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SMALL WHITE ROCKS   Here's a Story. I have a Collection of Small White Rocks. I'm not exactly sure how this happened. Thinking back, it seems like it just started on its own, but I know that I must have played a part in it. Like Religion itself, created from a Need. It seems like I read about it somewhere, maybe Native Americans did it. But it was so long ago, that I can't remember. Or, maybe I just made it up. I don't really even know. Anyway, I love Ceremonies and Rituals, in which I believe that our modern Society is sadly lacking. And so this is one that I started for myself. A long time ago, when I first started filming, I went a lot of places and did a lot of things. I have done many, many very dangerous things and have been in a great number of difficult situations. As I'm sure anyone who knows me has probably noticed, these must have had a strong effect on my personality, because in many ways, I am far from a regular person. Ha ha. I've probably risked my life a thousand times and, thinking back, I'm still not even sure why I did it some of those times. I should have just quit and left. But I have always felt pretty compelled to finish something once its started. Anyway, since I sometimes feel like maybe I really shouldn't even still be alive, I guess that I have developed a cavalier, even daring, attitude toward Life. Thus, my Sense of Humor is what it is, which I like to think of as very well developed! But, I wasn't always this way. I used to be afraid. And I used to get really lonely. There were times when I just knew that I could not take another step and just could not go on and I only wanted to lay down in the snow and go to sleep. But somehow I knew that I had to keep going and I did. So, whenever I would find myself in a really dreadful or treacherous place or when I was feeling really down and had to spend the night somewhere that I’d rather not have been and when I thought that I might not make it back, I'd look around for a Small White Rock. Whenever I found one, then I felt Okay. I would wipe it off and look at it, then hold it and carry it in my hand while I hiked, or put it in my pocket, and then the whole time I would think about bringing it Home with me. It was like it had a Magical Power. Or maybe it just took my mind off of other things and where I was and what I had to do to get out of there and back to a Trail or a Boat or a Truck. As time went on, I would pick up one little white rock here on this trip and another one there on that trip and I would bring each of them Home with me and keep them together. Then, as a result, I began to have this Collection of Small White Rocks. A few, then more and more and more of them. It never was any sort of plan to start a collection of anything, especially not silly little rocks, but it just happened and kept on happening. Its kind of funny since they have to be a certain size, not too big and not too little. About the size of a Nut, a Pecan or a Walnut… and yet they are all very different. Also, the really amazing thing that I have learned along the way is that there are Small White Rocks everywhere. No matter where you go in the World, you can always find one just a few steps away. I have never had any trouble at all finding one whenever I wanted to look for one. It only takes a minute or two. I probably have hundreds of them from all over... bottom of the Ocean and tops of Mountains... everywhere. I have never counted them and I don’t want to ever do that. That might be something interesting to talk about, which I really never have... since except for Filming and Hunting, that's pretty much my only "Hobby". Yep, I've got all sorts of Parts... Good, Bad, Ugly and just plain Weird... and this is one of them. Some friends of mine are very religious... and they say that they gets through tough times by thinking of Jesus, God, praying to them, etc. I do pray and, in fact, say one every morning and every evening, thanks and gratitude. I feel that I’m very spiritual myself and I've tried that, praying etc., but it does not seem to work as well for me as some people say it does for them. Somehow the physical act of doing something myself with the Small White Rocks made me feel better. Although I do remember praying with another friend, Steve Kroschel, one time when we were filming up on Mount Evans in Colorado when we were running like hell at the same time, gasping for breath at 14,000 feet and lightning was hitting all around us! We had been filming Ptarmigan and, all of a sudden, a storm blew in. It was very cool since it started to hail and while it was peppering down on us, I was down on my knees filming it piling up on some pretty little alpine flowers. Then Ka-Boom! Lightning hit very near us, and then it starting hitting again and again, like explosions in a war. Boom! Blam! We started grabbing the Cameras and Tripods and gear and were busy getting out of there and back to our Truck, a mile or so away on the road and down the mountain some. We were each carrying seventy or so pounds of gear, grunting and clanking it on our shoulders down off the rough rocky, slippery mountainside. It was all smoky and stinky with that acrid smell from the blown up rocks and there was another blinding flash every few minutes. If you have ever hit a rock with a hammer, you know the smell. And if you have ever seen lightning up close, it's bright. Very bright. We were both seeing stars from the flashes. To make matters worse, Steve had already told me stories of being hit by lightning twice in his life. I never have. One time, when he was young, he was at a water spigot in a pasture back home in Minnesota and he woke up lying down. Another time, he was filming for me in Wyoming and he woke up sitting behind the wheel of his truck, after it had rolled off the road and into a tree. He had clearly described the smells and the red and purple lights. Besides, one time long ago, my