Speaking with Nature: Awakening to the Deep Wisdom of the Earth - Sandra Ingerman, Llyn Roberts 2015

Llyn
Corn

As I read about eating corn on the cob and summer cookouts, my mouth waters. I can taste salty and buttery white and yellow kernels, the succulent butter-and-sugar corn of my childhood. The stalks were so high in the New Hampshire cornfields my brother Steve and I ran through that we children felt lost in a mysterious world.

In reading Sandra’s writings about Corn, I also remembered, as if yesterday, the burnt scent and taste of cobs roasted over open fires in India, where I lived for a time in my twenties. People the world over share a sensual love for Corn’s rich, lingering smells and tastes.

Sandra describes the Corn ears and kernels laid out in her home that radiate light, and she writes about indigenous reverence for Corn. Imbued with the power of the sun, this staple has sustained people throughout the ages. Given that it is a sacred and primary food, it feels wrong to genetically modify Corn (or any plant food). Mexico, where maize was first cultivated and whose people eat delicious warmed tortillas made of freshly ground Corn at every meal, bans the planting and sale of GMO (genetically modified) Corn.

I first fully embraced Corn’s power many years ago after visiting Hopi tribal lands with John Perkins in Arizona, where Corn is synonymous with life. There John and I met Hopi Elder Grandfather Martin Gashweseoma, who gifted us each with two ears of blue corn. After our meeting with Grandfather Martin, I returned home and had a strange dream.

A giant Corn plant appeared in front of me, its husks and stalk stretched to the sky. The plant was so large it frightened me.

The Corn being said: “I want to be at your workshops.”

I’ve had several experiences like this when plants have made it clear they had their own agendas. Plants also appear patient when I am slow to catch on to what they intend. In this case I didn’t have time to think on my dream before my next program, but the Corn plant took care of things—a participant gave me a gift of a bag of cornmeal. I put some of the cornmeal into a small silk pouch from Nepal and it came with me to the following workshop. Here a participant gifted me with a tiny Corn ear with golden kernels and soft suede husks. I placed the tiny ear into the silk pouch with the cornmeal.

Corn has accompanied me to every workshop since this time, and a little Corn Maiden doll, another unexpected gift, also lives in the pouch with the cornmeal and tiny ear. As I feed our altars with cornmeal or its flour, I see the ancestral grandmothers of plants and people, of stones and waters and winds, of the lands and of animals, and the grandmothers of the stars. Amidst these spiritual matriarchs I am humbled, as I also feel seen by them. The magic is simple—the offerings we make to honor the sacred feminine in turn align us with archetypal forces that are here to support us. There is such potency in offering Corn.

I also offer cornmeal to the earth. As the Corn plant requested, it is always present in my work.

Sandra shares beautiful stories about Corn from the cosmologies of many traditions, all of which relate Corn to life and creation. In my own musing the Corn plant teaches so much about sharing ourselves, just as Sandra speaks of honoring the land, nature beings, and spirits.

Have you ever daydreamed, as a child might, about what it would be like if Corn ears could actually hear? If this were so, what might the human activity around them sound like? I imagine a fair amount of our chatter could be reduced to a simple mantra: “I need and I want.”

It’s challenging not to be preoccupied by the trappings of the modern world. When I have brought people from developing countries to gatherings in the United States, they, too, have struggled with material seduction. Consumerism has become a hypnosis that keeps our culture immature, as it keeps us overly focused on ourselves and on material desires, instead of on cultivating deeper soul richness.

Corn teaches that anything in its full maturity gives of itself. The mature tassels of Corn plants generate pollen that is offered out, blown about by the winds to enter that lustrous, silky part of the Corn so those juicy kernels can grow. Mature land gives out to the animals and to us; its rich soil nurtures and feeds all that grows. Mature water bestows moisture and is steeped in minerals that benefit the land, animals, and people. Mature forests offer shade, shelter, beauty, food, and love and wisdom we have yet to explore.

Prosperity means different things to different people. A curious example is of a Mexican folk healer, a curandera I worked alongside in a mental health center decades ago in Colorado. This woman was caring with everyone she met. She also looked after her childhood community in Mexico. When money was needed back home, the curandera used to go to a shopping mall and approach a stranger who appeared to be in need. She then bought this person a nourishing meal and shared meaningful time with him or her. In turn, the curandera told me, “Within a week I receive an unsolicited donation for the amount we need at home. I give from my own heart and pocket to someone who really needs it, and that energy unfailingly returns.”

