Mutant Message Down Under (7 page)

T
HE FURTHER
we walked, the hotter it got. The hotter it got, the more vegetation and all life seemed to disappear. We were walking in a terrain of basically sand with a few tall, dried, dead stalks appearing in clumps. There was nothing in the distance—no mountains, no trees, nothing. It was a day of sand, sand, and sandy weeds.

That day, we began carrying a fire stick. It is a piece of wood kept glowing by swinging it gently. In the desert, where vegetation is so treasured, each tiny trick found to insure survival is utilized. The fire stick was used to ignite the night's campfire when dry grass became a premium. I also observed tribal members collecting the rare piles of dung left by desert creatures, especially those of the dingos. It proved to be powerful, odorless fuel.

Everyone is multitalented, I was reminded. These people spend their life exploring themselves as musician, healer, cook, storyteller, and so on, and giving themselves new names and promotions. I started my first tribal participation into exploring my talents by referring to myself in a joking manner as Dung Collector.

That day, a lovely young girl walked into the weed patch and magically emerged carrying a beautiful yellow flower on a long stalk. She tied the stem around her neck so the flower was dangling in front like a costly piece of jewelry. The members gathered around her and told her how lovely she looked and what a wonderful selection she had made. All day she received the compliments. I could sense her glow from feeling especially pretty that day.

Watching her, I was reminded of an incident that happened in my office just before leaving the United States. A patient came to me who was suffering from severe stress syndrome. When I asked her what was going on in her life, she told me the insurance company had raised the rates on one of her diamond necklaces another eight hundred dollars. She had found someone in New York City who claimed he could make an exact duplicate of her necklace using imitation stones. She was going to fly there, stay while it was completed, and then return to put her diamonds in a bank vault. This would not eliminate a large insurance fee, nor the need for it, because even in the best bank vault there is no guarantee of absolute safety, but the rate would be greatly reduced.

I remember asking about an annual civic ball coming up soon, and she said the imitation would be ready by then, so she would wear it.

At the end of our desert day, the girl of the Real People tribe laid the flower on the ground and returned it to Mother Earth. It had served its purpose. She was very grateful and had stored the memory of all her attention that day. It was confirmation that she was an attractive person. But she held no attachments to the item involved. It would wither and die and return to become humus and be recycled again.

I thought of the patient back home. Then I looked at the Aboriginal girl. Her jewelry had meaning, ours had financial value.

Truly, someone in this world had their value system in the wrong place, I concluded, but I didn't think it was these primitive people here, in the so-called never-never land of Australia.

T
HE AIR
was so still, I could feel the hair growing in my armpits. I could also feel the callouses on the bottom of my feet becoming thicker as the deeper layers of skin dried.

Our walk came to an abrupt halt. We paused where two crossed sticks had once marked a grave. The monument no longer stood upright; the binding had rotted. Now, on the ground were merely two old twigs, one long, one short. Tool Maker picked up the lumber and removed a thin strip of hide from his dilly bag. Wrapping the animal tissue with professional precision, he reconstructed the cross. Several people picked up large rocks scattered nearby and placed them in an oval on the sand. The grave marker was then anchored to the earth. “Is this a tribal grave?” I asked Ooota.

“No,” he answered. “It housed a Mutant. It has been here many, many years—long forgotten by your people and possibly even by the survivor who created it.”

“Why then did you fix it?” I inquired.

“Why not? We do not understand, agree, or accept your ways, but we do not judge. We honor your position. You are where you are supposed to be, given your past choices and your current free will to make decisions. This place serves for us the same as other sacred sites. It is a time to pause, to reflect, to confirm our relationship to Divine Oneness and all life. There's nothing left here, you see, not even any bones! But my nation respects your nation. We bless it, release it, and become better beings for having passed this way.”

That afternoon, I thought about reflection—looking at myself, sifting through the rubble of my past. It was dirty work, scary, and even dangerous. There were lots of old habits and old beliefs that I had defended with swords of vested interest. Would I have stopped to repair a Jewish or Buddhist grave? I could remember becoming upset in a traffic jam caused by people leaving a religious temple. Would I now have the understanding to remain centered, be nonjudgmental and let others follow their own path with my blessing? I was beginning to understand: we automatically give to each person we meet, but we choose what we give. Our words, our actions, must consciously set the stage for the life we wish to lead.

Suddenly there was a gust of wind. The air licked my body, scratching, like a cat's tongue on my already abused skin. It lasted only a few seconds, but somehow I knew that honoring traditions and values I did not understand, and did not agree with, was not going to be easy but would bring me immense benefits.

