Step Into the Flow

“Step Into the Flow.” Choose. Yes. It’s that simple. The Spiritual Adventuress is talking to herself here, and, if you wish, to you too! The flow of divine energy is always present, always flowing. We can step into it, or step out of it, by choice. It’s one thing to understand this principle intellectually, and another to embody and live it experientially. It’s still another to spend all, or almost all, our time in the flow. Spiritual practice.

Recently, the Spiritual Adventuress has been out of the flow (in a “funk”), by choice, of course, choosing not to RPM (rise-pee-meditate) every morning ("Oh, I’ll just stay in bed a little longer. I’ll get up when I finish reading this chapter. . . this article. . ."). The dot-dot-dots are always there, trailing off into nothing. Nothing. The blog isn’t going to write itself ("It’s not???" Whine.). Devas will not finish the book manuscript and leave it neatly stacked on my oak, roll-top writing desk (“They won’t???" Do you want cheese with that whine?).

The Universe, taking the form of an aquacise companion, lovingly invited me back into the flow. A published writer of young adult and juvenile fiction books, she, too, was “feeling like a zombie” and “saw the look in my eyes,” she later said. She offered to lend me her favorite anti-funk book on resistance and procrastination, one of five copies she keeps around her house for herself: The War of Art – Break Through the Blocks and Win your Inner Creative Battles by Steven Pressfield. It goes without saying, well, almost, that the book not only applies to writing but also to the creation of our lives.

This week I returned to my RPM and morning-page writing practices. And guess what? As soon as I stepped back into the flow, it was there. It had been there all the time. I just needed to plug my lamp into the electrical grid. Synchronicities showed up. Joyful experiences showed up. Because I decided to show up. W.H. Murray put it this way: “A whole stream of events issues from the decision (to be committed), raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way.” A week ago I clipped an intriguing 3-line event ad out of Albuquerque’s Alibi, the independent arts and entertainment weekly: “Duke City Dime Stories, open mic prose reading for 3-min. fiction or non-fiction.” It sounded like fun. Just days later, at the launch and author signing of the second annual edition of the literary journal bosque (the magazine) at a local bookstore, a member of my writing group and I were catching up with each other. She said she was writing about grief with two people she met at “Dime Stories.” I told her about clipping their ad. She then turned around and introduced me to one of the co-hosts of “Dime Stories” who had been standing five feet away from me during the entire presentation. Her business card is now in my wallet. The flow is that close. All the time. When we are available to it.

The Universe, in the form of Alice Brasfield, decided to send along a little loving encouragement too. The Albuquerque Journal headlined a same-day article about her this way: “Woman, 81, Is Now a Published Author.” Alice prefaced her bookstore reading with a few wry comments about the newspaper story: “While I’ve never hidden my age, I didn’t expect to see it in a headline.” A grammatical error in the story referred to her as a “former mother.” Everyone laughed as the editors of the literary journal made it perfectly clear they were responsible for neither mishap. Three separate people introduced me to Alice during mingle time. The third time, Alice asked the person how she knew me (aquacise). Curious, alert, alive, humorous – I told Alice her obvious intelligence and her sense of humor made her an inspiration and role model for us all. Then she told us her son recently informed her, “Eighty is the new sixty.” One of his class instructors is eighty.

By attending the bookstore reading to support others, I supported myself (there’s only one). Not only was I inspired by Alice, not only did I meet the founder of “Dime Stories” personally, not only did I warmly reconnect with friends, I also learned of writing opportunities, submission guidelines and deadlines. I could step back into the flow without having a difficult struggle, without having to swim upstream, without having to be miserable, without having it take a long time. I only needed to know the flow is always there and to choose to experience it. It’s great having life work seamlessly. It’s great being supported by the Universe. All I need to do is choose, then act.

“. . . destiny. . . is the child of action.” Deep Truth: Igniting the Memory of Our Origin, History, Destiny and Fate, by Gregg Braden

Ultimate Freedom, Ultimate Power

Someone you really love, perhaps your child, is in an intensive care unit diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, undergoing a difficult treatment of last resort that has a 15% chance of success. Is joy present? Is peace available? Humor? Love? Is it possible for you to experience them in such circumstances? It can be counter-intuitive, to say the least, to believe they are and you can.

