Ahimsa Originale

I don’t kill bugs. Or at least as I lumber my way through creation, I do my best not to. Upon spotting a bug in my house, be it ant, spider, Sliver Spotted Ghost Moth or some other creepy crawly, a mini-emergency task force is immediately dispatched to the scene. Equipped with rescue gear consisting of glass and mid-sized magazine, I gently shepherd the wayward creature into the container, safely cover the opening with the publication, and respectfully show the little beastie the door. They’re set outside to continue crawling, creeping, or scuttling about the remaining corners of planet earth to their tiny hearts’ content.

It’s unclear exactly when this practice became part of my repertoire, but I’ve definitely embraced it. With my immense size and strength (comparatively), I try not to keep my security from being threatened by such a little creature, especially one that, per some of the Eastern spiritual paths, is an evolving life form. How the theory of evolution negates the miracle of life or disproves God’s hand in the process is something I’ve never quite gotten, but that may be a whole other post.

The origin of my bug hugging MAY have been a Zen Archery retreat I attended in Vermont several years back, when I was first exposed to spiritual practice. After noticing several large tufts of spider webs in the corners of the retreat house with oversized spiders included, I asked if Buddhists had a fondness for arachnids. “No, but we do have a reverence for life,” explained the house manager. “And we uphold Ahimsa, the principal meaning non-violence, or to do no harm.”

Like I said, I’m not sure when I adopted the Ahimsa code. But one thing I AM sure of, and that’s that my Mother does not share my belief system.

My Mom will smash perceived pests as fast as she spots them, with a glaring lack of delicacy. “Darn ANTS!” she’ll huff as she lowers the boom of her flattened hand or napkin or broom. She’s like the personification of a can of Raid, as she kills bugs dead. In my head, I hear myself saying, “Mom, you know, there’s an important tenet of the Indian religions called Ahimsa that means kindness toward all living things, including animals. It’s a respect for all living beings as a unity, believing that everything is connected. Gandhi strongly believed in the principle, and so do I. It’s linked to the notion that any kind of violence entails negative karmic consequences.”

In reality, I don’t say any of this. Because by the time my Mom has a bead on a bug, it’s over. So I try keeping the peace between my Mom and the local insect population in alternative ways. Gently sweeping out the garage corners - dirty webs, silk egg sacks and all – I explain to the residents there that there's a new sheriff in town, and they should lay low if they have any hope of seeing the end of the summer. I imagine that if spider’s had a voice, they’d respond in a soothingly warm and intelligent way, like that famous grey barn spider Charlotte. And I’m on the lookout for a gracefully woven “Terrific” or “Thanks man!” sometime soon.

On Ahimsa and Not Living Up

What on God’s good green earth is happening here? Pictured above is a funeral rite recently held for a pair of common house mice (Mus musculus) who share.. er uh shared  my country home. A funeral is a Ceremony for honoring, respecting, sanctifying, or burying the life of a person – or in this case, small, furry critters – who have died. Funerary customs comprise the complex of beliefs and practices used by a culture to remember the dead, from interment itself, to various monuments, prayers, and rituals undertaken in their honor. Additionally, funerals often have religious aspects which are intended to help the soul of the deceased reach the afterlife, resurrection or reincarnation.

The Spirit World considered and truth be told, these guys didn’t naturally expire; I killed them. As a proponent of Ahimsa, the principal of non-violence or doing no harm, I’m not thrilled about taking the lives of animals, no matter how small. Having written about the notion in a previous post, the problem now is that I’m out here in the woods building a high-caliber retreat center for spiritual practice that’s going to draw practitioners from all over the world seeking a sense of goodness and purity. And while mice may be distinguished by their cute, rounded ears and body-length scaly tail, they’re equally known for damaging crops, causing structural damage and spreading diseases through parasites and feces. I tried being their roommate for a few months, I really did. But there’s been more than one shrill, frantic female cry during our long, shared winter nights of hibernation. And opening cabinets to discover their tiny droppings leaving littered trails over my pots, pans and glasses simply wasn’t going to work.

Interestingly, animals themselves actually have their own Karma and lessons to learn, did you know that? If they  venture into an environment where they don’t belong, then they choose to put themselves at risk. And mice and rats are basically animals that like to take and acquire things for free. That’s why inner cities are so populated with rats. The lesson for these crits then is to be self-reliant instead of preying on whatever they can get for free. That’s the lesson for the animal – don’t take. Produce. And vermin don’t produce anything. Enter The Mouse Reckoner.

