Accepting the Possibilities: Finding Realities

Many moons ago, I found myself lying on the stone floor of a farmhouse south of Half Moon Bay, California. The room was centered around a white-painted kiva fireplace, with crystals embedded among the stones. It was the ritual space of a woman who owned a crystal shop, and somehow, I had received an invitation to her home for a shamanic journey. At the time, I believed it to be my first encounter with any form of shamanism, and it left a lifelong impression. (I later realized that my earlier practices with earth-based spirituality were shamanic in nature, though they had never been framed that way.) That first journey validated the thirty-something years of my existence and set me on a path I never imagined possible.

“Lived experience” is a term often tossed around by academics engaged in qualitative research. It’s nearly impossible to validate—and even harder, I believe, to dispute. You can’t simply walk up to someone who has shared a life experience and say, “That never happened.” (Well, you can, but it usually doesn’t go over very well.) Instead, you’re called to set aside your own preconceived ideas and ego, and listen—deeply—to the story being shared. You must place yourself within the moment of the story and feel what arises both from within you and from within the storyteller.

With that said, I invite you to sit back and imagine the world as you perceive it beginning to fade away. Let your cares and attachments slowly melt into nothingness. This is simply a story about my lived experience—a journey into what I call the realm of the shaman. This part of my life feels more real to me than going to work or engaging in the mundane tasks of everyday life. It is my preferred reality. It is where I live. It’s also where I’ve come to understand that everything is sacred—and, paradoxically, that nothing is sacred. Humor and shamanism go hand in hand.

Now, back to the ritual space—the kiva, the crystal-embedded stone floor, and the heartbeat rhythm of a hoop drum. The room was dark, lit only by the firelight, and thick rugs covered the floor. My memories of the people in the room remain hazy to this day. I remember the drummer and the woman who guided me. As the drumming began, the room started to slip away. I became aware of sparsely wooded hills. It must have been late fall or early winter; the grasses were gray, and the trees nearly bare. The air was crisp and fresh. I could feel the breeze on my skin and in my hair. I tried to shake off the inner cynic yelling, “Don’t be ridiculous!” That’s when I realized I wasn’t in my post-childbearing body—but in the body of a young boy on his first hunt. Oh—and I was definitely not in the twentieth century. It all felt very Dances with Wolves—even though that film wouldn’t come out for another three years.

The drum reached me again, and I settled back into the landscape. As the rhythm quickened, I began to run. I carried a bow, with a quiver of arrows on my back. I looked to my right and saw my friend running beside me. She was also young and of Native descent. (In the reality I had just left, she was in her sixties, lying beside me on the floor.) We were chasing a beautiful deer that managed to stay one step ahead of us. I remember the running—how free it felt. Nothing else mattered except the chase and the companionship. We were running with the wind.

After what felt like hours, I heard the sound of a rattle calling us back. I remembered to thank the deer and my friend before slowly returning my focus to the room. I became aware of the people, the fire, and the hard floor beneath me. I lay there a few moments, thinking about the possibilities and how vivid the “vision” had been. I reflected on how quickly my body responded to the drumbeat and how easily I had been transported to another place and time. I questioned why my rational self had tried to pull me out of that deeply relaxed, liminal state. I was surprised to discover that part of myself still held such sway.

We gathered in a circle afterward—a tradition I would soon become very familiar with. We went around the room, and each woman shared her journey. When my friend described her experience, my jaw nearly hit the floor. Not only had I seen her and run with her in my journey—she had been there, too. We had shared the same journey. We saw the same landscape, felt the same wind, and ran side by side. I was stunned. She even noted the moment when I briefly pulled back, trying to rationalize the experience. By the end of the evening, I had more questions than answers, and I knew this was just the beginning. What I didn’t realize was how this single journey would begin to rewrite my life. That night, everything changed.

The shamanic journey introduced me to a new state of consciousness and awareness. In less than an hour, my worldview had expanded dramatically. I knew, deep in my being, that I wanted more. I wanted to return to that realm of unbounded potential—that place where anything is possible. I couldn’t begin to describe how I felt or what I had experienced. I only knew it had happened, and that it was as real as the kitchen table where I later wrote about it in my journal. What I didn’t know was that, over the next twenty-five years, I would become less and less comfortable in my everyday life—and more and more drawn to the spaces that lie between the rational and the non-rational. I had no idea how easily I would come to cross into the shamanic realm, or how profoundly it would shape my life.

The expansion of consciousness into the shamanic realms is a truly magnificent thing, but it demands a heightened sense of responsibility. It requires one to be present in two worlds and to recognize how easily one can slip between them. For me, the shamanic realm became, almost, an addiction. I grew increasingly disinterested in my everyday life until, eventually, it all fell apart. I slowly rebuilt my world, but in doing so, I drifted away from my own spirit. The life I created was stable, but I began to shut down. I found myself sliding into an abyss—and just before I hit bottom, a coyote appeared. Then the ravens came, hinting that perhaps I’d lost my sense of humor. And everything changed… again.

But that is another story.