Puppy Wisdom #1: Keep your crate clean. May 9, 2012
Posted by Lora Jansson in Shamanism.4 comments
Our house is a mess.
I don’t mean oh-there’s-two-piles- of-paper-and-three-blouses-to-hang-up mess, I mean a bonafide explosion of useful, beautiful and another-woman’s-treasure kind of mess.
As many of you have read here, a new puppy, who is also the return of an old soul mate, is coming home soon. And while Star Gazer’s wise soul is returning in Lily’s new and precious body, she will still have to learn how to be a dog and shamanic partner all over again.
Of course, I am expecting some synchronicities (after all, Gazer and I are beloveds and so his wisdom and knowing are bound to be present in one form or another), but the first steps, first night, first everything are all still a month away like presents waiting to be opened (if you know shamanism, you love the paradox of welcoming back a cherished beloved AND delighting in all the firsts to come).
Puppies require room, and a kind of shakedown in the house before their arrival. Love the inherited bentwood Eames side tables? Store them. Really still love the wood coffee table because it has nice lines? Store it. Want to read those books on the lowest shelves of book cases ever again? Box ‘em. Have a bunch of wires (and I already hate the look of wires stretching across the floor to the outlet)? Cover ‘em.
But in a house with almost no storage that means only one thing; going to the storage unit.
Going to the storage unit is kind of like visiting your old self in a worm hole. Piled HIGH with boxes and plates from one grandmother, one mother and one step-mother (I know, I know, but I’m sentimental!). Chairs that my mother loves (that she wants stored even though I have no idea if they’ll ever see the light of day again). A fish tank which begs to be in a school somewhere. And all manner of thises and thats in mysterious boxes whose contents have little to do with their labels.
We approached our locked unit like a Mission Impossible script: go in with a target, get the target, get out alive in 1 hour or less. We gritted our teeth, invaded, and within 55 minutes we were bringing home a Suburu wagon full of boxes with the strict notion of give away, sell or trash all of it; we’re hoping to regift/recylcle almost everything. That we barely made a dent could have been disheartening, but we didn’t go there. We are smart enough to know that beginning is important so we were smiling as we left.
Our cheer lasted the 2.4 miles between the storage place and our home. The spirit of chaos was laughing her ass off when the new stuff for the puppy arrived just as we pulled up from the storage unit. Puppies, like all infants, need stuff. A crate. A pen. We needed to get a ramp for our car for US (old backs + our old 45 pound dog = back pain) so our dear resident 14-year-old beardie can better negotiate travel. And so the puppy can learn how to use the ramp while she’s still young and agile.
It’s a box convergence. A haphazard pile of cardboard and debris, the valuable and archaic, in one huge heap. Why one heap? A dog trainer is arriving any minute to help us work with Ariel because she can be dog shy and we REALLY want Lily and Ariel to thrive together. We need room to work and so the family room has become chaos central. In all fairness, we got a few things sorted, and some stuff sold BEFORE we began stocking old 1940 glamor photos of my mom on top of falling-apart old game boxes on top of a box of lamp shades on top of old tax records on top of the Xpen box.
Suddenly, as I felt an 11′ wave of crap was breaking fast into a tidal wave of confusion, I had an idea, a teaching from the spirit of dogs: keep your crate clean.
Puppy crates seem mean to people who don’t know dogs. They are large plastic or wire cages that hold a comfy bed, a toy or two, and your puppy. Crates serve many purposes. They give your dog a place to call her own when she wants to nap, play or just be by herself. And they give you a place to put the puppy when you sleep (Lily’s crate will be next to my bed) or need 30 minutes away from your velcro companion.
Based on the notion that canines love dens, some pups adore their crates and others don’t. Regardless, you don’t put more in the crate than the puppy needs to sleep and perhaps play for a bit.
Thinking like a dog, which is what I am trying to do now, means that I suddenly realized OUR crate is a mess. There is WAY TOO MUCH stuff in it. Too much stuff in a puppy crate will make the puppy want to stay out of it. Which may be why I am feeling like fleeing to Tierra del Fuego and changing my name to Pascarel DeBaganucci. I love spare, and by that I do not mean a spare sweater or a spare lamp, but serene and spacious.
By this point, you may be bored, almost ready to stop reading. A messy house? Too much stuff? Is this REALLY worth a blog post? I mean, we ALL do this, right? Or most of us have fits on occasion and clean out, clean up and release.
But it is deeper than that. We are not preparing for the crate and puppy stuff as much as we are trying to create a space of joy where our family can grow. In my shamanic explorations (and life lessons), I know that love is action, and action requires space. To move through. To move into.
