circles on the mountain - Wilderness Guides Council

CIRCLES
ON THE
MOUNTAIN
Issue #11 / Winter 2003
W
e who carry lights into the storm-shadows of the heart; who bear water
through a dry and thirsty land; who wait at the foot of the sacred mountain and pray for our people; who conduct seekers to bright graves where
they birth themselves—we greet you with respect and love in the name of our collective
ancestors. The time has come again to talk, to dance, to learn, and to grow.
We are honored by your coming. Join us. Sit around our circle.
Contents
Coyote & Shadow…—Trebbe Johnson—3
Don’t Mess With Coyote—Steven Foster—4
Finding Light in the Shadow—Elizabeth Brensinger—7
Those Coyotes Go Back to School—Munro Sickafoose—9
Stones—Emerald North—13
Tiny Coyotes—Trebbe Johnson—14
Thugs—Bill Plotkin—17
The Storm—Jeffery Duvall
Trickster Tales From East and West—Jeremy Thres—20
Larry’s Story—Mike Bodkin—23
International Wilderness Guides Gathering Report—24
Staff
Editor: Trebbe Johnson
Design: Andrew Gardner
Printing: Kent Pearce
Staff: Corinna Stoeffl, Jade Sherer, Mel Vandergriff
Contributors: Trebbe Johnson, Steven Foster, Elizabeth
Brensinger, Munro Sickafoose, Emerald North, Bill
Plotkin, Jeffery Duvall, Jeremy Thres, Mike Bodkin,
Farion Pearce, Gesa Flick, Scotch Madhlophe, Marie
Circles on the Mountain functions as a forum
wherein diverse ways, values, and opinions may be
expressed. Its contents does not always reflect the
covictions of the
editors.
Subscribers
For you loyal subscribers who had faith in our
return, this is the first of your two promised issues.
Hopefully the second will be in your hands within
the next six months as our plan is to put out two
issues a year. Thanks for your support.
We’re Back!
Ah, everything takes ten times longer than you think,
hope or even plan for. Everyone has good intentions,
a great heart, a willingness to give of time and
effort…but life intrudes in unpredictable ways and
then suddenly months have rolled by, seasons have
changed, and suddenly the next Wilderness Guides
Council is upon us and still Circles on the
Mountain is hibernating. But now it’s awake, for better or worse, to grow and flourish, and hopefully
renew our faith in the importance of what we believe
in and pursue in life.
Expanding Borders
The theme of our next issue will be “Expanding Borders”. In what new directions are we extending our
reach? How have vision quests and wilderness rites of
passage programs touched groups of people who may
not previously even have considered embarking on
such a journey? For example, we’ll hear from those
who have facilitated programs for young people,
including militarized youth; elders; business leaders;
and people with life-altering illness. Wilderness
Guides Council members are also venturing into some
new and unusual physical territories, such as city
parks, clearcuts, and superfund sites. What new borders have you crossed or dream of crossing?
Please send all articles, stories, poems, art work, or
photos to Trebbe. Deadline: June 1, 2003.
Trebbe Johnson
Circles on the Mountain
POB 148
Thompson, PA 18465
email: [email protected]
Coyote & Shadow…
and the Shadow. Trickster is the sacred fool, the lusty,
uninhibited, gimme-what-I-want-now radical who
mixes up all the pieces of our life into an impossible
jumble in order to shock us into greater clarity. Trickster (who also goes by the name of Coyote, Clown,
Hare, Raven, Hodja, or the court jester) trips us up
that we may experience the awkward process of getting back on our own feet.
Shadow is that part of ourselves we would do
anything to avoid gazing upon. Want to know who
your Shadow is, suggests Robert Bly in his small,
luminous book on the subject, The Long Bag We Drag
Behind Us? Think about someone in your life who
drives you crazy beyond all reason and then go look
in the mirror. You can’t stand this person because,
deep down, you know he’s the very essence of what
you’re loath to think you might become. If we ignore
our Shadow too long, we’re apt to find ourselves committing seemingly irrational deeds and thinking
thoughts that seem to belong to somebody else, but
which, in fact, are only the temper tantrums of our
Shadow, trying to get our attention.
Coyote waits in the bushes just ahead of us,
dozing or masturbating until he gets the chance to
trip us up, and then he sits there laughing while we
clamber awkwardly to our feet. Shadow lurks behind
us, daring us to turn around and confront her. Coyote
attacks at random; Shadow’s aim pierces with awful
precision. Coyote’s mischief is indiscriminate and he
has a short attention span; he’ll confound you simply
because that’s what he loves doing, and then he’ll
shuffle off to stir up trouble elsewhere. Shadow will
stalk you for a lifetime, waiting for your most vulnerable moment to strike.
And both these wily, unlikable creatures, Trickster Coyote and the Shadow, have a world of sacred
lore to impart to us if only we’ll listen.
This issue of Circles on the Mountain explores
W
e of the mystic persuasion often hear that,
if we’re doing what we’re meant to do in
life, then the good forces of the universe
will cluster around to support us in our endeavors.
They’ll cozy up behind us and whisper in our ear
sweet hints about people we should meet and paths
we should follow, even as they dash along that same
path ahead of us, sweeping obstacles out of our way.
Do the work you love and the money will follow,
promises a best-selling book. Follow your bliss and
doors will open for you, we tell our friends as they
muddle through the tough times.
Well, maybe. A few months ago, when I was
struggling to get a tangle of irresolvable details sorted
out for a vision quest, a friend suggested that perhaps
the universe was trying to tell me that it was an
inauspicious time to undertake this trip. (I disagreed
and plowed ahead and eventually all the details fell
into place magnificently. The trip ended up having to
be cancelled anyway because it didn’t fill.)
As any hero or heroine who has ever set forth
on a mythic journey finds out soon enough, the path
to the sacred treasure is long and winding, and one is
just as likely to encounter ugly, hostile forces along
the way as friendly, helpful ones. Some of these
adversaries are as ancient and fiery as the forces of
the Earth, and the hero, in the very act of confronting
them, is ennobled. Others, however, are renegades.
They seek no glory in the conquest, but only want to
embarrass the hero as she makes her way along that
resplendent path she’s sure the universe has blazed
for her. There is no dignity in this wrestling match,
which is often no match at all, but merely a nasty
prank only one party has consented to.
Indigenous cultures around the planet and
modern students of the human psyche have immortalized two archetypes as the embodiment of these wily,
annoying, infuriatingly humbling teachers: Trickster
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CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
February 2003
these shady troublemakers and soulsavers as they
have revealed themselves on wilderness rites of passage. In the pages that follow, we meet Trickster and
Shadow around the world, in the American desert and
canyons, the mountains of Russia, and the Scottish
highlands. They appear in a selection of their infinite
guises: as thugs from the dreamworld, as a fierce
storm and as a fog over the moors, as a little dog who
doesn’t have the consideration to pee where and
when her people expect her to, and as a swarm of
tiny insects. In some of these tales, the teacher who
arrives bearing a box of troubles makes us laugh; in
another he sneaks away with a piece of the very
breath we need to survive.
Circles itself has been in the shadows for a few
years, and we are delighted to begin, with this issue,
what we hope is a rebirth of this treasured forum for a
range of topics in which the mysteries of the inner
and outer worlds meet, mingle, challenge, and inform.
—Trebbe Johnson
Don’t Mess With Coyote
By Steven Foster
make it to the car. I was caught between a rock and a
hard place. If I stayed, I would die of oxygen starvation. If I tried to walk down to the car, I would die of
oxygen starvation.
One gloomy night several years ago, while fasting in Death Valley, a sudden downpour caught me
fast asleep and unprepared. Cursing heartily, I struggled from the sack bare-ass naked, without my boots,
and made for my pack, which I had left open ten feet
away. In blind haste, I fell into a clump of cholla.
Coyote.
T
PAIUTE INDIAN DOCTOR said to leave coyote
alone. He was absolutely right about that. Don’t
mess with coyote. Don’t start feeling romantic
about him. He doesn’t give a fig for your notions. He’d
just as soon tear your eyes out as act like a cute little
dog.
Then why does everybody make such a fuss
over him? Don’t ask me. I’m sick of coyote. I wish
he’d get the hell out of my life. I’m tired of being
turned upside down. He always seems to wait until I
almost reach heaven. Then he appears to remind me
that I’ll never get there. And I can’t believe all this
fuss American Indian wannabees are making over
coyote. It’s like their ancestral memory is a sieve. He’s
been screwing us over from the beginning of human
time and these would-bes are wearing coyote tail
hats. Coyote showed up one morning at dawn, just as
I was completing a four–day fast. Right away, I knew
something was wrong. And when he refused the invitation to drink a cup of coffee, I hightailed it out of
there. It was already too late. He jumped into my
lungs and has been breathing for me ever since.
O, Grandfather Coyote, I pray that you will get
out of my lungs and let me breathe for myself.
HE OLD
FIVE MILES FROM BASE CAMP, at the foot of a steep fourwheel grade, I lost the accelerator linkage to the land
cruiser. No juice. I gave it the gas.
The engine just idled. I crawled underneath the
car, looking for the linkage. It was nowhere to be
found. I scoured the road backwards for fifty yards.
Nothing. The pit of my stomach dropped out. Everybody up there was depending on me. I was packing in
the food that would end their four-day fast.
I must have sat in that useless vehicle for half
an hour before it dawned on me. The manual choke!
I could put the transmission into four-wheel low and
pull the choke out. Maybe it would get me up the hill.
Before long, the old cruiser was grumbling up the
grade at four miles an hour, faster than I could walk.
Coyote.