That night, as a full moon dominated the sky, we gathered around the outdoor hearth. An orange glow painted our faces as the conversation drifted onto the subject of food. It was an open dialogue. They asked me, and I answered everything I possibly could. They listened to my every word. I told them about apples, how we created hybrid varieties, made applesauce, and Mom's “good-ole” apple pie. They promised to find wild apples for me to sample. I learned that the Real People were fundamentally vegetarians. For centuries they freely ate the natural wild fruits, yams, berries, nuts, and seeds. They occasionally added fish and eggs when such an item presented itself with the purpose for being, to become part of the Aborigine's body. They prefer not to eat things with “faces.” They have always ground grain, but it was only when they were driven from the coast into the Outback that eating flesh became necessary.

I described a restaurant and how foods are served on decorated plates. I mentioned gravy. The idea was confusing. Why cover meat with a sauce? So I agreed to demonstrate. Of course there wasn't an appropriate pan available. Our cooking had consisted of bite-sized pieces of meat, usually placed on the sand after the coals were moved to one side. Sometimes the meat was put on skewers supported by poles. Occasionally a type of stew was constructed using meat, vegetables, herbs, and precious water. Looking around, I found a smooth, hairless sleeping skin, and with the help of Sewing Woman, we were able to create curved edges. She always carried a special pouch around her neck; it held bone needles and sinew. I melted animal fat in the center, and when it was liquid I added some fine powder they had ground earlier. I added salt grass, a crushed hot pepper seed, and finally water. It thickened, so I put it over the bite-sized meat we had served earlier, which was a very odd creature called a frilled lizard. The gravy evoked new facial expressions and comments from all who tried it. They spoke very tactfully, and at that moment my mind reverted back about fifteen years.

I had entered the Mrs. America pageant and found out that a part of the national contest was creating an original casserole recipe. For two weeks I made casseroles every day. Fourteen consecutive dinners in our home consisted of eating and evaluating the taste, appearance, and texture of each day's entry, looking for a potential award winner. My children never refused to eat, but they soon became masters of telling me tactfully what they thought. They endured some unconventional tastes in support of Mother doing her thing! When I won “Mrs. Kansas,” they both shouted in celebration, “We beat the Casserole Challenge!”

Now I was seeing those same expressions on my desert companions' faces. We had fun doing almost everything we were involved in, and this was a source of great laughter as well. But because their spiritual quest is so present in everything they do, I was not surprised when someone commented how symbolic gravy was to the Mutant value system. Instead of living the truth, Mutants allow circumstances and conditions to bury universal law under a mixture of convenience, materialism, and insecurity.

The interesting thing about their remarks and observations was that I never felt I was being criticized or judged. They never judged my people as being wrong or this tribe as right. It was more like a loving adult observing a child struggling to fit a left shoe on the right foot. Who is to say you can't get a lot of mileage out of walking with shoes on incorrectly? Maybe there is valuable learning in bunions and blisters! But it does seem unnecessary suffering to an older, wiser being.

We also talked about birthday cakes and the tasty frosting. I found their analogy of icing extremely powerful. It seemed to symbolize how much time, in the one-hundred-year Mutant life span, is spent in artificial, superficial, temporary, decorative, sweetened pursuits. So very few actual moments of one's life are spent discovering who we are, and our eternal beingness.

When I spoke of birthday parties, they listened intently. I talked of the cake, songs, and gifts—an increase in candles each year as we get older. “Why would you do that?” they inquired. “To us celebration means something special. There isn't anything special about getting older. It takes no effort. It just happens!”

“If you don't celebrate getting older,” I said, “what do you celebrate?”

“Getting better,” was the reply. “We celebrate if we are a better, wiser person this year than last. Only you would know, so it is you who tells the others when it is time to have the party.” Now that, I thought, is something I must remember!

It was truly amazing how much nutritious wild food is available and how it appears when they need it. In dried regions that appear inhospitable to vegetation, the appearance is deceptive. In the barren soil are seeds with very dense coatings. When the rains come, the seeds take root, and the landscape is transformed. Yet, within only days the flowers have completed the cycle of existence, the winds scatter the seeds, and the land returns to a harsh, parched condition.

Scattered through the desert, on the land nearer the coast and in the northern, more tropical areas, we had hearty meals using some type of bean. We found fruit and wonderful honey for our wild sassafras bark tea. At one point we peeled paper bark off trees. We used it to shelter us, to wrap around food, and to chew for its aromatic qualities that clear head colds, headaches, and mucous congestion.

