I have been deeply interested in shamanism for more than 35 years, following the faint trails and tracks of
its wild nature. Initially in books,
rarely with a human teacher, mostly in direct experience—I have shown up again
and again to something I cannot see, who doesn’t talk back in English, and who
doesn’t notice if I’m tired or hungry or dispirited from lack of ease. So how do I know I am a student of shamanism?
Because the wild in nature keeps showing up to me—and this is the trickiest
lesson of all.
The wild nature of spirit in the world does not accommodate my
self-doubt and uncertainty by showing me again and again its message, or by
waiting until I am fully ready to pay attention. The hummingbird that appears over my head in precise
alignment with my thought about the desperate business of being a wild mom keeping
frail babies alive in a world where everything is food—can be a shining
confirmation of motherhood’s fierce beauty, or just the flash of a little bird
I didn’t quite see before it was gone.
The ability to receive shamanic teaching from wild nature is entirely my
response-ability.
All the most permeating mental qualities of our human
condition: anticipation, expectation, judgement, impatience, and control, seem
the most toxic states for being a student of shamanism. Whatever internal dialogue keeps me from sharing
a calm and neutral moment with the wild in nature is keeping me from receiving
the lesson in that moment. This is why I
consider my shamanic skill-building “homework”
to be trance drumming, and oracle card reading and meditation, because each of these require that I stop telling myself stories inside my head,
and listen instead to wise silence.
