Elephant Whisperers – The Future’s Not Ours to See – Que Sera Sera

I just read an astounding story about the recent death of animal whisperer Lawrence Anthony.

“For 12 hours, two herds of wild South African elephants slowly made their way through the Zululand bush until they reached the house of late author Lawrence Anthony, the conservationist who saved their lives. … There are two elephant herds at Thula Thula. According to his son Dylan, both arrived at the Anthony family compound shortly after Anthony’s death. “They had not visited the house for a year and a half and it must have taken them about 12 hours to make the journey,” Dylan is quoted in various local news accounts.”

The article continues, ““A good man died suddenly,” says Rabbi Leila Gal Berner, Ph.D., “and from miles and miles away, two herds of elephants, sensing that they had lost a beloved human friend, moved in a solemn, almost ‘funereal’ procession to make a call on the bereaved family at the deceased man’s home.”

Read the whole story here: http://delightmakers.com/news/wild-elephants-gather-inexplicably-mourn-death-of-elephant-whisperer/

This amazing story of Mr. Anthony who authored “The Animal Whisperer: My Life with the Herd in the African Wild” http://www.amazon.com/The-Elephant-Whisperer-Life-African/dp/031256578X reminded me of an experience I had when I was in Thailand a year ago February. I had the opportunity to visit The Elephant Nature Park http://www.elephantnaturepark.org/ founded by Sangduen Chailert (Lek).

I was fortunate to visit on a day that Lek was lecturing to her volunteers, so I got to hear her personally introduce the film about the Park. A warning precedes the film, cautioning audience members who might be sensitive to violence. I happen to be very sensitive to violent images and often can’t sleep if I see a film or read a story that disturbs me before bed – but I decided to take a chance and stay to watch the film anyway in order to learn.

I had spent the day in the hot sun bathing and feeding elephants Lek had saved. I’d waded into the muddy creek and balanced on the stones – throwing pail after pail of water over them, getting soaked from their sprays, and walked with them back to their feeding area.

With my elephant friend at The Elephant Park in in Chiang Mai province, Northern Thailand

I’d fed them pounds upon pounds of fresh vegetables from enormous bowls – entire squashes, halved melons, heads of lettuce -  all in huge quantities – carefully holding each piece so the elephant could grasp the food with its trunk or placing a large chunk directly into the animal’s mouth.

An Elephants’ Tooth – photo Judith Z. Miller (c) 2011

In addition to information about the Park’s history and images of the elephants living there, the film also described and showed, in gruesome detail, tortures some of the elephants had to endure.

At one point the film showed images of a wild elephant being tortured into submission for days and days on end so that it would agree to work. Lek was there, powerless by law to take any action, present only so that she could treat its wounds and nurse the beast back to health after its weeklong ordeal was over.

I won’t go into detail here because the description what happened is so horrifying. Suffice it to say that I had never seen or heard of anything like this before.

After seeing the film, I was overwhelmed with grief and compassion for the animals, and I wanted to say a personal thank you to Lek. So I asked a staff member where she might be, and he pointed me towards a corral not far away.

I walked down the dirt and stone path to the corral and looked through the thin wire fence that separated me from the elephants. I looked closely, and there was Lek, just a few feet away from me – a tiny thin woman, sandwiched between several massive beasts, quietly humming a tune.

She was underneath the belly of a “baby” elephant – a massive creature – reaching her arm around to the front to stroke it’s trunk.

As Lek held the elephants’ trunk, she hummed.

She hummed the same tune over and over, and as I stood there silently listening, I could swear I heard Lek humming the chorus to a tune Doris Day made famous, “Que Sera Sera Whatever will be will be,” over and over again into the baby elephant’s ear.

Que Sera Sera
Whatever will be will be
The future’s not ours to see
Que Sera Sera
What will be will be
Que Sera Sera

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xZbKHDPPrrc

How this tune, written by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans and first published in the United States in 1956, had made it’s way half way around the world to The Elephant Park in Chiang Mai province in Northern Thailand in 2011 and out of Lek’s mouth, I’ll never know –  But the elephant seemed mesmerized.

