The Springs and The People: A 21st-Century Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there was a place called Florida that had more freshwater springs, and more big freshwater springs, than anyplace else in the world.

Even before the land was called “Florida,” the springs were gathering places for the native people who visited them to fish, to gather water, and to tell stories as they sat and whittled their arrow points.

When the European explorers first came to the land they named Florida, they were enchanted by the springs. Some of them even thought the springs were fountains of youth, magical places where people could be cured of their ills and come away rejuvenated.

Later on, more explorers and naturalists were drawn to the springs. One of them, William Bartram, gave us some of our first written descriptions of these water wonders. And because people were learning how to communicate over great distances, Bartram’s writings—and Florida's springs—inspired poets and artists and curious people in faraway lands.

As time went on and word about these enchanted places spread, people came from all over the world to visit these water wonders.

People came to camp and canoe and hike the trails along the runs where the clear blue spring waters ran out to join the brown waters of the rivers that flowed long distances to the sea.

People came to dive hundreds of feet below the surface of the springs to explore the vast, mysterious network of underground caves where no one had ever gone before.

People came to swim in the bright sweet clear spring water as it gushed up between limestone rocks from deep inside the earth.

People were enchanted by the springs.

For many years, no one worried about the springs. Everyone assumed the springs would flow forever, crystal blue and shining with that sweet smell of really clear water, under the Florida sun.

But then, as always, things began to change.

People who lived near the springs and rivers began to fertilize their crops and their lawns, not realizing that fertilizer is something that hurts the springs.

People brought in many dairy cows, not realizing that the waste from cattle is something that hurts the springs.

More and more people began to water their lawns, not realizing that using so much water is something that hurts the springs.

Some people even realized that they could pipe free water out of the springs and sell it for profit, not realizing or not caring that pumping so much water is something that hurts the springs.

Eventually, some of the people who visited the springs started to notice changes.

Underwater plants that used to flourish in the clear spring runs began to disappear.

The water in the springs, usually a clear bright blue, slowly began to turn green. Something called algae began to show up where it had never been seen before.

Springs began to produce less water. Some springs even disappeared completely.

The people who were worried began to make little noises. The people in Florida who had the power to make laws to protect the springs mostly ignored these noises.

The worried people began to make louder noises. The Florida lawmakers turned their backs.

The worried people decided to take their case to court. They were willing to use every tool they had to save the springs. They went to court, and got a big federal agency to agree to enforce some laws that the worried people hoped would protect the springs.

But the lawmakers couldn’t be swayed. Protection costs too much, they said. We can’t afford it, they said.

So the lawmakers—who were supposed to represent all the people, but who really represented only a few people who had a lot of money—took actions of their own to make sure that the springs would never be protected.

Over time, swimmers began to get rashes from the water, and some of them even got sick.

Over time, the springs got cloudier and darker.

Over time, fish began to die.

Over time, the water got so murky that the cave divers stopped coming.

Over time, the swimmers and canoers and hikers and picknickers stopped coming to the springs.

Over time, the many people who ran businesses that catered to the springs visitors closed up shop. Little towns along the rivers began to look like ghost towns.

And on bright hot summer days at the springs—when once you would hear the laughter of families and friends as they splashed and swam and grilled and ate and were happy—all you could hear instead was a vast silence.

And when the springs died, a little bit of all of us—and a little bit of enchantment—died too.

Moral: Our springs need champions, but it doesn’t look like we are going to get any from the political arena. So it’s up to each and every one of us to do whatever we can to save the springs. What can YOU do?

Driving to the Writing Workshop

It's March 4, New Moon in Virgo—which happens to be my birth sign—and I'm driving from Florida to Reidsville, Georgia, for an environmental writing workshop with one my heroines, Janisse Ray.

I drove the Florida-Georgia route many times with my parents when I was small, but I don't ever remember driving this stretch from Lake City, Florida, to Homerville, Georgia. It's just about the longest stretch of nothin' I've ever seen—miles and miles with no houses, no settlements, no gas stations, nothing but planted pines and swampy areas along the edges of the road, punctuated by the occasional sight of a dead deer that was hit by a passing vehicle.

I am travelling the western edge of the Okefenokee Swamp, where the Suwannee River rises out of Georgia mud for its long, meandering flow west to the Gulf of Mexico.

I give a little prayer of thanks that I had enough foresight to fill the car's gas tank before I left Lake City. There's certainly no gasoline to be had on this stretch of road.