The possessions that bind us make our home obese. When you are becoming obese, cookies taste like comfort or a way to get comfortably numb, which ends up causing more pain than you had to begin with. In truth, it just makes movement (of all kinds) harder. A house obesity dampens and compresses the energy and joy of the spirits of the house and land on which it sits. Although formless and invisible in ordinary reality, the spirits of home need room to celebrate life.
It will take us more weeks to clean our crate. To become discerning and to do the hard work of shedding possessions (many of which are serviceable, and could make a difference for someone else) can be a struggle if you’re a sentimental mush like me. Remembering they will serve others far more than my sentimental heart is the key to balance here.
Because, when you really come down to it, having any more than you need means someone else probably has LESS than they need. In a world where resources are dwindling, we need to share what we have.
When our crate is in better shape, Lily will like hers better. I want my cave to match hers. In some ways, a crate can also be an altar. A place that fosters serenity and deep rest in a noisy and over-crowded world.
ShareReunited April 29, 2012
Posted by Lora Jansson in Shamanism.add a comment
Yes, yes, yes. I picked her up, brought her to my face. I was crying and whispered:
Welcome home, and I love, I love you, I love you…
She melted into my chest and stayed there for 10 minutes (very unusual for a four-week-old puppy). She comes home on May 31, 2012.
Forgive the blurriness of the picture. The camera couldn’t move as fast as the joy.
Together at last...
Star Gazer’s Lily April 28, 2012
Posted by Lora Jansson in Shamanism.10 comments
Are you ready for a good story?
I mean the kind of story that has so much magic and grace in it that you find it too good to be true?
You’ve come to the right place. Brew a cup of tea, call your favorite dog, cuddle up and read this aloud. Trust me. Your dog will like the story as much as you will.
Only two weeks ago, I wrote a piece about Star Gazer that I posted here. If you haven’t read that post, you might want to scroll down and read it before reading this. It talks about how Gazer and I were soul mates, how he worked shamanically, what he taught me. And that he had died.
But what I didn’t share was the story of how he was going to come back.
Huh? Come back? As in come back into a body? To, as the popular culture would phrase it, reincarnate? To be honest, I still have no idea about how it all works, how a dog decides in advance that he is coming back, and lets his beloved know in advance. And how to follow certain steps so everything will work according to plan. Because I do not believe in reincarnation (only because it seems too simple, an easy way to explain things that are unfathomable), I have to say that this story becomes even more miraculous if you take that concept out of the picture entirely.
Let me begin at the beginning, which was pretty close to the end.
When Star Gazer was 10, I got a call from my first shamanic mentor who lived in Idaho. She said she was coming all the way to Washington to tell me something about Gazer. She and Gazer had a very special bond. When I journeyed for the first time, Gazer was with us. Gazer knew Regan as both beloved friend and as journey partner. In my three-year apprenticeship, Gazer was always with me when I journeyed with Regan. Always.
When Regan arrived from Idaho, we went out to dinner. I knew she would share when the time was right, and sure enough, after desert she said, “Gazer came to me in a vision.
“He said he wasn’t going to be around for many more years, and the veil was beginning to get thinner.” Once the words came out of her mouth, I began to tear up. The thought of losing him was unbearable. As he got older, and I saw him change, I would try to imagine how life would be without him. I never got very far. Tears would start, and a spin downward that was pitiless. Even the thought of not having him was way too much to bear.
“But there is more news,” she said. “He is coming back. He says your work together is not done, and so he will come back so you can continue together.”
To say I was stunned doesn’t cover it. He would come back? Really? I mean REALLY? A dog’s loyalty is fierce, as any shamanic practitioner knows. It takes a LOT for a dog to move on after death because he will, so often, wait for his mistress or master to die before moving on. But to come back? My hand shook so hard I had to put the coffee cup down.
My brain couldn’t understand. I physically froze.
“How?” was the only word I could get out.
“I have no idea,” she said. Trying to understand how the spirits work is something beginners do. She knew I knew that and I really did understand it. But my brain couldn’t take it all in.
“Here’s what you have to do. On the day of Gazer’s death, tell him the name of the breeder you will call when you are ready for him to come back after his death. Then let him go, and when you are ready, call the breeder and tell her you want a puppy. He’ll come back in the body of the new dog.”
Almost three years passed.
On the day of his death, I did as I was instructed. It was much worse than I had ever anticipated because he screamed when the needle went in. I was lying on the floor, and cradled his head in my hands. I told him the name of the breeder. I told him to go, to go to Grandfather in the Lowerworld, and that I wanted him to play and explore. “You,” I said, have always been the leader. Go and play, and I love you, I love, you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…. And in that chorus, his eyes went hazy and then distant and then blank.
