Almost twenty years ago I hopped two trains (with tickets for both, unlike my Grandpa in his day) to Santa Fe, New Mexico. From there I was generously driven by a delightful poet an hour north to Ojo Caliente, the site of a week-long writing workshop with Martín Prechtel. So excited! I had read Martín’s dazzling book, Secrets of the Talking Jaguar. And a writing workshop, well, I already had an idea for a story that was inspired by Martín ’s book. I was stoked!
Then during the first day of the workshop Martín did in fact assign a story for us to work on outside of his talks throughout the week. During his introduction of the assignment he suggested that we shut off the (expletive) TV that tries to tell us what our stories are, but really doesn’t know us or even particularly care about us. All good so far. And then he clearly and firmly told us to stay out of his stories. His stories were, well, his. We were advised to find our own stories. My stomach flipped as I assessed whether my as yet unwritten story messed with his story. Sadly, I determined that it probably did. Back to the drawing board. Clean the slate.
Okay, I dusted myself off and went to my room. I waited. And waited. Unfortunately, that slate just kept reflecting a dreamy nothingness. Falling across my bed in a bit of a stupor I had just enough self awareness to realize I needed help. And as Malidoma Somé said, if we start a project without inviting the spirits we’re on our own. Fair enough. I called in my compassionate spirit council.
Crow landed quickly and the dictation began. Of course. I could always count on Crow for a good tale. So no surprise that a few days later I had my story. What I didn’t realize at the time was how literal that last sentence turned out to be – I had my story. You see, even though this story felt global, much too big to be personal, it began healing me as soon as it was told.
Essentially Crow had been singing to some pretty dark places within me that needed to be seen, heard and felt. And it didn’t stop there. You see, the cork had now popped and swells of old, personal stories that had been crouching in the shadows, began bubbling forth. Then compassion and the light of day began to unravel them one by one. These parts of myself, now unburdened and loved, could finally come home.
Thank you, Martín.
The Hollow Bone work continues, of course. I imagine that this work is infinite. We are not just ourselves, but are also woven from the threads of our ancestors (both well and not-so-well), the gifts of our lineages (and also their un-metabolized, intergenerational trauma), our culture, our environment, all we’ve encountered in life and the interpretations of these experiences…you get it.
One gift of this work is how joyful it becomes when we begin to really love all those parts of ourselves we used (to try) to send away. Such a heart-based practice gifts not only us but the world with a truer human who mostly stops being an annoyance and instead brings a little sweetness to a weary world.
What story might Crow tell you? You know, the story that seems to underlie so many of the others, the core wound that the other stories cling to? May you know it, heal it and then heal them all. Here’s to your True Self living its full personal destiny.
RETURN
Scattered and falling
through pools of stinging sorrow.
Fractured, flailing, alone.
What to do?
The ads say science will save me.
Billboards recommend Jesus.
I say better to
Bind me with black lace,
Veiled and incapacitated.
Friend Crow, carry me up the hill
To the land where Weather is spoken.
Let all see that I was foreignness.
And I am now with my people.
Leave me home.
The food of your land is indigestible.
It has sickened me.
Wind and I now sing the songs of Life,
Sky bleaches my shroud,
Hawk returns from the prison yard.
And the feathered light pours down the mountain
Dropping love notes
Into every copper pot.
~ Kaye Lawrence