Back to the funeral, it wasn’t an official funeral, ok, no eulogies, no procession to the grave, no weepy mice relatives dressed in black. I wrapped them each in a makeshift red-cloth coffin, sprinkled a bit of sage and tobacco over them, and laid them to rest in a sunny spot in the yard over looking Crooked Creek. In retrospect, I suppose the gesture assisted me in surmounting any guilt I might have had for using Peanut Butter and Intruder’s Better Mousetrap (a fine contraption FYI) to take ’em out. After singing a song and turning the soil over their mini forms, I actually wept a little (sniffle).

Then I started laughing because I was weeping, a real study in duality out there in my little Mouse Cemetery. What came to mind then was the final day of our family parakeet, one of my funnier childhood memories. Falling off the proverbial perch, my Mom saw the dead bird at the bottom of its cage and enlisted my brother Mark for a similar animal memorial service. We put Polly in a golf ball sleeve – the five-inch box making a perfect parakeet sarcophagus – and sent her West. Being a teenager in the late 1970’s, with his bandana and chain-link wallet, my brother sang an appropriate dirge – Crosby Stills and Nash’s Find The Cost of Freedom. It’s a great memoriam to America’s fallen, in this case furry, feathered, and otherwise:

(Do we) find the cost of freedom, buried in the ground
Mother earth will swallow you, lay your body down
Find the cost of freedom, buried in the ground
Mother earth will swallow you, lay your body down

Building Bridges To The Black

Back in April, a couple of my relatives came to visit for an overnight stay. Michael Sanford is my sister’s husband Kevin’s brother, and although not by blood, my brother, too. His son Alec, skateboard extraordinaire and able protégé, also joined for the twelve-hour drive from Framingham, Massachusetts, by way of their hometown of Concord, a small village in central Michigan.

My relationship with the Sanford boys is a significant one, considering I more than likely would have nevertaken on a country home and substantial acreage without their influence. Having grown up in Concord, these ‘ol boys were born off the grid, being country way before country was cool. They were the ones who first showed me how to run a wood stove without burning the house down, how to wield a shotgun (“paint the sky Paulie, paint the sky!”), and how hunters plays an important and noble role in many rural communities. I remember meeting Mike and Kev at the start of Pheasant season in a hay field twenty years ago, as they rolled up in their bright orange hats and vests. When I inquired how the day was, they claimed to have been skunked, not having seen a single bird all morning. Just as we clasped hands, almost on cue, a big, brilliant long-tailed male flushed from the brush a hundred yards behind them. “Might that be one right there?” I offered up. “That might be!”, they replied, turning, loading, locking and taking off running. Love it when signs of abundance spring forth from the natural world.

Mike’s the consummate handy man and can craft just about anything, swinging an axe and running a saw like an old school Midwest woodsman. Alec appears to be not more than a step or two behind him. Who better to take on the task of opening up access to the middle branch of the Black River that touches the Southeast corner of the property? Down there the wetland’s swampy, black-green muck makes it like the Mei Kong Delta during a hot Vietnam summer, having swallowed down more than one flip flop in my attempts to bushwack my way through. As forecast, by morning they’d cleared a path, put in earthen embankments, and carved a set of stairs into the path’s steep slope. By afternoon, in words taken from Alec’s Facebook post, “Got the opportunity to clear a path, build two footbridges and construct a set of stairs. With the help of my dad we were able to drop two trees and drive 200+ nails into 30″ deck boards in order to make the Black River more accessible to my Uncle Paul ‪#‎hardworkalwayspaysoff” Amen to that. Considering the structure of this place will span gaps and barriers to better living for many, the passage provided a needed addition.

Now, after a sweat, in the heat of the summer, we can submerge ourselves in the cool waters of the Black, fish for steelhead as they make their way up to spawn, and drop a kayak in more readily for the long float and portage to the lake. Say what you will about guests being like Lake Michigan Steelhead, perhaps giving off a distinct scent after three days. Kin or anyone else who can craft cool stuff are always welcome to come here and stay a spell.

I will walk alone by the Black muddy river
And listen to the ripples as they moan
I will walk alone by the Black muddy river
And sing me a song of my own – Grateful Dead