Upon the Occasion of My Ordination

I have not blogged in more than a month, mostly because I have been immersed in some intense learning.  I served as a staff apprentice for three weeks of training in the Shamanic Initiatory Process at Venus Rising in Whittier, NC.  Then I worked the 4-day Wise Wolf Men’s Council and offered a heart centered and moving ceremony with an amazing group of conscious men. 

I have been in the center of the tornado that is my own transformation while Star Raven and I plan for the upcoming Breathe America – Breathe Asheville event on May 14^th. There is so much up for me, that it is difficult to know what to share or where to begin.  I also know that we are all in tumultuous times; the planets are kicking our collective butt, and we are being fully confronted about how we choose to show up on the planet as we move either enthusiastically or kicking and screaming into the next phase of our Earthly existence.

In light of that fact, I will share that I was given the opportunity to complete the training and initiations required for me to receive my ordination this month as a Shamanic Minister.  I want to present here my “statement of intention” which I offered when I received my license to marry, bury, and breathe:

My father was a Baptist minister to a small country church in rural southern Indiana.  When he died young, I stepped up to receive the mantle of sacred service to others.  I told everyone I was going to be a minister when I grew up.

But by the time I was ready to go to college, I was already having second thoughts.   When I decided to study literature and composition instead of theology, I reasoned that we are all called to minister to each other whatever profession we might choose.  I had also become skeptical about the role and function of organized religion, and wondered if I might have an even greater impact on the planet as a writer or a teacher.

When I morphed into an addictions counselor in my twenties, I thought I had landed in my life’s purpose.  To me, this was ministry:  giving myself to the service of the poor and the broken; all the while being largely unaware of my own brokenness.  It is not clear to me whether I willingly walked away from that path or whether I was tossed out on my ear.  In retrospect, I see that my contributions to that endeavor were summarily rejected because of my nonconventional ideas and methods.  I was too sensitive and hindered by a wild imagination.  So I got to my feet, dusted myself off, and quietly walked away.

So it is interesting how, on this trip around the spiral, I reclaim the wounded counselor.  I welcome back that lost part of myself, and I remember why I took that path in the first place.  I realize that I am finally ready to serve, because I am taking the necessary steps to allow myself to be served.  It really is all about me; because I might truly be able to reflect something vital and important to you if I have first attended to the yearning of my soul.

My intention is to continue down my own path of soul recovery; my own path of self love and self healing; my own path of discovery and re-membering.  It is my intention to continue reclaiming all my integral missing parts, and through my own process and my own struggle to possibly be a light to others.  It is my intention to allow the Divine to build a temple, something holy, at the site of each of these re-memberings; to build something surprising and currently unimagined.

When we say the Lakota benediction – Mitakuye Oyasin, we bring in all our relations, and we acknowledge that we are related to the trees and the rocks, to the river and the sky, to the red soil of Sedona and the muddy stream of North Carolina.  We are related to the Earth and everything that crawls here, or runs or gallops or flies over its green and blue crust.
  

We face all of existence, past present and future, and we know, when we look at the stars, we are looking at our source and our destiny, and sometimes we cry for home.  I long to be reunited with my divine mother and with my divine father.  And I am grateful to all my relations who are my teachers; all my relations who radiate out from this place in concentric circles, because you have given me a taste of Heaven.

BORN AGAIN!

I am in the heart of my third round of breathwork and shamanic minister training, and while these events have been the inspiration for much of my writing, I have not until today blogged from the workshop. I am sitting on the deck outside the octagonal meditation lodge. The day is overcast by a veil of clouds but still quite light. I am facing due south according to the adjoining medicine wheel, and the breath of spirit is blowing into my eyes with some force.

I journeyed this morning and experienced my first rebirthing. I have not been the most active traveler on the breathwork floor. On my first journey I laughed and cried; I flew and I swam in the ocean; I danced around the tribal drum and I sang out loud. Afterward my partner told me I barely moved and though she saw my mouth move, there were no audible sounds. I have stayed within myself, somewhat shy even when I have run along the shamanic path.

The habit of quietness is built in; it is hard-wired. And it has served me to sit back and observe, to reflect and to analyze. I have mentioned before that when I first moved to Sedona I sat in the sacred circles for three months before I spoke. My friends refer to that time as “the good old days”. I need new friends.