Jet airplanes loaded with fuel and people crash into and destroy both towers of the World Trade Center killing almost 3,000 people. In a church the following Sunday, the minister tells her congregation, "Send love to everyone," and you know she means the hijackers too. Can you possibly do that? Why would you want to? Emily Parker's father, the first parent to speak publicly after the Sandy Hook shootings, so choked with emotion he could barely talk, requested love for everyone, including the shooter and his family.

Among the outpouring of candles, notes, stuffed animals, Christmas trees and ornaments in Newtown, Connecticut, a sign appears: "We Are Sandy Hook. We Choose Love."  The residents are refusing to allow their circumstances to victimize them, to affect their values, to determine their response. They are practicing the ultimate freedom, the ultimate power each of us has every moment of our lives. Viktor Frankl, a Jewish  psychiatrist stripped of everything and imprisoned in a concentration camp during World War II, wrote about this freedom, this power, in his book, Man’s Search for Meaning: "Forces beyond your control can take away everything you possess except one thing, your freedom to choose how you will respond to the situation. Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom." 

It sounds so simple. It seems so easy, yet I'm startled time after time to find myself in situations where I feel helpless, powerless, like a victim. It may take a moment (or two), a couple of breaths (or more!) to realize I have that ultimate power - the power to choose my response to my circumstances. Circumstances can seem so compellingly real - a friend says something hurtful, a family member is critical or unkind, our boundaries are violated, our expectations unfulfilled. It can be hard to remember there is a space between stimulus and response. Sometimes it's just stimulus/reaction, not stimulus/space/choice/response. Having your six-year-old child killed at school may be the ultimate opportunity to practice ultimate power. Yet so many of the parents who lost children at Sandy Hook are doing just that, shining their light, committed to “expanding awareness,” contributing to “awakening,” shifting consciousness. We are being confronted with global opportunities to make new choices in alignment with our highest values as we witness Indian women being brutally raped, an Afghani schoolgirl shot, Syrian genocide.

Giving birth can be painful. Six-year-old Benjamin Wheeler’s mother said she always knew he would do “amazing things” in his life, she just didn’t realize they would happen through his death. At Newtown's Town Hall, there's a banner reading: "Together We Birth a Culture of Peace." Together, painfully, means both houses of Congress. Viktor Frankel also said, “It is not freedom from conditions, but it is freedom to take a stand toward the conditions. When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” It is an exciting, and, yes, a challenging time to be alive birthing a new planetary consciousness. We are here now by choice, here to participate, here to take a stand. And, we are up to it.

Sky City

“Sky City,” or the Acoma Pueblo, is located on top of a 367’ high sandstone mesa at an elevation of 6,460’, so it’s easy to understand how it got its nickname. It is an hour drive, about 55 miles, west of Albuquerque, and an additional 15 miles south of Interstate 40 on Acoma Indian Reservation lands, nearly 500,000 acres of spectacular mesa and canyon country. Amazing rock formations and great natural beauty are just part of its uniqueness, so I especially wanted my son Grant to see it during his Christmas visit. We experienced that, and so much more.

I had attended the annual feast day celebration on September 2^nd honoring St. Esteban, patron saint of the pueblo and Spanish mission church built on top of the mesa. The two-and-three-story adobe buildings contain about 250-300 dwellings. The houses, plazas, and walkways have been used for more than eight hundred years, making Sky City one of the oldest continuously-inhabited communities in the United States. The isolation and location of the pueblo offered it great protection.

Historically, initial interactions recorded with Spanish explorers heading north were generally peaceful. Coronado’s expedition describes the pueblo in 1540 as "one of the strongest places we have seen." They "repented having gone up to the place," because the only access at the time was a set of almost vertical stairs cut into the rock face. It is believed Coronado's expedition was the first European contact with the Acoma. To this day, the old, original pueblo, Sky City, has no electricity, running water, or sewage disposal. Everything necessary for living must be brought to the top of the mesa. Fortunately, a road has replaced the original steep, rock-face stairs.

