Carla Woody's Blog

In the late 1980s I began to have a persistent sense that something was on the horizon. I was living a pretty mainstream life in Ohio at the time—knowing it was in no way a right fit. Within a couple of years, a major revolution…a fast train that involved jumping out of my old life and into the complete unknown, albeit guided by invisible direction. It turned out to be something beyond my wildest imagination or even knew existed. I’m thankful for every bit of it having brought me to where I find myself today. For some time that sense of something awaiting on the horizon returned and intensified. I’d known it was time to close that chapter on the form my lifework had taken for the last 25+ years: sponsoring spiritual travel journeys, retreats and mentoring.

Late this spring I made that final decision and took the actions necessary to dismantle a company and nonprofit—and felt immediate lightness. In essence, I’d also systematically dissolved my identity in the wider world and moved into a form of invisibility. I felt enlivened and continue to feel unbound, free to go wherever liminal space may offer.

Shortly after I made those decisive steps, I was having a conversation with my mom. She asked, “Now that you’re no longer sponsoring programs, are there places you still want to travel for yourself?” I thought for a moment and told her I’d like to return to India but to the Himalayas. I’d gone to Delhi and Rajasthan 26 years ago. It was a powerful time immersed in Sufi practices. Yet I felt India wasn’t finished with me.

Apparently not. A few days later an email invitation landed in my inbox to participate in a pilgrimage to the Himalayas with Sacred India Journeys. I had no idea how I got connected. However, I noted the synchronicity relative to timing…and clear direction such as I’ve received before to engage, the perfect segue through the threshold. Wasn’t it what I’d asked for? I’d learned long ago to follow the energy.

Beyond. ©2023 Carla Woody.

I returned from India 10 days ago. During the pilgrimage to the most sacred temples, caves and simply the most powerful vibrations held in the mountains and very land of the Himalayas…frequently little bubbles of joy would arise…bringing me into the present moment even more so. A gift delivered from Mother India in sweet silence.

On the first morning home… Since sunrise I’d gazed out my window at the high desert homeland that anchors me here, the close hills and farther mountains—especially the San Francisco Peaks—revisiting the journey…appreciating the patience, graciousness and devotion embedded in the culture of the Indian people and loving those I traveled with and what also brings me home. I’m recognizing how gratitude is at the core of joy. A few months prior to my departure I’d set my intent to carry forward all India taught me in a good way. Sometime soon I’ll start to write more about this precious journey once I can attempt to put words to what has few to none at the moment.

But now I’m going to write about Re-Entry, as much to remind myself as to share with anyone else who may benefit. This phase of a spiritual journey is equal to the experiences had and sometimes more important. You need to be prepared ahead of the return home relative to the elements. Otherwise, there’s a risk of being blind-sided by what you encounter increasing what could be difficult.

The most effective changes happen at the spiritual level brought about through that sacred container. The degree of transformation is directly related to how profound the experiences are—and outside the normal comfort zone your amygdala dictates. When that happens, you are opened by benevolent forces beyond your control. Suddenly, you now have a sense you didn’t previously. It has a trickle-down effect. There are shifts in your very identity in the world, your life beliefs, capabilities, behaviors and the environments you’re now willing to be.

You’ve gained awarenesses you didn’t possess before. Your eyes are opened and Spirit moves you. You’re someone other than you’ve been. It can be as confusing as it is exhilarating. The old way doesn’t fit to varying degrees depending on context.

Energy being everything, you may notice energy matches and mismatches in various contexts. This is about clarity and awareness, the first step to evolution.

Treat yourself as you would a newborn, in a protected manner, until this new being is stable on her legs. What does that mean exactly? Take time for yourself before “returning to the world.” Be still and present as much as possible. Appreciate yourself and the courage you have. Not everyone will embrace such changes and lead a prescribed life instead.

Recapitulation is a useful practice. Take yourself back to the time before you made the decision to join in the spiritual opportunity that presented itself. We do self-select for the journey. What do you notice about your state of being prior to the decision and afterward? Witness yourself along the continuum at pertinent times as you sense shifts. Bring yourself all the way forward into the present moment and then look back down that timeline. How have things unfolded in a meaningful way? Acknowledge yourself and hold that dear.

Here’s another important element. Remember that while you’ve undergone a transformation, perhaps in ways you can’t quite identify at this point, the world you returned to has not. Loved ones, friends and colleagues may respond in ways you didn’t anticipate. Certainly, there will be those who absolutely support you and curious about your process. It’s also not unusual that those closest to you may respond in negative and even hurtful ways. Almost always this has to do with their fear they’re projecting that you may not need them anymore or they don’t feel equal. If you look beyond the behaviors to see what’s at the core, more than likely you’ll gain an understanding of what’s transpiring. This is a time calling upon compassion and clarity to sort things through.

How can you share what you’ve experienced? To paraphrase poet Pablo Neruda, drop a petal on the ground. If they pick it up, share a bit more without expelling your energy. Photos are always an option. Your newborn needs time and consideration.

Re-entry provides a path for spiritual evolution…for coming into alignment. It’s like peeling the layers of the onion…coming home to our Self. Initially, the process may be quite dramatic. But over time, it lessens in intensity and becomes a kind reminder for a tweak. I call it the Re-Membering Process.

Balché Ceremony with Don Antonio Martinez, Nahá. ©2012 Carla Woody

The day I knew would one day come arrived in late January 2024. Since 2007 I’d been bringing small groups to Chiapas, the southernmost Mexican state, for immersion experiences in the sacred ways of the Living Maya. Our time in Nahá, the tiny Lacandón Maya village, a population of less than 200, was always the major high point for me.

It’s a long bumpy drive through what used to be a thick jungle before loggers appeared in the 1960s. Entering the village, there’s one long dirt road bisecting it. Before any passageway granted access, this was the grass landing strip whereby Trudi and Frans Blom flew in and out since the 1940s. Having befriended the Lancandones, they became advocates for the preservation of their traditions and the rainforest. They’d created a jungle camp, staying there frequently. It still stands. Indeed, it’s impossible not to feel their presence there still. I stayed in their historic camp when the few guest cabins were being restored. Their adopted daughter Doña Beti often came with us. She insisted on cooking our meals over the open fire, feeding us at the camp dining table. I especially imagined Trudi sitting at a place of honor, holding court in her legendary manner. Trudi and Frans passed in 1993 and 1963, respectively, first laid to rest in San Cristóbal de las Casas. In 2011, the Bloms were reburied in the village cemetery, close by their friend and spiritual leader Chan K’in Viejo, at last fulfilling both their long-held wishes. 

Nahá Road/Landing Strip. ©2024 Carla WoodyThe Bloms’ historic jungle camp, Nahá. ©2024 Carla Woody

Nahá means the place of water in the Lacandón language. Indeed, the lake has a mystical quality. I draw on memories of mist hanging over the lake, lily pads at the edges. The other side can’t quite be seen. Gliding along in the traditional dugout canoes, it just might be possible to enter another world. I’ve felt the invitation.

