To Be Loved and Eaten

The image above is the tattooed chest of one of my novel writing students. The line is from Michael Cunningham's Specimen Days. We read the novel in class this semester. I've taught the book three times. Three times most of the students hate it.

I keep teaching it because the way the text frustrates the readers challenges their belief systems. It challenges the way they see the world and the way they believe the world ought to be. I put up with the whining and moaning and crying over the book because it's, well, just that good. Cunningham, using the words of Walt Whitman's "Specimen Days", weaves a three-part narrative that flies in the face of conventional narrative structure. But more than that, it directly addresses human hope, human apathy, and the forces of industrial and technological changes we've thrust upon the earth. It has the courage to hold up a mirror to us and show us the impermanence of our world. It places meaning squarely in the present moment, not in a hoped-for-perhaps-maybe-one-day heaven in the clouds. It calls to account a responsibility for your own life. Right here. Right now.

Yes, I do understand why it challenges people. I do understand why Specimen Days didn't receive the status of his Pulitzer Prize winning The Hours. It is simply too challenging. It pulls you into the book and forces you to examine the way in which you read -- the way in which you experience and expect narrative to unfold -- the way in which you believe society works, or should work. It challenges the narrative you've written around God or no-God, technology or no-technology, hope or no-hope.

The line my student tattooed on his body comes from the first section, "In the Machine." This section takes place at the end of the 19th century and the dawn of the Industrial Revolution in America. The climax of that section occurs during a garment factory fire, reminiscent of the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire. One woman poised to jump from the flames communicates to Lucas (the protagonist): “God is a holy machine that loves us so fiercely, so perfectly he devours us, all of us. It is what we’re here for, to be loved and eaten.”

When my student came to class and showed off his tattoo, many people in the class couldn't understand why he would do that. They couldn't understand what he understood about the story -- and certainly not what he embraced enough about it to permanently mark it on his flesh.

I wanted to cry when I saw it. Not just because a student responded so positively to a text I'd chosen (though that alone was cause for celebration), but because of the line he picked. He selected the heart of the book. The heart of Walt Whitman. For me, the imperfect, broken, bleeding, healing, regenerating heart of humanity.

Live fiercely. Live now. Love fiercely. Love now. And when it's time to go somewhere else, surrender your flesh so that it nourishes another creature. We are no more nor less than the blades of grass. No more no less than any other creation. The least we can do, after all our fierce loving, fierce consuming, and fierce living, is give something back to the beautiful earth, ensuring ultimately, life everlasting.

New eyes

Got some new spectacles today. They even have little lions etched into the sides of them. :-) I tried to take a picture of that, but they looked more like creepy skeleton heads than cool lions, so I opted not to share!

When I put them on, I remembered putting on my first pair of glasses when I was seven. I didn't know what I hadn't been seeing until that first pair went on and leaves and blades of grass and clouds with shapes appeared. I'm a 34-year veteran of glasses now. I began wearing contact lenses in eighth grade. I had to wear the hard ones because of my astigmatism. Many painful panicked moments occurred when I popped them out of my eyes only to have them bounce and land somewhere on the carpet. When gas permeable lenses became available for astigmatism, I thought nothing could be any better! But then, sigh, Toric lenses became available, and I have worn those for the past ten years or so.

Since my eyewear runs upwards of $800-$1000 if I buy both glasses and contacts, I put off the optometrist's visit as long as possible. I always wore contacts primarily, so I skimped on the glasses as much as I could. Alas, as I inch above forty years old, my eyes are no longer terribly excited to be on the computer ten hours a day in contact lenses. I'm not seeing as well, and every once in awhile things are cloudy. So, I went to the optometrist a few weeks ago. I bought both glasses and (omg!) disposable contact lenses. Apparently, they now make disposable lenses for people who can't see! Those aren't in yet, but my eyeglasses arrived today. (Never can I be the "we'll have your lenses ready in a hour girl!") This time, I didn't skimp on them. I got the frames I wanted. I paid the price of a small computer for the fabulously-super-light-weight plastic. I got the UV coating. The scotch guard. The anti-glare. The everything.