The relationship between the Spaniards and the Acoma declined by 1598 as the intensity of Spanish intentions to colonize the area and convert the Acoma increased. During the war that followed, most of the pueblo was burned, 600 people were killed and 500 prisoners of war were forced into slavery. The Spanish renamed the pueblos with the names of saints and started to construct churches at them. Survivors rebuilt their communities but were forced to pay taxes in crops, cotton and labor.

Bundled up in jackets, hats, scarves and gloves to ward off winter’s cold, Grant and I visited Sky City December 27^th. Traces of snow remained on the shady side of hills, creating white shadows for bushes. 2,000 limp, brown-paper bags, remnants of Christmas Eve luminarias, lined the access road to the pueblo. I was pleased to see that, unlike on feast day, the parking lot of the magnificent Sky City Cultural Center was almost empty. The beautiful 40,000-square-foot building, constructed in 2008, houses a museum, restaurant, gift shop, theater, and meeting rooms. Casino revenue has benefitted the Acoma in wonderful ways.

Tour buses to the mesa top were scheduled on the half hour. My previous feast-day visit was too crowded and busy for tours. Our tour guide’s father was a tribal elder. Those who take tribal leadership positions are required to live in Sky City for a year, so her family lives on the mesa. Currently ten families reside there. Her connection to her family, history, tradition and land made seeing the pueblo with her a deeply enriching experience. She emphasized the sacred nature of the church, its graveyard, the dances and the dancers in traditional dress, explaining why photography was prohibited in that part of the pueblo.

First, she took us into the San Esteban del Rey Mission Church. A transformation had taken place since my previous visit. It still featured dirt floors, plastered, white, adobe walls and a two-story high wood-beam viga and latilla ceiling. A twenty-foot-tall, decorated Christmas tree now adorned the altar platform. Folding chairs filled with Acoma families lined the side walls. Gold tinsel garland festooned the walls, connecting each of the six antlered deer heads with the next. Eight dancers in traditional dress moved with the rhythm of a drum. We stood in the back. The diminished light of late afternoon beneath an overcast winter sky dimly lit the room, creating the feeling of a cloak drawn close. I could feel the energy shift on my back, arms, neck. Anticipation, and something more, something numinous, permeated the atmosphere, causing me to turn around. Then I saw them, deer dancers, each covered completely with a pine branch mask from crown to neck and a six-foot span of antlers. In the dancer’s hands, two wooden sticks embellished with fur symbolized the animal’s two front legs. Clattering seashells wrapped around the dancers’ legs accompanied ritual chants. I could feel the wordless sacredness of the experience at the cellular level. Silently we left when the dance ended. Later, I would read, “Although the Pueblo Indians value their privacy, outsiders may view the highly religious deer dance ceremonies.” It was an indescribable gift.

Our guide continued to walk us around the pueblo, explaining what we were seeing while greeting potters and vendors personally. The Acoma were ordered to build the church between 1629 and 1641, moving 20,000 tons of adobe, straw, sandstone, and mud to the mesa for the church walls, in which she said some of her ancestors are entombed. Limited space on the mesa made the graveyard four layers deep. She pointed out snow-capped Mount Taylor on the horizon, over 40 miles away, from which Ponderosa pine ceiling beams for the church were carried by community members. At 6,000-square-feet, with an altar flanked by 60-foot-high wood pillars, hand carved in red and white designs representing Christian and Indigenous beliefs, the church is considered a cultural treasure by the Acoma, despite the slave labor used to build it. Acoma Pueblo was named the 28th National Trust Historic Site in 2007 and is the only Native American site in the nation. Both the Mission and the Pueblo are Registered National Historical Landmarks.

The Acoma embrace both Catholicism and their own religion since they find value in each. Round kivas, or sacred Pueblo ceremonial chambers, were destroyed by the Spanish in their forcible efforts to convert the Acoma to Christianity. They bombarded the kivas with cannon, burned them and filled them with sand. The Acoma replaced the destroyed kivas with square structures disguised as residences to avoid detection by the Spanish, continuing to practice their religion in secret.