While she hummed, the beast picked up his massive leg and placed its enormous foot directly on the back of Lek’s spine. There the elephant stood, gently swaying to the music, with his leg, weighing at least several hundred pounds, gently poised in the air, resting on precariously on Lek’s back.

I couldn’t help but think that one small shift of the elephants’ balance, and Lek’s back would have surely snapped in two. Yet instead of an air of apprehension, there was tenderness and exquisite trust.

I was bearing witness to the sweetest bond between human and animal I had ever seen.

I stood silently spellbound, listening to Lek humming.

Eventually, I realized it was time for my group to leave the Park. I hadn’t said goodbye or thank you. But I knew in my heart that my thank you would have been just another human voice, one among the many who were moved by what Lek had accomplished for her wonderful elephant friends.

I knew my words could never compare to the tenderness of that moment  – that sweet bond of trust between Lek and the baby elephant she’d saved.

A big wet sloppy kiss!

Judith Z. Miller

Artist Soul Speaks

(c) May 15, 2012

The Sweetest Song

The Sweetest Song Performers, with Kay Turner and Ethel Raim

This past Saturday afternoon, a capacity audience enthusiastically welcomed the Brooklyn Arts Council’s HALF THE SKY Festival: “The Sweetest Song: Women’s Traditional Song Sampler.”

http://www.brooklynartscouncil.org/documents/1928

And what a sweet and soulful songfest it was!

BAC’s events, expertly curated by Folk Arts Direct Kay Turner, are always a vibrant trip through the incredible diversity that is our beloved Borough of Brooklyn.

Kay Turner, BAC Folk Arts Director, receiving a much deserved hug.

Saturdays’ all-women’s a cappella vocal concert

http://www.brooklynartscouncil.org/documents/233/.

was emceed by noted singer and folk music scholar Ethel Raim, co-founder and Artistic Director of the Center for Traditional Music and Dance (DTMD), one of the nation’s preeminent traditional arts organizations serving New York City for the past four decades.

Ethel Raim

The concert included love songs, wedding songs and lullabies – indigenous and folksongs – Balkan, Taino/Dominican, Jewish Yemeni, Yiddish (Jewish), Hindu, Indian and Palestinian music – all sung beautifully by American and foreign born women; artists, mothers, daughters – who in addition to being active members of their communities, devote their lives to learning and preserving their traditions. And we lucky New Yorkers had the pleasure of experiencing a nutritious taste of the beauty and depth of their cultures.

The receptive audience at the Brooklyn Central Library’s Stevan A. Dweck Center 

 http://www.brooklynpubliclibrary.org/locations/central

was focused and especially attentive, in part because we shared the excitement of a live recording – but much more so because each one of the singers grabbed us by our kishkas (guts) with her passion and authenticity.

As you can see from my photos, performers in the afternoon event donned brightly colored, often traditional, garb – which pleased the eye (and inspired me to rush home after the concert to add even more beads and creative style to my colorfully wrapped hairdo).

Appearances aside, it was each performers passionate dedication to her particular culture that came through and affected me profoundly.

Bringing us Balkan Song, Eva Salina Primack the first performer, set the tone of intensity for the afternoon, singing two Bulgarian tunes, immediately plunging the audience into the group-felt realization that we were indeed collectively involved in a deep and meaningful cultural experience.

Eva Salina Primack

I could feel Taino/Dominican singer, storyteller and folk music collector Irka Mateo’s determination and strength as her powerful voice literally vibrated through her small frame and out into the capacity filled auditorium. Irka performed a popular religious song – a mix of Catholic and West African Traditions – accompanying herself on the Balsie, a drum that women play. The other song was a work song performed a cappella sung by women in Agricultural endeavors.

Irka Mateo

Muna Abdelaziz from El Bireh Palestine and her accompanist sang zeffah – a procession of singing, clapping, percussion and sometimes dance, which traditionally accompanies a bride from her house to that of the groom and on to the festive wedding party.

As the audience joined in the hand clapping, there came a point where we wondered if the song was going to end … but it went on and on and on … and, there came a moment where something shifted. The energy in the air changed – there was laughter – a transformation in group-consciousness.

We began to get a sense of what it would be like to be there in that procession, where time slows down to the “now” of experience and we were freed to truly participate – handclapping and joyous laughter filled the air as we imagined ourselves walking, dancing and clapping as celebrants.

