weed of peace, smokes of war

THE TRAVELING BONFIRES / VAGRANT WIND, Leg 5 (sort of). June 30-July 5. West Virginia, Alexandria VA, Washington DC.

IT HAS BEEN a week since my poignantly disturbing, eerily fascinating visit at the Rainbow Gathering somewhere in the Shenandoahs, deep in the woods of West Virginia. Just a couple of days since I got back here in Asheville NC—the world news ripped through me like a numbing slug of angry steel. Scores dead in bombing attacks in London.

Two extremes of human condition incessantly counterpoint, cut through in my head – almost in-trance physical bodies dancing around a bonfire, dancing for love and peace… bloodied faces and anatomy on lifeless stretchers being carried to safety. The chant of ecstatic, physical peace… the cry of unmitigated pain and human sorrow. Weed of peace, smokes of war.

But how do we keep the love dance, the peace hug from sustaining the aura, the mantra that may infect a universal vibe of joy and justice? How do we stop the bombs from falling, how do we keep the rage from claiming one more life? A day in the life? An early-morning deadline’s entry as we sip the best coffee in town, “I heard the news today, oh boy…” What was it all about? Did “love and peace” take a breather, a weekend holiday in a West Virginia backwoods; did “war and hate” visit the city, bringing with it, human devastation, on its layover? Meanwhile. Hurricane Dennis makes his way to the glade and onto the limbs and hearts of the human condition. War or peace—when Mother Nature visits, we take heed. Can we activists stop the wind, can the G8 halt the thunders?

RUMINATIONS in West Virginia… I thought out loud… a “rainbow gathering” happens in many little islands in little countries in little cultures, every day, every minute, outside the great first-world empire of tax payments, government permits, insurance accounts, and fossil-fuel tickets to the forest. It’s no big deal. A “rainbow” vibe—dancing around the fire, foods shared, hugs and handshakes and smiles distributed and nurtured like poems and songs sung by a gleeful collective throng. Nothing heavy. It wasn’t a special day-off the jungles, not a preplanned chill-out time to the forest, not a tent-and-sleeping bag foray during summer—“rainbow” convergences is translated as “community,” translated as “life” in some faraway land thousands of miles from the backwoods of West Virginia. It’s a day-to-day life. No one even talks about it, or write about it.

Meantime, gunfires slash through the night, bombs pierce on 7-year-old flesh, hunger and poverty sweep like thunderstorm. Like “rainbow gatherings,” these unfortunately also happen in staggering frequency in some little cities and villages in little countries in little cultures—somewhere where CNN and global media choose not to notice.

In those hidden jungles where souls pray a-front a wooden idol, where the rain means harvest, and a journey means footwalks towards a long and winding road. In those places and communities where the people look and act and behave so different from us… in those jungles and forests and islands where they eat dogs and cats, and women don’t cover their breasts, and people don’t know what “organic” and “vegan” means, and families stay together most times of the day—we see joy in their eyes and music in their laughters…

How do we sustain the little-island dance and the first-world drumming? How do we link them up and produce a global mantra that may stop the little-village bombing and the first-world terrorist tragedies?

Last Friday—for two consecutive Fridays—I witnessed hundreds of jovial, hyper, cheerful, beautiful bodies undulating to the musical heartbeat of downtown Asheville’s drum circle. Why do they dance? What happens after 10pm when the dancing and drumming stop—as each of us head home or head somewhere where no one sees us? A long time ago, in the mountains of the Cordilleras where I grew up, village souls dance during rice/palay sowing season, a dance-prayer for rain commences like a breakfast ritual. They gather around a bonfire, they sing and they dance, then they sit and talk about how to stop the bombs from falling and the hunger to stop by protecting the earth that feed them.

A few years ago, I stayed in a Cherokee village in Tahlequah in Oklahoma—in gentle, strong words, I was told, “Are you going to write the spirit, publish them for a corporate ad? Or are you going to return to the spirit and live with us with your beautiful words on paper, my son? Your body is your home and your church, and this spirit that I hand to you is the force that will make you write the spirit… You will always be welcome.”

