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From A Blue Planet


FROM A BLUE PLANET “is hard to pigeonhole but easy to listen to”—Jeff Wagenheim, Boston Globe

Product Description:

  • A collection of nine quintessential CHUCK GREENBERG compositions featuring his trademark lyricon, flutes, and tenor and soprano saxes.
  • Features SHADOWFAXers PHIL MAGGINI and CHARLES BISHARAT, as well as ALEX DE GRASSI and others.
  • Experienced a limited release in 1991, yet rose to #6 on the Gavin Report Adult Alternative and #12 on Billboard’s Top Adult Alternative.

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Eywa and Momoy: Nature as Shamaness in Myth and Film

Slide one: Eywa and Momoy: Nature as Shamaness in Myth and Film

Slide two: The concept of Mother Earth and Nature is so commonplace today as to have become a virtual cliché. Yet, reverence for a feminized earth has endured for thousands of years among many cultures. Nature as the Divine Feminine may be seen in contemporary stories as well, including the film Avatar. Such staying power in the collective imagination speaks to atavistic impulses that have long been expressed by indigenous cultures in their mythologies. In Avatar, Eywa was the Na’vi “Earth Mother,” who was considered their holiest deity. The California Chumash Indians, former inhabitants of the area extending from Malibu in the south to San Luis Obispo in the north, revered a deity called Momoy, who represented variously an Old Woman, the moon, and jimsonweed.

Slide three:Like Eywa, there are no known images of Momoy, and just as Momoy may be understood as a feminine triunity, so may Eywa, whose pervasive presence throughout Avatar was embodied by the strong female characterizations of the Omaticaya princess, Neytiri; her shamaness mother, Mo’at; and even the anthropologist, Grace Augustine. All three participated in Jake Sully’s initiation into the Omaticaya clan, paralleling Momoy’s triple role of shamaness-moon-entheogen in Chumash rites of passage.

Slide four: Although much has been said about the correlation between Avatar and Native American environmental ethics, the ecopsychological aspect of their relationship has been scarcely examined, if at all. Ecopsychology attempts to understand behavioral and experiential processes as they occur within the environmental constraints of animal-environment systems. By focusing on perception, action, cognition, communication, learning, development, and evolution in all species, it criticizes the inherent dualism of traditional psychology that separates people from others and the natural environment (Krippner 2002). Ecopsychologists theorize that humans are a basic part of a grander system and that the health of this system demands sustainable and mutually nurturing relationships among and between the parts and the whole. Accordingly, to be psychologically healthy, one must acknowledge that the planet is endangered and make real-world efforts to save it.
     Along this line, Theodore Roszak (1992) postulated an “ecological unconscious” as the “savage element” in humans “that rises up to meet the environmental need of the time,” providing the impetus for environmentally conscious activism (1992: 96). Such activism is seen in Avatar when the Na’vi were moved to protect their most sacred Tree of Souls against the invading Sky People. The film thus exemplified cinematically what religion historian Roger S. Gottlieb calls “religious environmentalism” (2006).
     In contrast to Jungian psychology, which posits a “collective unconscious,” ecopsychology roots psyche within the neoplatonic concept of the anima mundi (Roszak 1992, 1995; Hillman 1995, 2006). The anima mundi obtains a sense of interconnectedness not unlike Eywa’s and that which is expressed in many indigenous hunting traditions, including the Chumash, for whom Momoy may be seen as a correlate to Eywa. The realization of this interconnection and interdependence has been an essential part of shamanic tradition for at least 30,000 years and suggests that the psychological study of shamanism can play a vital role in healing the earth. This is because shamanic healing “is embedded in a place and a history, in the rhythms of climate, in the contours of a landscape where the birds and beasts have been close companions for centuries” (Roszak 1992: 76). Seen this way, shamans were the original psychotherapists.