I have become progressively more active in my breathwork journeys and that coincides with a parallel opening and more active movement into the outer world. As within, so without. As above, so below. This morning, in my breathwork journey, I sat up for the first time and rocked to the rhythm of the energetic music.

My co-journeyer, Karen, rubbed my back and I leaned forward into an unintentional child pose and felt like I was sinking into the floor. She instinctively moved to put pressure on my shoulders and I started pushing. I did not push too hard at first because the sensation of rocking and the resistance and the darkness was pleasant and comforting.

I continued to push and my space became constricted as I began to struggle to be born. Karen held me between her legs as Star Wolf encouraged me to push and to fight for life. When she invited me to vocalize, I found myself yelling so forcefully that later my throat felt raw. Star Wolf let me take her hand and urged me to claw and to kick my way out. Karen held me tightly like she was trying to keep me in the womb. When I would have quit the struggle all together, I was commanded to kick myself free, and I did.

When I was out, I collapsed exhausted into the arms of these two amazing and beautiful women. And they held me like I cannot remember ever being held by my genetic mother. Star Wolf whispered in my ear that I was welcomed, that I was wanted; that I was loved very much, and I cried like a baby. (Because that’s exactly what I was.)

These women held me for the longest time and I remember thinking that they should just let me go and attend to someone who needed them more. At one point I had a twinge of anxiety for being cared for so closely and for so long.

I was not unwanted by my own mother, and I was not unloved. She did the best she could. It is significant though that I perceive that I was neglected as a child. My father died when I was quite young and my mother seemed, to me, understandably preoccupied with her daily pursuits and with my sisters.

It doesn’t matter if I imagined or constructed this scenario because it was real to me. And it is the source of my deepest wounding. It is the wounding that created deep-seated and unconscious patterns in my tissues that have been repeatedly triggered and activated ever since. These patterns have shown themselves most frequently in my intimate relationships. And it is only in exposing them to the light of day and noticing them when they arise that they do not continue to cripple me and keep me short of my happiness.

We are all wounded. And we all continue to be buffeted by unseen forces that seem to be beyond our control. I am thankful for the breathwork and other experiences which have brought my shadow into the light and transformed much of my unconscious stuff into consciousness.

Please don’t misunderstand – I’m not done yet. And I’m grateful to all the others who have come into my awareness and held me when I was raw and when I was in pain; all these beautiful souls who have hugged so much of my resistance out of me.

Look at the website for Venus Rising to learn more about Shamanic BreathWork and to begin your own Shamanic Journey.  http://shamanicbreathwork.org/

2nd Annual Birthday Blog

I can’t believe it’s been a year since I signed off in these pages with the words, “Happy birthday to me”. On that day I was blessed to take part in the 8:00AM gratitude circle at Unity of Sedona before I went into my first writing retreat.

I remember telling the group that I would hold them in my heart as I went into this training. Then I remember noticing the sacred circle expand as it came to include my fellow writers. Today that circle has grown even larger to include my new friends in Asheville, my colleagues at the Isis Cove community, and my fellow journeyers who are in the breathwork training with me through Venus Rising.

If I recount all the experiences of the last year; all the lessons learned; all the pleasure; all the joy; all the laughter and the tears – it sounds like a lifetime. But it feels like a moment. I believe I could step through an opening in the veil right now and be back in that sacred circle; in the loving arms of my soul family.

There are so many wonderful things that have come to me since then, that at the time, I could not have imagined. I want to say that they came to me because I opened myself and allowed the unexpected to be revealed. So it is timely that today at Jubilee, Pastor Howard reflected on the importance of embracing the Great Mystery which is part and parcel of walking with the Divine.

Linda Star Wolf teaches that when I set my intention it should always be for “this or something better”.  With the understanding that if I am truly open and allowing, the Universe is bound to have a better imagination than I do, and I should count on receiving something greater than my dreams.  Be careful what you manifest.  Always allow for something better.

As I write this, I am conscious of a profound energetic presence that is preparing to propel each of us into our next unexpected imagining. Outside my window the wind is rising and the bare branches are flailing in an oncoming gale. Earlier we had a spring snow storm, and now at sunset it is bitter cold.

