SHAMANISM
_1 The Music Festival August 2010
_
When I was fortunate enough to have the resources to buy my mother’s land and home, I knew I wanted to live here and farm. I also knew there would be more to it, but I didn’t know what, just that it was important.
I am most deeply grateful that my son has had the opportunity to grow up here. He lived here til he graduated high school, then went off to University. After a year in Arizona, he came back and tried at local college and university, finally putting off that goal in favor of work and other enterprises. For a year or so he was here with one of his girlfriends- a delightful First Nations child of Creek and Inuit heritage. I still miss her.
Over the years, he has been able to realize his ambitions of playing music and promoting shows, and has done some vending as well. I have 2 tie-dyed tapestries of butterflies and Celtic knots in my dining room which he provided.
We built an earth oven, and had numerous parties for relatives, for his friends and mine. Sometimes he would have drum circles, and his band came out to play on one occasion.
In July of 2010, he approached us with the idea of having a music festival on the land; The Maine Independent Music Festival. The negotiations were complex and the process convoluted, but the festival did come to pass in late August. No one was carted off to jail, nor injured, for which I am grateful.
The experience was profound, and six months later I am still living it.
The festival went on for three days, and the little temporary community of tents and firepits was out in our pasture. The cattle, slightly bemused, watched the preparations but did not interfere. When it came time they graciously allowed us to pen them up. I wasn’t sure they would be able to withstand the amplified music (everything from Celtic Punk to Hardcore Death Metal), but it didn’t seem to bother them.
The kids did an awesome job of preparation, grooming the pastures. ‘Vendor’s row’ was right along the fence that enclosed my summer grains. I thoroughly enjoyed being able to go out into my pasture and buy felafel and espresso. I had continued with harvest til about a week before the festival, and then I helped to oversee and regulate the expansion of plans beyond the original layout. The day before the festival started, I clocked 29 miles on my pedometer, the first day I walked 15 miles, the second day 12, and the third day a mere 7. Then I rested.
The music was truly an eclectic experience, and anyone who attended for the music rather than simply for the Bacchanalian aspect got more than their money’s worth in terms of talent and quality of performance.
And Bacchanale it was. I had not been prepared for the appearance of the ‘Bare Breasted Babes’ on the second day. They went about the fields carrying wine for all. During the performance by ‘The Pubcrawlers’, a gallon of Irish Whiskey made the rounds of the crowd. And at night, the festivities reached epic proportions. It was chilly, but not close to frost, and a full moon. The fire pit was very welcome. I kept an eye out for any who seemed to sleep too long on the cold ground. We would rouse them, and the crowd at the fire would let them in and warm them up.
On the second night, after the scheduled music, there were various jam sessions. It was during one of these that I became aware of what I can only describe as ‘The Watcher at the Gates’. (No, it wasn’t the cops..) Sometimes, depending on the intoxicant, I have felt self-conscious or paranoid. In this case, it wasn’t me, it was an entire field of people in a mutual experience. And somehow, I felt the eyes of The Watcher. I could almost feel the eyes open, as I faced the swamp beyond the apple trees at the edge of the field. It wasn’t malignant or frightening, but it was very ‘big’ and a marked presence. It took me several days of re-visiting the experience in my mind before the words ‘Watcher at the Gate’ came into my mind. I went looking for the reference.
On 9/10/2001, I was in the Catskills, and I had visited a museum which had a temporary exhibit of the works of Arthur B. Davies. He had a painting entitled ‘Dweller on the threshold’, and I had remembered enough of the title to look there, but that wasn’t it. Actually his work ‘Hosanna of the Mountains’ does capture the feeling a bit.
Then I checked the Internet, and found reference to ‘The Watcher at the Gates’ as either being an internal censor, or being the internal standard which a writer feels as he or she critiques his/her work. It had a bit of that flavor as well, and yet I would swear it was not internal to me.
Another piece which carries a very strong sense of this is the story ‘Piper at the Gates of Dawn’, which was one of the chapters in the child’s book ‘The Wind in the Willows’ by Kenneth Grahame. This, I think comes closer to it. (For online text, seehttp://www.cleavebooks.co.uk/grol/index.htm , well worth a read. .)