LAST NIGHT MY DAUGHTER SELENE took me to the hospital. I wasn’t breathing well and it seemed like the only
thing to do. Trouble was, I couldn’t imagine I could
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February 2003
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
THREE TIMES WE STOPPED THE CAR by the
side of the road so that our puppy dog,
Zora, could pee. Three times she ran
around on her leash and sniffed here
and there, but never, even under the
most heartfelt urging, did she pee. The
last time we stopped, she showed
absolutely no inclination to pee and
looked at us with pleading eyes. So we
put her back into the car and started
down the road. She peed.
Coyote.
WHEN I WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL, I used to
break into the gym with my friends to
play pick-up basketball. With a kitchen
knife we coaxed the dead bolt back
into its carrier. We bragged about how
we did it. O yes, we told the story all
around.
A year later, when I was a freshman in college, I heard the dreadful news: my little
brother had been busted for breaking into the gym.
He spent several hours in jail before my parents
bailed him out.
Coyote.
He ordered two cups of coffee from the serving girl.
One for himself and one for his friend, the fish. But
when he tried to get his fish to drink, it wouldn’t drink
the coffee. Good German coffee to boot!
“Fraulein,” he said. “Something is wrong with
my fish. It won’t drink the coffee. It seems to be sick.”
The young lady expressed regret. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes. You can call a doctor. You can find the
name of the nearest fish doctor in the yellow pages.”
The young lady made a big show of searching
the yellow pages. “There aren’t any fish doctors
listed,” she declared.
“Well, then, you and I will have to doctor the
fish.”
“O.K.” she said, “but first I have to call home.”
She took the phone into the kitchen and dialed
the police. “A man has escaped from the insane
asylum!” she said. By the time the police arrived, the
man, wheelbarrow, and fish, were gone.
Coyote.
A YOUNG MAN WAS 17. He was a football, basketball,
baseball player at Independence High School, in the
little town twenty-four miles south of us. The local
newspaper had written an article about him. The kid
was really good. The Chicago Cubs had sent a scout.
His fastball had been clocked at ninety-four miles an
hour. He wasn’t a bad student. He had a pretty girlfriend and a lot of buddies. According to his principal,
“he was a major presence on campus, who always
had a smile for everybody.” He had parents, step-parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, and many relatives.
So what got into him and his ‘92 Mercury
Tracer, north of Little Lake, at an “unknown speed,”
at 11:25 in the morning? Why did he drift off the
highway into the shoulder and skid down an embankment, collide with a boulder, flip over—and eject
through the windshield from an unfastened seat belt?
Coyote.
THERE APPEARS TO BE FOUR KINDS OF COYOTE. The first
kind is just passing through. He’s crossing the road in
front of your car, running away without a backward
glance, or way off in the sage, paying absolutely no
attention to you. You get a little thrill. “Hey, there’s a
coyote!” But then he’s gone and life has not changed
significantly just because you happened to see him.
The second type of encounter always involves
Coyote actually stopping in his tracks to look at you.
HE TOOK THE SEMINAR ASSIGNMENT TO HEART. Shift your
shape. It was in Germany, near Breitnau, in the Black
Forest. He put a dead fish in a wheelbarrow (a very
dead fish) and wheeled it into the nearest gasthaus.
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CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
February 2003
For some reason your presence interests him. Something in his awareness of you seems to be going
“tinkle, tinkle,” like coins falling into the tray of a slot
machine. At the same time, something else goes
“clunk,” and three lemons click into place. You insert
your money—but the payoff goes to Coyote. He gets
something on you at your expense. It is not a standoff. He is free to go anytime he wants. So he takes
you in and then he trots off. You are left wondering
what he is up to. You get suspicious and paranoid.
You begin to watch your step. You wonder if you have
already made some stupid blunder and tomorrow the
boomerang will brain you.
The third type of Coyote is the kind that actually
comes up to you. I don’t mean those coyotes hanging
around the camping areas of national parks begging
for handouts. They are more dog than coyote. I mean
the wild coyote who sits down just outside camp for a
while and glares at you—as if he had nothing better
to do than freak you out. If you get this third kind of
visitation, hang on. Calamity may lurk dead-ahead.
You are not going to be able to stop it. On the other
hand, you may be in for a wonderful surprise. He will
come to you seemingly out of the blue and you will
live in heaven for a while. Sudden misfortune, or
change in fortune, sudden loss or gain. Death will flip
you over to expose your tender underbelly—or death
will pass you by so quickly you cannot even begin to
imagine its eventuality. Coyote came up to me and sat
down just a few feet away early one morning on the
desert pavement of the Eureka Valley. It had snowed
lightly the night before and I had awakened in wonderland—only to find Coyote beside me, panting like
a dog, eyeing me sidewise. I was so taken with his
appearance I didn’t think of the consequences. I
offered him a cup of coffee, which he disdainfully
rejected. He was there for another reason. Shortly
after, I found out why I had been having such a hard
time breathing the past few years. I had a lung ailment for which there was no cure. How stupid could I
have been? I should have gotten the hell out of there.
The fourth kind of Coyote is the Dream Coyote,
or the day-dream Coyote—the fantasy Coyote. This
form of Coyote is most familiar with you—in fact, he
can be said to be an inseparable part of you. He is
the trickster that is you. He knows you so well you
shift your shape to be him without even thinking
about it. Some people might call him the Shadow
Coyote, for he is capable of such action as you would
prefer to keep in the dark. He can steal; he can lie; he
can get livid with jealousy; he can get angry enough
to kill; he can do nasty things and then promptly
forget them.
He is one mean motherfucker, and he is you.
Me. Us. We Who Have Gone Before.
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February 2003
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
Finding Light in the Shadow
By Elizabeth Brensinger
F
ollowing are two excerpts from the book Earth
Dreams: Finding Light in the Shadow, available
from Red Road Press (www.redroadpress.com)
On the morning of the second day of my solo I
awoke around 7, lying in my sleeping bag and watching the sky and canyons gradually lighten. I trusted
that I was facing east, and so waited in a soft and
cozy state of semi-wakefulness for the sun to rise over
the facing ridge, to bathe me in its healing warmth.
Nights in the desert canyons can be cold, even in
October, and my allegedly warm-to-20-degrees sleeping bag had failed the test at 40; on this third morning
of my fast, incredibly, I found myself craving sunlight
even more than food. But apparently, my sense of
direction had failed me during my reconnaissance in
the rain two days before. The longer I waited for the
sun and the farther away sleep wandered, the clearer
reality became: I was facing north, not east. North. A
90-degree miscalculation, its results measurable in
lost degrees Fahrenheit and shade that clung greedily
to the landscape around me, loosening its cool hard
grip only hours after the last canyon wren gave up its
sweet-trilling morning serenade.
In contrast to the solar-heated rock of my imagination, this spot, it turned out, would receive direct
sunlight only several hours each day. The rest of the
time, my teeth would be nearly chattering and I'd be
wearing every layer of clothing I had–long underwear
beneath shorts, beneath long fleece pants; two longunderwear shirts topped by a t-shirt, a wool sweater,
a fleece vest and, especially but not exclusively at
night, a Gore-Tex jacket with hood and a fleece hat
and mask. Bathed, as it were, not in sunlight but in
shadow. . .
before a truly exhausted sleep, the darkness remained
with me. A shower washed the grit from my body but
had no effect whatsoever on the scummy ring around
my heart. And yet still I told no one about my sadness or my pain. Why? Because of my shame, I realized later. Something about feeling frightened and
negative and angry–something about crashing headfirst into the shadow side of the human experience
and getting stuck there, mired like a school bus up to
its wheelwells in mud–had made me very much
ashamed.
No surprise, I suppose. After all, my darkness
was the mark of my failure. And failure is a shameful
thing. I had failed at the quest. Failed to come out of
the experience a better person than the one who’d
gone in. Deep inside me, where I’d expected to find a
clear connection to the light and to my sacred purpose, I’d found darkness.
(Much later)
Throughout the hike out of the canyon, on the
long car ride back to Durango (when I talked of
books, of the politics of U.S./Indian relations, of anything but the quest), and during the evening hours
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CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
February 2003
I had failed at the quest.
Hadn’t I?
It sure felt that way.
The next morning, the other questers’ moods
were light. Shortly, we'd all be meeting for an elders’
council–a ceremonial gathering that, had it not been
for the sandstorm [that chased us out of base camp
one day early], would have occurred at base camp. At
the council, one quester at a time would speak; the
ears and hearts of 18 others would offer undivided,
loving attention as the speaker told the story of his or
her solo, and the gifts that came therein. I hadn’t a
clue what I was going to say. And I didn’t cram,
either, at least not in the sense of feverishly searching
for some deep meaning that I could share. Instead, I
focused all my attention on packing filthy sandy
stinky clothing into my backpack so I wouldn't have
to look at it again until I was home, standing in front
of the washing machine, this whole stinking experience behind me. So in that sense only–the literal
sense of shoving more items into a backpack than by
rights should have fit there–did I cram. Not surprisingly, no great realizations came to me, though I did
seriously consider throwing away my socks.
A half-hour later, I walked into the room where
the elders’ council would be held and sat down,
empty. Even now, minutes before the storytelling
would begin, I believed I had no story to tell. I also
believed I was the only one whose time in the wilderness had been a waste. How would I tell them, these
18 people who had become dear friends? I didn't
know. It would be short, whatever I said. Short, but
not sweet. A quick admission of defeat. No vision. No
life purpose discovered. No words of wisdom from
tree or rock or lizard. Nothing.