Slide five: Shamanism could be seen in the Omaticaya high priestess or tsahìk, Mo’at. As the matriarch of the clan and, therefore, in charge of initiation into it, Mo’at attempted to “cure [Sully’s] insanity” through a ritual that would transfer consciousness permanently to his avatar. She was skeptical at first, but ultimately decided that with her daughter, Neytiri, as his guide, there might be a chance for him. She also attempted a consciousness transfer with Dr. Augustine that included group chanting, drumming, music, trance, and exhortations to the dying anthropologist to “pass through the eye of Eywa,” a significant stage of the ritual required for its success. Although entheogens were not specifically mentioned, the scene in the film depicting this ritual glowed with a magical luminescence not unlike the psychedelic visions reported by many users of them, and Neytiri may be seen pouring a liquid substance over Sully.

Slide six: Unlike other Native American tribes whose shamans were traditionally male, some, including the Chumash, were known for having female as well as transgender, or berdache, shamans. One of the shaman’s primary roles was the oversight of rites of adolescent initiation into adulthood. For the Chumash and other Native Americans like the Aztecs, whose Momoy correlate was Tonantzin, the ingestion of Datura, commonly known as jimsonweed or momoy by the Chumash, was a part of this ritual. At puberty both boys and girls participated individually in momoy-induced vision quests under the guidance of a “specialist” who prepared the potion and interpreted their visions afterwards, which may explain Mo’at’s meaning as “dreamcatcher.” These spiritual guides were well-respected because they had personally used Datura enough times—and survived—as to be considered experts in preparing the correct dosage. They also knew what to expect in the way of the hallucinations that resulted from the psychoactive component of Datura and that frequently contained images of animals, which decided a person’s “spirit guardian.” In this way, momoy-the-entheogen became associated with Old Woman Momoy-the-shamaness who presided over the ceremony. So critical to this initiation ritual was the use of momoy that an individual was not considered a true member of the clan unless he or she had taken momoy and had a designated “spirit guardian.”
     Momoy as shamaness and spiritual leader is depicted in “Momoy and the Tupnekč,” a narrative in which she adopts a foundling, raises him as a tupnekč (grandchild), initiates him into the momoy cult, teaches him to hunt, and criticizes him when he continues killing animals even though neither he nor she are meat-eaters. At one point she says to herself, “‘He has no sense—he just goes around killing!’” (Blackburn 144). When the tupnekč with the aid of Coyote kills a bear, Momoy is clearly disgusted and says, “‘Have you no sense at all? You are just killing for the sake of killing. The bear was doing no harm,’” indicating a Chumash ecoethical attitude toward hunting (147).

Slide seven: Just as there seemed to have been a “hunter’s code” for the Chumash, so did the Na’vi demonstrate a reverence for life and a desire to heal the breach provoked by its taking. For instance, when alien-cum-native Sully thanked Neytiri, an Omaticaya clan princess of the Na’vi, for saving his life by killing the ferocious viperwolf that had attacked him, she reprimanded him: “Don’t thank for this! This is sad.” She was not pleased to have taken the beast’s life for a reason other than food procurement. It thus became apparent that, as with the Chumash, needless killing and injury were forbidden on Pandora, the mythical planetary setting for Avatar.
     Neytiri’s Mother Nature quality also became apparent when she began teaching Sully’s avatar how to live as a Na’vi member. One of his first lessons was the correct way to take the life of an animal. Like many indigenous peoples who participated in rites associated with hunting, fishing, and gathering that embodied an implicit ethic of respect for other forms of life, the Na’vi performed similar rituals following animal and plant life-taking in which they “blessed” the dead and prayed: “Your spirit goes with Eywa.” In this way, the Na’vi affirmed their reverence for Eywa, their “Great Mother.” This ecological ethos may be seen not only in the Na’vi obligatory respect toward prey noted above, but in the close relationship the clans believed was possible with other species. Conversely, such respect for “mother” wisdom contrasted sharply with the apparently masculinist, nonindigenous, “sullied” society of Sully’s before being “reborn” as a member of the Na’vi. The Na’vi worship of Eywa thus resembled the ancient Greek reverence for Gaia, their Earth Mother.

