The Death Lodge

I feel like I’m dying. I share this in honor of those of you who also feel as though you are dying, who feel as though things are being torn away from you or that you yourself are destroying things that you once treasured. I want to tell you that you are not alone in feeling confused, angry, ashamed or frightened of this. Our world is dying: the earth and our way of being. We know this in a deep place – and most of us are either in denial, self-medicating, or fighting to survive. None of these are options for me anymore. And so I must die. And I will not be going alone.

Before we embark on three days of solo fasting in the wilderness of Sequoia National Park, I will pass through the Death Lodge with two other young women who share a love of nature and a desire to be of service. This ritual is as ancient as it is intimately unique. It is a way of marking an ending so that space can be created for us to take our place again in the world in a new way. What has died in us and in our lives, what we are ready to release, and how we choose to honor that is up to us. We are simply being asked to offer something to the flames.

This process fills me with confusion and shame, grief and anger. There are so many things that I have lost and so many things that hold me back. And if I am honest, there are very few things that I really want to let go of. My grief keeps me connected to the part of me that loved, the part of me that felt hope and felt alive during those distinct periods of my life. And I am angry – so, so angry – at myself, my circumstances, other people, anything I can find to blame for the fact that these things had to die. I want to figure all this out, to understand what happened, to know exactly what to release and how to release it so I never, ever have to feel this way again. And that is impossible because things are dying all the time and without death, there is no movement, no rebirth.

I have to let go of my married life – of the financial security, daily hugs, wonderful cats, and beautiful garden I planted, tended, and harvested. I have to let go of all the illuminating meditations and astral experiences I had during my studies. The happy hours, vacations on the coast, fundraisers, game nights, house parties, and shopping sprees are gone, along with the predictable routine, traditional family holidays, and retirement planning. Sometimes I think we could have gone to counseling again or I could have found a way to feed my visions from that foundation, but I spent years trying to change, trying to accept, trying to motivate him to love transformation as much as I did. We weren’t right for each other and it would have been unfair to use his resources for my own, separate life. I have to let go of all the comforts I sacrificed for the freedom to follow my own path.

I have to let go of my time as a volunteer manager and growing leader in Portland’s non-profit sector. Dwelling on all the wonderful things my colleagues from that time still say about me, admonishing myself for the insecurity and anxiety that made the responsibilities unsustainable, and resenting those who didn’t understand or value me, or who actively challenged me, has no purpose anymore. I hung in there as long as I could and that life actively ejected me one step at a time – losing my marriage, my mentor, my creative vision, and then my health. It’s been three years since I accepted the call to walk away from it all to follow a more expansive vision, and as much as I may miss it at times, I remind myself that at the time I saw no future for myself in that life.

I have to let go of the fact that I didn’t follow-through on that vision, or on a long string of other visions that followed. I didn’t end up studying organizational development. I didn’t get certified in permaculture and I didn’t travel around the world. I didn’t find an awesome B-corporation with great employee support and work my way up the ladder. I joined a spiritual community, built an internship program, designed classes, and moved to the Bay Area to study somatic ecopsychology. That is the path I have chosen and it has been full of grief and gratitude, opportunities and losses, wisdom and insight into myself and the world. Just like any other path would have provided.

I have to let go of the 1 ½ years I spent at Ananda Laurelwood – of the deep grief I feel for having lost such a unique and beautiful opportunity to serve others in soulful transition, of the resentment I feel towards the hypocracies inherent in that community, of the disappointment I feel in myself for continuing to become prey to others’ beliefs in what is best for me, and for once again so stubbornly trying to make change where it was not wanted. I sacrificed a lot of time, money, and self-esteem during my time there, and I have to let go of that. I have to simply do the hard work to forgive myself, regain my footing, appreciate all the ways I did show up differently than before, and glean what I can from it about what soil I need to thrive.

I have to let go of the fact that I’ve made and lost a lot of friends; loved and been heart-broken by many men. Some of them are still dear, but most of them left my life unceremoniously, with shades of disappointment or regret. Their passing has left me feeling insecure about my ability to give enough in the right ways, to set appropriate boundaries, to share, to show my gratitude, and to forgive. It has left me deeply sad about how few of them were heart and soul connections who were comfortable and inspiring to be with. It makes me want to withdraw my voice and light so I don’t attract any more disappointment in myself or anyone else, clinging instead to threads of idealized memories and fantasies to sustain me through difficult times. I have to let go of all of that, because we are all made in one moment after another and our relationships are all forged by living through them together. And that takes two. Sometimes I don’t show up and sometimes they don’t, and that’s simply how it works. Both regret and fantasy are ways to stay in control from a safe distance, and neither of those are real. The next time I encounter someone who stirs me, I will begin again.

And I have to let go of the fact that I don’t know what to do now. I’ve always had some curiosity, some plan, some ambition, some sense of purpose, but I am simply emptying out. Twinges cycle through, but none of them stick. It feels pointless and self-deprecating to force myself to take on the competitive nature of the world without vision, charisma, or hope. It feels reckless to invest money in a training program without greater certainty just to appease the fear and lostness. And so I simply sit with them while I wait for something I am unsure I will recognize. But because I am letting go of so much, because I am allowing myself to be empty, I walk into the wilderness more prepared to find what endures underneath it all, to feel myself reflected in all that untamed life, to allow fear and weakness and discomfort to pick the last remaining bits of flesh from my bones. Then I can witness what radiates in my core and bring that back as a foundation solid enough to support a life more deeply aligned with my unique spark.

Bill Plotkin describes the process of soul initiation – of finding our unique ecological niche – as one of both beauty and terror. Traditionally, those who quested were expected to weep almost constantly for days – taken by the lament of what was unresolved in themselves and their communities. They were to allow themselves to be ground down in the threshing-hold where the edible part is separated from the chaff so they could claim what they had already become and the seeds could germinate to feed their tribe.

A few weeks ago, I had a dream that I was running through a crowd, weaving my way between the people, repeatedly moving my hands up from my root to my heart and outward in an enthusiastic gesture of self-offering, and beaming. One on-looker stopped me, and suggested I make a quieter, more subtle movement. I listened respectful and then cried out, jubilantly, “Or I could do THIS!” and I returned to my weaving, gesturing, and beaming. It felt so joyful and liberating – others’ discomfort only a momentary disappointment. Perhaps out in the wilderness, I will come to understand more deeply what this means.

Nancy

“Everything that can be lost, will be lost. Let’s dance the wild dance of no hope.” – Jennifer Wellwood