Losing Vision, A Robin Attack, & Other Things I Have to Tell You
Dearest,
At this point, you’ve seen me use the word “shaman” quite a few times. I use it to describe the practices I grew up in and were initiated into, truly against my will, because it is a specific enough term that tells you exactly who I am and how I have to show up in the world, even if you don’t know what it means or entails.
Being a shaman isn’t something I willingly forked over thousands of dollars to become—I chose to do that with several art degrees instead, lmao.
I was born into it, called into it, and was initiated by circumstance of life and the ways I chose to deny life several times along my journey. I would never recommend the path of a shaman because it comes with danger, excavation, isolation, and heartbreak as much as it comes with divine alignment, peace, unwavering compassion, and love. My path was dramatically simple: it’s this and only this. You can fight it your whole life or get curious and surrender to the flow.
I did not want to be a shaman. I wanted to be Beyoncè, as we all do, obviously. But life, as always, has other plans. And I’m grateful I get to embody my ancestry and the expanse of my gender through a shamanic lens.
Shamans, historically, live on the margins of society in order to tell our village what is to come or why things have come to pass. We experience the highest of highs and the lowest of lows in deep reverence and service to the collective. There is a reason we have historically been and continue to be queer and trans people. We see the world profoundly differently and we use our observations and sensations to bring meaning to our people, regardless if they believe us or love us back. The shamanic path is a selfless one because we are asked, more often than others, to examine and distance from the Self. We are self-less.
That’s all to say that when I write to you in these news-letters, I often do not tell you of the strife of my life. But if I am honest with my role as a shaman, I must be honest with how I face challenges, find the humour in them, and hope it brings you some medicine along the way.
I don’t know if you noticed (how could you not) but it’s a lot outside right now. I’m not going to give you the litany of what’s going on because bitch, respectfully, we know. We are exhausted. We are overheated. And we are dehydrated.
On an astrological level, we just exited the Summer Solstice, Octavia E. Butler’s birthday (this is an astrological event to ME, okay), and we’re about to have a New Moon in Cancer on the 25th (which happens to be my favourite person in the world’s birthday, too. If you know me, you should be able to guess that it’s my Grandfather’s 75th solar return).
The 75 Year Old in question, as photographed by his husband circa 1980 who is as goth and as pissed off as I am. Quintessential Cancer mood.
The Summer Solstice represents the PEAK of things, even if you are from or currently in the Southern Hemisphere. The peak isn’t always roses, finally making out with your summer bae, and the delicious, slow drip of ice cream melting scandalously into your fingers. The peak, just like in how we tell stories in film, television, and theatre often means when opposing forces meet in an exciting conflict to watch, but definitely sucks to be inside of.
My Summer Solstice began in a seemingly gentle place, enjoying Yin Yoga in a barn in a stunning valley in Colorado. We were surrounded by the trees and mountains I called upon to bless the union of my partner and me just days before in our ritual Tea Ceremony (I will write about this more when we have photos). There was an invitation of a sound bath healing and acupuncture. And I did not want to judge that the practitioner was a 19 year old named Bliss. Age is but a number. Her name feels like a meme, but she was a gentle leader and I enjoyed that.
And then Bliss stabbed me in the ear with 5 different needles.
And here’s the thing: I love acupuncture. I, in fact, ride and die for the 5 Point Protocol that saved countless lives and was deemed illegal in the 70s-90s because Black Panthers and Young Lords were practicing in order to save their/our community when the rest of the world truly could not give a fuck.
Babygirl did not know what she was doing. Because after I arose from the stabbing stupor, I could not see a damn thing.
Which, again. Yeah, is normal for a bitch who has -7.00 prescription glasses and I took my glasses off for a moment. But then, when I put my glasses on, there was the strangest smudge that just wouldn’t go away. No matter how many times I wiped my glasses. And the smudge still made everything wonky without the glasses. And then I realised…oh, this ain’t no fucking smudge, bitch. You fully cannot see anything anymore. Your vision is GONE!
And because Colorado racism, these lil white ladies could not care less I had been blinded. They just wanted me out of the studio cuz the session was over. I was then put in a tender situation, one I don’t like to be in often: I had to ask for help. I was completely at the mercy of my partner and my mother in law.
Luckily, after some food, hydration, and counseling with another shaman, my vision returned. And I understood the spiritual meaning of surrender in a very literal sense. During the peak of frustration, fear, instability, and crisis, we aren’t asked to move quickly and chaotically. We are asked to depend on one another. We are asked to move slow, yet still with purpose.
