Phoenix by Cameron Mathieson

As the tide rises above its own highest mark, it swallows every last reluctant debris. Among them is my body of yesterday, which I have anchored down with stones & prayer and which, like a cicada’s shell, is molted for wings.

I recognize the gravity, the all of everything she has pushed through for me. Feet having dug, fingers having scraped, heart having heaved, voice unmuffled I now speak for my underground nymph and her faith.

Feeding on root juice and things you can’t prove, her life was an exit tunnelling all the way through.

Yes the shedding is long, but the swallowing is quick. I witness the sea lick the last of her lifelessness under, standing taller than my would-be fears, I wonder if she’s left anything in me behind.

But my gratitude eclipses the dark fullness of her sorrow; the fractures in her backbone are in me twice firm; into the emptiness of her loss my fullness pours; and where she stood alone, I fly in formation.

My heart is her much-deserved award. Gilded and inscribed in defiance, it is for her that I shine.

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Without Eros, we forget the teachings of our ancestors which connect us to the eternal. We lose the very thing that gives us substance and brings accountability into our lives. Without a sense of location in nature and the family of things, we set a slow apocalypse in motion.

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On the morning Annie went into the hospital, I had a dream that Toronto was drowning. It started with a sadness welling up at my windows. When I got up to look out at the city, cars were bobbing around like plastic toys and whole buildings were being swallowed up by water. In the distance was a tsunami, and it was racing towards me.

Knowing there wasn’t anywhere to run, I became curiously calm. Within seconds the wave smashed through my windows, took me up on its crest, and began rushing me into the unknown.

It was the sound of the phone jangling which woke me up. I stumbled across my shockingly dry room to answer it. Annie Jacobsen; my friend, my mentor, my lighthouse, had been hospitalized in the night. After nine years of wrestling back lymphoma, the cancer had taken hold. A tumour the size of a melon had grown in her belly and she could no longer eat more than ice chips.

“You are an artist,” Annie said every time she saw me. At first I thought she was delusional, how relentlessly she spoke that word about me. A word that was too big for me. A word whose shadow I cowered in. But she said it again and again; on every visit, in every letter, and she managed to find it in every last one of my dreams. She drummed it on my deaf ears until it tunneled through to my heart, which finally broke into a dance of yes.

Annie was fifty-nine when she drank her last afternoon glass of wine. She’d been incoherent with pain for weeks,but joked lucidly that afternoon that with death so close, she could smash her wine glass on the floor if she wanted to. But death is always that close, I discovered, and life is begging to be spilled.

Annie said her cancer grew out of her rage. After 20 years of marriage, raising two luminous children, and a demanding career in social work, her husband left her for another woman. The divorce was the kind of call you hear about in heroic myths, leaving Annie with nothing but her beautiful, breaking open heart.

Under the pain, Annie found a deeper grief for the creative life she’d abandoned. For nine years she was alone. For nine years she had cancer. For nine years she spilled out her enormous gift for writing fiction.

The woman could invent a universe on the rim of a dime. It was not that she made her characters come to life somuch as exposed them in the full swing of living. We, the readers, could see outwards from their eyes, feel outwards from their hearts.

“Time is precious,” Annie warned me, with a laugh like an easy creek. How alluring it is for us women to midwife others’ emotional labours before attending to our own. Like Annie, so many of us invest our emotional wealth into relationships, children and career, leaving nothing for our creative impulses and then wonder why we’re depressed. Like a medicine that becomes a poison, Annie believed the creative life denied was the real cancer.

It hardly matters where I learned it, only that I’d become an expert. Hoarding decades of poetry and music in my closet, taking elaborate diversions from the artist’s path, I jumped at the chance to mediate others’ dreams before following my own. But dreams, if you ignore them, consume you from the inside out.

Annie’s death, like a tidal wave, yanked my anchors from the comfort zone. The very foundation of my beliefs began to quake apart; old things flying out from the center, new things entering there. The city became intolerable to me and, flooding through the portal of my grief, was an urgency to live a truer life.

At first I just took weekend trips into the country. But the more time I spent in wilderness, the less I wanted to return to the city. The dissonance of traffic and fighting was getting louder. All I could hear was the collective moan of survival. I was becoming allergic to the pavement. I was growing appalled by the edges and lines and corners of convenience.