Slide eight: The recognition of feminine energy as transformative energy is apparently what inspired goddess veneration. Women perform this transformation and incarnate this power in their capacity to make milk out of blood and to give birth out of their own bodies to an utterly other creature. As a fertility goddess, Gaia was also a goddess of the underworld, the realm of death. To die was to return to the receptive, generative mother. The earth was womb; burial was in the fetal position. When the world is conceived in cyclical terms, death is the prelude to rebirth. Yet, rebirth is not understood as the return of the same but as transformed consciousness. Because of this, death and new vision are closely intertwined. Gaia was the giver of dreams and omens, of the understanding of the hidden. She was the source of vision—and of lunacy, which is altered vision. She was the moonflower as well as the momoy, the giver of intoxicants as well as the intoxicant itself. In mythology, Pandora was indeed Gaia’s manifestation: the giver of all gifts, those welcomed and those not (Downing 1992).

Slide nine: Ecopsychologically, Gaia may be seen “as a dramatic image of ecological interdependence” and “as the evolutionary heritage that bonds all living things genetically and behaviorally to the biosphere,” according to Roszak (1995: 14). In this expansive view, there is “a deep, abiding connection between psyche and Gaia,” much like the interconnections among life and Eywa on Pandora (15). Eywa thus represented a Gaia-like concept of relationship: “a network of energy that flows through all living things,” as Dr. Augustine explained to the disbelieving invaders, who mocked instead the Na’vi belief system in order to justify their own reprehensible actions: “You throw a stick in the air around here and it’ll land on a sacred fern, for Christ’s sake!” snorted Parker Selfridge, the corporate sycophant in the film. “What the hell have you people been smoking out there? They’re just goddamn trees.”
     Dr. Augustine persisted, however, pointing out that an “electrochemical communication between the roots like synapses” existed on Pandora, giving the trees “more connections than the human brain,” providing a means of cultural rootedness and identity among the Na’vi that the invaders decidedly lacked. Such interconnectedness was confirmed by Sully’s bonding with the Tree of Souls that ultimately allowed Eywa to “hear” his request for help and to respond in kind. Eywa’s answer was manifested not only the legendary Giant Leonopteryx, who arrived to transport Sully-cum-Taruk Makto into battle, but by her transformation of the formerly dangerous forest creatures into helpful reinforcements against the invaders. In a telling scene, the vicious viperwolves that had once threatened Sully prior to his “rebirth” now focused instead on the alien attackers.
     Sully’s initiation therefore reflected his conversion from a contemporary western perspective into an indigenous ethos. Sully further demonstrated this transformation with his speech: “Look at the world they come from. There is no green there. They killed their Mother.” Sully’s choice of pronouns clearly confirmed his dissociation from the Sky People. As the nefarious Colonel Quaritch sneered, Sully had “gone native.” Moreover, only after Sully was “reborn” as an Omaticaya clan member did he become impassioned sufficiently to rally the Na’vi to defend Pandora. In this way his “rebirth”—his indigenization—resembled a conversion to Gottlieb’s religious environmentalism.

Slide ten: Avatar and Momoy illustrate that by embodying ecoethical worldviews, indigenous myths may inspire caring attitudes and behavior toward nature, or religious environmentalism. No one forced or even advised the formerly apathetic Sully to defend Pandora; he simply did it, as if in response to an inner directive. As explained by psychologist Lionel Corbett, “When the myth in which we live is unconscious, we are like . . . fish in water” (2001: 84). The myth “creates the atmosphere in which we live and is taken for granted. Our fundamental attitudes are then derived from it” (2001: 84). Articulated here is the innate sense of “doing the right thing” when one is guided by a mythopoietic narrative that situates ethics within a “cognitive context,” as J. Baird Callicott has observed (1994: 26).
Such a rapprochement between humans and nature is plausible, ecopsychologist James Hillman suggested, because the individual anima-soul coheres with the anima mundi-World Soul. Accordingly, any “alteration in the human psyche resonates with a change in the psyche of the world,” transforming the collective consciousness in the process (2006: 35). All of this seems to indicate that like the ancient myths that once communicated moral behavior and values, the discourse of environmental ethics will be most effective when the symbolic, non-rational language of poetry is rejoined with scientific observation in mythopoietic narratives. Hopefully, mythology will then be restored to its archaic function of providing individuals and communities with stories that give meaning to their lives and that enable their indigenization to places, thereby instilling a desire to care for the environment—including the city—and each other. And like the last “gift” in Pandora’s basket, hope may be all we have left.