As I sunk in my floor-bed in 70 Woodfin Place, I asked, “Why does a peaceful dance of love should be equaled by a destructive act of terror?” I need to find the answer to that… But I remember as I lay my tired body down on that cold earth in that forest idyll as I watched the dancing by a bonfire—I felt a distant ache of indifference. I tell myself, we can do that everyday, we can chant the mantra every minute, we can praise the Blue Sky Goddess every hour—do we have to check the oil to the car, do we have to work 25 hours in a day to fund a trip to the woods, do we have to look at this as a “reality TV” fare? I wouldn’t be surprised if one day, the day-to-day life of a young Michigan man caught in the Iraqi war becomes a reality TV blockbuster, and
we wouldn’t even notice or understand the misery within because we are all busy working day jobs and that, that TV gig, is just a way to ease the wearied bones and mind…

What if there are no vehicles lining down on long stretches towards the entrance to the rainbow gathering? Would that mean that these beautiful souls will walk to the woods or cancel the trip—would they still start a fire and dance, cant we all do this in our own community, in our own
backyard? Why do we have to travel, why do we have to “prepare”? What if the firedance means a good harvest and food at the table, and not a “way to shake the work-weary anatomies?”

What if a morning sharing of songs by a circle means a collective stand toward a real, safe houses for those who don’t have them? What if a “rainbow gathering,” a “drum circle,” a “bonfires for peace” actually means the continuance of the life of the village, the nurturing of the heart of the community? What if all these aren’t just occasions, events, festivals, and spectacles to save credit card money from and a weekend in all our 365 days?

The Blue Sky God/dess has a way at telling us to wake up and do something to stop the pain. But are we listening? Am I listening? A long time ago, in a remote in village in India, I left my friends as they meditated in the woods, they meditated no end, believing the meditation will stop the war. I left them to go back to the city and continue a young journalist career—as a
genocidal dictatorship continued to claim more lives and make more people hungry. Many of my friends perished, some joined the status quo, I survived two near-death experiences… but here I am, still dreaming.

I ask myself how many researches and data have we done to alleviate the pain? How many college degrees have we consumed money and time on—so we could possibly understand the human condition? How many millions of funding have we consumed in twenty years to help save this earth? How many rock stars gathered in baseball fields and concert halls so they could infect the vibe? But look at “Brother Sun and Sister Moon and Mother Nature”—they have deteriorated in staggering, stunning, monstrous proportions in just less than five years? How many woodstocks and live 8s and star-studded concerts and 15-committee-preplanned street marches have we produced and organized to stop the greed and bigotry? Yet how many wars have destroyed the heart of the community in the last twenty years?

But on that one day, few days ago, were the bombs that ripped through the innocent or were the rock stars who performed for peace and love in 8 cities of the world the ones actually responsible, for the almighty G8 to sign a billion-dollar voucher to the poor people of Africa? Do we have to go through all these… so that one sleight of hand could sign the paperwork that
equals the continued breathing of millions of humanity somewhere?

It’s a Monday morning. I apologize for the morning sermon in the mount. I’d like to thank Lacy MacAuley for picking me up in Asheville (from Alexandria VA) on June 30, and the ride to the Rainbow Gathering, then to the July 4 Dupont Circle protest in DC. Thanks for the accommodating heart, and I am sorry for the oblique self-righteous words though… Thanks to Laurie Blair, Shahid Buttar, Kristen Arant, and The Rhythm Insurgency for making me feel
at home with the vibe…

Thanks to Morgan Clarke, the young woman who helped me find my way in the dark as I almost collapse on that one night in West Virginia. This is a belated “thank-you” though because it has been a week since that weekend trip, I’ll return your call one of these days… Thanks to Marta The Nicer Osbourne for taking care of The Indie Crib while I was gone… Thanks to Drew of Rosetta’s Kitchen for donating his time as cook and for his very helpful advice/s on how to go about the benefit dinner (The Indie’s 3rd birthday) on July 17…

Thanks to 21-year-old rock organizer/producer Jaja Campos of the Philippines for your fire and zeal in helping me and Demi Pascua in putting up the first “Bonfires for Peace” concert in Manila… Thanks to The Blue Sky God/dess for watching over me. Good morning to all!

--Pasckie
8:08am. July 11 2005.
Asheville NC