Actually, I enjoy this long stretch of nothin'. There are too many planted pines for me to say that I'm in a wilderness area, but there are practically no other cars or humans to be seen, and the solitude is welcome. Music even seems jarring, so I turn off the radio.

It's late winter here in the South, and most of the landscape—except for the ubiquitous planted pines—is still a dull grayish-brown, splashed here and there with the brilliant pink of a blooming redbud or the snowy white blooms of pear or wild plum—tree candy for the eyes, especially after our cold winter.

A grey fox lopes from west to east some distance in front of my car. I slow down.

Crossing into Georgia, I spot a spectacular two-story wooden building right on the banks of the Suwannee River. It turns out to be the Suwannee River Visitors Center, and the building is so impressive that I pull in to investigate.

I find a very welcoming volunteer staffer, some wonderful exhibits, a great selection of books about the area, an array of t-shirts in gorgeous soft autumn colors (my favorite!), and a bona fide composting toilet! Best of all, this is a "green" building—LEED certified—an example of what state agencies everywhere could be doing if only they had the funding.

Coming out of Homerville, the landscape becomes more civilized, though still mostly rural. I smile when I see the signs so common to rural areas everywhere: "brown eggs for sale," "chicks are in," and, amidst pecan groves, "Nut 'n' Honey." Lots of places are selling honey; hopefully this area has not been hard hit by bee colony collapse.

And churches. Everywhere, little country churches.

I can't ever drive for a long way without remembering all the road trips I took with my parents when I was a child. We moved a lot, and we took summer vacations every year, often driving from Georgia or Florida to Texas to visit my paternal grandparents and my father's sister.

I drive by a field and am suddenly haunted by these old memories of road trips with my folks, sparked by the sight of small round stubby bushes flecked with white. I know this crop; I used to see it on the way to Texas when I was little, but it's been so long since I've seen it that it takes me a few seconds to recognize it: cotton, emblematic cash crop of the South, source of "the fabric of our lives."

So much Southern history draped around cotton. So many memories of my parents and grandparents.

So many tears.

And yet, so much still to love.

The pear trees here in Georgia seem bigger and more showy than the pears in Florida. Big and spectacular, these Georgia trees boast oodles of snowy blossoms that toss and glow in the brisk wind. If you love trees, you have to love these pears.

Getting close to Reidsville, with the road winding through farm after farm and pecan grove after pecan grove, I spy a red brick country church bordered on one side by a long row of some of the tallest and most beautiful pear trees I've seen so far.

Like many country churches, this one has a sign out front. The country church, the gorgeous pears, and the sign combine to create a silent sermon in only three words.

LOVE NEVER FAILS.

And just for the briefest moment, my busy mind stops.

The photo shows the Suwannee River Visitors Center in Fargo, Georgia. Great place to visit! Click on the photo for a larger view.

Kubla Khan OR, A VISION IN A DREAM. A FRAGMENT. by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced:

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Some people think Coleridge was inspired by William Bartram's descriptions of Florida's mighty fountains, our own beautiful freshwater springs. The photo, above, is the head spring at Ichtetucknee. Click on the image for a larger view!

What Would You Do?

What would you do if someone told you that you lived in the middle of the largest concentration of freshwater springs on planet Earth? Over 900* springs in all?

And that some of those springs had already ceased to flow?

And that others—springs widely recognized as the area's gems and state's treasures—had lost 20% or 30% of their flows?

Because too many people watered too many lawns? Too many businesses failed to use best management practices? Too many governments, businesses, agribusinesses, and individuals failed to conserve water and return treated water to the aquifer?

What would you do if you knew that one day, Silver Springs might not exist? Ichetucknee Springs? Wekiva? Wakulla?

What would you do if you knew that we only had 3 years to make a difference, or we might lose our springs forever?

What would you do?

*Thanks to Dr. Bob Knight of the Florida Springs Institute for this updated figure for Florida's freshwater springs.

The image above is of the head springs at Ichetucknee Springs State Park. Click on the image for a better view.

Saving Our Springs by Asking the Right Questions

I’ve been thinking about Florida’s water issues again and, in particular, the fate of those springs that are our own unique, sparkling jewels—Silver, Ichetucknee, Manatee, Wekiva, and so many more, over 900 in all, the largest concentration of freshwater springs in the world.

Put that much crystal-clear water together in one place, and the springs long ago would have been named a World Heritage Site or at the very least, a National Park. But because they are scattered, held by a mix of public and private owners, and because the State of Florida is reluctant to enforce or even enact regulations that would help preserve these gems, it seems that task falls to all the rest of us.

As I’ve watched and welcomed the expanding dialogue about Florida’s water issues, I’ve realized something else.

