In 2011 I was called to study with Hank Wesselman, paleoanthropologist and teacher of shamanic practices. I say called because in the space of one week I heard him speak about his new book, The Bowl of Light,on New Dimensions Radio; a friend lent me Spiritwalker, first volume of his trilogy, which I raced through in one sitting; and I discovered he had an upcoming workshop at my favorite retreat center the following month.
With just enough money in my account to book the workshop, I took a leap and went for it. I hoped to emerge with some useful spiritual tools, but at the very least I´d get a weeklong retreat at my favorite hot springs.
It was a strange time in my life. Everything looked fine on the outside but I was dissatisfied. I was partnered with a good man, we´d bought a house together and adopted a border collie puppy. I was putting down roots in Eugene but had a sense the time was coming to move away. A retreat was just the thing I needed to find clarity and direction.
Upon arrival, I pitched my tent at the edge of a sun drenched meadow, as far as possible from all other campers and cabins. I wanted to pretend I had the forest to myself.
On the first day Hank taught us to do shamanic journeying. He rapidly beat his drum in a way that put us into a light trance. Scientists call it a Theta brainwave pattern. When the brain is in that relaxed yet receptive mode, it is easy to engage in visualization. Shamanic journeying is a form of meditation in which you interact with transpersonal beings, spirits, perceiving them with your “strong eye”, the point in the middle of your forehead that yogis call the Sixth Chakra or Third Eye.
After class ended the first night I spent a while soaking in the tubs of rich mineral hot water by the river under the stars. Then I trudged up the hill, miner’s light shining from my forehead, to my little green tent by the meadow. I brushed my teeth, rinsing with water from my canteen and spitting onto the ground. I squat down to pee in the darkness, then entered my tent and zipped it closed. I snuggled up under my down comforter. Nothing is better than being warm while breathing the cold forest air and letting the cicada´s song lull you to sleep.
As I drifted into slumber, I was startled by the padded footsteps and the feral snarl of a big cat.
Holy meow. Was there a big wild feline right outside my flimsy wall of reinforced nylon? Was it planning on eating me for dinner? Would anyone hear me if I screamed?
My heart thundered in my chest. The Native American saying came to mind, today is a good day to die. Was it? I thought of the cat outside my tent. It had to be a cougar. Only that big feline survived in this ecosystem. Many more cougars die by human than humans die by cougar. Was it my destiny to help tip the balance?
I tried to be brave, but I hardly slept because every time I began to slip into slumber, I heard the snarl of the cougar again. Its soft paws crunched down on the forest floor, on the other side of my flimsy tent wall.
Somehow I made it to the morning alive. I stepped outside and looked for tracks or scat around my tent. Having no tracking skills, I didn´t see anything amiss among the dead leaves.
When our class reconvened, Hank asked if anyone had had good dreams the previous night.
I raised my hand, “This wasn't a dream, but I think there was a cougar outside my tent…” I told my story.
Hank gave a hearty laugh, “That wasn't a cougar. It was a spirit that came for you. What you need to do is ask it for protection. Then you'll never be scared again.”
I wasn't sure Hank was right, but I said I'd try it.
That night on my way to my tent I scanned the surroundings. All I heard was the song of insects and the wind rustling fir branches.
I zipped myself up inside, aware of the false sense of security imparted by my tent. Surely a cougar could slice through it like buttercream frosting.
I pushed my ipod headphones into my ears and played my teacher's drumming track, but I couldn't focus. I began to drift into sleep and then I heard it again. The snarl, the soft steps. Except, was that me, snoring? I took out the earbuds, the familiar thump of my cowardly heart shaking my whole body.
Was I dreaming that my snores were the snarls of a big cat, or was there a 180-pound cougar pacing a mere foot away from my head?
Nothing to do but follow Hank’s advice. It would not be good press for him to lose a student to a cougar. Surely he was right. I rummaged in my basket for my rattle. I rattled myself into a light trance, and I heard the big cat pacing, breathing. Was that its breath or mine?
I asked the questions Hank had taught us. Spiritual protocol, he called it. “Who are you?”
“Soy el Jaguar,” No jaguars live this far north. Maybe this was a spirit. Plus, it was talking to me. In Spanish.
“¿Viniste por mi?” Did you come for me? I stuck to its language of choice.
“Sí.”
“Viniste a darme protección?” Did you come to give me protection?
“Sí.”
Then the cat jumped into my body. It felt like being hit in the chest with a pillow, except there was no pillow.
I was tempted to discount the sensation as a wishful fantasy, except when I tried to move my hands, I felt my claws extend out of their sheaths and retract. I was inside the body of a cat.
When first learning to journey, students asked Hank, “How do I know I'm not just making this up?” His answer was there’s a passive element of just receiving visions, and often things appear that you know you didn’t make up, but were shown to you. He also used to say, “If you doubt, you're out.” Which didn't make sense to me because I pride myself in having a healthy skeptical mind.
But there was no way I could’ve made this up in a million years! Retractable claws, whoa. I was a real cat woman. Did that mean I had real superpowers?
I couldn't be sure, but I didn't hear anyone stalking me outside the tent anymore. I slept deliciously, and true to Hank's words, I was never scared of the wilderness again.
Commentaires