And then, without warning, without the slightest
preceding breath of hope, something came to me. It
was a realization about shadow, and yet, paradoxically, it allowed one ray of light to burst through a tiny
crack in my unconsciousness. I reached for my journal
and hurriedly scrawled a few words. A moment later, I
wrote something else. Soon I was scribbling furiously;
realizations crowded into my mind and tumbled onto
the page, one on the heels of another, barely a breath
in between, just as the “Why?s” of my lament had
flowed faster and faster from my lips that morning in
the wilderness before I'd lost my heart. And this was
the first I knew–the first I'd ever imagined, in fact–that
the Voice [I’d heard on the solo] might live somewhere
beyond The Canyon. That the Voice, amazingly
enough, might be with me still.
Here, then, is the story of the gifts the Voice
brought–realizations that swept away the crushing
burden I had carried since the last afternoon of my
solo; realizations that let me know with relief beyond
words that I did, in fact, have a story to tell, and that
the quest had not, after all, been a waste; realizations
that exposed possible meaning behind the apparent
meaninglessness of events and thoughts and landscape:
Shadow had been a persistent companion during
the three days and nights of my solo experience. My
solo spot faced north, and consequently was shaded
for much of the day. Suddenly, I saw symbolism in
the shadow that had chilled me, and my heart opened
as if to an old friend. Far from being an accidental
consequence of my poor sense of direction, my heavily shaded power spot now revealed itself as a
metaphor for my whole experience, which had thrust
me, kicking and screaming, into the figurative/Jungian
“shadow” of my psyche–that dark place where I’d
stuffed the emotions, the feelings, the traits that I’d
deemed unacceptable. In other words, the shadow of
the canyon walls had been trying to tell me something. I simply hadn’t understood the language.
Also, I’d ended up rejecting my solo spot. Especially after my encounter with Fear on the second
afternoon of the solo, when I’d developed a sudden,
quickly spreading case of hives, I had grown alienated
from the sacred spot that I'd chosen as shelter and
teacher. I could no longer see its beauty; my spot no
longer felt safe; I no longer felt I belonged there. Fear
did what it does best–cut me off from the world
around me, and from the world deep inside, as well.
And so, on the day the group hiked out, I had felt
absolutely no connection to this supposedly sacred
land, except for the emotional charge that was my
desire to leave it. This rejection, too, I now recognized
as metaphor: I had rejected my spot just like I’d historically rejected my own shadow, preferring to
believe only in the “nice” parts of myself and thereby
denying half of my being and half of what it meant to
be human.
The shame I’d associated with my recent bout of
fear, anger and negativity was symbolic, too: symbolic
of the larger shame I associated with having a “dark
side.” I rejected my dark side, and so I rejected
myself, and so I expected others to reject me too.
Acting on this certainty of rejection, I had on our last
day in The Canyon distanced myself from the very
people most likely to support me. In rejecting my dark
side, I also cut myself off from the natural world. It
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February 2003
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
takes a whole person to communicate with the universe; I'd denied the wholeness of my being. And so
I’d felt weak and frightened and alone.
Furthermore, in denying my dark side I’d inadvertently given it power. That's how anger and exhaustion led me to kick apart our stone pile and leave the
rocks where they lay; how fear came to guide my steps
on the long hike out; how I came to care so little
about crushing the fragile cryptobiotic soil. That, too,
was symbolic. For as long as I could remember, I had
judged harshly anyone who harmed the Earth, hating
what I believed to be their stupidity and their greed.
I’d felt no connection to these destroyers; they might
as well have been aliens from some dark and distant
planet. Yet suddenly I saw that we were of the same
species, after all, these destroyers and I; they, too, had
given their dark sides power. They, too, had let fear be
their guide. And fear, seeing only itself, would be
better off blind. In my case, I’d been afraid of not
making it out of The Canyon. The destroyers, too,
were afraid–afraid of not having enough; afraid of that
which they didn’t understand. Strange as it seemed, I
knew in that moment that some of the richest men in
the world were also the most afraid; and that fear
fueled their lust for the riches of the Earth, for money
and power without measure. Fear, rational or not, is
fear just the same. And this one cliché is true: Fear,
not people, is the enemy.
So it came to me, my Vision. Sitting on the floor,
surrounded by 18 people and their animated conversations, I heard only the Voice–the Voice of Soul, the
Voice of Great Spirit, the Voice of the Earth, they all
spoke in unison and told me the truth, a truth so
basic almost everyone had forgotten it, but nonetheless, the Truth. And this is what they said:
“You're human, and to be human is to harbor
both light and dark. Your challenge is to face your
shadow, to learn to acknowledge and accept it. Shine
the light of love on the dark qualities of your own
humanity; only then can they be transformed; only
then will the darkness lose power over you.
“Accept and love all parts of yourself. Only then
can you become who you truly are. Only then can
you discover and fulfill your life’s purpose. Only then
will the trees and the rocks and the lizards talk back.”
Those Coyotes Go Back
to School
By Munro Sickafoose
And so it was that Grandfather and Grandmother called a meeting of all the Coyotes.
Poor Little Rich Girl Coyote was there. Tall
Stranger in Black Coyote was there. The Lesbian Cowgirl-Car-Thief Coyote and the Coyote-Who-Didn'tWant-To-Be-Coyote were there. The Smilin' Zen
Coyote was there. Laughing Whirlwind Coyote, the
Horny Nun Coyote, Murderous Poet Coyote, Teen
Angel Coyote, Loveable Coyote, Swiss Chocolate
Coyote, Big-hearted Coyote, Gorgeous Ballerina
Coyote, River Coyote, Funky White Girl Coyote, Blues
Mamma Coyote, Soft-Spoken Coyote, Hard Luck
Coyote, Three-Toed Coyote, Bad Pun Coyote, Pimp
Coyote, Red Baby Coyote, Gay Cabarello Coyote,
G
randfather and Grandmother Coyote were getting sick of it. All of their children and their
children's children were getting lazy.
"These lies they tell,” said Grandfather Coyote,
“are so transparent you can see right through them.”
"That's right,” said Grandmother Coyote, “and
their shape shifting skills are ludicrous. Hardly more
than smoke and mirrors.”
"Why in my day, we really shifted shape. We
really became what we pretended to be. None of this
Hollywood special effects nonsense!” agreed Grandfather.
"Time to go back to school!” exclaimed Grandmother.
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CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
February 2003
Healing Chakra Coyote, Librarian Coyote, Songwriter
Coyote, Hollywood Special Effects Coyote, Sweet
Little Innocent Coyote, Fearful Coyote….. whew!
Well, all the coyotes were there.
"It has come to our attention,” said Grandfather
to the gathering, “that your Coyote skills are sorely
lacking! As Elders of the Coyote Clan, we think you
are bringing a bad name to the Clan.”
"Indeed,” said Grandmother. “People think
you're cute. They stick pink and blue coyotes with
little kerchiefs around their necks on
their refrigerators. They give cuddly
Coyote dolls to their babies. Coyotes are no longer respected as
Tricksters, nor feared as troublemakers.”
"It's a disgrace!” exclaimed
Grandfather. “I've had enough!
For the next four days, all of you
are going to learn how be Coyotes
again. You're going to learn how to
play dead, tell lies, shift your shapes
and steal for your own pleasure and
gain. You've been getting soft, and I'm
going to make sure you remember how
to be proper Coyotes! Today, I want
you to go somewhere and play dead.”
Several of the Coyotes rolled their
eyes. Not a few yawned discreetly.
(But discreetly, nonetheless. Grandfather
could still turn you into something nasty if he
wanted.) They all nodded politely, sniffed around
each other a bit and took off. Most of them found a
nice soft spot, curled up and went to sleep.
The next day, Grandfather and Grandmother
gathered all the Coyote Clan together again.
"Tell us your stories about playing dead,” they
asked. No one spoke up.
Grandmother pointed to the Pimp Coyote. “How
about you, Pimp Coyote? Tell us how you played
dead.”
Pimp Coyote hemmed and hawed and finally
allowed as how he had found a nice soft spot and
curled up and gone to sleep, and how that was kind
of like playing dead, and besides, it was what he
wanted to do since he'd had a very late night of it the
night before. Professionally speaking, of course.
Grandfather's hackles rose and his growl was
deep and frightful. He looked around the circle.
Everybody cringed. “Lazy good for nothings! Hardly a
one of you played dead. How can you be proper coy-
otes if you can't play dead? Let me show you how it's
done.”
Grandfather flopped over and went still. He
didn't move for a long time. Pretty soon he started to
stink real bad. Sweet Angel Coyote went over and
nudged him with a paw. An ear fell off. He was starting to rot. A voice came from the carcass saying,
“That's how you play dead, you sissies!"
Grandmother spoke. “Today your task is to shift
your shape and pretend to be something you aren't.
We want you to go into the city and shift your shape
so well that no one will know you are coyotes. Then
come back and tell us your story.”
There was a little more enthusiasm in the air as
the coyotes left for the city. This might even be fun.
That dead trick had certainly been impressive.
Maybe they could learn something
from the old man and woman
after all. Coyote Clan descended
on the unsuspecting city. They
were everywhere. Laughing
Whirlwind Coyote pretended
to be a prostitute. Pimp
Coyote pretended to be a nice
Jewish boy. Tall Stranger in
Black Coyote pretended to be
a doctor, and actually helped
some woman give birth in a
taxi. Murderous Poet Coyote turned
himself into a priest, snuck into a
church and heard confessions all day long, forgiving
people of the most heinous sins. Teen Angel Coyote
became a chain-smoking, whiskey-voiced waitress
and hung out at the truck stop cock-teasing truck-drivers. Blues Mama Coyote turned herself into a lilac
bush and just smelled good. Coyote-Who-Didn'tWant-To-Be-Coyote pretended to be Wolf. And those
are just a few of the stories that were told at the end
of the day.
