The Nest in the Stream

by Michael Kearney MD

  On the fourth day of the dance, I went down to the arbor early and sat there waiting. I watched as a robin landed on the grass, hunting for worms. He found one and flew off with the worm in his mouth. He landed briefly on the yellow prayer flag where he swallowed the worm before flying into the trees. Then, just as the sun came over the tops of the trees and into the arbor, the headman and headwoman, followed by the Chief and the other helpers, led the dancers in through the East Gate one last time, carrying the buffalo skull and the Sun Dance pipe to lay on the altar in the west. As the dancing began, I was filled with gratitude to have been part of this beautiful prayer and for all I had received. I looked up and saw the Tree of Life, standing at the center of the sacred hoop, holding the prayers of all the people and, in some mysterious way, united with everything in creation. The words “sacred connection” came to me. I saw that connection is not something we do or make but who we already are in our deepest nature. I understood then that this is what Wolf calls “our original instructions,” meaning who and how the Creator intends us to be, and that as and when we remember this, we return to the state of being that is prayer.

  The Sun Dance is a ceremony of deep remembering. The Sun Dance helps us to remember that we too are relatives, and why this matters. As Wolf puts it, “when we remember who we are, we know what’s important, and when we know what’s important, then we know what we have to do.” Just as the ceremony helps us to remember who we are, perhaps, in some way, it also helps the rest of nature to remember who we are.

  All through those four days of Sun Dance, the Tree of Life was at the center of the sacred hoop. As I looked at it now on this final day of the dance, I sensed that besides the cords of connection, some visible, some not, coming out from the Tree of Life to us two-legged humans, there were also roots of connection going out from the Tree of Life to the great Tree Nation surrounding us on all sides. The thought occurred to me that perhaps the Tree of Life had mediated a truce between our two nations. For hundreds of years, we humans had looked at trees only through economic eyes, as lumber to be cut down and sold, and not as the living, sentient beings they are. I could understand how the Tree Nation, seeing how preoccupied we were with doing our own thing and going our own way, could have have decided to carry on without us. But now I imagined the Tree Nation hearing the singing and the drumming and the eagle whistles, looking over their shoulders and seeing that we humans were dancing in a spirit of humility, and grief, and gratitude, and noticing that we were suffering for the people, and that when we approached the Tree of Life we did so with tenderness and reverence. And I pictured that great forest, realizing that we humans had remembered our ancient friendship, slowly, slowly turning, and once again joining in the dance.

  More than once as I watched the eagle dancers “suffering for the people,” I thought of the Buddhist hero figure of the bodhisattva, the one who, even though she or he has reached full enlightenment and could enter the eternal bliss of nirvana, chooses instead to turn around and reenter samsara, the world of suffering, and does this again, and again, and again, until all beings are happy, until all beings are safe, until all beings are free. The bodhisattva knows that the way to bring happiness, safety, and freedom to the people is to suffer with them: that this delivers them from the pain of separateness and brings them into the healing of community.

  As I danced with them, I knew what Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl meant when he quoted German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche: “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”1 A sense of meaning makes it possible to bear the unbearable. The dancers could take the four days of fasting, the skin piercings, and the dancing in the sun beyond exhaustion, knowing that they were doing this for their people, for all people. The dancers’ yearning to help the people was stronger than their pain. Once again, I understood that the deeper our connections are with others, the more we care about them. The more we care about them, the more we want to act, to do all that we can to help them, no matter what the cost.

  Beauty and community are powerful containers of suffering. When I saw an exhausted Sun Dancer slump to his knees at the end of the dance and lean forwards to touch his forehead to the Earth, I flashed back to that time in my life when I was grieving the loss of contact with my daughters and I had collapsed on the floor, on the wolf robe, and found some comfort there. I remembered John, whom I had met many years before at St Christopher’s Hospice, who had said to me, in words of surprise and relief, “The pain is still there, but I can live with it now.” In the silent equanimity of nature, everyone and everything has a place.