Lake Nahá with traditional canoe. ©2009 Carla Woody

My reason for coming to Nahá all these years was to pay respects to Don Antonio, the last holder of their spiritual traditions and Chan K’in Viejo’s son-in-law. This sweet, humble man carried on courageously for decades, fulfilling his sacred traditions despite great duress and interference from evangelicals. In 2012, I wrote The Last Spirit Keeper tracking manipulations from those outside sources and the beautiful connection made in 2009 between Hopi wisdom keeper Harold Joseph and Don Antonio during his time of grief at the sudden loss of his son.

The pandemic had interfered with my annual return until this year. Once arriving in Nahá, it was practice to check in with Don Antonio to say hello and ask about his plans for the balché ceremony.* My friend Eli PaintedCrow and I walked from the lodge on the edge of the village to Don Antonio’s home according to our norm. A young relation greeted us and went to get Don Antonio. I was shocked by the sight of him. He was quite frail and bent. He had trouble walking. He didn’t recognize me. After all these years of appearing ageless, he now seemed not long for this world. Only his long dark hair remained the same. I was saddened by his appearance. I couldn’t imagine he would hold the ceremony or even have the desire. But he asked us to come to his god house with the group the next afternoon.

It was then I learned he was going blind. He kept gazing at me like perhaps he should know me. When he came quite close, he lit up with recognition and began to talk of past times I’d been there. He had a new god house now located just beyond the house. The old god house where I was used to going was about a quarter mile away. He was no longer able to walk to the old one. He had a stick to help maintain his balance and had trouble getting up when seated or kneeling. When people asked me how old he was I’d say probably eighties and then maybe ninety as years were passing. It was sometimes a challenge to keep track, and I wasn’t even sure of his age the first time we met.

When we arrived the next day, he was preparing for the ceremony. He bustled around the interior of his god house readying the god pots. Each one had a face on it, symbolizing one of their thirteen gods. He placed them on an altar made of large palm fronds lying on the ground and put a copal inside each one. He invited us to sit on the logs just inside the perimeter of the god house. Females were not traditionally allowed inside as males were. But he’d always been gracious. This time was no different. The previous day I made sure to let him know we were eleven women, unsure how he’d feel about that. No men were with us. He looked a little taken aback for a moment but assured us we were welcome.

He’d already ladled balché from the old dugout canoe where it fermented into its large terracotta container. Now he made his offering to each god. Dipping a rolled-up young palm frond into balché, he trickled the liquid over the jutting lower lip of each god pot. Sitting down on the log seat in front of the balché vessel, he sighed with satisfaction and offered gourd bowls containing the drink to each of us. The first sip is always a bit of a shock to my taste buds but quickly becomes tastier as the ceremony progresses. I noticed the same response on the women’s faces in the circle.

After a few healthy gulps, Don Antonio was quiet for a few moments. Then he began to speak softly, saying he hadn’t done the ceremony in a long time, how no one came to see him anymore, and his people no longer cared for the gods. It was then his wife, who rarely joined the circle, came from the house, looking in on him, stroking his hair, lightly touching his face. I’ve heard Don Antonio note the lack of interest his people had every time I’d been there, and how in the old days this ceremony healed people. But the gods weren’t showing up so much anymore either. They’d been forsaken. With his wife’s concern for her husband and the love she clearly showed, his lament took on an even more imminent conclusion. I had tears in my throat and a few slipped down my cheeks. I can only imagine what it’s like to be the last one practicing ancient traditions. I can only imagine the loneliness.

Eli PaintedCrow and Don Antonio. ©2024 Carla Woody

But he began to brighten. Eli sat next to him, talking to him in Spanish. I couldn’t hear what she said but guessed she expressed her great interest in their ways. Eli’s presence on our journey was important to me and even more so to her. She’d come to reconnect with her Maya lineage, having suffered that loss when her dear grandfather passed many years ago. Soon Don Antonio was telling stories and singing traditional songs, even one about the merits of drinking balché.

Don Antonio at his god house. ©2024 Carla Woody

After a while, Don Antonio made an announcement. He told us at one hundred years old he would no longer hold the balché ceremony, and the last one would be with us eleven women. He told stories, sang, lit the god pots, and prayed. He blessed us. We drank balché. This may have been a poignant time, but there was joy just as well. I saw it on his face. This gentle soul held steady for what mattered. We all can learn from his example.

After the balché ceremony. ©2024 Carla Woody

That day marked the end of an era. Don Antonio has no apprentice. There’s no one who would carry on the traditions. This fact was confirmed a couple of days later at Palenque when Eli and I visited with some Lacandón women from Chan K’in Viejo’s lineage who had a booth there. I heard that old friends of Don Antonio’s visiting from the US, went to see him the day after we left. He was still happy and they all drank the leftover balché. That news lifted my heart.

The old dugout canoes have been gone over a decade, save the one at Don Antonio’s god house and another sunken in water at the edge of the lake, just one end sticking up. Fiberglass boats took their place. Then the last couple of young men who used to attend the ceremonies slipped away suddenly, too. On a subsequent trip, I saw one who had made vows, in conversation with me, to continue his traditions. But the next time I saw him, he’d been dressed in Western clothing. I learned later he’d converted to evangelism.

Over the last eighteen years, I’ve witnessed the steady disintegration of Lacandón spiritual practices as foreign influences took their place. Of course, it started long before then with roads cut by loggers and decimation of the rainforest and wildlife habitat. Nahá was once a place that had stepped outside time. I feel fortunate to have experienced it that way.

*The balché ceremony, undertaken by the males in the community, is a conduit for blessings, prayers, and a way of honoring. Individual gods are represented through terracotta god pots, with the face of each god and the interior meant for burning copal. Any god pot may be chosen for use during the traditional ceremonies. Don Antonio, as caretaker of the god pots, communes with the gods that hold the world together. And when he feeds the god pots copal, tamales, and balché, he is feeding the gods, the universe, and everything in it. The ceremony and its preparation take many hours.

One Last Ceremony was originally published in the Illumination publication on Medium in March 2024.

There are long held secrets on both sides of my family. One I’ve known about for a long time but hadn’t readily understood the whole story in context. The other I learned of in October 2023. It’s taken me several months to piece elements together and come to a horrifying conclusion.

I do want to alert you that what I’m about to share may be too graphic for some in painting these terrible narratives. They derive of a time, rising up through poverty and lack of choice. But it could just as well be told in present times and for what else could come if we allow it.

I’m going to disclose these family secrets here. Why now? Why publicly? It’s a time sensitive matter of life and death. I feel a responsibility. These tragic stories need be told and the women involved—my grandmothers—and others like them honored. My 92-year-old mother is urging me to do so. One of the stories is about her mother.

I never knew either of my grandmothers. They were names to me with no attachment. But they’ve come alive as I’ve researched their lives and deaths. I want to say their names and grieve for them, what they went through and the generational trauma living in the family line.

Jewel Nadine Whitley, née Smithart Sisters BB (left) and Blackie (right), circa 1930.

My maternal grandmother went by her nickname Blackie. She was born in Leesburg, Mississippi in 1912, one of six children. The family had been there for generations doing well for those times. But in 1913 they picked up and fled due to serious encounters and death threats from the Ku Klux Klan because they employed Black people at their businesses, perhaps a story for another time. They landed in east Texas where eventually Blackie met her husband, Carl. They made their life in the still tiny towns of Jacksonville and then Palestine. My mother Sue was born in 1932, an only child. Times were exceedingly hard in those rural communities, more so than elsewhere. There was little to no work. If there was, pay was a pittance. Blackie worked at a laundry. Carl’s work in those early days is unknown. My mother remembers going to bed hungry much of the time. They lived below the poverty line. My mother told me she thought it was normal—everyone living a hand-to-mouth existence. No future.

