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    ...tell the people that this is the Hour.


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    ...tell the people that this is the Hour. Empty ...tell the people that this is the Hour.

    Post  B.B.Baghor on Sat Jan 03, 2015 9:56 am

    ...tell the people that this is the Hour. 20141210

    A Hopi Elder Speaks

    "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


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    ...tell the people that this is the Hour. Empty Re: ...tell the people that this is the Hour.

    Post  mudra on Sat Jan 03, 2015 10:59 am

    This inspired that to semeone. Quite beautiful ...

    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?


    Love Always

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    ...tell the people that this is the Hour. Empty David Foster Wallace

    Post  B.B.Baghor on Sat Jan 03, 2015 2:34 pm

    ...tell the people that this is the Hour. 31467110

    “The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.”

    - David Foster Wallace (This is Water)

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    ...tell the people that this is the Hour. Empty Paqos Masters of the living energy

    Post  B.B.Baghor on Sun Mar 15, 2015 2:43 pm

    ...tell the people that this is the Hour. Wisdom10


    Andean Paqos, known as maestros of the Living Energy, form an unbroken lineage of wisdomkeepers who have stewarded humanity's holistic intelligence since time immemorial. Paqos are not shaman. They are spiritual intermediaries recognized by two titles: Pampamisayoq (Pampa•me•sigh•yoke), meaning one who focuses on earth-based matters, and Altomisayoq (Alto•me•sign•yoke), one who attends to both the terrestrial and celestial realms.

    Spanish chroniclers introduced these terms in the 1530's as a means to describe the mystical priestlike functions of this ancient tradition. During this same period, and as a result of their responsibilities within the Inkan civilization, Andean Paqos found it necessary to retreat to remote, high altitude locations to safeguard their lifeways from the onslaught of Conquest and Inquisition forces. Perseverance through centuries of isolation and extended hardship has allowed the Andean Holy Mountain Tradition to maintain its integrative practices and keep its cosmology intact.

    In the 1950's anthropologists rediscovered the tradition after 425 years of operational secrecy. Researchers cultivated interactions with lineage holders to study their knowledge base and animistic ways of life. Subsequent decades brought increases in modern convenience and safety which led more and more Paqos to live and work in developed communities. But over time, the tradition saw a decrease in the number of Paqos embodying its highest levels due to disruptive influences, mentorship die-off and few modern-day apprentices willing to undertake the rigors of this resolute path.

    Presently, and as foretold by Andean oral tradition, Paqos and the Apus (mountain spirit benefactors who overlight the tradition) have begun recognizing and initiating western-born practitioners to help reweave holistic consciousness, restore cognitive lifeways and promote spiritual responsibility within industrialized cultures. To the benefit of all peoples this ancient lineage has successfully maintained its heart-wisdom and is now sharing its holistic paradigms to help humankind remember That which has always been realized within.

    Source text above:

    ...tell the people that this is the Hour. Naamlo15

    Here's the link to the soundtracks in the film

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    ...tell the people that this is the Hour. Empty Concepts of love and power contrasted as opposites

    Post  B.B.Baghor on Sat May 16, 2015 7:55 pm

    ...tell the people that this is the Hour. Hearts10

    Martin Luther King Jr. 1967  
    In his last speech as president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference:

    “Power properly understood, is nothing but the ability to achieve purpose.
    And one of the great problems of history is that the concepts of love and
    power have usually been contrasted as opposites - polar opposites- so that
    love is identified with a resignation of power and power with a denial of love.

    We’ve got to get this thing right. What is needed is a realization that power
    without love is reckless and abusive and love without power is sentimental
    and anemic. Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice,
    and justice at its best is power correcting everything that stands against love.
    It is precisely this collision of immoral power with powerless morality 
    which constitutes the major crisis of our time.”

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    ...tell the people that this is the Hour. Empty Chief Seattle's letter to the white man 1854

    Post  B.B.Baghor on Sun Sep 13, 2015 3:27 am

    ...tell the people that this is the Hour. Images13
    Version 1 (below) appeared in the Seattle Sunday Star on Oct. 29, 1887, in a column by Dr. Henry A. Smith.
    "CHIEF SEATTLE'S 1854 ORATION" - ver . 1

    Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold,
    and which to us appears changeless and eternal, may change.
    Today is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds.
    My words are like the stars that never change.
    Whatever Seattle says, the great chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as he can
    upon the return of the sun or the seasons.
    The white chief says that Big Chief at Washington sends us greetings of friendship and goodwill.
    This is kind of him for we know he has little need of our friendship in return.
    His people are many.
    They are like the grass that covers vast prairies.