Several weeks later, I bought some books to read in my studies of comparative spirituality; ‘Walkers Between the Worlds’, ‘Between the Gates’, and ‘Ecoshamanism. I had actually gone after ‘Between the Gates’ as a guide to lucid dreaming, and I happened on the others.
The description I quote is toward the end of ‘Ecoshamanism’ by James Endredy’. He was discussing ‘Initiation with the living spirits of place.’
He writes,
‘…it may be that the spirit of a place doesn’t reveal itself to you for many days, months, years, or maybe not ever.
But when you find it you will know, It will touch you and you will be changed. You feel it aware of you and watching you. And like a wild animal that stops and stares at you, wondering what you are doing, your next move will determine the spirit’s response. Since you are a human being, the spirit will want to know what your intentions are- whose side you are on.’
This is so exact a description of the experience that my hair stood up. How likely is it, that I should have had this experience, gone looking for a reference on another subject, bought ‘by chance’ another book, and found what I was looking for in that book? ‘A Hidden Order’, indeed.
There was an earthquake at 5:00 the next morning. If any of those in the tents were actually engaged in lovemaking at that time and thought they felt the earth move- well, it did. I had felt somewhat guilty about what the amplified music might have done, till I found out that the epicenter was almost 7 miles away from us, and very deep.
We had a second festival in 2011- this time the official title was 'The Hollis Apple Festival'. It was an extremely good fruit year, and we made 12 or more gallons of cider. 6 gallons have been turned into apple wine (that summer we did 4 1/2 gallons of grape wine as well).
I have found myself unwilling to accept the level of intoxication that accompanies these shows, although I love the music. The experience of the young people coming together in a community tent gathering is unique and holds a very primitive energy. I miss them when they are not here, and find myself caring for the fire pit.
Somewhere there must be a balance between positive energy and pointless intoxication and overindulgence. I haven't yet figured out what it is, but I am certain that intoxication blocks the spiritual awakening that I believe is trying to occur.
And yet, when I think of the other type of tent gathering that they have in the South- revivals- I do not trust that energy either.
I am still trying to find my way on this.
When I was fortunate enough to have the resources to buy my mother’s land and home, I knew I wanted to live here and farm. I also knew there would be more to it, but I didn’t know what, just that it was important.
I am most deeply grateful that my son has had the opportunity to grow up here. He lived here til he graduated high school, then went off to University. After a year in Arizona, he came back and tried at local college and university, finally putting off that goal in favor of work and other enterprises. For a year or so he was here with one of his girlfriends- a delightful First Nations child of Creek and Inuit heritage. I still miss her.
Over the years, he has been able to realize his ambitions of playing music and promoting shows, and has done some vending as well. I have 2 tie-dyed tapestries of butterflies and Celtic knots in my dining room which he provided.
We built an earth oven, and had numerous parties for relatives, for his friends and mine. Sometimes he would have drum circles, and his band came out to play on one occasion.
In July of 2010, he approached us with the idea of having a music festival on the land; The Maine Independent Music Festival. The negotiations were complex and the process convoluted, but the festival did come to pass in late August. No one was carted off to jail, nor injured, for which I am grateful.
The experience was profound, and six months later I am still living it.
The festival went on for three days, and the little temporary community of tents and firepits was out in our pasture. The cattle, slightly bemused, watched the preparations but did not interfere. When it came time they graciously allowed us to pen them up. I wasn’t sure they would be able to withstand the amplified music (everything from Celtic Punk to Hardcore Death Metal), but it didn’t seem to bother them.
The kids did an awesome job of preparation, grooming the pastures. ‘Vendor’s row’ was right along the fence that enclosed my summer grains. I thoroughly enjoyed being able to go out into my pasture and buy felafel and espresso. I had continued with harvest til about a week before the festival, and then I helped to oversee and regulate the expansion of plans beyond the original layout. The day before the festival started, I clocked 29 miles on my pedometer, the first day I walked 15 miles, the second day 12, and the third day a mere 7. Then I rested.
The music was truly an eclectic experience, and anyone who attended for the music rather than simply for the Bacchanalian aspect got more than their money’s worth in terms of talent and quality of performance.