You get what you pay for --- at least with glasses. I put them on and they didn't feel like I was wearing anything. Now, those of you who don't wear glasses, or who have a reasonable prescription, may not know how awful it is to wear glasses all the time that are falling down your nose, affecting your peripheral vision, pinching the back of your ears and fogging up all the time. It's awful. These were not awful. These were amazing. I drove home with them on (in the middle of the day, in Arizona) -- no glare, no sun issues, no reflection. I haven't taken them off yet. Oh yeah -- and I actually see better!

Which brings me to the more serious part of the blog ...



Keith and I went to Tucson this past weekend for the Tucson Festival of Books. I gave a presentation and held a mini Q&A session. The festival was a lot of fun, and I really enjoyed chatting with people about writing.

But Tucson itself has a sticky hold on me. I went to college at the University of Arizona, which was the site of the festival. I lived there in the three years immediately following my dad's death. I wanted Tucson to be everything, but it wasn't. I wanted Tucson to make it so dad hadn't died, but it couldn't. I wanted Tucson to allow me to slip out of my old life and make a completely new one, but it didn't.

Each time I return to Tucson, I wander around looking for myself. I feel like I've left parts of myself there. This trip was no different. Being back on the U of A campus again brought back the orange blossom smells of grief. Much of the campus looks completely different from the way it looked in 1987. But the old stalwart Modern Languages Building, where I spent the majority of my time, looks the same. Even the bathrooms have the same yellow and brown tiny tile from the 1960s. The signage in the breezeway is still the same white stick on letters style. The shadows that dance inside the breezeway still recognized me.

We snuck around the building, reading bulletin boards and looking up familiar names of professors. A few still remained. (I corrected an apostrophe error on a sign on the door of the chair of the graduate school -- I couldn't help myself. The English department! Sigh.) We walked up and down the mall. One of the workshops I attended was in the old chemistry building. Not much changed in there either. (Except the chemistry department had a nice new state of the art hermetically sealed bar code entry only building next door to the vintage chemistry building, whereas the modern languages building had ... just the modern languages building.)

I thought about how much was on campus then that has vanished entirely. The clock tower. Gentle Ben's. Space to walk around in. And then I thought about why I could never find the parts of myself that I left in Tucson whenever I visited. And then... new eyes.

I moved to Tucson with only part of myself. I had nothing of myself to leave here. When I lived in Tucson, I was the ghost. I didn't fracture in Tucson. I arrived fractured. Now, when I visit, I can't pick up the part of me that's been wandering the streets because only a spectre walked them. She has to keep walking the streets because that's what ghosts do. I can't pick her back up and bring her to Prescott with me. I can't even do more than almost touch her as I walk down 4th Avenue. I feel her, and I see her, but she lives there. Maybe not for always. I don't know. But for now, all I can do is honor her -- the little nineteen year old girl-shell who came to Tucson with no skin. The little nineteen year old girl-shell who had enough of something to start everything over. Who had enough grief to channel into rage which became at last motion and now stillness. The little nineteen year old girl-shell who showed me that there is nothing I can not survive. Nothing.

Books

I have good news! Yesterday, Shambhala made an offer on my book THE WRITING WARRIOR. The book is a follow up, of sorts, to Writing Begins with the Breath. You know -- sort of but different. :-) I don't yet have a publication date, but I'll definitely let you know. I'm thrilled to be working with Shambhala again, and I'm ecstatic to have sold a book in this challenging market.

I thought it might be helpful to those of you who are writers who read the blog to outline the very long path this project went through before finding a home.

In 2006, I sold Writing Begins with the Breath to Shambhala based only on a proposal. I wrote the draft in about six months. After several drafts and edits, it found a life in print in the fall of 2007. The contract I signed had a 'right of first refusal' clause in it. That means that the next property I had to sell, Shambhala has the right to look at it and refuse it first.

My agent and I submitted a novel. It was a long shot, since Shambhala is not known for fiction, but we tried. The editor liked it. Asked for revisions. I provided them. We waited. We made more revisions. We waited. The editor took it to the editorial board, but she couldn't convince them to buy it. This process alone took almost 9 months.

We then submitted a memoir. I submitted a proposal first and received input from the editor. I wrote furiously and fiercely. (Great adverbs, huh?) I tried to do too many things with the book -- make it both a writing book and a memoir. Didn't work. No focus. Shambhala didn't want it. We then sent the memoir to other houses. One editor wrote back right away with the kind of thing a writer wants to hear ... "I almost missed my train stop! I couldn't stop reading." Ahhh... a writer's dream. Alas, the editorial board at her house apparently could stop reading. No sale.

