"There's a reason for everything." So says Wise Woman Beverly, my Shaman friend, in the tradition of the Peruvian Indians.
Years ago, I was the maid of honor at her wedding to Eddie, retired postal worker/nationally-ranked Scrabble champion/ Shaman. We love Eddie. He is diversity, celebrated in one human package.
Beverly and Eddie are a delight to be with as a couple, but since their marriage, my girl time with Beverly has been limited. Sunday, because Eddie is off in the desert at Shaman school, Beverly and I spent the day together. The plan, however, was just breakfast. Here's my wise girl at breakfast at Three Degrees (supremely matching her environment).
Beverly's plan, after feeding me, was to attend a day-long Shamanic conference in Eugene with one of her original teachers. She'd planned a private session (revving up the Shamanic batteries, etc.), followed by a three-hour class on administering rites, and ending the evening with a fire circle.
I asked to go, though trust me on this, I'm not close to anything you'd call Shamanic. She said yes.
Now, if you're expecting a story about airy-fairy butterflies and we're-all-beautiful, this ain't that essay. This day was all ritual and process... greatly appealing to my "how-do-it-do-dat?" curiosity about Beverly's work.
Seven intense hours of ritual and process. That's a lot of Shaman-ing. Alternative post titles I considered, given the length and intensity of my Shamanic experience: Shaman-and-on-and-on-and-on (too negative), Shaman-a-palooza (overdone), Shaman-iacs (again, negative), Shaman-a-rama (which I like).
My friend Oliver was there, too. Beverly, Eddie, and I met him at another class we all took together last June at Breitenbush Hot Springs. He's been working night-and-day on his Shamanic chops since I saw him last year. It had aged him, like ancient-aged him, but in a good way. He looked like Oliver and acted like Oliver. But, there was something Yoda-like about him--without the annoying speech pattern and Muppet-face.
At the end of the evening, about 30 of us participated in a ritual fire. Rattles ... chanting ... honoring the planet. The usual. (No. We were not nekkid. I know exactly who is thinking that right now.) The Eugene night was clear and bright. We each created bundles of twigs, with notes of hope for the new season woven through through their branches. We tossed twig bundles on the fire, one at a time with a prayer, then watched the smoke of our hopes for the future mingle with the gathering fog.
Beverly drove us home, and for the entire two hour drive, I was unconscious, dribbling on the passenger seat, dreaming that the smoke from my twig bundle kept its integrity like those radio waves that just go on into space forever. Oh. And, I lied. We are all beautiful. Butterflies are kick-ass in their ability to beat their wings in Brazil and cause a rainstorm in Iowa, as well as their lovely metaphorical applications. And, they're delicious on crackers. (I made that last part up.)
How was your Sunday?