Many of the bushes contained leaves with medicinal oils for treating bacterial invasions. They acted as astringents that rid the body of intestinal infections and parasites. Latex, the fluid in some plant stems and certain leaves, will remove warts, corns, and calluses. They even have alkaloids available, such as quinine. Aromatic plants are squeezed and soaked in water until the fluid changes color. It is then rubbed into the chest and back. If heated, the vapor is inhaled. They seemed to be blood cleansers, stimulants to the lymph glands, and an aid to the immune system. There is a small willowlike tree that has many aspirin characteristics. It is given for internal discomfort, for the pain accompanying a sprain or break, as well as for relief of minor muscle and joint aches and pains. It is also effective on skin lesions. There are other barks used for loose bowels, and the gum from some are dissolved in water to make cough syrup.

Overall, this particular native tribe is extremely healthy. Later, I was able to identify some of the flower petals they ate as being active against the bacteria of typhoid fever. It made me wonder if perhaps their immune systems were boosted in this way, much as our vaccines are designed to do. I do know that the Australian puffball, a large plant fungus, contains an anticancer substance called calvacin that is currently under research. They also have an antitumor substance called acronycine in one of the barks.

They discovered the strange properties of the wild kangaroo apple centuries ago. Modern medicine uses it as a source of the steroid solasodine in oral contraceptives. The Elder advised me that they feel very certain that new lives brought into the world are meant to be welcomed, loved, and planned. New life for the Real People tribe since the beginning of time has always been a consciously creative act. The birth of a baby means they have provided an earthly body for a fellow soul. The bodies, unlike those in our society, are not always expected to appear without flaws. It is the invisible jewel, housed within, that is flawless and both gives and receives help in the joint soul projects of becoming polished and advanced.

I felt that if they were to pray, in our understanding of petition prayer, it would be for the unloved child, not the aborted one. All souls who choose to experience human existence will be so honored, if not through one parent and that set of circumstances, then another, in another time. The Elder confided to me that the random sexual behavior among some tribes, without regard for the resulting birth, was perhaps the most backward step humankind had taken. They believe the spirit enters the fetus when it tells the world of its presence by movement. For them a stillborn child is a body that housed no spirit.

The Real People have also located a wild tobacco plant. They use the leaves for smoking in pipes on special occasions. They still use tobacco as a rare and unique substance because it is not abundant, can produce a feeling of euphoria, and can become addictive. It is symbolically used when greeting visitors or starting meetings. I saw a similarity between their respect for the tobacco weed and the Native American traditions. My friends spoke often of the earth we walked upon, reminding me it was the dust of our ancestors. They said things do not really die, things just change. They talked of how the human body returns to the ground to feed the plants, which in turn are humans' only source of breath. They seemed much more aware of the precious molecule of oxygen needed for all life than the vast majority of my American acquaintances.

The tribe of Real People have incredible eyesight. The pigment rutin, found in several of their plants, is an acceptable chemical used in ophthalmology drugs for treating fragile capillaries and blood vessels of the eye. Over the thousands of years that they had Australia to themselves, it seems they learned how food affected the body.

One problem with eating food grown in the wild is the large number of poisonous items. They recognize immediately what is off-limits. They have learned how to remove poisonous parts, but they did tell me how sad it was that some of their splintered tribes in the Aboriginal race, who have reverted to aggressive behavior, have a history of using the poison against human enemies.

When I had traveled with the group long enough, they accepted my inquiries as being sincerely necessary for my own personal understanding. I approached the subject of cannibalism. I had read the accounts in history and heard jokes from my Australian friends referring to Aborigines eating people, and even eating their own babies. Was that true, I asked?

Yes. Since the beginning of time, humans have experimented with everything. Even here on this continent, it was not possible to keep people from it. There had been Aboriginal tribes with kings, with female rulers, some who stole people away from another group, and some who ate human flesh. Mutants kill and walk away, leaving the body for disposal. The cannibals killed and used the carcass to nourish life. One group's purpose is neither better nor worse than the other. Killing a human, regardless if it's for protection, revenge, convenience, or food, is all the same. Not to kill another is what differentiates Real People from mutated human creatures.

“There is no morality in war,” they said. “But cannibals never killed more in one day than they could eat. In your wars, thousands are killed in a few minutes. Perhaps it might be worth suggesting to your leaders that both parties in your war agree to five minutes of combat. Then let all the parents come to the battlefield and collect the pieces and parts of their children, take them home and mourn and bury them. After that is over, another five minutes of battle might or might not be agreed upon. It is difficult to make sense out of senselessness.”

That night, as I lay on the thin means of separating my mouth and eyes from the terrain of grit, I thought about how far humankind has come in so many ways, and how far away we have drifted in so many other aspects.