Think of fire drills and, if you’re a Coloradan, think of our lockdown drills. In emergency situations, we are always asked to center, ground, take care of ourselves first, move slowly, with purpose, and if you are in need of help: you must ask.
As I learned this in my body first, the next day I was asked to do the same for my partner. Often, we assume long term relationships and wedding planning are exciting when we’re on the outside looking in. But in material understanding, marriage signals a period of grief. Not only for leaving behind the years of singledom, but an era of naivety, an era where you had care takers who were responsible for you and inspired you, and naive beliefs that love feels more like limerence than genuine, steady, care. Marriage makes us come to terms with mortality, not just in ourselves but in our loved ones and caregivers. And when you add the financial strain and event planning of marriage, it’s only natural that all of these feelings of grief can rise into panic.
Because we are mountain bois through and through, my partner and I only know how to process in nature. While we were navigating the peak of marriage anxieties and fears, we had to ground with Juniper trees, soft, welcoming grass, and clear blue lakes nuzzled between rolling mountains.
How romantic and picturesque to process grief with your beloved with a Colorado backdrop, right?
Yeah, until a Robin fuckin’ torpedoes into you.
Time moves differently when a full, adult sized bird is squawking, flapping, and pecking the shit outta your head. Seven seconds can feel like a lifetime.
Because the first second is: wow, the wind today is strong as hell. It musta blown a branch in my hair.
The next is: This branch is alive.
This is when I wish I could tell you my spiritual nature went, “Aw, sweet little robin, be still my friend and let me help you.”
I just wailed the fuck out on this bird. Like, full on ol boy in the Wild Thornberrys, ya bi de do be di WAILED. (If you don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about enjoy this)
From seconds four through seven, Robin and I chose to work together by mutually hitting the shit out of each other. Sometimes, conflict is the way through. Robin pecked my neck, vegus nerve, and head. I sort of shake screamed and panic slapped her little feet out of me.
In the stillness of the moment, I chose not to look back at the seven year old birthday party happening behind me that had suddenly become eerily quiet. I chose to make connection with the Robin, sitting just a yard away from me, as deeply stirred as I was.
When we stared at one another, we had a shared knowing: a mutual apology. A mutual compassion. And I couldn’t help but laugh. We really went through something together. And when I looked back at my partner, who had to watch the whole ordeal, helplessly and in shock as well, all we had was our laughter.
This is the point of climaxes (not those, but…honestly…maybe….). This is the point of conflict. This is the point of forgiveness of self and others.
We belong to each other and nature, which means we also belong to the natural rhythms of being in relation to one another. That rhythm inherently means conflict. It inherently means uncertainty and fear. Alternatively, it means inherent reconciliation, responsibility, compassion, care, and laughter.
A Summer Solstice Peak,
The birth of a visionary leader who reminds us, constantly, that all we touch we change and the only truth of the world is change
A Season of the Crab, the Moon’s deepest, most nurturing season
These ingredients give us a rush of emotion, a grief, a sense of overwhelm. It’s navigating through relentlessness. We are being asked now not to be in fear of the relentless nature of suffering and unchecked horror, but to be relentless in our care for one another.
How can we be relentless in our compassion? In our laughter? In our forgiveness? In our surrender to one another?
The more we ask ourselves these questions, the stronger our community bonds, our resistance, and our resolve.
Before I leave you, I want you to imagine a rushing river. Perhaps like this video I got of the creek colonially named Gore Creek I’m attaching below.
There are many ways we can be in relationship with a River. We can be caught by it, we can be killed by it. Fear of River is genuine and consequences can be dire, certainly. Alternatively, we can be committed to play with the river, we can even enjoy riding the waves of it. We can be excited by tempting fate and putting juuuuust a bit of our feet in and then scurrying away to safety. And there is a third option: we can observe River. We can be exceptionally close or profoundly far away, we can search for healing in the gentle white noise of the heavy, overwhelming flow and crashes. The listening itself actually provides stillness, cleansing, and separation from the danger of River. And when we observe River, we can see the inevitability of it. Yes, there is a peak, there is a crash, there is heavy flow…but it always, always flows into a state of subsiding. The rush does not last forever. It’s impossible for it to last! When we look up close, right at all the action, it seems forever and daunting. But if the overwhelm of nature cannot even sustain and must flow and flow to a state of calm, why would we think this moment of exhaustion and overwhelm would equally last? River is more ancient than us. Wiser than us. And mirrored in our bodies, mirrored by our moon. There will be an end to this, dearest. There will be calm. There always is, there always will be.
I love you so dearly, so desperately. All we have is one another. Are you willing to be relentless in the pursuit of care?