Traditional Art, Alaska. Illustrations throughout the posting reflect the aboriginal art of some of the points around the globe that the Grandmothers call home.

It is my privilege today to introduce you to thirteen extraordinary women.  Thirteen grandmothers, to be more specific, from different parts of the world and each grounded in the unique heritage, traditions, and ancient culture of a distinct indigenous people.  They have joined together to form the International Council of Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers with a singular intention of utmost power: to offer themselves up individually and together, in a spirit of service and healing, to a hurting world.

They pool their talents and individual knowledge, both immeasurable, teach and lean upon one another, go wherever the Spirit leads them, or remain  wherever they may be, and pray, or teach, or learn, or love, or ask important questions, or shake up the status quo as needed here or there, in ways that may be least unsafe only for grandmothers.  In short, they do the work that needs to be done. As much as they can take on.

The Grandmothers, group shot. For more information, please visit http://www.grandmotherscouncil.com/

They are drawn to contribute all over the world, led by urgency and circumstance to areas of the most pressing and critical need.  Unfortunately, there is never any lack of need for their gifts.  At the moment, the focus of their prayer, and subject of their considerable combined intention, is very close to home. They are engaged in active prayer for the healing of the Gulf of Mexico. And they say our help is needed, desperately. As many of us as might be willing or able.

The Louisiana Shore.

Now, if prayer is an idea that "turns you off," because of your experience or for whatever other reason(s), that is all right.  I want you, especially, to know that all who love the Earth, and are pained by the despoiling of the sea, have a place at this great table.  In fact, I suspect that the Grandmothers would push the point a bit further, and ask you to “sit right down,” in that way of “asking” Grandmothers sometimes have that cannot be refused. "Not only do you and yours have a place here, but you and everything you’ve got is going to be needed to make this whole thing work. "

All I might ask is that you stick around for just a bit, if you can, and hear me out.  It is quite likely that the prayer these women have offered is much different than any you might have encountered before.  And, if you recognize he importance of clean seas and consider it a wonderful thing to fish, or enjoy seafood, you will want to do something about it, hopefully not involving blind rage or violence though those options might seem tempting.  Those responses are understandable, but will not move us forward.

If we are to survive and to thrive, we will have to move forward, together.

"Aggie" with the Dalai Lama

Before moving on to their prayer, I wanted to briefly introduce them.  (That is so, I suppose, because it is my sense of these women, their knowledge, power, and rare purity of purpose, that transforms the idea of the prayer from a well-intentioned "New Age" Hallmark Greeting Card to a shot at true miracle.  (It may be that an important part of the power and promise of the prayer involves its “working vision” of ourselves as parts of a Greater Whole, joined in a common positive purpose and committing ourselves to Hope through action.

As for myself, I stand fully ready to express my love for the Earth, and gratitude for the bounty she has so long and freely provided us, however I can.  If she is suffering, I care.  And so do you, if you stop to think about it.

Bottom line: if there are any ways we can even possibly help the Earth, our only home, we must.)

Guatemala

Mexico

The womens’ stories each partake of heroic journey.  From different parts of the world and wildly dissimilar backgrounds and experience, each carrying perspectives that are genuinely unique, they have faced up to tremendous challenges, inevitably been stung, slammed, or sidelined with walls of resistance, and yet still found the courage and strength to persevere.   Since most or all of these women emerge in their wholeness from tribal groups that have been either casually or with direct intention targeted for genocide, their commitment to self-respect, and tending to the ancient traditions once found so very fearsome,  sing of Human victory.  Against all odds. And now, still here, they focus their wealth of experience and most sacred intention upon the well being of the younger generations, and those still to follow.  Individually and collectively, they seek to tend to the well being of Mother Earth, herself.

Cheyenne Girl, 1815

Alaska

The joy with which they undertake the dead-serious task of global healing, their apparent affection for one another in undertaking the work and intuitive recognition of the importance of actual diversity, the abiding love for Humanity burning steady and constant within their breasts that is its own miracle, a Love that apparently cannot die—all shine as a bright light offering promise of hope to a world quickly fallen into the outer edges of a very long and very deep shadow.

Click on the image below, and you will be find a gallery of "portraits"  of the women just so you can see their faces, and a brief biographical sketch on each:

Today they engage together in active prayer for the Great Gulf-- even as its so recently blue and green waters blacken with flowing rivers of oil, or devolve into a lurid rainbow sheen that is really no color at all. They pray for the Earth as beach shorelines that have been forever pure white, or shades of delicate pink, are "going under the oil" for the first time, and forever. Even as you read these words, a clean Florida beach is being silently claimed by the dark filth.  The truth is too much to bear.  Life sometimes just sometimes lacks any clue whatsoever of when to pull its punches, even a little.