I began working on a few different novels, including some young adult ideas. I have a proposal under consideration for a textbook with Pearson/Longman. I wait.

My agent and I began submitting those novels around. I went to teach back east at the Omega Institute in June and at Kripalu in January. I studied more yoga. I studied Taoism. I kept writing and kept not-writing. I kept teaching. After my workshop at Kripalu, I knew I had a new book concept. I wrote it up, wrote some sample chapters, and sent it to Shambhala. The editor sent it back. Too "x.y.z." Not enough "a.b.c." My agent and I talked about it. I thought about it. I started over. We submitted it again. We received an e-mail from the editor. She likes it. She's taking it to the editorial board. It'll be two weeks.

So, it was two weeks. And then it was a yes.

The process for this book was actually fairly fast -- approximately 18 months. It'll likely be another 18-24 months before there's a book in my hand (and hopefully yours!)


The message: Persevere. Rewrite. Rethink. Re-vision. Be open. Don't attach to an outcome. Don't attach to a vision for the book. Someone else might have a better way. Listen. Remain true to what is authentic and let the rest go. Always have multiple projects. You never know.

Some other shameless self-promotion news:

I will be appearing on Saturday, March 14 at 2:30 at the Tucson Festival of Books. I'm doing a workshop and discussion called THE ZEN OF CREATIVE WRITING. Come on out and visit. It's going to be an amazing weekend. Everything is free! Even the parking! How can you go wrong?



End Shameless Self-Promotion.

National Grammar Day

March 4 is National Grammar (not grammer) Day!

What are your plans for fighting the forces of grammatical evil and terrorism that assault us every day at threat level red?

May I suggest a few things:

Visit the National Grammar Day website. You'll see a playlist of songs called Bad Grammar Hall of Fame. Guess who's (that's who's not whose!) featured? Bob Dylan's Lay, Lady, Lay. Come on. You know why that's wrong. Right? :-)

Join SPOGG! Yeah, did you know there was a Society for the Promotion of Good Grammar? America rocks.

SPOGG's website is for people who crave good, clean English — sentences cast well and punctuated correctly. It's about clarity. And who knows how many of the world's huge problems could be solved if we had a little more of that?

Indeed.

Understand that travel is challenging for those of us who care about English usage. I consider myself a Defender of the English Language. A DEL! :-)

Billboards, newspapers and advertisements constantly present incorrect statements. We DELs do understand that English is evolving. We understand that the rules of 19th century textbooks no longer apply. We can even, from time to time, accept text talk in a paper for one of our English classes (but only if we're really in a good mood!)

Here are some things that haven't changed:

your and you're

I want your wardrobe.
You're a stuck up grammar snob.

it's and its

It's going to snow today.
Pick up the shovel by its handle.

(I was on the PBS site yesterday, and they misused its. PBS! I had to close out the browser window and weep.)

would have and could have

Never should thou write would of or could of. If that was right, then the contraction would be would'f. Yeah. Goofy.

CDs for plural, not CD's

If it were CD's, the writer would mean belonging to the CD. Example: I love that CD's artwork. In this sentence, the word artwork is referring back to the CD, indicating that it belongs to (possessive) the CD.

Example: Will you go stock the CDs? Here, we mean more than one CD. No apostrophe.

And while I'm on the apostrophe: Whoever told you that you add an apostrophe whenever you encounter a word ending in s is wrong. Wrong. So wrong.

Example: Cat's for sale.

This could be right, if the author was intending to say: The cat is for sale. But more than likely, the author meant more than one cat was for sale. This, in principle (not principal) is silly because everyone knows there are more than enough free cats in the world.

balled and bawled

I never knew the confusion around this one until I started teaching and my sweet eighteen year olds wrote stories in which the female protagonist is crying (balling). Makes you laugh on a Saturday afternoon.

These are my pet peeves. Every card carrying member of SPOGG has his or her (that's his or her, not their because the subject is singular not plural) own grammar-nazi tendencies. If you're one of our students, beware and be wary. We do have a sense of humor. And we understand there are simple typographical errors. And yes, we understand that sentence fragments and run-ons sometimes contribute to style, especially in creative writing.

But trust me. If you don't know how to use the language, you'll never be able to use the language in an original way. You'll always imitate. Understand how to construct a variety of sentences with modifiers in the right place. For example:

Slipping on the banana peel, her purse flew out of Susie's hand. Wrong! (And funny. Here's where our sense of humor comes in handy!)

