Planetary Church of Plants? How to Create a New Religion

I'm so glad and so grateful to be alive here and now, on this planet where crickets sing all around me, on my patio at sunset, in my living room at midnight.  Our planet is so vibrant, so green. No wonder, green is the color of the heart chakra, the emerald of love.

Isn't it fascinating to just wake up one day and look around and say:"yes, that's right, everything is just right..."?  It takes a while to get to this point - that's why the happiest people are those over 70, who retired and can just enjoy life in their gardens, while the least happy are those juggling jobs, careers, relationships, children, and survival in their 30s and 40s.  Instead of watching TV, Netflix, or browsing Facebook -"who said what about whom?" who cares? - I like sitting on the patio and listening to the multiple patterns and rhythms of the crickets all around me.  Summer evenings are full of delight. Noon, too, filled with hundreds of bees gathering nectar in my myrtle tree; this, to me is the sound of life, all these bees...

So what do I think about when listening to the crickets? How about making up a new religion? A Planetary Church of Plants? I share the invention of this name with a friend. Not sure I'll ever have it registered and incorporated, but I'll certainly attend its services whenever I feel like it. I created a catechism of sorts for it, too, a set of core ideas worthy of consideration and application in daily life. But before getting to those ideas, let us enjoy the mountains:

Blue Sierra 

oh, to float into blue distance
a dream of weightlessness,
knowledge of nothing but the air
in the lungs, air carrying the limbs
from cloud to cloud into being,
into tranquility, into peace

all made of water, we live
in the Cloud of Unknowing
we breathe a shroud
surrounding the mystical
peaks of the Ancient One
that will not be known
nor understood fully

we have to, we must fly
higher, we must grow wings,
strain in childish hope
that we’ll find brilliance
hidden beyond the bluest
blue of infinity, of time

(c) 2008, first published in Miriam's Iris: Angels in the Garden

How to Create a New Religion

My new religion is my own way of connecting to All that Is, I AM, the Source, the One.  I've read tons and tons of inspirational and spiritual books, and came to the conclusion that everyone is right. And everyone is wrong, too, at the same time.  The basics are to be universally shared and accepted but many religions hide them instead and ask to be paid for the secret.

ONE, as Spinoza discovered, God cannot be outside of this world since God is infinite. Therefore, as Apostle Paul wrote "we live, we breathe, we move, we are in God that is everywhere.

TWO, We are all one -all connected to the One in two ways - our eternal spark of life, the spirit, the Soul, and second - our bodies that are made of matter and are constantly being renewed and remade from new particles, food, energy, air, water - all that endlessly cycles through us.

THREE, Here things are getting complicated - we each have our own Higher Selves - the timeless entities that remains "in the spirit" while we live through one re-incarnation after another, learn one lesson after another. This Higher Self is made of eternal Light and connected to the physical body by a silver cord, or a link of subtle energy. Have I seen it? No. Why would I believe in it? Why not? I've been told to believe in my Guardian Angel already, so why not make this Angel my own self?

FOUR, Reincarnation, karma, and the laws of One, of Love, Forgiveness, and "as above so below" are real and our purpose here is to learn to Love and to collect those moments of Love, like beads of a diamond necklace.

FIVE, physical death is the end of one lesson, a gateway to rest and a prelude to return, first back to the Source for a respite - we go there if we do not have ties that bind and are free of karma. If we are on the right path, there is no spiritual death, in spirit, or soul, we are infinite, endless.

SIX, we come back for another lesson, another lifetime if a) we are slow learners and need to stay one more time in the same grade of the Earth school, b) we do a wrong thing and have to undo it by repeating the experience, and c) we are perfect already and all-loving, but we want to help others.

SEVEN, we are not alone, the universe is full of beings - humans like us and those who are from higher dimensions, more advanced in the school of Love. Some of them are full of loving kindness, but others are not.

EIGHT, the way out and up is to learn to love, be thankful, grateful, kind, peaceful, creative, joyous, and of service to others. Service is important, for how else can we prove we love, if we do not serve?