When I heard Muna Abdelaziz sing the low-slow field work song – I couldn’t help but wonder and marvel at what it would be like to live in a culture where I actually sang while I worked – how different from NYC life that life would be!

Muna Abdelaziz with her accompanist

Shoshana Tubi accompanied herself a frame drum, with her daughter playing the tin plate, alternately slapped with her hand and tapped with a spoon. Sounds as familiar as my pots and pans clanking together in my kitchen.

Shoshana Tubi with her daughter.

Of course, during the lullabies there was no need to understand words. It was easy to slip into the soft, soothing care of mothers’ voice singing across cultures to their beloved babies, rocking them gently to sleep.

The Yiddish lullaby sun by Amanda (Miryem-Khaye) Seigel was a fun, upbeat tune accompanied with pantomime to illustrate areas of the babies’ body.  I recognized only a few words, including “kepeleh” (head). But the sound of that single word sent me flying back in time to my own mother’s soothing.

Amanda (Miryem-Khaye) Seigel

My mother would hold me when I was injured and with a sing-song rocking motion, she’d intone: “bubeleh shayna, my zeesa tayda, my little shayna medela – She has a pain, she has a pain in her poor little kepeleh.” (Little grandmother or little doll, beautiful girl, sweet thank you, or gift – she has a pain in her head.”) Substituting the proper injured body part to fit the my bump or bruise.

When I grew older, I sang that song again and again to my lovers, drawing out the Yiddish words and exaggerating them, making up my own sing-song melody.

Shobhana Ram and her aunt Rajalakshmi Shankar along with their violin accompanist performed traditional indian devotional songs in praise of the Mother Goddess, Devi

For those of you who regret missing a wonderful afternoon, never fear – lovers of beautiful heartfelt, traditional music – music that is grounded in the earth and the heart – the “BAC HALF THE SKY – Brooklyn Women in Traditional performance Festival” continues, thankfully, into the second week of June.

For future attendees and for those women in the Sweetest Song audience who wished we’d all gotten up out of our auditorium seats and on our feet to dance in the wedding procession, be forewarned – the closing party will be Bachelorette Bash!

Hosted by Ayla Bakkalli the Bachelorette Bash will take place on Sunday, June 10, 2:30 – 5 pm. It’s a party and workshop for women that will explore wedding traditions practiced by various immigrant cultures in Brooklyn.

The evening will include learning about wedding arts such as Guyanese kweh-kweh songs and marital instruction with Rose October and Verna Walcott-White, Yemeni wedding songs with Shoshana Tubi, Algerian wedding dress traditions with Naima Ammi and Crimean Tatar songs and comedic pre-wedding skits with Uriye Kermencikli and her daughter Dinara. Henna artists Omneah Hamdi and Suhair Mohammed will create designs for participants, and wedding food specialties will be served.

I’m sure if the energy is right and the audience is ready – we’ll get up and dance – I know I will! So I urge you to come and join in!

The Brooklyn Arts Councils Traditional Arts program provides an incredible opportunity for New Yorkers to witness and intimately interact with a variety of cultures. We have a unique opportunity to experience celebratory rituals, haunting melodies, complex polyrhythms, and inspiring words. And most importantly – to learn from and celebrate with our fellow and sister Brooklynites.

By attending these BAC sponsored events, we have the unique opportunity to feel the women of the worlds’ cultural offerings in our very bones.  BAC presents the beauty, the struggle, the daily lives of those cultures that surround us interpreted by the strong women at the center who dedicate themselves to preserving what is essential to their identities. This is the tapestry that makes Brooklyn such a fascinating and vibrant place to live – brought to us by the Brooklyn Arts Council for our education, connection and enjoyment.

All who appreciate the traditional arts, and those interested in experiencing a true multi-cultural sampling of worldwide women’s culture, check this festival out!  I’m sure that the HALF THE SKY FESTIVAL will continue to be a fascinating beautiful and rewarding experience!

http://www.brooklynartscouncil.org/documents/1880

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150853363967125.474813.769307124&type=3

And as an added attraction – all BAC Festival events are free or very low-cost … We’ve really no excuse to miss these great offerings … I’ll look forward to seeing you there!