My husband Don and I keened. I mean we were inconsolable. And I knew I COULD NOT SAY I wish you were back with me because dogs don’t want to move on when they’ve died. They usually wait in the Middleworld of nonordinary reality, invisible to their live owners, until their owners pass. I wanted Gazer to joyfully move on through, to have his infinite time in the reality out of time where all is made of love and compassion.
A few hours later, I was lying on the bed sobbing when all of a sudden a joy so big and so ecstatic came into me that my eyes opened and my whole body became still. Radiance poured into me. It was with me for 15 minutes, and then it was over.
I spent the next three months grieving him (or at least beginning the grieving process), and built him an altar that I kept in our bedroom for one year. Clients and friends and students sent cards and remembrances.
After a year, the complexity of his return began to dawn on me. By then, I was seeing him and often working with him in nonordinary reality. This, I thought, is such a gift. I think of how many people would give almost anything to have the chance to spend more time with their dog who has passed. And I got to do that. A lot.
In one journey, he came to me and told me I had picked the WRONG breeder, and that he wanted to return through ANOTHER breeder. Of course, I agreed, especially since that breeder is renowned, gave us our Ariel, and knows more about Beardies than beardies – oh, and did I mention she is a sweetheart and a vet? After the journey, I was curious so I got on line to check out the breeder I thought I would be working with (Gazer’s breeder), and discovered she was no longer breeding dogs.
It took me more months to formally state the intention, call Debra and set everything in motion — “Star Gazer, come back to this breeder in the next litter.”
Why did it take so long to ask him to come back when I wanted him back so much? Because I realized that all of this was quite complex. Yes, Gazer would be coming back, his essence, but the body would be different, and there were bound to be other differences; that there would be some similarities was a given. Both new being and old soul had to be adored as separate and as merged. I picked my way through the complexity as if I were picking out innumerable knots in a ball of yarn.
I finally called the breeder, knowing it can take months to get a puppy. I knew I needed that extra time to really work through all of the dynamics, and so I was fine with the wait.
But 6 months passes, then 9 and still no word. I called, but didn’t get a return call. After a year, I started thinking that he wasn’t going to come back through Pentangle Beardies, that I must have gotten it wrong somehow.
Meanwhile, doubt began to plague me. I turned 60, and remembered how much energy it took to raise a beardie puppy. Beardies are known for their over-the-top exuberance and clownishness, which is why I love them so.
But I have slowed down in the past 15 years. As Gazer hadn’t come back, would he agree to change forms? Would he be OK as a smaller breed that would be easier to manage? I started reading about smaller breeds, and I researched for months. I did everything I could to fall in love with the Maltese, Havanese and Cotton de Tulear. I admired Bichon Frise, and studied the Imaal. It felt like a spiritual log jam. No matter what, I always ended up frustrated, saying, “but I love beardies.” It all felt nerve-racking .
Then, not so very long ago, I began to journey and before I could leave my body, Gazer launched into the room, put his face very close to mine and said, emphatically BRING ME BACK! BRING ME HOME! He wasn’t kidding. There was NO ambiguity. He was ready and it was time to move. I got more and more miserable as I tried to figure out where he was going to show up, and how I was going to handle it all.
Last Monday, without really thinking, I picked up the phone to call the breeder for the first time in months. I think back to that moment and I cannot remember why I called at that moment; it was more automatic than considered. She answered the phone, and she said, “Lora, I’ve been meaning to call you.” It turns out her female went in and out of two seasons without conceiving. But now, she said, there were four-week-old puppies.
Before I could say anything, she said “there was only one male. And, Lora, I had to give him to other people who have been waiting five years for a male puppy.”
I said I understood, which I did, but felt more confused than ever. And then she said, “One thing you should know.
“One of the females has a white star in the middle of her back. I have never seen anything quite like this before.”
I don’t know that I had ever felt deliriously happy before that moment. The term never really made sense to me until my happiness hit and I became delirious. She explained that the mark was square in the middle of the top of the back where beardies don’t get white markings.
I immediately said “She’s mine. He’s back. Oh. My. God.”
You’d think all of this would be enough. You’d think after doing shamanic work for 15 years, having been cured of an incurable illness, and seeing too many miracles to count, that I would find them easier to believe. But the grace, the love is so big I often sink to my knees before I can take it all in. I called two shamanic peers, and asked them to journey to confirm that this puppy really was Gazer. One of them said that in the journey a big silver dog came running up to her, put his paws on her chest and said grinning “Of course! How much more of a sign do you need?” The other practitioner concurred.
