In April of this year, I made a most interesting transit—through the Panama Canal. Although the history of the building of this Canal is a fascinating one, this reflection will concentrate on my experience of the narrow waterway that now divides the Americas—and on the lands to the north that neighbor it.

It was 20 million years ago when a movement of earth plates began that ultimately caused the formation of the land bridge joining the American continents. The bridge, which emerged a mere 3-4 million years ago (a relative newcomer in geologic time), allowed the crossover of northern and southern animal species. Animals (such as armadillos, anteaters and sloths) from South America propagated North America—likewise, northern species (such as tapirs, jaguars and deer) were able to settle in the south. The passageway remained intact for at least 200,000 human generations, but in our own times, the building of the Panama Canal (completed in 1912) severed it.

The Canal, however, did eliminate the long and often treacherous journey around the southern tip of South America. Presently, the principle water routes of use are: from the east coast of the USA to Asia, followed by the east to the west coast of South America and then from Europe to the west coast of the USA and Canada. The principle commodities carried are containerized cargo, grains, and petroleum and petroleum products.

While making the nine-hour transit through the Canal, I tried to concentrate—not on that severing of the land bridge that was once so important for species propagation—but on the beauty of the journey itself—the blue lakes and the surrounding rain forests. Rightly or wrongly, I was somewhat consoled by the fact that the operation of the Canal locks—a function fully assumed by the Panamanians on December 31, 1999—uses very little energy. The operation relies chiefly on gravity and the power of water. As a result of the need for rainwater to work the Canal, the Panamanian rain forests are being preserved (according to the guidebooks, Panama has the most untouched rain forest in all of Central America).

Like Panama, its next-door neighbor Costa Rica also has an abundance of rain, which is largely responsible for the creation of its spectacular cloud forests. This nation abolished its military in 1949 and has since been concentrating on spending its money, among other ways (such as education), on the preservation of its forests. At the present time, 27% of its land is in National Preserves.

We next journeyed to the west coast of Mexico, the so-called Mexican Riviera--our first stop was Acapulco. Our guide, while pointing out the various mansions and identifying their owners (the largest belongs to Sylvester Stallone), lamented the fact that almost all of the wild life has been driven from the area and expressed great sadness at this loss of beauty. This scenario continued at the other stops we made in Mexico.

In contrast to my sharing in the sadness of the Mexican guide, I was given a gift on my return to the USA. As we passed under the Golden Gate Bridge in the predawn light, the bridge did indeed appear to be golden (and not the garish orange it actually is). The sight prompted me to pray that we might make a golden glow, such as the one I witnessed that early morn, a global reality on this, our beloved Earth.

Making a Covenant with Another Creature—Susanne Schaup

Eleanor Rae’s article, "By Loving Even as I Love," in the Spring 2004 issue of "Weaving the Connections" gave me the greatest pleasure. To "make a covenant with another creature" is something I have been doing time and again—through an intuition that tells me that we need each other.

If I had to choose a totem animal, it would be the llama. Smaller and more delicate than the camel, it is of the same species. Though a beast of burden, it is graceful and dignified. Historically, the indigenous people of the Andes knew how to treat the llama. They respected it, as they respect and love all creatures whom, in their view, the great Pachamama, the Earth Goddess, entrusted to the care of humans. When the Spanish invaded the land, however, they mistreated the llamas, just as they suppressed and exploited the native population. Rather than succumb to coercion, llamas will die. Overburdened and beaten, these animals—which have been known to weep—perished in vast numbers.

In the case of three white llamas I encountered in a green enclosure in the middle of Machu Picchu, Peru, it was not "need of each other" that touched me, but rather compassion that made my heart open wide to let in the sorrow of these fellow creatures. Llamas are shy animals. Normally, they will not let a person touch them, unless they are quite young and used to the human hand. But this group just crowded in on me, bleating, wanting to be stroked and caressed. So I sat down with them and tried to soothe them, much as I would soothe a child, with soft words and embraces. Were they bewailing their loneliness, being shut up here for the pleasure of tourists, isolated from their kind? They were aged animals, as I could tell by their discolored and slanting teeth. Had they experienced hardship, perhaps abuse? They communicated their sorrow to me, and there was no question that I understood. I stayed with them until it was time to leave this grand monument of ancient Inca culture.

Ever since that time I have felt drawn to llamas, and I greet them as friends whenever I see any. For instance, I came across a couple of Vicuna llamas in a small zoo in Austria. They were even more delicate, shyer than the others, their silky coats a lovely champagne color. It was obvious, though, that they had been poorly kept, and when I approached their pen, they came running, reaching out for me—perhaps hoping to be saved from their torture, a sort of concentration camp for animals. All I could do was talk to them, caress them. I can still hear their bleating. I still talk to them, and I feel that they are around somewhere. We cannot see each other, but I am aware of their presence. I am aware of their beauty, of their threatened existence, of their fine energy and fleeting swiftness.

At this juncture in the development of Weaving the Connections, we invite you to share your own covenanting stories, if you wish. Perhaps, after reading Eleanor’s and Susanne’s pieces, you might recognize that you actually have been covenanting all along—possibly unaware—or maybe quite aware, but without a forum for sharing. The Divine has presence—especially in our meetings with the living and "non-living" creatures around us.

From Joanna Macy/Pat Fleming’s "Guidelines for a Council of All Beings Workshop" in Thinking Like a Mountain:

"…recount particular life experiences in which [you] felt powerfully the presence of the natural world and/or felt pain over what is befalling this world. In…the words of the poet Thich Nhat Hanh: "‘What we most need to do is to hear within ourselves the sound of the Earth crying.’ Each of us hears these sounds in a different way. How have you heard them?"

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