“You have been telling the people that this is the Eleventh Hour, now you must go back and tell the people that this is the Hour. And there are things to be considered . . .

Where are you living?

What are you doing?

What are your relationships?

Are you in right relation?

Where is your water?

Know your garden.

It is time to speak your Truth.

Create your community.

Be good to each other.

And do not look outside yourself for the leader.”

Then he clasped his hands together, smiled, and said, “This could be a good time!”

“There is a river flowing now very fast. It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold on to the shore. They will feel they are torn apart and will suffer greatly.

“Know the river has its destination. The elders say we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open, and our heads above water. And I say, see who is in there with you and celebrate. At this time in history, we are to take nothing personally, Least of all ourselves. For the moment that we do, our spiritual growth and journey comes to a halt.

“The time for the lone wolf is over. Gather yourselves! Banish the word struggle from you attitude and your vocabulary. All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.

“We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.”

~ attributed to an unnamed Hopi elder, Hopi Nation, Oraibi, Arizona

Right now I hear a call to non-action: to simple, clear awareness, and to the willingness to sit in that awareness. Thats the call I hear. I want to create space for that, for myself and for others who hear a similar call. Most other activity at this particular time feels like struggle to me. And struggle is the word the Hopi Elder advises me to banish from my vocabulary.

As I listen, as best I can, to my own true impulses, to the often subtle and delicate feeling of what is right, here and now, what feels right is to be quiet, small, and simple. To notice the simple beauty and pleasure that is available to me in wearing this sweater I’ve knit from thrift store yarn recycled from a sweater vest, and from some donated from a friend’s culled stash. Simple. A candle, some tea. The sound of Tim’s fingers tapping rapidly on his keyboard telling me the words and images of a story are funneling through him.

I need space to simply “Be.” The world, it seems, is unraveling, like that sweater vest I took apart to re-use. I sense there is mystery, too, that unravels in the world, beyond my ability to know, much less to control.

I feel the river running ever faster now. I can only intuit my part in a chaotic system beyond control or prediction. There have been, and will be, beautiful vortexes emerge as droplets such as myself join currents and gracefully, rampantly, terrifyingly, sweep around and over the rocks and boulders, by the banks, into the flood plain. I am not called to control this one whit. I can’t.

I can relax and surrender my self, to become part of this wild current. I can, maybe, if I stay alert, keep my own head above water. Apparently, that will not happen by struggle. The world is not in my control and efforts expended in that pursuit feel wasted.

I can feel the joyous longing to find my place in this crazy rushing movement, and I can surrender to the likelihood that there is no guarantee of any particular outcome.

It feels cold at first, this river, as exhilarating as it is frightening. And it is frightening. But as I relax, my body learns over and over again to quiet, to surrender to the inevitable rather than to fight and grasp. Every time I try to seize a low hanging branch or to hold fast to a rock, I become exhausted from the effort. Gladly, exhaustion overcomes the fear and I can’t help but surrender again.

Sometimes I cry, screaming “It’s not fair!” But then I let go the struggle for a handhold and instead become a part of this natural force. Then, even when my head goes under, I relax again into the fury, and then my simple intention to keep my head above water seems enough. I come up and catch a needed breath, and another, and another.

Sometimes this raging current hits a landscape where the river spreads wide and the fury abates. I am able to look around and see there are others in this river as well. There is a temptation to swim to shore, to find a place to stay, to call to these others and suggest we build a settlement or, at least, a raft. But before I can gather my voice, another storm cloud lets loose, the flood plain resolves again into a narrow canyon and the furious current returns again to take me over.

The sight of the others stays with me. For brief moments either memory or vision arises and I feel my sweet longing for companions, for the hearth, the fire, the bowl of hot food and the touch of arms and hands, tender kisses of hello and welcome. But those flashes of past and future I can’t hold for long because this crazy river keeps rising. My focus is captured by learning to relax and be carried, to calm rather than tighten my body, like I imagine fish do, to learn the balance between swimming and being swept, to respond from intuition rather than plan or rational thought. I gently hold the intention to keep my head above water but I learn to not insist on that. For most times to insist requires too much energy and struggle. Best to quickly release myself, to surrender, again and again.

This is what it is like for me when Tim tells me the climate news of the day, or Dan sends the reports of unemployment graphs, with not only unemployment increasing but the rate of increase itself increasing. I can’t make plans in this river. I can only imagine there may come a time of respite from the storm, or a time when the storm, all storms, are over, when my intention to keep my head above water doesn’t hold, when this huge river either spreads and slows and I easily float to shore, or else I am led down to the depths and not allowed the breath I had intended. Then my body will be released from all struggles. There will be no choice or intention for these arms and legs, for this back and chest and belly and skull. Then, what I thought I was will be carried with no effort at all, carried back to its elemental state. And the fears and longings and passions and desires of that form will no longer be there.

This is what facing death is, what facing being fully alive is, for me, right now, in this time.

But what about the Hopi elder’s counsel to know my garden, and where my water is? What does that mean? How do I have a garden and at the same time let go of the shore?

This year, having lost the garden spot I’d prepared in the past, I tended a garden on land that belongs to an elder care residence. A nice symbolic event: gardening on the land of elders. That was an unplanned experience of knowing my garden and letting go of the shore at the same time.

A garden is what feeds my deepest hungers and water is what quenches my soul’s thirst. In the midst of this raging river of change, what feeds me is letting go, into the exhilaration of change, being present so far as I can to each person, moment, and season, planting seeds while holding a vision, but letting go all attachment to, or guarantee, of harvest. What feeds me is seeing others in this river too, seeing them and sharing with them brief calls and greetings, no wasted time with long explanations or justifications for how we got here. Smiling, yelling, even tearful protests followed by quick recovery. I love these people and then I let them go as a another bluster erupts and the sky opens and I am in the canyon, a new canyon, even more narrow, with absolutely nothing to hold on to, no commitment, no plan, no program in place, just the willingness to learn how best to be, when I’m not in control.

Look around. Who is in there with you?