Good Authority

Five years ago I didn't know that modern day shamans existed. I'd read a few "National Geographics" in dentist offices so I was aware that native tribes in South America and the American West still had medicine men and women. Other than that I didn't pay too much attention to the idea.

I'd done enough attending church and joining churches to feel that the formalized edges of Christianity I had seen were devoid of the spirit, power, and the glory of God.

I was ambling through the "crisis of faith" that everybody goes through at some point. Only it didn't feel much like a crisis. When people said I needed to "go to church" and "be with God", I'd scratch my head and say "He knows where I am." I didn't say that to be arrogant. I said it because God did know where I was, he was with me all the time. God was in my heart and in my home.

Formalized church was what held the disconnect.

On weekdays I would walk from my office to a historic church a block away. The church was open for prayer and meditation and tourists. I'd take the opportunity to sit in the sunlight and silence and look at the stained glass windows and leaf through the prayer book and bible for the answers of the day. They had a Tuesday lunchtime healing service and I'd attend that occasionally. The officiate was a woman, there was communion, annointing with oil, and the laying on of hands. For the first time in years I felt the healing power of God moving through the church. I wanted more of that spiritual connection.

At the time I was seriously ill. I was going to a slew of specialists. I went to a local natural remedies store that had massage to get my back worked on. One night I was having a massage and the masseuse invited to me to a "test class" that was being held after the store closed. One of the massage therapists, one I'd had work with me before, was a trained shaman. She was giving a sample shamanic journeying class to the staff. That class set off a chain of events.

I discovered that a great number of my physicians, therapists, and friends where trained shamans or were taking training in shamanic healing practices. I had seemingly by "accident" wandered into a group of women who were all making a spiritual connection to God's healing power outside of the conventional church.

Shamanism isn't a religion. It's a set of techniques based on the ancient knowledge of the original tribal peoples of the earth. Ireland, England, Russia, Africa, Austrailia, South America, and the Native American peoples all had similar techniques for getting spiritual guidance and assistance for healing and daily life.

In the United States the recognized standard for shamanic training is:
http://www.shamanism.org/

I've taken basic training in journeying and connecting with spirit. These practices have brought me closer to God. I am still a Christian. This has been part of my evolution as a follower of Christ.

A friend of mine is a board certified psychiatrist and a shaman. She has worked unceasingly with shamans from around the world to increase her accumen and technique. When I hit new things she is the one I call for counsel. My experiences with the 'dreamer in the blue room' started in Spring of 2008. My first thought was that the stress of taking care of my mother and taking on a new job had driven me to bad dreams and synaptic overload.

I found out that it was the snap-crackle-pop of being called through the "deamtime".

The Blue Room

"The Blue Room" is a time honored magic show illusion. It's a tableau which tells the story of a lonely widow or widower.

"The Blue Room" is what I call the place I've seen in journeys.

In that room there is a single sleeper in a full sized bed. Sometimes they are awake and sometimes they wake when I arrive. The room is bathed in the glow from a nightlight in the hallway outside. They've stared at me and they've looked through me on alternate occassions.
They've spoken to me and sometimes they've been able to touch me. On several occassions they've been able to come back through the connection and into my room.

They appear as surprised and confused as I am.

That's not gone well.

I started this blog as a place to post my hopeless, sloppy loveletters but the hormones have subsided. Again I am one with the numbness that gets women over thirty through every day.

Before I came in and deleted my sloppy old posts I had a hundred things running through my head to say.

Now that the digital beast is staring me in the eyes, I've got nothing.

My family has erroded away to nothing but bad memories. My mother is dying. When she is gone my last connection to anyone or anything will be broken.

I am on th edge of the terrifying freedom of opportunity. I could go anywhere, do anything, and fail at it all.

Failure is the lid on the jar of possibilities. The worry that we won't know where our next meal, next bed, or next lay will come from.

Fear of failure has kept me nailed to a job I hate, a family that, at best, viewed me as a nusance, and a life style that fits like a Magnum condom on a twist tie.

All in the name of false security I've obliterated myself. Desperation, unsatiated hunger, and fear drive me from one mistake to the next all in the guise of keeping things "normal" and safe.

Last spring something, someone started bashing away at my wall of "normal". A voice, has been calling louder and softer through the haze. It's that voice that I'm trying to write about.

It's that dusty, hazy road I keep reaching down that I want to talk about. I want to say those words here, where they may be read by someone else and where I am safe in plain sight.