"Smoke"

I have a small bundle of sage that was given to me by an Indian shaman.  Sometimes I burn it and inhale the fragrant smoke. Mostly I leave it in the china cupboard to remind me of meeting him.  I first posted this art in 2010.  You can read about my first experience with a sweat lodge here.  It's not the only time I've had shamanic experiences either.  You can read about my childhood experience rescuing a deer here.

Everybody and their sister told me not to go to California.  I had struck up a conversation with the shaman online and found out he’d been in prison and liked musicals.  Okay, I knew more than that.  We talked a lot one year.  I came to care for him quite a bit and I valued the spiritual insights I gained from his different upbringing and experiences.

He didn’t invite me to California.  I informed him I was coming.  Maybe this is something other people do, but I don’t.  I’m usually far more sensible and polite.  I combined the trip by meeting a close friend.

My girlfriend and her bf drove me about 1 ½ hrs in insane traffic to meet the shaman.  First impressions weren’t good, which just goes to show people deceive each other online.  My friend clearly didn’t want to leave me in his care and asked repeatedly if I was sure about it.  Yes, I was.  I can’t even tell you why either.  All common sense told me I’d cart my friend out of there if the shoe was on the other foot.

He took me to an affordable, clean hotel and left.  This was within walking distance to the ocean, and every day I walked miles along the water.  Every morning he called to find out where I was and picked me up.  We spent the days and evenings together, but not the nights – though one day he slept at the hotel while I babysat his nephew.  He was a gentleman throughout.

I tagged after him as he did his usual things, most of which involved trying to scrounge up money and jobs.  I met friends and relatives.  I shared ceremonial smoke and meals.  We threw food to seagulls and took long, scenic drives, and talked, talked, talked.

I can’t explain the ether of the whole experience.  I felt compelled to go.  I think I helped him?  He was worn from too many ministerial demands without compensation.  I reminded him his flock should feed him and make his life easier.  A dead shaman can’t help anyone.  He couldn't keep a regular job and stay constantly available for his people.

Every bit of common sense told me not to talk with him in the first place, and I'm not encouraging anyone to take risks as I did – but, it was a profound experience for me.  He is kind and self-sacrificing, sincere in his spirituality, and loved by those who know him.  We shared so much I can’t touch it here.   I'm lucky for the experience and the things he taught me.

In my day job I remind people that if you want clergy, please support them.  I'm not sure what my employers would think of my shamanic experiences, so maybe it's stupid to post this online, but I think the absolute rightness I felt about going to California meant it was right.  In the end, I guess what I'd suggest to everyone is to listen to that voice inside.  It's wiser than we are.

"Stay"

My family drove past a mostly frozen lake in early spring. A doe and her fawn were crossing the thawing ice, but the ice broke and the mother fell into the freezing water. She thrashed and splashed her way to firmer ice and scrambled up, but the fawn was stranded on the far side of the open water. It was too far for the doe to swim back, and she stood on the ice in an agony of separation. The fawn skittered around on the brittle ice, but wouldn’t attempt to swim to his mother.

I can’t remember exactly how we rescued the fawn. I do remember getting long branches just in case Dad fell in. Maybe my sister was sent across the ice because she weighed less than Dad? The important thing was that we rescued the baby and found a tiny barn to put him in. My Mom and extra siblings went inside a big building, but one sister, our Dad, and I stayed in the shed.

I can’t remember how we got the shaman either, but if someone could find one, that would be my Dad. The old man came into the tiny barn after the sun was down and saw my sister and I playing with the baby. He laid out some interesting things on a rough table and told us to quit taming the deer. I was given the job of keeping it quiet, but told not to make friends with it. My sister and Dad sang and chanted with the shaman according to his directions.

It’s a pretty sing song cadence in American Indian prayers. The shaman rocked back and forth with his eyes closed, but my sister’s bright eyes took everything in while she played her part in the song. Dad seemed controlled and focused, and I held the fawn in place with the negative magnetism of my hands. Nobody told me how to do it. I just knew that my hands had energy to make him stay without touching. I was very serious about it.

This went on a long time. I had a lot of time to look at the fawn’s spots, eyes, ears, tail, feet, fur… I was lulled into the chant and both asleep and ultra alert at the same time. The fawn eventually laid down in the straw, and I sat beside him in the glow of the Coleman lantern.

I don’t know what nation the shaman was from (maybe Iroquois?), and I definitely didn’t know his language. Just the melodic syllables repeating in choruses, dried plants smoking in the air, waving feathers, more smoke, more singing, with the flute and a drum in between.

It could’ve gone on forever, but the doe appeared at last in the light cast through the open doorway. She was too nervous to enter, but the fawn knew she was there and stood up. The shaman gave me a nod, and I released him to his mother. They stood in the light for a moment and looked at the shaman before sliding into the dark woods.

The next day, I looked at a map and realized how far the doe had to travel to get around that huge lake. There were many inlets, and her path wasn’t easy. It’s no wonder it took so many hours for her to find her way to us.

I had a relationship with a shaman many, many years later. When I told him about this experience, I admitted that I always felt jealous my sister got to sing and pray for the doe’s return. He responded, “Did it ever occur to you that you were given the harder job?” Well, no, it hadn’t. But I like that idea, and feel very privileged to have had a place where I could observe magic.

This scratchboard art is small, 3 ¼” x 2”, but then, the fawn was small.