From early childhood my dreams were vivid and intense things that never seemed to completely fade away, regardless of whether it was in the light of day or after years of distance from the time the dream took place. It was in a dream, somewhere between three and four years of age, when things began to dramatically shift for me. One night, I dreamt that I was in a dark, narrow tunnel, riding my Big Wheel - a plastic tricycle with an over-sized front tire that rode low to the ground and which was very popular at the time. In one direction, the tunnel rose upward toward a source of light; in the other, it sloped downward into the darkness.
I was a young child and, like any small boy, the light was more appealing to me than the darkness. So I turned my Big Wheel toward the source of illumination and began riding toward the light. The nearer I drew to it, the brighter the illumination became, until it was so intensely brilliant that the light was blinding, obscuring all detail. As I emerged from the tunnel into the full embrace of the illumination, I immediately realized two things.
First of all, I could see. I was embraced in full daylight and before me stretched a desolate desert landscape filled with towering sandstone formations.
Second, I was falling.
The light was the brilliant light of the afternoon desert sun and the tunnel opened up as a cave mouth in the face of a cliff. (It's something I blogged about during our honeymoon to the American Southwest.) Blinking against the blinding light, I glimpsed the desert landscape before me and, before I realized what was happening, I rode my Big Wheel over the lip of the cave mouth, plummeting toward the earth below.
I woke up just before I hit the earth.
The next night I dreamed exactly the same dream; the same tunnel; the same beckoning light. Once again, I rode my Big Wheel toward the light with the same result. This time, I woke up just before I hit the floor of my bedroom, having fallen out of bed, my physical body synchronized with the falling in the dream. I can still remember the shock of impact, of being thrown from the dream into the waking world, of hitting the ground in my bedroom instead of the floor of the desert.
On the third night, I had the same dream once again. Knowing that heading toward the light would have the same result, I turned my Big Wheel in the opposite direction and began riding down into the darkness. It grew darker the deeper I descended, the tunnel delving deep into the earth until it was almost pitch black around me. Up ahead I could see a faint, deep, midnight blue glow seeming to beckon to me. I rode deeper, finding that the glow came from an opening in the side of the tunnel. Stopping my Big Wheel and peering through the opening, I discovered that the glow was the soft light of the night sky deep below the surface of the Earth. There before me stretched the faint arm of the Milky Way, complete with thousands of twinkling stars - only the sky wasn't suspended overhead; it was wrapped around a woman as a hooded cloak. She was standing in a small chamber, draped in the night sky, peering into a natural basin of water as if she had been watching events unfold in scrying bowl. Turning toward me, she smiled, simultaneously young, middle-aged, and very old.
I stepped off my Big Wheel, standing before the opening to the small chamber where she had waited.
"Are you ready to learn, Little One?" she asked.
I nodded.
"The path will be long and hard and you will be completely alone," she warned. "Little One?" she gently asked again, "Are you sure you're ready to learn."
I simply answered, "Yes."
"Then come," she said, gesturing for me to follow her before turning and leading me through an opening in the far wall of the chamber.
Night after night, I'd drift off into dreams and find myself in her presence. And night after night, she would teach me about spirituality - the nature of the divine, the flow of energy, the evolution of souls - not only offering information, but guiding me through exercises that enabled me to experience the concepts she described firsthand. We studied together for about a year before she introduced me to a new person, a woman I would know as Fauna, who taught me about Nature, the fae, and the spirits of the natural world. Each night from that point forward, I would awake and find Fauna waiting for me. Approximately another year passed under Fauna's tutelage before she, in turn, introduced me to my next teacher.
This pattern repeated itself for years. While my first two teachers were wonderful to work with and learn from, many of the others presented their own unique sets of challenges. There was an old man with a unkempt white beard who was none too pleased to interrupt his own studies so he could offer me instruction. All of our lessons took place inside a series of crowded, windowless stone rooms, my teacher constantly searching through chaotic piles of papers, tools, and instruments in search of a visual aid, a piece of writing, or part of a lesson. (In all honesty, I was a little scared of him until about half way through our studies together when he began to warm up to me.) A woman in Grecian robes taught me the art of combat, both magickal and literal, including the laws of life and death and the magick associated with each. Our quintessential lesson came when she had crippled a deer with an arrow and handed me a knife to appropriately end its life and release its spirit into the afterlife. (Thanks to her instruction, I excelled at all of my Special Operations training in this incarnation and can still shoot a bow reasonably well and have from the first time I drew one in the physical realm.) My final teacher was a massive man named Bear, his name apparently coming from his thick but muscular girth, coupled with dense curly red hair and a tightly curled red beard. He was gruff and demanding, but would burst out was prone to bursting into deep, loud explosions of laughter, often without warning and for reasons that occasionally made no sense to me. Our final lesson required simultaneously working on multiple levels of the consciousness, a process that I employed for the first time in a waking state in September 2005 when I went to the beach in the middle of the night, apparently called there by the goddess of the sea.
