On the one hand, I have absolutely no qualms about being here in this moment, on the path that I've fought to find myself on. I've wanted to be in the wild in a therapeutic setting for so long, it still strikes me as kind of strange to actually be here, doing this. My two weeks of training for the program honestly were some of the most profound experiences of my life. It ended over a week ago, and I feel like I've only just began to process what happened out there in the desert. I remember sitting on the train to Portland last winter, and writing about how I thought my story was just beginning. I really had no idea...I feel like my words, no matter how many times I turn them around and over, really do no justice to the intensity of this adventure.
There is a metal archway, layered in Tibetan prayer flags which stands in the middle of a field of big sage, about a 10 minute walk into the bush from base. This was my introduction to this new world, and the end and beginning of illusion. Through this arch we entered the gateway, the arrival, signifying the end of past lives, and the beginning of intention. I sat there, in the dirt under cloudless sky, incense burning somewhere close by, totally overcome by my senses. I sat there and meditated about what it is that I leave behind to begin this journey again, and then slowly crossed the threshold.
We walked that first night through the darkness in silence. We walked for hours on an old oil rig road, in single file, with no headlamps, quick enough to distract from everything but staying awake and upright. I remember the smells of the desert, and the strange updrafts of warm air between slow bursts of cool night air. Beyond that, the evening blurred around the edges, with glimpses of lucidity and the biggest brightest shooting stars I've ever seen. It was a trippy experience, walking through a tunnel as if blindfolded, no idea what lies ahead, simply focusing on the physical act of putting one foot in front of the other.
Waking up the next morning was as surreal as getting blindfolded and dropped on Mars. We slept out, and due to our spot near a couple of oil drums going all night like a bunch of well trained hippies with bongos, the exhaustion of the previous few days, and proximity to a bunch of Anasazi archaeological sites, I had some seriously trippy dreams. I remember one about mistakenly eating some poisoned mushrooms, realizing it, and trying to make myself vomit. And also one dream where the bugs flying around my face where I was sleeping where talking to me. Then to wake up under that sky, with mountains and mesas on all sides, facing one of the biggest adventures of my life, it was wild.
I think I was most surprised by the amount of emotion, honesty, and disclosure they both expected and elicited in us. I was surprised by the amount I found myself affected by our journey over those 9 days, and the amount I actually let slip from my lips. I would have considered myself a relatively self-aware person before my training for this Wilderness Therapy gig, but really it seems I had no idea. One of the main focuses for our students is to develop more of a consciousness towards the mind-body connection. We practice this regularly by checking in and reporting on how are mind, body, heart, and soul are doing. This entails no explanations, no justifying, and no pontificating, which for someone as cerebral as I tend to be, can be reallllllly hard. I found myself wanting to explain why my knee was throbbing, or say that it didn't matter, when all they require is an observation of sensation. I had a really hard time separating heart and mind for a while, because again being so caught up in my head I try to think things away, to explain and understand emotion until it makes sense and thus doesn't affect me so much. Some of the revelations were relatively simple, yet for me all the more profound. I happened to be chatting with one of our trainers one morning while putting on some arnica gel. They were asking me why and what was going on so I told them nonchalantly a bit about my knee problems, ending with "nothing really helps so I just try to ignore it." With out even hinting at psychobabble, he simply asked me why. I was stuck on that for a few days actually, and then finally it clicked. The more off balance, uncentered, foggy, or not present I am emotionally, the less I pay attention to my physical presence. And I'm in the clouds quite often these days, I'll just say. But the less I pay attention to how I'm holding my body, the more my feet overpronate, do the wrong things we'll just say, which pulls on my knees and exacerbates everything that has happened to them. The less conscious of my physical body I am, the worse I walk, and the more my knees hurt. The more my knees hurt, the more frustrated and angry and off-focus I become, further worsening the cycle. Simple mind-body awareness, but for me, it was huge.
I find it really fascinating that I have relatively little qualms talking about my own experiences with mental illness, however talking about my own small part in other peoples' still terrifies me. There are things that I said and connections that I made between issues and experiences and ramifications during that time that I've never been able to realize or share before. One night near the end of the week I sat up by the fire after everyone else had gone to sleep and ended up crying for a while with a couple of the guys. I'd been pretty shook up about the lesson on suicide watch for the students, and I'm not quite sure how it happened. I'm learning that I take on an incredibly large amount of responsibility for other people, particularly their welfare and well being, and I invite other people to use me and take advantage of my empathy and compassion because of it. Then when I'm at a low point, there is no one there for me, and I feel all the more betrayed. I am not responsible for the survival of others, but even saying so makes me feel a little...cold. Like I've lost a piece of my heart. But the weight of all of those people drags me down so deeply, it's time to let go. So I cried for all the people I've been their for, who I've talked down from the proverbial window ledge, and who I've allowed to lay down some of their burdens as my own. The last time I cried was senior year of High School when they told me that my mother had lung cancer. Over eight years ago.