Uncle Dennis had all his clothes burned off except the soles of his shoes and he never was quite “right” after that. And my sister Mari once was hit riding a tractor on the same hilltop on our Grandparents old farm in Arkansas. Surely, you get the picture. Lightning is not one of my favorite things. So we started running and we ran like hell. And, it was hailing at the same time. Hitting us like shotgun pellets. Crazy situation. So why we did not just leave the Cameras, huge hunks of lightning-attracting metal bouncing on our shoulders, I don’t know. Probably because they were so expensive! But we didn’t even think about it. Then Steve, who could barely breathe, started praying as we ran… “Dear God, forgive me for this and that, please get us out of this and I swear I’ll be good, etc. etc.” It was actually a pretty long prayer and a pretty good one, too. And, I felt like praying myself, but he was doing it for us, so when he finished his prayer… I said, gasping and choking, barely able to breathe myself in the super-thin air at that high altitude… “Me, too”. And then we both just stopped running, bent over, gasping and we started laughing from the total Insanity and Fear and Craziness of it and we had to stop running because there was no way that we could run and gasp and laugh all at the same time… and we almost choked to death in that thin air. We weren’t running anymore, we were just standing there and as we kept chuckling, and talking, and then we started moving again, but without saying anything about it, we were walking. Slow. Like we didn’t even care anymore. Or were protected somehow. Ka-Booooom! “Ha ha. Look, another one. Man, I’ve never seen anything like this. Have you?” “Nope”. It was like we had said, “Screw it. Go ahead and kill us. Whatever. We’ve made out peace. And, besides, we’re tired. So we’re not going to run anymore.” Ka-Wham! There were probably fifty or a hundred lightning bolts all around us for about half-an-hour. We just walked right through them back to the truck. Yep, a man can definitely get into praying real quick under certain such circumstances!! And, no, I wasn't stopping to pick up any Rocks! Then again, I'm sure that clinging to a little rock is pretty much the same as a Religious belief like saying a Prayer, or holding some Rosary Beads, a little Cross, or a old Family Locket with a picture of a loved one in it... all time-honored Icons and sources of comfort. Somehow it connects me to a Higher Power or a greater source of strength and peace. I might not have made this clear, but the Little White Rock "Ritual" started off under negative and fearful circumstances. It's not that way anymore. Now, I just love them. I look for them everywhere I go for the fun and fascination of it. And I have all sorts of Rules around it. I will only pick one up if it is "Perfect" and there is some reason to remember it. And I can only pick up one Rock on any given trip in any certain location. Most of the time now, they just bring me Joy rather than rescuing me from Fear. My wife Diane and our children Hannah and Luke have helped me at times, but that has been recently and it was just a Game. Before now, I guess I never had told them how it started. It was always very personal for me back then – definitely spiritual – kind of a secret that I did not want to say out loud, did not want to spoil it or ruin the magic. I should probably tell them all about it, so they might use it sometime. But I also guess, like any parent, that I somehow hope that their life will be different than mine was and they won’t ever need to do the things I did and go to all the places that I did to make the films and have the explorations and adventures and dangerous encounters. I have often thought that we humans think way too much and that we worry and fret about all sorts of problems than never do materialize. And so each of us works out a way to deal with that and keep on going. Hey, like the song says... whatever gets you through the night. For me, many many times, it was a Small White Rock. -MARTY STOUFFER |
IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME IN HEAVEN It happens all the time in heaven And women and women -RUMI |
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- RUMI |
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They do not sweat and whine about their condition, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him, |
DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. ' Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. -DYLAN THOMAS (1914-1953) |
| STOPPING BY A WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING Whose woods are these I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. -ROBERT FROST (1874-1963) Frost was once considered a regional poet, thematically focused on New England landscapes. A closer reading of Frost's work, however; especially this one, reveals a transcendent sense of the human condition. |
A SEA POEM We would climb the highest dune, from there to gaze and come down: the ocean was performing; We contributed our climb. Waves leapfrogged and came straight out of the storm. What should our gaze mean? Kit waited for me to decide. Standing on such a hill, What would you tell your child? That was an absolute vista. Those waves raced far, and cold. "How far could you swim, Daddy, in such a storm?" "As far as was needed," I said, and as I talked, I swam. -WILLIAM STAFFORD |
ARE YOU A KING If you were exchanged in the cradle and your real mother died, without ever telling the story, then no one knows your name, and somewhere in the world, your father is lost and needs you but you are far away. He can never find how true you are, how ready. When the Great Wind comes and the Robberies of the Rain, you stand in the corner shivering. The people who go by- you wonder at their calm. They miss the whisper that runs any day in your mind, "Who are you really, wanderer?" and the answer you have to give, no matter how dark and cold the world around you is: "Maybe I'm a King." -WILLIAM STAFFORD |
