Green Acres Village News: Updates galore, plus Shapeshifting Andreas!

Mid-July Updates: New flag, pole in hole, Shadow intervention, Community Dinner, CSA harvest and prospect, plus shape-shifting Andreas!

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Before and After: High drama vs. miniscule beauty

Fifteen years ago, I moved from a 20-foot diameter yurt in Teton County, Wyoming, to a suburban ranch house in Bloomington, Indiana, which I gradually, with others, have transformed into a three-home Green Acres Permaculture Village.

You might want to see this:

ESSAY: Visioning a Multidimensional Permaculture Paradigm

Life in the Tetons felt dramatic and intense, reflecting our surroundings, as this photo, which I found this morning on fb, demonstrates.

Life here in a midwest college town carved out of hilly woodlands in the state of InDiana (get it? In-DIANA, goddess of the woodlands) offers myriads of smaller, subtler pleasures, as this photo I took about a week ago, centering a sunflower inside a wild hugelkulture mound in front of my house, demonstrates.

And oh! But if you could but hear the songbirds that greet each new dawn!

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Summit Backlash: Trump capitulates? Who are we, as individuals, as a nation?

The above? Tucker Carlson, editorial on Fox News, an MSM station that I used to hate. Now, there are certain pundits — Hannity, Pirro, and Carlson — who I sometimes do pick up on. It’s all part of the  180° turn I found myself taking, not sure when it began, but very definitely, I’m one who found myself nodding my head when viewing Brandon Straka’s video #WalkAway from the liberal left, which ended up going viral, starting what seems to be turning into a genuine movement.

Not that I’m now a raging conservative! On the other hand, it does seem to me that some conservatives, these days, are not nearly as buffoonish as most liberals, with the exception of now, when, with few exceptions, they all hate Trump for speaking with Putin.

Is this why he seemed to capitulate to the U.S. “Intelligence” agencies yesterday? Because he lost all support of the political class? He said that he had said “would,” when he should have said “wouldn’t.” Oh wow. Lionel Nation, for one, was horrified at his seeming bow down to the Deep State. But I have a sense that even this might be factored into what Q calls “The Plan.”

Meanwhile, there may even be some magic at work, or some kind of otherworldly juju. Check out the lights going out, not just when Trump seemed to capitulate, but on two other occasions, all related,  as told by RT, which of course, can’t possibly be trusted either, since it’s Russian.

In any case, speaking of Russia, I’m reminded once again, of way back when, during the time of Emma Goldman, a radical political activist who was hated by all and sundry. Legend has it that American parents, in order to scare their children, would say, “Better get to bed, or Red Emma will get you!

Has nothing changed? Are we still under the sway of mainstream talking heads programming, of deep state media propaganda, endlessly repeated?

Here’s a great little pedagogical video, very timely.


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“Technophilosopher” Martin Geddes: The Q phenomenon, in context

I was alerted to this remarkable essay by Kauilapele, who called it  “astounding.” 

BTW: Though I check near-daily, Q has not posted any enigmatic messages since July 4th, Independence Day. That’s 14 days and counting. The longest absent stretch since late October, when it (he, she, they?) began? Not sure. If so, are we to conclude that we the people must now become Independent and truly start thinking for ourselves? And that it’s time, the Great Awakening is taking off?

It does seem obvious that with his recent journey to England, the EU, NATO, and finally, Putin, Trump himself appears to be pulling out all the stops, in his vow to drain the swamp and disrupt the old globalist order. And isn’t that exactly what Q seemed to be predicting? Was he there to prepare us for NOW? And are we ready?  

Meanwhile, given the splintering that is ramping up inside the alternative, red-pilled community, in this case re: whether Q is real or a psy-op (among others, Douglas Gabriel of AIM4truth never did subscribe to it, and Jerome Corsi, a primary decoder of Q, backed off a few months ago), I found Martin Geddes’ essay utterly riveting, and was hooked from the introductory remarks on.

WWG1WGA: The Greatest Communication Event in History

“Only small secrets need to be protected. The large ones are kept secret by the public’s incredulity.”
— Marshall McLuhan (HT @LionelMedia)

A time like no other in history

Having applied all of my integrity, intellect and insight to researching the matter, my belief is that we are witnessing right now one of the greatest communications events in history. Indeed, it is arguably the singularly greatest. So, what is this event, and why does it deserves this extraordinary description? The answers are to be found in how the (Western) mass media has been trapped by the most exquisitely constructed double bind.

