Understanding Dreams (I found myself this morning)

The understanding of dreams is an important process in the deepening of the wholeness of ourselves. Yet it is seldom easy, and often it feels like dreams are telling us something that we cannot quite grasp. Attempts at developing a universal lexicon of dream language are generally unsatisfying. Even the best interpretive frameworks, such as those of Jung and Castañeda, are often foiled by our most significant experiences in the dream world. Because dreams are rooted in very personal experience, they strongly resist universal categorization and interpretation. They speak a language, and they follow a logic, yes. But it is not a universal language or a universal logic. It is a personal language and a personal logic. Therefore, the key to understanding dreams lies in a personal journey to understand the uniquely individual language of one's own dream author, the Self.

Here is an example of how this language works, and the discipline necessary to learn it.

In the dream I am a student at a vast and multidimensional academy, where many people come together to study art, science, language, and all the human endeavors. I am in a gathering with students and teachers, and I remember that I have two bass lines to learn. I think of the sheet music, I can visualize it in my head, but I have not committed it to memory as I know I must do. I speak to one of the professors. “I feel like I am working as hard as I possibly can, but no matter how hard I work, what remains to me to do is still impossible.”

The professor is kind and reassuring. “It feels like that for everyone while they're in a challenging academic program.”

“Yes, but I've been feeling like that for twenty-five years.”

“Aren't you in the FINSEL program? Don't you have to review four musical pieces every week for that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why not drop FINSEL? You don't need it.”

I realize the professor is right. I don't need FINSEL. Dropping it would make everything easier, and I would finally be able to relax a little. But I also have an immediate sense of attachment; the program is very important to me. I understand that it requires much time, attention, and discipline, but it is also part of who I am and why I am here. I could drop the program, but I will not.

When I awake, I remember the particulars of this dream, especially the strange word, “FINSEL.” I know that the feeling of being overwhelmed by work and obligation is a representation of very real waking anxieties and exhaustion, but what could this strange word mean? Although I never saw the word written in the dream, and in any case, I am seldom able to read or work with figures in a dream, still I knew that the word was an acronym. Its letters stood for something, or it was a contraction. But of what, I could not imagine.

I meditated on the dream throughout the morning (thankfully, it was a Saturday). I related it to my wife after breakfast, and began exploring the rest of the imagery. There were Jungian quaternities: four musical pieces in a week. The week is also a quaternity, since there are four of them in a month. Then there was the mention of “twenty-five years,” a quarter of a century. The two bass lines are a semi-quaternity. In the Jungian framework, such ubiquity of quaternities suggests a very significant dream of individuation. Already, I had no doubt of the dream's personal importance.

In the dream I was able to read music, though with difficulty. This was true in my waking life many years ago, but no longer, as I had left off performing written pieces in my teens, and had branched off into writing and performing my own music, intuitively rather than analytically, and without the benefit of formal writing. Nevertheless, music remains a central part of my personal self-expression, as it has been most of my life.

The dream's FINSEL program was a music program, and the students with whom I was speaking in the dream were music students. I thought I recognized one of them from my mathematics classroom of the waking world. I thought about that student, then remembered an incident that had occurred the day before in a calculus class, which happens to have a fair number of musically inclined students. Several of the students were getting permission slips signed to go on a field trip to a local engineering firm called “Boehringer Ingelheim.” I thought the name was funny, and it reminded me of the song, “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.” I tried to sing the song, substituting the name of the engineering firm for John Jacob's but I could not remember how the song went. I enlisted the aid of the students.

“You guys are musical types, you know the song 'John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,' right?”

About five students immediately burst into an enthusiastic rendition of the song. And yes, this is the sort of thing that typically happens in my calculus class.

“OK,” I said, delightedly, “ now substitute 'Boerhinger Ingelheim' for 'John Jacob Jingleheimer.'”

They immediately did so, and as they joyfully belted out the lampooned marching song, I began conducting. Another student exclaimed, “Look, Reese is conducting!”

“Sure,” I said. “I was in band in high school, too. I learned how to conduct 4/4 time: Floor, wall, wall, ceiling!”