Avatar and Artemis: Indigenous Mythologies as Environmental Ethics

Presented at the Western Region of the American Academy of Religion Annual Conference, Whittier, CA; Mar. 2011

Since its origins during the past quarter century, environmental ethics has morphed into a multidisciplinary field, largely due to an increase in awareness of our planetary ecocrisis combined with what many perceive as the failure of unitary disciplines such as theology, philosophy, and the sciences to engage and adequately address these concerns. Clearly, a new discourse is needed: one that is informed not only by multidisciplinary approaches, but that unifies the collective as well as points toward a more responsible treatment of nature and each other. Thomas Berry is among those who believe “It’s all a question of story. We are in trouble just now because we do not have a good story. […] The old story, the account of how the world came to be and how we fit into it, is no longer effective,” he claims in The Dream of the Earth (123). The “old story” of which Berry speaks is that of the Bible, which served its followers well until the so-called “enlightenment” that caused many to question the validity of religious claims about the cosmos. On the other hand, many indigenous myths are “old” stories that continue to thrive and retain their cultural influence. Berry suggests that this is because they, unlike those of nonindigenous groups, articulate an innate connection to nature. In Earth’s Insights J. Baird Callicott acknowledges the contribution that many indigenous traditions, by embodying an implicit environmental ethic, can make to understanding how ethics becomes located within a “cognitive context” (xiv). Although he lauds pagan Greek mythology as representing an ecoethical belief in the sanctity of nature, he criticizes it for its anthropocentrism (26). To the contrary, I wish to argue that ancient Greek myths about the indigenous nature goddess Artemis reflect rather a pervasive anthropomorphism, through which a prototypical environmental ethic is projected and may be recognized in the 2009 Academy Award-winning film, Avatar.
      One of the earliest records of Artemis in classical Greek myth is found in Hesiod’s Theogony from the eighth century BCE, in which she is identified as the “archeress Artemis,” a daughter of Zeus and Leto and Apollo’s twin. Hesiod’s scant mention of Artemis suggests that she was originally an outsider among the Olympians, according to Robert Pogue Harrison in Forests (21). Her marginal status within the Olympic pantheon supports the theory that Artemis represented a prehistoric nature religion for the ancestral Greeks—or what author Bron Taylor might call dark green religion in his book entitled the same.
      According to J. Donald Hughes, Artemis of ancient Greece “resulted from the transformation of a general type that had existed for millennia”: the goddess of the hunt, who was thought to protect wild animals and to exact retribution from hunters for disrespect, improper injury, or needless killing (191). Such a characterization seems logical given hunting’s primacy as a means of sustenance for Paleolithic peoples, who developed oral traditions, myths, and rituals that survived in folk culture, influenced art and literature, and actively inhibited exploitation of wildlife, says Hughes, who deduces an unwritten Artemisian “hunters’ code” that demanded respect for animals and plants and allowed the slaying of game only for human nourishment (194).
      As an indigenous hunters’ religion, Artemis’s cult thus preserved beliefs and practices of the Greeks’ early forebears—traditions that were ultimately syncretized with those of other ancient cults. In addition to her prowess as a hunter, the two Homeric Hymns invoking Artemis identify her as a “virgin archer” and “the sacred virgin” (Boer 4, 5). Apparently, it was Artemis’s function to encourage the Greeks to value their “un-erotic,” or virginal, sides, as well as their hunting ability (xi). Possibly because of the archaic associations between Artemis and virginity, her domain came to be defined as chaste as well. Indeed, Hugh Parry asserts that the description of nature in Euripides’ Hippolytus works as a metaphor for Hippolytus’s own virtuous life of dedication to Artemis, making this Greek tragedy the first narrative to equate virginal nature with chastity (281). The environmental relevance of Artemis’s virginity is that everything within her domain—animals, forests, mountains, rivers, and the sea—was sacred to her. As virgin of the woodlands, Artemis inhabited a numinous realm: sacred places where human beings were forbidden access except to worship her, and where her presence could be invoked. In this way, sacred groves with at first undefined borders became dedicated to her, and experience of the divine, metaphorized as rituals, sanctified the settings where these experiences took place.
