“There are two kinds of hunger. The hunger of the belly and the hunger of the heart. The hunger of the heart is more important.” Xsan
The son of a King desired to build a banquet hall from the oldest oak trees in the forest. The King told him that those trees were sacred to the Mother Goddess. Her priestesses dwelled there. He, the King, had agreed, as his ancestors had agreed, to protect it. With disregard for the knowledge of the interconnectedness of the world and Her domain, he went to the grove with an axe. The Great Goddess, Demeter, entered the body of the Priestess to offer him words of warning: “If you cut down these trees you will be cursed with ceaseless hunger.” Outraged, the Prince killed the priestess and cut down the trees.
He built a grand banquet hall. He invited guests for feasts. With time, his hunger disgusted his guests, his father, even those who served. He could not stop eating. He was thrust out of the Kingdom. His hunger drove him to wander like a beggar outside the walls of his father’s realm and eat trash from mounds of garbage left for beasts. This behaviour was repellent. He was chased into the depths of the forest. Hounded by constant hunger he devoured his own limbs.
How do we awaken the hunger in our hearts before we destroy our selves and our world? We are living in a mythic time, foretold, where the battles described in images in old stories are taking place: a twim called bad mind relegated to a cave with monsters he created roams our roads – endless wars between demons and gods begin again – greed, isolating brothers and sisters from one another locks up children in cages – dwarves in the depths of the earth given the useful task of fertilizing the soil, rise up in jealous greed to rule the upper world that they know nothing about.
Genuine transformation may be an act of unobstructed imagination. Reaching into ourselves to revitalize our nearly forgotten knowledge of being of the world – of using words and true speech – compassionate intention to overcome the demons. Even, breaking open their hearts with the truth of death and suffering, where it is possible.
It is time to tell stories from the caverns of our being. Let sound reach out beyond our craft of words and content. Our communication must become a penetrating cry, a chant that breaks open the dams of delusion. It is time to remember the magic that human beings once knew, learned from animals and plants and spirits. Our minds, even our narratives and desires, are shaped in the systematic belief of “I” as more important than “we.” Our kindest solutions repeat the same errors and leave us temporarily satisfied rather than blazing further in the cool furnace of compassion.
A Rabbi asked his students: How do you know when the sun has risen and the night ends? One after another, the learned students responded: When one can see the difference between a dog and a wolf; When one can discern between a tree and a bush in the distance. And on and on. At last they asked their teacher. He said, “When we each see one another as our brothers and sisters then we know the light has returned.”