Alaska

.

The women meanwhile pray for the innocent animals poisoned outright, or orphaned and left to burn alive on the edge of a ruined sea, fixed firmly in place by black goo under a blazing sun.  With their parents killed off, who then will hear their tiny cries and come for them?

WPA, "New Deal" art at my alma mater, Coral Way Elementary.  I have always felt lucky to have been born and lived in Miami.  Only recently have I realized that this playful art "I always knew," together with the cold clean water enjoyed from this very fountain, played a definite role in helping create that feel of "magic." (Just for the record, by the way, I'd like it noted that I always found the city's tap water, drawn fresh from the vast Biscayne aquifer below, actually delicious.  I'd  just never heard that said before, and figured I'd take the opportunity.

May that remain so for your grandchildrens' children.)

There is quite literally an entire world of suffering being played out in the vast underwater realm--  always closer to home than we imagine--and its environs.   For some reason, and feel free to believe what you will, I can feel it.  In much the same way as I might imagine one without hearing feels music.  (Not the same as our listening, but then again, we cannot presume to know their experience of melody, harmony, and percussion )   Most unfortunately, I am not speaking poetically.  It is indeed a terrible thing to experience even on the sidelines, but I cannot doubt that it is for a reason.  And I know that I am not alone.   It is all far beyond my ability to describe, and in any event you wouldn't want to hear it.    These innocents are taking a punishment we would not inflict upon even the most murderous of villains, and the Goddamned shame is ours.

How sweet it was. Photo by Tony Ludovico.  Tony achieves magical effects with his camera, and part of the reason is that he generally works without scuba equipment.  This shot shows images captured in one dive, and ascent.  More of his work can be seen at http://tonyludovico.com/

WPA Art, Coral Way Elementary School

And so the women pray for relief from suffering on behalf of the fine living creatures, tragically forced to rely upon us and our wisdom to safeguard their very atmosphere.  Their innocent faith has been badly broken, as has ours, yet they now swim within, breathe of, and finally die from exposure to the consequences.  The difference is, they were never able to understand or given a voice with regard to the affairs of Man.   We were. Even if hypothetically we could communicate, how far would we get in trying to explain, when they know not of the word "greed?"  We ourselves stretch and strain to try and understand exactly what has happened, how and why, for all that we know.

Lovable Turtle, with Coconut Palm.  WPA.

The Grandmothers pray for the recovery of the plant life, submarine and near by the shore, all essential to the health of the planet in ways we cannot fully understand.

WPA Art, Coral Way Elementary.

And, they pray fervently for the People affected by the dark, swelling shadow always in motion upon the sea and under its surface-- sadly a  number growing daily, and exponentially, with neither end nor even any limits anywhere yet in sight. They pray for you, and for me.

They have asked for our help: yours and mine.  They say, they cannot do it without us.

Tile Art Installation, 1937  WPA

Hopi

After some thought, I decided night before last (for all the stacks of correspondence littering my desk) that I had nothing more important to do  than to pass along their request.  And here it is, finally.  At this point, we cannot afford to be without a prayer.  I fear that the extent of our naked desperation will become ever clearer, more quickly than we realize.  Part of our challenge is that we lack even a basic vocabulary for disasters on this scale.  Especially when things get uncomfortable, we tend to stick with what we know.  Completely understandable, but not at all helpful in dealing.  For example: those here in South Florida (or, more horrifyingly, New York City) mustn't let ourselves imagine that, because we are not Louisiana, we are off the hook.  It only works that way with hurricanes. An event of this magnitude is as patient and deliberate as it is utterly grim.

All you need to do is smell it coming, people say, and it's... just awful. There’s no words for it, one friend told me. Enough to literally sicken.  Enough to kill hope.  And it's not even yet in sight.

The oil coming is like a hurricane approaching, in that something ominous is taking shape out there, and heading our way.   We know that if a hurricane comes (especially one “big one” like Andrew, or two in succession, like Katrina and Wilma), everything can be changed forever, in a moment.  Yet for all of its drama,  the destructive force of a hurricane is relatively simple and straightforward. It announces itself in noise and fury, wreaks what havoc it can, and finally resolves into cloud.

In contrast, the growing sea of toxic black oil knows no season, it comes in absolute silence, and it never leaves.

What has prepared us to even conceptualize this experience?