Imagine worrying through the day, kept up at night with how to make ends meet, what to scrape together to make a meal, which meal(s) to skip that day, how to keep your growing child in clothes. What if something happened and there’s no money to make it right and nonexistent resources? Maybe you know those who are in those kinds of situations or have been there yourself.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, it’s this next part that so twists me up inside. My mother doesn’t know when what I’m going to tell you next occurred. She only found out at all because her favorite aunt BB told her sometime after Blackie passed.

Have you heard those old stories of women aborting their pregnancy with a coat hanger and didn’t think they were real? I know in my heart Blackie only undertook that unspeakable action because she felt family circumstances held no other choice. Step into her life discovering another child was on the way: the desperation, sadness, hopelessness, absolute despair, guilt. This was not an act taken lightly. I can only imagine the courage it took. Where did it happen? How? I have a sense she was alone in the bathroom, no help then or in the aftermath…a secret she long kept to herself until she disclosed it to her sister BB. I stand in her shoes in that time and it tears me up.

Whether her uterus managed to heal or it was permanently destroyed, we don’t know. But at some point, Blackie began to feel unwell, which probably developed over time. However, by age 36 it was clear it was something serious. We don’t know if she went to a doctor at the outset. There was probably no money. Or did she wait until her pain and bleeding was unbearable? At age 38 Blackie was finally diagnosed with uterine cancer.

Did the way the abortion occurred cause the cancer? It is very rare for uterine cancer to appear in one so young. If the disease were to present, most experienced it after age 50. I tend to believe there was a link…the physical and emotional wounding, and stress likely took its toll. My mother told me Blackie was emotionally absent.

When I think about the treatment and its side effects Blackie endured, I shudder. Radium capsules were placed in her uterine cavity. My mother remembers seeing them, a string tail at one end to pull them out. In my mind I saw a teenaged girl-sized tampon-like apparatus. They were unsuccessful. I’m sure it added to her pain by burning her up inside. Blackie suffered another four years, passing at age 42.

Emma Mae Woody, née Heard Emma, date unknown.

My father Glenn was a motherless child born into the Dustbowl in the Texas panhandle on January 11, 1932 in Dalhart, the youngest of seven children. The only thing we knew about Emma was her death from undisclosed complications of childbirth. Nothing else. My father never even saw his mother’s face. The only photograph that exists—faded sepia—is of Emma walking down a barren dirt road to nowhere. She’s unrecognizable, the image taken from such a distance. It’s undated. In genealogy charts researched for us by a friend, we learned she was born in October in 1887 in Arkansas, no town or county given…and nothing whatsoever available about her family line. We don’t even know who her people were.

My knowledge base changed when my cousin David and his wife came to visit my mother and me in October 2023. David had been extensively researching the Woody family genealogy and brought with him a large laminated family tree. He also said he’d come across Emma’s death certificate and gave me a copy. He noted it was exceptional due to the notes regarding death and attendance were handwritten by the doctor whose signature was indecipherable. The document, now close to 100 years old, is washed out and hard to read. Thankfully, the handwriting is much larger than the type. The first thing that popped out to me in contributing causes was “retained placenta.” What is that? None of us present had heard of this. For the time, I set the family tree and death certificate aside as we returned to visiting.

When I pulled it out again a few weeks later, I first researched “retained placenta”.  

Delivery of the placenta is vital in preventing severe complications from developing. In normal circumstances, the placenta naturally detaches on its own and is delivered from the uterus. However, when the placenta fails to detach and be delivered within 30 minutes after the delivery of the baby, it is referred to as a retained placenta. Sometimes, an entire placenta is retained while other times, only part of a placenta is retained. Both can pose serious risks to the mother. The entire placenta must be delivered.

If it’s not removed in a timely manner, the risks are: serious infection, hemorrhage, internal bleeding, damage to the uterus, sepsis leading to septic shock.

I began to feel queasy. I returned to the death certificate. Under cause the doctor had written “septicemia”—the medical term for blood poisoning. Then I read the doctor’s full statement on contributing causes: Retained placenta. Delivery unattended on account of bad roads.

I understand it was common to have home births at that time, many without physicians or even a midwife. Of course, home births happen today but most have a back-up plan if things go awry with the birth. There was a gap of seven years between my dad and the twins closest in birth. He had four brothers and two sisters. But this tells me my grandfather and all siblings still lived at home then.

Did no one seek help? I looked at the death certificate again. The doctor noted he attended Emma from January 25 until February 18. That’s the day she died at age 45. My father was born January 11! She received NO treatment until 2 weeks after the birth and hung on 37 days before passing. There can be no doubt Emma suffered horribly. I don’t care what the roads were like! I would have gone for help. Wouldn’t you? Two weeks?

I was enraged. Underneath is a deep sadness. I cannot relay this story without crying or getting a catch in my voice and feel my anger arising. I cannot think about this much before I begin to spiral.

All my father’s immediate family have been long gone. I started sending emails out to cousins asking if they’d ever heard any stories from their parents about Emma growing up or if anyone had any photos of her. Nothing. It’s as though she’s a ghost, any trace of her swept away with the exception of that telling death certificate.

I feel like Emma is reaching up from the grave, wanting someone to know that she mattered.

In my mind, what happened was criminal negligence committed by my grandfather James Woody. There’s a small chance I wouldn’t have hopped on this accusation and left it to ignorance. But there’s more. When my dad was a toddler my grandfather farmed him out to a childless couple down the road only too happy to take him in. When my father was age four, the couple asked my grandfather if they could adopt him. It’s quite likely his first family didn’t come see him. My father had no memory of that happening.

When my grandfather showed up at the couple’s house he was loaded for bear. The husband sent my father to hide under the bed. I can imagine the yelling going on outside giving warning. My grandfather killed the husband, beating him about the head. His fists held brass knuckles. Then he took my father back to his birth home. He was never charged. The claim was made that when the husband opened the door, he had a rifle.

My father suffered from the trauma of witnessing that incident his entire life, being motherless, and ongoing abuse by his father. It affected his life and those of us close to him. All of this could possibly have been avoided had Emma received timely adequate care for the retained placenta. Most survive when it’s addressed as required.

My grandfather was 60 when my dad was born. There was a first family also with seven children. Their mother Luiza died at age 40. My cousin and I had a consultation about the dates Luiza gave birth to their last child Margarett, and the perplexing length of time from the birth and then the deaths of mother and child. David said, “From the birth/death date proximity of Margarett, I’m led to assume complications from childbirth led to death of mother and child.  However, I have no factual support on that, only supposition.  It appears possible that both JM Woody’s wives may have died in relation to childbirth.” He could find no death certificates. I’m glad I never knew this grandfather. He died alone in his cabin by his own hand at age 80—two weeks before I was born.

My father passed in April 2022. I would not have told this story prior to his passing, even if I’d known it. He would not have been able to endure it.