Susie's purse flew out of her hand after she slipped on the banana peel. Right! And not as funny.

Creative writing doesn't mean cultivating a blatant disregard for the rules of punctuation. Creative writing doesn't give you free reign (not rain) to use and abuse sentence structures and commas. (May I one (not won) day meet the curriculum developer who taught a boatload of students to put (not putt) commas wherever a student feels a need for a pause. It won't (not wont) be pretty.)

This is your language. Bend it. Play with it. Love it. Few things are more amazing than a human's ability to use language to communicate. But when we don't follow the basic rules of grammar, we don't communicate as well as we could. And then we're (not were) left with Bushisms. Don't we know where that got us?

Happy Grammar Day! Your nation needs you!

Limbo

Nothing's more fun than realizing you're smack dab in the middle of the very place and space you talk to your students about all the time. On the one hand, it validates your discussion. On the other hand, it really just plain sucks.

I've started four different novels in the last three months, none of which seem to be going anywhere. I do know enough to know that I need to keep following them, but the honest truth is that I am extremely lonely when I'm not living with a bunch of characters. I feel incomplete. I feel like I'm searching for the rest of me.

In the last three months, I've reworked a proposal for Shambhala once again. This proposal, tentatively called The Writing Warrior, has made it off my editor's desk up to the grand poobah of acquisitions. This means nothing. I've been here before. I've rewritten a novel originally intended as literary fiction for the YA market. I completed a memoir and now am going back through it to take out what doesn't fit. I have proposed a creative writing textbook to Pearson/Longman and wrote a sample section over winter break. The book is now with the senior editor in its peer review journey.

Lots of work. Lots of stuck-age. Stoppage. Blockage. Lots of waiting. Editors are losing their jobs. Publishing houses are restructuring. Bookstores are closing. Lots of work piled up at the train station. Nowhere near enough trains leaving.

I received an anonymous postcard this week. I've gotten a few of these over the last year or so. The postmark is Vermont. I don't know anyone in Vermont, so I'm kind of excited to have a secret Vermont admirer. The postcard said: If your train doesn't pull into the station, go out and find it. Very appropriate for the past few months. Of course, the next logical question is: Go where? Go west, young (ahem, middle aged woman) go west? Go east? Go north, south, inside, outside, upside down, underneath ... ah, so many prepositions. So little time. But the gist is -- move. Everything else may be held up at the station, but all those things are never in my control. It's just a bit easier to believe in the illusion of control when the world is in a bit better shape.

I feel like I'm putting myself on hold -- waiting to hear from Shambhala, from Pearson/Longman, from Simon & Schuster. I am unable to settle into any project because if another one hits, I'll have to leave the one I start and focus on that one. It's a mind-trip. It's not real. None of it. Not the possibility of success. Not the possibility of no success. All that matters is the work. All that matters is the work. One more time: All that matters is the work.

And speaking of blockage, stoppage, and stuck-age, this week one of my kitties experienced a terrible thing. I'll not go into it here, other than to say it involves many things not mentioned in polite company, including ... oral medication.

Ever tried to give a cat oral medication? It's a bit like trying to get a train to leave the station that's not moving. It's a bit like trying to force the world to notice your novels. It's a bit like ... yeah ... trying to make something happen when the time isn't right.



Steps to giving a cat oral medication:

- Timing is everything. Sneak up on her when she's asleep if at all possible.
- Hide the syringe behind your back while calmly tricking her into believing you just came by to say hello.
- Prepare for a 6.5 pound sleeping ball of fur to suddenly have enough force to leap to the moon if necessary.
- Hold the scruff of the neck firmly while bringing the hidden syringe forward toward the lips.
- This will work once. Then she'll know you're coming. She'll know the smell of the medication. She'll recognize the syringe. And no matter how sick she is, she's moving out of your way.
- In one quick motion, inject all the medication into her mouth before she can remove your fingers with her teeth.
- Have towel ready to mop up the medication she spits back at you.
- Tell her in a few days it'll be over and she can return to her normal life.

Sound at all like trying to get a book published. Yeah. Thought so.



I'll leave you with this vlog from Jackson Pearce. She manages to tie bathing a cat into shelving a novel.



May your medications, bathing, and waiting go down smoothly this week.