"Pretty good,” said Grandfather Coyote when all
had finished with their tales. “There may be hope for
you yet. I was in the city all day long, watching you.
Most of you are good shape shifters, you just need a
little more practice.”
“If you were watching us, how come we never
saw you?” asked Sweet Little Innocent Coyote.
"Because I had no shape,” said Grandfather.
“Without a shape, how could you see me?”
Sweet Little Innocent Coyote's eyes went big.
“Wow! No shape. I never thought of that.”
"Well, duh..” muttered Hollywood Special Effects
10
February 2003
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
Coyote. (But real quietly, since he had the hots for
Sweet Little Innocent Coyote and didn't want to mess
up his chances of getting in her pants.)
"What's next?” asked Funky White Girl Coyote.
“Yeah, what's next?” asked all the coyotes.
Today had been fun. They were looking forward to
making more trouble
“Tomorrow,” said Grandfather with a wicked
smile, “you get to steal.”
“Really?” said Sweet Little Innocent Coyote.
“Wow!”
Hollywood Special Effects Coyote just rolled his
eyes.
The next day, all the coyotes were up before
dawn, stealing. Cars went for joyrides and got left in
strange places with the engines running and the
radios all mysteriously playing Elvis songs, no matter
what the station was tuned to. Flowerpots disappeared from doorsteps. Kisses were stolen. Attention
diverted. Merchants defrauded. Virgins deflowered
and stolen food devoured. And not an alarm went off.
Not a policeman was called. An extremely successful
day, thought the coyotes as they gathered in camp,
congratulating themselves on their exploits.
Grandmother Coyote, though, was very, very
angry. “Someone stole our dinner!” she howled. “One
of you worthless curs took the fish I was going to prepare tonight!”
She paced furiously in front of the gathering.
“Which one of you did it? I'll have your hide for a
rug!” No one spoke. Grandmother would indeed have
their hide, and it would be a long time before they
came back from that particular death.
“Calm down, Mother,” said Grandfather. “It was
a brilliant theft, after all. Who ever took that fish was
a master thief. It disappeared right in front of your
eyes, right from the kitchen table. They should be
congratulated as the best coyote of all.”
“Hah!” snapped Grandmother. “It was your
favorite… rainbow trout! There'll be no tasty dinner
for you, you old fool.”
“What? Trout?” Grandfather turned his steely
gaze on the assembly. “Someone has gone too far.
Brilliant theft or no, I want trout for dinner. Whoever
took that damn fish had better return it!”
All the coyotes glanced at each other suspiciously. Someone had taken the fish, and now Grandfather and Grandmother had no dinner. Whoever had
taken that fish was really in for it. There was a very
long silence.
Grandmother and Grandfather Coyote had a
whispered conversation, and then Grandmother
spoke, saying, “What we want is the fish back. I
won't take the hide of the thief, and whoever took
that fish will be remembered as the best thief of all for
as long as we Coyotes tell stories in our councils.”
“You have our word,” said Grandfather. There
was a short silence, and then a chorus of voices sang
out all at once.
“I took it,” said Murderous Poet Coyote.
“I took it,” said Poor Little Rich Girl Coyote.
“I took it,” said Hollywood Special Effects
Coyote, who was still hoping to impress Sweet Little
Innocent Coyote and get in her pants.
The voices came fast and furious. “I took it.”
“NO, I took it.” “It was me.” “Liars! I took it!” “You
couldn't steal candy from a baby!” “I took it! I'm the
best thief.” In a matter of seconds, the coyotes were
all nipping and snarling at each other. It looked like a
serious brawl was going to break out.
“ENOUGH!” roared Grandfather with his medicine voice. (Which sounded like lightning striking and
was impossible to ignore.) There was instant silence.
“There's an easy way to settle this. Whoever
took that fish, bring it back here. NOW!”
The coyotes scattered, each of them thinking the
same thing: What a liar those other coyotes are. I
took that fish. It's in my camp, and I'll show those
sorry lying sons of dogs (which is a great insult to a
coyote) who really is the best thief.
And each coyote went back to their camp, and
got the fish they had stolen, and brought it back.
Pretty soon there was an enormous pile of fish in
front of Grandmother and Grandfather Coyote, and
they were all looking at each other in amazement.
“How can this be?” Grandmother whispered to
Grandfather. “There was only one fish. Now there's
enough to feed everyone.”
“I don't know,” replied Grandfather softly. “It's a
mystery to me.”
Murderous Poet Coyote spoke. “Grandmother, I
really did take the fish. You turned your back for just
a second to get some water, and I snatched it away,
quick as a wink, silent as dust.”
“That's exactly how I stole it,” said Swiss Chocolate Coyote.
“And I,” said Sweet Little Innocent Coyote, who
was now no longer quite so innocent, but was still as
sweet as ever.
“And I,” said Blues Mamma Coyote.
As they each spoke, it became apparent that the
same thing had happened to every one of them.
11
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
February 2003
“Were you playing a trick on us, Grandmother?”
asked Laughing Whirlwind Coyote.
“No,” said Grandmother. “There really was just
one fish.“
“I hate to admit it, but we're just as astonished
as you are,” added Grandfather. “It's a Mystery.”
“What do we do now?” someone asked.
“That's easy,” said Grandfather. “We have a
Party!”
Those coyotes partied all night long. They
feasted on trout until their bellies looked like melons.
The moon came up and they yipped and howled.
Then Big-hearted Coyote, Gorgeous Ballerina Coyote,
River Coyote, Funky White Girl Coyote, Horny Nun
Coyote, and Blues Mamma Coyote tuned up their
drums and fiddles and their voices and got the music
going.
Murderous Poet Coyote and Laughing Whirlwind Coyote danced until the moon went down.
Hollywood Special Effects Coyote finally managed to talk Sweet Little Innocent Coyote into going
into the bushes with him, and found out that not only
was she not as innocent as he had thought, but also
much much sweeter. (They married forever and had
many pups together and became Grandfather and
Grandmother themselves in time.)
Loveable Coyote and Swiss Chocolate Coyote
played cards all night, and Swiss Chocolate Coyote
lost his tail and one ear. Soft-Spoken Coyote, Hard
Luck Coyote, and Three-Toed Coyote talked philosophy and astrology until Three-Toed and Hard Luck
got in an argument over the effects of the rising sign
on karmic destiny, and had to be pulled apart before
they killed each other.
Bad Pun Coyote and Pimp Coyote sat up telling
stories. Red Baby Coyote and Gay Cabarello Coyote
and Healing Chakra Coyote and Librarian Coyote and
Songwriter Coyote and… well, I won't tell you what
they did, nor some of the others, but it was a great
party, and it lasted all night.
Grandfather and Grandmother Coyote watched
over it for a long time, then they strolled off to bed,
unnoticed by the revelers, where they curled up under
the crescent moon and dreamt of each other.
Late the next morning, with not a few hangovers
and not a few bumps and blushes and giggles, they
convened again.
“One last day we are together,” said Grandfather. “One last day, and then you must go back out
into the world, hopefully as better coyotes than
before. Today is the day to tell lies. I want you to go
and live a lie, or tell a lie, or make up a lie, and then
come back and lie to us.”
“I cannot tell a lie,” giggled Loveable Coyote.
“Liar,” said Three-Toed Coyote.
“Shush!” snarled Murderous Poet Coyote, who
had the worst hangover of all.
Well, I can only tell you that some lies got told.
And some truths, but since they were presented as
lies, no one believed them. Or did they? There were
some real tall tales and fantastic stories told, but you
had to be there. Or did you?
When it came time to say goodbye, some of the
coyotes were already gone. Grandfather and Grandmother were a little sad to see the Clan go, but as
Grandfather said later, “It's crazy enough being a
coyote without having them underfoot all the time.”
The Coyote Clan went back out into the world
and started lying and stealing and shape-shifting
again. They were a little better at it than before, so
Grandmother and Grandfather Coyote reckoned their
refresher course had been something of a success.
“But they could still be better,” growled Grandfather to Grandmother. “Too much trouble of the wrong
kind in the World today. Too much trouble and not
enough Magical Mischief.”
“They'll do just fine,” said Grandmother. “Just
fine. After all, it's in their blood.”
And she smiled her most mischievous smile.
12
February 2003
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
Stones
By Emerald North
Within the wash,
I sing.
Touching stones,
I pass,
They beckon.
The crunch beneath my feet asks
What road?
What seeing, knowing and perceiving?
What intent?
Tears of longing erupt along a trail that Fox left.
A white flash
And I am gone.
An ancient bed of stones
A bush lit by an unseen sun.
Blue sky
A cleft of earth
A calling and a call
a fully engulfing grief
A grandmother’s kiss
Nothing to be done
except surrender.
Be like stone
quiet and deep
full of immensity and the slowness of time.
Travel roads made brillant by this swirling down.
Prayers cast are prayers drawn in timelessness
so slow they cannot be heard
so deep they revebrate
within stone
after stone after stone.
13
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
February 2003
Tiny Coyotes
By Trebbe Johnson
F
already died in the cooking pots or in our bowls of
food made a dash for our mouths. One man confessed that fear of midges had almost prevented him
from embarking on the vision quest. When we ate, he
solved the problem of windlessness by creating his
own breeze, as he walked around base camp in
meandering patterns (not unlike those of the
insects),eating on the run.
We all wore mosquito-net hats, except for one
man, an avid climber and hiker, who had considered
such protections beneath him and now, bitterly regretting his decision, sat with his face wrapped in a
yellow scarf from India printed with images of the
Buddha. My assistant, Leonie FitzGerald, was completely shrouded behind a black shawl printed with
big red roses, which formed a tent from her head to
her knees.
