'My Argument with Jamilah' -  by Marian Van Eyk McCain
(with apologies to those of you who have already read this essay in 'Buffalo Woman's Vision')

"Hey Jamilah," I said, "Look!. Isn't he beautiful?"
She put down her cereal spoon and turned her head towards the window, following my gaze. Her coal-dark eyes opened wide. "Oh he is gorgeous!"
"He's called a superb blue wren," I said. "The male gets this amazing blue plumage in the Spring and--"
"I prefer not to know the names of birds," she said, pursing her lips slightly.
I looked at her in surprise.
"Why ever not?"
"For me, knowing their  names spoils it," she said.


I didn't argue with her. Not outwardly anyway. She was a guest in our house. And she was helping us with our building project. I was hoping she and her partner would stay on and become part of our little retreat community in the foothills of the Australian Alps. So I didn't want to offend her.
Inside, though,, I could feel myself composing my argument.
"But Jamilah," my argument went, "You need to know their names. It is human nature to want to know the names of things. Babies point and grunt and strain towards that knowing. Without it, we are wild, unincorporated creatures. Like the young Helen Keller before that epiphanal moment at the pump, when Annie Sullivan tapped out the word ‘water’ into her hand and suddenly she understood how to name and  - and therefore know - a world she could neither see nor hear."

"For me, knowing their  names spoils it."  That strange, bald statement kept rattling around in my mind.

"You see, Jamilah," I wanted to say, "Without a name, that little bird pecking on the window is just the reflection of light on feathers, a sensation, a moment in the landscape around your breakfast. A moment you may well forget. To me he is so much more. He has an identity. And therefore he has a yesterday, a tomorrow, a story, a personality and these all go together with his name.
I want to tell you why he's pecking on the window. It's because he can see a rival in the windowpane, and has to vanquish him. He will peck that windowpane on and on, from now till lunchtime. Then he'll take a lunch break. And then, because he is a valiant warrior, this afternoon he'll come back and peck some more. And if the sun shines again tomorrow and that phantom rival appears in the glass again, he'll be back, obliged by his wrenny honor to peck and peck until the light goes or until instinct tells him it is time to stop, whichever happens first. He's called a ‘superb blue wren,’ Jamilah. Malurus cyaneus. That is who he is. He heads a family of several female wrens and some juveniles (none of whose colors blaze like his). And there will be a nest. Last year, it was in the lower branches of a silver wattle (acacia dealbata) and the brown snake (Pseudonaja)  ate the eggs."

How could she not want to know the names? The thought continued to disturb me.

"Jamilah, I know it is wonderful and very spiritual to live in the moment. And I know you are not interested in the story of this bird. But without a name, without a story, this bird is like part of a stage set. Flat. Two-dimensional. A generic ‘bird.’ I have such difficulty with generic birds, you see. They frustrate me. I remember that day in transit at Honolulu airport when I walked down into the little garden they have there, and there were birds I could not name, flitting around in trees I could not name. One doesn't think of taking a bird guide in one's hand luggage in case one might need it in the transit lounge. But oh how I wished for one then. Maybe we bird-watching enthusiasts ('twitchers' we are called in England) are genetically different or something."

That is not a convincing argument, and I know it.
How about…

"Well, Jamilah, it is probably because I am a writer that I have such a need to know their names. Words are so important to me, you see. Names carry so much. The word ‘chickadee’ hangs upside down on the page, head cocked, bright eyes looking at me. The word ‘heron’ stands all day in the margin, tall and still. The word ‘swift’ carves a sudden, swooping arc across the top of the page and is gone, leaving just a shrill, high note on the paper. The word ‘partridge’ lies low, between the other words, flattening itself against the paper, until I stumble over it and it flies off the page altogether with a sudden whirr of wings that takes me by surprise."

I think of Jamilah's dark eyes, and the way she looks at me. She seems very confident. But I know there are chinks in her argument.

"Yet in many other ways, Jamilah, I know that words and names mean a lot to you. Although you profess to be an atheist, I recall how thrilled you were when you discovered that I knew how to say "There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet" in Arabic, and you wrote it for me in that elegant, curling script."

In my imagination, she is shaking her head.

"Oh Jamilah, it is probably because you have been so dominated by your thinking mind. It must have been hard for you, growing up female in your Middle Eastern culture, with parents who really wanted a boy instead of yet another girl. And being the only female in your year to get a Ph.D. in civil engineering. And it must be hard teaching those students of yours all day. I can see why you must long to switch off that thinking part of yourself and simply bask in the wordless, nameless joy of watching that pert little bird on the windowsill, with the sun shining on his bright, blue feathers."

Maybe that's true. But what about me? What am I defending? Why am I so keen for her to agree with me?