All of this transpired during less than two minutes, while students were working out a calculus problem. Having had our fun – pedagogically useful, since a musical tangent can serve to stimulate the divergent thinking necessary for difficult mathematical problems – I redirected the students' attention to their work. But there had been a connection among us during that moment. Many of the students had not known about my musical background, so sharing that with them enabled us to connect in a new way. Moreover, in that experience of singing suddenly and joyfully together, there emerged that pure and transcendent feeling that is the dissolution of boundary. No longer were there teacher and students in the room, nor even persons isolated by their individuality, but a consciousness that blurred even the boundaries of self, so that something transpersonal emerged: The Collective Consciousness.

This was not the only musical connection I had with students on that day. In a different period of the school day, I was with students during what is called “advisory period,” which often functions rather like a socializing study hall. During this period, some students were using a laptop to look at Soundcloud, a website where amateur and professional songwriters post recorded music. Looking over the students' shoulder, I was surprised to see them using Soundcloud, since not many students do. I had never told any student that I have a Soundcloud page, but I suddenly felt moved to share, and suggested they look up my page.

The students did so, and were very surprised and amazed that their math teacher, whom they had known for four years, records and posts music that is modern enough to appeal to them (even though much of it was written and recorded before they were born). Several students liked it, and listened to several songs, and expressed great surprise and admiration. “I always knew Reese was a wizard,” one student said. Later in the day, one of the students to whom I feel close saw me in the hallway and said, “Reese, I'm telling everybody about your Soundcloud page. Everybody!”

I had always kept my musical activities private from the school, especially as some of the music is either aggressive or very personal in nature, and some has culturally subversive lyrics. On coming home, I somewhat nervously reviewed my page to see if there was anything that could jeopardize my career as a public school teacher, but I decided there wasn't, and in the end, I was glad that I had finally shared this part of my life with my students.

So. Only after reflection on the dream did I realize that two fairly significant events had occurred that very day, both of which had to do with connecting to young people in a school, through music. The import of the dream was beginning to assume definition. But I was no closer to understanding “FINSEL,” although my wife and I had each proposed several things having to do with music that didn't quite fit.

I reflected on the feelings I had experienced just after waking. In recent years, I have begun accumulating musical equipment, which I had left off for about a decade in a hiatus from music and recording. Now I had some recording equipment together, and had united it with things I had kept from my youth, and organized them into an efficiency studio built into a small desk in a corner of the bedroom. I had recorded a new song a couple of weeks ago, and had not put everything away yet.

On waking, I had noticed the amplifier, electronic delay unit, a notebook with scribbled lyrics, and a pedal effect, all stacked neatly, and a guitar and stand and coil of cords on the floor next to them. It had struck me how much this arrangement reminded me of how my bedroom looked twenty-five years ago, when I had still lived with my parents (and there was the “twenty-five years” from the dream). Indeed, three of the items of equipment were the same ones I had kept with me all those years; And the notebook, though only a few years old, was the same spiral type that I had always used in the past.

Here again was the musical connection to the past that had emerged twice on the previous day. I thought of how much I have changed and grown throughout those significant and transformative years, how I am not the same person now that I had been then. Yet there is a thread that runs through all of it, right to the root, right to the conception of my being. That thread is not music, but music is the perfect symbol of it. It is a touchstone to which I have always come back, and, like waking one morning and seeing an arrangement in my room exactly as it had been a quarter century ago, there I can find myself. Thinking of this, a thrill of excitement ran up my arms, caused my hair to stand on end, and tears to emerge in my eyes. My breathing became erratic and heavy, as though I could not get enough of the delicious oxygen that informs this life. I felt I was ready to jump out of my body and behold a series of incarnations from time immemorial.

FINSEL.

FIND SELF.

The instant I said it, I knew it was right. Even now, writing the words, after perhaps two hours of thinking and writing, I feel my face flush, tears well up, a rush of blood throughout my body. Everything about the dream was perfect. The people in it, the context, the images, the coded word, everything gave a perfectly clear message, and nothing was extraneous or unnecessary. Yes, my life has never been an easy one, and no matter how much I work, the work that remains to be done seems impossible, and this is how it has been all my life. Yet I have brought this challenge on myself by insisting at all times on a path that involved commitment to being authentic in the world, to finding and being myself and not anything else. This work has been demanding, sometimes crushing, but if someone were to suggest that I simply give it up to live an easier life – No, I would never do it. Not for an instant. All of the difficulty and hard work of my life has been worth it. I wouldn't trade it for anything. Even my worst mistakes were but steps on that path, and even those, I would not give up, if it meant abandoning the path of myself.