Just as we can’t expect the government to step in and prevent the springs from being loved to death, polluted, or pumped dry, so we cannot expect science to provide all the answers to our water problems.

I’m not saying we don’t need science; we do. It’s just that I think the kind of effort that is going to be required to save our springs can only be successful if we advance the dialogue beyond the seemingly endless scientific arguments that surface at every public meeting, and start asking some of the bigger moral and ethical questions that this issue demands.

Science, after all, was not developed to solve every human dilemma—only to explain the workings of the natural world. To solve the really big problems, I am convinced that we need to bring into play ethics, morality, empathy, and compassion.

If we first recognize that each of us needs clean water to survive, and that each of us is capable of contributing to the fouling and diminishment of that water, then I think we can begin to ask some of the bigger questions that might be helpful.

What are our responsibilities as individuals, neighbors, communities, and businesses with regard to keeping our water free of pollutants? Conserving water when we can? Keeping our septic tanks in good working order? Changing the way we fertilize our plants? Making the switch from manicured lawns that need lots of water to alternatives such as native plant gardens that need less? Buying sturdy water bottles and getting our drinking water from the tap? Speaking out about our role in saving our water and our springs to family, friends, and acquaintances in our neighborhoods, churches, workplaces, and schools?

And can we even come to collective agreement about the answers to these questions in an environment that seems to polarize us at every turn?

Florida’s new governor seems intent on relegating a lot of the state’s “anti-business” regulations to the dustbin; I worry about how this will affect our water quality, and how it will affect all those businesses that depend on water-based recreational tourism, all those other businesses that use Florida’s natural environment as a recruiting tool for their employees, and all the rest of us who can’t think of anything better than a cool dip in the springs on a hot summer day.

For quite a while now, I’ve felt alone in wondering if we should be asking these ethical questions, so I was delighted recently to discover that I’m not alone. For people who are interested, I recommend the new book Moral Ground: Ethical Action for a Planet in Peril edited by Kathleen Dean Moore and Michael P. Nelson.

I think the sooner we start asking the big questions, the closer we may come to saving our springs. I offer these thoughts in the hope that they may start a ripple effect.

Note: The Gainesville Sun was kind enough to publish this as an opinion piece on January 24, 2010.

Freedom, Pointing-Out Instructions, and Dharma Study

I have just come from an amazing weekend of teachings given here in Florida by Bardor Tulku Rinpoche of Kunzang Palchen Ling in Red Hook, New York, and formerly of His Holiness Karmapa’s North American seat, Karma Triyana Dharmachakra in Woodstock, New York.

Bardor Tulku Rinpoche (hereinafter referred to as BTR, for brevity’s sake) is recognized as the rebirth of one of Guru Rinpoche’s (Padmasambhava’s) 25 main disciples, Nub Sangye Yeshe, and also as the rebirth of the 19th-century terton (treasure text finder), Terchen Barway Dorje.

BTR taught this past weekend on three of Barway Dorje’s songs that have been published in the book Treasury of Eloquence: The Songs of Barway Dorje. For those who are interested, the songs are on pages 120-130 of the book.

The songs, composed for one of Barway Dorje’s consorts, Tsering Yangchen or Tseyang, are beautiful, clear, and heart-felt instructions in dharma practice; they also contain pointing out (as in, pointing out the nature of mind) instructions from teacher to disciple. Lama Yeshe Gyamtso, who was translating for BTR, told us that Tseyang is said to have attained fruition after practicing Barway Dorje’s instructions.

Pointing-out instructions are some of the most sought-after and mysterious teachings in the whole of Vajrayana Buddhism. It’s said that Buddhahood can be obtained in a single instant given the right match between teacher, student, and pointing-out instruction.

One of the things BTR explained—and which I have felt, intuitively, over the last several years—is that teachers give pointing-out instructions all the time. Because of different affinities and karmic connections, however, students often fail to realize when these instructions are being given. It takes the student’s doing the right preparation work (which I think may be different for every student) and the student’s meeting his or her karmically-connected teacher, in order for the pointing-out instructions to really work—so that the student can be introduced to the true nature of his or her own mind.

Rinpoche explained that in Tibet, it was common for teachers to instruct their students to attend different teachers, or go to specific places to meditate; this was because often, the teachers could tell which other teachers would be of the greatest benefit to students, because of the karmic threads that tied teacher and student together. Rinpoche used Milarepa as an example; Milarepa was sent to Marpa by one of Mila’s other teachers.