One might say that was so long ago, a frequent occurrence. Such things happen. I’m saying, it didn’t have to be that way—ever. It boils down to women’s status. Have times changed? I was aghast with the results I uncovered about maternal mortality rates. Not all those years ago…today.

We’ve been in a maternal healthcare crisis all along—and it’s getting worse by the year. How can we be thought of as one of the richest countries when the US is 55th in the world in maternal mortality—as designated by a 2020 WHO report—way up there with developing countries, the worst of any developed nation? And the CDC documents Women of Color are nearly three times likelier than White women to die during childbirth. We don’t take care of our own.

Women have the right to live safe, empowered lives making decisions that are right for them and their families…and have the support to do so. This is not a political statement. This is reality. We cannot return to the Dark Ages. We must go toward The Light.

Please feel free to share widely. It matters.

First, you need to understand I don’t know what I’m talking about. What I’m going to relate? Much is still a mystery to me. And I ventured into it clueless. For some things, it’s useful to “know.” For the most important things…not. There’s a threat the mind could get involved and do its best to distract, detract and embellish. 

In essence, this is a story told in a circle. It began with not-knowing and concludes the same way⏤if as yet it is complete. I didn’t realize it was a story…that one thing would relate itself to another. I didn’t put two and two together…except hints here and there long down the road looking back. It’s simply that I was drawn into it, and if I ignored direction then it became a repetitive command that increased in intensity until I paid attention. And yet the outcome had little to do with me.

I want to make a couple of points to frame what I’m about to share. About eighteen months ago, I discovered Peter Kingsley’s body of work. I was scrolling through social media when, of all places, a quote from one of his books popped out to me as though it lifted itself off the very screen and thrust itself in front of my eyes. I read it over and over. There was residency beyond the words that settled and became solid. This became the start of my current exploration when it could have been overlooked, a flickering interest. Instead, it added depth to my spiritual inquiry.

Mystic, impeccable scholar, Kingsley’s lifelong mission is to bring the origins of Western spirituality back to life and to point to all the ways Reality has been purposefully misconstrued, well hidden. He warns that most will pass the opportunity by and rather remain lost in forgetting, tethered to the illusion we’re presented with. His books are not easy to read. I found them quite dense. When I finally realized the teachings are actually incantations, the magic of them administered in varying ways, I unwrinkled my brow and let the words wash over me instead. I was then reminded of a time years ago when the teaching of Intent came into my life. I wrestled with the concept until finally, Intent won over. In that shift, my intellect let go. The core energy of the heart let itself be known…no concept but a Presence.

Some things Kingsley wrote were familiar. I had written about them myself over the years and taught in similar ways. Not that I was shaky in my own understanding of Truth but felt validated. Going out on a limb to express such things is a choice to swim against the tide. Companionship is always welcome.

Here’s a quote from his book Reality. I’m providing it because it has everything do to with the circle, a symbol of containment and completion, as I mentioned earlier. Let yourself sink into his words. They took me to places I already knew.

“…the system presented by Parmenides over two thousand years ago, at the dawn of our civilization, is so extraordinary. For it offers us completeness first: not later or at the end, not at some distant point in the future.

The completion, the perfection, comes right at the start. And that’s how things have to be, because unless the end were present at the beginning we would never be able to get there.”

The next point has to do with psychologist-researcher Julian Jaynes. In the early 1990s, I read his 1977 book The Origins of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind. I was fascinated. But at the time I didn’t see myself in it, probably because it wasn’t until a few years later that the natural phenomena Jaynes described, and others he does not, started occurring much more frequently in different contexts. About eight months ago, I was told to pick up the book, dusty on my shelves, again. And so, Jaynes’ work joined Kingsley’s in my exploration because I found multiple places to perch…and also produced a lot of questions from my own experiences.

This is an excerpt of an overview from Marcel Kuijsten, founder of the Julian Jaynes Society:

“Jaynes asserts that consciousness did not arise far back in human evolution but is a learned process based on metaphorical language. Prior to the development of consciousness, Jaynes argues humans operated under a previous mentality he called the bicameral (‘two-chambered’) mind. In the place of an internal dialogue, bicameral people experienced auditory hallucinations directing their actions, similar to the command hallucinations experienced by many people who hear voices today.

The neurological model for the bicameral mind has now been confirmed by dozens of brain imaging studies.”

Note: I do take issue with the word “hallucination” used in the overview of Jaynes’ theory. First, the word is connected with mental illness and psychedelics by mental health professionals, creating stigma. Many perfectly normal people are voice-hearers. I’m one of them. Many feel unsafe and/or anxious about it. Therefore, it remains underground, a well-kept secret, creating further anxiety. I’m telling this story as it happened to me and seek to normalize such natural phenomena. 

What follows is informed by the works of Kingsley and Jaynes that deepened my own understanding perhaps as to the how. But then why tells a tale of its own⏤decades-long⏤for which I have no explanation regarding my own involvement. Also know: I never had any clue, at the moment, as to the point or potential evolution of the directions I was given. And I made an immediate choice to follow them. I was completely aligned with the actions.

I’m still in the process of pinpointing exactly how the guidance comes. What I can discern now is the auditory component, which is a matter-of-fact voice, not my own, that typically emanates from outside my head in my upper left field. It could happen as I’m going about my day, sometimes during meditation. Moreover, there’s a strong kinesthetic component, a solid “rightness” and pulling quality that backs it up. I call it “following the energy.” On rare occasions, a visual image can appear to me during meditation. None of these instances are everyday occurrences. It’s more like I’m prompted to take certain actions in order for other things to unfold, maybe even years apart, and then another will come as the next step. But I always know when I’m on track and when I get sidelined and need to self-correct.

We were in the Moenkopi home of Charlene and Harold Joseph, traditional Hopi Wisdom Keepers, also our hosts for my spiritual travel program on Hopi Land. We were sitting in a circle, and Harold had begun to speak about his time as a sponsored guest on my Maya program in southern Mexico. I interrupted him, which I normally would not do, and said perhaps it would be useful to those in the group, who hadn’t traveled with me before, to provide some context to frame his telling. It was like someone else entered the room and had taken over, needing to give voice to something only ever been told in a segmented way, and I began to speak. And while I shared the high points, a number of things were left out, and the threads of one to another were connected intuitively by the listeners. What came arose organically, having specifically to do with Hopi.

Testimony. ©2015 Carla Woody

In the late 1980s, I began to have a vision during my daily meditations. I recognized it was a place I was supposed to be, far from Ohio where I was then living, but I had no idea where. It had mountains and pine trees. I was there. I could smell the forest. I felt completely at home. The vision would return periodically, getting stronger as the years went on until it became a yearning. In 1996 I moved to Utah but knew that wasn’t it, more like a step along the way.

But a couple of years later, my then-partner and I visited friends outside Prescott, Arizona. It was clear to me I’d arrived, and it only took me a few months to make the move and begin to settle in. Curiously, once I was there, I knew I was supposed to work with Native people in the area. I didn’t know any then and wouldn’t have approached them anyway. That would have been ludicrous. I began to hold meditation circles, spiritual retreats, and classes. A small local community started to grow up around my work. Knowing I’d been going to Peru and studying Andean mysticism since 1994 with spiritual teacher Américo Yábar and Q’ero mystics, some of them asked if I’d take them. That was the start of my spiritual travel programs, the first in 2000. I fell into it.