Laraine's Economic Stimulus Package Plan

I love clothes.

Seriously.

Not in the "yeah, I gotta wear something so it might as well match" kind of way.

In the "my body is a canvas and everything I put on it is an artistic expression" kind of way.

Seriously.

I might pull this off better if I were 5'10" and a size two, but hey, the artist works with the materials at hand. I get really excited when I find a unique item of clothing. Really excited. It's like finding a dinosaur fossil. If you were interested in finding dinosaur fossils. Which, if you ask me, is nowhere near as exciting as finding one of a kind purple and yellow pants with tassles. I don't need Prada and Gucci. I just need funky. (And please, nothing beige. Ever.)

Clothes are my hobby. I don't drink. Don't smoke. Don't go clubbing. (As if you could in Prescott). I don't go out for lavish dinners. I don't fuel up my private jet to go to Italy for the weekend (though if the possibility arose...) I buy clothes. I don't like to wear the same outfit twice ... ever. Not that I won't wear something twice -- just not in the same way.

This has resulted in problems. At one time my credit card debt looked more like the national debt. At one time I bought everything I could to avoid dealing with my own personal crap. But those times are past, and now I buy clothes like a painter buys acrylics. (Really, it's not my fault that being a writer requires such a minimal investment). Clothing (of the non-beige variety) makes my heart dance.

This results in new problems. Namely, what industries am I supporting by buying clothing? What are their work policies? What kinds of fabrics are being used? Are they sustainable? Are the dyes used in the clothing environmentally friendly? Were those buttons put on by slave hands? What is a diva attempting to be conscious to do?

I've come to a few conclusions (um...rationalizations...)

1) Buy bamboo, organic cotton, organic soy, or hemp clothing as much as possible.

2) Buy clothing from distributors or designers who contribute their profits to causes I support and/or create their clothing in sweat-shop free environments. Examples of such places: jonano, earth creations, and avatar clothing. There are many more. These are just some of my favorite places.

3) Support locally owned businesses for clothing. Prescott only has a few of these left, and unfortunately, they're not funky enough for me. They're more prairie-cowgirl in stiletto fashion. But they must work for someone. I have found some places in Northern Arizona -- Fool on the Hill and Magpie's in Jerome. Animus and Rainbow's End and Sundara in Flagstaff. Come on Prescott! Your destiny awaits.

4) Buy from individual people making individual funky clothes. How do you do this in a rural conservative environment? Enter your favorite series of tubes known as the Internet. Here's a site for you: Etsy. Etsy is more than clothes. It's jewelry. Pottery. Scarves. Kitsch. Recycled and upcycled items. All handmade by women all over the world. Seriously.

Here are some of the way cool things I have purchased:



Way funky upcycled sweater from katwise.




Beyond Yoga pants in organic cotton from herbandevi.






Patchwork Om Pants from sewingsmyfavorite.




Belly dance pants from avantgarbe.



I could go on and on. Here are the coolest things about Etsy. You correspond with the individual seller. They often can custom make the item to your actual body size. Think on that. Your actual body size. Often they'll hem something for free. The prices range from about ten dollars to over three hundred (I haven't bought anything in the high end range -- most of what I buy there falls between $30 and $50 bucks). Last time I strolled through Dillard's I couldn't buy much for $50. The seller is the designer, so she's totally jazzed about her work, and she's totally jazzed that you love it. She'll write you notes thanking you for purchasing from her store. She'll say that your purchase helped her to be able to remain a stay at home mom. She'll say that your purchase allowed her to pay an unexpected medical bill. She'll ask you about your own life, work, hobbies. You'll order a scarf and hoodie and the designer will embroider "Flow. Love. Breathe. Write." on the inside pocket as a special surprise for you. She'll send you a follow up e-mail to make sure everything fit and that you love it.

I don't understand the numbers of our national debt. I don't understand the math of the credit crisis, the mortgage collapse, the 30% loss of the stock market in 18 months. I do understand that right now, I am lucky enough to have a job. I can use the money that I earn to help an individual, or I can hoard it, or I can go to Target.

I do all of these things, lest you think I have achieved enlightenment. :-) Haven't. But I do my best to keep my spending at an individual level. Restaurants and coffee shops in town which are owned locally. Clothing designers who live everywhere, but who all are making art, one piece at a time, one customer at a time, trying to bring more color and funk to the world.