I have always been fascinated by weather in all its incarnations, especially in its extremes. This is a storm, and it tells me something new is in the wind; something wonderful and unexpected; something greater than I could imagine if I can only surrender to the Mystery and allow it to be revealed.

So in the coming weeks I will return to the Sanctuary of Sedona and allow for the next new imagining to take shape in my journeying. I will put myself back on my wheels and roll them into Isis Cove for a time, with the expectation of being surprised by the Mysteries. I will finally rest in the arms of my Anam Cara with the anticipation of being utterly startled by God.

UNBATHED AND UNSHAVEN; SOAKED TO THE BONE

I am grateful for the little synchronicities that compile to write the text of our days. My fellow tenor in the Jubilee choir, David, turned me on today to a beautiful essay about the Platte River which sparked a remembrance of my own time on that river which is said to be “an inch deep and a mile wide”.

My journey down the Platte River was in the 1980’s when I was living in Lincoln, Nebraska and my friend, Jim, suggested we take a canoe trip from the west back toward the city of Grand Island on the Platte, over our spring break. In the spring, the shallow river has more flow and more depth and it is a prime stopover for thousands of Sandhill Cranes which are migrating from southern climes back to their nesting grounds in the northern states and Canada.

As we started our passage we had lots of sunshine. The greatest challenge was keeping to the deep channel that would float the canoe. We both kept an alert eye for those elusive stretches that would shift from one shore to the other, then back to the middle. Only occasionally did we hit sand and gravel, at which point we would paddle back a few feet and then try another tack. We were light and happy.

Toward sunset each day we would push onto a high bank, pitch our two-man backpack tent and start a small fire for cooking our dinner. During the day we had seen hundreds and thousands of Sandhill Cranes circling above us in gigantic gray brown beehives. At the end of the day every sky-born crane would circle down, spreading its expanse of wings like a parachute as it set its two feet onto a sandbar.

Every little sandbar on the river became alive with the rustle of feathers and subdued squawking, until the ground was no longer visible. Jim and I would sit in jaw-dropping silence as we snapped photos of birds against a brilliant Nebraska sunset.

On the final day of our journey we set off late because the sun had not risen to wake us. The morning was heavily overcast and gray. We were jacketed against the chill air and we could feel the moisture in the air long before it began to snow.

It started with just a few flakes, and their appearance spurred us to paddle a little faster. Our progress was frustrated by our reduced visibility, so we frequently headed into a dead-end channel and had to back up more often. The flurries became a full-fledged Nebraska blizzard and we strained our eyes and our arm muscles to find our way down the river toward the city of Grand Island.

At one point, overwhelmed with mental exhaustion and physical fatigue; after we had run onto yet another sandbar, I sat in the prow of the canoe, the paddle across my knees. I was blanketed in the unrelenting whiteout, just staring blankly into the gray murky water. Jim was impatient behind me. Half laughing, he prodded, “What are you doing?”

I answered with force, “I don’t know!” I had given up, momentarily. In the middle of the Platte River, being pounded by a spring blizzard which was roaring across the high plains of Nebraska . . . I surrendered . . . I surrendered.

My friend did not push me. He waited for me to return to myself. I slowly lifted my paddle, pushed the end of it down into the water against the gravel bed, and the two of us wordlessly shoved ourselves free of the ground and back into the flow back toward the world of men.

When we saw the ponderous cement bridge over the river, we knew we had reached the outskirts of Grand Island. And unable to go any further we stepped up to the street level into a world which had become strange to us. We were soaked to the skin. We wore layers of clothing, topped with our plastic rain ponchos. We had several days of unshaven facial hair and we had not bathed since we started the trip. We each held aloft a canoe paddle in an attempt to engender pity in some kind-hearted passerby.

We knew we were a sight and we also knew it was a long-shot, getting somebody to stop and then to go out of their way to drive us to our car. But it was our best plan. Now, here’s the part of the story that feels like a miracle; that in retrospect feels like it might be connected to that moment of surrender in the thick of the blizzard, in the middle of the river, when all seemed lost.

A car stopped . . . several yards past us . . . onto the shoulder of the highway. When we ran down the stopped car and peered into the rolled down window we were amazed to see the faces of our co-worker Joe, and his wife. They were familiar faces – a port in the storm. They had driven to Grand Island to catch a glimpse of the famous Sandhill Crane migration, and had been as surprised as we were to be caught in a blizzard. Of course, they were also surprised to be driving down the highway and catching a glimpse of two sorry souls standing on the edge of the road holding canoe paddles that looked vaguely familiar.