More than this understanding, there was something else that had brought an emotional climax to my whole body, mind, and spirit. It was not just the message that was significant in the dream. It was also the messenger. More important than receiving a needed missive about the condition of my soul, was knowing that there was someone to send that message. Like a shipwrecked sailor who receives a note in a bottle, the content of the note is not as important as the knowledge that there was someone who sent the bottle. Within the totality of consciousness that inhabits each of us, there is an intelligence that understands what is going on better than we do, and can help us through those dark despairs that haunt the human spirit. Indeed, that intelligence shows us that those travails and despairs are mere shadows, and that the fullness of our individual brilliance transcends them, though often we do not see. Some conceive this intelligence as an externalized deity, some as an internalized aspect of the Self. But internality and externality are properties of a three-dimensional, material world, not of the infinite-dimensional universe of which our physical existence is but an image. The soul transcends and crosses dimensions, and in a multidimensional universe, there is no inside and outside. There is no I nor Thou. There is I-within-Thou and Thou-within-I. The whole contains the part, and the part, the whole. Our dreams may tell us that this is so. We need only the diligence to listen.

This is Halloween

People have diverse reactions to Halloween.  For many children, it's a magical time to dress up and go visiting, collecting bags of candy.  For some adults, it is fun, but creepy and weird.  For some adherents to Christian religious sects, it is a clandestine foothold of Satan in the world.  But for those of us who self-identify as pagans, it is the highest of holy days.

There is a common error committed by some religious zealots:  the conflation of paganism with "Satanism."  Paganism has nothing to do with Satanism.  Satan is a Christian deity, the repository of the shadow elements of the Christian soul, rejected outright from the collective consciousness, and thereby given great power over the collective unconscious. This is the meaning of the banishment of Satan from Heaven, and his eternal reign in Hell.  But paganism enacts no such polarity, preferring to integrate the shadow powers of the unconscious with the compassionate and loving collective consciousness, preserving a harmony that reflects the balance of nature.  

It must also be acknowledged that to be a pagan has no definitive meaning.  Generally, the term refers to those religious beliefs and practices that were common in Celtic Europe before the arrival of Christianity. But there is no universally recognized set of organizations, no orthodox scripture, no dogma.  Therein lies a weakness of paganism as a belief system, but also a very great strength.  What it means to be pagan is up to each individual to decide, and one is a pagan simply by believing oneself to be so.  Our priesthood is the animals and trees, our scripture is the leaves and the stars, and our church is the stones and seas of the earth.  Therefore what I have to say today about paganism is only that:  what I have to say today about paganism.

The Holy Days of the pagan calendar include the equinoxes and solstices, but emphasize the cross-quarter days: those that fall exactly between the solstices and equinoxes. These are Imbolc (Winter-Spring), Beltane (Spring-Summer), Lughnassad (Summer-Autumn) and Samhuin (Autumn-Winter). Of these, Beltane and Samhuin are highest, and Samhuin occupies a special place because it is considered the beginning of the new year. The astronomical date of Samhuin is November 6 on a modern calendar, but the precession of equinoxes has caused the calendrical date to drift by a week, and we celebrate it now on October 30.

Samhuin is a Celtic spelling and pronunciation (sah-ween), whose somewhat more familiar Anglo-Saxon counterpart is Samhain. I believe it is from the Celtic phonetics of this word that we derive our modern “halloween.” It seems a more likely derivation than the traditional “all hallowd's eve,” since, under that theory, one would have to explain why we don't call the holiday “halloweve.”

The pagan religion, and Celtic spirituality in general, places a high value on liminal space, the “in-between” of things. Doorways, windows, and well openings are liminal in space, but there are also liminal times, such as midnight, dawn, and dusk. The cross-quarters are all liminal times because they represent the conjunction of seasons, and Samhuin is doubly liminal, since it is also the conjunction of the new and old year.