Midge jokes abounded. One woman asked if she
would be breaking her fast if she inhaled a mouthful
of midges. The man in the Indian scarf imagined a
naked vision quester fleeing through the woods, pursued by a pack of midges.
“You know,” one of the women complained as I
attempted to return to the subject of the death lodge,
“it would be a lot easier to concentrate on what
you're saying if it weren't for the midges.“
But there was no way to escape them. I, the
guide, was determined to be fair and philosophical. I
reminded the questers that this was the midges’ country, that we were but visitors. I cited the pattern of the
mythic journey, which demands that the heroine confront the monsters that plague her, for, chances are,
they are guarding the treasure she most longs to find
and bring back to her people. I even suggested to the
group that we do a dance with the midges, get to
know their ways. There was something rather whimsical and graceful about the way they darted and spun
ive shrouded faces were aimed in my direction
as I sat on a log in soft, drizzling rain and
expounded upon the death lodge ceremony.
“It's a good idea to do it at the beginning of your
solo,” I was saying, “because then you can tie up
loose ends and say goodbye to people who might otherwise get in your way. You can call in those you
have unfinished business with, or you can...“
Suddenly I had to laugh. The people around me,
huddled in rain gear, their faces masked, might have
been members of a religious cult known for its
predilection for anonymity. They might have been terrorists.
Three of them resembled beekeepers. But no,
they were vision questers, hearing final suggestions in
base camp the night before beginning their solo in
Loch Ard Forest, Scotland. The reason for the protective covering was the midges, tiny, voracious creatures
known in America as gnats or “no-see’ems.” The
midges were out, and they were hungry.
They materialized as soon as the breeze
stopped. In fact, one of the men had informed us that
the wind had to be blowing at least 3.5 miles per hour
to disrupt the frantic diving and twirling patterns the
insects executed in a few square inches of space in
front of your face. They were especially active in the
evenings, when the air was still and the midges that
had hatched during the day in damp areas of the
forest made their way into the long blue midsummer
twilight to feed. Rain did not deter them, so tonight's
conditions were—for us humans, at least—the most
miserable of all: rain plus midges.
But rain or sun, night or day, they were relentless. They swarmed around our faces, plunged into
our rubber Wellington boots and climbed up our legs
to bite red bracelets around the tops of our socks.
When we ate, members of the swarm that hadn't
14
February 2003
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
in front of our netted faces, after
all. They were a bit like subatomic particles making lacy,
enigmatic patterns in a particle
accelerator. What might they have
to tell us about their life? The
group declined to dance.
And, truly, it is hard to be
generous when you are under
attack by an army of specks. The
midges, collectively, were the
Coyote on our Highlands Vision
Quest, the trickster determined to
drive us crazy and divert us from
our serious, important business.
Coyote does not always have a
long scruffy tail, big ears, and a
red tongue that dangles loosely
and lasciviously out of his
mouth. Sometimes he's the size
of a pencil point, with little delicate wings and a billion brothers and sisters.
The legends of Coyote (or his counterparts,
Raven, Hare or the clown, in some American Indian
tribes) portray a fellow with an enormous appetite for
sex, a crazy sense of play, and a manner of insinuating himself into groups that is at once aggravating
and naive. He comes sauntering into some ongoing
game or task and begs to be allowed to take part, and
then he breaks all the rules and spoils things for
everyone else. When he sees a woman he wants and
can’t get to her, he sends his penis out across lakes or
berry patches to do the job for itself.
And he’s a creator. His unabashed confidence
that there is no place in the universe he doesn’t
belong makes him a wild and original inventor. When
he needs something, or believes the world needs it, he
doesn’t waste a moment. He creates. Coyote taught
the animals how to use fire. He placed the stars in
the night sky. He killed the monsters that ravaged the
land. He devised games and songs and ways of
making love.
The trickster keeps us from taking ourselves too
seriously. He (or she—I'm told that the midges who
bite are the females) bumbles into our neat little realm
of decorum and privacy and overturns it with outrageous demands, unsettling disguises, and in-your-face
persistence. The midges were outstanding tricksters.
They respected no boundaries. When we squatted in
the bushes, they even got into our underpants! They
invaded our shelters and died in our food!
Sometimes Coyote's behavior is so impetuous
that he shows absolutely no consciousness of his own
physical well-being. He plucks his eyes out or roasts
his own anus over a cooking fire. The midges showed
this same kind of ignorance of themselves as bodies
moving in the world they had to survive in. When we
cooked dinner they tried to settle on the enticingly
warm lid of the cooking pot. Instantly, of course, they
leaped off in hot-footed alarm, only to be drawn irresistibly, idiotically, back to the heat. Those who tried
a second time—most of them—died twitching and
jerking on the aluminum lid. And sometimes, like
Coyote, the midges seemed to be obeying some higher
imperative that so beguilingly beckoned to them that
they completely forgot about the humans they were
ordinarily driven to torture. In late afternoon, for
instance, as I changed into warm layers for evening, I
saw them congregated on the warm western inner
wall of my tent, blind pilgrims drawn to some golden,
synthetic promise, ignoring utterly the flesh they
found so irresistible at other times.
I tried to have compassion for them, I really did.
I tried to set an example for the vision questers. But I
lost all control, aplomb, and dignity on the last night
of the solo. At 2:00 AM a call from nature that I had
been trying desperately to ignore finally drove me out
of my tent and into the rainy, still twilight, which
lasted throughout the night in the country of the high
north. The midges were out there, biding their time.
The bladder, even under the most desperate of
circumstances, will not be hurried. Helpless, a victim
15
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
February 2003
of my own body's urges and completely unable to
shield that bared body from its tickling attackers, I
squatted out there in the wet, blue-gray meadow for
an interminable stretch of time. Finally the deed was
done. I dashed back to the tent, ducked under the
open fly, unzipped the mesh door of the tent
itself, hurled myself in, then zipped up
again around my arm, which I reached
out to close the fly. The fly’s zipper
stuck. I tugged, praying the gods
would take pity and fix it. They did not.
My choice now was to leave the fly
open, get back into my sleeping bag, and spend
the rest of the night getting increasingly soaked by the
rain; to remain inside the tent and try to free the
zipper from there, all the while leaving the door wide
open for the midges; or to sacrifice myself temporarily
for the sake of a midge-free rest once I had succeeded
in loosening the zipper.
I chose the latter. Crouching between the mesh
tent and the fly, I worked frantically at the stubborn
zipper, uttering the same four-letter word over and
over and over like an insane mantra, and suffering,
unchecked and unprotected, the onslaught of midges.
I could feel them settling on my skin, crawling around
my eyes and mouth, making unchecked forays into
the sanctum of the tent. Finally the zipper came free.
I dove into the tent. Several million midges hitchhiked
a ride on my face and arms. I yanked my headlamp
out from under a pile of clothes and turned it on. The
little bugs, transparent wings folded neatly over the
back of their bodies, swarmed over my legs, my arms,
my face. They crawled onto my warm sleeping bag.
They buzzed in front of my eyes. They wriggled into
my hair.
And I gave up all efforts at compassion, all
uplifting metaphors, all spiritual equanimity. There
was no way I would have consented to dance with
these little demons. No, I did battle with the midges,
and not, I confess, with grace. I slapped, shook,
kicked my legs, cursed. Finally, I yanked my pleasantsmelling, yet useless neem oil insect repellant out of
my daypack and sprayed it over my skin, until the
poor things met their end, not by poisoning, but by
drowning in the stuff.
I don't know what the midges wanted from me,
except to enjoy a meal. There was no revelation
uttered in high tones. I was not given to see, as Arjuna
saw Krishna, the resplendent form of the midge god,
so bright and potent that I had to shield my eyes from
its glory. The midge deva did not appear before me
and offer to become my ally for life, and I did not vow
to protect her and her kind from all harm. In fact, it
occurred to me that tricksters rarely, if ever, reveal
their teachings in the grave and solemn manner that
other, more sympathetic Beings do. There is no clear
voice, as arises from the oak, giving you the lesson
that is at once utterly surprising and so familiar that
you feel you have waited your whole life to hear it.
There is no sense of having brushed against another
consciousness, as happens on occasion with the witty
and curious raven, who lets you know he's been keeping tabs on you; no endlessly shifting lesson about life,
as when you spend a few days alone with a river.
There is just that annoyance, that persistence—and
your own desperation to get as far away from your
esteemed teacher as you possibly can.
Ultimately, the best response to the midges
came from Leonie. Answering the woman’s comment
that it would have been easier to concentrate if it
hadn’t been for the midges, she told the group, “You
can spend your life thinking, if only it weren’t for this
one little problem, then my life would be fine, then I
could really do what I want to do. The midges are
those little problems that will always get in the way of
the important things, if you let them. How you
respond to them shows you how you respond to all
the little obstacles in life.“
On the other hand, maybe that vision quester
was right. Maybe we should have scratched the subject of the death lodge off the agenda that night and
simply scampered into our tents and snuggled into
our sleeping bags. Maybe the smart thing to do would
have been to forget about trying to conduct serious,
sacred business and simply concentrated on
protecting our asses.
Then again, it’s the trickster's job to
make us face a choice: sacred or profane? My skin or my soul? Comfort now
or enlightenment later? When Coyotes, great
or tiny, single us out, we can play best simply by
refusing to make the choice and allowing ourselves to
dangle, outraged, embarrassed, miserable—and fascinated with the predicament—in another of life’s marvelous unresolvables. When we hang out with the
trickster, we dance the dance of sacred and profane,
locked in embrace with the wild Other and whirling
around as if our whole lives depended on it.