Check out the Etsy site. It's good folk.

And today, wear something funky. If every news report is going to talk about the impending doom of the universe, we might as well listen to it wearing burgundy velvet and a handmade purple scarf.

Interconnectedness

It was a precarious time. Tenth grade. We were in our second house in Phoenix, and our final house as a family. I was making my way through high school in a dark blue trench coat and very tight Levi's (yes, there was a pre-lycra day). I thought I was very fat with a 27" waist. Many of the girls had 21 and 22" waists. You could tell because Levi's always stamped your waist size right on the back of the jeans on the little canvas-colored tag. A 21" waist and a 34" inseam was ideal. Alas.

We were in a bizarre place. Phoenix. I was still looking for a neighborhood. I was still looking for friends to walk to school with or walk home from. I was looking for trees. When I got my driver's license, my friend J and I drove up to Prescott for the day to see trees. It's possible Phoenix could have worked for me if it had been lush with trees. If huge eucalyptus branches hung over buildings. If oak trees that had seen the Civil War lined the streets. If autumn brought not a dip below 100 degrees, but a wash of colored leaves instead. But that is not Phoenix.

Another friend, C, got it. She was a woman of horses and lived off of Bell Road in the middle of nowhere which is now Arrowhead Mall - one of the most congested areas of Phoenix. I talked to her about the trees and she understood. I read books on druids and fairies and nature-based religions. I read The Autobiography of a Yogi. I read about astral-travel and Hinduism, and I knew that not only had I left North Carolina and the path that life would have taken me, but I knew I had left the Christian path that had been laid out for me. There was too much else out there to think about. There were too many other ways of viewing the world that all seemed to have the same center with different accessories and rituals. Someone may want to paint their living room mauve and green and someone else may want a pure white room, but it's the same room. The paint is the accessory. The space is neutral. That space is God, to me. That's Tao.

I learned at 15 that I really can't group. I can't join. I can't do community in the way that so many people seem to thrive in. I can't say, yes my way is right and your way is wrong, and I certainly can't say I know the first thing about the nature of God or Goddess, except that because I do understand the shortcomings of language, and I understand that language is only a label -- a symbol -- of the thing it is describing, not the thing itself -- I understand that all the names of God are only symbols of something we may feel but can't yet articulate.

There's no shame in having no language. The shame comes when the language becomes the thing -- the way, the truth and the light, so to speak. "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God" (John 1:1). Interesting grammar. If the Word was with God and was God, then the Word being discussed in the book of John is not the dualistic language we work with here on earth. It's a way of communicating in which that which describes the experience is the experience. We aren't there yet on this planet. Saying the word "shower" doesn't give you the feeling and experience of taking a shower. But maybe we can get there one day. Maybe that's where we're heading as our consciousnesses evolve. If we do get there, we'll truly be walking in the words of Rumi:

There is a field beyond wrongdoing and rightdoing.
I'll meet you there.

Tenth grade. I missed trees. Eleventh grade. I missed trees. Twelfth grade I missed trees. Still, today, I miss trees. I told my parents at the dinner table in the tenth grade, "I used to be a tree." They were worried. I held a tiny gold pine cone charm in my hand. I wore it around my neck for years. I missed my earth.

In eighth grade, I was forced into a confirmation ceremony at our church that I did not believe in. I told my parents they could make me go and say the words but I didn't believe them. The house rule was I had to get confirmed and then I could decide about church. I've never looked back on the door I closed to that church. And, I still don't believe those words I was forced to say in 1981, and I still feel no compelling need to join a group of any faith. Something about joining anything gives me the creeps. I tried to join groups in college -- the National Organization of Women, the ACLU, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, Amnesty International -- but I never got beyond one meeting. I just loathe groups.

I do, however, love individuals. A lot. I like meeting people underneath their faiths and beliefs and labels. I try (sometimes with more success than others) to see underneath the labels the person has given themselves and find the actual person. I try to do this in my classrooms. I try to find where we're connected rather than where we're separated.

I was a tree. I may be a tree again. When I die, I want the cheapest pine box. I want to be underneath a big tree with roots that stretch for miles, and I want my flesh to be food for that tree. And when that tree dies, it will become food for other creatures. And so it goes. Everything connected and dependent on everything else.

"I am large! I contain multitudes!" proclaims Walt Whitman.

Indeed. Let's start there.