Pagan religion, like most tribal religions, believes in the transmigration of souls. At the liminal moment of Samhuin, this transmigratory pathway is at its most open, and we have a chance to see the movement of souls among the worlds between the living and the dead, between the temporal materiality and the eternal spirit. For this reason, we may see spirit-forms walking the earth.

We honor the transdimensional nature of spirit with our costumery, enacting its transformations. We honor the wicce, the wise women of herb and animal lore, and also the druids, the Der-Wydd, the Oak-seers who seek the tree-lore contained in the cauldron of Cerridwen, nestled in the roots of the world-tree, Ygdrasil. We honor the spiders, who are the living image of the Weavers of Fate, the Sisters of Wyrd, whose names are Urd, Skuld, and Verdandi, and who eternally weave the fabric of destiny. We honor the moon, whose cycles resonate with the cycles of our bodies, and our animal companions, among whom cats, bats, and owls are particularly revered.

The symbols and meaning of Samhuin have been systematically trivialized and denigrated by the orders of the Catholic Church as part of its program of cultural genocide against pagans that began with Saints Patrick and Columba in the 5^th century (we are the “snakes” whom Patrick famously drove out of Ireland), reached its peak of atrocity under the Spanish Inquisition, came on the ships to the New World and showed its head in Salem, and is visible today in the ignorant remarks of contemporary religious and political leaders. It is only one genocide among many that hang from the head of that bloody church, whose Jesus has said, “You shall know the tree by the fruit it bears.”

Although they have nonsensically related the pagan holy day to their own trickster shadow-deity, have demonized our wise women as “witches” (whose wisdom was a great threat to the invasive patriarchy), and have slandered our familiar animal spirits with the curse of bad luck and demonism, the pagan connection to its highest holy day survives. The spirits of children and adults are captivated by our ancestral connection to our own tribal religion. We celebrate the transformation of our spirits, the communion with the departed, and the special connections we have to the natural and animal worlds at a time when the season sweeps us into the mystic perseverance of the past, encoded in our very DNA. Enjoy, then this magical season, and seek its ever deeper meaning, and be not fooled by appearances – for they are transitory.

Moke and Kana

During the dry season, Moke and Kana used to cross the plains together, and this is how they would do it: Moke would scout far up ahead across the plains. He would do the hunting, and find either large or small game, using his exceptional skill at tracking, and his accuracy with his weapon. Moke was known far and wide as an outstanding hunter.

Meanwhile, Kana would start from the campsite and search around for the sweet herbs, the healing herbs, and the roots that hold water. Then she would look over the baskets and the decorations, and if anything needed mending, she would mend it, or if something new was wanted, she would make it. She would search around for the best grasses for weaving. Kana was well known for her skill at weaving and her knowledge of the good herbs.

As the sun began to sit low in the sky, Moke would find a good place for the camp. Moke and Kana were choosy about their campsite. It should be protected from the wind, but it should offer a clear view in all directions, so that dangerous animals could not come up on them unseen. The ground should not be steep, but it should tilt slightly to the east, so that they would be warmed by the morning sun as soon as it rose over the horizon. Once Moke had found the good spot, he would build a trellis to hold the meats that he had captured and prepared, he would set up the sleeping areas, and he would build a fire.

The fire was the signal that the camp was ready, and also it showed Kana where the camp was, since she was still a long way away, gathering the herbs and roots, and mending the baskets. So Moke would gather all the brush he could find, and make a very big fire. In the firewood he would include the soft, greasy woods that would make a big column of smoke so that Kana could see it before the sun set. Then he would also add the hard woods and some bones that burn very brightly, so that Kana could see it if she happened to still be coming when the sun had already set and the stars had come out.

Thus, in the evening, Kana would look for the smoke from Moke's fire, and she would come to it, bringing the baskets, the roots, and the herbs, and if it was very far away, and the sun set before she got there, she could still see the bright fire dancing ahead of her like a star, and she would follow that light until she got to the camp. When she got there, she would put down her basket and arrange the herbs and the water. Sometimes Moke would have a small cut or a bite, or a sting from a dangerous plant or insect, and Kana would use the healing herbs to soothe these injuries. Sometimes Kana's hair had become tangled, and Moke would comb it carefully and tie it into the traditional hairpiece that showed she was married to him. Together they would prepare the meats with the sweet herbs over the fire. Then they would enjoy these foods, and finally would go to their sleeping area and sleep together through the cool, dark night. In the morning they would do it all over again.

