The very first words on the inside flap of Sandra Ingerman's Awakening To The Spirit World, the first book we are assigning for the Starseed Institute for Shamanic Studies are The word shaman means "the one who sees in the dark." Indeed, living in the dark as I do, I find I am able to see. Quite well, in fact. I suppose that means I am not a complete hypocrite for accepting a leadership role in our program. Nevertheless, days like today make me question what right I have to do this work, to present myself as someone who knows something. I am a hot mess, and it amazes me that no one can see it.
I do my work. I show up. I smile. Magick is easy for me, so I push my buttons and tell my self effacing jokes and play my role. But I don't enjoy myself anymore. Shamanism is supposed to be a lonely art, but I am tired of being lonely. Yes, the work is important, of course, but as I've gotten older, I've found that it is the people you love, the people you do the work with, that matter more than anything. For two very different reasons, I am two down in that category in just the last few months, and at this point, I'll be surprised if Jason lasts the first year of the Institute before beginning his retirement.
I have responsibilities, and I will meet them. But it would be nice to love what I do, to find the joy I once had, when we were all there making a difference together, then having salons and talking about it all. I remember after the last Journey, back in January, texting back and forth with my Muse, four or five times at least, about how amazed she was that her drumming could play even a small part in people having such transformative experiences. I was so proud of her, how she dove into the work head first, with such wonder and awe. Having her there next to me made me feel like I could move heaven and earth.
Tonight, once again, there was only one chair behind my altarspace. I tried to recreate the sound and feeling of our two frame drums dancing together, and failed miserably. Jason and I talked about it gently after the event. I say gently because he knows how lost I am, and wants to guide me to do my best but knows how fragile I am right now. All this power I have ... all this ability ... I flew into the sun and didn't die, for fuck's sake! And yet, the gaping holes in the places where she used to live (and where he used to live, for that matter) are resistant to my power, my ability.
I am stronger than ever. I am being beaten to shit and I refuse to go down. But what good is all of that if you have to lock bits of yourself away, if you can only help people from afar because letting them too close hurts too much? Whether it is temporary or permanent, I am Icarus now, and I understand the darkness. I guess this'll make me a hell of a shaman one day, but the price is high. I can't unsee what I've seen, and I am getting ready to lead a bunch of eager seekers down this road. Do I tell them they'll have to endure loss, of friends and lovers and maybe their very sense of self? How can I?
I do wish someone had told me, though.
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