shaman

This is dedicated to my rebels. You know who you are. xox

“You can just stop with the damn smoke blowing thing!”
Me ~ to my Shaman.

I once had a shaman. I highly recommend it. 

Mine appeared out of nowhere, like a questionable smell, and actually moved in with me back in the winter of 1993.
With his bald head, Australian accent, and wild, Rasputian eyes, I call him my “pocket shaman” since he was barely shoulder height — and for just shy of a year he literally went everywhere with me. 

If I want to sleep at night I don’t think about that time of my life. The memories remain dark, murky, and mysterious. Definitely NOT a place that’s safe to go without a weapon…or a guide…or as fate would have it—a shaman. 

My friend Mel posted this “Promise of a Shaman” on her Facebook page the other day. I wish I knew who wrote it because I can tell they’ve lived it. Their words bringing every detail of our little dance alllll back to me…

The rituals. 
My fear.
His refusal to meet me in my fear.
My rage at that.
His indifference to my rage.
The energy work that I initially scoffed at and then later counted on to save me.

I’m not being hyperbolic when I say that he saved me, my pocket shaman. He saved my sanity—and in turn, he saved my life.

“Be careful what you wish for,” they say. Up until that point I’d never listened to “them” anyway—and I wasn’t about to start.

I was a thirty-five-year-old seeker who’d been seeking since she was seventeen, and was beyond ready to end her seeking and find her enlightenment already! 
I wished to know all the secrets of the universe. To have them revealed to me so that I alone could understand them.

“Be careful what you wish for,” my pocket shaman admonished as he sat in front of me with eyes the size of salad plates, seriously questioning the direct, solo route I’d chosen to take. It was not working out well for me. Yet I persisted. He was in favor of a more circuitous path; one that came with rest stops, snacks, and water—in other words—a lot of help along the way.

“Fuck that shit!” I ‘m done waiting! I want it now! I’m in a hurry! I argued.

Then I lost my mind.

Sacred texts suggest that when undertaking the path to enlightenment, it would be wise to apprentice for like a thousand years while following the sage advice of a master, guide, or guru.  They say that for a reason, the most obvious one being that the edges of the path are littered with the bones of those who’ve tried to “go it alone”.  And if you don’t die, you are doomed to wander the streets of LA or some other place you no longer recognize, barefoot and afraid, babbling incoherently about “going fast, going solo.” 

Trust me. I was almost there. Luckily for me, a shaman showed up. 

I say thank you to whoever sent him my way. He was exactly what I never knew I needed. 

I also say thank you for the experience we went through together. It was most definitely a battle, and he will forever be my primary overseer and James Bond-level-super-duper-gizmo-in-the-toolbox-fighter-of-the-dark-arts-foxhole-buddy.

And even though it took me twenty years to get here I’d also like to say a heartfelt thank you to the universe for scaring the living bejesus out of me, beating me up every which way imaginable—and some you cannot; and for scrambling my brain, rewiring my nervous system, and then spitting me out on the other side with a cadre of “lovely parting gifts”—that took me two decades to discover. 

And I say thank you to myself, for being brave enough back then to even make the journey. 

So, what is the moral of this story you ask?

That in some instances, good things come in small packages and everybody loves a shaman?

That, in the case of chasing spiritual enlightenment, you’d better put a team together because you are quite LITERALLY playing with fire?

That “they” are right when “they” say, be careful what you wish for because you just may get it—and then have no fucking idea what the hell to do with “it”? —OR—that we don’t say “thank you” nearly enough to that part of ourselves that offers acts of audacious mercy, like conjuring shamans out of thin air at times when we barely have the wherewithal to remember our own names—and that the access code for said mercy should be on page one of the Being Human Handbook?

Hmmmmmm….That’s a hard one. I’ll let you guys decide.

Carry on,
xox

The Promise of a Shaman

If you come to me as a victim I will not support you.

But I will have the courage to walk with you through the pain that you are suffering.

I will put you in the fire, I will undress you, and I will sit you on the earth.
I will bathe you with herbs, I will purge you, and you will vomit the rage and the darkness inside you.
I’ll bang your body with good herbs, and I’ll put you to lay in the grass, face up to the sky.
Then I will blow your crown to clean the old memories that make you repeat the same behavior.