If I am correct (and many share my view), then it portends the imminent collapse of trust in all mass media services and social media platforms. That is because they are implicated in systemic, widespread and longstanding organised crime — that also encompasses much of our political and financial system. If this is unequivocally demonstrated to be so, then the public will unite in disgust at the media’s treacherous betrayal of its journalistic duties.

On the other hand, if I/we are wrong, then the power of social media and propaganda to create and inflate bubbles of insanity — trapping intelligent people of goodwill — greatly exceeds anything we dared to imagine. The information age will be darkened by having divided society, destroying a consensus reality.

That’s one heck of a story too! For our culture shall inevitably further atomise, as our bonds of shared values and mutual understanding break apart. So too may the constitutional boundaries — and consequent rule of law — that help to keep the peace.


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Two thoughtful reflections on the Helsinki Summit, plus Putin’s “interesting proposal”

Aside from predictable cries of “TREASON” by the more rabid Trump-haters of both parties, I’m grateful to two elders with decades of experience in U.S. politics, Ron Paul and Paul Craig Roberts, both of whom have their priorities clear, and these reside above and beyond the stupid little internicine battles that, thanks to Trump the Great Disruptor of the status quo, have ramped up to such intensity that, if words were daggers, this war would have already gone nuclear — exactly what both Trump and Putin are meeting to avoid.

Paul Craig Roberts: Two Views of the Putin/Trump Summit

One particularly delicious moment in the Press Conference finale yesterday, came when an MSM reporter stupidly asked the question that led to this set of answers.

(The entire video is worth watching, and the delicious moment begins at around minute 12:)

I imagine this little ploy was orchestrated by Trump and Putin as the piece de resistance of their Summit visit, the first of many, if the two are to have their way and not get assasinated by the Deep State that, no doubt, hates them both for messing with the decades long bought and paid-for MSM media brainwashing, its constantly trumpeted propaganda that requires an Enemy, namely Russia, Russia, Russia, in order to justify endless war spending to line the pockets of banksters and profiteers, including politicians, most of whom go arm in arm with arms manufacturers to the promised Armageddon that, had Hillary won, might have already burned us all alive.

Trump is right. It’s not Obama’s “global warming” that is the highest priority, it’s nuclear “warming” that’s the highest priority.


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Astrology of Trump/Putin Summit: First Impressions

Believe it or not, I just spent over an hour trying to figure out what times I should use for the start of the Trump/Pluto Summit meeting and the Press Conference afterwards. Had to figure seven hour time change in the mix as well. I’ll spare you the details of the clues I used, and just say that I set the initial meeting chart for 2:20 PM Helsinki (7:20 AM EDT).

I then set the chart for when the Press Conference began, approximately four hours later, after their two hour private meeting and working lunch with aides:

Notice, for this chart, I used a 29°57 Scorpio Ascendant. Had the press conference begun a few minutes later, it would have had a 0°00 Sagittarian Ascendant. Which is correct? I don’t know. All I knew is guards ‘threw out’ a journalist from The Nation who was holding a “malignant” sign, “NUCLEAR WEAPONS TEST BAN TREATY” at approximately 6:08 pm, right before the press conference began.

I’ll stick with the Scorpio Ascendant, and recognize that both Scorpio and Sagittarius are in play here, that we are segueing back and forth between power politics (Scorpio) and expanding our world view (Sagittarius).

Both Putin and Trump obviously want the latter; they are both also involved in power politics, can’t help but be, given those who surround them and the games they have to play to “stay in power.”. However, I’m now convinced that both men play 4D chess. Here in the U.S., where the economy has been thoroughly militarized, it’s obvious that the Military Industrial Complex (the MIC)  wants war, always wants war, or at least the threat of war, to sell more weapons,  traffick more refugees, destabilize more countries for corporate takeover, and of course, amass more and more fiat money for the 0.001%.

Trump famously said today that it’s the U.S.’s fault that relations with Russia have gotten so bad. Which of course, meant that both the Democrats and Republicans are now calling him out for treason.

Trump and Putin are both highly aware of the fact that, between them, their militaries own most of the nuclear weaponry in the world, and because of that, bear a special responsibility. That journalist with the sign: who knows? Maybe Trump and Putin  planted him there! In any case, being kicked out of the conference gave his message more publicity than he could have ever gotten otherwise.

This day is a good one for Trump, with the Sun itself illuminating his Venus/Saturn conjunction in Cancer, where he holds a tremendous sense of responsibility — and, I would suggest, not just for his family, or the U.S. family, but for the world family.


This day is a fortunate one for Putin as well. The 21° Libra Ascendant of the first chart sits exactly on Putin’s idealistic Mercury/Neptune.