NINE, the way forward is to focus on Light (some of the entities and beings live in darkness and want to turn us also away from the path of Light) so we focus and analyse and improve ourselves and follow the path of ascension. This is done effortlessly, without striving. This means literally becoming lighter - freeing ourselves of attachments, and consequences of negative experiences and emotions. Only those with feather-light -heart can come in to the Divine Presence. Others have to go back and do it over again. Ancient Egyptians knew it already. Why have we forgotten?

TEN, All life - from rocks, sand, soil, mountains, through trees, animals, birds, insects, stars, oceans, and galaxies has a spark of life within. We are all one. Thus, killing sentient life for food is not acceptable. Killing and harming others, especially sentient beings is not acceptable. It does not come from Love, it is not Love, and it does not lead to greater Love, so it is spiritually useless. Thus, we do not eat meat.

ELEVEN, Meditation is a daily delight - mantras, prayers, chants, all help, but the focus is on finding Light, God, the Divine within - and on being aware of one's own energetic body and of the energy flows in and around us. This means also awareness of ways of protecting our own spiritual space. And noticing the presence of other entities or beings, sometimes kind and helpful but at other times willing to invade our space. So this means clearing the air, so to speak. Wrapping ourselves in our own cocoon of white light.

TWELVE, Therefore, the best way forward and up is to follow the "Golden Rule" (treat others as  you want to be treated) as well as basic rules of "Love Everyone, Respect Everything" coupled with the Hawaiian code of conduct: "Sorry, Forgive, Thank, Love" (Ho'oponopono) and the Native American Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz:
1) Be Impeccable with your Word,
2) Do not Take Anything Personally,
3) Do not Make Assumptions, and
4) Always Do Your Best.

Now, that my TWELVE has split into four parts, or twelve again, if counting each step, it is time to stop. Things are becoming too complicated.

Everyone knows those rules, anyway. Ancient Egyptians wrote out the Golden Rule as "Now this is the command: Do to the doer to make him do" (Goddess Ma'at), and in a negative form as "That which you hate to be done to you, do not do to another."  In ancient Indian Mahabharata, the rule is described as a lesson to the king: "by self-control and by making dharma (right conduct) your main focus, treat others as you treat yourself."  In ancient Greece, the emphasis was on not doing the wrong thing: "Avoid doing what you would blame others for doing." – Thales. In Judaism, Leviticus (19:18) has the following verse: "You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against your kinsfolk. Love your neighbor as yourself: I am the LORD." Finally, in Christianity, the Golden Rule took the form of "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" (words of Jesus in the Gospels of Matthew 7:12 and Luke 6:31).

Knowing the words is not an issue. Doing the right thing all the time - now, that's a real challenge!
We can learn to be patient and kind from the trees.

A Tree Epiphany 

                          ~for Kristin Sabo who found the whale of a tree

I want the solid serenity of trees
the sighs of their boughs in the wind 
roots reaching to the core of the earth

an oak perhaps,or a grand plane tree
thatmajestic one in Descanso Gardens
a whale of the tree, floating on waves of air

or maybe that regal eucalyptus 
with multicolored bark - a canvas for centuries
shedding memories of droughts and storms

or liquid amber, oh my liquid amber
melting gold and bronze at my feet
nourishing the roots, seeds, new leaves

Wait for the sleeping earth to awaken 
the boughs sigh in the northern wind
the roots reach deeper, still deeper 

I adore the trembling of birches in the breeze, 
whispering:quiet, quiet, now listen –before 
leaves fall, bare branches shiver in the snow

an apple tree, comely and fruitful
in an abandoned orchard by the crossroads
shylyoffers gifts to all passers-by

I want the serenity of trees 
to fill my heart with their sighs, with their 
whispers, with their sleep.

Now that we've seen the whale of a tree - the Plane Tree in Descanso Gardens - let's make life simple. Let's go to the beach and enjoy building sand castles to be washed away by the ocean waves.