  After the closing ceremonies, as I was walking back to camp, a soft rain began to fall. I remembered something I had heard Wolf say about one of the Sun Dance songs we had just been singing. He had told us that the words of the song translated as “I will always be standing here to defend and protect Mother Earth.” He had added, “In truth we’re only here for four days and yet we’ll always be standing here. Wherever we go, we’ll still be standing here. We’ll remember and we’ll live this way.”

  After returning home, my weekly attendance at Wolf and Lisa’s Monday night sweat lodge ceremonies helped me to stay in touch with what I had experienced at the Sun Dance. Even though this often left me a little sleep-deprived, I walked through Tuesdays with my feet sinking a little deeper into the earth and my heart a little more open to my patients’ pain. As I walked my dogs in the mornings and noticed how the California towhee pair did not seem so alarmed at my approach and continued with their feeding—scratching, jumping back, pecking at whatever bug they had uncovered, and taking their time before moving on—I knew that there were cords here too, maybe fine and slender ones, but every bit as vital as those between the eagle dancers and the Tree of Life.

  SEVENTH

  POLARIS

  The back gable of our house faces due north. In the middle of the night, if I look out of the window next to my bed and track upward in a straight line from the highest branches of the fig tree at the top of the little hill in front of me, I see Polaris, the North Star. The bottom arms of Ursa Major reach out toward her on one side, and on the other the receptive “W” of Cassiopeia faces her in irregular, branch-like asymmetry. Night after night, when I look up, there is Polaris. By early morning all the other stars in the northern sky have rotated in an arc from east to west, but not Polaris. Polaris is the one point in the northern night sky that does not move. She is always in the same place.

  In the early hours of the morning on the second night of my vision quest, I was suddenly awakened by the sound of earth moving just inches from my head. I sat bolt upright and turned around to face whatever it was. All was silent. I turned in the direction of the sound. On the small, bare hill that bordered the edge of my site, in the dim moonlight, I saw a giant toad sitting motionless, its body still partially buried in the ground. Maybe he had smelled the moisture from the recent rain and decided to come out of hibernation. After a little while I heard him scurry off into the brush. Then all was quiet again.

  I sat up to focus on my prayer. I knelt before the altar in the corner, struck a match, and burned some dried white sage. I smudged myself down and then I smudged the sacred pipe. I picked it up and stooped forward, holding the pipe bowl to my heart and the stem to my forehead, almost touching the ground. As I began to pray for the future generations, I noticed that I was feeling disconnected from my prayer. There was something abstract about the words “future generations” that felt far removed from my own experience. I turned my prayers to the reality of the ripening life in my daughter Mary-Anna’s belly. Pictures came into my mind: a clear-cut forest, a scraped bare mountaintop, parched broken earth, and a shot wolf, his hindquarters all bloodied, looking straight at the photographer with his tongue out and an open, smiling face. Questions came: “Is there even going to be a future for the unborn to come into? And what can I do about this?” For some time, I knelt there holding these questions as I continued to pra
y and sing.

  I stood up. Before me there was a great scrub oak. From its silhouette, I could count sixteen separate boughs descending to its single base. I imagined clasping one of the boughs and pressing it hard against my aching heart. I closed my eyes. The ache became a yearning for the welfare of the future ones. I opened my eyes. The splayed branches of the oak looked even blacker now against the dark Prussian-blue sky. Suddenly I noticed the stars, shining through the mottled canopy of black. My gaze continued upward over my head. The sky was full of the brightest stars I had ever seen. As my eyes were touched by light from the distant past, words came: “We are already here.”

  Silently I asked, “Given that you’re already here, what can I do for you now? What can I do now so that you future ones will be born into a world as beautiful as this one; this world surrounding me on this altar, with the mountains, the sages, the meadows, the flowers coming out after the rains, the grasses, the clouds, the birds, the oaks?”