This is how they would cross the plain during the dry season. During the rainy season, they did not do this. During the rainy season, they would build a strong shelter near the water. Kana would not have to go far searching for herbs, because the plain was green and the herbs were everywhere. There were even special herbs that grew only during the rainy season, that they would save throughout the year because they were especially tasty for the meal, or because they had great healing power. And Moke did not have to go so far to hunt, because all the game, both large and small, would come right up to the water. Moke set up a special shelter a little ways from the sleeping shelter, and he would catch all the game they needed before noontime.

So, in the rainy season, Moke and Kana had a lot of time together to tell stories, to enjoy their meals at leisure, and to make things for their shelter. Kana had more time for her weaving, and she made beautiful decorative baskets. Moke would carve pieces of wood and bone, and his carvings reflected the images of the people and the spirits. Of course, there were also festivals at this time, when all the members of the distant families and clans would come together and dance and sing the old songs.

It was during the rainy season that Kana started to die. She kept getting hot and and sweating at night when it was cold, and she would shiver during the day when it was hot. Her eyes and face were swollen, and she shook all over. She could not stand up, and she could not eat. Moke tried to help her with the healing herbs, and the shaman came and performed rituals, but Kana only got worse and worse. Moke was afraid, and he held her, and he was crying.

Then, for a little while, Kana's eyes cleared, and she stopped shaking, and her voice came out strong and gentle like it used to be.

“Moke,” she said.

“Yes, Kana, I am here.”

“Moke, you know how in the dry season, we cross the plains together.”

“Yes, Kana, I know.”

“You know how you scout ahead, and you find a good place, and you make a fire, and I come to it.”

“Yes.”

“Now, this time, I am the one who is scouting ahead. I am going to find the good place, and I am going to make a fire for you to come to.”

Moke was choking on his tears.

“Kana,” he said.

“Yes, Moke.”

“Kana, when you get there, and you find the good place, and you make the fire, you must be sure that it is a very big fire, because it will be far away, and I will have a long way to come to you.”

“Yes, Moke, I will make a very big fire.”

Then Kana died completely and forever.

And when she found the good place, she made a big fire for Moke to see. It was a very big fire, and Moke was able to see it as long as he was still in this world. During the day, she added the soft, greasy wood, so that it would make a smoke that could be seen from very far away. And at night, she added the hard woods and some bone, so that it would burn very brightly, and could be seen from anywhere in the world.

The Dancing Fern 2

The Mountain

Nali was walking with her Papi when she first saw the little stream partway up the mountain. Nali always called her father “Papi,” and soon everyone in the village was calling him that, so that “Papi" became his name. Papi saw the stream right after little Nali. Papi and Nali had been walking together all day, looking for the stones that are best to break into good tools: for cutting, scraping, and making other tools out of wood and bone. They had gone far from the village, far from the forests of home, and had come to this distant mountain that was new to them. They did not know where there was water, or good food, so they were hungry, thirsty, and tired, and they were both very happy to find the little stream, rushing with clear, cold water.

They ran together to the edge of the stream and laughed, splashing the water on themselves and each other. Only after warming the water a little in their hands did they drink, so they would not get stomach aches. They were careful not to drink too much, even though they were thirsty and had not had water all day.

Nali and Papi sat a while by the stream, listening to the music of the passing water, watching birds fly over, hearing the wind pass over the stones and tough grass. Finally, Nali spoke.

“Papi, we did not have much luck finding stones today.”

“No, Nali, we did not.”

“But, still, I am happy.”

“Why is that, Nali?”

“Because we have found a beautiful place with good water, and animals, and food. We can see very far and the air is cool and delicious.”

Papi smiled. “Yes, Nali, we have found a good place.”