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Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me, Not asking the sky to come down to my good will, WALT WHITMAN I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons, And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons. This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person, The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, the richness and breadth of his manners. These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also, He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome, They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him, They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love, He drank water only, the blood show'd like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face, He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sail'd his boat himself, he had a fine one presented to him by a shipjoiner, he had fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved him, When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang, You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other. WALT WHITMAN Those who are dead are never gone: They are there in the thickening shadow. The dead are not under the earth: they are in the tree that rustles, they are in the wood that groans, they are in the water that sleeps, they are in the hut, they are in the crowd, the dead are not dead. Those who are dead are never gone, they are in the breast of the woman, they are in the child who is wailing and in the firebrand that flames. The dead are not under the earth: they are in the fire that is dying, they are in the grasses that weep, they are in the whimpering rocks, they are in the forest, they are in the house, the dead are not dead. BIRAGO DIOP Now Talking God With your feet I walk I walk with your limbs I carry forth your body For me your mind thinks Your voice speaks for me Beauty is before me And beauty is behind me Above and below me hovers the beautiful I am surrounded by it I am immersed in it In my youth I am aware of it And in old age I shall walk quietly The beautiful trail. NATIVE AMERICAN PRAYER SONG OF MYSELF I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thou- sands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth. So they show their relations to me and I accept them, They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession. I wonder where they get those tokens, Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them? Myself moving forward then and now and forever, Gathering and showing more always and with velocity, Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them, Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers, Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms. A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses, Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears, Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground, Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving. His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him, His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return. I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion, Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them? Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you. WALT WHITMAN Few things that grow here poison us. Most of the animals are small. Those big enough to kill us do it in a way Easy to understand, easy to defend against. The air, here, is just what the blood needs. We don't use helmets or special suits. The Star, here, doesn't burn you if you Stay outside as much as you should. The worst of our winters is bearable. Water, both salt and sweet, is everywhere. The things that live in it are easily gathered Mostly, you can eat them raw with safety and pleasure. Yesterday my wife and I brought back Shells, driftwood, stones, and other curiosities Found on the beach of the immense Fresh-water Sea we live by She was all excited by a slender white stone which: "Exactly fits the hand!" I couldn't share her wonder: Here, almost everything does. LEW WELCH Something will have gone out of us as a people if we ever let the remaining wilderness be destroyed; if we permit the last virgin forests to be turned into comic books and plastic cigarette cases; if we drive the few remaining members of the wild species into zoos or to extinction; if we pollute the last clear air and dirty the last clean streams and push our paved roads through the last of the silence, so that never again will Americans be free in their own country from the noise, the exhausts, the stinks of human and automotive waste. And so that never again can we have the chance to see ourselves single, separate, vertical and individual in the world, part of the environment of trees and rocks and soil, brother to the other animals, part of the natural world and competent to belong in it. WALLACE STEGNER My help is in the mountain Where I take myself to heal The earthly wounds That people give to me. I find a rock with sun on it And a stream where the water runs gentle And the trees which one by one give me company. So must I stay for a long time Until I have grown from the rock And the stream is running through me. And I cannot tell myself from one tall tree. Then I know that nothing touches me Nor makes me run away. My help is in the mountain That I take away with me. Earth cure me. Earth receive my woe. Rock strengthen me. Rock receive my weakness. Rain wash my sadness away. Rain receive my doubt. Sun make sweet my song. Sun receive the anger from my heart. NANCY WOOD You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting – over and over announcing your place in the family of things. MARY OLIVER Here they are. The soft eyes open. If they have lived in a wood It is a wood. If they have lived on plains It is grass rolling Under their feet forever.