So although I fretted and strived, worried and maneuvered, everything actually went perfectly without me really having to do anything more than show up and follow directions (that is how shamanic work usually goes). When I picked the wrong breeder, and Gazer knew it, he directed me to the perfect breeder. When I set the intention for him to come back in the next litter, he did. I have been saying for the past year that the best time to get him back would be the spring of 2012. I will be bringing him home in May. I have worked at understanding this is a soul reborn, and not a form reborn, and he helps me by coming back as a female.
Who gets this kind of miracle? That’s what I keep thinking. I am dazed. I feel far more humility than even joy today. My body still can’t quite take it all in.
But tomorrow, at about this time, I will be entering the Deb’s home. She’ll bring us to the puppies, still so young that they will be in a room by themselves with their Mom. I’ll see the star on her back before her face. She’ll fit in my hands, and as I raise her to my lips to kiss her, I know her body will be warm and soft. I will feel and smell her quiet breath. And after the kiss, I will whisper “Welcome home. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you….”
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How do we go home? April 18, 2012
Posted by Lora Jansson in Shamanism.2 comments
Povera Bowl by Don Hazeltine, www.donhazeltine.com
In my life as a shamanic journeyer, a practice spanning fifteen years, three teachings stand above all others. They have been the most dramatic and seminal, and the most challenging to fully understand.
The first came when we lost our sacred home in Monroe, WA, which was (did not feel just like, but really was) my ancestral home, and the spirits said this when I asked them why I had to leave it:
They replied I had to lose my home because you need to know what the indigenous people feel when they are ripped from their homes, and all of you, all of your people are wandering without homes. You are all homeless.
When asked how I could endure the suffering of being homeless, the spirits said:
All land is sacred if it is loved, and I was shown that the mission was to somehow (somehow being the trickiest word) understand and reforge the ceremonies, rites and cultural connections that it takes to be home, even without knowing your ancestors and ancestral rights. And by ancestors I am speaking ten generations ago, not two or three.
Over the years, I have begun this work and it is difficult work because so much is involved. How do I relate to the air I breathe? To understand how to walk on the land on which I live? How do I create relationship to food I have never touched except to prepare it for consumption? How do I honor water that is shipped via many pipes and through processing before I drink it? What are the daily ways to move to not reach the rather odd goal of being in shape for the sake of being in shape (our way of not necessarily living more fully, but delaying death), but as a way to move through life as a bear does or a chipmunk or a bat — all at home in their animal nature. How do I become animal human?
When I asked the spirits, “How can people move into this place of the sacred creating real home?” the spirits said:
You are all one tribe only. Your divisions of nationality, religion, race, sex are all the means of your suffering. You must live as one tribe. These are beliefs that you all hold that create separation where none exists. Once you know this, the ability to create home and resonate with your ancestral homes will be fluid.
These are all lessons I have lived with for many years, trying to coalesce and integrate them, knowing that these teaching are not meant for me alone.
This suffering, of the wandering we all do is what makes other cultures’ rites and rituals so seductive. We know home when we feel it, and we want it, and believe we can have it if we simply practice what others who have homes practice (indigenous people have homes that have been theirs for so long that they have the grace of always walking where their ancestors walked).
It is a truly innocent and deeply seductive desire that leads us to desperately attach ourselves to a culture that is not our own, and just means we have not yet found our own natural way of being in deep spiritual relationship with life. It is what these cultures presence that draws us, and that culture could be any indigenous culture from any continent. It all depends which one we find first, and run toward.
This claiming other cultures beautiful and sacred rites as are our own never really works, and we end up with a source of comfort that is, and must be, limited, because what we have been drawn to looks tribe specific , but it really universal (which, by the way, does NOT mean that we cannot learn from these cultures or seek healing from them). We have such longing to give shape to our yearning that when we see it in other tribes, we immediately feel, “That’s it! This is what the sacred home is! This must be my home!”
Our entire culture suffers from this, and I believe the pain of this homelessness is so pervasive that is has cut us off from all of nature, all of life. How can we respect the sovereign right of a bear to live freely in his home and natural state if we have no idea what home or freedom really is?
And it makes us wander and wander, going from house to house, state to other state, country to other country, in search of a way of life that we crave. The way into this life is through our elders, and we do not honor our elders, but keep them separate because we are so afraid of death.
These rites of initiation on how to live and to die are learned from elders and ancestors, not from our peers. Yes, we can hold hands and walk together as we work, and yes, many of us who have worked with the spirits for a long time are called to our own way of remembering home and our ancient rituals, ceremonies and animal nature. Without naming it, I think this is what we are all looking for: home.