After unloading Jim and the canoe, I went home and had the best long hot shower I have ever had. Today I can still remember how good it felt to be warm and clean. I can still remember how good it felt to sit on my couch with my muscles unclenched.

So I celebrate the cold that shows me how to appreciate the warmth. I celebrate the wet and the risk and the discomfort that makes me appreciate being dry, and safe, and at ease. And I celebrate the moments of despair that leave us no other choice but to give up, to surrender, for these moments open the portals to our deliverance.

Keep Your Head in the Heavens and Your Ass on the Ground

Today, Asheville, North Carolina is giving me a big wet kiss in the form of a beautifully warm day; short sleeves and sunshine after the bitter cold and snow. But it is a deep deception; it is a lover who lies. Because it is not spring; it is a momentary respite in the depth of this winter, to keep us from slashing our wrists. I welcome and I embrace the lie.

Accepting the fickle nature of the indifferent weather seems to mirror a shift in my own nature toward a deeper appreciation of the dance between spirit and matter. I was trained, like you, at an early age to separate my spiritual life from life in this body.

The extreme embodiment of this pattern allows you to function however you will day to day, spreading unconsciousness and deceit without regard to the life of your spirit. In this paradigm your spiritual aspect may be attended to only on Sundays, enduring the sermon or confessing in the booth.

I was forced to face this conflict early in my young adulthood when I had the rare privilege of studying with Native American teachers. They would look me squarely in the eye and tell me that in my culture, what we would call “religion” they would call “a way of life”. They did not separate their spiritual life from the rest of their living, and they found it laughable that anyone would try.

I came to understand that everybody has a religion, even the atheist. Your religion is what you do, day in and day out. Your every thought, your every word, your every step is a prayer. And we are always praying.

Now those of us who have immersed ourselves in the spiritual often find that we have become disconnected from our life in this body. Sometimes it seems our practice takes us out of our bodies to journey to the stars and we have lost our connection to the earth.

I am remembering that I do face all of existence when I look at the stars, and the heavens seem to represent my origin and my destiny. But I cannot forget that I am inextricably connected to the earth and this human interlude. It is important. We have chosen this life for a reason, not the least of which is to live completely and to fully appreciate this gift.

We are not just toiling in the illusion until we are called home for supper. We are not sitting down and waiting to die.

Our planet is undergoing a profound shift in awareness. It is not even enough to wake up to the reality of our spiritual nature; we must also wake up to our soul’s purpose in this body. Many of us have chosen a rigorous curriculum in the Earth School and we are working out what it means to be in a body.

So today I enliven my senses. I feel the sunshine on my face. I take the hands of my fellow journeyers, and I appreciate the touch of another. I breathe in the fragrance of the Carolina pine and the piles of decaying leaves. I enjoy the lilting clouds and I bless the earth beneath my feet. It is good to be alive.

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CEREMONY

As we merge bravely into the Via Creativa I know that we are all being re-birthed to one degree or another and it feels right to mark this passage with sacred ceremony. 

This morning I sat outside and the chill air was augmented by the blessed sunlight. I smoked a wonderful Cuban style cigar from Miami, gifted to me this Christmas by a treasured friend.  My occasional enjoyment of a good cigar has been viewed by some of my loved ones as just one more bad habit. They are probably right. But it has become a ceremony for me and I’m not ready to give it up.

I gave up cigarettes more than two decades ago, and similarly they held a mystique for me because I had shared the experience of smoking with my brothers after we emerged from the sweat lodge, steam rising off our naked bodies into the chill air on a sacred hill near Wounded Knee in South Dakota.

This ceremony began in Mexico, last July, when I pulled my vintage Airstream down to the Sea of Cortez to camp on the beach with a companion. It was the off-season which means it was hotter than hell and we had no competition for selecting the best campsite.

In the mornings we would drive to the harbor and have fish tacos and beer for breakfast. In the evenings we would nestle into the warm moist air of the evening and split a bottle of good red wine and share one of those Cuban cigars we had picked up from the friendly young man in the market who said he could sell us something stronger to smoke if we so desired.