There seems no better time than this moment to begin taking up arms against despair. Perhaps you can tell: I am more than a little upset.  And I have been called Chicken Little or a Cassandra in a light spirit by my friends, and that comforts them.  But I know what I know, and will not hide what I feel to be the truth: that all of life on Earth as we know it will shortly be hanging in the balance.  What brand of foolishness is it, to believe that thoroughly poisoned seas will allow life on Earth to proceed, as usual?

I ask not because I am of a fatalistic spirit, but because if I am to ransom Hope it will not be based upon some pretty lie, or convenient oversight.  Please, may we pray?

Tibet

Here is the prayer of the Grandmothers. Its manner of expression is a bit different from the way I generally pray, but then again I have never needed prayer as I do now.  I will defer to their profound understanding of the Earth and its needs, and our place within it all. They know much that our scientists have long forgotten, or never considered.

It is possible that we can make a difference, and we can afford no lost opportunity.   I am throwing my all into this “practice,” and invite you to do the same. However you might feel it, though, is exactly how you should play it.  This prayer is by no means exclusive; consider adding it to those you might know and find comfortable.

If you feel lost, beyond hope or ability to pray,consider asking that the prayer pray itself through you. Ask for help. Ask for Hope. For your own benefit, and for those looking up to you to keep themselves from falling apart.  And for the generations to come.

Please send whatever light you can. Come what may, if we are in this together, we will at least be assured that we are none of us facing this nightmare alone. When the stakes are high and prospects fearful, that simple assurance can make it all much easier.

Now, from the Grandmothers:

Amen.

P.S.  A "clean" copy of the Prayer is available for download in a number of formats, on scribd.com:   http://www.scribd.com/doc/33516494/Prayer-for-Mother-Earth

Thank you.

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Last night I received a short, wonderful email from my friend Niki that read in its entirety:

Thought you'd enjoy this quote....

"In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things, the heart finds its morning and is refreshed." ~~Kahlil Gibran

Sunday Afternoon, Vizcaya P. Crockett

This one is dedicated to Leslie, a hotshot Boston architect, her remarkable son Tommy, and the woman who will become his wife on Sunday, here in Miami.  Hard for me to believe, but it’s been four years since the afternoon our paths crossed at the very spot captured above.  Leslie and her son, visiting Miami to look at the U of M campus, had taken some leisure time to just relax and enjoy Vizcaya.  There they chanced to find me on my feet, easel before me, thoroughly engrossed in the birthing of the canvas you see above.

So they walked up to have a look, we met, and in short order fell into an easy, comfortable conversation as I kept splashing away. They were both truly remarkable individuals, in different ways.  Something of an “odd pair:” you know, a loving, powerful mother and her gentle and gifted boy, recently grown to strong man.

It was only a “little thing,” really, the whole event, but I am grateful that four years later Leslie and I remain in touch.  So that, for example, I  learn the good and great news that Tommy had found his “one,” and am given a chance to say “Hey, I’m really glad we met, and I wish you guys all good things in your new life together, and as much Grace as you can stand.”

And true, this posting is but a small gesture, one small candle, perhaps.  Yet in this quiet moment in which I’ve yet to release the piece, when it is still mine alone, I pause to feel the reflected heat and small light of this candle most earnest.  Then, for some reason deeper than my understanding, I know that I have somehow been already blessed in the sharing.

Thank you.

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These days, especially, a little diversion just because may be exactly what the Doctor ordered.

In the process of preparing to paint a landscape that has itself been history for over a century now, I’ve gathered a host of images of all kinds, and thought it might be fun to share some of them with you.

The more thought I have given the matter, the clearer has grown my realization about how much affection I carry inside for that troubled but fine little waterway. In a very un-Miami like fashion, the river simply flows along quietly, rarely drawing attention to itself despite its importance to the city, on many levels. And, despite all of the notable abuse we have so constantly heaped upon it for over a century, it continues to gracefully and reliably offer itself up for service, however possible.

And it is still beautiful. As it flows through the very heart of one of the most utterly fragmented urban areas on record, it serves to gently remind us that there is something that ties us all together. (Such is the grace of Nature. Although the river might cross your mind only rarely, just take a moment to imagine how very different a place the City would be without that meandering ribbon of blue or black breaking up the paved sprawl of an ever-widening urban mass. It just wouldn’t be Miami.)

Granted, the occasional inconvenience of its bridges can be annoying, on top of the traffic nightmare already our experience. Even so, isn’t it kind of cool to look at the kind of boats passing through? (I know, I’m reaching…) To wonder what kind of cargo they might be loaded down with, how much of it might actually be legal, and what its destination? I guess that is a cheap thrill I allow myself, at times when I’m not muttering about that **%%##@@2 BRIDGE!!