This is all why I practice shamanism for myself. My calling to serve through being a practitioner and teacher are my ways of passing on the gifts that have been given to me. The two — personal and service — are obviously merged, and the press of one lends power to the other.
To understand my place and to know my ancestors who may or may not be of my lineage, but who step forward as my ancestors. Animals and spiritual teachers are my lineage and my ancestors. My best home is with this family of elders, even though I am blessed with a remarkable husband and friends who are such good, big people that I cannot fathom the grace given me. How to bring the elders into daily minute-to-minute life by the way I see, feel, smell, move is the real work.
These very deep quandaries are calling me now as they never have before. As anyone who has worked with shamanism for some time knows, we are called to new initiations and new teachings when we are ready.
Imagine my utter shock when I saw Stephen Jenkinson in a film called “Griefwalker,” and heard him say the EXACT same things the spirits have been saying to me.
Right now, shamanically and in ordinary reality, I feel a new current and powerful flow. A new circle is beginning, and an old circle is left not behind, but around me, holding me warm with her knowledge. Grief has been the theme for the past seven years, working through loss of home, bankruptcy, complex and severe family illness, deaths of beloveds.
Grief does not disperse like sugar in water if not attended. It forms its own ocean, and you use all of your life force to try to create a dam to hold it back. It is not possible. One way or another, grief will presence itself, and, trust me on this, you need to learn how to WELCOME grief if you are going to work with it. Let the ocean run through your eyes and heart. Fighting it is useless, and will usher in worthless suffering that is only there because you have not dealt with the original pain.
I understand this now first hand, having paid the price of not grieving. It took a long time to understand that although I was hurting from the shifts in my life, I had not grieved them. There is a difference. A big one.
So, finally, what does this all mean? It means I am being called to new work shamanically. It means I again enter the mystery, and look for bread crumbs. For me, Stephen Jenkinson is a bread crumb. I am going to work with him, see what he knows (which appears to be quite a bit), and work with my helping spirits to understand and see the other bread crumbs I must follow.
If you want to hear a bit of what this man is about, here’s a link:
http://www.columbiancentresociety.com/prfcontent/353_october_20_2011_sm.mp3
Meanwhile, stay tuned. There’s a new tiger in town, and I am holding onto his tail. Thank the Spirits that they are with me. Last time I went through such a big circle, it was to discover shamanism as my calling. It took 11 years of searching, and living in the dark night of the soul. I was afraid of mystery and not-knowing then. Now, I welcome it, knowing I am safe in the dark.
ShareListening to the teachers… April 5, 2012
Posted by Lora Jansson in Shamanism.10 comments
I had a soul mate for many years whose name was Star Gazer. He was a tassled, grey and white bearded collie who had the joie de vivre of champagne. This breed of dog knows how to be clownish, inhabiting a place of humor and generosity. They are a messy breed, and are dramatists.
Even when he was just a puppy, he was debonair. He could go anywhere, greet the person we were visiting as some kind of gleeful and magnanimous party host. From massage therapist offices to stores to people’s homes, every one loved him. After a “beardie bounce” (a process of leaping high in the air while also pirouetting in space, which always reminded me of Baryshnikov) and enthusiastic tail wags, he would find a corner and relax. The perfect fifty-pound guest.
One thing he never did was whine or complain. He wanted what he wanted, but imagine Cary Grant going after something he wanted as opposed to John Wayne.
So when I was getting ready to see my first shamanic client when he was only a year old, and he began scratching furiously at the door and barking at a startling, high pitch, I knew something was different. I knew he not only wanted to come into my client studio, he needed to. I opened the door, he came in and began to relax immediately. He became calmer even as I became a bit frantic because I could feel that he was positive that he should be there, but I was entirely unsure how my client would react.
He and I had journeyed before, but, of course, making the space comfortable and safe for the client was my first priority. Still, I could feel he was going to stay, intractable, which was such abhorrent behavior that I decided I would find out if the client was OK with having a dog present.
As I waited with Gazer, I felt nervous and didn’t know if I could truly be of service, truly show up and do the shamanic work I would be called to do. A knock on the door, and I opened the door smiling, communicating an ease I didn’t entirely feel. The woman was beaming, too, and seemed very happy. But Gazer did not do his beardie bounce and did not give her his usual over-the-top “wow, am I glad you are here” welcome. He walked gently (an odd adverb for the verb “to walk”) over to her, and delicately put his head in her lap just as she sat down.
She burst into tears. Her mask was stripped away by his utter tenderness. The unexpected empathy of this glorious animal, who immediately merged with her emotional state, gave her a freedom that no amount of talk would ever allow. The appointment shifted into deep and true currents.
