The Bottomless Lake
My clearest vision comes when I allow my grip and focus to soften, when I can get out of the driver’s seat and trust that I am on the right path, heading exactly where I need to go. The writing process is an excellent opportunity in which to experience this possibility of surrender. Writing has led me to discover the difference between striving for expression and accessing what is always available (if I can manage to open to it). I ask for guidance through prayers, dreams, visions, signs out the window, birds looking me in the eye, anything that helps me unhook from the belief that I need to struggle to find the story.
Early in my path towards shamanic learning, I had an unnerving and transforming experience that taught me the power of surrender. After a profoundly moving weekend with Alberto Villoldo at The Omega Institute in New York, I sought out the Four Winds Light Body School for Energy Medicine and Healing in California to inquire about their curriculum. I wanted to sample a class as soon as possible before committing myself to the two -year program of the Medicine Wheel and The Healer’s Path.
The first available class was the one teaching Shamanic Divination, an elective class offered by the school. Shamans journey into non-ordinary reality in order to retrieve healing stories and to receive answers to questions for themselves and others using various divination techniques. This ancient technology would be taught and practiced in this class. Without hesitation, I registered, bought my tickets and informed my family, friends and clients that I would be away for a week come next month.
The retreat center at Zaca Lake is located on the Chumash Nation land--a winding, hilly, 55 minute drive from the Santa Barbara airport. The Santa Monica Mountains ring the land, strong silent witnesses to the many generations of this people. The Chumash say that in the old times, their elders came to Zaca Lake to die and that they believe that this body of water has no bottom. I did not yet know this story when I arrived, but I knew right away when I arrived that I was on holy ground.
Once the class began, it didn’t take long for me to realize that beginning my shamanic learning with divination was like being thrown into the deep end of a swimming pool without knowing how to swim. I was sure that I would never be able to achieve the divining arts, that I didn’t have what it took to allow this access. My ego was in the way, my fear was in the way, and what on earth was I doing here in this room full of people who were so clearly gifted? Not to mention that they were hundreds of miles ahead of me on the shamanic path, almost all of them already carrying the full mesa (medicine bag) of the shaman while I had not one stone to my name. Overwhelmed and tense, I spent much of the first two days tearfully wanting to go home, sure that I had made a terrible mistake in registering for this class.
The third day of our studies, we were instructed to use small leaves and rattles to access stories that might heal or encourage growth for each other. The Q’ero people of Peru use coca leaves, but they are illegal to import (although many shamanic practitioners smuggle them back when we travel from Peru). This was California so we were able to use the abundant bay leaves available right outside the door of our classroom. Sitting cross legged on the floor, knee to knee with a fellow student, I was told to rattle myself into a trance and then let the traditional thirteen leaves fall through my fingers over and over again, waiting for a story to drop in along with the leaves. This story would come, not from my own imagination or will, but from some other mysterious place.
I rattled and I rattled and I rattled some more until I felt brave enough to give it a try, letting the leaves fall from my hand in a continuous cascade. Long minutes went by. At first - nothing - and then more nothing. When the story began to come, it was as if I was watching it fall off the pages of a book. I became completely fascinated as it unfolded, waiting to hear what came next like a child during library story hour. I lost all sense of myself, wondering where it would lead and how it would end, forgetting even to worry about how I would remember this tale to recount it to the woman sitting in front of me. When suddenly it was over, the faucet stilled, I opened my eyes and told her what I had received, every detail clear in my mind. I watched as her tears fell and felt the hair on the back of my neck rise as she related how this tale exactly told the story of her life, herher struggles and how it would help her to make a shift in the coming days. I had only met this woman two days before and knew almost nothing about her beyond trivial introductory remarks. Clearly, the story that came in response to my prayer and intent came from a source that knew her well.
After this experience, when I caught myself falling back into that old trance of distrust in my own intuition, I reminded myself of Zaca Lake where I stumbled into the bottomless source of vision.