New Mexico tourism plays a large role in the Acoma Pueblo’s economic growth and well being with more than 55,000 visitors a year. Twenty-five years ago, business enterprises were established to help sustain the economic development of the pueblo. The Acoma own not only the casino and the cultural center, but also a hotel, travel center, RV park and big game trophy hunting and communication businesses. You can enjoy photos and videos of the pueblo, their art, music and dance on their website:  http://sccc.acomaskycity.org  The Spiritual Adventuress would like to express her gratitude to the Acoma people for the generosity of their inexpressible gift. May they continue to thrive.

Bearers of the Light

Solstice: 
These are the shortest, darkest days of the year, days with the fewest hours of light. Winter Solstice, Friday, December 21, 2012, one week after Sandy Hook, is "a culminating point, a turning point," when days begin to lengthen, to bring increasing light. You are invited to practice Three Days of Love: A Global Celebration of Love and Kindness on December 20, 21, 22, consciously expanding the presence of the light. Please join me in knowing. . .

My soul magnifies love.

My thoughts, my words, my actions reflect love.

I am vigilant for love.

I am committed to love.

With an open heart,

my moment-by-moment practice is love.

I allow myself to be who I am. 

I am the presence of love in the world.

I am a bearer of the light.

My soul magnifies love.

12/12/12: Queen of the Americas

Lupe, Lupita, Guadalupe, La Virgencita, Nuestra Madre, Reina de las Americas (Queen of the Americas), all are different names for the Holy Mother, Blessed Mother, Virgin Mary, Mary, the Mother of God. December 12th is her feast day, an especially auspicious day this year since it falls on 12/12/12. This week, as part of her continuing cultural immersion therapy for new New Mexicans, the Spiritual Adventuress attended a lecture on “The Virgin of Guadalupe” by the curator of Albuquerque’s National Hispanic Cultural Center, Tey Marianna Nunn, offered by Oasis, the continuing education program for those over fifty. Guadalupe has been increasingly fascinating to the Spiritual Adventuress for more than two years during which time she has been purchasing glass columnar candles featuring Guadalupe’s image at convenience and grocery stores. Lupita is “big” in New Mexico, and the Adventuress wanted to know why.

Nunn began by recounting the familiar story of how the Virgin Mary radiantly appeared to the Aztec peasant, Juan Diego, just outside Mexico City on December 9, 1531. She told him she would like a church built there in her honor. Juan Diego dutifully recounted the story of her appearance and her request to the doubting Spanish archbishop of Mexico City who requested a miraculous sign of verification from the apparition. When Juan Diego returned to La Virgen with the bishop’s response, she instructed him to pick flowers at the usually-barren top of Tepeyac Hill where they met. Remarkably, since it was December, Juan Diego found pink/red Castilian roses, not native to Mexico, in full bloom. The Virgin arranged them in his poncho-like, peasant cape, or tilma, made of rough cactus fiber. When he opened his cloak on December 12^th in front of the archbishop, the roses fell to the floor revealing the image of The Virgin, imprinted on the fabric of his cloak.

A chapel dedicated to the Virgin was built on the same site, and with the rubble from, a destroyed, ancient, pagan temple to the Aztec mother-goddess, Tonantzin, following a pattern established in Europe where churches were built on top of earlier goddess sites. Newly-converted Indians continued to come from afar to worship there and continued to address the Virgin Mary as Tonantzin. The Conquistador who overthrew the Aztec empire ten years earlier in 1521, Hernán Cortés, was a native of Extremadura, Spain, home to Our Lady of Guadalupe, dating back to the 14^th century. Her dark-skinned depiction fused with that of Tonantzin, making her the perfect icon for the missionaries who followed Cortés to convert the natives to Christianity. Guadalupe continues to be a mixture of the cultures which blended to form Mexico, both racially and religiously. She became further integrated with Pueblo Indian culture when brought to New Mexico by Mexicans.

The original cloak is now on display in the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City encased in bullet-proof glass in a low-oxygen atmosphere. I saw it there more than twenty years ago and was entranced by the information that photographers discovered Juan Diego’s image reflected in the virgin’s eye – accurately allowing for the curvature of her eyeball. The new basilica can accommodate ten thousand visitors at one time and is the most visited pilgrimage site in the Western hemisphere according to the website www.catholic.org. In 1999, Guadalupe was declared Patroness of the Americas, and in 2002, Juan Diego was canonized as the first indigenous American saint.