Whatever anybody thinks about famously poker-faced Putin (his Ascendant is Scorpio, yes, so he does not show what he feels; he feels too deeply to trust the world’s response to his feelings) as “former KGB,” I’ve held all along that, with four planets in Libra, Putin is a serious diplomat (Sun conjunct Saturn in Libra), naturally attuned to seeking peace and harmony. Furthermore, he negotiates behind the scenes (Libra planets in 12th house) as much as possible.


But the clearest, and richest indication of the meaning of this summit comes for me when we look at the composite chart for the two men:

Note lots of Libra in this chart as well. However, the most significant configuration for me is the Sun/Pluto conjunction at 16°-18° Leo, exactly conjunct 18° Leo Mercury in this first official summit chart.

In other words, when the Plutonian energies of these two powerful men blend, they become an even more powerful force (Sun/Pluto), which, I have a feeling was exactly what they both recognied and intended as they sat and talked (Mercury) for those two hours alone, in person, on this fateful day.

This post is not meant to be anything but a series of impressions gathered from the Trump/Putin meeting today. For an analysis of each of their natal charts, see other posts on this blog.

Astrology of Donald Trump and the U.S.A.


Astrological Chart of Vladimir Putin

Nor have I “compared” their individual charts here, or elsewhere. Need to do that. But for now, I just leave you with impressions.

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AK Reader: The Grandmothers’ Dance (1986)

This essay from 30 years ago, which illustrates, through story and metaphysical understanding, the the vast gulf between Native American and Western European immigrant cultures, includes my description/critique of Jackson Hole way back in 1986. How much has it changed since I lived there (1983-3002)? Not even sure I would want to visit, much less live there again.

Not that life here in the midwest isn’t also indicative of just how much we have devolved into bloated materialism. For example, when I moved here, in 2002, there were no McMansions. Now these bloated, poorly built and designed monstrosities, surrounded by manicured lawns, occupy what used to be farm fields at the edge of suburban Bloomington, Indiana. Beyond the McMansions, fields of soy beans and GMO corn. On the other hand, there’s still plenty of hardwood forest, lots of (only mildly polluted?) water, and an increasing presence of small, local permaculture and other organic rural and urban farms, CSAs, farmer’s markets, farm to table restaurants, and so on.



by Ann Kreilkamp

1989 Introduction

The essay that follows is devoted to understanding, embracing, and ultimately transcending certain contradictions I notice within both myself and others who live within the shadow of the Grand Tetons in western Wyoming. This essay was first published in early 1987 in the journal Welcome to Planet Earth.

Since that time the contradictions have magnified. Now, in July, 1989, the monetary value of open land in this area has more than doubled within the past six months. What we call “highenders” are moving in from cities, parking their Lear jets at the tiny local airport, building enormous homes and shopping at new local shops — one sells expensive furs, another is an outlet for Polo, Ralph Lauren.

Just last week I heard that the current issue of the glossy coffee table magazine Town and Country has a 22-page spread on Jackson and other parts of Wyoming with the message to rich urbanites, how about buying a nice little ranch in Wyoming?

Both Wal-Mart and K-Mart plan to plop enormous square or rectangular buildings in the middle of vast parking lots, burying under concrete yet more wild land.

Jackson has been discovered. There is no “slack” season anymore. Giant “Suburban” wagons cruise the town all year round.

Note: Since I am a professional astrologer, it is natural for me to pepper my language with astrological symbols. In this essay I used the symbols Saturn and Uranus, which were then traveling together through the sign of Sagittarius, to help me illuminate the contradictions both within and without. I hope the reader will not be offended by the astrological metaphor; indeed, I encourage the reader to embrace the symbolic possibilities within this most ancient, sacred language.



The Grandmother’s Dance

A woman kneels in the center of a room on a dark cloth spread out on a polished, hardwood floor. Silent, utterly absorbed, she removes tiny objects — stones, feathers, crystals, flowers — from leather and velvet pouches and arranges them on the cloth in a semi-circle around her. Directly in front of her lies an enormous phallic crystal, facing North, lined up with the Tetons. I am sitting on the floor with 30 other women in a circle around her. Our backs lean against blue walls. We are talking quietly among ourselves and watching Brooke Medicine Eagle, beautiful, with high cheekbones and a hooked nose and long black braided hair. I notice her hands. Big, strong, expressive, intimate, these hands bond her energy to the energy of anything they reach for. With utmost concentration, she is slowly and carefully placing each object in relation to others on the cloth according to some hidden inner order.

The altar is completed. Brooke looks up, smiles widely, begins to speak. There is much she has to tell us this evening, she says, her energy uncoiling to a standing position, those hands punctuating each word.

