Green Acres Village News, late April 2018: Repotting, planting, workshop

GAV News, Late April 2018: Repotting, planting, plus IU “infomatics” workshop

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A. K. Reader Interview: Angeles Arrien lived and taught traditional values in a disconnected age (2007)

exopermacultureRooting around in the hundreds of possible A.K. Reader posts from my storied history, I came upon an interview I had done with Angeles Arrien in August 2007 for the inaugural issue of Crone Magazine (itself a successor to Crone Chronicles magazine).

Oh wow! I see now that the interview was never published! I wonder why. And I certainly can’t remember! In any case, reading through this interview again, I am struck by just how her work in cross-cultural anthropology continues to reverberate through me and others who are devoted to community building in a time of increasing atomization of society. Arrien’s life story, which I coaxed out of her, is itself illuminating. Never did she seem to have doubted herself! Moreover, she seemed innately immune to social programming of all kinds. Or maybe that immunity had to do with the traditional Basque upbringing she received, something I think she would agree with.

I then looked up the date of her death, six years later, April 24, 2014. Today, this very day, is the fourth anniversary of her sudden, unexpected death! This synchronicity was the final note that convinced me to publish this beautiful old interview today.


Arrien Interview


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New David Holmgren book: RETROSUBURBIA

I wonder what co-founder of the permaculture movement Holmgren has to say about suburbs that we in Green Acres Permaculture Village haven’t already figured out! Or at least begun to experiment with. I do plan to purchase the book.

Retrosuburbia by David Holmgren: in conversation with Morag Gamble




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A.K. Reader: “Our Magic Wand” (1995)

exopermacultureThis essay introduced readers to that issue’s theme of “Money and Soul” in Crone Chronicles #24, Autumn Equinox 1995.












by Ann Kreilkamp

As a small child I was very aware of my family’s status in our small Idaho town. And yet, walking back home from school one day as a first-grader with my friend Freddy, that awareness was eclipsed by another larger one.

Freddy and I were privileged children of doctors, and our families’ natural allies. That day we were walking on the left-hand side of Addison Avenue, and I noticed Lorenzo Ortega walking parallel to us, on the right-hand side. Lorenzo was one of the poor kids, Mexican “wetbacks,” we called them. He sat in the back of Sister Bernita’s classroom, and his family sat in the back pew in church on Sundays. Lorenzo was a troublemaker; Freddy and I were teacher’s pets.

That brilliant Autumn afternoon I was struck with a sudden unexpected insight: I am the same as Lorenzo. There is no inherent difference between us. Simply, I was lucky, and he was not, in having a doctor for a daddy.

I didn’t say anything to Freddy about this, or to anyone about the other moments of sudden riveting clarity that came to me periodically during childhood. What was there to say? How could I explain, and why would they care? I cared, deeply. But I didn’t know why.

Another time I was walking to my friend Edwina’s house to play dolls early one fresh summer morning. Suddenly again, I was thunderstruck by — what to call it? — this time I did not so much receive an insight as enter another dimension altogether, parallel to the usual one, but not reducible to it. I was enveloped in an atmosphere of utter and timeless clarity, a knowledge that the world was one, and that I was here, present, eternally NOW. Again, there were no words, and though some say that only experiences which can be put into words are remembered, this experience, utterly other, was filed away as a lodestone, or crystal, the memory of its light dimly refracting everything in a new way.

I would say now that during these fleeting moments I was being signaled — no,flashed— by soul. The boundaries between this world and that one were, in those rare and seemingly random moments, permeable. Something flashed in to this world from the other one, leaving me stunned.

Meanwhile, life went on. Like other young females in the late ‘50s, I got caught up in Jantzen sweaters and training bras. I was embraced by the agony of first love. I did well in school, memorizing texts. Receiving my B.A. Magna Cum Laude two weeks after delivering my first child, I was already thinking about graduate school, and fighting with my husband.

