The Book of Hope: A Survival Guide for Trying Times(20)

“What did she do?” Jane asked.

“She went into the forests. She immersed her hands in an ice-cold river and asked the water to take away the pain. She apologized to the land for the harm that she and others were doing. It was a reckoning.

“Cunsolo told me that she had been able to find awe and joy in the forest,” I continued. “She said there’s always beauty, even when there’s pain and suffering. She learned not to hide from the darkness, just not to get lost in it.”

“Did it help?” Jane asked.

“After two weeks of crying and letting the grief flow out of her body, the nerve pain was gone.”

“That’s an extraordinary and inspiring story. It speaks to something I feel deeply inside me,” Jane said. “I’ve known a number of people who have been cured by indigenous healers, shamans, medicine men. And I have felt their power myself.”

“Tell me more,” I said.

“My first Native American friend—we call each other spirit brother and sister—is Terrance Brown, whom I know by his Karuk name, Chitcus. He inherited the role of medicine man of the Karuk tribe in California from his mother. One time I visited him when I was recovering from some unknown illness and feeling weak and somewhat depressed as I struggled to keep to my schedule. Chitcus got out his blanket in which he carries his drum and necklace of shells, a fan of eagle feathers, and a root of their sacred plant, which he spelled out for me as Kish’wuf. He lit the root until it gave off a sweet-smelling smoke, placed it in an abalone shell, and then, drumming softly, he chanted a healing prayer after which he took up the Kish’wuf and with the feathers gently brushed the smoke over my whole body as I stood with my eyes closed. My fatigue was gone after that.

“Since then he makes Kish’wuf smoke and prays for me every morning at dawn. He told me if the smoke rises straight up he knows I’m okay. Two of my other Native American friends—Mac Hall and Forrest Kutch—also pray for me every morning. No wonder I am still so healthy!”

“That’s wonderful,” I said, “and I think it speaks to the power of our interconnection—how an aspect of our healing lies in the quality of our relationships and the ways we come together to support each other.”

Social support was certainly, according to the research, essential for maintaining hope. Jane’s words also reminded me of another piece of Ashlee Cunsolo’s story.


Chitcus, my Native American “spirit brother,” softly drumming as he very quietly chants a prayer, then brushing the smoke from the Kish’wuf that he holds in his left hand. (DR. ROGER MINKOW)



“Shortly after her healing, Cunsolo worked with five Inuit communities to make a film about their grief and loss,” I said. “This brought private pain into the light, and people started coming together to talk about how to heal and what to do next.”

“They got together and expressed their grief,” Jane said, “and that helped activate them.”

“Yes,” I said. “Her story helped me see that facing our grief is essential to combatting and overcoming our despair and powerlessness. The elders taught her that grief is not something to avoid or to be afraid of. And that if we come together and share our sadness, it can be healing.”

“I absolutely agree,” Jane said. “It’s really important for us to confront our grief and get over our feelings of helplessness and hopelessness—our very survival depends on it. And it is certainly true—for me anyway—that we can find healing in nature.”

“The trouble is that not enough people are taking action,” I said. “You say more people are aware of the problems we face—so why aren’t more trying to do something about it?”

“It’s mostly because people are so overwhelmed by the magnitude of our folly that they feel helpless,” she replied. “They sink into apathy and despair, lose hope, and so do nothing. We must find ways to help people understand that each one of us has a role to play, no matter how small. Every day we make some impact on the planet. And the cumulative effect of millions of small ethical actions will truly make a difference. That’s the message I take around the world.”

“But sometimes don’t you feel that the problems are so huge that you are too overwhelmed to act, or else feel that anything you do is insignificant in the face of such enormous hurdles?”

“Oh, Doug, I’m not immune to all that’s going on and sometimes it hits me. When, for instance, I return to an area that I remember as a peaceful patch of woodland with trees and birds singing—and find that in just two years it’s been razed to the ground for yet another shopping mall. Of course I feel sad. But I feel angry, too, and try to pull myself together. I think of all the places that are still wild and beautiful and that the fight to save them must intensify. And I think of the places that have been saved by community action. Those are the stories that people need to hear; stories of the successful battles, the people who succeed because they won’t give up. The people who, if they lose one battle, gear up for the next.”

“Can these community actions win the overall battle, though?” I asked. “So many species are being lost. So many habitats destroyed—seemingly beyond repair. Is it not too late for us to prevent a total collapse of the natural world?”

Jane’s eyes looked into mine, and her gaze was level and direct.