And here’s another axiom about Coyote: She/
He/They will always do their damndest to make sure
you never react to their wiles in a way you’re likely to
be proud of when you recount the story.
16
February 2003
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
Thugs
By Bill Plotkin
canyons of southern Utah. One warm evening in base
camp, beneath a cottonwood by a desert spring, I
invited my companions to help me explore the thugof-me. I asked if one or two of them would be willing
to role-play the thugs while I took the part of the victimized and frightened dream-ego. Two of them, a
man and a woman, immediately stood up, with mischievous sure-I’ll-help gleams in their eyes. Swallowing hard, I gave them the basic scripts and attitudes
and asked them to improvise within the framework of
my dreams. I enacted the persona of my dream-ego,
who was rather less assertive and confident than I
think of myself in the dayworld.
These two thugs did a remarkably good job (the
creeps)! They messed with me, pushing me around
with their questions and comments and occasionally
their arms. They got in my face, questioning my
authenticity, my values, my realness. They didn’t give
a damn about my precious car or possessions. The
other group members, sitting in a circle around us,
A
few years ago, on a wilderness journey, I found
myself with the opportunity to reclaim a piece
of my Shadow. Over many years, I had been
dreaming of being accosted by thugs—Shadow figures, for sure.
Typically they were inner-city street people of
various “other” ethnicities. They ripped me off,
mugged me, or stole my car. They always seemed to
enjoy their lawless ways, and it would be an understatement to say that they showed no positive regard
for me. Their attitude seemed to be that I was a
wealthy, unhip, middle-American—not worth offering
the time of day and certainly not worth sitting down
and being real with. I (the dream ego) felt victimized
by them and saw them as mean-spirited trash.
This series of dreams culminated in the spring of
1997, when I had at least one such dream every night
for several days running. This got my attention. At the
time, I was leading a group on a Soulcraft Journey, an
eight-day underworld excursion through the redrock
17
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
February 2003
would, from time to time, call out new responses or
perspectives for the thugs. The thugs invited them to
join their ranks. Before long, there were eleven thugs
and me and no one was left sitting. This was getting
rather uncomfortable and uncomfortably real. I began
to panic, and then tears of sadness and shame spilled
from my eyes. And then... admiration for these thugs!
Through the keen, probing, and relentless “assistance” of the role-playing thugs, I came to see that
the thugs-of-me possessed some qualities that I
admired—a fierce, no-holds-barred genuineness, the
ability to look the other in the eye and speak the
plain truth regardless of whether it might hurt. What
they said was always from the heart. I learned that
the Inner Thug possessed some authenticity, courage,
chutzpah, and tough-love that my ego lacked. This
came as a humbling shock: where I had earlier felt
righteously victimized, I now felt chagrined for having
been prejudiced and blind to the rich world of these
“poor” people of my nightworld. Now I could see that
in my everyday life I exhibited a constraint, a timidity,
a social distance that restricted the range and power
in my work as a guide as well as in my most intimate
relationships.
I vowed to free the slaves of thuggery within me!
I took it as a practice to embody the Thug-of-me, to
look people in the eye and speak the plain truth to
the best of my ability and with as much love as I
could muster. My job was to become that Loving
Thug, to assimilate him. This required me to emulate
more of the qualities of the “heart warrior” about
whom I had spoken for years but had not embodied
nearly as much as I might have. Gradually I found
that when I did so skillfully, it worked! People felt
seen, honored, deeply met. With few exceptions, they
didn’t go away feeling mugged, but loved. Imagine.
So after years of being accosted by nightworld
thugs, these dreams ended in April 1997; I have not
had another since. Except one, that is, a few months
later. But in that one, I (the dream-ego) was the thug!
The Storm
By Jeffrey Duvall
O
You could tell by the way it came in and dropped
that it was serious. The lightning actually sparked
horizontally down the canyon and bounced off of the
walls like a ricocheting bullet. One naturally begins
to think less about the details or worries of one’s life
and focuses on survival. It was a flash flood area. I
had known a man caught in a flash flood in this same
canyon. Tonight, the rain lasted into the night.
Toward midnight it intensified to the point of being
beyond endurance, with explosive thunder and blinding lightning. I was camped under an open tarp with
a center pole. The water was starting to flow down
where I was; it was spewing over the edges of the
canyon in sheets in a thrashing, screaming storm, the
kind of ruckus where you don’t know if a wave of
water will wash you away. In the middle of all this, I
heard this tapping on the tarp. One of the men had
ne year I brought a group of men to Negro
Bill Canyon near Moab, Utah, for a three-day
fast. They were out when the storm came in.
Two days earlier we had walked nearly five miles into
the canyon and had completed a day of council and
preparation, considering safety and confirming the
questions and prayers they would take into their
solos. They had been out one night. One man had
camped near the base of a 220-foot crevice in the
Navaho red sandstone painted with the clearest representations of Kokopelli I’d ever seen, complete with
erect penises, as was the old way, a row of them
painted around a bend in the rock. The man camped
and played his bamboo flute in harmony with the
trickster god. Another man was at the base of the
canyon and another farther out. A storm flew up the
canyon, furious with lightning and thunder and rain.
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February 2003
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
returned with a look of terror on his face. He was
embarrassed, but wanted to come in with me. A
while later another scratched on the tarp, and he
came in with his gear. They came back in shock. They
thought they were going to die. None of them had
been in a storm like this. The third man never came
in, and we imagined him swept away. In these times
of chaos that can hit us like a furious storm or can hit
us on a Monday morning while driving to
work, the one healing salve is
devotion, to each other
and the storm of
the very existence we
share.
had come to terms with the possibility he might die
out there. And yet he stayed, knowing that he would
learn something about how to live. Hearing his story
we all realized his courage and endurance had been a
great prayer.
In some ways, these men came there to have
their hearts broken open. Nature, the power and
beauty and awe of it, can break us open and bring us
to the place of receiving blessings. Alice
Walker has spoken of the ways
in which her heart has
been broken open
and spilled
feelings,
opened
so the
wind
may
pass
through
it. What
does it
take for us
to find a path
that opens us in this
way? How do we place
ourselves in the path of an overwhelming storm, so that we are driven to the very
bedrock of our souls and this too breaks open and we
are swept into the grief of life? When we can feel and
be alive fully? Michael Meade talks about the value
of betrayal, when the youthful innocence that trusts
that all will be perfect for us gets wounded. I see that
each season must be betrayed by the one that comes
after it, and so the cycles may continue. The ongoing
disappointment, the loss of expectations, the ability,
as the poet Rilke says, “To be defeated, decisively by
greater and greater opponents,” are the ways in which
awakening can touch us. To play safe and only spend
time with like-minded people can cut out the diversity
that enriches the greatest of teachings. These teachings can only come from reaching for what we most
desire and not getting it, or having it so briefly that
the pain of not being able to get back nearly kills
us—there lives meaning.
The
storm
shook loose
the whole psyches
of these men. The passion
and wildness of nature met their
passionate souls, as if to say, “Hey! Wake up!” They
were a basket of laundry, shook up, wrung out and
cleansed by the power of the storm. The fuzz that sets
in from the comfort of our modern age, the cares of
money, sex, status, were all washed away. They
walked out differently than they walked in. The walk
in was difficult, but the walk out was like cutting the
distance by two thirds. They had found something old
and true about themselves that night when they were
all out praying for their lives, under one of those
sandstone faces that could have broken off and
crushed them or been the source of a deluge. The
experience brought to these men in one night what
years of study and training could not have given
them, a degree of patience and compassion for their
people and respect for the power of nature, less concern for the contemporary cultural magnetism that
doesn’t necessarily breed this kind of awareness. This
happened in an instant. Nature brought the challenge. Prayer showed the way. Transformation came.
This is one of the ways, an example of a journey.
The third man did come in the next day, his eyes
ablaze with his deepest beauty, his wild nature. He
[Exerpted from Jeffrey Duvall’s book, Stories of Men,
Meaning, and Prayer: The Reconciliation of Heart and
Soul in Modern Manhood]
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CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
February 2003
Trickster Tales
from East and West
By Jeremy Thres
had been in the Ural Mountains, and evidently there
had been some sort of nuclear leak. As far as we
knew it hadn’t been reported in Russia, but a Russian
friend who’d been living in Germany had heard about
it on the news and told us about it. Had we been
caught in it? Somehow until this moment I had
pushed away the possibility; now I wrestled with it.
We had feasted on the forest mushrooms; mushrooms
rapidly absorb radiation, sometimes even glowing in
the dark! As I came to terms with this disaster, a new
fear surfaced. My closeness to the track no longer
seemed such a boon. OK, I wouldn’t get lost, but this
was the path that hunters used entering the forest.
They would easily see my improvised mosquito net
and shower curtain tarp, and I didn’t speak a word of
Russian. Worst-case scenarios of what brutal men can
do to others came my way and I wished I’d never
seen the film Deliverance! Would my potential stalkers have heard of Glasnost? Somehow I settled
down–probably the ravenous mosquitos brought me
back to myself–and I’m glad to say that a couple of
mornings later we all emerged, thinner but unharmed.
T
for vision and selfhealing I participated in took place in Russia. It
had been planned for England, but when the
preparation time approached, my two English friends
could not be seen for dust. A Russian friend, Vasudeva, was visiting, and as I shared with him about
the quest, it was clear he was as interested in undertaking one as I was. I was to be visiting Russia later
that year as part of an exchange program I’d been
involved in, so we arranged to do the quest after that.
Vasudeva was looking for a suitable site to found a
community, so he would combine that search with a
search for a quest site.
When we met that August, a site had been
found, both for the community and the quest: a village several hundred kilometers north of St. Petersburg, just downstream of the meeting point of two
rivers and backed by vast areas of wild forest–so wild
it was said that even locals would get lost in it for
days at a time.