It’s natural to desire and seek for ourselves and our families. Everyone wants to be happy and prosperous. Yet if we only breathed in and never breathed out, or if we only ate food and never expelled food waste, we would die. In the same way, the soul thrives through giving.

Corn, revered by Mexicans and so many other original peoples, says: “Offer out as abundance loves this movement out, which as a vortex draws goodness back. And always remember that the most sustaining wealth is internal richness.”

I had to learn about my own needs and wants in order to more effectively share my gifts. This happened as never before when I lost the sight in my right eye due to an inoperable benign mass pressing against my optic nerve. The traditional and natural medicine, shamanic and spiritual methods I sought absorbed me. I wanted and needed to be healed.

During this time I asked my Tibetan teacher for a divination about my eye condition and it was frightening to hear him say, “The next year, 2012, does not look good.”

“However,” he continued, “you can change this.”

What Rinpoche (Tibetan for “precious one”) said next was both shocking and obvious.

“Think on others who have eye problems and of how animals suffer. Give to organizations that help these people and animals. Even small amounts of money are good; it is the intention to help that matters. And free small animals.”

The suggestion to give to others instead of wallowing reminded me of the curandera’s humble actions. Thinking about people who were blind and donating to help others who also had eye problems immediately lightened my anxiety; I no longer focused just on myself.

What about freeing small animals?

Since connecting with Buddhism in my late teens, I had freed, instead of killing or leaving to die, insects trapped inside my home; the bugs hanging out in my house now really got my attention. I also released trapped mice back to their fields. Now I began having disturbing dreams about dying animals and invested green energy—dollars—to stop baby seals from being killed. The plight of the Earth’s creatures consumed me.

One morning during this time, I walked where I lived on the Salish Sea (Puget Sound). No matter how cold the air and water was, I always walked this beach without shoes. My feet stung and vibrated, a feeling I have grown to love. I looked out to a tidal pool. In the water were some small wild ducks with their mother. They were beautiful.

As I watched the duck family, I saw two eagles flying toward the tidal pool. As the eagles grew closer, the mother duck swam to the water’s edge, then ran down the beach, I assume to lure the predators away.

The eagles ignored the mother duck, by now far away. An eagle swooped down, plucked a duckling from the water, and flew off with it. The other eagle hovered over the two that remained, then extended its talons, one onto each duckling’s head. The eagle dunked the small heads underwater. Moments later, the large bird lifted up from the water and two heads bobbed up from underneath the looming winged body. The eagle snatched one of them and flew off with it.

This was intense, dramatic to watch. Although I knew that baby eagles waited in their nest for fresh food—the baby ducklings, and this is nature’s way, my heart knew this was not the surviving duckling’s fate. I watched from a distance as the second eagle flew out of sight. The last duckling could have been resting against my chest, the feeling of this baby was so strong in my heart.

As I stood helplessly watching, the last duckling swam from the middle of the tidal pool to the water’s edge. It took time for the dark downy body to reach the shore. When its tiny webbed feet hit the sand it ran hard and fast—in my direction.

One of the eagles started flying back. I stood there as the duckling ran closer and closer to me, and the eagle flew closer to us both.

Soon the duckling was about twenty feet away from me. I instinctively squatted and thrust my hands out onto the sand in front of me. The duckling ran right up to me and jumped into my opened palms. I scooped it up and stood, holding a wild panting creature against my own pounding heart.

The eagle soared nearby. I thought it might attack. It didn’t.

What had occurred was unbelievable. Yes, it did happen.

What could I do with a wild baby duck with no momma, and eagles in the wings?

I walked home barefoot with a duck in my arms and called wildlife rehabilitation. A small animal was saved. The Earth took me up on my good intentions.

These adventures didn’t save my sight, but they saved my sanity and I believe helped me avoid a worsened medical condition. Most importantly, a whole new chapter of living and a deeper way to see—and give—began.

Nature spreads her seeds, spores, and pollen wildly, lustily, like wild Corn tassels that toss in the wind to spread pollen that the silky parts seduce back to the plant to grow kernels. We, too, can be passionate givers and livers, offering ourselves to humans, spirits, and animals. We can feed nature as traditional peoples have done since the beginning of time, and as did folk hero Johnny Appleseed, whose fervor for people and the Earth made him a legend.