On Henry Brant's Music Stand and Summer Diversions

In the spring of 2004, I drove to Santa Barbara every week with a tape-recorder to interview Henry Brant (b. 1913, d. 2008), one of the most original “mavericks” of American concert music.  Henry had just won the Pulitzer Prize for his monumental orchestral composition, Ice Field, premiered in 2001 in San Francisco with the support of the Rockefeller Foundation and Other Minds Festival (with Michael Tilson Thomas conducting). 

The Ice Field, for 100 musicians dispersed throughout the concert hall, from the stage to the top balconies, was inspired, like so many Brant’s pieces, by an apocalyptic, violent environmental event, the breaking of the ice field. He also wrote music about hurricanes, meteor showers, waterfalls, sun spots, and the destruction of rainforest.

The Ice Field is made of clashing layers and eruptions of sound from many directions. In the words of the composer,  the piece features: “extreme high register outbursts, extreme low register volcanic suggestions, melismas both sustained and jagged, spatial textures of polyphonically dense complication, and sections of unmistakably jazz character presented in harmonically strident contexts…” I spent a fair number of years studying Brant’s unique spatial music among other approaches to connecting music and space.  

Brant loved the music of Charles Ives (1974-1954), a pioneer life-insurance-salesman-turned-composer (or vice versa) whose “Unanswered Question” (1906) is a 20th century classic, and “The Fourth of July” should be in every American home. Is it? I was amazed after moving here that my American students have never heard of Ives. Who heard of Brant in his centennial year?  I learned about Ives and Brant in Poland.  

My home country’s Parliament declared 2013 to be the year of composer Witold Lutoslawski (1913-1994), and his centenary was celebrated around the world, including the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Alas, the U.S. Congress did not declare 2013 the Henry Brant Year.

Kathy Wilkowski and Joel Hunt with Brant's materials. Photo by Maja Trochimczyk

My book of interviews will be among very few commemorations of Brant’s unique and visionary talent. Emerging Brant scholar, music theorist and saxophone player Joel Hunt will transcribe them.  The details of life and music will be thoroughly reviewed by Kathy Wilkowski, the composer's dedicated widow, who finally finished cataloging his works before shipping the manuscripts and documents off to the Sacher Stiftung in Basel... Yes, a book will definitely be lots of fun.

I have not written any poems about Brant yet, though the old music stand with Brant’s German inscription is begging for some verse (a gift from his widow, Kathy Wilkowski).  Let me try...

Maja Trochimczyk with Kathy Wilkowski and
 the Music  Stand. Photo by Joel Hunt.

The Music Stand

~ for Henry Brant, in memoriam and for Kathy Wilkowski

(c) 2013 by Maja Trochimczyk

Three ornate cast-iron legs

Dark, polished wood inscribed in German

Luften! Nicht Schleppen!

The faint red ink of the composer's warning 

Fades away, erased by death, melting into 

Timelessness - Lift! Do not Drag!

It stands in the corner, beneath a portrait 

Of a lady in an intricate golden frame. How do they

Bear surviving? Oh, the mindless cruelty of things!

Lift your eyes, child, when you speak to me.

Don't drag your feet. You'll wear out your shoes 

And who's going to pay for them to be fixed?

Do not drag me into this sorry affair
You are too good for that! Sing, sing, 
Sing along! Lift your spirit up to heaven!

Who knows what the music stand has heard? 

Who gave a German name to this antique wood?

Lifted before and after the rehearsals

In the most unlikely places - the top balcony, 
On the stage, between the aisles, under 
The maple tree in the courtyard

On the roof, by the pond - music transcends 

Space, weaving distant streams into a tapestry

Of sound and whimsy, crashing icebergs

Fountains and volcanoes. Here, four boats 

Of flutists float along the river Amstel, 

Under the din of Amsterdam's carillons 

There, a South-Indian trio, with a jazz band 

Gamelan, and Caribean steel drums. Don't forget 

A hundred trombones orbiting in a circle

A hundred guitars strumming an elegy 

For the rosewood trees killed to make them

They died in the rain-forest that will not grow back

Luften! Nicht Schleppen! Look up to the sky

Catch your vermilion days in a lucid net 
of notes, words - found, scribbled, counted

Lift! Do not Drag! Keep your spirits high

with the Angels and Devils, Verticals Ascending

Instant Music and Unanswered Dreams

Mojave Valley Yucca, Photo by Maja Trochimczyk

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Not to get overwhelmed with existential and environmental drama, I wrote a rhapsody on the flavors of summer.  The flavors of past summers in Poland, mixed in with intense, fragrant summers of Southern California. 