The first Spanish language apparition account, by author Miguel Sanchez, identified Guadalupe as “Revelation’s Woman of the Apocalypse” (“clothed with the sun and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars.” – Revelation 12:1). The image had a hidden layer of coded messages for the indigenous people of Mexico who had an elaborate symbolic system for making sense of their lives. They reserved the blue-green color of her cloak for their divine couple, her black belt was a sign of pregnancy, and, to them, her radiating light represented the spines of the maguey plant, source of a sacred beverage.

The image of Guadalupe can also be seen as having a hidden layer of coded messages for contemporary people, making her the perfect “Woman of the Apocalypse,” not in the sense of the cultural dictionary (a final catastrophe that comes at the end of the world, or the end of time, as some believe the Mayan calendar predicts), but in the sense of a revelation or disclosure, the uncovering of an agreement between the human and divine, the end of one consciousness and beginning of another. Guadalupe stands upon (“understanding”) a crescent moon which represents immaculate conception (“a pure thought”), held aloft by an angel (“messenger”). Her robe is blue-green. Blue is the color of the throat chakra, or energy center, in the body (“communication”), and green the color of the heart chakra (“love”). The windows and doors of many brown New Mexican adobes are trimmed in Marian blue for protection. Her dress is pink/red. Pink also represents “love,” and red is the color of the root, or base, chakra (“grounding, or connecting, the energy with the earth”).

Radiant light emanating from Guadalupe extends outward (“expanding awareness of truth”), and she wears a cloak of stars (from the “heavens,” or “realm of the divine”). It is claimed that an overlay of the star pattern on her robe coincides with the position of the constellations in the night sky at the time of her appearance. Guadalupe’s feast day this year on 12/12/12, is a triple trinity (three aspects of the one divine), of wholeness or unity. 1+2 = 3, 3/3/3, or 9. The number nine in tarot connotes attainment, completion, closure, renewal – no ending without a beginning. The Latin word for nine is novum which shares its root with novus, meaning “new.” So Guadalupe is communicating her message, based on a pure, divine thought of truth, of the expanding new consciousness of love being grounded on earth. The apocalypse is the end of an old way, and beginning of a new way, of being - a new consciousness. Guadalupe, the mother, gives life, brings the compassion and peace love brings. This ascension can be seen as a new, higher consciousness of unity and love.  

December 12^th is also National Poinsettia Day. Poinsettias, native to Mexico, are named for Joel Roberts Poinsett, the first U.S. minister to Mexico. They are also known as “Noche Buena” (Good Night), referring to Christmas Eve, for their star-shaped leaves said to symbolize the Star of Bethlehem. There is also a legend of a poor, young girl who had no gift for the celebration of Jesus’ birth other than roadside weeds an angel told her to gather – poinsettias. Both Guadalupe and poinsettias are associated with the Christmas experience. Early this morning I when I looked at the lunette (crescent-moon-shaped) glass table in my living room which also serves as an altar, I saw I had appropriately placed there, unaware of their connection, the Guadalupe candle, a poinsettia plant, and a statue of Quan Yin, the goddess of compassion. Mexican novelist Carlos Fuentes said, “You cannot truly be considered a Mexican unless you believe in the Virgin of Guadalupe.” When a friend in my aquacise class heard I had bought a Guadalupe candle for my home, she said, “Ah, now you are truly a New Mexican.”