Papi and Nali stayed by the stream a while, then went home to the village, and to Nali's mother. They often went back to the beautiful mountain, and Papi and Nali both thought of the mountain often, and told Nali's mother and some of the other people in the village about how delightful and good it was there.

So it was that one day, as the village was growing, and people were thinking about places to go and start a new village, many people thought of the mountain that Nali and Papi had found, and several people decided they should go out there and start a village by the stream. They asked Nali and Papi to take them there. Nali and Papi talked together late that night about what they should do.

“The mountain is a beautiful place,” said Nali, “but it is our special place. I'm not sure I want to share it with everyone.”

“Don't be selfish,” said Papi. “When people in the village find something good, they want to share it, so that everyone can benefit.”

Nali pondered and fidgeted a little. “That's not just it, Papi. It's something else. I want to share our mountain with the people. But... “ she paused, and wrinkled her nose. “I'm not sure the mountain wants to have a village there.”

Papi looked long at his daughter. “You hear the voice of the mountain,” Papi said. “This is a good thing for you and all the people. Tomorrow let us set out together, and you will ask the mountain if it will let the people come and start a village there.”

Nali smiled. “That is a good plan, Papi.”

The next day, Nali and Papi set out toward the mountain. They walked all day, and it was very hard. Finally, they came to the little stream and sat, and drank, and listened, as they had done many times before. After a while, Nali walked a little ways up the stream, and she sat, and she opened her heart to the mountain. She said, “Oh, great mountain. Our people would like to come and start a village here. We see how beautiful you are, and we will always honor and respect you, and keep your ways in our village. Please tell me if we may come.”

Nali sat and waited all day. She listened to the wind, to the birds, to the insects, and to the water rushing in the river. Finally, as the shadows were stretching long, she heard the voice of the mountain. It was deep and eternal. It was the sound of the infinite roots of stone that lay under her feet and her lap.

“I will think about it.” Said the mountain. “Ask me in a little while.”

Nali told her father what the mountain had said. They slept that night by the stream, and felt sheltered and cared for by the mountain, as the night creatures sang their lullabies, and the flowery breezes cooled their faces. In the morning they packed their food and tools and got ready to go. “Mountains probably take a long time to think,” said Papi. “Let's come back in a month.”

Nali and Papi returned to the village, and went on about their daily business. People asked about the mountain, and whether they should go there to start a village, but Papi would just say, “We'll see.” After a month, Nali and Papi went back to the mountain, but the mountain still had no answer for them. They came back month after month, and a year passed, and another, and still there was no answer from the mountain. Many people had already gone and started villages in other places. Thus five years passed. Nali had stopped waiting for an answer from the mountain. But one day, when Nali and Papi were sitting by the stream on the mountain, Nali suddenly heard the voice of the mountain. She was surprised, since she thought the mountain had forgotten about them. But all of a sudden, and clear as day, the mountain said,

“OK. I have decided that your people may come and start a village.”

When the village was established, Nali was already a young woman, and Papi and Nali's mother were starting to move slower, and were having difficulty walking as far or climbing as high as they had when Nali was a little girl. But the village was a good village, and there was plenty of water and food and good stones and timber, and the people were happy. The people loved the mountain, and they kept to the ways of the mountain, always respecting its wishes. The people felt that the mountain loved them too, and they felt blessed that the mountain had expressly given them permission to start a village there, and they loved Nali who could talk to the mountain, and they called the mountain “Nali's Mountain.”

As the village grew, the people started having trouble finding enough water for everyone. One of the elders said, “We could build a dam of wood, stone, and clay that would hold back the waters of the river. Then there would be plenty of water for the people, even in the dry season.”

“Yes,” said another of the elders. But what of the ways of the mountain? Is it right that we should hold back the flow of the water, and silence its voice?”

Another of the elders answered, “You speak wisely. But do not the beavers build dams to withhold the water? Surely they follow the ways of the mountain, since they have lived by her bounty for centuries.”

“It is so,” said another elder. “But we cannot decide for ourselves. Let us ask the mountain if it is permitted to build the dam.”

So the elders came to Nali, and asked her to petition the mountain for its advice about the dam. Nali said of course she would ask the mountain, and the next day she went off to a quiet spot where she could hear the mountain's voice.