Can you remember old pictures of signing ceremonies between white soldiers and Indians? she asks. On one side stands the general surrounded by his officers, lined up in a row. On the other side stands the row of braves, flanking their chief. And behind the row of Indian men, she continues, her voice growing stronger, stands a row of white haired women. The grandmothers. Female elders of the tribe. They were not there to negotiate. Rather, their continuous silent presence was to remind Indian men: any treaty you make with the white man must be such as to not harm any living thing.

The grandmothers, Brooke tells us, carried the wisdom of the tribe. They no longer menstruated; they “held their blood” — and because they did their power was great.

The younger women, during their menstrual flow, would retire to the “moon lodge,” to rest and to dream. This time coincided with the new moon, a time of new beginning and of cleansing, when the veil between the visible and invisible thins to the point where the women could easily pass beyond. During these few days each month they would enter the spirit world through the center of their beings, their wombs. In their dreaming together they set in motion whatever was to happen during the coming moon cycle. Through their wombs they attuned to the Great Mother, Earth, and learned her ways.

According to Lakota tradition, the female principle precedes the male. It is first, what must happen before anything else can. The female principle is the number before all numbers start. It is the womb, the starry night sky; it is the great void, the source of all possibility. Actual creation begins, she tells us, when lightning pierces the night sky. From this union, does all that manifests flow.

If, she continues, I were to spear you and twirl your body in the air, the exact point in which I would thrust my spear would be your womb/ this is the center of your being. This is the point where you balance heaven and earth — whether you be biologically a woman or a man.

She gets up and starts walking around the room, long soft leather moccasins treading the hardwood floor as surely as if it were a forest trail. Placing her hands to that center of herself, she outlines a triangle. We need to walk with this part of us leading, she tells us. Our wombs link us to our mother, and receive what she wants us to know. Instead, we tend to walk like the absent-minded professor! Brooke laughs, bends over, and walks head first, tottering from side to side. We laugh too, seeing ourselves in this reflection.

Brooke stands up straight. Alert, balanced, again she walks steadily around the inside of our circle. Her eyes seek each of ours in turn. “We have moved from the center of our beings to the head, the forebrain,” she says, slowly, quietly: “we have severed our bonds with all living things.”

Brooke asks us to stand and form a circle with our arms around each other. She starts drumming, softly, to the four-beat rhythm of a human heartbeat. “Press your left foot into the floor with each dominant beat,” she says. “Your left foot links to your left side, the female side. As you press that foot to the floor you are making contact with mother earth, and she is pressing back. Now start moving in a circle, an inch at a time, still emphasizing that beat with the left foot.”

We begin to dance, slowly round and round, hearts and feet entraining to the drumming, thirty women in a circle, arms around each other, no beginning, no ending, left foot, left foot, left foot, entering our left sides, thinning that veil between the visible and the invisible, entranced.

“Now look at each woman in the circle, how beautiful she is, how individual . . . And now soften your eyes, let them lose focus, concentration, and see this woman circle as a circle of women everywhere, women anywhere, anytime. Become your mother dancing this heartbeat, become her mother, and hers. Go back through your foremothers, back to the first two-legged mother, beyond her to the four-leggeds, the winged creatures, beyond them to the tree people, the plant people, the rocks, the waters. Become the great mother, feel her wisdom, feel her pain.”

Next Day, Out Walking

It is Saturday morning, the day after the grandmothers’ dance. I sit curled in my easy chair, tensed, head down, concentrating. Frowning, I turn page after page of a thick, blue paperback book, Alice Bailey’s Esoteric Astrology.

No use. Can’t seem to read today. My eyes keep losing focus, bouncing off the page. My head feels light, constricted. And my body is growing increasingly restless, wants to move! I subdue it, forcefully, no! You must sit here, stay still, and read this! You still haven’t mastered Alice Bailey. What’s wrong with you? Are you lazy? Stupid?

Suddenly, without thinking, I close the book, get up, bundle up, start out on my daily walk. Today I walk even faster than usual, head first, body striving to keep pace with the debate raging inside. Once again I feel that war between the two ways I’m learning, the two roads I travel . . . the metaphysical and the aboriginal . . . so different, so opposed! Going up and down at once . . . up with my head, down with my body . . . Will I break in two? (Oh my god, is this the meaning of the dream I had last night? When my car broke into two separate pieces, front and back? And I knew it was due to my carelessness. . . Oh wow, there’s Saturn and Uranus operating again, in my dream. The car breaks — negative Uranus; my inattention — negative Saturn.) Hey! Stop thinking! You are walking now. Walk on. Pound those ideas from the brain through the body into the ground. Release that brain, let go let go . . . breathe . . . in . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . Be the walking, be the breathing, left right, in, out. Forget! Forget yourself. Become empty, become the air flowing through you, allow each in-breath to replenish you, each out-breath to clear out old ideas, cares, worry . . .

