Jane

I was going to title this little piece “We Are Jane,” but it felt too grandiose, and a bit pugnacious, as though I were daring anyone to argue the point. Most of us are not Jane Goodall. Her loss was a gut punch to me and to the world. Jane was an enormous  sun, blazing into all corners of our failing planet, spreading warmth and light and hope—always hope—wherever her rays touched down. She was a once-in-a-century miracle, walking among us in common clothes, face unpainted, hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. She was a force of nature whose goodness and strength was as vast as the cosmos to which she has returned.

No, we are not Jane. But there there are millions, perhaps billions out there in the world who carry a shard of her light in their hearts and spend their lives spreading that light, albeit on smaller stages. Perhaps we are Janes with a small “j.” And there is such good even in that—in being the lower-case jane. I’ve known many such brilliant janes in my own life orbit.

I’ll begin here with Pixie. She is a beloved friend and an inspiration to me. Pixie has made a lifetime of sharing the goodness of herbs and all green things that heal with as many as she can reach. Her work invites everyone and anyone to experience a closer, richer, more appreciative relationship with the plant world—the green beings that breathed life into the planet at Earth’s very beginnings. Pixie shares her talents with humor, boatloads of enthusiasm, and the warm heart of a nurturing mother, giving  loving comfort easily and generously to others. Often, I’ve been one of those “others” on the receiving end of her maternal spirit. Her favorite phrase is “Perfect, Possible, and Magical,” and she quips “PPM!” in every conversation–the happy ones, and the not-so-happy ones.

Teresa is the widow of my spiritual teacher, David Bear Claw. In each other, we found a soul sister united in our respect of the powers of ceremony and ritual. At more gatherings than I can count, Teresa and I put our heads and hands together and created spaces where people could find themselves, could release the dirt of old shames and dust off clean again. We crafted rituals for silence, so that spirit could speak and we could hear more clearly. Last summer, Teresa and a small cadre of friends gathered around my fire pit, where we placed a fist-sized, brightly wrapped bundle of David’s ashes. In a ceremony of fire, sacred pipe smoke, under glittering stars, we honored our teacher who had always found great joy in gathering the people together for the good. What better place to let him rest than in a fire circle–a gathering place for friends and family.

Jacqueline, my bee colleague and dear friend, has been teaching locally and internationally about the life and spirituality of bees. But her love and her spirituality extend far beyond the sacred bee. Jacqueline is a lover of the land, a farmer, a storyteller, a student of Rudolf Steiner, an author, an artist. I’ve always marveled at her ability to see the good in all things, and to never bring negativity into her teaching, or her conversations. She keeps tiny overnight jars filled with small pieces of honeycomb for bees who didn’t make it home before nightfall. She delights in spiderwebs across her doors. Cats are her joy. She treats all living things as persons (which—of course—they are). I can’t begin to share just how much her life and her way of living have influenced me over many years.

Jen was a helicopter pilot who leaped with both feet into the study of native plants and how vital they are for the environment. Without her, I don’t know how long it might have taken me to find this path, too. In what seemed like a nanosecond, she had quit helicopters and opened a native plant nursery in her town, and made a stunning success of it. Mindboggling, and so inspirational!

Jane leads women’s groups that explore the moon’s cycles in real-time, in symbolism, and in spirit. She is an intuitive who has brought peace to many of those struggling through challenging times. She has the will to stick with things and to keep moving forward, no matter the obstacles. I’m guessing the women in her groups learn as much or more from who Jane is as from what she teaches.

Kim, a soul sister, has devoted her life to creating equine art. But she is by no means simply the creator of beautiful paintings (although, believe me, her paintings are mind-blowing). To her, horses represent the heart of the Divine on Earth, and each piece of her art is imbued with this essence. Many people, especially we women it seems, have a love for horses that transcends all words. For those with a soul connection to horses, Kim is a touchstone for a far deeper relationship with this four-footed creation than many have dared imagine. Through her art, Kim welcomes us all  into into greater heart connections with the equine world. Of course–the horse is God. As is the maple tree, and the black beetle and the blazing sky– and as we are, as well. Someday, with the help of people like Kim, we will perhaps recognize that there is nothing but divinity in all things. (Frankly, I think equus is a far better representation of the Holy than an old bearded man sailing along in clouds…)

Yet another David, whom I know only as a Facebook friend, shares daily doses of positivity, encouragement, humor, hope, and short meditations that bring a smile to my day, every day. He is often going on retreats to explore himself more deeply, and his presence at these places touches everyone he meets. How do I know this? I just do. He is a wellspring of heart and courage. He is also a nurse, and I’m betting all his patients adore him. I’d love spending time on his ward. He is a gentle, introspective man who lives these qualities and shares them virtually. I will most likely never meet him, but David brings hope–and a smile- into my world every day.

Remember Julia Butterfly Hill who lived in the top of a massive redwood tree for a year? Her vigil ultimately saved the tree. Her bravery amazed me. There at the top of the world, she survived brutal winds and clattering  storms, clinging for her life on the branches of “Luna,” her tree sister. Some called her nuts. Whatever you might think of sitting down in a tree top and not moving for a year, she started a worldwide conversation about trees. And we need more worldwide conversations about trees.

I could go on listing friends, acquaintances, authors, lecturers, filmmakers who each carry this sparkling shard  of Jane, this rainbow glimmer that thrives in those who endeavor to make their own private universe a better place each day, each year.  How deeply all of these janes are needed. And how lucky we are to have them. They might not save the World, but each in her/his own way, is saving the sliver of the world for which the Creator granted them agency.

I try to do the same in my corner of Earth. I like to think that I, too, am a jane. For all you janes out there—and I suspect we are legion—have you noticed that the bits and pieces of good you bring to the world transform themselves into your own personal reservoir of hope? I need to read and hear about all the those janes out there, or I’d be sucked under with sadness. Yet my felt sense of hope—that body sense that makes my breath catch and puts a little lift into my steps—comes most vibrantly to me from my own good works, no matter how small. And I do mean small: I get a rush these days just helping a banana slug cross our driveway.

One year  when I SunDanced, I was given direction by the Dance Chief Tom Cross to walk through the lines of dancers when I felt them weakening in body and heart, fanning the life back into them with a spread of Eagle feathers. There was one point during those four days of ceremony when I feared I was finally going to drop to the ground and not get up. The womens’ dance leader glared at me, with eyes black as soot. “Don’t,” she spat at me. “Don’t. Dare…” And so I dance-stepped slowly to the front line of the dancers, and began waving the Eagle feathers in a great wind through the line, through all the lines, and when I returned to my place, I found I had restored my own heart, my own feet.

When times are most bleak, extend your small bright shard of jane anywhere you can. To the grass, the bent tree, to the bee who has not made it home at dark, to the drying herbs just waiting for someone they might heal. Pray, touch, smile, send your love and hope–always hope– so that you, too, will find your feet, your heart. They will return to you in the giving, every time.

If you are a jane, I thank you and bless you and yours. If you are not yet a jane, you can begin this instant. There is nothing stopping you. And we truly need all the janes we can get in these chaotic times. Don’t hesitate. We need you, now.