We had looked at each other with big grins, feeling carefree and dangerous, but deciding the cigars and the wine were quite enough for these two aging pilgrims. We had found some comfort in each other; some joy in re-entering our youth and finding another wounded one across the table; someone who knew your mind without your needing to speak; someone who would drink that bottle of wine with you and pass the cigar back and forth until it was down to a finger scorching nub. We talked deep into the night.

When it was time to leave, we headed back to the Arizona border where a guard yelled at me for stopping on the wrong line, confounding his electronic sensing devices. But he didn’t even want to take a peek into the little trailer which could have hidden any number of sins, but in reality hid only two small wooden boxes of contraband Cuban cigars.

Back home we had several more evenings on the patio passing one of those cigars back and forth. When the summer was gone, so were the cigars, and so was the short-lived pairing of twin flames.

Then on Christmas this year she gave me the humidor and a package of good cigars. And now, far from the southwestern desert, I sit alone in the chill of a Carolina winter and send my smoke into the receptive ether. I observe and I honor the ceremony of wafting my prayer into the heavens with the help of a good cigar.

We have gone deep this time and now we are emerging from our murky and moist method; knowing that this time represents our birthing so we are not all scrubbed and shiny yet. We still carry the evidence of our process: some blood and some mucus.

And we quite possibly have not extracted ourselves completely from that tight opening. But every step along the way is a holy one, so we will bless the journey as well as the destination. And I will have one more puff on my cigar as I pull my last captive foot through the sacred opening.

IMAGINE, THEN RE-IMAGINE!

The morning after Christmas I sat in the Newark, New Jersey airport; weather threatening; my flight to Asheville delayed one hour. I have been on a wild ride the last two weeks that began with an earth-shaking training event in Sedona with the Venus Rising Institute.

In my breath-work journeys this time I saw dogs. I’ve not had dogs before. I had a memory of my mixed-breed cow-dog, Roxanne, who died recently. And I saw myself as “The Fool” from the traditional Tarot ambling down a clear trail with a fluffy white dog at my heels.

When I described my journey, I said I did not know if I was, if I am the Fool or the dog. At one point the little fluffy white dog morphed into a dominant German Shepherd who shifted from following to leading the traveler. At that point, I was confident that I was that solid and dependable force that would lead others to giving form to their own dreams; that would lead others away from scrambling purposelessly on the wheel.

At another time there were three coyotes (wild dogs) outside the building where we were sitting with our teachers. And on my trip from Phoenix I was seeing dogs everywhere. Maybe it is common for folks to travel with their pets over the Holidays, but I’ve never noticed so much canine activity before.

I am happy to have the spirit of the dog before me at this time. The dog is faithful and loyal, and I have been called on to be a protector these past few weeks.

But it is critical for me to remember that I may be true to others while I am faithful to my own truth. The dog demonstrates unconditional love but I also see the critical importance of setting boundaries and not giving up my integrity. In this way I may grow into the teacher that so many others see me to be.

I am breaking free of the conventional ways of seeing, doing and being. It is time to think outside of our boxes. Dan Bern sings that some vegetables are bred to be able to fit more easily into boxes – and some people come out square so they can fit in boxes.

Whatever vestiges of the old ways, the former ways that are pulling on you still, you can wriggle from those clinging vines and propel yourself into an existence that only you could imagine. Imagine, then re-imagine. 

I see a creeping tiredness in my friends, family and associates. We are tired of doing the same things and getting similar unsatisfying results. We are tired of being tied to expectations and mores that keep us short of our hopes and our dreams. We want to finally experience our highest imagining. Imagine, then re-imagine.

I see a deep dissatisfaction with work that is unfulfilling and which keeps us small. I will not be small anymore. We will not any of us be small anymore. We are born for greatness, and we will not settle for smallness.

As we move into this new time, the Via Creativa, I urge you to pay attention to the world around you. You can expect new insight at this time, but do not follow me. Follow your own guidance away from the guilt and shame and tiredness that holds you to the old forms.

The leader you have been waiting for is rising in your own awareness; follow him; follow her. Imagine, then re-imagine.


ANNOUNCEMENT:    Buy the first printing of “The Tower Card” at the discounted rate of $10 per book plus shipping.   Just click on the image of the book above to use either your credit card or paypal account.

