Some days I find myself wishing that those who preach the end of times are right or better yet that Mother Earth would like
a dog after a bath give one big shake flinging we humans like water droplets
from her body so Earth could begin anew.
This wish, though uncommon for me, is usually spurred by a news
story. For instance months and months
ago a headline read:
“Private company aims to mine moon for rare metallic elements.”
Excuse me? Mine the moon?
Really? I hoped I misunderstood
this but I hadn’t. I read on to learn
that a team of prominent Silicon Valley entrepreneurs hope to land on the
moon’s surface by 2013 and be “the first company there and stay there”
according to company co-founder Naveen Jain.
As I continued to read I was further disturbed by Mr. Jain’s
saying since there are no other countries on the moon “the idea of exploiting
the moon’s resources for private gain is not likely to be a concern.” I had to give him credit. Contrary to the norm among CEO’s, lobbyists
and politicians this man was at least honest as to the exploitative nature of mining
the moon.
I was reminded of childhood associations from “Goodnight
Moon” to the cow that jumped over the moon.
Will I look into the night sky in two years and see the man in the moon
holding a sign, a sign reading: The MoonEX Moon until it’s resold to a higher
bidder. There’s something so wrong with this.
Then I realized my ignorance. Why should I be surprised with
mining the moon when Earth, our home is continually sold, resold and traded to
the highest bidder? This brought the
bathed and shaking dog image to mind.
Who do we think we are?
Wait, not thinking seems to be part of the problem. I get not
thinking. My brain’s on break often
these days as I’m doing good to remember the next word in the sentence I’m
uttering while walking the edges of menopause.
I would like to put these men on pause and get them out of
their board rooms. I’d like to take them into a grove of California redwoods or
into a Tennessee hollow and make them sit face to face in circle the way Native
and indigenous people are accustomed, considering the impact of their decisions
and actions on future generations.
Instead modern man circles up via technology or in bored rooms to consider how to exploit Earth and now the moon often
earning seven figures for the top tier.
Although I strive to be thoughtful and aware, I have contributed
to the problem through my ignorance. It
took the 2010 Gulf oil explosion for me to learn that deep oil drilling meant
drilling into the ocean’s floor in some areas three to five miles. Prior to this, I thought it was as simple as
sending a drill down to Earth’s crust and tap there was oil (not that that is all
that simple).
I do not like being angry but angry is better than hopeless
and depressed. Without shame or blame, I
can easily say, “Men, you can do so much better than this.” Without shame or blame, I can add that it is
equally not okay for women the tenders of relationship to sit quietly while
Mother Earth is depleted, polluted and shopped to death just as it’s not okay
for children to be trafficked sexually or for animals to be abused and raised unconscionably by corporate AgriBusiness.
How was it decided a million moons ago that exploiting of
anyone or anything for one’s own profit and gain was even okay? How did
exploitation get rationalized and consciousness reasoned away?
What is it going to take for the feminine and masculine in
women and men to more fully awaken and respectfully say, “Enough conquest and
conquering. No more exploitation!”
*******
Since this story began, I have sat under the moon numerous
times soaking in the wonder of Moon’s gentle light. I couldn’t bring the above piece to a
close because it evoked such feeling, feeling that I couldn’t put into words. Months passed. During this time, I’ve mined
my insides.
One of the gifts of the masculine is the ability to do, to
take action and to adventure in external ways.
Action and a sense of adventure have gotten us to where we are
today. Yet drilling miles into Earth’s
crust, blowing the tops off 500 Appalachian mountains
and mining the moon seems more like adventure gone awry.
I find myself wondering if the masculine, the traditional
provider, on a deep, unheard level is panicked that it won’t be able to
continue to provide for the masses or is the reason for exploitation as simple
as greed. Are white men in power
panicked because their power is threatened?
They do know their reign is nearly over, right? Do they unconsciously see the moon as a
refuge as their numbers decline? Or does
the masculine exploit because it’s felt unheard and personally exploited?
More important for me as a woman, when was the last time I
acknowledged and sincerely thanked a man and honored his gifts and work? Have I in my passivity been complicit by
exploiting the masculine in my partner and men as a whole? How has the lack of action in the feminine
contributed to disregard for Earth, children and the poor?
Where is the Rosa Parks for Mother Earth, the vulnerable and
in this case the moon?
Who amidst the mining, digging, dynamiting, clear cutting and fracking is willing to speak for the precious gem not traded on the stock
market floor, the source of compassion and relatedness, the gem of the heart? Who is
willing to mine the wiser mind and ask the deeper, more thoughtful questions
related to being alive?
*******
Once again I placed this piece aside. It became one of the never ending stories in
numerous piles around my home until Newt Gingrich in a recent debate remarked
that he wanted to have a permanent colony on the moon in the near future. What?
This sparked a wondering, ‘Where had I placed the story of
mining the moon?’ While looking for something
else I found it tucked inside a book.
I found the story just after Mr. Gingrich’s
comment. Days later we began watching a dvd series on the constellations. To orient viewers to the heavens the lecturer
began with a preview on the sun and moon.
As he showed a close up of the moon, my first thought was ‘The moon was
attacked.' This was odd yet I shared it with my partner.
He too had thought similarly. How
interesting we had both shared the same intuition upon seeing the surface of
the moon.
I immediately wondered if Mr. Jain, Mr. Gingrich and all
those desiring to inhabit the moon are on an unconscious level longing to
return home, to the place they lived souls ago or metaphorically to the mother
or grandmother moon as the moon is called by native groups.
I went to bed. The
next morning I awoke seeing a moon flower. As I lay there watching, it slowly
turned yet something was odd. There were
sprinkles of red glitter like drops of blood scattered about the white
petals. I was being shown the Divine
Feminine. The blood revealed her wounds. Despite these wounds, she was very much alive
and beautiful.
I lay in bed watching the moon flower turn while thinking: What
if the patriarchy, men east and west, north and south, are longing to find
shelter in the arms of the great feminine energy from which they’ve been
separated and divorced? What if these
desires that seem so exploitative are misdirected attempts at finding the way home
to love, compassion, forgiveness and rest?
How do those of us who see today’s complexity bring this to
light in words, actions and energies that are not shaming and humiliating? How
do we call out the higher self in those who exploit? Is the answer found in modeling the moon,
shining light in the dark, reflecting to these men the best of who they are?
Aren't we called to be the moon to one another, to reflect to one
another the higher potential of who we are.
As the moon reflects the sun’s light in the dark, let us continue to
reflect back to one another the more thoughtful questions, the possibilities
for our purpose of being alive in this time. Let us reflect gratitude to the adventurers
who have gotten us to this place and to Mother Earth who has graciously allowed
our continued habitation here.
Maybe talk of mining the moon ultimately allows us the opportunity to excavate who we are, to unearth the heart and in doing so help usher in the end of times, the end of exploitative times.
I have promised myself I will not lay these words aside
again, but instead send them into the ethers where hopefully they will gently
shine revealing new ways of living and being, new paradigms as we all find our
way home inside.
-Dawn, The Good News Muse, 8 Feb. 2012
For a couple of weeks now I've watched garlic sprout in the small front yard
bed. I planted it around Solstice per the "Farmer's Almanac"
instructions when night is longest since the fruits of each cloves labors will
grow in the dark under ground. 