Mojave Valley Yucca. Photo by Maja Trochimczyk

The Flavors of Summer

(c) 2013 by Maja Trochimczyk

Pink clouds of raspberry sorbet float in
A large bowl of cherry soda at the museum.
“The signature recipe of my Grandma”
She offers, “the taste of my childhood.”
Not my flavor, not my taste.

The cold sweetness fizzles on my tongue
In the idyllic country of Ramona, the siren
Of almond blossoms and winter sunshine,
The tragic heroine from pages of an old romance,
And a tourist attraction, rolled in one.

Foreign story, distant times.  I long for
Hand-picked cherries bursting with delight
While my bare legs dangled from the tree branch.
I dream of my mom’s famous zupa nic, soup nothing –
Egg-white clouds frozen in a yellow yolk sky.

I see scarlet droplets scattered in a forest clearing
Wild strawberries hiding under fern fronds
Discovered in a burst of sunlight, bittersweet
Treasure preserved in small jars of confiture –
A teaspoon for each dark night of winter.

Bittersweet grapefruit ripens on my tree
Pink juice wells up under sunny yellow skin.
Birds got to the apricots before I did, leaving
A memorial of round holes in soft orange fuzz.
I find comfort in the scent of lavender and rosemary.

The dangerous whir of hornets (run if you hear one)
Morphed into a low din of bejeweled hummingbirds
Bombing each other away from the sugar water
In a ruby feeder, among flowercups of mandevilla
And white star jasmine climbing the roof of my patio.

I let the grass grow tall in my backyard this July
To remember the orchard of my aunt, the juice
Of cherries and pears on my chin, angry circles
Of yellow-jackets that sting and sting again
Unlike noble honeybees, dying with honor.

My neighbors of immaculate lawns and pristine
Driveways look at the Slavic jungle with disdain
And a warning: “Beware of snakes. Rattlers are hiding
In your grass. They are thirsty. They come from the desert. 
Watch out for the snakes of California summer.”

 

 

As the readers may have noticed, the inspiration  for this poem came from attending a Ramona lecture by Dydia Delyser at the Bolton Hall Museum… Who heard of Ramona? A fictional heroine of a 19th century novel by Helen Hunt Jackson, an activist, Indian Affairs inspector (who in vain bombarded the Congress with documents and reports about abuse and injustices inflicted upon Native Americans).  Mrs. Jackson decided to fictionalize the many grim and tragic events from the history of Mission Indians that she described in her somber reports and books. 

Escodillo Museum, Ramona's Marriage Place in Old Town San Diego.

The end result, a tragic love story in a novel "Ramona," became an unofficial guide to Southern California for visitors by train and the automobile, and a myth. Charles Fletcher Lummis, D. W. Griffith, and other luminaries became fascinated by the story, that became the subject of three movies. The book itself had more than 300 editions and spawned a tourist industry, with Ramona-themed locations and attractions in Ventura, San Diego, and other counties.  In addition to the various places and companies named after Ramona, her story has survived the past 80 years in the town of Hemet that has held the annual Ramona Pageant in late April. 

I visited San Diego and stopped by the Casa de Estudillo in the Old Town Historic Park. The U-shaped house is filled with artefact from Californio life - the Spanish-themed house includes a small tribute to Ramona, the novel that saved the building, known as "Ramona's Marriage Place" to the book's readers and lovers.

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Photos by Maja Trochimczyk, unless otherwise indicated.