It’s Christmas in the Tower!

I am so full of joy to be releasing my novel, The Tower Card, just in time for Christmas. I am grateful to the board at Unity of Sedona for giving me the time and space to sign and make the books available for sale.

Christmas in the Tower

Book Signing and Mini-Workshop

Sunday, Dec. 19, 1:00 – 2:00PM

Unity of Sedona

65 Deer Trail Drive

Sedona, Arizona

As I was talking to Brenda about scheduling the event, It occurred to me that it might be a stretch for most folks to make a connection between the Tower Card, which carries dark symbols of death and destruction, and Christmas, which is all about light and good will toward all.

But it came to me quite clearly that the Christmas story is more about the darkness than the light. Indeed the Holy day is set in the depth of the “bleak mid-winter” to make the coming of the Christ more profound and dramatic.

There is a cloud of dreariness over Mary and Joseph as they "slouch towards Bethlehem" to be counted, so they may then pay oppressive taxes to a government that holds their country captive. This is on top of the discovery that Joseph’s intended is suddenly pregnant and by a most unlikely rival. She is knocked-up by God.

Can you imagine how that conversation went down? I hear Joseph asking, “You’re what? And by whom?” The story tells us that Mary is immediately dumped, and it is only through divine intervention that Joseph is compelled to remain by her side.

Then, in Bethlehem they don’t have a reservation at the Hyatt. They are reduced to camping out in the stables and the birth is witnessed by sheep and cows and no-doubt smelly shepherds, fresh from the hillsides.

It is in the midst of this darkness that the light of Christ is revealed. And the darkness is essential to the story because of the contrast it provides. In fact the light of the Christ cannot be seen without the contrasting darkness. And the darkness must be honored and appreciated for what and how it serves.

So Christmas in the tower is about appreciating the times that try us and challenge us and empty us out. Without the yin-time we would not be able to be subsequently filled up. So we give thanks for the bleak mid-winter and the times that carve us deep with sorrow, because they create a reservoir that may then be filled with abundance and joy.

PS - The novel will be available for purchase on and around the 19th of December for $12.95 plus $3.00 for postage.  Just click on the book.
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THE SPACE BETWEEN THE THUNDER

Now, in the light of day after the land has been blessed by the fullness of the moon, the sky is full of promise. Now, comes the evidence that the act of emptying our selves has made room for fullness and abundance.

We do not need to wait for the season to change; we choose the cycle of emptying out and filling up, and we choose the velocity of the process. The planets are moving faster and the Earth’s rotation is accelerating so I choose a personal evolution that matches.

We are in haste, but still we honor the season of the Via Negativa. We do not forget in our joy that we are moving in the Yin time, the sacred feminine, fluid and soft. A piece of this honoring involves the act of noticing. My situation calls for me to notice small things – the little things that speak to our hearts and souls, that at other times we may not acknowledge.

Recently, I went out onto my rocking porch in the morning to have a little cigar and to connect with Oneness. On this day I was sending up my prayers with the smoke for a loved one who has taken on a rigorous curriculum.

On the railing there was a lady bug. I've been seeing the red ones but this one was yellow, which asked me to face the east. I couldn’t see what it was pointing me toward; the sky was dark and cloudy and there were no sounds except for a dog in the distance and the caw of a crow.

All I could see was a vast and desolate emptiness but I continued. I didn’t know where the sun should be because of the dark clouds, and then there was a tiny spot of light against the dark canopy. The spot grew to show the whole circumference of the sun; it did not light up the earth, but it let me know it was there; it is always there behind the clouds.

Suddenly the trees, mostly bare branches, became alive with the movement and sound of tiny songbirds (one of my spirit animals). The land that had been so silent and bare was unexpectedly alive and vibrant – in spite of the darkness. I knew my friend would be alright and even thrive.

I am learning to pay attention and the Universe is speaking to me; sometimes quite softly and sometimes with thunder. The winter is literally the time between the thunder, so it is time to pay attention to the little things. God and Goddess are always speaking to us and they say, “We are always here . . . behind the clouds.”

I wish you all a time of plenty at Thanksgiving. Take the hands of your family and loved ones around the table and notice the abundance of small things coming to fill up all your empty spaces.