"Jamilah, I haven't told you this, but one day, when I was a little girl, my grandmother, who was embroidering a tablecloth, sent me off with my butterfly net to capture some butterflies. She said there were going to be butterflies in the embroidery and she wanted to make sure she got the colors right. Delighted to be helpful, I spent hours hunting down a tortoiseshell, a red admiral, a brimstone and several others, bringing each one back triumphantly to show her. She praised me. I was very happy. It was several years later, when I saw that finished tablecloth, with its generic, totally impossible butterflies, that the truth dawned on me. She had simply wanted to keep me occupied. I had brought her the butterflies. I had proudly told her their names. And now I felt foolish, dismayed and taken for a ride."

There is more. It is coming up from inside me now, from somewhere deeper than a childhood memory

"You know, Jamilah, I have never actually admitted this before, but there is part of me that wishes I could be more like you. I feel almost guilty that I want to attach all this thought, all this head stuff to this tiny bird, this tiny, feathered messenger from a world where nothing has a name and the present moment is all there is."

I am moving into new territory now.

"Is there a way, Jamilah, that we humans, top-heavy with thoughts, opinions, ideas and  concepts, laced into our worldviews and belief systems and identities as tightly as our great-grandmothers were laced into their corsets, could ever be as light and as fully present in the 'now' moment as that wren on the windowsill?
What if there were? What if we could be so free of all that baggage that we could truly meet each other, heart to heart, soul to soul? What if I could truly encounter another, whether a woman or man, an owl, a mouse, a mountain lion, or even a bug or a creosote bush, without the trappings of identity?
How important is identity anyway? Do you remember that song Suzanne Vega used to sing about playing with identities - "If I had met you on some journey… who would we be now?…"
We can shape-shift so easily nowadays. Think of all those people in Internet chatrooms pretending to be professors and brain surgeons to impress the faceless others in cyberspace. It is a form of creativity, a kind of 21st Century adventuring…
But there is a deeper, bolder adventure than that. It is the adventure of shedding identity altogether. And perhaps - finally - learning to meet each other. Really meet. As we truly are, in our essence. To give the gift of ourselves, unpackaged.
I am getting old, Jamilah. I am closer to seventy than sixty now. When you and I sat together at breakfast, watching that wren at the window, I was still in my early fifties. Back then, I was clutching my favorite pieces of  identity around me like a cloak, to keep out the chill of unknowing. Mother, psychologist, therapist, author…..
But now? Now, Jamilah, it is starting to feel different.
Have you heard of the Indian sage Ramana Maharshi? The spiritual practice he taught was a very simple one. Ask yourself: "Who am I?" Answer the question. Ask it again. And again, and again, and again. Keep on asking and answering until every possible answer has been exhausted. Only then --  and it will probably take a whole  lifetime -- will you become enlightened.
Am I getting enlightened do you suppose, Jamilah? Or am I just a slightly dotty old woman, reminiscing about the past? Perhaps I am both, and more besides. Or perhaps I am none of those but simply a dust mote in a sunbeam, a ripple in the ocean, a movement in the shifting, swirling, changing dance of energy which is life on Earth."

I have not seen Jamilah for many years now. But the last time I saw her, she told me how much she enjoyed the months she spent in that retreat center we were building in the mountains of Australia. She spoke of all the things she remembered. Above all, she has never forgotten the shining, blue visitor who pecked on the window at breakfast time. The one which, for her, had no name and never will. 

'Hearth Elders of the Blackdowns'

Our nickname is the 'Half Elders'
We are a group of wise women in our fifties, exploring what it means to become elders of the world.

It is our view that, unlike in the past when they were honoured, listened to and respected, these days elders are often not acknowledged in our communities. We feel there is an urgent need to 'grow' and encourage such people if the world is to flourish in the coming years.

Our real name is the HEARTH ELDERS. Inspired by Marian van Eyk McCain's book 'Elderwoman' seven of us are meeting regularly during 2006 and are taking it in turns to lead the rest of the group while we explore such issues as honouring our bodies, death and dying, the emotional life of ageing, guardianship of the planet and so on.

We meet once a month on a Sunday in the Studio at Coburns Farm in the Blackdown Hills in Somerset/Devon about ten miles south of Taunton. (England) We start our days with council sharing and as well as exploring the theme for the day we usually include a silent walk in the surrounding woods and fields, a 'rest' and story time after lunch and a walk around the labyrinth.

We started in January this year and as we have laughed and cried, shared and cared for each other we have begun to understand a little more about this inevitable, fascinating process of ageing that faces us all. It is a roller coaster of a journey and one that we have found inspiring, intriguing, challenging, leading, confronting and nurturing.

If any UK readers are interested in joining a Hearth Elders Group for 2007 or would