The following is an article which appeared in Vol. III, Issue 1 of "The Rune", an eclectic pagan journal published quarterly in Kansas City, Missouri. Each issue of "The Rune" is devoted to a specific topic of interest to the pagan community. Vol. III, Issue 1 is entitled "Partners in Paganism." Subscriptions to "The Rune" are $12.00 per year (4 issues). Subscriptions or correspondence may be directed to: Rune Publishing Co.; 4550 Main St., Suite 223; Kansas City, MO 64111. The editors of "The Rune" can be reached via Compuserve at 71650,1512. Copyright {SYMBOL 211 \f "Symbol"} "The Rune" 1992. ------------------------------------------------------------ Partnership With the Planet by Hervor Vitholfsdottir Partnerships of all kinds are marked by both cooperation and conflict. This is easy to say, but all too often we tend to concentrate only on one of these aspects, particularly when our partnerships appear to be going in one of these directions. To be able to see each moment with a partner as an interlocking network -- a weaving of cooperation and conflict -- is to be aware, sometimes uncomfortably, of the basic ambiguity that rests underneath our daily lives and loves. We would like things to be easy, but then we would get bored. Or -- as Virginia Woolf intimated in her diary -- when the sun reemerges from an eclipse, one is thankful and relieved that the light has returned; and then, once one is thankful, one wishes to see the darkness again and experience it anew.* If the above holds true in human relations, then my recent (and not so recent) experience with the natural world tells me that it holds even more truth for a partnership with the land and its creatures. These days we often talk about and yearn for, normally in romantic terms, re-establishing a relationship with the earth and her creatures. I have come to the conclusion, after several years, that most folks who advocate and yearn for this don't have any idea what they are talking about. They don't have the slightest notion of what is involved in establishing a partnership with the earth, or what very radical changes might be involved in their lifestyles or ways of thinking. I am not saying that I'm an expert. In fact, I consider myself the rankest of amateurs, often guilty of the romanticism that I detect in others. Therefore, this article is not a "how to." It is, rather, a series of reflections on the lessons I have learned thus far in my attempts to engage the earth and her creatures in partnership. It is also a warning against those who persist in dalliance with natural forces, or who are not willing to learn lessons and be worked on the anvils of life. My experiences recently have culminated in a move to the country, where my partner and I have embarked upon gardening, herb gathering and regular outdoor maintenance with a prairie that abhors any vacuum or man-made device. The site of our abode is beautiful and wild, in a valley that has been cultivated very little and is overrun with deer, coyote, foxes, bobcats, quail, rabbits and owls. Because of the large waterways that run through the valley, there are a great number of trees, and we have located an abundance of elderberry shrubs, raspberry brambles and wild strawberry patches, as well as many other wild plant foods. The ground is very fertile, having been cultivated sparingly. The garden that we have planted grew practically without effort, as gardens go. Sounds idyllic, right? Think again. Now, I'm not a complete stranger to country living. My grandfather had a farm when I was young, and until my late teenage years I spent every summer on his farm, so I knew about bugs, well water and which snakes and animals to respectfully avoid. I had also been exposed to rudimentary gardening procedures, so I wasn't completely ignorant about plant growing and gathering. In fact, my initial adjustments to this new life have, on the surface, been remarkably rapid. We have to dispose of our trash ourselves, by burning and recycling (no trash pickup), so our waste production quickly diminished. The well water is suitable for washing but is not entirely potable (though not dangerous, just too hard), so we have to have bottled water delivered, and -- Voila!- -- we have become very aware of our water consumption and have decreased it by over 60 percent. Because my partner works the graveyard shift, I am alone on the land most nights, and I have become very aware of how dependent I was on sirens and city lights. However, I also quickly adjusted to the quiet. The surface patterns of life were changed rapidly, and almost too easily. The deeper thinking processes, influenced by a lifetime of humanism and urban culture, have, however, been more deeply disturbed. Let me explain what I mean. As I was writing the above words, my eye was caught by a moment of conflict in my window screen. A medium-sized mud dauber (wasp) had become entangled in a spider web, the spider being significantly smaller than the ensnared insect. As the wasp struggled to free itself, the spider did a little dance around the angry stinger. No stupid arachnid, this, the spider was very well aware of the significance of the wasp's size and of its stinger. It had a strategy, and as I watched in amazement, the little spider dashed in, in a daring moment, and deposited a glob of sticky web (spiders have sticky and non-sticky web; you can tell by the appearance) directly on the stinger, itself. Then the spider jumped back (no other way to describe it) and yanked on the string produced from the sticky glob. Instantly, the wasp's butt end was snared vertically in such a position that it was impossible for the insect to direct the stinger anywhere. At one point, the wasp, using three of its feet, managed to free the end of its abdomen, frantically scraping the sticky glob off of its back end, only to get those three legs hung up in the same stickiness. By this time, it was simply a matter of waiting, which the spider did. The wasp eventually became tired, and the spider was able to approach and deliver the fatal bite by simply grasping of the wasp's free legs and biting its foot. What is most remarkable is that, as I watched, the wasp appeared to extend its foot to the spider as she approached, accepting the embrace of death almost tenderly. As the bite took effect, the wasp slowly curled up, as