John Berry Deakyne in Asheville, NC.

I GIVE UP! I QUIT! YOU WIN! I SURRENDER!

My visit to Isis Cove last week, home of the Venus Rising Institute for Shamanic Healing Arts, was extremely transformative. It was great just to be on the land, to visit the sacred sites, tour the facilities, and spend time with my soul-brother Brad.

When I sat down to dinner with Brad and Star Wolf I did not know what I was in for. It came up in conversation some mention of the Tower Card from the Tarot, and Star Wolf remembered that I had drawn the Tower at the onset of my first breath-work session with her several months ago.

I remarked that it felt like I was still in a “Tower” cycle of death and rebirth, and that it was becoming tiring. She looked straight into my soul and said I had been in the fire for a good long time, and if I was going to fully embrace my soul’s purpose I would first need to surrender. I was not surprised; I knew she was right, but I did not exactly know what I needed to release or what might receive me.

Complete and utter surrender, which is a touchstone of every major religion, means you allow to come to you whatever will come, without any management or willing on your part.

It became apparent to me on my drive home that night exactly what I had to surrender. It was my attachment to another, to circumstances, and to desired outcomes. I needed to surrender my attachment to my desires. So, the previous week that opened for me the Via Negativa ushered me now into my literal “dark night of the soul”.

I lay on the bed in my Airstream, because the house still smelled like wet dog, and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up. I tried to sleep, but that is not part of the process. I came to learn in the light of day what the night had told me. It was time again to set my desires on the fiery altar and hope for abundant ashes.

Then I stepped into Jubilee services on Sunday and the theme was: “letting go”. I laughed out loud.

I need to frame this by explaining that in the last year I have learned to cry. It has been part of my own breaking and opening and it has been extremely cathartic and beneficial. So during my “dark night of the soul” and the following day I had tried to gather up the tears I knew would greatly assist my surrender, but all I had was kind of a dull empty feeling, and dry eyes.

Then at the beginning of the Sunday service, when they call in the directions, the dam broke. It wasn’t blubbering – it was just little man tears that I could dab with my fingers.

Then there was a song about letting go and I closed my eyes and saw my beautiful beloved floating away from me on Oak Creek dressed in a burial gown.

All the mucus in my head became quite liquid and my hands could not soak up all the moisture. Just as I had deposited a copious amount of mucus from my upper lip to my hand, Pastor Howard said, “Take the hand of the persons next to you.” I thought, “God has a sense of humor.” I wiped my hand on my pants while the lady next to me looked on quizzically, with hand outstretched.

Keep in mind – I don’t know these people. Even when I don’t open my mouth I think they can tell I’m a Yankee. I’m new here, and I want people to like me. Oh well.

Even though I have been in this position before, this is a big one.  And whatever follows will be big.  I don't know what it is, and accepting the "not knowing" is key. 

Sometimes it seems that I won't take the big steps unless my ass is kicked.  The lesson is:  move before you get pushed; take a running start and jump naked from the tower window before the lord of the manor flings you from the parapet.  It's time to let go; it will be okay.

By the way, I plan to wring the last drop out of the Via Negativa before the season changes on the Winter's Solstice, even if some people think I'm morose.

THAT'S WHAT THE LONELY IS FOR

In Asheville we received a cold front that brought freezing rain and snow flurries. The downy flakes were beautiful against the backdrop of still turning leaves, scarlet red oak and the last orange and yellow of the maples. And all I can say is, “Holy shit I’m freezing my ass off.”

This new moon has spun me into a bout of dark moodiness. Grey clouds are hugging the ground and from the back door of my new townhouse I can see mist rising out of the distant valley like smoke. The weather calls for introspection and I have dropped my remembrance of the vibrant summer like a stone into a very deep well.

And for my first trip to church in Asheville the theme for the service was “The Via Negativa”. Are you kidding me! It’s all about the Yin aspect of the Yin/Yang; you know, those happily spooning opposites representing the eternal in and out, up and down, light and dark.

Pastor Howard calls us to go inward; to pay attention to our inner life. No more sun and summer; now we are of the moon and winter. The Yin is feminine, fluid, and soft – sometimes dark and cold. And if we did not have the emptiness of the Yin we could not experience it being filled up.