I have followed this same routine for 27 years, walking long distances, balancing, getting head to join with body for that one hour each day. “It keeps me out of the psychiatrist’s office,” I joke to those who ask — and laugh, ruefully, knowing just how true that is. My training has been left-brained, male, rational. I am the perfect example of Descartes’ mind/body split. I think, therefore I am. Therefore only my thinking is me! For Descartes, the body and mind, though separate, worked in unison; they “paralleled” each other, he said. For me, they seem utterly opposed, body wanting to continually move and express, mind wanting to capture each movement, to fix it in place.

As usual, within one mile, hip and pelvic tension relax and my stride lengthens to the usual fast rhythmic Sagittarian pace so few of my friends can keep up with. I’m glad. I need this aloneness. Need this discipline. Feel very Saturnine today. Uptight. Can’t let my mind go. How to integrate Alice Bailey with Brooke Medicine Eagle? How to reconcile such an esoteric scholastic hierarchy with the elemental Lakota way of being in the world?

It seems to me Alice Bailey deals from on high with what is here below. In order to read her, I must forget my body, deny its restless existence, and become pure thought, unadulterated by emotion, by concern, by anything but the processing of rarified ideas.

Much of what I read in astrology has that same character, if less extreme. I include here even the revered mentor of us humanistic and transpersonal astrologers, Dane Rudhyar. While there is a certain spare celestial beauty to his ever enlarging and looping rhythms, I must admit, I find his tone dry, abstract, bloodless — with no concrete examples, nothing to bond it with what really happens here below. Pure thought. No passion. No life!

And there’s the other extreme too, an astrology which focuses too narrowly on mundane events, where the result is either gossipy or full of staccato data. Here, in the intellectual polarity between the bloodless abstract and the trivialized concrete, is that same mind/body duality reflected. First, mind splits off from body; next, mind itself splits into two kinds of thinking, and neither one feels alive.

As I walk, I look across four miles of snow covered sage to the west, and am, as ever, awed by the sight of the snowy Tetons rising precipitiously from the valley floor. Boiling silver clouds play peek-a-boo with the frozen north face of the Grand Teton. So high, so remote, cold stone and ice . . . and so indifferent to the play of human passion rippling out from each of us, linking us together, no matter how alone some of us may feel, down here below.

Mountains have always been metaphors for both solitude and lofty thought. Asian monks leave householding behind to sit on them and commune with the gods — sometimes forever. Tourists stop their cars and try to capture the scene with camera or video. At their next restaurant meal they may discuss what they saw out there for a few moments, fumbling for words, eyes taking on that misty faraway look humans are prey to. This longing, a yearning, but for what? what? — is what separates us from our wild animal friends.

Painters try to represent what mountains evoke in them. The Tetons have been painted and postcarded so many millions of times that their actual presence sometimes seems clichéd. Grandiose, two-dimensional Valhallian mountain scenes in ornate carved wooden frames dominate public walls in banks and law offices, they hang over massive living room mantelpieces and king size beds . . . As we go about our daily business such paintings sometimes catch our busy eyes. They remind us of our more exalted possibilities . . . they numb us by the very familiarity of what is or should be so rare.

Some of us choose to place ourselves where such glory will be the constant vibrant background to our every heartbeat. It is precisely the extraordinary beauty of this still pristine land that draws us here in the first place. But how many of us acknowledge this place in the manner of Brooke Medicine Eagle, as a tiny but sacred spot on the skin of mother earth? And how many of us feel her, in our wombs?

But wait, wait . . . remember that day when I walked down out of Death Canyon, tired and alone. So tired that my mind slipped into my body, and gave my feet the lead. Remember the cool breeze, tunneling through the canyon, picking up the creek’s tumbling rush, rising and falling, caressing my ears with its music? And remember that one extraordinary moment when, for some unknown reason, I suddenly stopped walking, turned around, and looked up to the exact spot where an eagle soared high over a spired ridge?

Yes. And remember another time, that soft spring afternoon, sitting on a rounded hillside of Shadow Mountain, looking out across three miles of valley to the Grand Teton? Remember lying back in that field of yellow flowered balsam root, watching clouds scud by? And remember turning over, my hands clutching plants, sticks, seeds, stones, body caressing full length the soil in its yearly awakening? Remember bursting into tears? And feeling so full, so alive, so sensual . . . yielding to the earth as my beloved.