Irka Mateo holding the “balsie” (hand drum) with Judith Z. Miller

Judith Z. Miller

Artist Soul Speaks

Cleaning for Passover – Or Why My Mother is Not Turning Over in Her Grave

"Holyland" brand matzah, machine-made in Jerusalem and purchased at Trader Joes in the United States (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m not a religious Jew. But that hasn’t stopped me.  For the past 48 hours I’ve been cleaning like a wild woman for Passover.

I won’t do it as well as my mother did – you could literally eat off her floors. I won’t pay attention to every prescription, like boiling every utensil that the prohibited food could have possibly touched, or as my final gesture, collecting the last few morsels of Chemetz (any food that swells) by brushing the crumbs up with a feather.

But nevertheless, I’m doing my cleaning in a BIG way.

A number of years ago I found myself cleaning like a madwoman right around this time of year. I didn’t realize why I felt that compulsion. It wasn’t just “Spring Cleaning” – it was coming from an inner drive propelled by some unspoken force.

I finally realized that my mother cleaned like crazy every year and that it had to do with Passover. My following suit was almost instinctive – as if the urge to purge was in my genes.

Our goal of course is to rid our homes of “Chemetz” – any food that expands, such as rice or pasta or anything that isn’t made of matzo (unleavened bread). We eat matzo in commemoration of the Hebrews Exodus from Egypt (termed mitzryhim or “the narrow place”) to liberation.

The story tells us that the followers of Moses were in such a big rush that they didn’t even have time to let their bread rise – hence eating Motzha for the entirety of the holiday which lasts 8 days and often leads to much gastric distress.

This purging of Chemetz and the rigorous cleaning of anything that might have been in contact with it, goes way beyond the physical, and has, as do most religious activities, a deeper spiritual message.

During the cleaning and the consuming of matzo, we are to rid ourselves of anything that inflates, such as pride or boasting – anything that stands in the way of our being completely humble.

So as my back feels like it about to break and I’ve slept only two 4-hour shifts in two days, I try to remind myself of the deeper meaning – the experience of being simple, humble and how emptying all the things I do to “puff myself up” can make space for the Holy.

This effort wasn’t so easy.  It was 2 o’clock in the morning and I was throwing away some old quinoa, a very tiny grain-like food that expands like rice. I poured it into a garbage bag that unfortunately had a hole at the bottom, and of course before I could do anything, thousands of tiny brown cylindrical projectiles poured out, bounced and rolled all over my stove, the kitchen floor, under every chair and between the oven and the sink.

Literally faint with exhaustion, I cursed the whole concept of cleaning and humility while wondering why they didn’t name the holiday “passed out” rather than Passover.”

It was, while hunting down every last practically invisible ball of quinoa, when I reminded myself that I had made a choice – I had made a commitment to do the action because ultimately I want to experience the holiday from a humble place, a deeper place – and – there was no reason to do the action unless I remembered precisely then – at the most difficult and aggravating of times –WHY I was doing it in the first place.

What, I asked myself, did it mean to perform an action truly in the service of purification? When I had that thought, cleaning up the mess took on a whole new and deeply resonant meaning.

Thus far I’ve cleaned the refrigerator and the shelves and pantry and, the utensils, vacuumed and washed all the floors and cleaned almost everything I can think of that has touched the forbidden foods. I’ve still got the pots and pans to go, and the oven, and my desk where I sit typing now and frequently eat sandwiches

… Oh no, LOOK – hidden the mouse pad – breadcrumbs!

The tasks seem daunting to me. I can barely imagine what more religious people (mostly women) do – such as boiling all their dishes, and even putting aluminum foil on refrigerator shelves and countertops to separate the Kosher for Passover food from those surfaces, even though they’ve been cleaned specially for the holiday.

And even though those who keep kosher use two different sets of dishes for milk or meat – they must have a completely different set of dishes for Passover. OY!  Those women, most of whom have many children to care for, also have to plan and prepare the food for the special meal and the soecual ritual foods for the Seder plate – and clean up again afterwards. And they have several Seders, not just one.