There’s a song in my memory by David Wilcox called “That’s what the lonely is for.” He suggests that we have empty rooms on purpose that call us to begin their filling. Pastor Howard rejoins with, “Without the doo, you ain’t got no Whoop-de-doo.” This guy cracks me up. I’ll be back.

The Via Negativa comes originally from Thomas Aquinas but is brilliantly re-imagined by Matthew Fox (not the “Lost” one).  He explains that it is often at our lowest points, in the darkness and the silence, that God speaks to us most profoundly.

So I am primed for profundity. I miss my friends, and I received news this week that one of my best friends has breast cancer. The prognosis is good, but I am devastated to be unavailable to her.  I can send her words of love and encouragement; I can float my prayers to heaven on angel’s wings; I can project love and light; but what I really want is to hold her in my arms.

And my friend is the inspiration for this blog. She was the first to recognize the call to go inward; to be quiet; to become soft and fluid in opening to the learning. My feelings of loneliness are miniscule in comparison, and she becomes my teacher once again.

So, today I embrace the Way of Emptiness and Longing. And I will be quiet and wait for guidance. The weather forecast promises warmer days ahead, and I will take this cold-spell as early preparation for the long winter yet to come.  Adyashanti says that in this life “struggle is not optional, but suffering is.”

So we move into the cave because we are called to do so; but we will not loiter here; we will keep moving and step through the darkness into the promised light of a new day.

At the end of the road, in Asheville, North Carolina.

TOTEMS & RECLAIMING THE LOST CHILD

I am still in Portales, New Mexico, soaking up the hospitality of my friends, Penny and Carol. I am very much at home here because their home is imbued with loving energy. They brought me here for the Holidays on the first Christmas after my divorce when I was feeling unloved and unlovable. And they have participated in my subsequent healing.

I have spent every Christmas since then in their welcoming embrace. And it is interesting to be here now without the need for healing. Today I feel like a whole person and while I enjoy their food, and their hospitality, and their Wi-Fi; this time it feels like I contribute as much as I take.

They have also seen my transformation, in snapshots, once or twice a year, and it is humbling to see myself through their eyes. Today I am thinner (if not thin), tanned and sporting longer hair and a measure of self-assurance. My gifts of insight, and Shamanism, and breath-work have been heartily received and appreciated.

Let me say a word about the length of my hair. It feels good and it came to me when I embarked upon my summer of joy that I should “let my free flag fly”. I am connecting myself back in time, to the 1970’s, when I was in my twenties. My hair was long and the world was open to me; anything was possible. It was only after that point in time that I came to limit myself and shut down and shut out many of my own personal gifts.

Just lately, I am hearing from others that there is a point in each of our lives when we have have felt free, and powerful, and unlimited. A friend talked to me about remembering the time before she entered junior-high and how it felt to be completely secure and fearless, before learning about the roles she would be required to play; before the world imposed its ideas about separation from each other and the whole of creation.

Since time is merely a man-made construction, that other personae is still alive somewhere living life to its fullest, full of joy and freedom and creative energy. If we each have this suppressed part, I think today you and I can reclaim that lost piece and use it to give us new life.

So, just a short while ago I was going through some boxes when I chanced upon a photo of myself when I graduated from Indiana University.  It was 1976 and I wore the assurance and hopefulness of youth.  I am carrying that photo with me on this journey and it has (to me) an uncanny resemblance to the Osho card that keeps coming up for me entitled: The Rebel. 

The photo and the card are my traveling companions; we commune with each other and I am reminded of the things I have lost and now re-found.  These two items are totems, sacred objects that witness my progress along with some other objects:

There’s the beautiful piece of raw turquoise from my friend and teacher, Karl; a chunk of white quartz given me three decades ago by my friend, Cheryl; the potted grapevine from my house in Healdsburg; a rock from Dean and Kelly’s “sanctuary”; the tie-dyed sarong from this summer’s mini-Q; the abalone shell from my teacher, Lloyd; the pipe, blessed in the lodge of Dawson No Horse; a stalk of living bamboo and the beautiful painting of "awakening", both gifted me by Meredith.

Sitting in the Airstream, I am surrounded by totems and gifts of the heart. I am truly blessed, and living in grace; preparing to launch myself into the expectant arms of another new moon; another re-imagining.