I will blow your forehead to scare away the thoughts that cloud your vision.
I will blow your throat to release the knot that won’t let you talk.
I will blow your heart to scare fear so that it goes far away, where it cannot find you.
I will blow your solar plexus to extinguish the fire of the hell you carry inside, and you will know peace.
I will blow with fire your belly to burn the attachments and the love that was not.
I will blow away the lovers that left you, the children that never came.
I will blow your heart to make you warm, to rekindle your desire to feel, create and start again.
I will blow with force your vagina or your penis, to clean the sexual door to your soul.
I will blow away the garbage that you collected trying to love what did not want to be loved.
I will use the broom, and the sponge, and the rag, and safely clean all the bitterness inside you.
I will blow your hands to destroy the ties that prevent you from creating.
I will blow your feet to dust and erase the footprints memories, so you can never return to that bad place.
I will turn your body, so your face will kiss the earth.
I’ll blow your spine from the root to the neck to increase your strength and help you walk upright.

And I will let you rest.

After this you will cry, and after crying you will sleep, 

And you will dream beautiful and meaningful dreams, 

and when you wake up I’ll be waiting for you.

I will smile at you, and you will smile back

I will offer you food that you will eat with pleasure, tasting life, and I will thank you.

Because what I’m offering today, was offered to me before when darkness lived within me.

And after I was healed, I felt the darkness leaving, and I cried.

Then we will walk together, and I will show you my garden, and my plants, and I will take you to the fire again.

And will talk together in a single voice with the blessing of the earth.

And we will shout to the forest the desires of your heart.

And the fire will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together.

And the mountains will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together.

And the rivers will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together.

And the wind will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together.

And then we will bow before the fire, and we will call upon all the visible and invisible guardians.

And you will say thank you to all of them.

And you will say thank you to yourself.

And you will say thank you to yourself. 

And you will say thank you to yourself.

~Author unknown

“Can you just stop with the damn smoke blowing thing?”
Me ~ to my Shaman.

I had a shaman once. I highly recommend it. 

Mine appeared out of nowhere, like a questionable smell, and actually moved in with me back in the winter of 1993.
With his bald head, Australian accent, and wild, Rasputian eyes, I called him my “pocket shaman” since he was barely shoulder height — and for about seven months he literally went everywhere with me. 

I never think about that time of my life anymore…unless I do. It is dark, and murky, and mysterious. Definitely NOT a place that’s safe to go without a bodyguard…or a guide…or a shaman. 

My friend Mel posted this “Promise of a Shaman” on her Facebook page the other day. I wish I knew who wrote it because I can tell they’ve lived it. Their words bringing every detail of our little dance alllll back to me…

The rituals. 
My fear.
His refusal to meet me in my fear.
My rage at that.
His indifference to my rage.
The energy work that I initially scoffed at, and later counted on to save me.

I’m not being hyperbolic when I say he saved me, my pocket shaman. He saved my sanity—and in turn he saved my life.

“Be careful what you wish for,” they say. Up until that point I’d never listened to “them” anyway—and I wasn’t about to start.
I was a thirty-fucking-five-year-old seeker and I wished for enlightenment already! 
I had wished to know all the secrets of the universe. To have them revealed to me so that I alone could understand them.

“Be careful what you wish for,” my pocket shaman admonished. He questioned the direct, solo route I’d chosen to take. He was in favor of a more circuitous path; one that came with a lot of help along the way.

“Fuck that shit!” I want fast! I’m in a hurry! I argued.

Then I lost my mind.

Sacred texts suggest that when undertaking the path to enlightenment, it would be wise to follow the advice of a guide.  They say that for a reason. Because the edges of the path are littered with the bones of those who’ve tried to “go it alone”.  And if you don’t die, you are doomed to wander the streets of LA or some other place you no longer recognize, barefoot and afraid, mumbling incoherently about going fast, going solo. 

Trust me. I was almost there. Luckily for me, a shaman showed up. 

I say thank you to whomever sent him to me. He was exactly what I never knew I needed. 

I say thank you to the experience we went through together. It was most definitely a battle, and he will forever be my foxhole buddy.

And I say thank you to the universe for scaring the living daylights out of me, beating me up every which way imaginable—and some you cannot; for scrambling my brain, rewiring my nervous system, and then spitting me out on the other side with “lovely parting gifts”—that took me two decades to discover. 

And I say thank you to myself, for being brave enough back then to even make the wish. 

So, what is the moral of this story you ask? That in some instances, good things come in small packages and everybody loves a shaman? That, in the case of chasing spiritual enlightenment, you’d better put a team together because you are LITERALLY playing with fire? That “they” are right when they say, “be careful what you wish for because you just may get it”—and then not know what the hell to do with “it”? OR, that we don’t say “thank you” nearly enough to that part of ourselves that offers acts of audacious self-care, like conjuring shamans out of thin air at times when we barely have the wherewithal to say our own name—and that it should be required by law?

Hmmmmmm….That’s a hard one. I’ll let you guys decide.

Carry on,
xox

The promise of a shaman

If you come to me as a victim I will not support you.

But I will have the courage to walk with you through the pain that you are suffering.