We experienced a lot of beautiful spots and people, but the one that sticks with me is the sweat lodge. This was not, by any means, a sweat in the traditional indigenous sense. It was a creation of the organization and all of the people involved, that borrowed heavily from many traditions world wide. A sweat, regardless of who you are or what you are working through takes you out of yourself. I believe it is their intention to facilitate an awakening, a revelation, maybe even a spiritual experience, to show to the students that they are more than their pasts. I know for me it was one of the most profound and mystical two hours of my life, and I say that with out pretension.
Our sweat was to the four directions, one round devoted to each space and place, with breaks in between. During their time with the organization the students work through pathways based around the directions as well, each complete with tasks, responsibilities, and personal characteristics which they must embody before moving forward. Our sweat was only a small sense of the tremendous journeys they are on, and the work they must do.
I was smudged with sage before entering, placed my hamsa necklace and a small stone on the alter, knelt and prayed to the Earth and to the others with me, and crossed the threshold. Inside the lodge is pitch dark, already hot, musky, and so low you must crawl on all fours around the pit in the center. It is small enough that you must sit hugging your knees to your chest, and probably still be touching some part of another sitting next to you. They brought nine rocks from the raging fire that had been going all afternoon for the round of the south, and placed them in the center pit. The door closed, and I had to fight for a while with myself not to panic as I sat in the total darkness, temperature climbing, sweat already pouring off my face. They slowly began to pour water onto the stones one by one. Incense and herbs billowing off the pit filled the lodge with acrid and tempting steam. Then the music began, and we sang and chanted and called out to all things.
According to many traditions, to the medicine wheel, the south is a time of freedom, of play, of joy, of fire, of music, of passion, of rebellion, of youth, of red heat. This round was joyful, spontaneous, and free. We sang and screamed and yelled. We called out to our inner children, and howled at the moon. The south was exuberance, with little thought to the looming presence of the rapidly encroaching West and North. I danced in the south, and smiled wickedly. It was over too soon.
The round of the west brought figurative sundown, responsibility, facing dragons and demons. West brought the work of introspection, and a turning in my stomach. I sat in the hottest spot for this round apparently, directly in line with the fire and the pit filled now with an additional 4 stones. The west dropped all pretense of unbridled happiness, and instead faced the real personal and intense work that comes with darkness. I wanted to hide my face and make it be over.
North is winter, white, somber, and the hint of rebirth and renewal. North is taking on the dragons that you discover in the West. North is serious and a bit scary, with all sorts of talk about the people and things that have harmed you, the traumas which we have all lived through, and the damage which has been done. North is facing up to all of the little broken pieces of ourselves, and acknowledging the pain before stepping past it. North took that lump in my throat and stone in my stomach, and sort of forced it to the surface. My dragon? Twofold I think. One I already sort of mentioned, that is all of the people and things (including myself) that take advantage of my compassion and sap the life and joy from me in exchange for taking on others' responsibility and survival as my own. The other is I'm sure related, though I haven't quite completely traced the lineage yet. My dragon is my insecurity and lack of self-confidence, my inner critic that tells me its never good enough and that I am some what of a fraud. That I don't deserve to feel the way I feel and experience what I am going through. North was a wild and primeval bloody ride.
East is the coming of spring, of sunrise, the return of green, of rebirth. East brings wisdom and expects one to guide others. East was the end of our transformation that evening, as we sang and chanted our way into a new world which we would create for ourselves. East was endless, hot, and humbling. I spent most of it with my forehead flat on the ground in front of me, too completely overcome to sing more than a few words at a time. I don't remember what I said I would take with me, though I'm sure it had something to do with confidence, empathy, compassion, strength, endurance, passion, commitment. When it was finally over, with the doors blessedly open, we crawled out one by one, stopping at the threshold to intone the Lakota prayer "Aho Mitakuye Oyasin," our head to the earth pausing to all of our relations, that we are all related.
I stumbled out into the night air, totally and completely overcome by all that had just come to pass. I crawled maybe ten feet to the far side of the fire, and lay on my back looking skyward. The palms of my hands and the soles of my feet dug into the soil, and I swear I could feel the Earth pulsating. My whole body tingled as energy flow through me freely from head to foot and hand to hand and from sky and fire and breeze and stars. I lay there until I realized I was shivering, then forced myself to get up and change into dry clothes. I would have laid their for hours, for once completely and totally present, all four lines aligned and just filled up with the immensity of it all.
I wasn't myself for a few hours after leaving the sweat. I think about it a lot, try to harness the things I allowed myself to say, the things I silently intoned, the throbbing of emotion and intention in that space. I am in so many ways terrified about dealing with the students, but in that place it was meaningless. I am where I should be, I deserve the life I've made for myself.
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