I want to say
To those lazy students,
(walking out from school and raining on Washington)
To this uncaring egotist youth,
(speaking against the dangers all face)
To the snowflake generation of pampered cowards,
(mobilizing united against the murderous gun makers,
the cowardly law makers for sale, puppets of the NRA,
and crime spree of hate fed by our government)
I want to say…
We failed to make this world safe for you.
We got distracted with reality shows, with stupid banter, and cynicism.
We kept shouting “Fake News”, and “Build that wall”, and “It’s the homeless fault.”
We shouted so hard we couldn’t hear the bullets.
We were so blind we couldn’t see the color of your blood.
It’s up to you now.
Discern the voice of your spirit.
Learn to think for yourself, don’t wait for us to teach you.
Speak up… and listen to yourself.
Observe… and remember.
Survive… and vote.
Stay woke… and live.
—Koyote the Blind
The power of the woman envelops the male force… Just like water dissolves, and the earth consumes. This is the part of power that transforms and gives birth. The power of the male is to penetrate, infuse, and impregnate. Of course we all have both types of forces within us, but in different levels…
It can feel like an otherwise fruitful male/female relationship has gone wrong when the woman temporarily cease to identify with the higher feminine power and have descended into the individualized woman that feels separate…
So know yourself as this stronger, deeper, universal force that exists before and beyond his little male outburst called “himself”. To intensely become who you are would mean the dissolution of who he is…
Do the work of the powerful female and consume his weaknesses; let him prove his strength and survive the force of your presence and love.
The ego of a man blinds him to the all encompassing power of the woman. He thinks he’s powerful, but never stops to wonder what sustains and generates the power. Like a fist who thinks it’s strong, when in truth all its force comes from the mind and body that directs it.
From the point of view of neurology, as soon as the baby begins to acquire motor skills and focus their eyes, their brain begins to trim. There are neural connections that cut themselves off. In that cutting off, we begin to bring our attention into this world; to be able to perceive things as separate and distinguish shapes, heights, duration, space, color. Without that trimming, everything that the organism can perceive would be perceived and nothing will be distinguished. So, there is a trimming that happens there, and part of that trimming of our neural system is what culture does with language.
Then, over that language, many things are programmed: llike belief systems, like agreements of what is good and what is bad, what is acceptable and what is not. And then over that series of values we build identities: democrat, republican, Argentinian, Mexican. From those we define our personal identity: “This is me,” “That’s not my family,” “I am not like that,” “I am like this.” But we don’t realize the layers of soil that we use to build that sense of self.
There’s a story about the arrival of Spanish ships to the New World. What the Indians saw first in the island of San Salvador was the small canoe you drop from the ship to get to shore. Because there is no port, they settle in the shore and send small rowboats. They were amazed by the workmanship of the row boat; the way that it was constructed was so strange, and the technology unknown to the natives. While commenting on the strangeness of that boat they overlooked the huge caravelle in the background. There was nothing in their worldview to point to that. This is a phenomenon often encountered in shamanic voyaging, where the thing that is huge and in your face you don’t see, because you’re looking at what is known. This is the Face Of God (FOG), which is right here on your face; always touching you. And you don’t see God because you see the illusion of the world. You create the idea of God as something remote. So you don’t see God, because God takes the shape of whatever is in front of you. Or that beast which is the Dreaming. You only see the dream, not the beast which is the Dreaming.
If I say “I am hungry,” the “I” which is hungry is a product of that language which differentiates between you and me. Isn’t it the case that when I say “I am hungry” that “I” in that context is different from the one that says “I am koyote” and from “I did not hear what you said”? Each I is a different entity, new each time it is uttered. Only the illusion of language supposes this I exists somewhere inside me and is saying and hearing things. The one that listens is also just a product of what is being said; what is being grasped. As the I who utters ceases, the I who listens ceases. Yet something remains. And what remains makes no distinction between the utterance and the listening and the reality, perhaps the difference exists only in the language which was discarded like a snakeskin.
Some stories were only told to men before the hunt and in the eve of war, around the campfire.
These stories were told and the men became the story as the killing and the fighting and the eternal dance of life and death were played.
And there are stories that can only be told to the dead.
There were stories only shared between grandmother and granddaughter, because they were permitted to be alone without the power play of mother and daughter. In male dominated societies neither the elder nor the child is considered to be of importance. So they are allowed to whisper to each other and tell the stories that are not meant for male ears.
The nuance of the story would be memorized. The shape of the hand. The sensation of the cool air. The breeze between the legs. The subtle intake of breath in the nostrils will be noticed, and one’s organic reactions to the sudden turns of the stories. Such stories were never told among men, for fear that the veil would be ripped apart and men would realize the futility, the meaninglessness of their ways.
Small and delicate emerges a flower in my heart, surrounded by so many forces and poisons.
Easy to cut, to ignore and kill, this flower grows thorns that can do nothing against the world invading her spring.
But the omnipotent weakness of her beauty is born and reborn in the depth of my feeling. And then, as any worldwide catastrophe,
torrents and whirlwinds are invoked to cleanse the world,
rebellions of love that dethrone the evil,
and the revolutionary glory of my most sacred mysteries.
Pequeña y delicada nace una flor en my corazón, rodeada de tantas fuerzas y venenos.
Fácil de cortar, de ignorar y de matar, esta flor saca espinas que nada pueden contra el mundo que invade su primavera.
Pero la omnipotente debilidad de su belleza nace y renace en la profundidad de mi sentir.
Y entonces, cual catástrofe mundial,
se invocan diluvios y torbellinos que me limpian del mundo,
rebeldías de amor que destronan el mal, y
la gloria revolucionaria de mis más sagrados misterios.