Our call to the Art of Humans Being and the New Story

[Judy Wallace]

This conversation begins to create our collective opening where we all begin to show up, to populate this fertile field we are co-creating.  We welcome you here.  There are two questions. Please introduce yourself to this community through these questions. You are invited to give the fullness of who you are to each response..

What has called you to come to this gathering - The Art of Humans Being - Repatterning Ourselves, Our Work, and Our Communities in the New Story?

What is your curiosity about the unfolding new story? what do you envision? what might be your role?  or simply what the new story brings up in you and how it might take form in your life?
Be creative, think BIG, 

[Edveeje Fairchild]

Steve, Peggy, Nancy, Carla, Suzanne, Ria ... welcome to you all ... such lush and thought provoking responses and questions. I eagerly await our time together.

[Suzanne M. Hoenig]

Wow, Steve, your words really resonate with me. Especially these, "Right now I am in a time of listening, inquiry and discernment. How best can I be of service?"

I'm looking forward to meeting everybody in this inquiry.

[Susan Cerato]

My way is simple...I do not categorize myself. I am the collector and the connector...of people, of dreams, of possibilities. This seems quite like already a new way of being patterned and that space is coming 'round to recognizing whatever it is that we are going to call it. Being....outside of space and time...brings so much freedom and allows so much more work to be done.

As for my role....perhaps I've always known that I am a space holder...this is both physical space and energetic space. It makes me smile to think of that energetic space occurring within that physical space. I'm curious about the space we will create...one more experiment on my part to see how it feels when hearts are speaking.

[Jean-Luc Moreau]

Call to come to this gathering: Have been following from the margins the AoH string for a while. Never experienced any. This one with its focus on Humans resonated or caught me as soon as I saw it.

Curiosity about unfolding: not knowing where it might come out of, being present enough to see it, feel it or listen to it. Present enought to honor all its parts regardless whether I may like or dislike them.

[Holly Masturzo]

I've sat down twice to write replies to this... and I feel my responses themselves to have too heavy a trace of "old story" in them.

I'd like to experiment here with responding to these questions less from an "I"; though I certainly invite each of you to read my profile if you are interested in my AoH history and work practice.

There is a trail in an ecological preserve on university grounds near where I live named Gopher Tortoise Ridge. It is sandy and hot walking the "ridge," what passes for elevation in Florida, a few feet above the adjacent flood plain shaded with cypress. The tortoise burrows are a marvel of location selection, often entering the earth just under a tap root that acts as a cross beam.

Tortoise outside burrow on ridge.

Gopher tortoises are considered a "keystone species," a species whose health and prosperity indicates the viability of the 300-some other species that interact in hosting-harmony in the burrows.

Toad using young tortoise burrow for shelter.

I remember the line of a poem written by a middle school student in the rough city where I use to live:

It is hard to burrow and
Live within each other; mostly
You are alone.

Along the ridge, what was once an ancient string of high dunes around a lagoon, young campers have constructed low huts in the shape of tortoises' burrows.

One of the creations of local campers.

Is this the low canopy shape of what we all want?

There is art here, and earth, and coming together, and letting go.

The community of the campers quickly dissolve back into the social orders from which they arrived; their branch and palmetto frond structures softly collapse within weeks, though the tortoises, walk back and forth on the ridge, "shelled," yet hardly alone.

It is slow going.

Down a trail that winds through the pine flat woods East of the ridge, there is a single cypress tree that is over 500 years old. This is remarkable in Florida, this part of Florida especially, as the woodlands were almost entirely harvested at the beginning of the 20th century. It has been theorized that this one tree survived because it was actually two, two cypress saplings that began 500+ years ago, at the beginning of the era of settlement, and gradually grew together to form a twinned trunk. The sawing equipment would have been damaged cutting through it, and so, the tree alone remained.

500+ years later it spreads with a wide base, a twin trunk, and a sort of tripod canopy that triangulates branches up into the Florida sun. Beneath, on the floodplain, it is moist and deeply shaded, a rich haven for mosquitoes and other local insects. Spider webs frame every view.

Some days this tree makes me weep as I recount the losses and violences that have surrounded it; some days even being 100 yards from this tree fills me deeply with gratitude, with hope, that in the young -- so very young, so very new in its recovery -- preserve there is this one tree that remembers, that holds space, that must not even "think" of impatience, of "waiting."