      Artemisian spirituality therefore may be seen as a cultural and religious stance with regard to the environment similar to the one propounded by the indigenous Na’vi in Avatar. Just as there seem to have been specific rules and rituals, or what might be termed “commandments of Artemis,” enjoined upon hunters by tradition and custom, so do the Na’vi demonstrate a reverence for life and a desire to heal the breach provoked by its taking. For example, when Marine-cum-avatar Jake Sully thanks Neytiri, an Omaticaya clan princess of the Na’vi, for saving his life by killing the ferocious creature that has attacked him, she scoffs, “Do not thank me!” for she is not pleased to have taken the beast’s life for a reason other than food procurement. It thus becomes apparent that, as with Artemis’s cults, needless killing and injury are forbidden on Pandora, the mythical planetary setting for Avatar.
      Indeed, as with the Greeks, whose ancient ritual associated with hunting, fishing, and gathering embodied an “implicit ethic of respect for other forms of life,” says Hughes, the Na’vi likewise perform a ritual following animal and plant life-taking in which they “bless” the dead and pray: “Your spirit goes with Eywa” (194-95). In this way, the Na’vi affirm their reverence for Eywa, their “Great Mother,” an archetypal figure of whom Artemis was an aspect. Accordingly, “All animals belong to the Great Mother,” says C. G. Jung, “and the killing of any wild animal is a transgression against the mother” (CW 5: 503). As a result, Jung says, “What seems a paradox to the modern mind […] is not one in primal hunting societies that see animals not as game, nor as enemies to be slain, but as powerful beings whose spiritual protectors must be propitiated” (CW 9.1: 427). Such respect for “mother” wisdom directly contrasts with the apparently androcentric, patriarchal nonindigenous society of Sully’s before he is “reborn” as a member of the Na’vi.
       In their essay, “Opening Pandora’s Film,” Bron Taylor and Adrian Ivakhiv note this implicit ethic of respect for others that the Na’vi reveal throughout Avatar, calling this sensibility a “holistic ecological spirituality” (386). This ecological ethos may be seen, they maintain, in the Na’vi obligatory respect toward prey, as well as in the close relationship they believe is possible with other species (386). That such an ecoethic is critical for earth and human survival is the message that Avatar director James Cameron seems to be implying, according to Taylor and Ivakhiv, who further conclude that Cameron purposely calls for all humans to “understand their dependence on, and embeddedness in, a biosphere considered sacred” (387). For when the environment is sanctified, people feel more compelled to defend it, just as the Na’vi act to save Pandora (387). Indeed, belief in nature as sacred space is requisite for an ecoethical attitude, as several studies have shown (Jon P. Bloch; Nalini Tarakeshwar et al.).
     Their sanctification of nature indicates another parallel between Na’vi beliefs and practices and those of other indigenous cults, including Artemis’s. For the former, their “most sacred place” is the Tree of Souls, where outsiders are forbidden but where clan members believe they may make contact with and hear the voices of their ancestors. The Tree of Souls appears as one of many in an Artemisian-like sacred grove and depicted in the film as bearing luminous, undulating tentacle-like branches.
      Like other indigenous mythologies, the Na’vi belief system may be seen also as a repository of “traditional ecological knowledge,” or TEK, which is defined by anthropologist Fikret Berkes as “a cumulative body of knowledge, practice, and belief, evolving by adaptive processes and handed down through generations by cultural transmission, about the relationship of living beings (including humans) with one another and with their environment” (8). As such, TEK inspires “an ethic of nondominant, respectful human-nature relationship, a sacred ecology” (163). Berkes claims that such a perspective shapes environmental perception, gives meaning to observations of the environment, and provides a fundamental lesson that worldviews do matter (14, 182). In Avatar, TEK may be recognized in the scenes depicting Neytiri teaching Sully the Na’vi language and way of life along with showing him how to hunt and to make a “queue”—the bonding that occurs between hunters and their ikrans, the flying pterodactyl-like beasts they tame and ride by linking their hair braids to tails extending from the creatures’ ears. Neytiri also explains to Sully how to use his queue to bond with the branch-ends of the Tree of Souls, enabling communication with Eywa and thus to Pandora’s “network of energy,” as the film’s anthropologist, Grace Augustine, calls it.
      Like Jung, David Abram, Paul Shepard and others, Berkes derives contemporary environmental problems from human “alienation from nature,” but he believes that indigenous, relational epistemologies can teach a way back (3). By learning from indigenous peoples who are not alienated in this way, Berkes argues that it becomes possible to develop “an alternative view of ecosystems [as] pulsating with life and spirit, incorporating people who belong to that land and who have a relationship of peaceful coexistence with other beings” (182). In fact, such a transformation in attitude seems to be precisely what happens to Sully’s avatar during his initiation into the Omaticaya clan. Sully’s “rebirth,” as he calls it, ultimately leads him to visit the Tree of Souls and invoke Eywa’s aid in the Na’vi defense of Home Tree, the gigantic, multi-branching tree where they live, against the Jake’s own Sky People, who closely resemble and sound like Americans, and who are attacking Home Tree in order to gain access to “unobtainium,” the mineral they want that exists nowhere else.