After sitting and listening a long time, she opened her heart and spoke to the mountain. “Oh great mountain,” she began, “you have been kind and generous to the people of the village, and we wish to ask you something. May we build a small dam to hold back the water, so that the people will always have water and never be thirsty?”

Nali listened all night for an answer, and finally, as the moon was rising, she felt the earth tremble, and heard the voice of the mountain again. The mountain said, “I will think about it. Ask me again in a little while.”

By this time, Nali knew well what the mountain meant by “a little while,” and so did the village elders. They waited patiently, and were surprised that within a year, the mountain had made its decision, and announced it to Nali. Nali addressed the council of elders.

“The mountain has said that the people have done well and have abided by the ways of the mountain. She therefore gives her permission to build the dam.”

The elders were satisfied, and directed the construction of the dam in the summer, when the waters were low. The dam was a success, and held water well throughout the year, and the people were prosperous. They grew grain, they hunted for food, they built humble dwellings, and they raised their children, Always they sang songs and held rituals that honored the mountain and its ways, and they celebrated their good fortune at living in such a good and loving land.

So things went for generations. After Nali and Papi passed into the next world, a young man began to hear the voice of the mountain. In some generations it was a boy, and in some a girl, but the people always had someone in their midst who could speak to the mountain. The village continued to prosper, and people came from many lands to trade, to tell stories, and to enjoy the beauty and harmony of that place. Whenever the village elders wanted to change something in the village to aid the people, they would first ask the mountain for her advice.

But after many more generations, the people grew tired of waiting for the mountain's lengthy consideration of every improvement to the village's happiness and prosperity. For example, one year the elders thought it would be a good idea to expand the dam and build a mill, so that the people did not have to work so hard at grinding grain. When, as usual, the elders said they would have to consult the mountain, one young villager became angry.

“Why should we wait for a year or five years to hear the mountain's answer?” he shouted at the elders. “The people are suffering from grinding the grain by hand day in and day out! Our young men become weary and cannot hunt well. Our women become exhausted, and their hands are destroyed by the work and the stones! Why should another year pass with the people suffering so?”

The villager's words were persuasive, and it was true that everyone in the village was suffering. The grinding of grain is very hard, and the people's fingers were worn and painful at a young age. The elders weighed the suffering of the people against the patient ways of the mountain, and they made a fateful decision.

“Go ahead and build the mill,” they said. “We will ask the mountain later.”

Of course, once the villagers had broken with the ways of the mountain, there was to be no turning back. The mountain never answered when the young man asked about the mill, even thought the mill had already been built. The people went on building things, saying they would ask the mountain later, and the mountain went on not answering, and eventually the mountain was entirely silent, and the people stopped asking. All this took a very long time, and hardly anyone noticed what was happening.

The village continued to prosper nonetheless. With the mill in place, people had more time to pursue art and leisure. Villagers from all over the world came and traded with the people of Nali's Mountain, and came to get their grains ground, for which they paid in precious stones and shells, and the artisans of Nali's Mountain became very skilled, and people traded great treasures for the famed works of art that came from there.

The people drifted farther and farther from the ways of the mountain. They built more and higher dams, until the water hardly reached the foot of the mountain. They burned much forest to clear for fields and towns, and they killed many animals for food, even young females and pregnant mothers. The people became proud and called themselves the “Masters of Nali's Mountain,” and told everyone they had subdued the mountain and bent her to their will.

The people of the surrounding villages became envious of the prosperity and ease of living that was enjoyed by the people of Nali's Mountain. Many people tried to join the village from afar, but they were turned away by the ones who called themselves the “Masters of Nali's Mountain.”

“You were not born on this mountain,” they said. “You did not build the dams and the mills. You are not skilled in crafts and farming, as we are. Go back to you poor villages, and come back here only when you have some rich treasures to trade with us.”

Also, the “Masters of Nali's Mountain” began demanding more and more precious stones and shells and feathers for their arts and for the use of their mill and water. The people in the surrounding lands became very angry at this. “You are the reason we have no water for our crops and no mill of our own,” they said. “Your dams have blocked every stream that flows from this mountain, and you have cut down all the trees, and now there is no water for the surrounding villages, and no food and no game. It is you yourselves who are to blame for this, yet you demand treasures from us for the water that is rightfully ours!”