When the time came for the shamanic work, she received a soul retrieval, a shamanic practice in which the practitioner reclaims a part of the soul of the client that has been lost and returns it to her. As I did my work, she lay quietly, and Gazer stretched out against her, pressing his nose, head, and even his tail against her body. He was gone, journeying. He entered into an altered state of consciousness in a way that I knew as well as I knew my breath. The drumming was loud, and, like me ( and unlike other bearded collies who are terrified of noise), he travelled on the back of the drum to the worlds of nonordinary reality.
When the work was done, I sat up and blew the client’s soul piece back into her body. As she began to cry, he nestled even closer for a while, but when she began laughing, a huge smile came across his face and he sat up, looking at her, taking it in, as that glorious plume of a tail thumped the floor. When she finished, he gave her a kiss on the face, came over to me and gave me a kiss on the face, walked briskly to the door, opened it (he knew how to open doors) and left. The appointment was over.
That was 15 years ago, and Gazer is gone now. He was with me with every single client and student who walked into my studios for thirteen years. And over the years I learned that sometimes the person who is quiet and removed and seems quite ill is actually ready to presence great emotional joy, just as the person who may seem to be chipper and happy may be holding a great sorrow. Over the years, I learned if I watched Gazer during the first minute of an appointment, I would understand how that client needed to be held and nurtured. He was never wrong. Not once.
We were, in the truest sense of the word, partners. Of all the teachers and practitioners I have ever known, he was the most gifted. To say that I miss him doesn’t begin to cover it. But learning from him helped me integrate the biggest truth — everything has a spirit, and everything is my teacher. It is not woo woo to say you can learn from the spirit of a tree. Or a lake. Or the spirit of the land you live on. We are all in ceaseless communication, all vibrating and humming to each other’s true teachings.
Now, when clients come, I try to embody that spirit of seeing through the heart. That intention is the guiding intention of my work. My husband Don is a painter, and a portrait of Star Gazer sits above my main altar now. Even though I never stop missing him, I know he is with me. He lives in my soul.
ShareWay of the Shaman: June 9 and 10, 2012, Bainbridge Island, WA March 31, 2012
Posted by Lora Jansson in Shamanism.add a comment
I am happy to announce that I will be teaching The Foundation for Shamanic Studies unique, two-day experiential workshop – The Way of the Shaman – on June 9 and 10, 2012, on Bainbridge Island.
The last event in March was spectacular. As is typical for Way of the Shaman, the attendees were open-hearted, spiritually ready and compassionate. Many special and extraordinary relationships were forged between the compassionate helping spirits and the students, and it was an honor to witness.
I hope you will join us for the June class. Held in a place on Bainbridge that is used solely for sacred work, our container should be even more powerful for this session. And because of the divine sweetness of the owners, I will be able to hold to exceptionally low fees for the event.
You can register through PayPal here, and the early discount fee is only $195. That includes two days; our hours will 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. both days.
Once you register, I will send you an acceptance letter with all of the details you will need to make your experience comfortable and fulfilling.
It’s a true honor and privilege to be doing this work, and I very much look forward to seeing you in Circle.
Please write me at lorajansson@gmail.com if you have any questions. Many thanks.
ShareWith gratitude… March 13, 2012
Posted by Lora Jansson in Shamanism.2 comments
To all who were at Way of the Shaman last weekend:
I loved working with each and every one of you. I already heard from a few of you who journeyed today successfully — what a joy to hear. Please do write if there is anything you need. Hope to see you all in Drumming Circle in April if not in Diving Deeper this weekend. Sending love to you all, Lora
ShareThe bottom of the ocean… February 22, 2012
Posted by Lora Jansson in Shamanism.1 comment so far
I have been dreaming about swimming with the wild spotted Atlantic dolphins of Bimini. This is a waking dream, and my feet ache to be on sand, my back and shoulders want the grace of the warm, salt water, and my eyes yearn to look at the crazy colors and inhabitants of the underwater world. I crave buoyancy. And my heart, my soul want to feel the joy the dolphins bring, the water bursting with their play.
There is never a bad time to be with dolphins, but when my heart aches for them like it has been in the past few days, I know something is up. There is some joy that is not being seen, some rhythm that is not being felt.
Rather than swimming with them, I feel like I am at the bottom of the ocean. Slow movement. Colder. No sense of tides. A wide expanse that is darker, the sun coming in shards through water that is murky with riled sand.