There is an awareness that is so very strange some days walking these trail loops, this one old, hidden tree, the tortoises largely from view, yet all near the heart of the city. I feel their work. Sometimes I want to share it, actively; then, I want to release that want.

Is it an odd, or even worrisome thing, to suggest that in the new story in the city I current find myself they have been my best collaborators?

This city is that young, has been that clear-cut. There is one ancient tree. There are a few, threatened "keystone species" tortoises. It is hard to burrow inside each other. There are protected places where this burrowing can happen, can thrive, simply. This city is not all that different from the whole of America, I think.

(That is the stretch of land that I can yet speak for.)

[Rita Wuebbeler]

What has called me is my curiosity about the AoH as a practice having never attended an AoH gathering before but having heard lots of people referring to it in my newly adopted home base of Halifax, Nova Scotia.

In addition, I am excited about spending a weekend of learning and exploring with Judy (and all of you, of course!) who is wise and interesting and has inspired me for a long time to think, feel and search outside the box.

Lastly, as some of you have mentioned: it's the "s" - humanS, human, human beingS, being.....so many possibilities of wandering and wondering about us humans.

[Peggy Wolfe Dunn]

thank you, Holly, for writing these words - how very interesting/amazing/odd that I read this on a morning when I have sat on my porch reading THE SPELL OF THE SENSUOUS, listening to crows, watching hummingbirds, pondering crucifixion and resurrection motifs and why we have them, as I heard what I imagined was bird pain when nabbed by a cat and thinking of the universality of that - hmmm-

Holly Masturzo said:

I've sat down twice to write replies to this... and I feel my responses themselves to have too heavy a trace of "old story" in them.

I'd like to experiment here with responding to these questions less from an "I"; though I certainly invite each of you to read my profile if you are interested in my AoH history and work practice.

There is a trail in an ecological preserve on university grounds near where I live named Gopher Tortoise Ridge. It is sandy and hot walking the "ridge," what passes for elevation in Florida, a few feet above the adjacent flood plain shaded with cypress. The tortoise burrows are a marvel of location selection, often entering the earth just under a tap root that acts as a cross beam.

Tortoise outside burrow on ridge.

Gopher tortoises are considered a "keystone species," a species whose health and prosperity indicates the viability of the 300-some other species that interact in hosting-harmony in the burrows.

Toad using young tortoise burrow for shelter.

I remember the line of a poem written by a middle school student in the rough city where I use to live:

It is hard to burrow and
Live within each other; mostly
You are alone.

Along the ridge, what was once an ancient string of high dunes around a lagoon, young campers have constructed low huts in the shape of tortoises' burrows.

One of the creations of local campers.

Is this the low canopy shape of what we all want?

There is art here, and earth, and coming together, and letting go.

The community of the campers quickly dissolve back into the social orders from which they arrived; their branch and palmetto frond structures softly collapse within weeks, though the tortoises, walk back and forth on the ridge, "shelled," yet hardly alone.

It is slow going.

Down a trail that winds through the pine flat woods East of the ridge, there is a single cypress tree that is over 500 years old. This is remarkable in Florida, this part of Florida especially, as the woodlands were almost entirely harvested at the beginning of the 20th century. It has been theorized that this one tree survived because it was actually two, two cypress saplings that began 500+ years ago, at the beginning of the era of settlement, and gradually grew together to form a twinned trunk. The sawing equipment would have been damaged cutting through it, and so, the tree alone remained.

500+ years later it spreads with a wide base, a twin trunk, and a sort of tripod canopy that triangulates branches up into the Florida sun. Beneath, on the floodplain, it is moist and deeply shaded, a rich haven for mosquitoes and other local insects. Spider webs frame every view.

Some days this tree makes me weep as I recount the losses and violences that have surrounded it; some days even being 100 yards from this tree fills me deeply with gratitude, with hope, that in the young -- so very young, so very new in its recovery -- preserve there is this one tree that remembers, that holds space, that must not even "think" of impatience, of "waiting."

There is an awareness that is so very strange some days walking these trail loops, this one old, hidden tree, the tortoises largely from view, yet all near the heart of the city. I feel their work. Sometimes I want to share it, actively; then, I want to release that want.

Is it an odd, or even worrisome thing, to suggest that in the new story in the city I current find myself they have been my best collaborators?