      Neytiri, however, advises Sully that Eywa is unlikely to respond to his prayers, for “our Great Mother does not take sides. She protects only the Balance of Life.” Like Artemis, Eywa thus represents not a personal figure but an archetypal concept of relationship: “a network of energy that flows through all living things,” as Augustine explains to the disbelieving invaders, who mock instead the Na’vi belief system in order to justify their own reprehensible actions: “You throw a stick around here and it’ll land on a sacred fern, for Christ’s sake! What the hell have you people been smoking out there? They’re just goddamn trees.” The use of expletives here indicates that for the alien Sky People, the world is profane, not sacred. Augustine persists, however, pointing out that an “electrochemical communication between the roots like synapses” exists on Pandora, giving the trees “more connections than the human brain”—providing, I suggest, a means of cultural rootedness and identity among the Na’vi that the invaders decidedly lack.
      Moreover, by virtue of this cultural rootedness and the exhortations of Sully, who has himself become indigenized, so to speak, through his Omaticaya initiation, the Na’vi are ultimately moved to ecoethical action to defend Home Tree. Avatar thus exemplifies cinematically an essential feature of ethopoietic narratives of place: the celebration of natural environments with spiritual value in and of themselves that motivate activism for their protection. Sully’s indigenization therefore reflects his transformed consciousness and ethos that blends the feminine with the heretofore androcentric worldview of the West into an androgynous, Artemisian perspective.
Avatar thus illustrates that by embodying cultural worldviews, indigenous myths may inspire ethical attitudes toward nature by individuals who intuit what is right as opposed to being lectured about what is right. No one forces or even advises Sully to defend Home Tree; he simply does it, as if in response to an inner directive. As psychologist Lionel Corbett posits, “When the myth in which we live is unconscious, we are like a fish in water; the myth creates the atmosphere in which we live and is taken for granted. Our fundamental attitudes are then derived from it” (84). Corbett articulates here the innate sense of “doing the right thing” when one is guided by a living narrative, however unconsciously.
     Mythic narratives are critical because they help us to make sense of life, as philosopher Charles Taylor attests in Sources of the Self. Self-identity requires “an orientation to the good” which has to be woven into an understanding of “life as an unfolding story” (47). Accordingly, Taylor says, a “basic condition of making sense of ourselves [is] that we grasp our lives in a narrative” (47). Making sense of life as a story is absolutely obligatory, because in order to have a sense of self, people must have a notion of how they have become and of where they are going (47). Psychotherapists Robert Coles in The Call of Stories and James Hillman in Healing Fiction concur. For in the telling, hearing, and reading of stories one connects with others not only on an interpersonal level, as one identifies with the teller-protagonist, but on an intrapersonal level, i.e. psychically, which Hillman says is “soul-making.” Such a feeling of “uniting” and “convincing” through myth suggests that the coming together for a common cause like environmentalism can only take place when there exists an embedded ethos within a guiding narrative that is recognized and internalized within a community, as the uprising of the Na’vi to defend Home Tree clearly demonstrates.
     Avatar thus epitomizes what Callicott has called an “evolutionary-ecological environmental ethic” that is complemented by indigenous ecoethics, which he says can provide “symbols, images, metaphors, analogies, stories, and myths to advance the process of articulating the new postmodern scientific worldview” (192). He admits, however, that “the articulation and dissemination of something so general, multifaceted, and fundamental as a new picture of nature, human nature, and the relationship between the two cannot be effected by a few able writers in each relevant scientific field” (192). This is because, he says, the “process of worldview poiêsis is gradual, cumulative, and ongoing” (192). In other words, like the ancient myths that once communicated moral behavior and values, the discourse of environmental ethics will be most effective when the symbolic, non-rational language of poetry is returned to philosophy, and mythology is restored to its archaic function of providing individuals with narratives that help them make sense of their lives, that enable indigenization to their environments. As Berry says, “It’s all a question of story.”