I will put you in the fire, I will undress you, and I will sit you on the earth.
I will bathe you with herbs, I will purge you, and you will vomit the rage and the darkness inside you.
I’ll bang your body with good herbs, and I’ll put you to lay in the grass, face up to the sky.
Then I will blow your crown to clean the old memories that make you repeat the same behavior.

I will blow your forehead to scare away the thoughts that cloud your vision.
I will blow your throat to release the knot that won’t let you talk.
I will blow your heart to scare fear, so that it goes far away where it cannot find you.
I will blow your solar plexus to extinguish the fire of the hell you carry inside, and you will know peace.
I will blow with fire your belly to burn the attachments, and the love that was not.
I will blow away the lovers that left you, the children that never came.
I will blow your heart to make you warm, to rekindle your desire to feel, create and start again.
I will blow with force your vagina or your penis, to clean the sexual door to your soul.
I will blow away the garbage that you collected trying to love what did not want to be loved.
I will use the broom, and the sponge, and the rag, and safely clean all the bitterness inside you.
I will blow your hands to destroy the ties that prevent you from creating.
I will blow your feet to dust and erase the footprints memories, so you can never return to that bad place.
I will turn your body, so your face will kiss the earth.
I’ll blow your spine from the root to the neck to increase your strength and help you walk upright.

And I will let you rest.

After this you will cry, and after crying you will sleep, 

And you will dream beautiful and meaningful dreams, 

and when you wake up I’ll be waiting for you.

I will smile at you, and you will smile back

I will offer you food that you will eat with pleasure, tasting life, and I will thank you.

Because what I’m offering today, was offered to me before when darkness lived within me.

And after I was healed, I felt the darkness leaving, and I cried.

Then we will walk together, and I will show you my garden, and my plants, and I will take you to the fire again.

And will talk together in a single voice with the blessing of the earth.

And we will shout to the forest the desires of your heart.

And the fire will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together.

And the mountains will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together.

And the rivers will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together.

And the wind will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together.

And then we will bow before the fire, and we will call upon all the visible and invisible guardians.

And you will say thank you to all of them.

And you will say thank you to yourself.

And you will say thank you to yourself. 

And you will say thank you to yourself.

~Author unknown

I was not one of those little girls who was afraid of her own shadow. As a matter of fact, I was pretty fearless.

I suppose I realized this at a relatively early age due to the fact that I had a friend, Lisa who was terrified of everything.
The world was a dangerous and terrifying place to poor Lisa.

She was afraid of dogs, big or small. Even hot dogs.
She was afraid of loud construction equipment.
She was afraid of heights.

Luckily, we outgrow some of our childhood fears. I heard Lisa went on to be a rocket scientist. I’m serious. At like JPL or NASA! The biggest friady cat I’ve ever known is sending people out into the dark vacuum of space.

The irony of it makes me laugh. And there’s another reason for my nervous laughter. The only fear Lisa and I shared was our fear of the dark. Of ghosts grabbing our legs as we ran to our beds, and pulling us down into hell.

Our night-lights had night-lights.

At sleep-overs we woke each other up to stand watch for the boogie man while the other trembled in her eight-year-old skin, trying to pee in the dark. Have you ever tried to pee while terrified? It’s an acquired skill.

We bonded over our shared fear. We understood it. We investigated suspicious bumps in the night together. We checked under each other’s bed with flashlights. We checked and double checked the primo ghost hideout—the closet. We even turned our dolls around so their dead eyes wouldn’t spook us in the dark.

You wanna know something else ironic?
Here you have two little girls who were deathly afraid of ghosts and the dark — one sits people on a literal bomb and sends them out where no one can hear them scream, and one has conversations about death — with dead people.

That’s right. I don’t talk about it a lot, but I hear dead people. They talk to me. And I’m not scared. Isn’t that crazy?

I used to be. I used to be unwilling, uncooperative, confused and embarrassed but over time that changed.

Listen, if a ghost reached out from under my bed and grabbed my leg I’d most certainly lose my shit (and don’t think I haven’t warned them about that), but in general—I’m okay with the talking. It’s not spooky at all. I tell myself I’m performing a public service, I’m hearing all about how great it is to be dead and I’m writing about the subject (at their insistence).

One thing I know for sure: The dead people I’ve talked to are happy and witty and “better than fine.”  They are interested in what’s happening with those they loved and for the most part they are feisty as hell. They are tired of being portrayed as spooks and ghouls—and don’t get them started on zombies!

In ancient Greece there was a name for those who were able to communicate with the ones who had passed—Walkers between the Worlds. Many cultures call them shamans. My friend Orna, who does a very advanced form of palm reading, grabbed my hand within an hour of meeting me and pronounced that I had “The mark of the shaman”  just as she’d suspected.

