The Crow on the Cradle

The sheep's in the meadow
The cow's in the corn
Now is the time for a child to be born
He'll laugh at the moon
And cry for the sun
And if it's a boy he'll carry a gun
Sang the crow on the cradle

And if it should be that this baby's a girl
Never you mind if her hair doesn't curl
With rings on her fingers
And bells on her toes
And a bomber above her wherever she goes
Sang the crow on the cradle

-- Sydney Carter

Life has always depended on death, such is the way of the universe.

But never in the history of the world has a civilization demanded so much death in order to allow so few to live in luxury.

The acts of brutality required to keep our oil flowing and to keep our stores stocked with cheap clothes and shoes and electronics remain invisible to the vast majority of those living in this country.

And they are outside the bounds of political discourse -- most of our political debate comes down to the ways in which we divide up the spoils. To question the continuing plunder is unthinkable. Even much of what passes for radical politics challenges only the most extreme acts of cruelty.

My late friend and mentor Philip Berrigan once told me that every true revolution comes out of the wilderness.

My great-grandfather came from "beyond the Pale" -- the line that separated the "civilized" English speaking parts of Ireland from the "wild" Gaeltacht. He was a Captain in the IRA who left at the age of 21 with a price on his head.

Following his example, I have gone beyond the pale.

I've traveled to Oaxaca and Bolivia to witness the resistance of those never fully subjugated by 500 years of genocide.

I've gone into the forest to listen to the wild plants tell me how to live on this Earth.

I've gone inside myself, beginning the long work of decolonizing my body, my mind, and my spirit.

And I've carved out my place at the edge, neither fully of the culture around me nor fully separate from it.

The shaman, the witch, the healer have always lived at the edge of the village or outside it -- serving the community without being fully part of it. Only by living and working outside the constraints and customs and assumptions of the culture is it possible to maintain the fierce innocence necessary to maintain relationships with plants, animals, and gods.

As an herbalist, a witch, and a poet, my place is here.

But even at the edge I hear the roar of jets overhead and the helicopters that search the Maine hills for unsanctioned plants (just as they do in Colombia and Afghanistan.)

So like the crow, I am a watcher from a wilder place.

I swoop down and land on the cradle and begin my song.

Do you dare to listen?