Avatar. Dir. James Cameron. Perf. Sam Worthington, Sigourney Weaver, Zoë Saldana. Twentieth Century Fox, 2009. DVD.

Berkes, Fikret. Sacred Ecology: Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Resource Management. Philadelphia: Taylor and Francis, 1999.

Berry, Thomas. The Dream of the Earth. San Francisco: Sierra Club, 1990.

Bloch, Jon P. “Alternative Spirituality and Environmentalism.” Review of Religious Research 40.1 (September 1998): 55-73.

Callicott, J. Baird. Earth’s Insights—A Multicultural Survey of Ecological Ethics from the Mediterranean Basin to the Australian Outback. Berkeley: U California P, 1994.

Coles, Robert. The Call of Stories—Teaching and the Moral Imagination. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1989.

Corbett, Lionel. 1996. The Religious Function of the Psyche. East Sussex, GB: Brunner-Routledge, 2001.

Euripides. Hippolytus. Trans. E. P. Coleridge. The Internet Classics Archive, n.d. Web. 17 Sept. 2010. <;

Harrison, Robert Pogue. Forests—The Shadow of Civilization. Chicago: U Chicago P, 1993.

Hillman, James. Healing Fiction. Putnam, CN: Spring, 1983.

Hughes, J. Donald. “Artemis Goddess of Conservation.” Forest & Conservation History 34.4 (Oct. 1990): 191-97.

Jung, C. G. “The Dual Mother.” The Collected Works of C. G. Jung. Trans. R. F. C. Hull. Vol. 5. Bollingen Series 20. Princeton: Princeton U P, 1990. 464-612.

——. “The Phenomenology of the Spirit in Fairytales.” The Collected Works of C. G. Jung. Trans. R. F. C. Hull. Vol. 9.1. Bollingen Series 20. Princeton: Princeton U P, 1959 (1980). 384-455.

Parry, Hugh. “Ovid’s Metamorphoses: Violence in a Pastoral Landscape.” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 95 (1964): 268-82.

Tarakeshwar, Nalini; Aaron B. Swank, Kenneth I. Pargament, and Annette Mahoney. “The Sanctification of Nature and Theological Conservatism: A Study of Opposing Religious Correlates of Environmentalism.” Review of Religious Research 42.4 (Jun. 2001): 387- 404.

Taylor, Bron. Dark Green Religion—Nature Spirituality and the Planetary Future. Berkeley: U California P, 2010.

Taylor, Bron, and Adrian Ivakhiv. “Opening Pandora’s Film.” Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature and Culture 4.4 (2010): 384-93.

Taylor, Charles. Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity. Cambridge, MA: Harvard U P, 1989.