
Children Sleep With Dragons
February 10, 2014There is nothing like holding a child, feeling its breath move through you and out into the world. It is the essence of hope, and what flows from that is peace – deep peace.
There is nothing like holding a child, feeling its breath move through you and out into the world. It is the essence of hope, and what flows from that is peace – deep peace.
Just two days ago I invoked a number of my deceased friends as part of a ritual performance I had the great honor of performing for the Foundation For Shamanic Studies Council gathering. It was a way of calling out to those who I felt suffered from the lack of any real method of accessing the worlds shamans know so well.
As a new dad I was not used to giving up so much of my inner space. I’d already given up the solitude of going to the bathroom alone, did I really need to give up the privacy that sleep offers?
We are there again, in that tiny bucket rushing down a river too fast to know where we are going or what is right in front of us.
We are a group that has taken a long time to ripen. Not only did we have to survived the wounding of being deeply inspired in a culture that often rejects or eats alive the inspired, we then had to figure out how to support ourselves and perhaps our families…
Tadg has always called him “Packa”, a little ones abbreviation of the more difficult “Grandpa”. The Packa tree’s ruby red fruit hung for months, darkening to a cherry-black red.
This is one of my favorite stories, but I don’t get to tell it often. Its not a favorite because its happy (its not), or it left me feeling liberated (it didn’t). When I tell it I feel like I have to root around in my insides, scrape it off my rib bones and piece it back together.
This morning I started dancing at dawn again, I haven’t done it since our little fosterling arrived almost nine months ago. As I spread my arms to the sky I immediately felt the company of Owl…
I need to start with the nightmare. I really don’t want to start there, I’d rather not go there at all. After all, its just a little boys dream …
It took a lot to create a world free of real magic, a world free of true wildness.
He comes to me when I’m in the midst of my most mundane parenting tasks. “How would Shaun have done this”, I ask myself. “How can I do this better”, is what I really want to know. Is it possible to cherish my children more?
My ancestors had a tradition, some think it came from the time of warring clans, of trading their children. Like many things the ancient Irish did, it sounds a bit barbaric to the modern ear.
Our fosterling squeals with glee as I lower her onto Bella’s chest. She immediately latches on to the thick black fur…
What do we harvest within ourselves too soon? What do we harvest that the birds, the wind, the unexpected weights of life will harvest better for us?
When Michael Harner began to read selections from his new book, “Cave and Cosmos” at the most recent Foundation for Shamanic Studies (FSS) Council meeting, I saw spirits surrounding him, supporting him as he read.
For a brief moment he must have escaped the suffering that was slowly eating his mind away. I wonder if he was being chased by the true knowledge of what it was to be human.
All dance is shapeshifting, that was the latest 4am baby-feeding gift.
I dreamed last night someone handed me a large coffee table book titled “The Young Dancer”. It was dark with red lettering, part painted, part smeared blood.
We modern people stumble to the waters edge by chance. We go there in dreams, on fortunate drug trips, when we slip between living and dying, when our hearts are open, our minds are quiet and the Earth reaches out to us.
My first steps across this bridge were marked by the unexpected, volcanic eruption of our septic system.
You joined the meeting about ten minutes in, slamming up against the plate glass again and again.
She is heavier each day, not from the food making her so beautifully stout, but her ability to trust. As we cherish, she arrives more.
I awoke from the dream knowing there will be an important crossing, but I will make it, albeit alone.
Agencies, institutions and laws do not heal people, that much is clear. At best they can provide opportunities for transformation, guide books, the names of mentors, directions to journey in. They are not in and of themselves, healing. That is the work of our fellow human beings, and the compassionate spirits who offer their wisdom and support.
This is the work –
to be here and more alive
than you were before.
To say yes to the tides when they pull you down.
My Mother never asked me for a favor like this before. “I need you to help me buy a kitchen sink faucet from a salesman….
The coyote tax liability we’ve built up is far greater than any national debt could ever be.
I was finally willing to let the veil fall, hearing again the world beyond the wooded ramparts of my home.
Children teach you to measure time in new pairs of shoes, outgrown jackets, and trips from one grade to the next.
We welcome this season of harvest
with gratitude, humility and hunger.
As the family cook, I receive great joy in working with fresh wholesome ingredients. Last night I served the best butternut squash I’ve ever tasted, the first one harvested from our garden this season.
I got to make a friend a Shillelagh this past week from an oak in our grove. A special gift, I empowered it using shamanic techniques, some taught by the Foundation for Shamanic Studies and some by Tom Cowan.
The five of us were crammed in the back of an old Lincoln heading over a cable bridge just past sunrise. The river was low from the long summer, the morning light made perfect diamonds flicker across its surface.