Then, when I was 26 years old, I had an experience, one that plummeted me into that other realm altogether, so compellingly that three months later I gave up the life I was living to start down a different path.

Like many in my generation, I was caught up in the turmoil of the late ‘60s. Against my husband’s will I had left him in Cambridge alone for the summer, taken our two little boys, and moved into a large summer commune on the beach. We had rented a hotel, and its name, The Idlewild, fit the mood exactly. For me, however, the experience was traumatizing. I had been such a good Catholic girl, wife, mother, and graduate student, that all summer long I sat stunned, watching the others bend their brains and open their bodies through drugs.

In September, my friend Sylvia and I went down to the hotel one more time, alone. We sat at one end of the long table in the large kitchen, haunted by memories of summer, eating our dinner. Afterwards she pulled out a tiny packet of tinfoil and opened it. Two little pills stared up at me. Mescaline, she grinned.

Okay. It’s time.

That night Sylvia went off to the beach and I drifted into the huge front room where we had held our Saturday night strobe-lit dances. I turned on the music one more time, and began to dance to The Doors, gradually picking up speed until I was twirling through the air like a dervish. It was as if energy, dammed up for centuries had suddenly erupted and I was its instrument, wild, furious, and free.

The next morning, as the sun rose, Sylvia walked into the room and broke the spell. I had been dancing for seven hours.

The next day, at home, I developed a stomach ache. I crawled into bed, and remained there the following day too. The pain got worse. Finally my husband, still furious and tight-lipped over my summer disobedience, took me to the doctor, and I was admitted into Mass. General that afternoon with general abdominal peritonitis.

For seven days and nights the infection raged out of control. Intravenous antibiotics were administered continuously, each to its maximum, one every three or four hours, until there were none left to give me and the doctor, looking defeated, said he didn’t know what else to do.

I looked up at him, dreamy on Demerol, and asked, “Am I going to die?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered, embarrassed, and scuttled out of the room.

Thus was the stage set for the entrance of soul into matter. Loud and clear, in a booming internal voice, it told me to decide: live or die, it is your choice.

 The next morning, my belly, which had ballooned to the size of a six month pregnancy, was flat. My fever was gone. I was here, NOW, and my body was inhabited consciously, for the first time, by soul. There was no turning back. In shock for the first three months, knowing now, that I, alone, was responsible for what happened next — that as I had chosen to live, so was I creating my life — I finally “came back to earth” and began to make the decisions that would unravel the knot clenched, like a fist, inside my stomach.

As in Plato’s story of the cave, wherein people gaze at shadows on the wall, mistaking them for reality (think of the cave walls as TV screens), so I, like the philosopher of old, had turned around to face the sun. The sun was warm, inviting; I wanted to remain there, at one with the sun, blind to this world. But I could not. Once again, now consciously, twice born, I had to turn and go back into the shadowy cave, to make my life with others.

But how? How can I live in this world when I feel alive only in that one? How can I live with others when they seem to have never noticed the sun? How to live as a stranger in a strange land, working with money, and things, and jobs and so on and on, the sheer minutiae of what I thought then to be a vastly inferior reality to the one outside the cave?

I am now 52 years old; 26 years have gone by since I was 26. The world is no longer black and white, dark and light. The world is becoming a single shimmering atmosphere permeated with colors reflecting light back and forth like singers arcing their voices to the heavens and back, in praise, in benediction.

I discovered that at the source of life is soul; that if I am in touch with soul, and align my personal will with its directive, then I experience the universe as alive, and it in turn supports me. Soul springs forth from the void to radiate love, bathing all activities in its glow, from the tiniest detail of daily life to the blush that bathes the Tetons at dawn.

Money, I have discovered, as a medium of exchange, is like water, or oil; it greases gears, moves things along, makes them happen. No longer is money my enemy, a part of this world opposed to that one. Now I see money as a transformation of matter. And matter itself — coming, let us remember, from the same root as “mother” — is, as Jean Hardy points out in this issue, “the love poetry of the Great Mother.”

