauce from scratch, but fresh tomatoes became a favorite snack. And once the weather got too cold and the sun too far south for the tomatoes to ripen (I never got the paper bag and banana trick to work), I made green tomato soup from the last survivors on the vines.

This year, there was only one small pot of soup since my little balcony garden didn’t produce very much. But my partner, S., and I had been looking forward to it for the entire year before. The idea for this post came as we were supping on that one single meal, enjoying a rare treat.

That one pot of soup was extra special this year for its scarcity, and each step of creating it was sacred. From the moment I picked the last tomatoes from the vines I’d tended since March, to slicing them up and adding them to the mix, and then taking them into my body to become a part of me–the entire process was a ritual in and of itself, even if no spirits were formally invoked. For that time, I felt myself to be immersed in cycles that I all too often still ignore, an altered state of awareness that, to our species, was not so long ago the norm.

For now, tomatoes are the main reminder to me of the seasonal nature of foods. I’m still admittedly pretty spoiled for choices, and I don’t buy in season as much as I really ought to. I get really busy with work and such, and when it comes time to go to the store I just want to get through there as quickly as I can so I can get back home to whatever writing or art project I’m working on. And it’s really telling, when even someone who’s conscientious of her actions and choices can still slide into these old behaviors.

As an urban pagan and shaman, I face the challenges of observing a nature-based and cyclical spiritual path in an environment that often promotes being numbed to those influences. If we are going to make nature-based spirituality relevant to city dwellers as well as more rural people, then we need to not only utilize the tools of agrarian people from long ago, but to accept that we need solutions for a variety of human-created environments and societies and cultures.

As we slide toward Thanksgiving, a lot of my food-based thoughts are on how to maximize things like leftovers to help my household get through the winter. But I am going to do more research to remind myself of what truly is in season right now, and start to alter my grocery habits to reflect that more as much as I’m able. And perhaps more food will become sacred rituals cycling throughout the year, a reminder of the reasons for the seasons.