Heedless of how long we’ve neglected it, the soul rushes back in an instant under the stars. One night in the forest, one meal cooked by fire, one naked lake plunging is all takes. How bizarre the city seems then, with its strange values like rhinestones on an imitation-world. How maudlin we then seem, grabbing onto the banks for security, while the sea of plenty flows by.

My nature was growing, poetry started flowing and I just kept going. Armed with a tent and a backpack, I positioned my home differently every night. Down in the soft needles and roots withmy door pointed eastward for the sunrise show, up in a clearing of woodchips to best see the stars through netted skylights, on a grassy bank of wildflowers, I took care not to crush too many violets in my sleep.

Annie’s death was a precipice which fell me deeply in love. Coming into congruence, I felt myself connecting to the whole of everything. I was overcome with knowing that if I was bold with my life, if I risked originality, I would be taken care of.

Two months later, I hitched across the country to the interior of British Columbia. Not knowing where I’d stay or how I’d manage, I followed the simple yearning of my heart to be where the eagles are.

In a week’s time, the crest had rushed me into another dimension. I found myself in an unimaginably beautiful land called the Kootenays, which I instantly knew as home. There I would make art, find love, create community, drink clean water and grow my first garden. There I would make music and praise beauty. There, I would be an artist.

As a child, I stitched together myths of queens and lions to create a heroine who was kind, graceful, fierce and noble. With nothing but my imagination of her, I navigated across the perpetual black towards her. Often she seemed unreal and I turned my back on her a thousand, aching times.

But when I met Annie, the mirage became flesh. I never knew her as anything but brave. In the nine years she did battle with her dragons, she wrote no less than two novels,many exceptional poems, and an exquisite avalanche of short stories. And by doing it, she touched a thousand lives as intimately as my own.

Now that she has returned to the wilderness of spirit and I am left here in the slow rubble of matter, I know Annie’s legacy to me wascourage. With her own life as an example, she called me to become my own lion queen. The single finest gift a person can give, Annie saw the woman I was to become, and held that reflection up for me until I could step into it. In turn, as I learn to stand in my sovereignty, I aspire to grow into a good mirror for my own beloveds

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When we hear the word discipline, we immediately think of toil, sweat and deprivation. Over the centuries, the once beautiful word has been distorted to mean something akin to punishment. But at its root a disciple is someone who devotes themselves to something they love.

I am hitching to Argenta, land of goats and caravans, when I meet a young woman on the road. She is barely twenty, cheeks full of petals and flush, and the only student I’ve ever met who loves school in her final year. That’s because, she explains, she’s doing a degree in Recreation, Fish and Wildlife, a program predominantly carried out in the field; camping, hiking, grokking the magnificence of nature.

As she speaks about the organism that is our planet, how its wisdom informs her life, she comes alive with fire and wonder.

We’re waiting together under the high sun of noon for a ride to the next town when I realise I have a small window to ask the perfect person the question I’ve been carrying. “Why is it so easy for us to be amazed by the beautiful, interconnected, mathematical genius of Earth…but even as Her very organs – her eyes and ears – we hate ourselves?”

Just then, a pickup truck swerves to the side of the road and motions for us to hop in the cab, which we do. We are barreling along the Kootenay curves, our hair whipping around our faces, snow-capped peaks jagging out across the lake when she answers.

Her response is like a runoff creek, pounding and rushing forward with the very confidence of gravity.

She says our self-hatred is actually loneliness. It is the pain of our separation from the Family of Things. We have created a self-referencing system which habitually takes of the Earth and gives nothing back.

What can a tree teach us about self-worth? How it grows only so big as its mothersoil can provide for, how it draws nutrients from her, but then expresses itself in branches and leaves. How it then uses its photosynthetic technology to turn sunlight into sugar, which it feeds itself with. How it kindly emits oxygen for the rest of us, purifies the air.  How it offers itself as shelter for other creatures, how it shades, how it sometimes lives to be ancient or not, but always offers its body back to the soil which grew it. How it becomes a nurse log upon which a whole new ecosystem will grow.

Our alienation stems from the negligence of reciprocity. It is the spiritual cul-de-sac we have built ourselves into. It is the worst kind of loneliness to live as a turncoat on the soil of your origin.

Only worse than that, is to not have your gifts received.

During the rebellion of teenagehood, many individual spirits are broken irreperably. Our gifts are disciplined out of us with systemic etiquette. Eventually we accede to the sandcastles of security, relinquishing our personal, intraservicable genius, triggering a lifetime of felt alienation.