Four of us came together for the quest, Vasudeva, a Russian woman, a Polish man, and I. (The
Polish man’s legs were erupting in sores as a consequence of fallout from Chernobyl onto his own country). Russian kilometers are tenfold longer than
English ones, and after several hours of hiking we
had to acknowledge we weren’t going to reach the
planned base camp that day. We made camp for the
night, had a ceremonial sauna, and in the morning
headed out.
Taking heed of the forest’s reputation for people
getting lost and not really knowing how much the fast
would disorientate us, we agreed that once we had
found our places we would stick to them rather than
wander at all during the four days and nights of our
solo.
I myself found a place on a raised mound fifty
yards off a track and set up home, feeling secure in
the knowledge that I would easily be able to find my
way back to our rendezvous point. I settled in. However, by the third day my security felt less settled. The
specter of death loomed. In the previous fortnight I
HE FIRST WILDERNESS QUEST
TWO YEARS LATER I WAS ASKED BACK. There were other
Russians thirsty for this experience and a deep desire
to do a wilderness rite of passage in a wild place–wild
even for them. The area they wanted to do the quest
in was far to the East, the Altai Mountains. I had
heard of the region only through Vasudeva’s stories,
most of which involved him and other friends traveling there alone and having near-death
experiences–not a great selling point, yet the place
deeply called.
By this time, blessed with energy and inspiration
from the first fast, I had more formally engaged with
this work, apprenticing with the School of Lost Borders and going out twice more on the land. We (my
new partner and six Russians) met for preparation at
Grishino, the community Vasudeva had helped found
and which by now had begun to establish. A couple
of the participants seemed ill-prepared for the experience, having not yet found time for the exercises we’d
20
February 2003
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
recommended. Another, Natasha, who’d fasted with
me on the previous occasion and who was organizing
the Altai part of our journey, was speaking of a hike
she intended to take during her quest up a certain
mountain. We were heading for “the four corners,” a
point where four countries meet: China, Russia, Mongolia, and Khazaksthan, and from the peak that
Natasha wanted to explore you could see into all
four. It sounded ambitious when one was fasting, and
we urged caution, particularly as she was planning to
fast. But she had fasted before and was clearly quite
determined. Determination is a truly strong and splendid quality in the Russians, enabling them to achieve
incredible things within a sometimes very challenging
system, but in this case it felt a bit headstrong. Still,
until we reached the Altai and got to know the geography of the site who were we to know what was possible?
After four days on a train and two days on a
bus, we arrived at Gorno-Altai. So many times it
would have been great to stop the bus and say, “This
will do just fine.” The high Mongolian-type plateau,
eagles on the telegraph poles, and tantalizing caves
would all have made wonderful fasting places, but on
and on we drove, chants easing our way. From our
arrival point we were told that after just a few hours’
hike we’d be at some sacred lakes where we would
camp for five days before embarking on our quest.
Some other Russians were traveling with us and we
all carried supplies for the trip. Those in front walked
fast, the rest as fast as they could manage with such
weight, and gradually the gap widened. When we all
caught up with those in front it was late afternoon.
That was when we discovered that the leaders had
gone up the wrong valley, and we’d all followed them.
We stopped for tea. Three women, including
Natasha, headed off to find the lake that was our destination, planning to return soon and guide the rest of
us there. By morning, they had not returned.
Strangely, no one but me seemed worried that they
might have gotten lost; they seemed to have no doubt
that they could take care of themselves, Still, there
was the question of where the lake was. The previous
day’s leaders wanted to head west; my partner and I
had the strong feeling that was not the way to go, and
since we were carrying ten days’ worth of food, we
did not fancy another wild goose chase. The group sat
together and discussed our alternatives, and gradually
chose a direction that felt best to the majority. We
headed over alpine meadows until we met a herdsman, who became a guide for us until he was sure
we’d find the rest of the way ourselves. At one point,
coming into a valley, we were greeted by the unforgettable sight of a herd of wild horses galloping away.
(The local people herd the horses and deer, using
enormous fences to channel them together to harvest
from them before releasing them into the wild again.)
It wasn’t till three days later that Natasha and
her two friends finally caught up with us at the lake.
Exhausted, but safe and well, they had gotten further
lost on their reconnaissance mission, but instead of
panicking, they had just settled down to enjoy where
they were and gradually they had found their bearings. It turned out that the map they had been using
skipped one or two valleys!
More importantly for us, though, Natasha turned
and said “I now have a greater respect for this work,
and on my quest I’m going to stay in one place the
whole time!” Rising up behind her, beyond the lakes,
was the mountain she had planned to climb, and
somehow it felt as if the whole area was smiling.
THE THIRD TRICKSTER STORY involves another Russian,
visiting us in England a year later. Zhenya had come
to experience a quest with the aspiration to lead them
in his homeland. He couldn’t have seemed better
qualified; he was a wilderness guide, environmental
impact assessor, parent, and man with a huge heart.
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CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
February 2003
He and the other trainee were thirsty both for the
work and to see this country they were visiting. Showing them the sights of London on their arrival evening
we asked if they were tired. Their wide-eyed response
was, “We could do this all night!“
Zhenya’s penchant for exploring on night walks
continued when we got to Devon, in southern England, where I live and where we planned to hold the
vision quest. He returned after the first night’s exploration with handfuls of flowers plucked nocturnally
from microclimates he’d found in local woods. The
next day we assigned them a formal night exercise, so
Zenya was in his element. He headed for the forest
again, wanting to be in as wild a place as the local
area could offer and thoroughly engaged with the
exercise.
This time, however, he felt England’s smallness,
so different from his own native land, and said to
himself the fateful words, “I couldn’t even get lost
here.” Earlier in the evening he had felt some presence breathing in the woods; now he heard it laugh,
and the next thing he knew, he was lost. For several
hours he wandered, trying to get his bearings. He’d
only been in England two days, he didn’t speak English; he didn’t know the name of the house where he
was staying, or even the nearest village. He had no
idea of my surname and his pronouncement of my
first name was definitely unusual. The trickster had
got him by the short and curlies!
Sometime in the early hours he finally came
across a place he recognized and got back to us as
dawn was breaking.
Dartmoor, Devon (an area known, amongst other
things, as the place that inspired Sherlock Holmes’s
“Hound of the Baskervilles“). It was the morning for
the people to come in from their solo, but there was a
thick fog, and two had not returned by the time we’d
suggested. Perhaps I could have handled one missing
quester, but two certainly set me on edge. I began to
really worry and run over emergency procedures in my
head. Somewhere in there, those angels with trumpets
began to be woven into my prayers, and I found
myself thnking, “If only they were real! Please bring
back these people safe and well. Look after them,
Great Spirit! Dear angels, bring them back to us!”
Intuively, I was getting the message the two
missing people were OK, but still they hadn’t
returned. Finally the time came for us to go out and
search for them. While one person stayed at base
camp, the rest of us split into two groups, making
sure we had our bearings, and headed off in the
direction of their sites. We connected with one person
almost immediately not far from the camp and
coming towards us in the fog. Someone returned to
base camp with her and the rest of headed on in
search of the other. As we crossed the river and
headed up the slope, the sun began breaking through
the fog, and since we were on open ground, it wasn’t
long before we could see her coming up the slope
towards us. Boy, how glad I was. Even now she was
heading the wrong way for base camp, as she’d gotten
completely disoriented, but fortunately she was safe
and unharmed.
A few hours later we were back in civilization,
arriving at a friend’s house, where we would have a
reincorporation sauna and chill out for a while. The
tensions of the morning were beginning to leave me.
Suddenly, there on the ground something golden glistened. I reached down to see what it was, and flying
there nonchantly across the paving stones was a tiny
image of an angel with a trumpet! Allelulia, and
thank you, I will not deny the possibility of you
again!
THE FINAL STORY RELATES TO MY OWN anxiety for people
on or preparing for a quest, be it myself or others.
While apprenticing for this work, I had learned that
vision can appear in many forms, that it’s not necessarily all angels with trumpets. I often share this
insight with people as I prepare them for their solo,
laughing a bit at the thought of such an archetypal
image actually appearing to someone. Another snippet of wisdom I picked up at some point was that,
traditionally, people are protected during this sacred
time of fasting. Nevertheless, this wisdom has not
stopped me being deeply anxious on occasion, and I
continue to pray fervently for the people!
On this one occasion, a colleague and I were
supporting a group of five out on the open moors of
22
February 2003
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
Larry’s Story
By Mike Bodkin
L
We talked and talked about it. What did it mean, this
recognition, and could he use it to crack open the
high rock walls of his life? For the moment, all he
knew was that he wanted to go home, and he needed
to wait two more meaningless days. He was sure he
had failed the vision quest.
About six months after this trip, we did a small
fundraiser, and I sent a note to all those who had
recently been on one of our trips, including Larry. To
my surprise, he sent back a check for $75, a gift to
Rites of Passage. I was intrigued but unable to reach
him by phone. I next heard from him when we were
advertising a winter trip to the southern end of Death
Valley. It was now more than two years since his
group had returned. He called me and said, “I think
I’m ready to try it again.”
At the pre-trip meetings, he told us his story of
the past two years. He’d returned so full of despair–
in fact, feeling his sorrow for the first time–that he
chose to go into therapy. He chose a therapist who
would work with his body and his felt experience
rather than just what was going on in his head. The
therapy opened up the world of his inner experience
to him, and he began to make friends with his inner
demons and to live with his grief and longing. He’d
even met a woman he felt attracted to and was very
cautiously considering the possiblity that he could be
in relationship. Now he felt ready to attempt the
vision quest a second time.