So I have it easy. Tomorrow all I have to do is finish up a few more Chemetz filled areas and go to the Food Coop to pick up some kosher for Passover canned macaroons, along with some fresh asparagus and Portobello mushrooms to cook for my friends’ Seders.

Today when I shared what I was doing with a client, I talked about how intense the experience is and I told him about the aluminum foil. He suggested a cartoon of G-d with a muscled arm, seated on “His” throne on high, extending a box of Reynolds Aluminum foil to the ancients. “And Let There Be Aluminum Foil for your Refrigerators!” the almighty would proclaim in a deep and resonant voice.

Finally yesterday I threw out the old spices that had lost all of their potency years ago but survived through years of previous Passover purges. For some reason this year I was finally able to let go and made way for fresh ones.

The vibrant and contrasting colors of the fresh orange cayenne pepper, sandy-brown coriander and yellow ginger lay piled on my wooden table, colorfully overflowing from their bags as I filled the just-cleaned glass jars. Their spicy vibrancy filled me with humble thoughts of beauty and simplicity and how the mindful action of letting go can create both internal and external change.

My apartment is still a cluttered mess as I’m as far from Zen as one can be, and I’m sure there is Chemetz lurking somewhere in the corners. But even if I don’t do it perfectly, I feel a sense of cleanliness and inner calm, knowing that in my own way I am clearing out and entering this Holy time anew.

My mother, I’m quite sure, would not approve of many things I do in life. But at least I can say to her now: “Mama, yes, I’m cleaning for Passover – I’m doing my job, don’t worry!”

May she Rest In Peace.

I wish a happy and sweet Passover to all who celebrate – and to everyone, may each of us be reminded that true liberation comes from a humble place and the doing of simple, mindful, actions.

Judith Z. Miller

Artist Soul Speaks

As Lovely As Rain

As Lovely as Rain

Sweet sound

each gentle droplet
a snowflake’s dream
and destiny

As Lovely as Rain
Refrigerator, quiet
no hum opaque’s
the Sound

As Lovely as Rain
Tinkling on tin
Colliding off gutters

Ions pulsing
Pounding
Spiraling, whirling up tall buildings
Shooting out to the sky

Ions?

Whirling?

I stop.

I must be crazy!
Sitting here,
listening

INSIDE! …

The RAIN is calling!

What’s more important, I wondered:
Poetry
Or Life?

I find my self compelled off my chair
By forces unseen

I rush out
Opening wide the door

Cooling ions rush to my face
with equal desire
Concealed in a soft spray

I stand
arched
Chest, Heart open
Eyes skyward
Goddess droplets
lightly
caressing my skin

As Lovely as Rain
on my face
in the City

I find the silence between
the garbage truck , screeching
The bus humming …
Others rushing by with black umbrellas

I find silver droplets

listen to their musical sound

Nostrils full, damp
with the rain

I soak
myself
Clean

I breathe Life

As Lovely as Rain

(c) Judith Z. Miller, March 31, 2012

Artist Soul Speaks

(c) Judith Z. Miller, Brooklyn Botanic Garden, March 2012

“It’s never too late to become what you might have been.” – George Eliot

I want to ride horses, naked
muscled arms drawing back handmade bow
shooting arrows like an Amazon
jumping, flipping into the air
spinning off my proud prancing white stallion
Landing on my feet like a cat
ready, in graceful karate stance
Fighting the demons

The Hero

I want to fly to the moon
The first woman to land
on that hazy silver globe
Plant my rainbow flag
alone
Craggy grey landscape
below boot-cushioned feet
Fresh Earth-air filling lungs
I breathe out a deep, relieved sigh
Peering through bubbled mask
green and blue planet
floats in the night sky

The Adventurer

I want a harem of beautiful women
Adoring
Lounging, serving
Sweetly delighting in the gifts of my tongue and hands
Wet, spicy sauce covers my body
as the sounds of ecstasy fill the air
of our peteled garden
Knowing I am loved and loving

The Lover

I want to know G-d
assured of Divine Presence
Journey to
holy unseen landscapes
bringing back gifts
Knowing peace
Ease
Oneness of breath
Healing

The Shaman Mystic

I want to change the world
Feed the hungry
Stop war
Reach into the hearts of
men and women who hate
and conquer my own anger

The Peacemaker

I want to commiserate with the bees
discover the secret of their dying droves
Catch a lion cub as she is born
Giggle at a dolphin’s tale
as we glide together in the ocean
Sleep all night in the wolf’s den
Translate their stories for all to hear

The Animal Whisperer

I want to write magic
Draw inner vision
Carve trees into Sacred Staffs
Perform to uplifted eyes
Dance every organ and muscle of my body
until my atoms dissipate into the galaxy
and all that remains is
oohs and aaahs

The Artist

Is it too late?