Amazingly, some of us have retained passion. Some of us continue to be disciples of the things we love. We drag our addicted, programmed asses out of deeply-worn ruts. We walk against the grain and the odds, turn away from apathy and accumulation, and stand for something.

You may stand to write a poem, sing a song, sculpt or illuminate. You may dance. You may plant an urban garden, caretake someone in need, endure long learning which qualifies you to help others. Maybe you undergo, least acclaimed of all, your own healing. You open those unexplored regions of the self, vicariously opening the unknowing of the earth itself.

It may not look like much while you’re doing it. You may feel crazy. You may experience terrifying loneliness which can not even be lessened by description. But you are doing your duty by giving your gifts to the world. And for that, I thank you.

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In dreams, feelings are our greatest allies. They show us where our energy is being concentrated and which way it wants to go. Like signals from the unconscious to the physical body, feelings show us where our needs are.

redflag.jpgSometimes they warn us to retreat from dangerous situations, other times they magnify where we need to continue working. While joy and enthusiasm are the kinds of friends who show you what you love, so are disappointment, jealousy, irritation and fear. They serve you to progress beyond your limitations and strengthen your patience with discomfort.

Unfortunately, we have learned from a culture that altogether devalues feeling, to ignore and override them. On their own, emotions can overspill, drowing us in havoc and confusion. But if cultivated in tandem with the other faculties, discernment and action, they serve as our instinctual barometer.

By respecting your feelings as intelligent instead of depressing them, they will begin to alert you to the areas of your life that need attention before it appears exaggeratedly in your dreams.

ratrace.gifFor instance, if you put too much emphasis on work and deadlines, you may be running a constant low-level anxiety which inhibits your spiritual growth. You may be so accustomed to it that you barely notice it anymore. But it isn’t lost on your dreamer; you might dream yourself late for an important event, unprepared, or simply running nowhere fast. If you’ve overridden your feelings for too long, the dreams may be more violent, expressed in images of rape, torture and neglect.

Though difficult to look at, these dreams amplify your soul’s need for greater tenderness. As with most things that are uncomfortable, we try to avoid them. But one of the great teachings of dreams is that by entering into that which is uncomfortable to us, we can reclaim the power contained within it.

bee.jpgOnly by allowing ourselves to feel discomfort fully can we extract the sweet truth being held captive in it. In so doing, we drain the event or trigger of its feeling concentration, freeing up the trapped energy for our creative purpose on the planet.

A society which ignores its feelings ignores its nature. The consequences of this at the collective level are devastating. Despite having achieved obscene wealth, depression has increased tenfold since the 1950s. The World Health Organization (WHO) has predicted that by the year 2020, depression will be the second leading cause of the ‘global disability burden.’ At any given time, more than three million Canadians (around 10%) are suffering from serious depressive disorders.

Our disconnection from feeling has not only resulted in epidemic depression, widespread poverty and political corruption within the human community, but our seas, skies, species and forests are suffering the same plague of neglect.

Developing your feeling takes time, especially if it has been systematically discouraged in you. There may be a layer of numbness you’ll have to chip through initially and, underneath that, a backlog of feeling may need to be felt. But as you make the seemingly bottomless descent, it helps to remember that grief is the downpour your soul has been thirsting for.

Rain makes everything lush with life. The more excellently and prodigiously you grieve, the more growth and fertility you can expect. There is a future teeming with life beyond the spiritual aridity and meaninglessness of our time. If each of us has the tenacity to retrieve the elixirs of our discomforts, our combined medicine will heal the collective wound.

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There’s a great scene in Osmosis Jones, a semi-animated flick about the insides of zookeeper Frank Detomello’s (Bill Murray) body, when a serious virus hits “City of Frank.” Instead of going to see a doctor, he pops a flu pill saying, “Sick? I’m not getting sick! I have far too much planned.” Meanwhile, down in the ailing metropolis of Frank, the mayor (without due process) throws the Override Switch.

ignore.pngIt’s remarkable how many times in a single day we do the same. If we aren’t ignoring the messages from our bodies, we are behaving oppositely to our feelings, doing what’s expected, staying in the canoe when we’d rather bail, acting kindly when we’re mad as hell, or putting on a happy face to mask the miserable.