Dade County, 1859. Interesting to note that the Miami River was then clearly marked, but no settlement of “Miami” merited mention. In fact, Miami as a city would not exist until nearly 40 years later.

The river was ancient long before the white man made his characteristically dramatic and devastating entrance. Since all life in an area, Human and animal alike, is drawn in nature to a river’s banks, we can only imagine the sights it has seen, the real life dramas it has witnessed, the blood spilled into its waters. The always-unfolding pageant of the "true story" undoubtedly far surpasses in color, drama, and kaleidoscopic variety any notion we might be able to conceive.

Without further ado, let’s go on down to the River for a while, and allow some open time for wonder. Feel free to leave your iPhone or Blackberry on your desk, back wherever.

JUST BELOW you will find the album. To get started, just click on the image, and the “scrapbook” will open. Click on any of the thumbnails that might interest you; by moving the mouse around a bit you’ll see arrows to guide you.

There is no place to go, strictly speaking, just avenues of exploration. Please enjoy the trip.

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As of Saturday night:

“Imaginary landscapes” certainly present their challenges. It has now been over 100 years since one might have been able to follow the crystal-clear Miami River upstream to this place, a point on the very easternmost edge of the Everglades now marked by NW 27th Avenue. Here the Great Mother River-of-Grass at last released one of her children, the Miami River, to make its own proud way some four miles distant,

unto the warm and all-embracing waters of the Great Mother's beloved sister, Biscayne Bay.

Though I might devoutly wish to, I cannot make passage to this place on foot or by boat (or both!), and experience the quiet triumph of stepping suddenly from dense forested hammock into the sun-filled open.  I cannot grab a seat on a comfortably-worn stone or huge fallen log, take a deep breath, slake my thirst with a long, serious draught of cool water, pure and clean as only the Earth can yield it up, and be still.

And yet…

The overwhelming experience of such a place must have felt very like music, and not alone for the sounds everywhere surrounding: the rushing, tumbling water, the resounding cry of birds’ call from high above (and somewhere over there); the play of mighty breezes sweeping in always from the Great Green Open to the West, on the one hand, and from the Bay just yonder on the other. colliding and dancing, touching the leaves of the countless trees as one million harps eager to be of use and to join in to the chorus they felt born for.

In those days there were no broken cycles, no orphaned “disconnects” or portions left derelict or uncared for. I like to imagine that standing upon such sacred ground, one need not worry or even wonder about their place in it all. Not really, not if they simply listened. As sure as you are, the Earth might whisper, as certainly as there you stand and take breath, it is here that you belong. There is a certain quality of stillness to be found only in motion, and the sense or permanence and constancy part of us so longs for is to be found, if at all, only in a full embrace of change.

There were indeed change, death, and rebirth: in fact, everywhere and all the time. Consequently the scoring of the ancient symphony, its musical phrasing, remained always new. At the same time, one could be assured that the music partook of something ancient and right.  And in an ultimate sense, even the worst thing that could happen was never completely out of place.

It is the loss of that sweet assurance that we grieve.

1904

Riding out these paradoxes in the Human heart is no small challenge, and neither could the questions so troubling us be more pressing, or important. The only real chance we have, for ourselves and one another, is in cultivating our sense of compassion. Hearts that feel (and there are many) are struggling and in pain, many approaching their very limits and almost ready to give up for lack of a perceived way out. Despair never sleeps, and might not actually follow us, yet is never far behind.  Its grim forte is patience. 

Hope is exactly as essential to our spirits as oxygen to our bodies, yet is stretched thin, and would seem to search in vain for a place to safely alight.

On a level of knowing deeper than I understand, the message comes through that only kindness will see us through. As much of it as we can imagine, in whatever forms, and then some, just may together be enough to lead us into a tomorrow worthy of its promise.  What exactly might that mean, in practical terms? Don’t know. I am fairly certain, in fact, that no one will be able to fully answer that question for you with regard to the specifics of your own life.  Yet that somehow seems to me a good thing, because the answers to any inquiry so great and fine partake directly of whatever it is that we are here for, and therefore must be essentially our own, and far from "cookie cutter."  Such "digging" may not be the easiest challenge, but offers up the promise of turning up the only kind of gold that really matters.

In that sense, we are each of us a resource, and not one of us alone.

Just a few thoughts and ideas for your consideration.

I thought I would share with you, by the way, the place from which I travel when I am not outside, painting views that still (for the moment) exist. With the dedication and talent of Alan for lighting, general organization, and decor, my home studio:

Thank you, thank you for joining me upon my journey. Having you along makes all the difference.

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