Hero
Adventurer
Lover
Shaman Mystic
Peacemaker
Artist

Tell me, as my body ages and my energy wanes …

Tell me it is never too late!

© Judith Z. Miller, April 1, 2012

Artist Soul Speaks

(c) March 2012, Judith Z. Miller, Brooklyn Botanic Garden

 

Suicide

Today my friend Scott Klein posted tragic news – the suicide of Bob Bergeron, a vibrant NYC gay man, author and therapist – and seemingly a very happy person.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/01/fashion/the-life-and-death-of-the-therapist-bob-bergeron.html?_r=2&ref=fashion

Although I didn’t know Mr. Bergeron personally, I’ve struggled with suicidal compulsions all of my life – and, as someone who is also a healer, the story resonats with me deeply.

My first suicide attempt was at age 14, when at the last minute, my parents refused to allow me to throw a birthday party I’d planned in my basement for my dear friend Elaine – who I secretly loved.

Furious at my parents and filled with self-loathing due to internalized homophobia, I grabbed a huge black-handled dagger that my mother kept in the kitchen drawer, and headed back down to the basement. I kneeled on the floor weeping, with the sharp tip of the silver blade pointed into my belly.

I could see no way out of the pain.

I pushed the knife against my skin, but lacked whatever it takes to do the deed. It was the first of many attempts – all inspired by similar circumstances; the need to be accepted and understood, the fear of not being able to give or receive love, and through the years, many breakups.

Much later, as a young adult living in Washington DC, my friend         Marge Rosen and I would sit around talking about suicide and how we might accomplish it one day.  I learned some years later that she was found dangling at the end of a rope flung over a chin-up bar in her apartment. Afterwards, when asked what I wanted of Marges few possesions, I inherited her juicer, and vowed to make fresh concoctions that would sustain my physical health.

In 1985, after a breakup from an 8-year relationship that also meant the dissolution of my theatre company, I was at wit’s end about how to survive.

I found myself standing in the bathroom atop my toilet, rope around my neck, throwing the other end over a water pipe on the ceiling.  Determined that this time I would actually do it, and with one foot off the toilet … I had a flash – a lighting vision of my next life.

I saw a clear image of myself as a mother, crying, desolate – upon hearing the news of her 14-year-old daughter’s death – a suicide.

I could no longer take that leap into the unknown, into what might be my next life – a fate seemingly worse than my present one and perhaps determined by this deadly action.

After a more recent breakup, I made a plan for the disposal of my property, including a caregiver for my beloved dog “Zuli.” During a lucid moment, I hid my knives in the basement so at least I’d have to go through the process of uncovering them, which I hoped might allow me the crucial time necessary to reconsider.

During that time, my friend and former client Rebecca Joy Fletcher called me almost every single day to make sure that I was safe – talking with me for hours upon end. She listened with endless patience as I tried again and again to figure out what I could have done differently to save the relationship. It was Rebecca’s consistent friendship that kept me from harms way.

As someone who loves life and is filled with passion for a seemingly endless list of all things creative, someone with so much to live for and people who care deeply about me – I still struggle after every breakup, feeling the loss of love as a threat to my very survival.

When I read stories of suicides, stories of the passing of people like Bob Bergeron who the New York Times described as “relentlessly cheery … [with] absolutely no history of clinical depression.” … I am filled with not only sadness for the individual and all of his dear friends and loved ones, but I also think of myself and how alternately strong and joyous, vulnerable and weak I am.  I work hard doing everything I can to ensure that after the inevitable next breakup –  that same headline won’t be mine.