Just days ago, I was doing flips through the air, hitting the water with a splash and swimming fast and happy. I was on a good ride for about 14 days. Non-stop. My upcoming class — Way of the Shaman — is being graced with so many good students, and this seems so generous, a benediction. I am anticipating being with them, sharing my love of shamanism with them. Hopefully, creating a solid container of methodology, safety and passion that will allow them all the freedom in the world to hook up with their unique helping spirits in their own ways.
Hard to see that now when the sand is in my eyes. When my limbs feels heavy. I suspect that this is happening because I sailed for two weeks without a break in the work waves, soaring and dipping and gliding, and having SO MUCH FUN at lectures, at writing to prospective students, at doing the work.
And now I sense a huge tension. I want to rest, and I want to work. Neither feels right though. Rest does not come easy as my mind keeps asking questions: What anecdotes to share at that moment? How do I gracefully integrate that teaching? When will I say this piece — there are so many places I could. And on it goes. Endless nuances, endless possibilities and only two days to be with them this time. Of course, I am not talking about content, but the soul of the class.
This is a kind of mind/heart play, which when supported by a good amount of energy, can be dizzying fun. But now I am tired, and so the questions seem a bit relentless. And as for work, I refuse to do ANYTHING with this class that even approaches the feeling of “just get it done.” The work is too important for that; students deserve much, much more.
I realize I will be who I am in that class. Who else could I be? It is far too big a leap to hope I could teach people how to use core shamanism with the same elan that dolphins teach play. Finally, my dented and most imperfect self, my stubborness and rigidity, my heart and spirit, my sore shoulder and very quick mind will merge into a small gift I can only put on an altar — an altar dedicated to the spirits, to the students, to my community and to the FSS (all of whom are sacred and beloved to me).
After I finish this, I will go into my shamanic studio and journey. I will ask the spirits the very open ended question of “What do I need to know right now?” I will give them my flatness and my murky eyes because that is all I have. My stubborness tells me (as it always has) that this is not enough, not nearly enough. I know the easy answer: when you give all that you have, it is always enough. But the truth is not so pat, and is far more complex.
I dream of dolphins and students and drums and of a neck that doesn’t have a kink in it. But today I will lumber into the work, rattle my truth, close my eyes and ask them to take what they will, take what I offer in the name of love and compassion for the greatest good of all. And then go where they ask me to go.
I must keep remembering this. Even at the bottom of the ocean, you float. You rise eventually, and the sun shines like a benediction as you look up and you are only a few feet from the surface. The water turns a radiant blue that is an almost impossible to believe. You feel the water ribbon through your fingers, and the waves move you along. Journeying for fifteen years has taught me that, and now I must rest in that place, that knowing, so much greater than what I feel right now.
Share‘Twas A Week Before Solstice… December 14, 2011
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‘Twas a week before Solstice,
and all over the Earth,
the Spirits were gathering
with intent and great mirth.
The planet was spinning
in its shimmering way
and the Spirits saw Beauty
leading the way.
Of course, they saw problems,
pollution and strife,
but they also saw beings
living their life.
They noticed the humans,
who made a great mess,
stuffing their pockets
with others’ distress.
Their hearts were all wrong
as they tried to own more
and all of their actions
made everyone sore.
The bears and the rocks,
the streams and the snakes,
all were affected.
by those on the take.
But the Spirits knew all,
and they saw a great light
shining from hearts
that were ready to fight.
They carried no weapons –
they had blankets and drums,
and they used them to go
to the heart of the Hum.
The Hum was a place
where all lived as one,
all creatures in union
like rays of the sun.
And the Spirits could see
as the people could not
that love was the thing
that would untie the big knot.
And with every journey
all beings were lifted;
even the hearts of those
who were twisted.
It’s a matter, we know,
of being quite tough,
especially when others
are succumbing to Guff.
Guff is the stuff
that mucks it all up,
but it can be shed
like fleas from a pup.
So if we all love,
and let love lead the way,
union will become
the only best way.
And the Spirits all sang
as they rose out of sight,
Live From Your Hearts
and to all a good night.
© Lora Jansson, 12/23/10
ShareShamanic Beloveds December 6, 2011
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I have just purchased my first skin drum after being a shamanic practitioner for 15 years, and a teacher for 10.
My friend Terry gave my first skin drum on my 50th birthday. She gave me HER OWN drum, which touched me so deeply I was speechless (and I am never speechless). But after ten years, this drum is not happy in winter, and her skin has started to split so she is saved for special night summer nights now when she likes to sing.
My Remo, whom I have adored (she has been with me on almost every journey, and in every training I have ever done – don’t let ANYONE tell you Remos don’t have spirits), will still be used, of course, but I will initiate my new drum at FFS The Way of the Shaman workshop I’ll be teaching here on Bainbridge Island this February.
