Look, if I’m going to journey in the underworld in a shamanic tradition, and a drum is key, I think it’s a fair enough (and frankly cheaper) option to wear some headphones and let someone else who owns a drum, drum. I’m not going to buy a bunch of equipment prematurely.
I’ve been wrestling with this hormone crap for a while now. I’m doing my Ashtanga yoga, eating large quantities of vegetables, trying various supplements, boiling herbs (a.k.a. still stinking up the house), getting good sleep, working hard, mowing the yard, getting Five Element acupuncture, being loving to my husband. And while my spirits have improved markedly, my breasts are still a bitch. I’ve tried loving them, talking to them (Come on now guys, what do you need? How can I help? I appreciate you both, but what’s with the pain?). I’ve tried being accepting of my body, every suggestion I’ve been given frankly. And still they KILL (less often, but KILL when they do). So I’m busting out the packs and the drum.
My main mission today is to experience a Shamanic Journey. In my acupuncture discipline they also do with plants what they teach to do with needles. It’s called Plant Spirit Medicine. But to select the plants for treatment (stay with me here) you have to journey to the plants and let them tell you what they would be best used for. And before I journey to an actual plant (like mullen, say or mugwort) I am supposed to journey down to the underworld and make a proper introduction. At best, I will run into my Power Animal, if I have such a thing.
Headphones on, I have spent the last half hour getting everything ready. I have the rags properly saturated and they are now on top of my breasts. Castor oil is known to sooth inflammation. And breast tissue – hormonally caused or not – is aided by decreasing inflammation. I’m laying on about seven towels. I only have one really nice pair of sheets and I’m not going to ruin them with Health Experiment #45.
I hit play on my cd player. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. This is an awfully expensive CD, for the rather simple melody. I am supposed to close my eyes, relax, and drop in. I’m a bit distracted by the castor oil. I might have over soaked the rags. I feel a tickle of oil dribbling down my flank. This is all harder than it looks.
I am supposed to picture a cave or tunnel, and take my time crawling down into it. It’s dark, and rather like ‘Lord of the Rings’ meets ‘Alice in Wonderland.’ Somebody needs to turn on some light.
It’s rocky all right-- dark black wet rocks. Water droplets echo through the passage. And as caves go, this feels pretty sacred. I crawl out from the cave and enter the forest. Before me stand tall trees, gnarled with a dense canopy high above. The light that dapples through is rather blue, illuminated by moonlight. I’m supposed to be meeting someone here. Surely somebody must show up. What are the animals I always hear about in Shamanic talk? A raven, a bear, a wolf. Hell, I’d settle for a fish. I walk around for a while. It appears a rather empty neighborhood. Maybe everybody’s out for drinks. What do shamanic animals drink anyway? I’m guessing something with absinthe, or G&T’s from foliage. Certainly some of this gnarly bushy stuff must be Juniper. Maybe there’s a pair of little squirrels making moonshine down a hollow or two. I’ll have to ask around.
Hellooo! I think to myself. Anybody here? Maybe I’m trying too hard. Maybe I’m scaring him/her/it off. Ok, I’ll try less hard. Less hard. I walk and walk. Hey are those some tracks? I feel like Winnie The Pooh searching for Hefalumps – maybe I’m just following my own tracks in a circle. I don’t want to get lost. Get lost? What am I talking about? Shit. Isn’t anybody around? I come upon a little toadstool thing. It’s big enough to sit on. Jesus, is this a mushroom? Come on, a bluish-lit mushroom toadstool thing? How predictable. If I turn around and see blue fairy wings on my back, I’m blowing this joint. Should I just wait here? I start tapping my feet. Must not be impatient, must not be impatient. I’ll focus on the drum. Yeah the drum. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom.
I don’t see a single creature. Not a bird, not a cricket, not a rabbit. No squirrel speakeasy. Maybe I’ll just relax here for a minute under this stool. Just for a minute. And you know, well, conveniently for me I am already lying down.
I’m so very…very…well, yes, I’m asleep. Not that I know this is what’s happening. But the 45-minute CD is over. Maybe I did go somewhere I tell myself. Maybe it was one of those sleeps like those mysterious half sleeps I’ve had in sivasana.
I’m tired. I have no idea who my power animal is. My classmate Coco’s power animal is a horse named Shanti. She must have a gift. I just have stained sheets. I hear Tim coming in. I gather up my swaddle of blankets. Total mess. But my breasts feel better.
The problem with doing so many techniques: it’s a shitty scientific method. When I land on the one that works, I’m going to have no idea which discipline was responsible.
Tim pops in while I gather. He’s been at another meeting. Since the wedding he just seems to get busier and busier.
“What are you up to?”
“Oh, you know,” I say.
“No. What’s up?”
“I just thought I’d try a little shamanic journeying and figure out this Plant Spirit Medicine stuff. And these…” I say pointing to a pile of towels, “are for my breasts.”
He looks at me quizzicall . On our wedding day, I looked like a real life fairy with a crown of flowers and a gossamer train. Now I look like greasy t-shirted, messy haired, boxer-wearing junk show in need of a comb, a personal shopper and a decent bar of soap.
“You realize,” I ask, “that things are likely just going to get weirder around here, right?”
“Yes,” he says with a wry smile. “I do.”
In his own quiet Mary Oliver reading, clean-shaven, proper southern grooming, straight and narrow way, Tim really does understand me. Most of the time he just embraces me. He doesn’t say a lot at times like these, but I can see it in his grin. I think my oddness gives him a little permission to not try so hard to follow the straight and narrow. I really hope I give him that.
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