The night after my final training with Bear, I slipped into the Dreamtime to find that there was no one waiting for me. It was the first time that I hadn't been met by a teacher for almost two thirds of my entire life, a period dating back to when I was a small child. (I was about ten years old at the time of my final lesson with Bear.) Instead, there was a path before me, leading through a completely white, featureless landscape, devoid of any color or detail. As I followed the path, a landscape slowly formed around me. I traveled through forest and grasslands, over mountains and across the sea, until I arrived at a small island dominated by an ancient temple overgrown with vegetation. Along the pathway leading to the temple were a series of statues of very normal people, the last one standing before a dark doorway. I leapt up onto the base the statue was standing on, immediately jumping down again, leaving my form behind in motionless stone and taking on the form of the final statue.
And then I stepped through the doorway.
I was standing in the midst of deep space, surrounded by stars in every direction. In a circle around me, standing behind stone podiums, waited each teacher that I had studied with over the years - with the exception of the woman cloaked in the night sky filled with stars. Bear stood beside me, just off my right shoulder and slightly behind me. The teachers talked about my training, what I had learned and what I had shared. Bear had been my final teacher and I quickly discovered that our last lesson together had been a test of sorts for me. We had sat cross-legged, levitating inside a nine foot circle of thick white summoning candles, a chessboard floating between us, both of us accompanying each move with an accompanying piece of philosophy. Bear played black, I was white, our philosophy mirroring the symbolic colors of our respective chess pieces. My final move to place Bear in checkmate was accompanied with the phrase, "Love conquers all," a phrase originally penned by the ancient poet Virgil (who died in 19 BCE), one of the many pieces of literature I'd been instructed to study along the way. Even with all of the instruction that I had received, even with everything I'd experienced I was still young, overly confident, and very, very naive. I remember Bear being sad and a little worried about me at the conclusion of our final lesson. I tend to go through life heart-first and, having worked with me for countless nights, Bear realized that about me. Both he and my high school writing teacher were worried that I would lose that heart, Bear with the trials of the waking world, my writing teacher (who gave me a hand-written three page letter on the topic before graduation) that the loss would come during my tour of duty in the military. I remember being excited, standing in that circle in the field of stars, realizing that my training had been completed, that I'd passed the final test. This was my graduation! I was as fully trained as my teachers could offer. And then it was made clear that there was a reason that I was offered the training (something that I honestly still don't clearly remember, possibly because I was still a kid and not paying particularly close attention at that point) and then I was told that I would forget everything that I had been taught and learned, "until it was time."
I immediately awoke, feeling everything I'd been taught over the previous six or seven years fading away like a dream you forget in the light of day. Not just the wisdom and knowledge, but the confidence that I discovered along the way. I don't forget my dreams. I can describe numerous dreams from early childhood. But years of often demanding training, goals I had pushed myself to reach, obstacles that I had struggled to overcome, completely vanished within heartbeats. They were simply and completely gone.
I never dreamt of any of my teachers again.
When I was called to the beach in September 2005 to complete the ritual with the goddess, I wrote, "A lot of what I do on my path is pretty instinctive and spontaneous." Bits and pieces of what I had been taught in dreams as a child slipped through over the years. That's one of the reasons why I have traditionally followed my instincts in spiritual matters so blindly. I also wrote, "Severing the cord from the amulet symbolically severed my own energy from the previous portion of my path, essentially closing a doorway so the only direction I could move was forward. By replacing it with the amulet on the cord with the piece of amber, which I personally connect to the ball of light that was unlocked at the end of the three-tiered journey, I'm ritually accepting and manifesting the energy that was unlocked by the key into my life and my path." It was here that the dream teachings of my youth began to slip back into my consciousness. It was here that things began to change for me.
In fact, I closed the article writing, "The cliff overlooking the sea, the journey of the whale stone, the lock and key, and the space on my back are all intimately connected to a series of dreams that I had when I was a child. If space permits and they serve as a useful illustration of the material, I'll share them at a later date."
Now you know.