My new drum from Cedar Mountain Drums is made of horsehide on a cedar hoop. A dark brown, she has a voice so sweet and big that I see herds of nonordinary horses come thundering in when I beat her. I feel her as well as hear her when I play. In Siberia, the drum is called “the horse” because it carries you away. I understand that in a cellular way now. Her sonic percussion resonance is sure, deep and sonorous from the first few beats.
I have a blessed rattle from Cedar Mountain Drums, too. A hide skin with a bear painted on one side, a bear paw on the other, and bear fur surrounding the rattle’s head like a collar. She has a beautiful cushioned handle of red suede, and a very sassy fringe on the end. This rattle touches me because of my great and ever-abiding love of Bear.
My shamanic tools are my beloveds. I journey to them to find out what they need from me to feel honored. I journey to them to learn their names. Why they have come to me now (even if I think I know the reason). What kind of work they best like to do. Sometimes they answer all my questions all at once. But at others, I am told to come back after we have formed a deeper experiential relationship.
Many years ago, in my first shamanic studio, I journeyed to the compassionate helping spirit of the space to find out what I could do to honor her. Over the years, I have found shamanic studio spirits (and I have had five studios to date) to be quite verbal, and they seem to have no trouble telling me exactly what they want — whether it is the color of the room, particular objects put in particular places, altar offerings, etc.
Among other things, the spirit of my first space said she wanted a red floor. This presented a dilemma. The floors in my studio were beautiful, old wood and I didn’t like the idea of painting them. So I felt confused and torn. How to honor the request without doing something I did not want to do?
The next day I went to have a massage. I walked into Laureen’s office. Laureen was the best massage therapist I ever had. She knew bodies. I used to tell her she had eyes in her fingers, that’s how deeply she could “see” into my body.
Her room was tiny – about 8’ X 8” – and on this day, the floor was covered by a too-large-for-the space Chinese wool rug. It was fire engine red, and cut with floral designs of pink peonies. In the center, was a round, white circle holding many symbols. The poor, fringed 10′ x 12′ rug did not fit so it looked like the room was holding it hostage.
I asked Laureen when and where she got it. Her husband’s uncle had purchased it decades ago from China, and had paid $60,000 for it. He died, and left them the rug. It had just arrived the day before. She said she and her husband were not especially fond of it, and that she would prefer a Pergo floor in her massage studio.
I asked her if she will be willing to trade the rug for a Pergo floor in her small space and she loved the idea. Within a few days, my shamanic studio had its red floor.
For many years, clients and students have all said the work seems deeper and friendlier in my space than in others they’ve been in. I know my red rug is part of the reason for this. She holds us with her deep, soft warmth as we journey. Her name, which I do not have permission to share here, reflects her wisdom and her ancient knowledge.
Medicine bags have come my way, too. There is an adept, and retired, Zuni beader whose name is Shilah Love. A store called Keshi in Santa Fe, NM, (check it out – www.keshi.com) used to carry her work. The first time I saw one of the bags, a hummingbird, I bought it. The beading was unlike any I have ever seen. So delicate, with soaring design and color. I could feel the soul of the bag, and so I knew she was mine. I have worn her for almost every shamanic journey I have ever taken. She carries a bit of the power of all of those journeys.
Some years ago, when seeking to honor a teacher in a very specific way, I called Keshi and asked them if they thought Shilah would be willing to do a commissioned bag. I needed an eagle with its wings spread on the front of the pouch, and another animal beaded on the back. At first, Shilah said no. But then she left the studio, and told Keshi’s owner that eagles had followed her car home. She did the bag, and saw eagles every time she worked on it. To this day, it is a bag that honors my Teacher, all of my Teachers. I think of the miracle that happened when it was made, and how I love this woman deeply, this woman I have never met.
Students ask me all the time about power objects, and how you get them. First comes the need, the knowing – as in the case of the rug – that you wish to honor your spirits in some way, and they show you exactly how to make it happen. Like wanting to venerate a spirit with a medicine bag, and requesting it from the one beader I know who does her bead work like a prayer. Like honoring a new power animal out of love and respect, and discovering the way to begin your dance is to buy a new drum from a holy man. Accepting the many, many gifts from nature over the decades, all powerful and all special, now adorning the four altars in my studio. All of the altars are crowded with beauty, and every twig, stone, feather and tool has specific meaning and purpose.
When needed, I can work without any of them, but working with them expands the space, and every person who has ever come into the studio has said, “It feels so good in here.” Of course it does. The space is crowded with love.
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