Friday, January 01, 2010

Ravens, Personal Mythologies and the New Year




The other night, I learned of a friend's unexpected death, and I found myself baffled more than anything else. If 2009 had taught me anything, is the weariness of death. I was weary. Sadness developed a callus and I was becoming desensitized. I couldn't commit to the sadness anymore. But it had transformed into an anxiety, of the unexpectedness, the out-of-your-control surprise of death. Any second could be the last. And I had a mind-boggling image of every living being on this earth, on that long line to shed this mortal coil, to decay into the earth... I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

The year started with a beloved aunt committing suicide leaving behind 2 beautiful teenage sons. And then more death. And more. Old friends, teachers, acquaintances, even public figures that loomed large in my imagination. I couldn't catch my breath.

"I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet."


I couldn't believe they were all gone. In the earth. Eaten by maggots. While I could still see their faces. Hear their voices. I mean, I can't believe T.S. Eliot, who wrote and spoke such profound poetry, no longer walks the earth. I mean, I can't believe Donny Hathaway, with that voice that is so embedded in my breathing life, no longer breathes. I can't believe Marlon Brando, so alive onscreen, no longer has a heart that beats. I can't believe all those bodies mangled in war, from images of the Vietnam War to those who die daily and senselessly in the Middle East, were someone's children, someone's mother, a life that inspired another, that struggled to eat and be loved, came to being to be tossed like butcher's trash. I can't believe war had assassinated my grandparents so long ago and that my mom had experienced such loss at so young an age, loss that I had feared as a child (and still do). I know my grandparents are dead - I've never met them. But still I rack my brains, how is that possible? They walked the earth. They taught my mom things in her short 6 years of knowing them. How are they gone? And why am I baffled when I've never met them? Death baffles me. What is the mechanism of this disbelief?

Today is the birthday of my auntie, our matriarch, who passed away last September. New Year's Day is and will always be associated with her. I think of her whenever I see or hear crows. When she was alive and crows were in our midst, she would chase them away and yell at them with urgency. If we heard them "caww" in the distance, she'd raise her hand to god and speak in tongue with a fury. She taught me their association with death. When she passed away, I thought, she was wrong. There was no crow omen to foretell her passing, that was until we were at the cemetery and lowered her coffin into the ground... high above, the voice of one crow squawked, once, loud and clear, a single voice which filled the skies and echoed melodiously. The sound swept the air, washed the skies. I looked up, didn't see the bird, but its voice rang loud. I looked around - no one else noticed. Everyone's eyes were fixated on the hole in the ground. I looked up again at the clear blue sunny sky, looked at the tall trees, and took flight.

Unlike my aunt, who chased crows away, I embraced them. Birds and their feathers, have always come to me in incredible ways, in my time of need, and given me signs. They are my messengers. They tell me to trust. To have faith. That I am taken care of. That all is ok. They remind me that I am more than my body's identification. And when I heard that beautiful voice on the day of my aunt's burial, I laughed at the cosmic significance of it all. She was right. They are messengers of death, but not in the way she thought, and one must have the courage to fly with them.

So back to a few days ago, a few days shy of the new year, the morning after I heard about the death of a friend I hadn't seen in about a year, my last death in a string of many for 2009... it was a brilliantly sunny winter morning, my father excitedly rushed into my room. Look at the front lawn! What is it, I ask perturbed at the intrusion to my melancholic state. Pull open your shades! I pulled the string, the blinds went up, and I couldn't believe my eyes! My dad gaped with boyish wonder and uncontrollable gleeful laughter. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen. It was miraculous, biblical. The entire ground before my eyes, our deep front lawn all the way across the street to our neighbor's front lawn, was covered with small black birds. On closer examination, they were pear-shaped ravens. Black feathers shimmering blue. Then a dark frenzied cloud would sweep through, depositing more of these jet black birds on the ground, pushing forward the ones before them into the air. Frenetic waves kept sweeping through. The air and ground, filled with black wings reflecting brilliant sunshine. The ravens energetically pecked away at the ground (what were they pecking at?), beat their determined wings in the air (where were they rushing to?). My dad and I couldn't make sense of what we had never seen before and watched in awe. The birds kept sweeping through, dumping more birds, sweeping through. They moved with great speeds and great numbers filling the space before my eyes. I thought of Hitchcock's "The Birds". I thought of the locusts in the bible. And within a minute, they were all gone. The cloud lifted and dissipated. Not a single bird before me. What could this mean?