Times such as these are the exception. They are so intimate, so strange, so haunting . . . Like certain dreams at night, which pass into other dimensions altogether, these experiences in nature are so foreign to my usual waking dream that I have trouble even remembering them, much less putting them into words for others. And even if I could I would be too embarrassed . . . until, last night, that is, when Brooke reminded me of their value.

I speak of nature as my lover. Not poetically, not lyrically, but in reality. Encountering her in this manner I see/feel her utterly differently than usual. She is not something to be viewed, classified, evaluated, and, in some way, used. Rather, she is someone to be cherished, held, surrendered to. In opening to her we drink her in, and are charged by her presence; she is overwhelmingly real and alive.

Speaking of nature in this manner throws me outside the society I grew up in. Certainly it is alien to my usual ways of walking on this planet, even now, now that I’m “new age.” And I’d bet that very few of even the more sensitive ones who live in this extraordinary mountain valley — who say they “love” this land, they “love it here” — really, in any full sense of that word, do. How often do we interact with nature as our lover? Aren’t we usually relating to her more with an eye as to how she can fulfill our individual desires?

Take the intense loner athlete, for example, who scales these mountains. He climbs straight up sheer rock — or ice — walls, mind over matter, to the top, where he overlooks everything, having conquered both gravity and his own body’s natural fear and pain. Most athletes here are equipment freaks as well; they blend a single-minded desire to get to the top with an exacting hi-tech attention to precisely which climbing shoes will offer most frictional advantage, which materials in their clothing will “wick” sweat away.

Mind over matter. Brain over body. Tone that machine. Tune it up, make sure it’s hard — to go the distance, to scale the heights, to ski straight down steep powder slopes. Even athletes, seemingly most in tune with their bodies — obey the cultural command. Rather than flowing with nature and her ways, these bodies are designed and continually retooled to meet their owners’ rigid specifications. Nature’s extremes are viewed as challenges, to be conquered, dominated, controlled. Not just eggheads move with their heads first.

I think of the legends surrounding these jagged peaks, how they are likened to giant crystals, magnifying everything that goes on here. Of the great crystal caves rumored to lie somewhere inside the Grand Teton. Of the Great White Brotherhood which, it is whispered, meets here each year in spirit form, on the fourth of July. I think of all the high spiritual books, including Alice Bailey’s, which this brotherhood is said to have inspired.

I think of one man in particular, he is here precisely because of these legends. Richard is so abstracted, so wrapped up in his mind, that he ignores his body altogether, noticing neither what it is wearing or the ground upon which it walks. His body, reflecting that lack of concern, is puffy, shapeless. (Like so many tourists’ bodies. During August especially, I notice that fully one out of every ten people walking the streets of Jackson is seriously obese.)

Athletes only seem to be body oriented. Actually, most of them are mental, wanting total control over their bodies, treating them like machines. Some metaphysical people ignore their bodies, they are more obviously mental in orientation. The point is, neither of them feel nature, in their wombs. They would laugh at Brooke’s aboriginal point of view.

Then there are those who came here to use nature in blatant ways — to use her up. They carve up hills and river bottom land into “real” estate, and sell it, for profit. They build huge houses on five-acre tracts, or cluster condomaximums at river’s edge, and think of eco-nomics as if it is restricted to money.

This valley is crawling with real estate agents and others who obey the dictates of “progress.” What keeps them in check are the efforts of the Jackson Hole Alliance and the Jackson Hole Land Trust, whose members do seem to genuinely care about preserving wild lands. Unfortunately, they must spend an inordinate amount of time fighting not only human greed, but also the legalities of state, federal and corporate claims for oil, mineral, grazing and deforestation “rights.” One cannot do battle with bureaucrats without, in some sense, becoming one. I watch this happen now, as the environmental movement comes of age, and pulls up its backpacking grassroots for the move to Washington, D.C.

Of related concern is the fate of the Great Bear, which during the past several years has come to national attention. As once vast tracts of true wilderness shrink to early nothing, as what is left gets carved into tiny bureaucratic fiefdoms with no common agenda, the grizzly’s normally wide-ranging habitat is so seriously disturbed that, as of 1986, only 34 breeding sows live in Yellowstone Park. Yellowstone and Glacier Park are the only areas left in the contiguous 48 states still viable for the grizzly. If many had their way, these wildernesses too would be gentled, made user-friendly to man by destroying what few bears remain.