It was 2006 after a despacho prayer ceremony at a sacred lake outside Cusco. One of the Q’ero paq’os* looked up at the sky and pointed. Others got excited. A condor and an eagle were flying together. At the time I had never heard of the Eagle and Condor Prophecy until much later. But within a few days of my return home, while driving, a voice came: You need to take Hopi people with you on your programs south.

I still didn’t know any Native people in the area, much less Hopi. But synchronicities quickly happened, and in 2007 a Hopi father and 17-year-old son joined us on our journey to Peru. The same year, I founded Kenosis Spirit Keepers, the nonprofit extension of its mother organization Kenosis, to fund the sponsorships and other collaborative projects with the Indigenous peoples we serve. That’s when the story began to gain momentum.

The next year Harold was our sponsored guest. He consulted with his Kikmongwi, the traditional chief of his home village Shungopavi, who asked him to observe what he saw and accomplish other things. During our journey Harold went off by himself periodically, saying nothing when he’d rejoin the group. He remained silent about all of this and complicating factors. It was probably a year before I learned through Harold that Hopi oral history told of their migration up from South America through Central America and Mexico to where they live today. I had no idea. I also hadn’t known it was taboo for them to return to migration paths due to the bad things that had occurred causing them to leave. Consequently, there were certain things asked of Harold by his Kikmongwi in order to clear the way and open the path southward for other Hopis. That’s why he went off on his own. Nor did I know why Harold had been so thrilled to see the reed boats with serpent heads at Uros, the floating reed islands on Lake Titicaca. To the point, he bought a small mobile containing miniature boats to take home and show Charlene’s father, the last great oral historian of the Hopi Tribe, who teared up at his find.

By that time, I’d started sponsoring a Maya program that had created itself organically, allowing me to take people to the highlands and lowlands of Chiapas where I’d been returning annually since 1994. Sponsored Hopis, usually chosen by their Kikmongwi, joined us in both Peru and Mexico, meeting their relations and sharing traditions in both places. My heart lifted each time they noted stories and other indicators that let them know they’d passed through those regions we traversed and sat in the ceremony.

About 2011, I received another missal. This time I was to go to Bolivia where I’d never been. No details whatsoever. I’d suggested to Américo, with whom I’d been working all those years, that we could extend the journey to the Bolivian side of Lake Titicaca, but he wouldn’t go for it. Soon afterward we parted ways. In 2014, I invited two in the group I sponsored that year to go with me to Bolivia after that Peru journey ended, a scouting expedition. I managed to find guides who were very helpful.

Lake Titicaca is a sacred place and the Bolivian side provides entrance to the country. A truly remarkable thing happened in the middle of the lake on our way from the Island of the Sun⏤the location of the ancient mystery school for Inka priests⏤and the Island of the Moon⏤the site of the mystery school for Inka priestesses. Our Quechua and Aymara guides and the three of us had created a despacho on the boat. As the ceremony closed, the despacho bundle wrapped, and one of the guides held it out to me to make the offering to the lake. As we were gliding toward the Island of the Moon, I launched our offering into waves left by the boat. An extraordinary thing happened that’s a challenge to convey. Tremendous energy surged from the lake and devoured the bundle. Astounded isn’t adequate to describe our state. I had no doubt permission had been granted to enter and the way was open for the following year.

In 2015, the journey began in Bolivia and was meant to culminate in Cusco, closely replicating the initiation journey of the first Inka couple Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo. Directed by their father-god Viracocha, they sought a holiest place to build the city⏤a place of the sun and the navel of the world. Sponsorships for this program included Q’ero paq’os and Suhongva Marvin Lalo from Hopi’s First Mesa.

“Our first stop was Tiwanku, said to be the Creation Place where Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo first emerged. Finally pulling ourselves away, in the last half hour before closing we ventured over to an adjacent site. Puma Punku may be the biggest mystery of all. Some conjecture it may have been a docking point, as thousands of years ago Lake Titicaca also covered this area. Now what was left were huge toppled stone slabs and much smaller structures fashioned with extraordinary precision…seemingly impossible for those times. It cannot be explained to this day.

And it was here that Marvin⏤who had traveled south all the way from Hopi Land on a mission for signs that his people had passed this way⏤found the Hopi migration petroglyph. The one that was known to point the way for his ancestors. The one that pointed north…Marvin zeroed in on a symbol he knew to be his people’s…and his hair was on fire.”

⏤Excerpted from A Hopi Discovery in Bolivia

What does this mean exactly? Coupled with Harold’s 2008 trip with us on the Peruvian side of Lake Titicaca where he saw the reed boat with a serpent head he knew from Hopi oral history…and the presence of the Hopi migration symbol at Puma Punka, how do you explain recognition of these artifacts if the Hopi ancestors had not been there?

The following year I repeated the journey from the previous year. The Kikmongwi sent his senior advisor Radford Quamahongnewa of Hotevilla whose mission was to validate what Marvin had seen in 2015. While we were in Puma Punku, our guide spoke of a great city that once existed in that region, now lost, and the great flood that took it. Perhaps not so strangely this, too, was part of Hopi oral history.

When telling this story I was transported back to the times I spoke of. Once I’d completed my recounting, tracing its significant threads, closing the loop of the circle, there was silence. It hung together in the air, an invisible entity…and I was overwhelmed. I was shown the whole of something I hadn’t quite realized. When you follow something you know…along some unknown trajectory derived from prompting by an unseen advisor…and it comes to some kind of fruition in a way you couldn’t have imagined…that instills elements for which I have no words or explanation. I will let it rest here.

*Paq’o is a Quechua word with no direct translation, the closest being a cross between shaman and mystic in the Andean tradition.

This essay was first published in Illuminations Publication on Medium in April 2023.

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT

Join us in Hopi Land, March 16-21, for an immersion experience in the Hopi Way of Life you’re unlikely to find on your own. Once again, I’m honored to sponsor this rare opportunity hosted by Hopi Wisdom Keepers Charlene Joseph, Harold Joseph and others. You’ll be touched in surprising ways as to what really matters, positively affecting your daily life long after you return home.

Spiritual Travel to Hopi: Sacred Guardians of the World
March 16-21, 2023

Registration discount ends December 16.

With Charlene and Harold Joseph, Hopi Wisdom Keepers, and Carla Woody, Spiritual Guide and Author

An Immersion Experience in the Hopi Way of Life.
Co-sponsored by Kenosis and Kenosis Spirit Keepers. A portion of tuition is tax-deductible.

Join us to learn from traditional Hopi Wisdom Keepers in their home villages of Shungopavi and Moenkopi in northern Arizona while they share who they are as First People, the original commitment they made to the Caretaker of that land — and some of the ways they carry out these spiritual responsibilities.

Our journey emphasizes lifeways and places of great spiritual significance handed down by Hopi ancestors, as it has been for thousands of years, still living today on First, Second and Third Mesas of the Hopi Nation. Visiting ancient villages of Old Oraibi, Walpi and hidden petroglyph sites, we explore the traditional Hopi way that holds the world together.