And Bacchanale it was. I had not been prepared for the appearance of the ‘Bare Breasted Babes’ on the second day. They went about the fields carrying wine for all. During the performance by ‘The Pubcrawlers’, a gallon of Irish Whiskey made the rounds of the crowd. And at night, the festivities reached epic proportions. It was chilly, but not close to frost, and a full moon. The fire pit was very welcome. I kept an eye out for any who seemed to sleep too long on the cold ground. We would rouse them, and the crowd at the fire would let them in and warm them up.
On the second night, after the scheduled music, there were various jam sessions. It was during one of these that I became aware of what I can only describe as ‘The Watcher at the Gates’. (No, it wasn’t the cops..) Sometimes, depending on the intoxicant, I have felt self-conscious or paranoid. In this case, it wasn’t me, it was an entire field of people in a mutual experience. And somehow, I felt the eyes of The Watcher. I could almost feel the eyes open, as I faced the swamp beyond the apple trees at the edge of the field. It wasn’t malignant or frightening, but it was very ‘big’ and a marked presence. It took me several days of re-visiting the experience in my mind before the words ‘Watcher at the Gate’ came into my mind. I went looking for the reference.
On 9/10/2001, I was in the Catskills, and I had visited a museum which had a temporary exhibit of the works of Arthur B. Davies. He had a painting entitled ‘Dweller on the threshold’, and I had remembered enough of the title to look there, but that wasn’t it. Actually his work ‘Hosanna of the Mountains’ does capture the feeling a bit.
Then I checked the Internet, and found reference to ‘The Watcher at the Gates’ as either being an internal censor, or being the internal standard which a writer feels as he or she critiques his/her work. It had a bit of that flavor as well, and yet I would swear it was not internal to me.
Another piece which carries a very strong sense of this is the story ‘Piper at the Gates of Dawn’, which was one of the chapters in the child’s book ‘The Wind in the Willows’ by Kenneth Grahame. This, I think comes closer to it. (For online text, seehttp://www.cleavebooks.co.uk/grol/index.htm , well worth a read. .)
Several weeks later, I bought some books to read in my studies of comparative spirituality; ‘Walkers Between the Worlds’, ‘Between the Gates’, and ‘Ecoshamanism. I had actually gone after ‘Between the Gates’ as a guide to lucid dreaming, and I happened on the others.
The description I quote is toward the end of ‘Ecoshamanism’ by James Endredy’. He was discussing ‘Initiation with the living spirits of place.’
He writes,
‘…it may be that the spirit of a place doesn’t reveal itself to you for many days, months, years, or maybe not ever.
But when you find it you will know, It will touch you and you will be changed. You feel it aware of you and watching you. And like a wild animal that stops and stares at you, wondering what you are doing, your next move will determine the spirit’s response. Since you are a human being, the spirit will want to know what your intentions are- whose side you are on.’
This is so exact a description of the experience that my hair stood up. How likely is it, that I should have had this experience, gone looking for a reference on another subject, bought ‘by chance’ another book, and found what I was looking for in that book? ‘A Hidden Order’, indeed.
There was an earthquake at 5:00 the next morning. If any of those in the tents were actually engaged in lovemaking at that time and thought they felt the earth move- well, it did. I had felt somewhat guilty about what the amplified music might have done, till I found out that the epicenter was almost 7 miles away from us, and very deep.
We had a second festival in 2011- this time the official title was 'The Hollis Apple Festival'. It was an extremely good fruit year, and we made 12 or more gallons of cider. 6 gallons have been turned into apple wine (that summer we did 4 1/2 gallons of grape wine as well).
I have found myself unwilling to accept the level of intoxication that accompanies these shows, although I love the music. The experience of the young people coming together in a community tent gathering is unique and holds a very primitive energy. I miss them when they are not here, and find myself caring for the fire pit.
Somewhere there must be a balance between positive energy and pointless intoxication and overindulgence. I haven't yet figured out what it is, but I am certain that intoxication blocks the spiritual awakening that I believe is trying to occur.
And yet, when I think of the other type of tent gathering that they have in the South- revivals- I do not trust that energy either.
I am still trying to find my way on this.