It was also common for students to take teachings and empowerments from many different teachers, until they found the teacher with whom they had their heart connection; this practice was not frowned upon or discouraged, but rather accepted and even expected.

The freedom to take teachings from different teachers, Rinpoche explained, is not only necessary but also essential for successful dharma practice. Freedom is your right as a student—morally and legally—to study with whomever you choose.

It is important, Rinpoche told us, to follow your faith.

And then, Rinpoche added, no one should prevent students from choosing with whom they will study—to do so is not only an error, it is a grave error.

Now, I will be the first to admit that I carry some baggage around the issues of freedom. I have lost two jobs that I’ve liked because of situations in which I found myself unable to sit silent while things were happening that were just plain wrong. In each case, the things that went awry were big things, not petty ones, and were fraught with questions involving racial relations and how organizations deal, or fail to deal, with issues of racial prejudice and freedom of speech.

I have not written about these things in detail on this blog, because I’m hoping eventually to have the time and mental space to deal with them in another format. But I want to be clear for readers that with regard to issues of freedom, I have always come out on the side of “for” rather than “against,” even when that stand has wound up hurting me. And I can say, with no hesitation, that if I ever were offered a re-do of these situations, I’d do exactly the same things—or I couldn’t face myself in the mirror every morning (which, at my age, is fairly hard to do!).

As some of the readers of this blog may know, there has been a bit of a dustup at KTD over the past couple years involving who is and is not able to teach there, and with whom KTD- and KTC-affiliated students should and should not study. It is not my intention to rehash this history, because the facts are available elsewhere on line.

But when I hear things, as I did this weekend, that trouble me, then I have to wonder: Am I enabling such troubling situations to continue if I remain silent? Is it my dharma duty to speak out? Or are the sangha and I better served if I simply shut up and do my practice?

Most of the sangha members I talked to about these issues urged silence and caution. I decided I wanted to hear what Rinpoche had to say, so I asked him; my question was the last one at the question-and-answer session on the last day of the teachings.

“Rinpoche,” I asked, “last night in the empowerment, you used the term ‘fierce devotion.’ So when I hear about people being banned from teaching in certain places, and students being discouraged from attending certain teachers, that raises a lot of ‘fierce devotion’ for me.”

Lama Yeshe Gyamtso stopped me right there, and explained that the term “fierce devotion” means intense devotion, not anger. I was happy to hear that, because part of my question was going to be, “What is meant by ‘fierce devotion’?”

I explained that I was not asking out of anger, but rather out of a strong protective instinct—dare I invoke the words “mama grizzly”?—to protect the students’ freedoms to choose their teachers, to protect the teachers’ livelihoods, and to protect the people responsible for imposing limitations from the negative karma involved in their actions.

Lama Yeshe Gyamtso then let the question go forward, and I got my answer.

You have many freedoms in this country, Rinpoche said. One of those freedoms is freedom of speech, and Rinpoche said he would never tell any of his students what to say, or what not to say.

I had a feeling much like the one I had in graduate school when my professor, who was teaching our class in Social Reality and Human Organizations, stood up and said, “Issues of power and authority in organizations are never issues of power and authority; they are issues of fear and insecurity.” I wanted to stand up and cheer!

So when I hear things like the ones I heard this weekend—that a brilliant Western translator and teacher has been banned from teaching at certain Western centers, not by a Rinpoche but by another Western lama—I have to wonder: What kind of dharma traditions do we really want to create here in this wild dharma borderland of North America?

Do we want to stand on the side of freedom or oppression? What organizational decisions and structures do we want to support? I think the times call for some serious introspection and questioning for all of us who are involved in Vajrayana practice in the West.

With freedom comes responsibility. Part of that responsibility, it seems to me, is learning how to trust yourself, follow your faith, and make your own decisions, rather than letting other people make those decisions for you.

These kinds of situations are especially hard for people who, like me, have feet planted in a couple of different—and sometimes conflicting—dharma camps. How can we revere our teachers and the dharma, yet object with lovingkindness and compassion instead of anger and hatred when we see things happening that we feel, in our guts, are just plain wrong?

I know that I will continue to struggle with such questions, and I trust that one day, the answers will become clear.

In the meantime, I think I just got permission from Rinpoche to say a lot more than I have said previously about my observations and concerns.

Oh, and the picture of the sandhill cranes, above: They were in attendance for the full weekend of teachings. Some people even saw them dancing!

And when Rinpoche began to speak about pointing out instructions, the cranes began to call.

A Word Witch welcomes thoughtful comments framed through the lenses of lovingkindness and compassion. Comments are moderated and may take a couple of days to show up; please be patient.