Our journey is timed to potentially attend a day dance. The Katsinas having engaged in ritual in the kivas and danced all night, often emerge during the day to offer blessings to all beings and prayers for fruitfulness.

The group size is limited to maintain respect and the intimate nature. A portion of tuition is tax-deductible to help preserve continuity of Indigenous wisdom traditions through the initiatives of Kenosis Spirit Keepers, the nonprofit extension of Kenosis. When you travel with us you directly help support Indigenous traditions.

For detailed itinerary, tuition, bios and how to register, go here.

Registration discount until December 16. Registration deadline February 27, 2023.

Register now to hold your space! For questions, call 928-778-1058 or email [email protected].

Once I made a true commitment to my artwork, to reach into deeper recesses of myself, to somehow translate what I found there onto a surface, I noticed something interesting.

Whenever I would see an artist post their unfinished painting or sculpture on social media and label it WIP, shorthand for work in progress, it grated on me. It serves as a constant reminder of western societal norms: the pressure to worship at the altar of “progress”. To produce…quickly and consistently in a prescribed way…to set goals rather than hold intent. Prior to social media, perhaps I wasn’t consciously aware of what I rebelled against, but now it’s all too visible in so many ways.

It also brings to consciousness, a choice to be made at any turn. To paraphrase my first spiritual teacher Américo Yábar, are you acting for an audience…or are you an actor for the Infinite?

I had my first glimmer of understanding in my early 20s. First of all, I was working in a white male-dominated field in a bureaucratic environment. My boss charged me with a small project. I remember nothing about the content but do remember the process. It had creative elements and potential strategies toward the given outcome. I was intrigued and diligently went to work on it. But when he didn’t immediately get reports of my progress, he became more and more anxious, probably thinking he’d made a mistake choosing this very young woman for the task. He then attempted to micromanage me, which never works with me. I pretty much blew him off except to say I’m working on it. When I did give him my detailed recommendations, strategies in place, well before the deadline, he didn’t hide his shock.

He was a good boss and treated me well, but clearly, he knew nothing of the creative process. It requires space and a willingness to step outside time, to incubate in the underworld, before the final outcome surfaces. Now this was a minor incident in the scope of my life. But somehow, it’s remained vivid in my memory as a major teaching where creativity takes center stage.

Where the WIP term is concerned, I felt quite validated toward what I’d already long determined after watching a 2021 interview of Eric Maisel , a psychotherapist, creativity coach and author of more than 50 books, for an audience of artist members of the Cold Wax Academy. In essence he said, “The idea of progress is a trap. The Transcendentalists named ‘progress’ as the central metaphor for America. The icon was an upward spiral.”

What a set-up. As if unknown territory, frustration and being lost isn’t part of the process, too. That, by the way, is how we learn and then continue to expand beyond what we know…by stepping off the beaten path. I used to call it my love-hate relationship with painting—until I didn’t. Maisel went on to say, “Just do the next right thing.” Primarily that means stepping outside the progress paradigm and into yourself. Make yourself available to what comes through.

That began to happen for me when I fully realized that creating art had become a spiritual practice, an extension beyond my morning meditations. By that time, I’d had a daily meditation practice for 30 years. And just like that practice, it took some time for deeper channels to open in this different context. But one day it just happened. Something else entered, which is impossible to explain logically. There was an exchange, an ongoing silent conversation, and I was suddenly taking direction from the painting…or something beyond it…as the most natural of occurrences.

I titled the painting  My Magdalen Heart. Some months later I happened to be in the gallery where I showed my work at the time when an older couple entered and started making their way along the back wall. Soon the woman came to me with tears in her eyes, asking if I was the artist. She told me the painting had spoken to her. I didn’t doubt her. She went on to say how devoted she’d been to Mary Magdalen since childhood, having so many stories. It was emotional for us both. My Magdalen Heart now lives in New Mexico where, as the owner wrote to me, her presence commands the room.

Several months ago, I learned of Peter Kingsley’s body of work. It would be remiss of me not to mention him here. I have been slowly making my way through his books, there being so much that rings true for me. Sprinkled throughout his writings he exposes “the western myth of progress” trying to shake us awake, directing us back toward our origins. Those we forgot long ago as a culture, but remembered and still lived by traditional Indigenous peoples. In Catafalque, on Carl Jung and his Red Book, he uses Jung’s own words to describe the progress myth: “cult” and “illusion” relating to the obsession and fragility, the state of affairs we’re collectively enduring.

One Mother: The Wayshower. ©2022 Carla Woody.

I’ve learned over time to create space around my artwork, to ignore outside influences attempting to break through what I consider sacred space. These days working a piece to completion may take months. I’ve learned to be patient and trust what comes as it does. I’ve lost the angst around painting that used to wait in the wings, its cue to appear when I didn’t know what to do. Instead, I know it’s gone underground for a while to be sorted out and willingly let go.

I usually have a sense of what narrative I want to convey before I start painting. Early this year I began a series called One Mother as an invitation to re-member ourselves and our collective foundation. When I started the second work, it quickly diverged from the Arizona forest image I used as a prompt and took on a life of its own. I went with it. After some weeks I realized the landscape seemed awfully familiar but quite different from what I started with, nowhere around here. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and whatever was directing my palette knife wasn’t giving any hints. I have a rocker I keep across the room from my easel. I hang out there a lot, gazing at my work to get distance and another perspective. I knew something significant  was missing from this piece but no clue as to what. Then one day two things happened in quick succession. Suddenly, I recognized the landscape as that below the cliff at Serpent Mound in southern Ohio. An instant later, superimposed on the painting, I saw a snake slithering along a large rock at the creek’s edge, the cosmic egg in its mouth.

The Wayshower, detail.

This outcome was not in my human mind, and it was only by being willing to stay with the process, to surrender and have the silent, sometimes intermittent, conversation was the unfolding delivered. And for that I have no words. But I do know it’s not progress.

Revelations in Process was first published in Illumination on Medium in November 2022.

Joey L. is a fine art photographer and documentary film director from Canada based in Brooklyn. He can frequently be found in remote places the outside world knows nothing of, and seems equally at ease working with celebrities and corporate brands.

His work with tribal peoples and ethnic groups is what intrigues me. Joey says he tends to go back to the same places. In doing so, he’s able to get a deeper and deeper sense of the people, their lifeways and environment—a real connection. I understand this because I’ve done the same over nearly 30 years. You create relationships that wouldn’t happen with the quick dash that satisfies the mainstream tourist. You see and experience things you couldn’t have imagined. Doors open. You are invited in.

Another thing happens that, for me, is heartbreaking to witness. Over time, invariably there’s loss of tradition. In his new documentary The Crocodile Hunters of Ethiopia, Joey talks about the hard life and difficult circumstances many Indigenous peoples endure. You can’t blame them for wanting an easier life. I’ve wrestled with these same thoughts. Would that their sacred practices and lifeways be maintained and, at the same time, they’re lifted out of poverty.

Joey has been working on a book about Ethiopian cultural history for 12 years. Some Ethiopian tribes have maintained their traditions over centuries. The Dassanach tribe is one. Some of the things he photographed 12 years ago are gone, lost to climate change and modernization. His mission is underscored with a sense of urgency.