Now, at first glance, overriding may not seem problematic.After all, we have to behave in civilized society. We can’t just throw tantrums in the grocery aisles when we feel tired and fed up.But when you consider the cumulative effect of a society of overriders, the results are staggering.

To understand what override looks like at the collective level, consider the sheer volume of people taking antidepressants (prescriptions for SSRIs in Canada increased from 3.2 to 14.5 million between 1981 and 2000), and then wonder why depression is still on the rise.Or ask why such a high number of sexual predators are associated with the religious and moral right. You might even begin to wonder what lives under our tendency to violence in this society.

“To make war is an inability with grief,” says poet and shaman Martín Prechtel, “Shame and depression are an inability with grief. Grief is the source of art. The only source of art. Violence is an inability with grief.”

You can feel how infinitely more relaxing this story is from the one we’re normally taught.As I overheard a mother instructing her distraught toddler in Override 101 the other day, “Superman doesn’t cry!” The creative individual, Prechtel teaches, reaches into his grief and discomforts for poetry. Now while you may not consider yourself an artist, what is life but a sculpture of one’s choices?

Eckhart Tolle, author of The Power of Now, talks about override in slightly different terms. He says that most of our difficulties come from resisting the present moment. Resistances are normal, but instead of affirming whatever is coming up, we resist our resistance, placing another “no” on top of the first “no,” telling ourselves we shouldn’t feel that way, we don’t want that pain, we should be more evolved, less emotional, stronger, etc.

Death and the Maiden, by Laurie Lipton

Death and the Maiden, by Laurie Lipton

The first step to dropping resistance is listening to it.Until we can do that, it will keep coming up and we’ll find ourselves on the Override Loop, “Argh.I hate this situation!But I should be more patient.Argh.I hate this situation!”

Yessing the dilemma does not mean staying in it.But you can only take action to rectify your predicament once you’ve admitted you’re in one.From there, you can begin to drop that which is draining or embittering you and redirect your energy towards that which you love.

“You love what you love more than you love your hate,” Prechtel teaches. “If what you love is the divine, story, culture, children, then instead of blowing a whistle, you’ll strive to keep the seeds alive.”

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Do you have your best ideas in the shower? Have you ever grappled with a question all day only to wake up from a nap with a sudden answer? How about looking madly for something and the moment you give up you remember where you left it? What if your daydreams are like breadcrumbs on the path to your own genius, but you’re too busy tohungry.jpg follow them…

W. H. Auden said our daydreams are meals at which images are eaten, “Some of us are gourmets, some gourmands, and a good many take their images precooked out of a can and swallow them down whole, absent-mindedly and with little relish.” Indeed, how many images get served up daily on our imagination plates only to be left untasted?

A friend of mine recently went elderberry picking with a wildcrafting mentor. She taught her that elderberries have powerful medicinal qualities, especially to fortify the immune system against the flues and colds which spread at the same time of year the berries ripen. Our land is abundant with plants that simply want to serve us, she explained, but we are abysmally unaware of their abilities.

This image stayed with me like a pebble in a sieve. It reminded me of our community, local and large, made up of humans whose gifts are overripening on the vine. This heartbreaking waste is the creation of a culture that tells us to get our heads out of the clouds. Unfortunately, that’s where the best ideas are plucked from.

“It takes a lot of time to be a genius,” wrote Gertrude Stein, “you have to sit around so much doing nothing, really doing nothing.”

About seven years ago, I got laid off from a fancy job with a record company. Overnight, I went from being a card-carrying executive to an unemployed bum. To my amazement, the same people who had praised me for the position I’d landed began to bombard me with judgments for “doing nothing.”

But it was within my own psyche that the real wrestle took place. For months I dreamt about being shoeless in the city. I had lost “my standing” in society. My identity was so wrapped up with workaholism that I was terrified of all the nothing stretching out before me.

Night after night, I tried to regain my footing. Sometimes I’d find one shoe and not the other. Other times I’d find a pair that was beautiful but impractical, sewn out of purple cabbage or covered in rhinestones. I’d go shopping at the dream-mall and find a sensible pair, but they were always too small.

barefeet_only.jpgFrustrated, I recounted my recurring dream problem to my best friend. She took one look at me and, (as best friends are wont to do), saw my ripening fruit on the vine. She said, “Maybe being barefoot and vulnerable is not your problem. Maybe you just need to be somewhere it’s safer to walk. Somewhere that encourages your soleful standpoint.”

