by Karen Mortensen
It was the first weekend in November. There had been a light snow overnight. I looked out the window to admire the the contrast of the snow’s whiteness next to the green grass that remained uncovered under the trees. Suddenly, I saw a familiar motion. Looking more carefully, I was astonished to see a flock of robins hopping about and flying from tree to tree. This is much later in the season than I had ever remembered seeing robins in upstate New York.
Robins are characteristic of warm weather in our part of the country. For that reason, winter weary northerners welcome them joyfully in the spring. By the same token, we sadly bid them safe journey in the fall. Therefore, I was delighted to see them in November, searching for their breakfasts and chirping socially at one another. I decided to stand at the window and observe, wonder and appreciate. I’m so glad I did. Their behavior was a profound lesson for me.
Not one seemed to be sitting on a branch complaining, “I tried to tell them we shouldn’t stay so long! I knew it was going to snow. I wanted to leave last week, but no, no one would listen to me. Now look at this mess. They’ll learn to listen when I tell them what to do!”
Not one seemed to be carping to his worm-searching buddy as follows: “Can you believe we’re going this way? This is the longest way there, and look at this traffic! I told them to go by way of Pittsburgh, but no, they wouldn’t listen. I knew which route we should have taken. Why wouldn’t they listen to me?”
No, there was no evidence of complaint, discontent or dissatisfaction. Only companionable flitting and feeding. Only sociable chirping and tweeting. Only cooperation. They flew from area to area like a well choreographed dance company. They were as one organism.
Still standing and watching, fascinated, I asked myself, “Why do I see cooperation and joy in this flock of birds (who are supposedly lower on the evolutionary scale than we humans) while when I look at human relationships I see disagreements, back-biting and fierce competitiveness?” I could find only one possible explanation: identities.
My Random House dictionary defines identities as “the condition of being oneself or itself, and not another; condition or character as to who a person or what a thing is...” Most of us carry many identities: mother, father, brother, sister, nurturer, disciplinarian, lover, cook, provider, intellectual, wit, athlete—I could go on, but you get the idea. The problem is that we have overlaid so many identities on top of our true selves we have lost the sense of who we really are. Then these ego/identities take over like malignant tumors, demanding to be fed even to the extinction of our real selves. That’s when they noisily demand recognition, fame, love from the masses, wealth, being better than the next guy, always being right, and more. Insatiable, they forever clamor for what they crave.
The Avatar Course teaches us how to peel off these layers of identities until we are able to, in Harry’s words, “closely approach and/or achieve identitylessness... that state is true self, the Avatar.” When enough people become Avatars, our beloved planet will be peopled by beings who will operate like my flock of robins. Egoless, we will live in cooperation and joy. Like the cells of a human body, we will be distinct, yet aware of our connection. Then we will know beyond a shadow of a doubt. We will be one organism.Karen Mortensen, New York
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