There are so many stories, life stories — of coming to terms with money, and with soul, and with the fact that they are or can be connected. Each of these stories seems to be a variation of the same plot told above. Whether we start out with or without money; whether it comes from self or another; whether we become aware of soul early in life or late, the direction of our stories is similar. Some authors seem to be tentative, not sure; they are wrestling with as certain point in the plot, needing to master it before they can move on. Others are moving forwards at a fast clip, shuddering with revelation, or slowly, surely, building it in for good.

For there is an immersion in things of this world. Then, at some point, there is a conversion process — short or long, sudden and dramatic or painstaking and gradual — which leads us to turn inward, to the self, and its greater Self, or soul. Once we do that, then, when we do begin to turn around again and face the outside world, everything looks different. Once again, we have to come to terms with it, but inside this changed perspective. Money, then, can be viewed within the first world or from this transformed second one. And within these two worlds it carries different connotations.

To the extent to which we are still entranced within the first world (and who of us is not?) money is one of its gods, and we identify with it, worship it, rebel against it. To the extent to which we have “seen the light” and are moving in the direction of integrating the life of soul with “real” life, money can carry a different meaning. Its shamanic, shapeshifting, transformative capacity can be appreciated in new ways, and placed within a more universal context. I have a feeling that we are only beginning to open to new understanding and action with money as we seize this extraordinary moment presented by the coming millennial shift.

Money is not the bottom line, never was, as one of my sons, Colin, realized when he was three years old. I had asked him and his five-year-old brother what they would ask for if they could have anything in the world. Sean answered quickly, excited: “A million dollars!” Colin looked at me, and then, eyes open wide, as if struck by lightning, he announced, “A magic wand.”


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Alt-Epistemology: Me, and you, and the “Deep State,” its puppet masters — or not!

Michael Salla, of, utilizing info from Qanon posts, offers one clear, overall perspective of the purse strings that pull the world’s puppet masters in this two part series. True? I have no idea. But it IS interesting.

Qanon on the Rothschild, Saudi, & Soros Puppet Masters Behind the Deep State, however, considers the Q phenomenon to be a psy-op. True? Again, I have no idea.

QAnon: The Inconvenient Truth | Part I [videos]

As ever, I ask to allow my mind to stretch to include contradictory approaches to info, as well as contradictory info, without thinking that I must “come down on one side or the other.” No. I don’t. Not unless the choice is right in front of me, a choice that determines the direction of my own personal life. In this case, it does not.

We, the people of the world, have our own very busy or leisurely lives to lead — though all the while, according to some, we are being subtly manipulated, or not!, by the so-called “elite” to frame our worlds up in their way.

But really, think about it.  Just how much does all this deep state baloney have to do with the living, conscious, breathing Earth, as she now pushes up her beautiful plants through the soil in response to Sun’s lengthening rays? Furthermore, how much does all this deep state baloney have to do with my own deeply interior sleeping/waking cycles, and the dreams I entertain in both states?

Answer, at least for me, NOT MUCH! And yet I do find myself fascinated, even so. So thank you, Dr. Salla, for paying close attention to these far-away matters, and for connecting dots, tying threads, and so on. And thank you aim4truth, for serving as noble opposition.

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Alt-Epistemology: Let us sink below the conceptual scrim of judgments to the energetic realm of feelings . . .

. . . and stay there! And let us notice our feelings, watch them move through and dissolve. Yes! Let us let go of identification, which triggers the mind, which then instantly conjures up ideas, to justify “why” we identify, which then hardens the ideas into judgments, pro and con, good and bad, good and evil. Yuck!

This is the way wars begin. Let us find another way.