His obsession started as an 18-year-old when he first went to a Dassanach village. During his visit, there was a tragic occurrence. A child was eaten by a crocodile, which are a ready danger in the region. They can grow 4 times as big as a human and retain gargantuan strength. They’re man eaters. Joey heard rumors of a nomadic caste called Dies whose specialty is killing crocodiles, not with guns but in the old way…with handmade harpoons. For years, he wanted to photograph them. But they are few and elusive, and croc hunting only occurs for a limited time during the rainy season.

Finally, the time was now. He was afraid if he waited longer the crocodile hunters would be a thing of the past. The film covers the search, preparation, tribulations, all the way through the complete hunt, which takes place at night. Joey and his team are among the few outsiders ever to see the hunt. Now you can, too.

This documentary merges uncommon, extraordinary footage of landscapes, tribal peoples, ceremonial blessings, along with what it means to be a working photographer and the importance of respect. Joey talks about the roles of passion, curiosity, persistence and risk relative to his photography. He’s showing you what happens behind the scenes. But also, what drives him to dedicate his life to the pursuit of the unusual and cultural truth. His work has been in demand since he was a teenager with commissions from celebrities and brands. His work takes him into war zones, remote villages, dense jungles, urban areas, and commercial shoots. Joey L. is a rare breed.

I began following Joey L. a few years ago. I’m particular taken with the Mentawai collection and his ongoing portrait series of Holy Men. To view more documentaries on the Dassanach and the lower Oma Valley see People of the Delta with accompanying shorts.

The closer I got to the departure date the louder the demands became—if you can relate kinesthetic response to pitch. I do. It started with a niggling feeling at the back of my skull that progressed to sensations of instability in my solar plexus, which I can only describe as shifting sands. It finally felt as though the world was falling away. The accompanying pitch was relative, increasingly louder in my head until I couldn’t ignore it. I found myself taken aback…as it was meant to do.

This I know…

Alchemy can be defined as elements recombined to create new forms. When beliefs are re-formed, arising out of what was, rebirthing takes place.

Resistance is necessary as a form of progression. In order to resist, the mind has to consider something new. Otherwise, resistance wouldn’t happen. Imagining something new begins to create substance. The greater the level of resistance, the more potentially profound the new creation may be—and out of the comfort zone. The more rigid we are in our own thinking, the more inertia we will experience against moving forward.

To create, we must push through the membrane that separates what we’ve preserved as real from the newly imagined reality…

Excerpt from Navigating Your Lifepath, Section IV: Transforming the Dragon

I also knew, and had many times experienced, the closer to profound movement we are, the stronger the impulse to go unconscious at the threshold and allow the status quo to pull us back. If we give in to backward movement, we remain tethered…contained.

Recognize that hesitation, feeling torn, or paralyzed are a natural part of the evolutionary process. Even external blocks can strangely present themselves, colluding with the internal part attempting to hold us back. It’s necessary to acknowledge any level of fear. Honor that part. Check in with intent, and then allow its resident purity to guide you.

But I was curious. I’m usually one of the first in my circle of friends and acquaintances to venture zealously into parts unknown. What made this time somehow different for me?

Oropendola nests, Madre de Dios. ©2021 Carla Woody.

In late 2020, I received a formal invitation to visit the Matsigenka village of Shipetiari to bring a spiritual travel group to their home located in a remote, pristine rainforest area, the buffer zone to Manu National Park and Biosphere Preserve. This particular Matsigenka community is one of the remaining few who live most traditionally. I considered this an incredible honor. They’ve had few travelers and none like the spiritual travel groups I sponsor.

Of course, the pandemic intervened. At that time, there was no vaccine. The Matsigenka, being so isolated, had no exposure or immunity. Finally, fully vaccinated, boosted, September flight set and COVID rapid test taken a day ahead, I set off for my personal journey to Shipetiari where I would meet the villagers and their jungle home for the first time.

I noticed that, once I turned my attention toward travels and thoughts informed by the larger intent of the time ahead, any objections by that part who’d raised them become quieter until they dissipated altogether.

It occurred to me the pandemic itself had generated my internal objections. Not because I was fearful of infection but for another reason. Like most all of us, my usual world came to a halt. In all that continued expanse of time, I reflected strongly on those aspects most important to me, sorting through how I would live into the future.

At a certain point, I began to wonder when or if I would be able to transition back into the world with my new realizations. I noticed a hint of complacency, lethargy really. Or was it the work of actually wading back into “life” after a long period of contemplation?  

Recently, I came across a definition of the fundamental natures of Shiva—the drive being equilibrium—and Shakti—drawn to the “stuff of the world” and change. To illustrate, there was an image of Shiva deep in meditation with Shakti attempting to bring him into the dance. I don’t claim to be a knowledgeable student of Hinduism, but in that moment the teaching reached out and grabbed me…two sides of the same coin. Elements familiar to me inserted themselves in a deeper way.

I had barely arrived in Cusco a few hours when I went to meet with Jack Wheeler. That’s when I learned we would be leaving early next morning for the jungle, barely breaking daylight. Jack is the founder of Xapiri Ground, based in Cusco. We met a few years ago. I discovered our nonprofits had similar missions toward preservation of Indigenous traditions. His work rests specifically with ethnic groups of the Peruvian Amazon. Xapiri Ground is working with the Matsigenka to document their cosmology, held and passed on through traditional songs and storytelling…now becoming lost. We, Kenosis Spirit Keepers, are helping to support that undertaking.

The Storytelling Project was one reason we were going then. The other was for me to respond to the invitation I’d originally received, begin to develop relationships and make arrangements to return with a small group of travelers respectful of the spiritual landscape and open to learning.

The next morning as I waited for Jack to collect me, I noticed my pervading sense of expectancy for what this journey may hold, what intent may open wide. None of it imaginable really at this juncture, and I never choose to put a box around such things. I had traveled these roads from Cusco to the rainforest many times up to a point. But how useful is it to consider every new time to be divergent from the last time, experiencing all with fresh eyes, attentive ears and otherwise open? Then finally there came the point of departure from what was familiar to me, the last leg of waters and jungle to our geographic destination.

It was clear to me we’d set out on a pilgrimage. Metaphors would arise and accompany us. But I may not consciously make their acquaintance until after the fact. It’s often like that for me. It’s how I save myself so my intellect doesn’t get involved and spoil it all.

Macaw, Madre de Dios. ©2021 Carla Woody

The Matsigenka were welcoming. Over the week we spent hours visiting with people happy to engage us with the way they live, in concert with their jungle home, plants, animals and each other. They did so, not by telling us, but by being what comes naturally to them. In their way, all is sacred and there’s no separation between them and the ground underfoot, the trees towering above or the birds or monkeys that fly through the trees…the waterways, frogs, insects and other inhabitants. To be otherwise is not within their reality. I have been with other Indigenous communities who live close to land. Somehow, this was different in a way I don’t quite have the words to express but will begin to write of it soon. They’ve left a mark on me and so has the jungle. There being no way to separate what is integral.

This is the story I want to tell now. One afternoon I decided to stay behind. We’d had an eventful morning, and I just wanted to be still. No matter where we went, the jungle was ever-present. My small bungalow was elevated a few feet with one side open, tall trees and dense foliage began maybe fifteen feet in front of where I sat on the stoop. No one else was around and the village was a twenty minute walk by trail.