  Then, directly above my head, and straight over the red, northern flag, I noticed a small bright star standing alone that I immediately recognized. Its name flashed into my mind—but not as the North Star, not as Polaris, but as bodhichitta, a word and a concept I had been introduced to by Joanna Macy. I knew that I was being given an answer to my question. I began to pray, “May I walk beautifully on the Earth so that they may walk beautifully on the Earth. May I do what I can do to make this world a better place for the future ones. May everyone who lives now and in the future, know that they are beloved of the Earth.” The word bodhichitta is made up of two Sanskrit words: bodhi, meaning “awakened” and, chitta, meaning “heart-mind.” Joanna speaks of how, “in the Buddhist tradition, bodhichitta is seen as something very precious, something to treasure and protect. We can think of it as a flame in our hearts and minds that guides us and shines through our actions.”1 Bodhichitta describes a particular intention and motivation. As she puts it, “Bodhichitta is the overarching yearning for the welfare of all beings.” Bodhichitta is an ember that each of us carries in our hearts, which in the right conditions blazes into being.

  Like the North Star, bodhichitta is always there to come back to. It reorients and situates us in a stream of interdependence that transforms suffering—that of others and our own. When our personal welfare is our primary concern, we reinforce our sense of separateness and disconnection. This feeds our fear and insecurity, and intensifies our suffering. When we make the well-being of others our primary concern, it strengthens our experience of interconnectedness and of being part of something greater. This soothes our fear and brings us into healing.

  I have heard his Holiness the Dalai Lama say that he begins his day at 3:00 a.m. with practices to cultivate bodhichitta. When he was asked, “What keeps you from being overwhelmed when you see what is happening in Tibet and to your fellow countrymen?” he replied: “I trust in the sincerity of my heart’s intentions.” And when he was asked, “During the course of your life, what have been your greatest lessons?” he replied, “Mostly bodhichitta, altruism. It has helped a lot. In some ways, you could say bodhichitta has made me into a new person, a new man. I am still progressing. Trying. It gives you inner strength, courage, and it is easier to accept situations.”2

  Bodhichitta is the altruistic intention that fuels compassionate action. Bodhichitta is the North Star to guide us in uncertain times. Bodhichitta is a powerful medicine that makes it possible to live with pain.

  MONDAY EVENING, JUNE

  Last night I woke up full of concerns for Ben, my patient. I realized that despite everything we had done, he was getting weaker and there was nothing that I or anyone else could do to prevent this. I sat up on the side of my bed and looked out the window. The sky was so bright from the full moon that at first I did not see any stars. Then I looked above the fig tree and there it was, Polaris, the North Star. Immediately, I saw Ben’s face: so young, so emaciated, so wanting to hope, so undemanding. Silently, and thinking of Ben, I recited a bodhichitta prayer: “May all beings be happy, may all beings be safe, may all beings everywhere be free, and may I become all that I need to become to best enable this to happen.”

  As I prayed, I felt the emotional resonance of the words. When I had finished, I continued to sit there looking at the star. I noticed that something about my feelings had changed. Where there had been worry and a sense of failure, there was sadness, affection, and deep appreciation for this courageous young man.

  Ben never made it home. He never got to see his granddad again. Instead he came straight to the inpatient hospice because he was so weak and still in so much pain. During the first couple of weeks in the hospice he did well. It seemed as if he saw this move as a new beginning and a new opportunity, and that he wanted to do what he could to make the most of it. His pain settled down, and with the help of a friend who was a nutritionist, he started on a diet of organic fruits, vegetables, and juices. Many people, caregivers as well as family, commented on a change they noticed in Ben. Whereas before he had kept his room darkened, now it was bright and filled with sunlight. He said he felt well and, having previously not wanted visitors, he now welcomed family and friends. He took time each day to sit out on the patio to feel the warm air and listen to the running water of the water fountain, and watch the birds in the coastal oaks. His thirty-first birthday was on May 30. It was also his mother’s birthday, and happened to be the day of his grandfather’s funeral. Ben went to the funeral and insisted on walking from the car to his place in the church. The following day he told me how important it was for him to have been able to do this and to see some of his favorite uncles and aunts.

