(This is an old post but it felt relevant to have at the forefront again. Especially now as the emergence of another pathway, of the feminine arts and Sacred Laws, is cracking people open to seek answers for their empty and broken soul. Spiritual tourism is at an all time high. It’s a bit messy- like life- with all of the paper shamans and lack of integration and way too many “coaches”. And it is all totally where we are at and so it’s actually perfect.
Maybe you can relate. You have something to say but you are afraid of your words being minced inside mouths craving attention and regurgitated back at you with foul odor. Or, maybe you find yourself on long Facebook feeds, adrenaline pumping, reading the adversarial banter that has taken away 5–10 minutes, maybe years, of your precious life force. Or, you read something you know will be controversial and you begin to troll for the drama of that person being called out. Maybe, just maybe, you notice a quickening of pulse, a twist in the guts, and a lil something in yourself wanting to call them out, set them straight, make them wrong.
“The Sacred Wound is the critical act in which the mortal achieves divinity.”Jean Houston
What if I told you that you can never fully heal. That you can scratch to the bone, gnaw at your sinew and suckle your marrow and you will still feel an impenetrable, troubling, haunting itch.
But you will continue to scratch. And although it brings temporary relief, the scratching has created a wound. But you keep scratching and covering the wound with “over the counter” tricks in hopes that it will heal. Until one day you slip and fall in the ooze of the wound that is now inhabiting the landscape of your life.
For most of my 30s I would wake in the morning with this underlying anxiety that would hit me with a subtle waive of nausea. The thoughts that accompanied this feeling would all be centered around this theme of “running out of time to prove my feminine worthiness”. In my mind I was racing against time, I was racing against myself and I also felt as though as I was racing against other women- which is a perpetuating factor, I believe, in our current imbalances. Above all, I felt alone. When we don’t connect and learn from one another we also perpetuate a shame around our bodies not working, not being loved, not loving ourselves and so on. This separation just compounds the feelings of unworthiness and embarrassment at being (insert age here) without a man and a baby- a perfect picture of balanced family-career-love.
I remember a moment when contemplating another ceremony with Ayahuasca that my fear of Her taking away a wound deterred me from the ceremony. I have come to know how sacred my wound is. That it attracts the healing I need specific for my journey. I know that it holds medicine, and when felt, loved and integrated also holds life force and power. My life force and power. My full inheritance of the gift of being human.
I had sat with Grandmother Aya many times and so the wisdom of those experiences lives in me. Many little ego deaths, but never the complete dissolution I always prayed for. I like to hang on. I love my life and I had spent decades dismemebered from the gift of it- I was not about to hand it over that easy. Nor should I ever, or I would bypass the extraordinary self love experienced by my inner healer rising out of the wound. I might miss the miraculous capacity to source almost everything I need from within. That is my path here.
In my early 20s I met a man that unlocked my heart entirely. Along with that unlocking came all of the things that locked it up. I let myself breathe with him into a dream we had of a life of wonder and intense, passionate love. He loved me so deeply. He loved women deeply. That was why I had to leave him.
His love for women was corrupted by a thick shadow that plagues our men, our boys. I could feel his passion for the feminine, the soft, the wild, the ridiculous amount of abundant beauty, the pleasure that is a birth right. I could feel his shame in wanting that and not being able to access it without taking it or hurting it. It is easier in the face of trauma induced shame and indoctrination to hurt the thing we want rather than feel all that has kept us from it.
Recently I held space for a woman’s transformation with the help of psilocybin. We met three times. First to prepare her, enter into prayer and set intentions. Then the day of ceremony where I was an angeling, present witness to her unfolding layers. And a follow up integration session to help her make new choices and formulate a day to day plan to bring the medicine alive in “real” life.
For over an hour in the ceremony her body shook. The medicine was moving into the frozen places within her nervous system and rocking her free from the grips of old wounds. She had come to a point in her life where the day to day tools that could keep her head above water had worn out and she was suffering inside. However, she knew she wasn’t her suffering. I sense most of us know we are not all the suffering in our lives, which is why, even in the most trying circumstances, we keep going. There is an incorruptible love song for life that cannot be completely silenced. Even in death that song is alive, yet shifting and aligning to its evolution and resurrection to make more music.
“Once upon a time, When women were birds, There was the simple understanding That to sing at dawn And to sing at dusk Was to heal the world through joy. The birds still remember what we have forgotten, That the world is meant to be celebrated.”Terry Tempest Williams
Those who know the power of visions and of dreams will tell you that our dreams and our visions come from the deep mysterious space that houses and connects us all to the first flame. That every vision from this sacred space, unobstructed by the conditioned mind, is a gift and a guide towards healing for the individual and for the people. This is why every single Earthwise culture held dream circles as vital for healing the tribe and providing oracular guidance.
I have only spoken this story aloud because it is a prayer. Because when I speak it aloud I watch the person/people listening and I can see the magic awakening in them the possibility of living a mystical life. And, I need to see and feel it reflected to continue integrating its realness. Because if I didn’t feel the transmission from someone telling this story, if I didn’t see the salmon swimming in their eye like is seen in mine, I would assume the story to be fiction.
There are things I must preface in this story. Truths of my life.
I do not travel anywhere I am not fully called towards by a very deep and mysterious voice inside of me. This voice is from the Ancestral realm and guides me often. It is a felt sense that I have learned not to ignore. I do not go on vacations. I move about the Earth to the few places I have been as though it is, and it is, a classroom.
Once I say yes I begin to see the synchronicities pop up in my life to ally me along. However, in the moment of them arriving, I am somewhat still, necessarily, unaware of the fullness of their guidance. I know that I can never fully look in myself as I am being stewed inside of the cauldron. And only in arriving to clear pivot points and thresholds do I see that I was following my innate breadcrumb trail- sprinkled manna from Heaven…
It was autumn of 2017 after the impactful totality eclipse in the Northwestern hemisphere. I was being flattened by God again as I watched my entire 10 year healing arts practice crumble in a matter of 24 hours. This was not the first flattening, and so I surrendered and let another force, the one I thought I could control, take over. Injured, exhausted and yet filled with a sense of relief, I knew it was time for change and it was time to listen deeper.
I found myself exiting the city, selling everything (not much) and moving into, first, a tiny room and then 250 sq foot ADU in a small town on the Olympic coast in Washington state. As I moved I began to hear their voices. The ones who guide. The ones who have always been there. That which has never died. The ones who can tell the stories of birthing forth all Life.
You see, I have always received this guidance but I would never allow it into my heart all of the way. But Spirit is clever and Life is immaculate in Her workings, so they both found their way with me.
They call you initiation island. As my feet landed upon your soil the keeners rose into my bones. The history of grief danced in the green hills and creaked from the cracked walls of stone. Everything spoke my name; the one I had forgotten. All except those guards at the gates of admission. They were tired of Americans entering lands without rightful permission.
My plan was to head West and out to the isles. But something inside said “go South- that thing you think you are seeking requires a few more miles.” I did not know where I was headed. Port McGee was my destination.