Chester’s Story – Going Deeper

As mentioned in last week’s blog, seeing Chester Nez profoundly affected me. I continued feeling the emotional impact of his life whenever I thought of him. Chester, at the age of 91, is the last living member of the original group of twenty-nine Navajo Code Talkers who helped the United States defeat the Japanese during World War II. I struggled with writing about him. Writing a blog post usually takes me five to eight hours, never less than three. Writing about Chester took me twelve hours, and I still felt I did not know why I was so deeply affected by his presence, his story, his life - why they had such a grip on me. I explored further in my morning pages (the term Julia Cameron uses to describe three pages of stream-of-consciousness writing done daily without any editing):

Why did I cry? Why did Chester’s story affect me? What did it want to tell me? Why did it touch me so? Writing is the way I reveal to myself what I am thinking. When Judith told the story of how the Navajo children had their culture and their language beaten out of them in boarding school, I felt what it was not to be accepted for who you are. When she described the disregard the U.S. government Bureau of Indian Affairs had for them, their feelings, their way of life, their well-being, it impacted me. The lack of respect with which they were treated appalled me. The cruelty of burning their animals alive distressed me – for them since they loved, cared for and depended on them and for their animals, screaming, crying out. Snot and tears as I write now. Getting down to the core issues. I could not believe or accept the cruelty and disregard with which they were treated – man’s inhumanity to man. I was the audience member who asked if the Navajos were ever compensated or received an apology. Spontaneously, I said, “I apologize,” to Chester and his grandson in front of the audience. If there are cruel thoughts and behavior anywhere, they are present everywhere since all is connected. It’s time to take responsibility and make a different choice.

One thing I didn’t include is that for the three years Chester and his group served in the Marines on the Pacific Islands, they were never allowed to go on leave like other soldiers because their services were considered too valuable. Despite the disregard and abuse with which his country treated him and his people, Chester continued to choose love (that makes me cry). He enlisted in the Marines because he loved his land, he loved his people, he loved their way of life and was willing to give up his life to protect them. If Chester can continue to choose love, choose love, choose love, can we? Can we love the Latino immigrants enough to find a way to interact with them, accept them, acknowledge them, appreciate their contributions to our society, to work together to find solutions that work for all? Can we do that with gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people? Can we care for the poor, the elderly, compassionately, in a way that works for all? First, awareness that it is possible. Then a commitment to creating it together, making it real.

Who knew that facing the page today would let the stirrings of my heart pour out like this? The very thing that saved our country, speaking the Navajo language, was to be beaten out of Diné* children. Is that a cosmic message – a message from the Universe? We separated ourselves from the original citizens of this country and did not give them citizenship until 1924. The arrogance. As if it were ours to give. We ignored their knowledge, their gifts, their contributions – living knowing we are inseparable from the land. We denied their innate intelligence, unaware their language is far more complex than ours. We used them to accomplish our ends in the war, treating them like objects, as if they did not need leave, rest, recreation. Chester volunteered to serve a country that did not allow him to vote at the time. He chose love.

I believe it’s time to recognize we are one, one people, one nation, one planet. It’s time to act from the power of love. It’s time to acknowledge we are one big mirror ball with each surface reflecting the light in its own unique way as part of the whole - all equally valuable. It’s time to love ourselves enough that we can love each facet of ourselves. 

Going deeper, I found my own resonance with Chester’s story - not being seen, accepted, valued for who you are, being disregarded, disrespected, beaten as a child - but still able to choose love. Meditation and contemplation can lead to revelation. How would our planet be different today if we, like the Diné, knew we are inseparable from the land? If we knew everything is sacred? And lived as if that were so?

* Diné ("the people”) is the name Navajos call themselves.

Code Talker

Seeing Chester Nez this week affected me profoundly - I feel the emotional impact of his life every time I think of him, even as I write this. At 91, Chester is the last living member of the original group of twenty-nine Navajo Code Talkers who helped the United States defeat the Japanese during World War II. In a wheelchair, accompanied by his grandson, who appeared to be in his fifties, Chester exuded an air of modesty and quiet dignity while the co-author of a new book* about his life, Judith Avila, shared his story with the audience. Her presentation was creative. She asked audience members to imagine themselves as a young Navajo boy, whose mother died when he was three, being raised on a reservation by his grandmother who had a flock of three hundred sheep. Judith guided us in experiencing life through his eyes so we could appreciate how Chester acquired the perfect skills and character traits for becoming a Code Talker.