    My people are few.
    They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain.
    The great, and I presume -- good, White Chief sends us word that he wishes to buy our land
    but is willing to allow us enough to live comfortably.
    This indeed appears just, even generous, for the Red Man no longer has rights that he need respect,
    and the offer may be wise, also, as we are no longer in need of an extensive country.

    There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor,
    but that time long since passed away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory.
    I will not dwell on, nor mourn over, our untimely decay, nor reproach my paleface brothers with hastening it,
    as we too may have been somewhat to blame.

    Youth is impulsive. When our young men grow angry at some real or imaginary wrong,
    and disfigure their faces with black paint, it denotes that their hearts are black,
    and that they are often cruel and relentless, and our old men and old women are unable to restrain them.
    Thus it has ever been.
    Thus it was when the white man began to push our forefathers ever westward.
    But let us hope that the hostilities between us may never return.
    We would have everything to lose and nothing to gain.
    Revenge by young men is considered gain, even at the cost of their own lives,
    but old men who stay at home in times of war, and mothers who have sons to lose, know better.

    Our good father in Washington--for I presume he is now our father as well as yours,
    since King George has moved his boundaries further north--our great and good father,
    I say, sends us word that if we do as he desires he will protect us.
    His brave warriors will be to us a bristling wall of strength,
    and his wonderful ships of war will fill our harbors, so that our ancient enemies far to the northward --
    the Haidas and Tsimshians -- will cease to frighten our women, children, and old men.
    Then in reality he will be our father and we his children.
    But can that ever be?
    Your God is not our God!
    Your God loves your people and hates mine!
    He folds his strong protecting arms lovingly about the paleface and leads him by the hand as a father leads an infant son.
    But, He has forsaken His Red children, if they really are His.
    Our God, the Great Spirit, seems also to have forsaken us.
    Your God makes your people wax stronger every day.
    Soon they will fill all the land.

    Our people are ebbing away like a rapidly receding tide that will never return.
    The white man's God cannot love our people or He would protect them.
    They seem to be orphans who can look nowhere for help.
    How then can we be brothers?
    How can your God become our God and renew our prosperity and awaken in us dreams of returning greatness?
    If we have a common Heavenly Father He must be partial, for He came to His paleface children.
    We never saw Him.
    He gave you laws but had no word for His red children whose teeming multitudes once filled this vast continent as stars fill the firmament.

    No; we are two distinct races with separate origins and separate destinies.
    There is little in common between us.
    To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground.
    You wander far from the graves of your ancestors and seemingly without regret.
    Your religion was written upon tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget.
    The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it.
    Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors -- the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of the night by the Great Spirit; and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.

    Your dead cease to love you and the land of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb and wander away beyond the stars. They are soon forgotten and never return.
    Our dead never forget this beautiful world that gave them being.
    They still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent mountains,
    sequestered vales and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever yearn in tender fond affection over the lonely hearted living,
    and often return from the happy hunting ground to visit, guide, console, and comfort them.

    Day and night cannot dwell together.
    The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning sun.
    However, your proposition seems fair and I think that my people will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them.
    Then we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the words of nature speaking to my people out of dense darkness.

    It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days.
    They will not be many. The Indian's night promises to be dark.
    Not a single star of hope hovers above his horizon.
    Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance.
    Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man's trail,
    and wherever he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom,
    as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.

    A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of the descendants of the mighty hosts that once moved over this broad land
    or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn over the graves of a people once more powerful
    and hopeful than yours. But why should I mourn at the untimely fate of my people?
    Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea.
    It is the order of nature, and regret is useless.
    Your time of decay may be distant, but it will surely come,
    for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend,
    cannot be exempt from the common destiny.
    We may be brothers after all.
    We will see.

    We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know.
    But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege
    without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children.
    Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people.
    Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished.
    Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore,
    thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people,
    and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours,
    because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch.

    Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy hearted maidens,
    and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season,
    will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits.
    And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men,
    these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe,
    and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field,
    the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone.
    In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude.
    At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted,
    they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land.
    The White Man will never be alone.

    Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless.
    Dead, did I say? There is no death, only a change of worlds.

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    ...tell the people that this is the Hour. Empty Re: ...tell the people that this is the Hour.

    Post  AlissaChuran on Wed Jan 02, 2019 1:44 am

    “Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to
    choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

    - Vicktor Emil Frankl

      Current date/time is Wed Jun 03, 2020 9:08 am