  Four weeks after his admission to hospice, Ben’s situation was looking very different. He had lost a lot of weight in the past couple of weeks and his pain was worsening. We had adjusted his pain medication and this had helped, but he was now sleeping more due to the increased sedation and his weakening body. When I saw him early in the afternoon, he was curled up in his bed asleep. The room was once again darkened. Juanita, his mother, was at his bedside. Ben looked shrunken and very much weaker than when I had last seen him. When I sat by his bedside and gently called his name, he opened his eyes and said “Hello, Doctor Kearney.” Then he closed his eyes again. I told him I would be back later to see how he was doing. As I left, Juanita followed me out into the corridor. I suggested we sit and talk in the nearby family room.

  Juanita said, “I’ve been praying for a miracle but I can see what’s happening with his body. I sat with my father when he was dying. He fought it for so long. At the end I was able to say to him, ‘It’s okay to go now.’ I know that this is what’s happening for Ben, but I can’t say to my son, ‘It’s okay to go…’ Because it’s not. I don’t know what to say to him.” She began to cry. I too felt at a loss and for a while we just sat there together in silence. Then I said, “I don’t know what to say either, Juanita. Maybe it’s not so much about words anymore. Maybe it’s just about being with him now. Your presence says it all.”

  When I came back later in the afternoon, Ben seemed to be more deeply asleep. I pulled over a chair and sat at the opposite side of the bed from Juanita. Ben looked so frail, peaceful, and comfortable lying there. His breathing was smooth and easy. After a little while I said, “Ben, it’s okay to sleep. You sleep now, my friend, as much as you like….Your granddad is close by….I’ll look in tomorrow.” Without opening his eyes, he said, “Thank you.” I put my hand on his very thin, tattooed arm and left the room. As I left the hospice house, an unexpected gentle rain was falling.

  Later that evening as I sit in the dark in the sweat lodge, I think of Ben and Juanita. I am filled with sadness that this beautiful young life that is just beginning is coming to an end. Wolf asks, “Does anyone have a prayer that needs to be spoken out loud?”

  “For all my relations!” I answer.

  “Yes, relative,” Wolf replies.

  I pray for Ben, that he be free of su
ffering, that he find healing, that he find his way. And I pray for Juanita, for a blessing on her heart and that she too may be free of suffering and find the healing she needs.

  As Lisa begins to sing and others join in, I sit back and drop deeper into the dark. It’s hot now and the lodge is filled with the breath of the stone people. My eyes are closed and sweat is pouring down my face like tears and falling onto the earth by my feet. I see the nest in the stream. As the water flows, it begins to turn, slowly, sun-wise, and as it does, something at its black core begins to glow—an ember, an intensity, a star—and filaments of light flicker out in all directions. I pray that this light touches Ben and Juanita, and all who suffer, nearby and far away, those I know and those I don’t know.

  LESSONS FROM NATURE

  As a child, I loved nature but always from a distance and on my terms. Then, with the tragic drowning of the girls in the river by our home, I was swept into the realization that nature has a pulse and agency of her own. This is a lesson I have been taught again and again since then as other-than-human nature has come toward me. As I lay on the Earth in my grief, she came toward me as the robin. As I came to the Earth in my curiosity, she approached me as the wolf on the road in Yellowstone. As I walked the land near our home with gratitude and respect, she revealed her beauty as junco, as grandfather rock, as grandmother white sage, as red-tailed hawk, and as morning light on the grasses. As I returned to the Earth with my heart’s deepest question, the ladybug nation reminded me that I too belong. When I asked the Earth how I could come back into right relations with the rest of nature, she led me into a dance with the Tree Nation, and reminded me that I too have roots. Nature is no longer something I love from a distance but who I am in my deepest identity.