More and more, I notice myself withdrawing from the geopolitical world, the lies, agendas obfuscations, complexities, layers, distractions, judgments pro and con — all the mental stuff that we use to cover up  mild or extreme discomfort resulting from triggered emotions of aversion and desire and, especially, that does or, more likely, does not accurately describe, or at least parallel, the actual 3D reality.

Instead, I find myself withdrawing, noticing my inner world, what I bring into being by the quality of my presence. Noticing where I am carrying lies, agendas, obfuscations, complexities, layers, distractions, judgments, pro and con — all the mental stuff in me that is triggered by OLD OLD OLD emotions of aversion and desire, and that I know damn well, does NOT describe or parallel the actual 3D reality.

On the one hand, I’m glad others are still paying attention to the hoopla, and like most of us, I do hope that justice will be served — whatever that means in this high-stakes global game of greed, gotcha, cruelty and corruption.

And on the other hand, I’m glad to have lived long enough to learn how to instantly shift  attention, over and over again, whenever I feel myself being “drawn in” to the maelstrom.

So, here, now. I clean house, do the dishes, walk miles on forest trails with dogs, work with podmates to nurture and evolve this Green Acres Permaculture Village, and above, all, feel very very grateful to be grounded here into this tiny living experiment in transformation of  values that govern life in the suburbs — all as I continue to descend deeper and deeper into the layers of my own life to recover and share the writings (see A.K. Reader, Astrology, and E-Books) that have accompanied my voluminous and varied experiences over seven and a half decades.

Meanwhile, once in a while, I try out a new experiment, and here’s one: an idea that I’ve been dreaming up ever since Donald Trump was elected President, of showing his astrological chart alongside the chart of the U.S., and zeroing in on their energetic connection. In other words, I aim, in these presentations, to go beneath politics, beneath the polarization that defines this (and every?) age, to understand how we are all being “played,” on an unconscious level, by forces that we do not understand but that connect us even so.

I had originally wanted to do this presentation right after the election last year, in the auditorium at the public library, downtown. But was dissuaded by others: too dangerous. Who knows who would show up? Who knows what kinds of extreme positions people would walk in the door with in this Democratic liberal academic town? Could I contain and transform hostility, if necessary? Perhaps not.

For a whole year I stewed in my juices, wondering how to do this presentation. Then, aha! We have recently inaugurated the idea of short “presentations” following some of our Community Dinners. For our first presentation, podmate Alex gave us an hour-long demonstration of Feldenkreis. Afterwards Mariella asked, would I like to go next? Do the Trump/U.S. astrology talk that I’ve been wanting to do? Why yes!

So did I end up doing this presentation for the first time here, in the tiny, and safe, venue of Green Acres Village, as a short, 15-minute talk after one of our Community Dinners. That was over a month ago. Then, two nights ago, I did the presentation again, this time out in Brown County, up a country road to friend Annie’s home on a beautiful ridge overlooking the forest with a lake to the west framed by the setting sun. We sat there, around the fire, grilling hot dogs and sausages, about a dozen of us, all drawn by the promise of looking at the energetic connection of the astrological charts of Donald Trump and the U.S. After dinner, we headed inside, where these beautiful souls, many but not all of whom knew each other — and, Annie told me earlier, most of them were “anti-Trump,” though there was one couple that was “pro-Trump” — and you know what? When it was over, and this presentation lasted a full hour, branching out in several ways, I realized that I had no idea who was pro and who was anti. Why?

Because we succeeded. We descended below the superficial conceptual political linguistic  level that gets triggered by the strong, uncomfortable emotional charge that energizes us all during this time, and stayed there, below our judgments, below the polarization, realizing our connection — and above all, having fun!