The poet Robert Bly spoke of what he termed the hidden “hairy man” within each man in a now famous seminal article, “On Being A Man” (1982). Bly’s hairy man is a wild man, he has more in common with the grizzly than with either macho men or the gentle, “liberated” males escorting either feminists or each other today. We fear this hairy man, his genuine natural potency, as we fear the grizzly, and his dream partner, the legendary yeti. We fear the wildness in ourselves. We fear our feelings — the joy, the passion, the rage, the surrender to our mother and the terrible pain inflicted upon her by our unnatural forebrained habits.

These feelings arise as we plug in to our centers, our wombs. These feelings move us to change our ways and preserve life on earth. No amount of reading high spiritual — and astrological — material, no number of hours spent meditating in quiet contemplation will do it. Our minds and spirits may expand our awareness, but they do not originate anything.

Men and women alike, we are all male and female, creative and receptive. Each of us is mind and body, and within each of these, there are creative and receptive aspects. Receptive, we open to the ground, what our mother wants to give us; creative, we reach for the stars.

Midway between our head and our toes sits our womb, our center. We are each the center of the universe, the still point of a turning world. Through our centers we link heaven to earth and balance ourselves. Saturn represents centripetal force, gravid, drawing us down. Uranus is centrifugal; spinning out like electrons, we fill the heavens with our wonder.

Finally, I am reminded of a good friend of mine, I will call him Coyote, as this most adaptive of wild creatures is his totem. Coyote is a dreamer and storyteller and music masker. His source is the waters of Boiling River at Mammoth, Montana in Yellowstone. His roots are aboriginal. Coyote feels more in common with monkey than with the straight man role his civilized conscience still sometimes forces him to play.

Coyote’s “environmentalism” is primal, pure; he doesn’t give a hoot about how to trace his way through a bureaucratic maze. Yet even he, who could teach us so much, seems confused. Coyote man! He who drums in tune with the pulsing geysers, he whose words and music soar like the thousands of pelicans that whirl in vortex formation over Yellowstone River — yet even Coyote said to me once, why worry about the planet, when we’re about to lift off the earth?

Coyote would forego his aboriginal roots for a hi-tech future. He would solve the planetary crisis the same way Tim Leary would (not to mention military industrial contractors); they look to technology to save us, and advocate peeling out of here in rockets. Born-again Christians and fundamentalist Moslems can’t wait to leave either — for their various heavens elsewhere. What care have they for preserving our creaturely nest?

Here I am, walking along head first, preoccupied; I wrestle with Alice Bailey and Brooke Medicine Eagle and wonder how the two shall join. Surrounding me are athletes and metaphysicians, artists and tourists, greedy ones and preservers, Coyote and the bureaucrats. Here we all are, living mostly in our minds, ignoring the mysterious life in our bodies, and the way they resonate with the larger body, our mother, Earth — the substance of which she is composed, the wild creatures upon her. We are in association — whether or not we know it — not just with each other, but with the trees and rocks and water and plants and soil and all the bear and deer and geese and swans and eagles and hawks and moose and elk and bison and other, more delicate and unnoticed beings inhabiting this magical land. Intense, individual, extreme, and full of contradiction, our energies are magnified by the giant crystalline Teton range. Blindly, but with hope, we grope haltingly towards a shared life in this small mountain valley, sixty miles long, twenty wide, population 10,000, on the western edge of Wyoming.

 Return to the Grandmothers’ Dance

 Uranus is the sky god, wild, electrifying, innovative; lightening piercing the night sky. Saturn is “reality,” social reality, civilized; form, in its actual manifestation. Uranus is the Grand Teton, a gigantic lightning rod. Saturn is the social roles we play down here below, who we think we are — the infamous forebrain.

Uranus above, Saturn below. Mountain above, valley below. Sky above, earth below. Mind above, body below. Alice Bailey above, Brook Medicine Eagle below. Forebrain and womb. Male and female. Light and shadow. Nature and technology. Each of these a duality, polarized.

Without duality there is nothing to balance. Polarity is a fact of consciousness, which is always, an awareness of something, a relation between self and non-self. It is only when the teetertotter crashes to the ground lopsided that the balance of priorities is disturbed, and are we, as a people, disturbed.

The mind/body teetertotter has crashed to the ground, leaving he mind high and dry. We need to balance metaphysics with aboriginal wisdom, our minds with our bodies. And we need to re-member our bodies for what they truly are, formed from the soil, continuous with mother nature and her laws.

I think back to the grandmothers’ circular dance, and remember the woman opposite me. She is the only one I see full on, rather than obliquely. She offers me the other side of the world, a direct frontal mirror. Our “opposition” constitutes one of infinitely many that could people any circle. Each of us one endpoint of a single axis. Together, the two of us define a diameter, measuring how large this particular circle happens to be. There are no dualities, nothing is really polarized, once we place it within a larger circular space — valley wide, global, and beyond.