I’ve been working on an “It Gets Better” article to inspire young LGBT people to stick it out and stay alive through the awful torments of youth. Yes, it does “get better,” but sometimes scars are so deep and painful we confront that pain of youth lifelong. Even when the bullying stops, even when we begin to love ourselves deeply, we are often left with self-destructive thought patterns and fearful beliefs. For some of us, it takes a lifetime of conscious effort to stay alive.

Lest this post cause my friends to rush to their phones to check in on me – I’m fine right now and there is NO cause for concern.

I write this post not to draw attention to my own struggle, but rather to encourage everyone to cherish friendships and renew them regularly.

I know it’s been said countless times in so many ways and it may seem trite to repeat these thoughts now. But no matter how trite it sounds,  we must remember that it is crucial to love one another, not for what we do or what we have, or what we have accomplished, but for who we are.

Today, I encourage you – take the time to let family and friends know you care. Reach out, especially to those of us who don’t have primary partners to share our daily ups and downs. Be there for your friends who are going through crises.

No, we can’t live other people’s lives or take responsibility for them – maybe no one could have prevented Bob Bergeron’s suicide. And yes, ultimately each one of us is alone in our darkest hours. But our love can create a serene landscape, a safe ground upon which our friends walk.

Let them know, let them feel your caring as solid holy ground.

Judith Z. Miller

(c) April 1, 2012

Artist Soul Speaks

Dolphin Dreams

I am swimming in a massive body of water, a serene ocean – surrounded on all sides. There are other people swimming far in the distance.

I come upon a large, pale, bolder, just below the surface of the water. I rest on top, thinking about how odd it is that this rock is so close to the surface, wondering how ships navigate the area safely, as it can’t be seen from above and it is in the middle of nowhere. The rock feels very, very smooth under my skin. I feel concerned about ships hitting the rock, and perhaps call out to the other swimmers.

The rock shifts, and I see that it’s not a rock at all, but a BOTTLENOSE DOLPHIN, now “standing” vertical in the water looking directly at me with a friendly smile and an inviting glimmer in its eye.

I wrap my arms tighly enveloping the dolphins’ firm body, atop its soft bluish skin. My feeling is one of complete comfort and closeness.

The dolphin begins to swim me through the water, slowly and carefully, so that I remain near the surface, and I can take frequent breaths whenever we dip a little below.

The water is warm and clear, the day is sunny, and I am riding along blissfully, hugging the dolphins’ massive body. I feel the animals’ strength and agility through the water – and aware of it always being conscious of my safety and well-being. (As I write these words, I start to cry).

I feel so close to the creature, skin to wet skin – the thickness of its powerful but gentle body – an intimate trust. (I haven’t felt this close to an animal since my dear, also strong and massive, Great Dane “Zuli” passed away).

Then the dolphin and I are up on an old wooden pier. I am standing next to the massive creature, which is on its head, leaning against a wall – its form towering above me.

It looks like a captured fish, upside down; with its crooked head bent weirdly at the neck and its huge body leaning, motionless. I have a thought about how I/someone could kill it for food. (As I write this, I’m not sure of the exact nature of this thought.)

Then the dolphin is on the other side of the pier back in muddy water.  Not far away from the pier, I see a “V” shaped vortex of water, spinning and widening – a “whipped up” current of water with a wide “mouth” and a glowing light within– which the dolphin must be spinning to create.  It’s creating a beautiful, controlled –  magical – water tornado.

Then, there is movement all over the water near the pier. Small dollops of dark muddy water bump up on the surface, as though many small creatures are alive underneath.

I am in the water, reaching for these bumps. I feel a bit unsafe as I get a somewhat creepy feeling, a little nurvious as I realize that I’m in that water not knowing what is making it move. I grasp for one, then two of the muddy bumps – my hands and arms above the water holding only a slimy brown/green plantlike substance.

With some difficulty, I manage to climb and drag myself back up onto the pier. I look out over the muddy water. I can barely see the dolphin just under the surface as it swims away from me in the distance.

I feel worried, as I realize that this must be a lake, and that it may not lead to the ocean – the dolphin’s natural habitat. I feel concerned – will it be all right? I feel responsible for it getting into this water instead of the ocean  – but there is nothing that I can do.

Judith Z. Miller

aka Artist Soul Speaks