This time, Larry put his circle in a place open to
the four directions, and invited in the spirits of the
directions. He left a small gap to the south so that his
demons could visit him and chat—he was ready for
them this time. Throughout the three days and nights,
he waited for them to come, intent and focused, yet
strangely at ease with himself. He discovered many
things during this time, but the demons never did
show up, despite the invitation.
Larry’s story reminds me of vision quest stories
arry’s vision quest story speaks to a part of me
that knows what desolation and abandonment
feel like, and his healing nourishes me also. Larry
first called Rites of Passage, our vision quest organization, to ask about coming on a week-long trip to the
Mojave Desert. At the first of our pre-trip meetings, he
laid out his life story. In his early forties, he had a
highly skilled and responsible position as a cardiac
nurse at a hospital, where he gave his attention to
help save lives. But his own life felt empty and meaningless. His last attempt at a relationship was over ten
years past, and he was pretty sure he was incapable of
loving intimacy, although he wanted it more than anything in the world. He had attended a series of workshops, seminars, and retreats, all focusing on his
personal growth, and had gotten absolutely nothing
from any of them, he said. He wanted to go on the
vision quest to decide, once and for all, if there was
any hope for him. If not, he’d settle down to live with
his depression and not expect anything more.
We set up a base camp in the Last Chance
Range, in a canyon frequented by coyote and an
occasional bighorn sheep. Larry looked intense, determined and even grim going out to look for a solo site.
He had rarely laughed or smiled through the pre-trip
meetings, the long drive down, or now as we ate our
final meal with the group. The next morning, he was
off to his site. I breathed a sigh of relief. On the
second day of the quest, I went out for a long hike up
canyon, away from the questers. It was raining lightly
but wasn’t cold. Returning to our base camp at about
2 in the afternoon, I saw Larry sitting there. His
vision quest was over, he told me. He had been on
his site, trying to feel the earth and the spirit, and he
had prayed to God to help him. And God had
responded, had in fact told him the following: “Get
out of here, you’re not my son.” Larry felt this as the
ultimate rejection, and I think it is true that feeling
rejected by God may be the most profound despair.
23
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
February 2003
from the Esquimo culture, where a man can be
grabbed and overcome by a spirit, and will be lost forever if he doesn’t go back to complete the battle. In
these stories, too, there is no time limit to the struggle. When Larry returned to base camp this time, he
looked radiant and at peace. As he told his story of
inviting his terrors to visit, I got goose bumps. At a
reunion meeting about a month after his return home,
he shared that he was now at the beginning of a relationship with someone he cared for. He felt tender
and new, but was willing to walk the path of vulnerability and love. For me, he remains a teacher about
the importance of walking into, and through, the
empty sense of hopelessness.
International Wilderness
Guides Council Gathering
From October 21-25, 2002, a gathering of more than
one hundred wilderness rites of passage guides from
eight countries met in an old and commodious barn
at Venue Henslerhof, Titisee, near Freiburg, Germany.
For five days, as the rain beat at the gold and orange
leaves and made rivulets in the grass between barn
and tipi, we came together as a truly international
community. We shared ideas and concerns, danced to
the intoxicating beat of African drums, prayed for our
souls and our societies in the sweat lodge, and shared
the challenges and joys of living in countries we love
and rage at and long to change. As discussions got
underway for how to create an international School of
Lost Borders, we began to see that what we have in
common and what we long to bring into the world is
our greatest strength.
Here, from an American, a Scott, a South
African, and a German, are some reflections on the
first international gathering.
a discussion on forty-three different areas of interest.
The Way of Council in a large group connected our
heart space, and fish bowl councils were used to
teach us about the challenges and gifts of being
German, South African, American, and a youth. Two
afternoons of workshops were offered and one
evening we shared mini-expos. Through it all the joy
of the drumbeats from South Africa called us to dance
and sing
For me, there were three major themes: 1) the
unity of our hearts in the diversity of our cultures, 2)
the balancing dance of male/female energies, and 3)
the call for community and continued communication. We left with the impetus to strengthen connections within our respective national communities and
facilitate greater continued communication amongst
one another. At present the WGC website (wildernessguidescouncil.org) can serve as one of the focal
points for this exchange until a true global network
arises from our combined efforts.
—Farion Pearce
Wilderness Guides Council Netkeeper
Ventura, CA, USA
THE FIRST INTERNATIONAL Wilderness Guides Gathering
was a very rich and inspiring opportunity to explore
and share our cultural heritages, as well as all the different ways we are going about this common call for
rites of passage to support one another and the earth.
Three continents were represented with ninety-nine
Europeans, twenty-three North Americans, and ten
Africans.
Not only were there many cultures present, a
variety of modalities were used to facilitate greater
sharing. The process of Open Space Technology
offered anyone a chance to lead and/or participate in
THE MOST IMPORTANT THINGS about this gathering for us
were to feel that we belong to an international family
of racoons, of incredible beautiful individuals with
good hearts and that the deep heart-connection we all
made towards the end, committed us newly to the big
dream we all dream.
After we started off with the risk to get stuck in
our heads, we all together entered the place Farion
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February 2003
CIRCLES ON THE MOUNTAIN
and Kent once called the “deep indigenous”: the
place where we know, beyond nationalities, cultures
and history, who we are, what to do and what always
has been right.
Grandmother Irmtraut got the courage to name
the shadows of Second World War traumas and
council became a healing tool for those who needed
to talk about their war experiences, from South Africa
to the US.
We called in the ancestors and just like they’ve
been waiting for it, they dreamed through us their
circle-dream in councils and sweat lodges and they
danced through us on the dance floor of the deep
indigenous. Their choreography of the wild-men’sdance concluded with every man leaving the dance
floor and all of a sudden they were standing in front
of Steven’s chair, so that every single man would hug
and kiss him, saying words of love and farewell, while
being supported by all the women standing on chairs
and clapping in the bigger circle.
Tony Many Horses’ pipe was handed over to
Colderidge from South Africa in a solemn ceremony
and later in the pouring rain, Holger was asking Gesa
if she would marry him and she said yes. Of course
this would have been enough to make it an unforgettable event. We give our special thanks to Tony,
Farion and Kent, who became even closer friends and
mentors on our way to love.
—Gesa Flick
Holger Heiten
Kirchain, Germany
was never given a chance to go to North and share
his indigenous knowledge with people of other cultures. And how I wished he could be there—by spirit
he was there.
Some of the ceremonies are done in different
ways from as us Africans, but it was really interesting
to share and talk about this as children of the earth. I
was very much taken when we did the pipe ceremony
early in the morning at the tipi. We danced and sang
the Native American songs. The initiators of the ceremony really knew what they were doing and it was
powerful. I learnt a lot.
I regard people who do this kind work as healers, according to my own understanding. I think
people have different ways of doing their work of
healing, but getting together gives us more ideas/ways
to enhance what we already know by incorporating
both ways. People were supportive to each other. And
I think this is all about being open.
—Scotch Madhlophe
Johannesburg, South Africa
THE HEAVENS OPENED on the International Wilderness
Guides' Gathering in southern Germany, as we stood
in the wind and pouring rain for the opening ceremony. And what a blessing was bestowed on us, both
elementally and spiritually, as more than a hundred
souls, drawn from the four corners of the world, gathered in a circle of friendship, prayer, and celebration.
It was a heart-opening moment to look around the
sea of faces, and to realise that people one had never
met before were not strangers, but part of the evergrowing family of guides offering ‘wilderness rites of
passage’.
Spontaneous sharing of stories from different
cultures reminded each of us of our humanity, which
is infinitely more important than cultural division. In
trust and love old wounds were aired, witnessed, and
healed. What joy to gather in small groups to share
wisdom and experience, and how humbling to learn
how others do things. I have a vision of people
laughing and dancing together. And I carry with me
strong bonds of love and affection that fan out in a
circle, encompassing friends from many nations. I am
enriched and emboldened by the knowledge that
there are so very many wonderful souls working to
heal the wounds of our communities and our planet.
May there be many more such gatherings.
—Marie Herbert
Lassan, Inverness-Shire, Scotland
I THINK THIS MEETING HELPS in bringing forth what is
already there. This valuable legacy of wisdom that
was forgotten gets to be shared amongst the practitioners. This knowledge is in each and every one of
us, and we tend to understand it without it being
expressed to us directly.
For me the events and ceremonies were powerful, starting from the first day. While building the tipi
I was really impressed when we blessed everything,
including the individuals who were going to build the
Native American sweat lodge. I take a tipi somehow
as a respected place—everyone's place there is
respected, and we showed respect in the ritual to
build that huge tipi. Another powerful experience was
when Tony asked me to call all the ancestors. It was
an honor to me and my fellow people (I felt as an
ambassador to my country people), and most of all I
felt that our African ancestors were witnessing this
event—and guiding us. Thinking that my grandfather
25
Expanding
Borders…
We Need Your
Contributions for the
Next Issue!
The theme of our next issue will be EXPANDING BORDERS. In what new
directions are we extending our reach? How have vision quests and wilderness
rites of passage programs touched groups of people who may not previously even
have considered embarking on such a journey? For example, we’ll hear from
those who have facilitated programs for young people, including militarized
youth; elders; business leaders; and people with life-altering illness. Wilderness
Guides Council members are also venturing into some new and unusual physical
territories, such as city parks, clearcuts, superfund sites.
What new borders have you crossed or dream of crossing?
Please send all articles, stories, poems, art work, or photos to Trebbe.
Deadline: June 1, 2003.
Trebbe Johnson
Circles on the Mountain
POB 148
Thompson, PA 18465
email: [email protected]