Mojave Musings: familiarity and strangeness

   This continues to be a nomadic year for me. The little vintage trailer bedroom in the desert is the sixth place I've laid my head this year. Most of the other beds were in the Taos area. Although the neighborhoods were new, the route to the grocery store and Wired, my favorite coffee shop, were familiar.
    Being in an entirely new place I'm more aware of what having a sense of place means to me.  A sense of place is a conglomerate of characteristics that make a physical location special and unique. It's a combination of landscape, both man made and natural, and human experience in that landscape.
    Sense of place is more than how the landscape looks. It encompasses the smells, sounds, the quality of the stillness and how it feels to walk the streets. Shopping malls, chain stores and fast food restaurants lack a sense of place because they are too generic.
   Having a sense of place gives us a way to orient ourselves and contributes to a foundation of meaning. There is also a strong relationship between sense of place and identity. Most of us rely, at least in part, on our sense of place to show us who we are at a given time. In my wanderings this year I've wondered if sense of place and of "home" can be entirely internal. I'm still not sure about that one. I do feel a shift inside me. As the essence of who I am remains consistent from place to place, my sense of place becomes more of an inside job and the strangeness of the next new place matters less and less.     
    If we lived in one place for years those external references that make up our sense of place can become constraints. We begin mistake our sense of place for our sense of self. That distortion makes it difficult to move beyond our comfort zone and try something new.
    When we go on vacation or spend time in a new place we step away from the familiar reference points our sense of place provides. Going on vacation is often a time when people engage in new activities or behaviors. When a person wants a "fresh start", she often moves to a new state where she has no established sense of place.
     Stepping away from your sense of place is both freeing and disconcerting. In each new place I've landed in Taos this year it was the little things I found most disconcerting. I could find the grocery store, but didn't know where to put my underwear. I knew my way to the post office, but couldn't remember which cupboard the mugs were in.
    Just as it's been the little bits of strange in new houses that threw me a bit, here in wonderfully strange new place it's the threads of familiarity that give me some grounding. Cholla cactus, jack rabbits, the scent of coffee in the morning, listening to an old friend play guitar.
     These little things that have already found their place inside me are my compass points for a new sense of place. Pieces of familiar balance the disorientation of not knowing where things are in the grocery store or how to find the post office.
     I went through this process of learning my way around and finding my place when I moved to Taos in 2000. Learning what street things are on and how to get there gives me a sense of familiarity but only contributes to my sense of place indirectly. Sense of place is a relationship built on connection and how I feel in my skin here.
    I've met a dozen new people in the past week and a half. Connections spark as I get to know them better. The connection I feel with the landscape here has already taken root. It reached out and grabbed me as though initiated by the desert itself. I lived in Oklahoma for more than two years and didn't have the sense of place I feel here after two weeks. Some places have a much stronger presence than others.

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Mojave Musings - adaptation and flexibility

     

We humans have a propensity for reshaping the landscape to suit our needs and wants. Even in harsh and extreme environments we use our ingenuity to make ourselves comfortable. I've often wondered how much our skill at creating convenience and comfort feeds our illusion that we're at the top of the food chain.
    Spend a little time in a serious desert and that notion begins to erode. After a day in Joshua Tree I got it that virtually everything else in the Mojave Desert is better equipped to survive here than I am.
     Except for the lizards and quail, the beasties hide out in burrows during the day. Silly me decided to go for a walk mid afternoon. After fifteen minutes a whopper sun and heat headache chased me back inside. The desert beasties have the right idea. Explore in the evening and early morning, hole up during the heat of the day.
   In this new place I am practicing flexibility and letting the environment teach me how to move. Flexibility is the willingness to adapt and meet the present moment rather than clinging rigidly to my idea of "should", want or comfort. Yes, this is uncomfortable because it stretches me. It also circumvents the pressure I create for myself when I try to force the moment to fit my idea.
    On a biological level, human beings are pretty flexible. Our bodies are in a constant state of flux. Each cell of us has its own life span. Some cells reproduce constantly. Thoughts and nerves fire. Chemical messengers zoom. Our strongest muscle, the heart, beats on and on even when we're still.
     We are adaptable, flexible by nature. But in our beliefs, wants, ideas, preferences and "shoulds", we can be intensely fixed. We want what we want. We hold to visions of how our lives "should" be even when those ideas grate against now. Given the constant motion in our bodies, this is rigidity is in conflict with our nature.
    Being in all this new, I am seeing my preferences and what I think I need to be comfortable with new eyes. Some is merely habit and convenience. I can shed those. Other things, like morning quiet time, is more a need that comes from my natural rhythms. Each morning I slip quietly into the house, make coffee, take it out to my travel trailer bedroom and watch the sun rise over the desert. The early morning stillness here is unlike anything I've experienced before...ancient, expansive and deep.
    Like the other desert beasties, the people I've met here are adept at adaptation and being flexible. The friends I came to be with are riding the currents of a life changing year. These women are an exquisite portrait of heart strength, courage and willingness to adapt to circumstances that would have shattered most people.
     These life altering, "no going back from here" events crash into lives like crazed tornados. They promise only destruction and an extended sojourn in the unknown. But in the wreckage there is an invitation to step forward and be our best selves. This community that has welcomed me with curiosity and hugs accepted the invitation.
   Each day people come bringing care, support, hugs and home cooked meals. With each offering chaos and destruction are transformed into something holy. The ripples from this unfolding miracle are so tangible I see them spreading out to nest in the hearts of people who've never heard of Joshua Tree.
    Sacredness like this is not built on level ground. It comes from caverns, pits, sharp edges, broken seams and turning ourselves inside out to find the best of who we are. In such a fecund environment, how can I not do the same?
    (Myshkin and Jenny, this one's for you. Thank you!)