I’ve come to see my journeys as a way of moving within the spirit of the Earth more freely, I’ve even been thinking of the spirit world as her consciousness.
I’ve been going through some tremendous healing lately. Almost nightly as I dream, my heart is being mended and remade. Scabs I never thought would come off, turn to dust as I rise for morning chores. This has been going on for weeks now, I don’t want it to stop. Ever.
The suffering that our western culture has wrought in this world is due in part, I believe, to the oppression of our own innate ability to access the spiritual dimension of our world. We perpetuate that distortion of ourselves every day, by denying the presence of the spirits.
Real change does not feel soft. Its a bump – a big bump, that moves your life ten feet in a direction you never expected.
There is hunger for ceremony in our communities. The free, open-hearted, accessible and powerful movement of healing energy in a safe and sacred way.
“Olivia is still connected to my heart Papa,” Tadg said to me yesterday. Indeed, she’s still connected to all our hearts.
This is also the fifth day we’ve been fostering a toddler at our home. When we said yes to taking her in we didn’t know if it would be for two days, six months or the rest of our lives.
Etched on the backside of your skin,
termite designs written by twig fingers
on your tender bark.
When you live on land thats been abused and neglected, you get to know the scavengers first. Ants, yellow jackets, black widows, gophers and coyotes were the residents when we first arrived.
Still high from watching Dan Barber’s Ted talk: foie gras parable, I’d come up with a phrase to illuminate a theme in his talk on a new way to approach raising food: self-reinforcing magical-delight synergistic loop.
The more immersed in that lore I become, the less I’m able to destroy new villages of volunteer plants. Like Ferdinand the Bull I’d much rather crouch down and push my face into the small new worlds forming all around us.
The other night I surpassed that stage of flight. After a great dream spent soaring with friends, I was given a bare broomstick to practice levitation.
Posted below is an interview I did with my dear friend Ann Riley a few years back. She weaves shamanic practices, storytelling, and Celtic traditions masterfully.
“Papa, the Lorax talks to me.”
“Does he?”
“Yes he does, and he tells me things about the trees. Yeah, and I talk to the trees too.”
Fog’s powerful presence has existed on our Earth for billions of years. It has inspired innumerable mystics and likely served the spirits in ways we can’t even begin to understand
The secret, wind-filled family-time buoyed us all with helium laughter. Blustering fog off the incoming tide wiped the dust from the crevices in our faces. The dry winter was over.
I counted all the NO’s
in my life,
they didn’t add up to a single YES.
What unfolds from his vantage point could be described in operatic terms, if it weren’t so beautifully grounded in the clarity of his heart.
Later in the dream I became that young self, chased by my mischievous big sister on a sunny day, hysterical joy overwhelming me as I tried to keep up with my feet.
If someone sold pin-up’s of Amish farmers, our walls would probably be plastered with them.
I probably should have known that our marriage would be nothing like I expected, given that you dubbed me “stinky” when we first met.
Over the months the spirits I work with have continued to teach me more about how to trap gophers in a way that cares for their spirits.
I get to live in green. When I drive home, I pass farms and oak groves. I wake up to a forest floating on an emerald green understory that will become ignited at sunset when the orange tipped leaves of the native Pajaro manzanita turn into a million dancing candles.
You were born to journey, like some of us were born to cook. One of my favorite Pixar movies, “Ratatouille”, covers this topic well.
They never tell you, when you get married, that part of your job is to inspire your spouse. I thought mostly about what I was getting out of the deal when I said ‘I do,’ not so much about what new things I’d have to give, and what old things I’d have to get rid of.
I was shown that a community that has lost its imagination has lost its connection to life itself. Life innovates. Endlessly creative, it expresses diversity and change at every opportunity, it provides us with the creative power to transform our world.
The coyotes were celebrating their survival, calling out to all members of their pack that they’d discovered water, that they might all live one more season.
Sitting up in the dark last night I realized I’m no longer afraid of letting myself go into the dark. I think being a parent can give you that kind of fearlessness.
I used to think sustainability was all about what the land could support season after season without undue toxic amendment by us. As the space between the land and me diminishes, I’m learning that sustainability doesn’t mean a lot without including what I can sustain.
Santa was very happy to see me this year. As jovial as ever he instantly embraced me and welcomed me into his workshop.
Our land is never fallow, something is always ripening, one of the blessings of living in California. This morning before he left for school, Tadg and I harvested some deep red prickly pears that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
I came of age in cavernous halls, often dancing with adults and little or no parental supervision.
In one of my first journeys to the spirit of the land she was engaged in a continuous dance of giving and receiving.
I want every day to feel like this, maybe you have a time of season and place that feel that way to you. Ever since I was a child this is the time of year that makes me feel like I belong here and now, I feel loved.