I stand at the center, in my womb, the still point of my turning world. Circular orbits surround me, concentric. Each a cycling planetary energy, each one including, enclosing the next. There is no end to it. Space reaches out – and in — forever.

Lightning pierces the night sky. My hands reach out and up into space — forever. My feet press down, to the mother, firmly — and she presses back. Through my womb I direct the light from sky to earth and refract it, in rainbow colors to spread in each of the four directions and all points in between.



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More on Wilcock’s break with Gaia TV: Laura Eisenhower and Patty Greer

From what I read, it appears that Wilcock’s resignation letter did work, and they accepted his resignation, canceling what remained of his contract. Meanwhile, what is the culture at Gaia TV? As with my original post on this matter —

David Wilcock resigns from Gaia TV?

— I’m reminded of other situations where what begins, or appears to begin, as pure intent and then gradually or suddenly erodes or morphs into corruption. Or else the situation was corrupt from the beginning, if only we had managed to notice that the exact opposite was being broadcast via reversal! Case in point: Remember that ballsy google motto, “DO NO EVIL”? That struck me as exceedingly strange from the getgo.

(Oops! Friend and blogger Laura Bruno has just informed me that the motto was actually “DON’T BE EVIL,” and furthermore, that google has removed that clause from its code of conduct!)

On the other hand, I need to think of myself here too,  of occasions in the past when I was in relationship with a primary partner, really needy of his attention, and thoroughly enjoying our intimacy, when bam, sooner or later, usually sooner — though I didn’t want to read, feel, or heed the signs, so desperate was I for any kind of attention, so deep was the hole in me that I hoped this person could fill — he proved to be someone I could not trust. Period. And yet, always, it took time to remove myself from such situations. (Less and less time, the older I get!)

First, I simply can’t believe it; then I rationalize: that part’s true, but I’ll look the other way, cuz the rest is so good; then, the abuse or neglect — or sheer, bald, unethical, even psychopathic behavior towards not just me but others, stealing, lying, controlling, other types of manipulation etc. — becomes so very blatant that I simply can’t, in all good conscience, continue.

I have a sense that this is what happened with David Wilcock at Gaia TV.

The question for all of us remains: what in us magnetizes such situations to us? What corruption in ourselves are we learning to both recognize and integrate through the dramas we create with our projections? For the lesson remains: we learn about ourselves via  mirroring in our relationships with others, whether one on one, group, or institutional. All our dramas have the same plot, teaching us to recognize and transform a part of ourselves that until now, we were either ignorant of, or refused to see.

Yes, either we learn from our projections, or we are condemned to repeat ourselves endlessly, creating the same old pattern with each new person, group or institution we project onto — and then get disappointed or pissed when the drama doesn’t “work out” as expected. That’s the problem: our expectations! We try to control with our minds what happens on the outside, rather than listen and respond, moment by moment, to prompts from the inside.

It’s always the same, this dynamic dance between inside and outside and our learning how to hold the balance, and to realize that whatever happens outside, started inside. And that the universe provides us with exactly what we need to learn to both identify and to break, a certain repeating pattern that ultimately, no matter how exciting in the beginning, eventually squelches aliveness and inhibits growth.

At this point, I see all costs that arise from such tremendous lessons that the universe provides me with as tuition for these graduate courses we are engaged in here; we “wise ones” who think we know what we are doing! We don’t! And everytime we get snookered, we realize, once again, that the universe tossed us that particular curved ball, the one specific ball that would precisely magnetize us in order to learn, NOW, the machinations of a heretofore hidden part of ourselves.

And let’s face it: the older we become, if we are conscious, and determined to remain so, processing every experience to glean  meaning from it, then every encounter that teaches us will prove more and more subtle and exacting, targeting multiply dimensional entanglements. It doesn’t get easier, it gets harder!

On the other hand, our capacity for processing through whatever happens becomes more and more refined, lighter and lighter. Ultimately, we find ourselves playing, rather than crying; grateful for the lessons, and, frankly, simply astonished and grateful that this particular teacher, this “honorable opponent,” should have appeared NOW in our lives when he or she or they were so sorely needed.

By this time in my 75 years of life, my “life lessons” are post-doctoral! And I still have to pay my own tuition. Of course!

Here are two Sarah Westhall videos interviewing two dynamic and divinely feminine warrior women: Laura Eisenhower and Patty Greer, covering their perspectives on what went down with Wilcock, the culture of Gaia, and its nefarious plans, which, if true, then hopefully, will now be smashed to smithereens by the negative publicity.

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