So there’s that.

Walkers are able to straddle the realm where the deceased reside…and do laundry and grocery shopping and sit in traffic. It can screw with you—but it’s mostly wonderful. Hey, I’m not special. I’m told that if we want to, we can all do it.

So, on this Dia de Los Muertos, this Day of the Dead, I’d like to honor all of my disembodied friends. Once I allowed them, they have added immeasurably to my life. And removed forever any fear of death. And to my childhood friend Lisa, who, it seems, overcame at least one of her fears, and to all the brave souls she sends out into space. May they return safely.

And if by chance they do not, don’t you worry about them. They are better than fine.

Carry on,
xox

“If you’re looking for sympathy you’ll find it between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.” 
― David Sedaris, Barrel Fever

Once upon a time, I hung out with a shaman. 
He was my own personal “pocket shaman.”
He went everywhere with me, and helped me through all the wild things that were happening back then, with his wild eyed magic, his herbs and teas and his amazing energy work.
I was NOT having a good time with my spiritual awakening. I was a sick, whining, complaining, crying, hot mess.

He did love me, so he was somewhat indulgent. But he was so much further along on the spiritual path than I was at that time, that after awhile, he wouldn’t tolerate my behavior.
He would not continue to hear my complaints, no matter how valid. He could not bring himself to listen to my stories of victim hood for one. more. second.
He would just turn and leave the room…….while I was in mid sentence.
With my head in my hands, weeping, I’d beg for his advise about a situation that was causing me intense emotional pain, and his response would be: “We’ve discussed this, you know what I think you should do, I’m not talking about this again with you.”
WTF?! “Don’t you want to help me?”
“I’m not helping you by continuing to talk about it. If you want to stay there, if you want to summon a co-complainer, someone who will join you at your pity party, go call a girlfriend.”

I started to hate him. (I don’t want to say hate….. but I’m being honest here). 
I remember screaming at him to listen to me.
“You’re NOT my friend, you DON’T love me!”
“I DO love you! but you’re right, I’m not your friend, I’m your teacher, I’m here to help you. I will not come join you in your pain. A true friend would not keep you in this misery”
I remember slugging him hard in the arm as he turned and walked away.
Not my proudest moment.

“It is terribly rude to tell people that their troubles are boring.” 
― Lemony Snicket, The Blank Book

My friend Wes is similar. He wouldn’t commiserate with me when both my cats were killed by coyotes within a week of each other, and it almost ended our friendship. He just wouldn’t go there. He listened with compassion, when I cried about it in the beginning; but he wouldn’t indulge my need to keep talking about it, and stay in the “why” of it. He would get quiet, make a joke, or change the subject all together.
God, that was annoying.
He did it again when my business went south. I remember being at dinner with him and feeling so hurt and angry, because he seemed bored with my plight. He listened, but he wouldn’t engage. It was so freaking frustrating; like standing at the net with my racket and my opponent won’t return my serve.
Over and over and over again.
I felt ENRAGED!
The rage inside felt familiar; very similar to what I had felt toward my shaman friend years before. I had to restrain myself from hurling my body across the table and stabbing him in the neck with a fork.
Note to self: I am a pacifist ONLY if you indulge me, by listening to endless hours of my sad, sucky stories.

Staying in wounded victimhood has it’s own special high. With all the words of encouragement and people trying to help, it keeps you from having to stand on your own two feet, move forward, and take some responsibility.
Sympathy can be addictive.

Here’s the thing. They both loved me a ton, and they reacted in the most loving way possible. They wouldn’t stand with me in the energy of my pain for any longer than necessary. It’s a kind of spiritual “tough love.” I get that now.
And they did it at their peril. I felt abandoned and betrayed, and I lashed out accordingly. I strung together tirades of four letter words that would have made a drill sergeant blush, and there were long periods of time where I didn’t see either of them. I wasn’t ready to move on. I wanted to beat the dead horse and then some.
They would not meet me there. They stood in the place of my healing, of my wholeness, not my woundedness……….and they waited for me there.
It took awhile to join them, but eventually, I did.

I want to caution you: Please, Don’t try this at home. It may not go well. People want a shoulder to cry on, and if you take that away; they may punch you.
Be advised, there will be hurt feelings. But it IS the more loving act.
Maybe someone is loving you this way right now.
Food for thought.
Carry on.

Any thoughts? I’d love to hear ’em.

Xox

“Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof.” (Because I’m happy)
That’s a lyric from the mondo hit “Happy” by Pharrell Williams. Which I sing…at the top of my lungs…in…my…car. Yep that’s me next to you on the 101 fwy. Deal with it, or better yet, sing along.

XoxJanet