About fifteen years ago I was offered the fullness of what I had been taught, my entire experience as a dream student instantly handed to me. I was walking in downtown Salem and there was a teenager on a dirt bike weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic. People were distraught and he was beginning to cross the line between "nuisance" and "hazard." I thought something to the effect that he shouldn't be riding his bike on the sidewalk (there are signs clearly posted to that effect), when I felt my energy reach out, his bike chain instantly popped off his bicycle and he came to a complete stop, almost crashing with the suddenness of the event. Not only did I realize that I was responsible for his bicycle losing its chain, but he stared straight at me and I could tell from the look in his eyes that he realized I was responsible too.
And I knew, on the spot, that I hadn't grown to the place where I was capable of handling that kind of responsibility that comes with that kind of manifestation.
Bri has been a big part of getting me to that point, her love almost completely transforming me. The rest of that process is, ironically, right in front of your nose. What you'll find if you go back over the eleven years that I've been writing Old Ways is a slow awakening to that calling. First, I was entrusted with a fossilized dog bone, still connected to the canine and the Native American who had loved it when they had been alive. I then followed the lead of Spirit to a wild coast of Washington State to release the spirits of a clearcut grove of awakened trees. From the first issue of Old Ways, which I've offered free of charge for more than a decade, it's been a process of letting go, of embracing a path of humility, patience and love. There are readers who know everything that I've readily given up along the way. There are those of you who will remember when I was called back to Christianity for a short period of time to embrace some lessons on that path and the humility with which I left and the joy with which I came back home to Old Ways. I even released the hold on my own life, performing a "hypothermia ritual," symbolically crossing the line between life and death as I stripped naked and submerged in an icy mountain river in the midst of a raging snow storm. Our honeymoon found Bri and I pointing our car and blindly following Spirit, driving almost 3,000 miles without an itinerary, a journey that was filled with equal amounts of blessings and magick.
What most of you don't know is that, during a period that stretched from the end of the dream teachings through my early twenties, I had prophesies spoken over me by several different cultures and religions. The first was when I was about ten years old, shortly after the dreams had stopped. A massive Christian tent revival meeting stopped in mid-sermon, I was pulled up front of the congregation in the middle of the service and all of the gathered pastors, elders, and deacons were called up to pray over me. As shy as I was, I was busy wishing I was anywhere else and remember very little of the experience. I was anointed with oil and my parents, who were beaming with pride, only remember the single phrase, "Your words will cut men to the marrow of their bones," from the midst of a pretty extensive prophesy The last prophesy was spoken over me in approximately 1993 and ended with a bear hug from the Native American man who had spontaneously prayed over me in his people's language, smiling with tears of joy in his eyes as he said, "Brother, you're going to do great things."
Why tell you all of this?
First of all, it's a huge step of faith for me - much like quitting my job and devoting myself blindly to serving the spiritual community. While I love teaching and have no issues speaking comfortably in front of groups of people, I absolutely loathe being in the spotlight. I hate it. I'll teach you in a heartbeat, gently and compassionately heal you when and where I can, but then please let me step back into the shadows. I honestly don't like the public accolades. It's one of the reasons why your email means so much to me. Knowing that I could help a little bit and receive whatever thanks you want to offer quietly and out of the spotlight is just about perfect from my perspective. Just please do not hold me up as "special" of "different." Growing up with the spiritual perspective that I was given (I was born consciously remember many of my past lives as well as existence in the realm where we find ourselves between lifetimes) made me extremely sensitive to the fact that I didn't fit in - and I was incredibly shy on top of that. Put the two together and I've spent most of my life trying to hide from my calling.
But those who know me well will also tell you that I don't do things half way. For instance, I addressed my overwhelming fear of heights by jumping out of airplanes. The point is, when I commit to something, I commit all the way. I am your teacher for as long as you're allow me to walk beside you and I will serve you to the best of my abilities along the way.
Second, if we're going to walk together on this journey, I think it's important that you know the details. When I lead groups in ritual work, one of the last things we do before we begin the rite begins is have everyone present speak their intent for the ritual. I start and we go around the circle, one by one, and openly and honestly share with each other where we're coming from and what our intent is for the ceremony. Life is a ritual - and I think it's important to honor it that way. It wouldn't be honest of me to continue on, having our paths intertwine, without me being completely honest about my own. I don't feel right about asking you to trust me in holistic healing or intuitive guidance if you don't know where I'm coming from.
This is where you should anticipate me offering you some grand revelation, where I say something like, "The end of the world is near and I'm here to save you all!"
As we've discussed before, this isn't Hollywood. I'm not Neo from "The Matrix" movies. I'm just a simple teacher and healer. And in all honesty, I have some of the pieces of my own puzzle - just enough to be doing what I'm doing now and having a concrete understanding of the direction to head in on the path ahead.