At my Dad’s memorial service a little over a year ago, I learned that his father found his true calling as a high school shop teacher after having graduated with a degree in mathematics during the Great Depression.
There are places of stillness in our lives, vantage points from which we can take in the transformations occurring around us always. The horse trough out our back door is just such a place.
I’m struck by the feeling of newness+oldness this time of year brings. Life bursts forth while ancient energies abound. Like practicing shamanic techniques in a modern culture, old and new are intimately entwined.
The goal in such instances is always the same: to separate us from our own innate ability to discover the spiritual dimension of life, especially as it empowers us to survive and thrive as individuals and communities.
The shamanic journey awakens us to the spiritedness of all things, and to the special responsibility we have to creatures we kill for food.
This Autumn is different than any other, I felt it for certain this morning. Usually I don’t notice the spirits of the land speaking this loudly until late in October. The potency of this season catches me off guard time and time again.
I wanted to find a way back into the Earth, deeper into an authentic spirituality.
154 years ago today another tragic massacre occurred in southern Utah. A group of a 120 immigrants, making their way to a new life in California, were slaughtered by a group of Mormon militia men.
This summer’s dominating grayness finally crumbled before the dipping sun of late August. The mist dances away around ten and rushes in like a stampede of phantom mustangs around four.
Lunacy overcame me this morning at about 1am. Laying in bed I was intensely aware of pockets of decay in my own spirit, and the palpable full moon energy showering me with its blessings. This is the second full moon in as many months to offer me energy to help in late night transformative work.
Does the earth know debt? Can debt exist within the ever renewing cycles of life? We’ve been creating a deficit with the earth for decades, through our farming practices.
Yesterday I awoke with an image in my head of the Spirit of the Land I journey to. She was smiling, gesturing to the ground, a voice said – “Dance the harvest.”
Amazing foods have been hiding behind our industrial farming complex. Not just veggies like beets that have been packaged so far beyond their original form as to be unrecognizable as food.
I’ve come to believe traveling is unnatural in some way. If you really live somewhere, you leave a part of yourself behind when you go.The more invested in our homestead I become, the more it feels like I have to break myself up into pieces as I go. “I can’t take the compost part with me, defiantly not the chicken coop-cleaner part.”
The sweet earthy flavor of the beets felt the same as the energy of the dreams. Flavors and feelings mingled with the soothing breaths of sleeping wife, son, dog and cat. I swear those beets gave me the dreams.
Last night I found myself sitting up late again, grateful for the blanket of post-midnight darkness. It seems like every few nights I have new knot in myself to sort through.
The bien of the land requires the same attention and consideration. When it makes its presence known it is time to really show up and pay attention. As the years roll by I expect to be absorbed more and more into that presence.
I filled my days
with slow chores,
clay covered toes,
and the scent of your absence
on everything.
Every step holds the potential for a new beginning, that’s one of the things dance taught me. If you’re really dancing, you’re on an edge that can lead you in any direction.
It was one of those rare conversations our relationship gives us, like a secret suprise banquet, every couple of years. We both awoke well after midnight and began to talk about what it really means to slow down. Our son slept heavily between us, never waking.
I was told you should do the 1 legged stork dance.” That’s what the spirits told my friend Ann when she journeyed about my healing.
The lesson lately has been that just by spending time with my spirit, sitting and becoming aware of its stuck places, I can create healing. Listen, breathe, pay attention.
Singing is the best part. I tone whatever feels right, let words come if they will. My foot responds – flooding with warmth, but not blood.
They’re called wake-up calls. When nothing else will bump us out of the groove we’re stuck in, life delivers something that will. In my case a newly sharpened chainsaw served as the messenger.
These stories harken back to a time when the boundaries between people and other creatures were woven …
The Celts were able to hear the voice of the Seals only a few centuries ago because the spirit world was not so far from their daily lives.
I have handled more frogs and toads in the last few weeks than I have seen on our land since we moved here. Most were bloatish and leathery, as big as a softballs and stuffed with pomposity.
I have dreamed of you more in the last year than I’ve ever dreamed of you before. Always crystal clear, sometimes laughing, sometimes imparting mysterious messages, a few times crying harder than I knew you could cry.
When we don’t dream, waking life becomes a dream. Conn’s day-dream was a dark one of deprivation, it permeated his kingdom and created suffering for all his people and the land itself.
I remembered the depths of sorrow in me,
are less than
a drop of your water.
The final waves of the Japanese Tsunami of 2011 arrived in Monterey in the form of a three foot swell. The Earths vibration traveled over 5,000 miles before it touched our shore, swamped boat harbors and drove some of us to higher ground.
I have met Selkie in all the worlds, excepting this one. I believe they have well traveled paths to cross over to wherever they need to go.
I spent my first Fathers Day without you
with my son at my side,
wondering where you were.