After that, I never had another shoeless dream. Instead, I set about doing an enormous amount of nothing and voraciously daydreamed until the Dream School was birthed some nine months later. To bring something of authentic value, I had to resist my internalized culture that preferred me busy and “heeled.”

Instead of judging yourself for being dreamy and unproductive, why not set about some nothingness today. Let your mind wander off into the metaphorest. Notice the ideas that appear there like wild animals in the quiet. Follow your daydreams through until they yield some juicy fruit, and remember to taste them with a touch of relish.

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Authenticity depends entirely on being faithful to the essential ambiguity of experience.   — John Berger

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Dear Toko-pa; I dream a couple brings their two sons to a new place, from the east coast to the west coast. Here, the littler boy is happier. He is more sensitive and says he likes being in a place where he is good at things. The landscape and what it offers resonates more with his abilities and personality. The older boy is silent and more serious, and I have the sense he is disappointed. I’d love to hear your thoughts on this little dream — Katia.

 

Dear Katia; The question of your dream seems to be about how to satisfy both boys; serious and sensitive. Should you live in the east or west; where the sun rises or sets; in a place of originality or destination? In as much as you enjoy a happy frolic in the country, if you really want to capture something juicy, as Marie Louise von Franz was fond of saying, “It takes the hare to constellate the hounds!”

Delectably flagrant astrologer, Rob Brezsny, warns us not to draw upon pat ‘formulas’ for our creative work because it puts the muse in danger of stagnancy. He says we should work on the fringes of our unknown and forge ahead from there. Our own constant surprise will be what translates as authentic to others.

If you’re anything like me, however, you have more than occasional bouts of wishing the work were finally done and it was time to play. But since life won’t stop throwing us curveballs, it may be a wiser plan to learn how to live with, and breathe through, our discomforts. This isn’t, as it first appears, about detaching from life, but rather immersing yourself more fully in it. By sinking down into the irritation, you honour its innate wisdom, and allow it to dissipate faster by blending it into your mix.

One of the great problems of the New Age movement is the pathologizing of negative emotions. Depression, anger, irritation, anxiety – none of these are ‘allowed’ on our emotional palette. But if we try to “stay in the light” all the time, splitting off from the shadow, it only grows fatter and gains momentum. Enlightenment is not, as Carl Jung once put it, achieved by “imagining beings of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”

Aspiring to be human, to be ordinary, may be one of the greatest teachings one can absorb. Nelson Algren wrote that loving Chicago was “like loving a woman with a broken nose. You may well find lovelier lovelies, but never a lovely so real.”

Wholeness is not some image of perfect intactness, but rather more like a waxing and waning moon. It doesn’t resist the cycles, but is governed, (and governs), by them, becoming especially fertile in total darkness.

There is a little boy in all of us that wants to stay where things are easier for him, and there is certainly something to be said for playfulness and ease. But to really grow up one’s masculinity, it’s important to have grist for the psychic mill. There must be some friction against which to discover your limits, pushing you to the frontiers of your understanding so as to not slip into sterility. With this in mind, we can actually be thankful for the sand in the oyster, knowing it might eventually irritate a pearl.

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It is rare to find a mentor who can maintain longevity while in the public eye. It is rarer still to find someone who can not only sustain your respect over decades, but continually grow it outwards. David Takayoshi Suzuki is one such a person for thousands of Canadians and environmentalists worldwide. He is an extraordinary example of what ripples one life can make and how those ripples, when set into motion with right intention, can become giant waves.

Most of us know Dr. Suzuki through his 27 years of service to the environmental movement as host of CBC’s top-rated show, The Nature of Things. Committed to investigating even the most controversial of topics, The Nature of Things has boldly explored medical marijuana; big business farming; the disappearance of old growth forests; and in an unforgettable 1987 episode, Suzuki spoke about the emerging AIDS/HIV epidemic, giving many of us our first introduction to the disease.

But even for those who don’t often visit TV Land, Suzuki is still a phenomenon. Having authored more than 30 books, been awarded 15 honourary doctorates and the UNESCO prize for science, founding the distinguished David Suzuki Foundation, and been instrumental in the fight for First Nations land rights, there are few places left in the world where Suzuki isn’t known and cherished.

Given how much life Dr. Suzuki has packed into seventy years so far, it isn’t surprising that he is now touring Canada with his second autobiography. He recently introduced his simply titled, David Suzuki: The Autobiography, to an eager audience at Montreal’s own Lower Canada College.