I just sat. Not too much flitted through my mind. I did realize how completely relaxed my body felt, how deeply and long I slept each night. Those thoughts vacated and I sat. I watched. Training my eyes up toward the canopy, I saw two macaws fly by. A woodpecker landed on a high branch. Movement at the edge of the brush and a huge lizard slipped by. I listened to the calls of birds, some melodious, others somewhat harsh. Insects made a continuous chorus.

Then I began to feel. Energy. Everywhere. The more I opened that channel, the more there was. So much life. So very much vibration. It seemed to me the world fell away—or I fell into it. I was permeated.

I was in a state of wonderment through the last bit of our stay, all the way back to Cusco and carried all the way home. Something had happened, and I had no words for it. Only now after three months can I begin to speak of it with any coherence.

There’s a sacred Vibration, the constant that holds existence. And there are places where everything readily resonates with that frequency, each expressing it in their own way.

Now I’m left wondering if that resonance is what I sensed in the Matsigenka people, the land and all that inhabit it…

Sacred tree. Toniroko, detail. ©2021 Carla Woody

Words are often inadequate to convey an experience or feeling of great depth. The language just doesn’t exist until someone invents it, and it gains use as part of the vernacular. Such is the case with werifesteria, “to wander longingly in the forest in search of the Mystery.”

Once its meaning is learned there must be instant relief for those attuned to it. If the word is in use then there must be others traveling along that pathway as well. The forest can take whatever form you choose to give it—inner or outer landscape, seen or unseen. It’s not linear or logical for sure. By its very nature werifesteria attracts the strong intent it delivers ahead. We need only hold rapt attention, gathering cues that unfold the deeper path.

I must be a werifesterian. It feeds my soul for what may be revealed.

Photo by Ansgar Scheffold on Unsplash.

I first heard of Ocean Vuong through Krista Tippett’s podcast On Being. There was so much to absorb, I couldn’t do it in one listen, and repeated it a few days later. Here was a young man, brought to the US from Vietnam at the age of two by his family. His father left them and, as Ocean says, he was raised by women — his mother, grandmother, and an aunt. He suffered the consequences of their PTSD, the inheritance from war, and all were illiterate.

Ocean was the first in his family who learned to read — at age eleven. In 2019, he was awarded the “Genius Grant” by the MacArthur Foundation. Other prestigious poetry and fiction awards preceded that one, beginning in 2014. At age thirty-three, he has racked up serious outside praise few can claim.

But I suspect that, had he not personally gone through heartbreaking trials and tragedies, and somehow digested them, Ocean would not have been able to translate, at the level he has, what it means to be an immigrant merged with a gay coming-of-age story. When I read his novel On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, I listened to the audiobook first. It was narrated by the author. I wanted to take it in through the voice I heard in the interview — compassionate, vulnerable, and distinctly observant — fragility imbued with strength. Then I read it. I wanted to linger over the words of wisdom that emerged from one so young and his accurate criticisms of our culture.

I was also reading Rilke’s The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge at the time, which had the same pull on me Ocean’s did. Both were clearly framed from the authors’ own lives. The only question remained: how little was fiction.

Ocean’s main character is known as Little Dog, the name representing something subhuman and insignificant, an old leftover practice from the village, meant out of love. In this way, it’s hoped he will not stand out and instead will be protected. Every morning his mother reminds him before he ventures out of his home, now in Hartford, “Don’t draw attention to yourself. You’re already Vietnamese.”

Reading that line truly distressed me. It makes a sad but unignorable statement on the resident bias running through American culture. I’m ashamed of it. In an interview, Ocean spoke about first-generation immigrants coming from war or extreme violence who sought to be invisible. Every day opens framed through fear. While he said, the second generation wants to be visible and express their freedom.

Pay attention and notice the compassion and astute understanding set into dialogue in his writing. Little Dog and his grandmother Lan are watching a nature show where a whole herd of buffalo, each following the one immediately in front of them, ultimately leap off a cliff. Lan exclaims, “Why do they die themselves like that?” Little Dog replies, “They don’t mean to, Grandma. They’re just following their family. That’s all. They don’t know it’s a cliff.”

It’s often said that Ocean focuses on violence and tragedy. But he also has the gift of transmuting it into elements of beauty. This, too, is a form of moving beyond mere survivorship. Little Dog and his mother Rose had just come back to their dingy hotel from the Saigon cemetery, having laid Lan’s burial urn to rest. They’d carried it all the way from Hartford. Rose is disoriented. Little Dog says her name.

“Only when I utter the word do I realize that rose is also the past tense of rise. That in calling your name I am also telling you to get up. I say it as if it is the only answer to your question — as if a name is also a sound we can be found in. Where am I? Where am I? You’re Rose, Ma. You have risen.”

I haven’t been so taken by a novel in quite some time. The book was named one of the top ten books of 2019 by the Washington Post and retains a long list of awards. A film adaptation is in the works.

This review first appeared on Medium.

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT

An Intimate Pilgrimage from the Highlands to the Lowlands
August 21-31, 2022

Miradora Atalaya. Photo: Carla Woody.

Co-sponsored by Kenosis and Kenosis Spirit Keepers.
A portion of tuition tax-deductible. Registration discount until May 23.

I am pleased to announce my 2022 Spiritual Travel Program to Peru, an immersion experience in sacred Indigenous ways of Peru.

Many of you know I recently returned from a personal journey – immersion in the little known Matsigenka way of life and time in deep jungle…profoundly transformational for me. The community has graciously invited me to bring a small group.

– Carla Woody

It is a privilege to sponsor this special program focusing on sacred traditions linking the Q’ero and Quechua peoples of the Andes and the Matsigenka of the jungle. I offer you an intimate opportunity, unlikely to be found on your own — with the intent that we are all transformed and carry the beauty home.

We begin in areas outside Cusco wiith Doña Vilma Pinedo and Q’ero paq’os — traditional Wisdom Keepers and mystics — who usher us into the world of the Andes, an alternate reality of life-affirming choices.

Q’ero Despacho. Photo: Carla Woody.   

Then we transition deep into the rainforest to the pristine, wild surroundings of Matsigenka homelands. We experience how it is to live harmoniously attuned to the environment, creating natural medicines and traditional arts, consuming foods provided by the rainforest, and taking in oral history informing the Matsigenka world view.   

This is a journey of ayni — sacred reciprocity. We sit in ceremony of all these traditions, become an allyu — spiritual community — honoring all that sustains the planet and our own wellbeing. We come together with blessings, prayers and share the daily activities of all pilgrims.

Alicia Rios, Matsigenka curandera. Photo: Carla Woody.

We will be a smaller group than usual with respect to the Matsigenka village capacities. Though small, their hearts are open and wish to receive us in generosity just as our Q’ero friends and Dona Vilma Pinedo do. 

Detailed information including itinerary, tuition, bios, and how to register is on the program page. I’m truly honored to bring you this rare opportunity. 

Register now to hold your space! Registration deadline July 21.
For questions call 928-778-1058 or email [email protected].

I am privileged to bring you such a special opportunity. Join me and accept my invitation for this Adventure of the Spirit…and know that you are supporting continuation of the invisible, sacred threads that hold the world together.