The anger of the surrounding villages grew, and so did the pride of the “Masters of Nali's Mountain,” and it happened that people from the surrounding villages started coming to steal from the people of Nali's Mountain, and when they were caught stealing, they were punished by the “Masters of Nali's Mountain.” So the people of the surrounding villages became more angry and more determined, and they came in greater numbers to Nali's Mountain, demanding that the people give up their riches and share with the people below.

Since the people of Nali's mountain refused, the people of the surrounding villages attacked the people of Nali's Mountain with weapons, and there was blood and harm, and killing.

And that is when the mountain spoke so that everyone could hear.

“Enough!” cried the mountain. The stones and rivers trembled, and the air became tense with impending storm. “You have broken your promise! You have not lived by the ways of the mountain, and now you violate my body with war! You shall live here no longer!”

And with that, the mountain shook itself to its foundations, and threw forth fire and terrible storms, and threw the people from its side. The devastation was limitless, and continued for years. After many years of storms, floods, and streams of burning stone, nothing remained of the village or any of the villagers. The surrounding lands were also destroyed, and there was nothing but desert for many miles.

The people never came back to Nali's Mountain. Generation after generation passed, and the people stayed far away, and they could not remember what had happened there, but they knew it was terrible. The people now called it “The Dead Mountain,” and they had no memory that it had ever been called “Nali's Mountain.”

As the generations passed, everyone forgot everything that had ever happened there. But the region around The Dead Mountain was believed to be haunted, and there certainly was no food or water or other good things, so no-one ever went there to say if it was really haunted or not.

But one day there was a young man who had gotten lost from his village. He had been out looking for the old bones that people sometimes found, that were so old they had turned to stone. These bones were found sometimes, and seemed to belong to fantastic beings, and some people believed they came from magical beasts, and some people believed they were relics of an ancient time, and held great mysteries. So this young man was out looking in the wastes and dead places, and he was known for his courage as well as his wisdom, and his name was Rica.

It is dangerous to wander in the wastes and dead lands, and Rica had lost his way. Where he was there was no water, no food, no shade or safe place. He wandered up the slopes of an old dead mountain, and wondered if he had strayed so far as the roots of The Dead Mountain, and he wondered if it were true that the mountain was really haunted. The sun fell, and the moon rose late, and a chill descended, and Rica heard strange vibrations in the night air. But he dared not stop, for he had great need of water, and he must find water or die.

As he climbed higher up the barren slopes of The Dead Mountain, Rica began to fancy that he heard voices of crying and lamentation, and also voices of rejoicing and celebration. But they seemed to be distant, lost in time or from another dimension. Slowly the voices resolved themselves into a clear and consistent music. Rica could hardly believe his ears, for he had become convinced that he was to die, and join the ghosts of this old, dead mountain. But there was no mistaking the music. It was the music of a running stream.

Exhausted and elated, but also cautious, lest he be deluded by spirits, Rica made his way toward the music of the water. Finally, he crested a small rise of barren rock, and there he beheld an awesome sight.

A small stream was issuing forth from the side of the mountain. As Rica looked down the moonlit stream, he saw that the land was transforming under the steady influence of the water. Near the edges of the stream, the land was not so hard. Small, hardy plants had taken root, and even some flowers were to be seen. Furtive insects skirted among the tough leaves.

His eyes agape, Rica ran up to the stream, and splashed the cool water on his dry face and arms. The cooling powers of the water were deeply restorative. Rica took a cupful of water in his hands and held it a while to warm it, then drank only a little, so as not to upset his dry stomach.

Rica laughed with joy and rolled onto his back in the warm soil at the edge of the river, smiling up at the bright moon.

“It is a wonder!” he said to himself. “All these generations, we have known this land as a dead place, and no-one goes here. Yet here, beneath my very eyes, this land is beginning to change. It is becoming a living place!”

Then, as he drifted off into grateful sleep, with his back pressed against the earth, he heard a vibration rising up through his spine, and the voice he heard was the voice of the mountain. The voice of the mountain said,

“Shhhh. Don't tell anyone.”