Having no souls, they have come, Anyway, beyond their knowing. Their instincts wholly bloom And they rise. The soft eyes open. To match them, the landscape flowers, Outdoing, desperately Outdoing what is required: The richest wood, The deepest field. For some of these, It could not be the place It is, without blood. These hunt, as they have done, But with claws and teeth grown perfect, More deadly than they can believe. They stalk more silently, And crouch on the limbs of trees, And their descent Upon the bright backs of their prey May take years In a sovereign floating of joy. And those that are hunted Know this as their life, Their reward: to walk Under such trees in full knowledge Of what is in glory above them, And to feel no fear, But acceptance, compliance. Fulfilling themselves without pain At the cycle's center, They tremble, they walk Under the tree, They fall, they are torn, They rise, they walk again. JAMES DICKEY That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the deathbed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE O my brothers of the wilderness, My little brothers, For my necessities I am about to kill you. May the Master of Life who made you In the form of the quarry That the children may be fed, Speedily provide you Another house, So there may be peace Between me and thy spirit. MARY AUSTIN Our father, hear us, and our grandfather. I mention also all those that shine, the yellow day, the good wind, the good timber, and the good earth. All the animals, listen to me under the ground. Animals above ground, and water animals, listen to me. We shall eat your remnants of food. Let them be good. Let there be long breath and life. Let the people increase, the children of all ages, the girls and the boys, and the men of all ages and the women, the old men of all ages and the old women. The food will give us strength whenever the sun runs. Listen to us, Father, Grandfather. We ask thought, heart, love, happiness. We are going to eat. ARAPAHO GRACE I’m an Indian. I think about common things like this pot. The bubbling water comes from the rain cloud. It represents the sky. The fire comes from the sun which warms us all, men, animals, trees. The meat stands for the four - legged creatures, our animal brothers, who gave of themselves so that we should live. The steam is living breath. It was water, now it goes up to the sky, becomes a cloud again. These things are sacred. Looking at that pot full of good soup, I am thinking how, in this simple manner, The great Spirit takes care of me. JOHN LAME DEER My friends, let us give thanks for Wonder. Let us give thanks for the Wonder of Life that infuses all things now and forever. Blessed is the Source of Life, the Fountain of Being the wellspring of goodness, compassion and kindness from which we draw to make for justice and peace. From the creative power of Life we derive food and harvest, from the bounty of the earth and the yields of the heavens we are sustained and are able to sustain others. All Life is holy, sacred, worthy of respect and dignity. Let us give thanks for the power of heart to sense the holy in the midst of the simple. We eat not simply to satisfy our own appetites, we eat to sustain ourselves in the task we have been given. Each of us is unique, coming into the world with a gift no other can offer: ourselves. We eat to nourish the vehicle of giving, we eat to sustain our task of world repair, our quest for harmony, peace and justice. We eat and we are revived, and we give thanks to the lives that were ended to nourish our own. May we merit their sacrifice, and honor their sparks of holiness We give thanks to the Power that makes for Meeting, for our table has been a place of dialogue and friendship, We give thanks to Life. May we never lose touch with the simple joy and wonder of sharing a meal. RABBI RAMI SHAPIRO All that I have comes from my Mother! I give myself over to this pot. My thoughts are on the good, the healing properties of this food. My hands are balanced, I season well! I give myself over to this pot. Life is being given to me. I commit to sharing, I feed others! I feed She Who Feeds Me. I give myself over to this gift. I adorn this table with food. I invite lovers and friends to come share! I thank you for this gift, AlI that I have comes from my Mother! LUISAH TEISH When you walk across the fields with your mind pure and holy, then from all the stones, and all growing things, and all animals, the sparks of their soul come out and cling to you, and then they are purified and become a holy fire in you.
HASIDIC SAYING Step out onto the Planet. Draw a circle a hundred feet round. Inside the circle are 300 things nobody understands, and, maybe nobody's ever really seen. How many can you find? LEW WELCH SONG OF MYSELF The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation, The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close, Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky. The sharp-hoof''d moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog, The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings, I see in them and myself the same old law. The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them. I am enamour'd of growing out-doors, Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods, Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses, I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out. What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me, Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns, Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me, Not asking the sky to come down to my good will, Scattering it freely forever. WALT WHITMAN Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glint on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you wake in the morning hush I am the swift, uplifting rush of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the soft starlight at night. Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there. I do not sleep. JOYCE FOSSEN |