It freaked me out. My first thought was, is this the omen for the new year? 2009 had taken so many... how would I stomach 2010 if this was the case? I took a few days. I meditated last night as time shifted to the new year, soon after, running into a good friend where I spent New Year's eve. And I heard the words come out of my mouth as I told her about the birds to her amazement, as I discovered for myself their significance, as I heard myself define them... it was a great cloud that lifted. As that one great bird that took flight from my aunt's graveside funeral did, an army swept through. The ravens washed away all the souls of the last year in one collective sweep, carrying them off, the way a violent summer storm will clear away the hot and sticky, the muddled heavy air, and provide comfort, new air, clean and light, to breathe. A purification. A Kali yuga. She was witness to my realization and waves of chills ran through me. The magnitude of the realization is not something I can put into words, but it was a moment of connection, of complete faith. How had I forgotten the compassionate messengers of my life? My winged friends. My fear of death had blinded me to what I had always known. I had forgotten to trust. Even the miracle of this raven's event in the moment couldn't shake that fear that freezes. It took the stillness and introspection of the last few days to pry open that space of remembering.

In my brief read about these black birds at the wee hours of this morning, I discovered that what I had seen were all young ravens, and that ravens hold a prominent place in the mythologies of different traditions. Of course. They are highly intelligent, having the highest aviary IQ, and capable of manipulating and communicating with other animals for their purpose. All in addition to what we already know about these birds, as consumers of carrion, vehicles for transformation. In mythology, they are often equated to the trickster god, holding a prominent position in the hierarchy of deities, as god of the crossroads, among them, Ganesha (Hindu), Elegua (Santeria).

Bridging life and art, I think about the importance of props to an actor, per Uta Hagen. And the satisfaction of having symbolic images, or objects, patterns that we rely on as anchors in dramatic storytelling on stage and on film. It's something we can follow, a baton, something grounding, so that we can see changes relative to that anchor. It can be a phrase, spoken, or in music, "themes." Then "variations on theme" are track-able, and thus, clear and moving. It's so clear in art, and I am thinking a lot about the unconscious palate of symbols we can create in our lives, that myths have done consciously for collectives/societies over time (a diminishing and disconnected practice in modern society). I think it is important to think about what the symbolic components are, and the function of our own personal mythologies, make it a conscious function, to create conscious rituals around them to celebrate and acknowledge them. Images, memories, objects that we find, create, connections to. Religious icons. Mantras. Elements in nature. Anchors. A system-ology we link up to, that we create, a language, a filter through which we interpret the vastness of the universe. It is a conscious practice of something small, local, with the understanding that it is a key or microcosm, for the greater cosmic model. Through these "symbols," we can tell the story of a life. Today provides the opportunity to acknowledge one of my personal symbols, my winged messengers, and a conscious acknowledgment to the function of symbols in storytelling. Personal symbols are something I know so well through my parent's stories of their lives, but this past year, it has lived in the forefront of my imagination, connecting its importance in my life and as dramatic device in storytelling.

Last night, after I broke meditation, I was able to hear the teachings of my most cherished beloved guru, David Life, co-founder of Jivamukti Yoga. He said, make death a small thing, of no importance, no big deal. Have the courage to make yourself die, and fold that into life, so it's one and the same. I think about the cartoon-like images from Mexico's Day of the Dead celebration, colorful dancing skeletons. The dressing up and party that is Halloween. Martin McDonagh's uproarious graveyard comedies. Kali's skull-beaded necklace. I hope through the practice of my art and storytelling, that through my personal mythologies, I can practice this... making death small, a celebration of life.... so that they are little birds that fly in and sit on my front lawn for a moment, then fly away, that eat and shit and soar through wind. Small, banal and miraculous.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

Thanks! & Happy New Year

Kazziechameleon said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Kazziechameleon said...

Thank you for reading and happy new year to you too! Peace