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Chop veggies, wash pots

   

  I spent the last two weeks in the Taos Ski Valley helping my friend L cook for the Grof Transpersonal Training retreat. GTT is a program for studying and experiencing Holotropic Breathwork. The first week we cooked three meals a day for thirty-one people. The second week we fed eighteen.
    The days went like this - wake up a few minutes before my 5am alarm, stumble down the hall to the kitchen, stare at the wall while the coffee brewed, back in the kitchen at 6:30, make breakfast, clean up breakfast, make lunch, clean up lunch, make dinner, clean up dinner, close down the kitchen between 8 and 9 after sweeping and mopping the floor. Whew.
     I have a renewed sense of gratitude for how amazing my body is. It's an incredible vehicle. My middle aged body did a miraculous job of accommodating fourteen hours a day of physical labor and being on my feet. Lots of strained muscles and little aches....much gratitude for arnica and ibuprofen. Each night as I slept my body regenerated. I woke up physically tired, but my feet no longer hurt and I was ready to go another round.
     It was two weeks immersed in the simplicity of the present moment. Chop garlic, chop other veggies, make salad, cut fruit, wash pots, wash dishes. Hands and body in motion, mind free.
    One night during the first week I came back to my room thinking about people whose lives consist of working so hard every day they have little time or energy for anything else. I'm grateful that's not what I do regularly. I missed my creativity; having the time to write and draw.
    Many people who work like this every day do so in a tough environment where they are underpaid, under appreciated and largely invisible. Although L was the boss, she was very unboss like. We worked as a team. I was well paid for what I did.
     The attendees thanked us after every meal. One evening two young men thanked me for doing the dishes when they brought their plates back after dinner. L was generous in thanking me daily for the work I'd done. The "thank yous" were precious and made all our work worth it.
     Even though I knew the participants were grateful for our meals, every couple days my ego tried to convince me that I was invisible and needed to do something so these people knew I was more than a dishwasher. Hah.
    One evening during dinner a man came into the kitchen for seconds. As I filled his plate he told me that how food is made and who makes it is more important than the food itself. I responded telling me that L was conscious in planning meals around what the participants were doing that day, what food would be more grounding, etc.
    He smiled, shook his head and said, "No, it has nothing to do with intention. You have a pure heart. That can't be faked." I had tears in my eyes as he left the kitchen.
    After the last meal many of the attendees came into the kitchen to hug me and thank me for my service. Major case of warm fuzzies! A couple lingered to thank me for my presence and supportive energy. In midst of my ego's yelping, I'd forgotten that who I am comes through whether I'm working with a client or up to my elbows in dishes. What I do, no matter how mundane, can be an expression of who I am.
    Most days L and I sat down for a few minutes at breakfast and lunch to eat with the attendees. We usually sat the front table, where the facilitators sat. On the last morning one of the attendees sat down next to me saying she'd decided to sit at the "important table" this morning.
    I was puzzled. It took me a minute to register that it was the "important table" because that's where the facilitators usually sat. While my ego mumbled about being unimportant, I was eating twice a day at the "important table." To me it was just the table closest to the kitchen which made it easy to see if we were running out of salad or get up if someone needed something.
   All of this was perfect launch for a new adventure. I leave Friday to spend six weeks in Joshua Tree, California helping a couple friends. This is good introvert challenge. Go to a brand new place where I only two people for several weeks. I've been in Taos for fourteen years and I still love it. Part of my comfort here comes from knowing the territory and having people here know me. I'm leaving all that behind for awhile. I'm excited to be embarking on a adventure and feeling a bit of anxiety about everything being new.
   I'm grateful to be taking the reminder that I who I am, no matter what I happen to be doing in the moment, with me. I can trust that strength when I'm exploring the desert, checking out new coffee shops and meeting new people. Next week, first blog post from the desert...