if in repose. Its abdomen ceased pulsing, and its color -- a deep brown and rust -- became dull brown. As I write, the spider has neatly bound the wasp up and is feeding, although still far away from the stinger, because a wasp can sting reflexively, even in death. What is disturbing about this, a scene many of you hay have seen on a nature program many times? Well, for one thing, the struggle took over an hour; the wasp was over an hour in dying and the spider in waiting. However, there is something more. I have begun to be deeply aware of the lives I take, the mosquito that stings me, the tick that bites me, the cabbage I harvest, the wasp nest I must knock down because it simply is in the most inconvenient place for humans and wasps alike, the water I drink. There is no guilt associated with this knowledge, per se; we all take life in order to live. Most of us, however, don't see the lives we take; we are as far removed from them as the bomber pilot is removed from his distantly placed targets. When you harvest, you are removing the heads and limbs and reproductive organs from living entities. If I were to hunt (which I don't, but I'm not morally opposed to rational subsistence hunting), I would be skinning, gutting and consuming flesh with whom I share 80 percent of my chromosomal structure. There is a moral here, but it is not the politically correct ethic that one might expect. I'm not sure how much meaning animals and plants attach to their existences. They certainly struggle to survive (witness the wasp). Dying must be worth something, too, though. It's dying that has touched and troubled me. When a raccoon attacked my sweet corn, I was not only morally indignant (like all city slickers would be), but I was also afraid. What was I afraid of? My life was not dependent on my sweet corn. It's not like I'm going to starve right now. I realized that the act of planting and tending had produced a symbiotic relationship between the corn and myself. The raccoon's evening marauding had attacked me, not simply my corn. When attacked, one is being called upon to respond. First, I responded like all stupid humans without a strategy. I built a fence and blustered at the universe. The fence didn't work; raccoons can sometimes climb them. Then, with the help and advice of some friends -- as well as some insight of my own -- I devised a plan built around raccoon ways of thinking and set up a series of boundaries designed not to intrigue and challenge little furry minds, but rather to divert and inform. The boundaries are marked with animal droppings (courtesy of the daily generous contributions of my cats), my own urine (of which I also have no shortage, it seems) and bright, shiny objects suspended at about raccoon eye level. I also go out several times a night and tromp around the yard and the garden to inform the critters of my presence. It has all worked and is much less invasive than the suggested remedies offered by friends of dogs and guns. Still, if the raccoons really needed the corn for some reason, they could get to it. There is nothing physically blocking their approach, other than my information to the animal about my relationship with the potential meal. Although these tactics may all seem rather amusing and complicated to some of you, the saga of my struggles with raccoons is connected to the worth of dying and living and the reality of conflict and compromise. The raccoon is really more dependent on the corn than I am, in a certain way; and yet, the raccoon respects my relationship with my corn once I establish it and develop strategies for coping that take the raccoon into account. If I were more dependent on my corn for survival, then I would have to anticipate the possibility of a raccoon's taking a liking to my livelihood, and I would probably do what most native peoples did: allow the raccoon to have some corn, anyway, in order to establish a cooperation beyond the conflict over food supply. It sounds very rational, but it isn't so peaceful. Going out to confront a wild animal that is hungry, particularly since rabies in this county is at a high for the decade, is no easy matter. I'm also not yet used to simply walking around outside in the dark, even with a flashlight. A strange thing, though, has been happening. I'm becoming more afraid while I'm in the house than I am when I'm outside. It's these barriers against possible danger; they are constructed of fear. Although they may keep much death out, these walls (even of a farmhouse) also keep much of life out, as well. Such is the situation right now, as I speak, between my land and me. A raccoon commands my attention and tests my patience, endurance and response. Sounds rather like a deity, doesn't it, dragging some unwilling initiate into a rite of passage? Is that what this means? However, it is done in such a mundane and weary way, designed to infuriate and confuse. I'm glad I know my mythology. A wasp and spider instruct me about life and death ... acceptance and struggle ... conflict, cooperation and compromise. Sounds like the zen lessons I've been reading. Humans add another element, I think, that of compassion, of being able to see and feel, eventually, aspects of relationship in advance, with the understanding that we are all partners -- humans, cabbage, corn, raccoons and wasps -- and that humans do not always see or run things correctly. I think compassion, being able to see the point of view of the spider and wasp, raccoon, corn and human, is our only real unique contribution. Spiders have reason enough to devise strategies that can avoid stingers. Many animals, including raccoons, use tools. I, alone, seek to understand and know the points of view, the consciousnesses of these other beings, and that knowledge makes me very dangerous, although ignorance of such things can be, is, fatal. With all of this, I will end this small wandering bit of writing. I don't know how this partnership will go, but I hope it continues. In all honesty, even though it's a great deal of work, and is not always comfortable, it's the most important think I've ever done. Who knows, but very soon I might be wiling to give up the other things I'm doing to pursue the conflict and the cooperation, life and death. * See the song about Virginia Woolf on the latest Indigo girls release, "Rites of Passage."