To give a short summary for astrologers of the two strongest energetic connections: 1) Trump’s warlike, courageous Mars/Ascendant in Leo (the king, the ruler, the narcissist) exactly opposes the U.S. Aquarian Moon (the populace). 2) Trump’s twittering Gemini Sun conjunct wild-card, unpredictable Uranus opposite Full Moon in wide-ranging Sagittarius conjuncts the U.S. Mars (exact). All these planets are angular in both charts, i.e., bound to express into the world rather than to be held within. As the U.S. populace is uprising, so Trump seems to be the one who incites the uprising, but in fact he simply mirrors and exaggerates it. There was much more, along the way, including the uncanny transits to the U.S. chart on 9/11, the technological prowess and continuous warlike tendencies of the U.S., Trump’s love of family and need for loyalty. On and on. Instead of blaming or heralding, we were, instead, understanding. “Standing under” our judgments, recognizing that and how the original nature of Donald Trump strongly stimulates and echoes the original nature of the United States of America.

At the end — wanting, no doubt, something about their own original natures as shown in their sun signs — they asked me if I would just give a short description of each of the astrological signs in order. At this question, something took me over: I said, “How about I do it in body language?” and proceeded to move in exaggerated ways, demonstrating first, impulsive headstrong Aries, then stubborn head-in-the-sand Taurus, then curious scattered Gemini, clannish protective Cancer, proud self-expressive Leo, critical, discerning Virgo — and so on and on, sign by sign, all the way around the zodiac, until we were all laughing in recognition of how each of us is, in our original natures. Instead of lots of words, the entire demonstration took not even two minutes. I plan to do this body language display of the signs of the zodiac again soon, and videotape it.

Meanwhile, podmate Andreas, who accompanied me on the hour-long journey to Annie’s house, took a few pictures and made an audio, which I link to, here.


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A.K. Reader: New E-Book, On the Road with This Vast Being (2007)

exopermacultureOn January 4, 2003, my husband Jeff died of a heart attack, after one semester, only three months after our move to Bloomington Indiana for him to attend law school. Living in a new town, I was able to spend the first year after he died mostly in solitude, in a process of what, even then, I recognized, and honored, as “conscious grieving.” As usual, for one who works through her feelings using language, I wrote down the details of my own wild, fluctuating, at times paranormal grieving process during that entire first year, during which time Jeff was ever-present.

Three years later, I collected these essays into an award-winning print book: This Vast Being: A Voyage through Grief and Exaltation.

Books in hand, I then took a two month road trip across the United States, mostly staying with friends, each of whom had agreed to both house me and serve as the local contact for a workshop on a subject very few of us are willing to address in ourselves: GRIEF.

This e-book is a day-to-day record of that transformative adventure.

On the Road with TVB


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A.K.Reader: New E-Book, LOSING EMMA

LOSING EMMAAlthough the experiences referred to in this e-book happened not all that long ago, it all still feels like A.K. Reader material! What I’ve noticed most about this “Art of Recapitulation,” so named by reader Anthony in a comment today — as I recall, the phrase springs originally from Carlos Castenedas, his trickster shaman Don Juan — is that each time I consciously descend into an old experience, or into an old process that connected experiences, I feel myself once again, there, right there, inside that dimension for the time it takes to recapitulate it, mine its meaning and value. And the experience of doing this, day after day as I collect and share all these essays and other material from the past, is so wondrously multi-layered, multidimensional, and yet, curiously, as Anthony mentioned, freeing! By dipping into, and thoroughly recapitulating “heaviness,” I lighten up! Just one more paradox attending our very mysterious incorporated life here on this blessed Earth.

BTW: now that, at the age of 75, I am beginning the descending half of the third cycle of Saturn, I recognize Recapitulation as the specialized Gift of not only the third cycle, but including the two cycles preceding it. As if, in our spiralling through time, and if we can remain conscious throughout, then we are now, at my age, presented with an extraordinary and unparalleled opportunity to look back on life as a whole, in ways which are both increasingly detailed and yet also increasingly panaoramic. And the resulting multidimensional tapestry! Oh! Just so immensely, intensely rich that words fail to catch even a glimpse of the wonder .



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