Chocolate covered strawberries, dessert for the last night's dinner. (Photo by Lenore Reinhart)

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Darkworkers..Who Are We?

  

 The term "lightworker" is familiar to many people. It's common for healers to refer to themselves as lightworkers and talk about "only dealing with the light." But what does  that really mean?
     Even after extensive research on the internet, finding a cohesive definition of "lightworker" was difficult. It seems to mean a healer who is all about the light. The Lightworker.org website defines lightworker as: "Any being dedicated to the cultivation of inner presence and the elevation of awareness in the self and other selves. 

    The connotation associated with "lightworker" is firmly rooted in the same old duality of light vs.dark. The definition, although a bit vague, is more balanced. I've met numerous people who identify with being a lightworker. I'm not sure exactly what that is.I do know that's not me.
    A few months ago a friend forwarded me the last couple pages of a chapter from Revelations for the New Millennium. I haven't read the book. The portion she sent me contained a beautifully written description of darkworkers. I recognized myself in what I read. Not a new revelation. Hi, my name is Raven and I'm a darkworker.
   So what is a darkworker? Goggle that term and you'll get a zillion hits, most of which make darkworkers sound like minions of evil. We aren't. Same old duality....again.
    Darkworkers are just as committed to deepening awareness, shifting consciousness and healing as lightworkers are. The difference lies in the tools we use to do that. Darkworkers consciously use shadow and darkness.
    The current emphasis on being a lightworker and working only with the light reinforces our dualistic view of healing and who healers are supposed to be. We have reformed "healer" from the image of our own fear of the dark. In doing this we've limited both our view of what healing is and what's possible.
   The idea of shadow as a vehicle of healing is part of the healer archetype described by Carl Jung. Jung believed the collective unconscious that all human beings share includes mythic characters or archetypes. Archetypes represent fundamental characteristics or patterns that develop with the evolution of human experience. The healer is one of the original archetypes Jung identified.
   The wounded healer is a subset of the healer archetype. The wounded healer isn't simply a healer who is wounded. Being physically, mentally,emotionally,spiritually and energetically wounded is part of the human experience. We all have wounds.
   The wounded healer becomes a healer by descending in her own darkness to heal her wounds and reemerging. Yes, there are many healer (therapists, energy workers, etc) who chose to pursue healing after experiencing a personal tragedy or dealing with some aspect of their own wounding. For the wounded healer, dealing with the wound is a do and die situation.
    It's not about becoming a healer. It's about survival. You know not journeying into the darkness will kill you, literally or metaphorically. You also know that some part of you will die during the descent but refusing the make the journey isn't a viable choice. Often the thought of being a healer doesn't occur to you until you've passed through your dark night of the soul.
    The most powerful and valuable tools a wounded healer has are the ones forged from her own darkness.
   Karl Kerenyi, a colleague and contemporary of Carl Jung, described the wounded healer as someone who is able "at home in the darkness of suffering and there to find the germs of light and recovery with which, as though by enchantment,  to bring forth Asclepius, the sunlike healer."

     This description also applies to shamanic work. Shamanism is one of the oldest healing modalities. Archaeologists can trace it's history back 40,000 years. Many suspect the tradition goes back even further. I once read the difference between a shaman and other healers is that healers work with light where shamanic practitioners work with shadow/darkness and light. There are other basic differences between shamanic practitioners and healers in other modalities, but that distinction rings true for me.
   Shamanism is essentially a darkworker tradition. I find it curious in this climate of lightworkers that shamanism has resurfaced so strongly. I wonder if the resurgence isn't an unconscious attempt to move beyond the duality of light vs. dark. Although I'm often disappointed to find websites about shamanism sanitized of any mention of   working with darkness.
   Darkness is the universal womb, the mother of all things. Darkness is the void of creation pregnant with all that is possible. Light comes from darkness and returns to it. We too come from the darkness of the womb and return to darkness each night in sleep. Not all darkness is shadow. Shadows are cast by light. The shadow that follows us on the ground is created by sunlight.
    On our dualistic planet, darkness and light are reciprocal, indivisible parts of the whole. This is the territory of darkworkers. Rather than choosing between darkness and light, we choose both.
    That choice means we often stand as a mirror for other peoples fear of the dark. Every couple years I encounter a potential client who is hesitant to work with me. The way I carry darkness and shadow scares them. I'm still working on not taking that reaction personally. I understand the value of mirrors, but being one is challenging.
   Living as a darkworker is an edgy dance. We live in world that still clings to light is good, dark is evil. What we darkworkers see reflected in the world around us is a dichotomy that doesn't match who we are. We aren't selfish, working for the "dark side" or here to destroy anything. We are holding space for those beliefs and for whatever is needed to heal that duality.

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