The Christmas Owls

Once upon a time there was a woman who liked to listen to owls. It happened this way.

She had lived in The City for a long time—too long. One day, she packed her small car with her animals and some belongings, and joined by her companion, she headed home. Because she had always wanted to live in the country, she decided to look for a place outside the city limits.

She got lucky. Down a dirt road, she found an old farmhouse—raised off the ground as the old cracker-style homes are—with a screened front porch, tin roof, heart pine paneling in three rooms, an old propane heater for the cold months and a huge yard with a western breeze for the hot months, and big, old, beautiful big trees—live oak, hackberry, pear, dogwood, and pecan.

It wasn’t long after she moved in with her companion that she met the owls. Sitting on the back stoop one night at sunset, she heard a strange little whinny followed by other whinnies and strange hooting noises. In that twilight time when light and shadow play tricks on the eyes, she watched as her whole yard filled with tiny swooping shapes and haunting calls.

Because she had lived in The City for too long, she had to ask people who know about these things what she had seen, and then she realized that it had a been a family of little screech owls—probably some of them fledglings who were leaving their nest for the first time.

The woman continued to see the little owls and hear their calls. One day she realized that the owls were bringing her a message. She found out that her father was very ill, and was soon to die.

One night after her father had died, there was a terrible storm. After the storm, the woman didn’t hear or see the screech owls any more.

Instead of the screech owls, the woman began to hear the distinctive cries of the larger barred owls: “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?” punctuated by the owls’ occasional loud screams and laughs. Sometimes the woman would hear a more rare call, the softer hooting of the great horned owls, but it was mainly the barred owls that sang to her.

She came to love the calls of the barred owls so much that her companion would come in from outside to tell her, “Your people are out there, calling for you,” and she would go out to listen and to marvel.

She liked living in the country so much that she decided she would like to work in the country too, so she got a job in a state park. She was leaving work one day when she spotted two big great horned owls in a large tree, mating. At another time, she watched as a family of tiny barn owls that could be spotted through a hole in a large tree grew to adulthood. And at home, she felt honored to sometimes catch a glimpse of a barred owl eating its dinner, spitting bits of discarded food onto the ground from high up in the trees by the sinkhole near her house.

One night she even dreamed she was an owl. She flew low to the ground over the pasture behind her house, hunting for mice and rats. When she woke from the dream, she woke to the words and music of an owl song humming in her head.

When her mother was sick and in the hospital, the woman traveled to be with her and to do what she could to help. Driving back from the hospital to her mother’s house just after twilight one November night, the woman was surprised to hear the calls of screech owls coming from the oaks in every direction throughout her mother’s yard. She had never heard the screech owls there before, and it was the first time she had heard so many screech owls since before her father died.

Not long after that, the woman’s mother died.

With the money she got from the sale of her mother’s house, the woman bought her own house even farther from town than the places she had been renting. She could hear the barred owls some nights, down by the river, but one night the woman got a little worried. Her companion was sick, and she heard one lone screech owl whinnying in the pines behind her house.

Sure enough, her companion got sicker—very sick, in fact. But thanks to some good doctors, he didn’t die.

The woman wondered if the fact she had heard only one screech owl was some kind of indicator that his illness would not kill him.

The woman missed having owls in her yard. So she planted some young live oak trees, thinking that maybe the owls might eventually find her yard a pleasant place to be.

She spent some time contemplating her relationship with the owls. She knew that owls were often considered omens of death, but that they were also the companions of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, and that they were associated in different cultures with healing powers, magic, and clairvoyance.

She learned that owls and hawks often share the same territory, with owls hunting at night and hawks during the daytime. The woman built a relationship with hawks, as well, while living in the country—indeed, one of the woman’s family names indicated that her ancestors might well have been falconers. In her heart she began to resonate, more and more, with the raptors.

One night she had a dream—or was it a vision in that state between sleeping and waking?—that she was lying on the ground and looking up, and a small parliament of owls was flying overhead. She was struck by the very human look on the faces of the owls, and then it came to her: Long ago, people had seen the eyes of owls flying overhead and had imagined that the owls were people, and from this vision had come the idea that witches can shapeshift and fly.

So one particular Christmas, the woman was delighted when her companion made her a gift of several little owls. One owl image hung from a bell. Another was a metal sculpture of a group of three owls. And there were a couple of pairs of owls, and one wee baby owl.

And the woman welcomed the new owls into her home as she had learned, over the years, to welcome the wildness of the raptors into her heart.