The fact that the Navajo language is very complex and based on oral, rather than written, tradition required that he develop his memory, become a keen observer and use his intelligence. To illustrate her point, she explained there are three verbs in the Navajo language meaning "to pick up." Selecting the correct verb depends on the object being picked up at the time. Chester’s physical fitness and stamina developed from the age of five when he began herding his grandmother's sheep. The high desert’s sparse vegetation required walking 15-20 miles a day to find suitable grazing. He could run for miles and became a great shot. Taking responsibility and working cooperatively were essential to his family's economic and physical survival. The flock grew to 1,000 sheep.

In boarding school, Navajo children learned to obey authority. They were punished - hit, kicked and beaten - when they made mistakes. Chester learned to work under tremendous pressure with perfect results. In the military, these skills enabled him to transmit coded messages in battle conditions when the accuracy of the message could affect thousands of lives. Despite the fact that they knew no English when they arrived at boarding school, children who spoke Navajo had their mouths washed out with naphtha soap, soap made from a petroleum distillate, similar to gasoline or benzene, used as a solvent or fuel. How ironic it is their speaking Navajo helped end the war in the Pacific, a great service to our country.

When Chester was thirteen or fourteen, the government Bureau of Indian Affairs decided Navajo “overgrazing” was contributing to Dust Bowl storms, so they dug trenches on the reservation, herded 700 of his grandmother’s sheep and goats into the trenches, poured accelerant on them and set them afire. Many of the animals had individual names and were pets. Judith Avila’s voice was choked with emotion while sharing this information. She told us it was extremely difficult for her to talk about it. I cried. It broke my heart. Between 1932 and 1944, the sheep population was reduced from 1.6 million to 400,000, completely destroying the Navajo economy. Some families received $2 - $3 a head for their livestock when market value was $8 - $14 a head. Chester was unsure if his family received any compensation. The Navajos never received an apology.

Just a few months after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Marine recruiters arrived looking for young Navajo men who spoke fluent English and fluent Navajo for a special project that would benefit their country. In his book, Chester says, he had been born to the warrior tradition, seeing himself inseparable from the earth he lived upon. As a protector of what is sacred, he was eager to defend his land. He and his fellow Navajos were sent to Guadalcanal where they developed a doubly-encrypted code, the only code never broken in the war, a code which even Navajo language speakers could not understand. During a question-and-answer period after the presentation, Judith Avila was asked if the Army or Air Force also used the code. She answered, “No they rejected it because they didn’t think Navajo Indians were intelligent enough to develop a good code.” In 1924 Native Americans became citizens. In 1948, three years after World War II ended, they were given the right to vote. After twenty-five years, the project was declassified, and Chester could finally tell his family what he did in the war. In 2001, forty-seven days before 9/11, Chester and his fellow Code Talkers were presented with the Congressional Gold Medal, the highest civilian honor Congress can bestow.

Several current events address similar, resonating themes. Stephen Spielberg’s new movie, “Lincoln,” depicts the struggle to choose a consciousness of unity rather than separation, equality rather than discrimination, acceptance rather than devaluation, cooperation rather than polarization in passing the Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution as a follow up to the Emancipation Proclamation. Our own recent, very-close voting, just like that of Lincoln’s day, asked us to choose the vision for our future. By a narrow margin, the choice was made. Spurred by changing demographics, a critical mass has finally been reached, freeing us to move forward. Yesterday, 60 Minutes featured “Children Helping Children” an organization started by a 12-year-old seventeen years ago when he read about a Pakistani boy his same age, a slave in a carpet factory, who was murdered when he escaped to lead a campaign against servitude. “Children Helping Children” is now a $30-million-a-year organization with two million volunteers, building schools and educating children in Africa.  A recent rally was held for 20,000 people under the age of 18 who want to make a difference in the world. On Super Soul Sunday yesterday, Oprah featured three new spiritual leaders in their thirties who are shifting consciousness through their blogs, books and coaching. The end of one consciousness is the beginning of another. Perhaps this is the end of time chronicled by the Mayan calendar. I believe it is. Our choice is whether we will live in love or in fear. There’s still a lot of work to do, but more and more people are choosing love.  

*Code Talker: The First and Only Memoir by One of the Original Navajo Code Talkers of WWII  by Chester Nez with Judith Schiess Avila