This city is that young, has been that clear-cut. There is one ancient tree. There are a few, threatened "keystone species" tortoises. It is hard to burrow inside each other. There are protected places where this burrowing can happen, can thrive, simply. This city is not all that different from the whole of America, I think.

(That is the stretch of land that I can yet speak for.)

[Holly Masturzo]

Very interesting, Peggy. I found myself quite taken by Abram's The Spell of the Sensuous. Nice to have the opportunity to remember it here. Thank you!

[Analesa Rose Berg]

Dear Friends.... loving these threads and so looking forward to our time together. I too am a David Abram fan, actually had him come to a conference I hosted years ago. The spell of the sensuous is certainly present in our field. How lucious. Good night, see you tomorrow.
Lisa

[Edveeje Fairchild]

What if each particular place on Earth holds a particular prophecy ... and we, as particular humans being, are called as prophets in partnership with a place? What if we are the ones to give voice to the "power of place?" Holly, thank you for bringing this into the circle before the circle even begins tomorrow ....

Holly Masturzo said:

I've sat down twice to write replies to this... and I feel my responses themselves to have too heavy a trace of "old story" in them.

I'd like to experiment here with responding to these questions less from an "I"; though I certainly invite each of you to read my profile if you are interested in my AoH history and work practice.

There is a trail in an ecological preserve on university grounds near where I live named Gopher Tortoise Ridge. It is sandy and hot walking the "ridge," what passes for elevation in Florida, a few feet above the adjacent flood plain shaded with cypress. The tortoise burrows are a marvel of location selection, often entering the earth just under a tap root that acts as a cross beam.

Tortoise outside burrow on ridge.

Gopher tortoises are considered a "keystone species," a species whose health and prosperity indicates the viability of the 300-some other species that interact in hosting-harmony in the burrows.

Toad using young tortoise burrow for shelter.

I remember the line of a poem written by a middle school student in the rough city where I use to live:

It is hard to burrow and
Live within each other; mostly
You are alone.

Along the ridge, what was once an ancient string of high dunes around a lagoon, young campers have constructed low huts in the shape of tortoises' burrows.

One of the creations of local campers.

Is this the low canopy shape of what we all want?

There is art here, and earth, and coming together, and letting go.

The community of the campers quickly dissolve back into the social orders from which they arrived; their branch and palmetto frond structures softly collapse within weeks, though the tortoises, walk back and forth on the ridge, "shelled," yet hardly alone.

It is slow going.

Down a trail that winds through the pine flat woods East of the ridge, there is a single cypress tree that is over 500 years old. This is remarkable in Florida, this part of Florida especially, as the woodlands were almost entirely harvested at the beginning of the 20th century. It has been theorized that this one tree survived because it was actually two, two cypress saplings that began 500+ years ago, at the beginning of the era of settlement, and gradually grew together to form a twinned trunk. The sawing equipment would have been damaged cutting through it, and so, the tree alone remained.

500+ years later it spreads with a wide base, a twin trunk, and a sort of tripod canopy that triangulates branches up into the Florida sun. Beneath, on the floodplain, it is moist and deeply shaded, a rich haven for mosquitoes and other local insects. Spider webs frame every view.

Some days this tree makes me weep as I recount the losses and violences that have surrounded it; some days even being 100 yards from this tree fills me deeply with gratitude, with hope, that in the young -- so very young, so very new in its recovery -- preserve there is this one tree that remembers, that holds space, that must not even "think" of impatience, of "waiting."

There is an awareness that is so very strange some days walking these trail loops, this one old, hidden tree, the tortoises largely from view, yet all near the heart of the city. I feel their work. Sometimes I want to share it, actively; then, I want to release that want.

Is it an odd, or even worrisome thing, to suggest that in the new story in the city I current find myself they have been my best collaborators?

This city is that young, has been that clear-cut. There is one ancient tree. There are a few, threatened "keystone species" tortoises. It is hard to burrow inside each other. There are protected places where this burrowing can happen, can thrive, simply. This city is not all that different from the whole of America, I think.

(That is the stretch of land that I can yet speak for.)

[Diane Faissler]

HI! This will be my first Art of Hosting event. It calls me to be part of "humans being," to begin/continue the journey of experiencing how humans can BE together when that is the intention . . . to engage more deeply with Cape Ann associates about the community we are co-creating here.

I imagine we are all already co-creating the new story. I'm curious as to how it will unfold for this particular group as we practice collective sensing.