But in a much larger, all-encompassing sort of way, things are changing. Rapidly changing. Somewhere between 1992 and 1994, I was working with a woman whose teacher studied directly with the Hopi and had ties with their elders. Over the course of a week or two, some significant events had taken place in the world that the Hopi considered fulfillment of prophesy.
As the story was related to me (the woman I worked with received regular phone updates from her teacher), the Hopi determined that the last opportunity had come for us to change course before significant changes began to take place on all levels of reality. I was told that their spokesman, relying on the Hopi's status as a sovereign nation, asked for the opportunity to address the United Nations General Assembly regarding their prophesies and the interpretation that they had reached regarding them. Three times they asked. Three times they were turned away. As the story goes, it was at this point that the Hopi spokesman declared that our collective fate was sealed. We had declined our final opportunity to turn things around.
Since then, life has radically changed. Look at any area of your life, from the environment to the economy, from natural disasters to political change. Pick any topic of national or global significance, and you will find massive change and upheaval. The days of slow, generational growth aren't over, but they are being balanced with an incredibly quick, almost instantaneous ability to change on a massive scale. In my role as a spiritual teacher, not a week goes by when I don't speak to someone who is experiencing massive amounts of personal change. My own practice is unfolding at a blindingly fast pace and, between my own experiences and those of students and other practitioners who I communicate with, it's clear that the rules are changing. Everything is accelerating and magick, simply put, is getting easier to work and more effective in its results.
Author Vine Deloria Jr.. who writes from a Native American perspective, once penned, "Any future coalition of groups for change must adopt Indian formats. The desire to have spectacular demonstrations and disruptions must give way to a determination to maintain the community at all costs. This can only be possible by creation of new mythologies internal to each group in a manner similar to contemporary tribal understandings of the history of the people."
This is what Bri and I are working to do. When we met together over our first cup of coffee, Bri and I realize that we had been given the same dreams and visions of a better future and how to bring it to life. It's not a coincidence that this site is named Old Ways or that our work here and through Sage and Scribe seems to overlap. As business increases, we're going to be widening our circle, bringing in Native American and indigenous craftspeople from around the world. We're developing a tribal business model and laying the groundwork to build relationships with the artisans and communities we do business with. Those relationships will not only allow us access to traditional ways of approaching life and spirituality, but will provide us with new techniques, insight, wisdom, and knowledge which we will readily and freely share through Old Ways. One of the projects that I'll be working on is teaching writing and graphic and Web design, photography, and writing to traditional cultures, having the younger generation interview their elders and record the wisdom and traditions of their people while developing marketable job skills. Bri has a passion for urban and community gardens and we both believe strongly in holistic and herbal self-healing - especially when you consider that here in the United States almost 47 million non-elderly Americans (over 9 million of them children) lack even basic health insurance and can't afford to see a doctor. The soaps, salves, teas and such we make? One day we'll be standing in inner cities, surrounded by those attending our workshops, teaching them to garden, how to heal, and how to build those tribal ties that creates a "determination to maintain the community at all costs."
You can begin to see how the business and the giving go hand-in-hand. We're determined and committed to making Sage and Scribe a not-for-profit company, distributing the wealth between the employees, the artisans, and the communities that each of them call home. As the finances begin to manifest, there are other dreams that come on board, lining up one by one. The building of an eco-village and holistic healing retreat that is open to all who are drawn there and doesn't come with a huge price tag attached. An earth-based spirituality summer camp. Outreach programs and opportunities to open doors for others to follow their own dreams. The list goes on and on.
You know me and should understand my heart by now. Old Ways has been offered to you free of charge for more than eleven years and is still going strong. If you can believe in anyone giving their all to make the lives of those they interact with a little bit better, you can trust the guy who has been working toward it since he rode a certain Big Wheel down into the dark, who has been quietly serving you for more than a decade, and whose very marriage is built around the work he'll be doing hand-in-hand with his partner.
I look at it this way. At the end of this lifetime, when I'm standing in the afterlife I remember so well and think of as home, it won't be important how fancy my car was or how my television dominated a media room. It won't matter what brands of clothes I wore or which concerts I attended. What will matter is how much I grew, how much I gave. What will truly matter is the people I truly helped and the positive changes that I left for those who came after me. That's what's important from where I sit. And that's also why the spotlight is totally unimportant to me. I'm a tool and a servant - and honored to be both. And that's why I feel blessed by each and every one of you that has come this way, allowed our paths to intertwine for a time, and either went away to teach what you've learned or stayed on board to encourage and help. We're changing the world, one person at a time, each and every day. And when you think about it, when you imagine yourself standing on the other side and looking back on your life and those you left behind on the physical plane, that's what's going to be important.
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