Tradition has it that Johnny Appleseed tossed the seeds of apples wildly, with abandon, as nature does by roadsides and into open spaces. Research suggests this is likely fable and that Jonathan Chapman (Johnny Appleseed) industriously planted and managed small apple orchards for more than fifty years. But we don’t really know. Maybe Johnny did it all.

Research tries to get the facts straight. Story, however, stirs the soul as it mirrors our untamable nature. It also preserves amazing wisdom that defies convention and leaves no linear trail. Our current cultural story is about learning to bridge these seemingly divergent worlds. Myth and person, feral and methodical, manly and deeply feminine, Johnny Appleseed is said to have had a lot of green energy come his way, which he planted in the ground instead of depositing in a bank. Legend says Chapman dressed poorly and did not live in a house or wear shoes, but walked the Earth in toughened bare feet, even in the snow. In other words, Johnny Appleseed was fed and warmed and enriched by what he gave through his deep love for people and nature.

Those light-filled Corn kernels that remind us, and those who have come before us, of life incepted and nurtured by the sun can guide us to internal wealth and light. Just as Johnny Appleseed was rich in spirit, Corn teaches that life fills us according to how we give ourselves to it; the fire we stoke is the fire that blazes. The Earth offers abundantly to all her children, and when we give back, really put our hearts to it, we entrain with our Mother and harmonize with her creatures. We join with nature in remembering we are the same light and love.

Practice

Sandra outlines great suggestions for making offerings to nurture beauty, magic, and balance between people and nature.

To add to these consider taking the Corn plant for a walk. Holding a small bag of cornmeal reminds us to look outside of self, to see what we can give.

Offer to land, trees, and water. If you live in a city, there are still trees and land and water. It’s powerful for urban dwellers to notice the nature around them and important for nature everywhere to be remembered and loved.

Giving out is a practice that gains more impact over time. As you sprinkle Corn where you’re drawn, talk to those nature beings. Relationships with people deepen because of what we give to them, and connecting with nature is the same. Speak with nature beings as you would to your friends. There’s no need to be overly spiritual or serious. Just be you.

In conversing with nature, feel free to ask for help and guidance if you’re having a hard time. Don’t hold back. Cry if you need to. Voice what you don’t feel comfortable sharing with people; plant or dog or river won’t judge. Voice it and you’ll feel better, with nature as your witness.

Then take a few deep breaths and allow balance and wisdom to flow back to you.

You can also offer your support to the Earth. Nature listens and responds. It may not be today or even tomorrow, but the tree, stone, bird, or other being will make it clear that it did receive your offerings and wishes. Prepare to be taken up on these good intentions.

Here are some examples of what we might say to the Earth:

“How can I help decimated forests grow back? You young fir trees are so beautiful, and you’ll likely be gone in thirty years. Instead, I see you flourishing—a diversely abundant forest. I offer myself to this vision. Let me help you.”

Perhaps you would like to make a broader offering, such as, “Mother, I am here for you. I offer myself in service as a hollow reed. Please guide me.”

Whatever you say put your heart into it. Feelings are a powerful force.

If you live in a city, talk to the water that comes out of the faucet, trees that may have been planted along the sidewalk, skies that hover between tall buildings, and plants that live in window boxes.

Offering to nature opens powerful channels for us to co-create with her. We offer—then honor—by acting with intent, guided by the Earth.

The following two beautiful offerings are adapted from rituals taught to me by my Quechua friends, the Tamayos, a powerful family of shamans who live in the high Andes.

Offering One

Create a circle of yellow flowers or Corn ears, husks, or kernels.

Place a candle made of beeswax in each of the four directions. Beeswax, like Corn, represents internal richness, and the color yellow signifies the fire of the Earth, sun, and stars—Mother Earth, Mother Time, and Mother Universe—Pachamama.

Sit in the center of this circle and meditate on the sacred plants and animals and all that is sacred in nature.

Offering Two

Create a circle of yellow flowers or Corn ears, husks, or kernels.

Place a beeswax candle and a glass of fresh water in the center, and then enter the circle and sit next to these.

Say a prayer for troubled parts of the world. Radiate love to Pachamama.

This is a nice meditation to do under a bright yellow full moon or as the sun rises or sets.