This second installment to Metamorphosis, released in 1986, picks up where Suzuki left off, at the tender age of 50. In the last twenty years Suzuki has made some of his most notable contributions, including the establishment of the David Suzuki Foundation (who, among other efforts, advocates for Canada to back the implementation of the United Nations Kyoto Protocol on greenhouse gas reduction); successfully campaigned to prevent the World Bank’s hydroelectric dams from being built in Native Brazilian rainforests, and has broken bread with international leaders, from Kayapo chief Paiakan to Nelson Mandela and the Dalai Lama.

Inarguably one of the preeminent figures of our time, it is rather Suzuki’s stories about the small, human moments along the way that are most poignant; his tender telling of a childhood spent in the Slocan Valley, in the Kootenays region of British Columbia, where his abiding love of nature was first forged; stories of a difficult and awkward teenagehood, made endurable by retreats into the woods, fishing trips with his beloved father and his deep affection for fish, insects and swamps.

“There is no place more magical than a swamp,” tells Suzuki, sharing one of his most loving memories of his mother, who despite having to share her refrigerator with salamander eggs and earthworms, never admonished her son for what he brought home from the swamp, but rather treated them as if they were each great treasures.

It is this quality of parenting, tells Suzuki, which cultivates curiosity in children, and leads to an enduring sense of responsibility to, and interconnectedness with, the earth. In his words, Suzuki’s five greatest contributions to the planet are his own children. Indeed, they are impressive examples of what can happen when a love of nature is encouraged in the young mind.

Severn Cullis-Suzuki, the youngest daughter born to Suzuki and Tara Cullis in 1979, began her career in environmental activism at age 12, when she spoke to the United Nations at an Earth Summit in Rio de Janeiro. Her speech can be described as no less than riveting, bringing an audience of international delegates to tears and standing ovation.

“I am only a child,” she told them. “Yet I know that if all the money spent on war was spent on ending poverty and finding environmental answers, what a wonderful place this would be. In school you teach us not to fight with others, to work things out, to respect others, to clean up our mess, not to hurt other creatures, to share, not be greedy. Then why do you go out and do the things you tell us not to do? You grownups say you love us, but I challenge you, please, to make your actions reflect your words.”

Severn went on to graduate from Yale University, receiving a B. Sc. in Ecology and Evolutionary Biology in 2002, and continues to speak around the world urging listeners to take personal responsibility in the global environmental crisis.

We have just such an opportunity with Suzuki’s latest campaign, the Nature Challenge. This initiative is both an attempt to petition our government to prioritize environmental concerns, as well as a call to Canadians to conserve natural resources by taking at least three of the following actions:

1. Reduce home energy use by 10%

2. Choose an energy-efficient home and appliances

3. Don’t use pesticides

4. Eat meat-free meals one day a week

5. Buy locally grown and produced food

6. Choose a fuel efficient vehicle

7. Walk, bike carpool or take transit

8. Choose a home close to work or school

9. Support alternative transportation

10. Learn more and share with others

Since Prime Minister Stephen Harper has neither included environmental issues amongst his “5 promises,” nor will he meet with Dr. Suzuki despite several invitations, it is Suzuki’s hope that a million names collected on the Nature Challenge petition will be enough to convince our government that preserving the environment rates topmost among Canadian values. That being said, Canada is one of worst environmental performers (28th out of 30) in the industrialized world, according to the report The Maple Leaf in the OECD.

As Suzuki explains in his book The Sacred Balance, opting to prioritize the economy before the environment makes backwards sense. Without sustainable resources, the bottom line is a moot point. Not only do we need to make urgent changes to our consumption habits in order to restore our planet’s declining health, but we need to be shifting our social priorities as well, explains Suzuki, towards love, childhood and community.

“If we are to balance and direct our remarkable technological muscle power,” Suzuki explains, “we need to regain some ancient virtues: the humility to acknowledge how much we have yet to learn, the respect that will allow us to protect and restore nature, and the love that can lift our eyes to distant horizons, far beyond the next election, pay cheque or stock dividend. Above all we need to reclaim our faith in ourselves as creatures of the Earth, living in harmony with all other forms of life.”

To sign up for the Nature Challenge, visit here for more info.

This article was originally published in June/07 issue of Synchronicity Magazine.

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