— a sermon by Jaco B. ten Hove — Paint Branch UU Church — August 21, 2005 —
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
These famous words of Henry David Thoreau’s, from his classic work, Walden, have guided my passage over many years now. I have journeyed deliberately to see what Life had to teach; and were I to face death tomorrow, I can hope I would know that I have indeed lived.
Confronting “only the essential facts of life,” however—that’s has been and remains quite the challenge for me, especially in this materialistic culture, to which I am very much connected.
And so, almost exactly umpteen years ago, in August of 1989, I drove 1000 miles south from Seattle—not the woods, but to the high desert region of California just above Death Valley—to spend a week and a half camping on the ground among simple snakes and demon dust, under an umbrella of stars at night, facing the illusion of simplistic security.
This 11-day Vision Quest program was indeed a formative experience for me, inspiring much reflection and commitment to the values I try to embody, and it is worth revisiting from this distance in time. I remember it well. While the deliberate learnings from that trip have been very much with me every since, this is the first time since immediately afterward that I’ve retold the story.
I was one of seven students at The School of Lost Borders in a program that centered on a Vision Quest ceremony: four days and nights of fasting alone in the Inyo Mountains. With important guidance from two very wise and experienced teachers, we did four days of preparation together before our time alone on the mountain and three days of de-briefing afterward, a total of 11 powerful days.
Near where we were based in Big Pine, just south of Bishop, CA, the very impressive Sierra Mountains loom large east of the valley. The Inyo Mountains on the west run right down into the Panamint Mountains, which frame Death Valley. After my first night there in the valley, spending 90 minutes one-on-one with an auspicious Lunar Eclipse in a huge, dark sky, I figured the Inyos got named because the brilliant stars there were in yo’ face. Rather, Inyo is the Paiute word for “Dwelling Place of the Great Spirit.” I came to understand some of what that meant.
Our teachers were very clear that their program was a pan-cultural experience, not Native American, per se. Sure, the indigenous people of this continent used the Vision Quest a lot, especially as a rite of passage. But in one form or another the ceremony has been an empowering social tool and an essential fact of life in many cultures all over the planet. The School of Lost Borders is aptly named because it draws from this rich, global heritage—a very UU approach, I thought.
There are three parts to almost every form of the Vision Quest ceremony. They are called different names by different orientations, but most share the same purposes:
First there is a separation, a dying to the past, with an evaluation and then an intentional leaving behind of what was.
Then comes the threshold experience, being in between, usually on unknown turf, away from all that is familiar, to see and feel honestly and without distraction whatever personal vision is emerging inside.
Finally comes what is often the hardest part — the incorporation, returning to one’s environment with new eyes, new insight and new resolve, to face the rigors of integrating a more developed personality, one ready to take on greater responsibility.
I could easily speak for an hour on just the theory of the Vision Quest; it is such a rich tapestry of psychology and ritual. But it is my story I want to tell today.
We spent our first days in Big Pine moving between group meetings and alone time. We received important teachings about the Medicine Wheel (an ancient and flexible tool to connect with the balancing elements of life). We learned about the desert terrain, about various types of rituals we could employ and about what we should seek in ourselves in preparation.
We also spent a fair amount of time off alone—focusing, listening, building intention. I realized I had come wanting a deep experience but without any particular reason for undergoing such a concerted program. In contrast, one of my peers was honoring her 40th birthday and a new empty nest. A young couple was there together to examine their six-year relationship and its future. Another fellow was back for a second program to clarify how he might best serve the planet.
Me? At first I thought I was exploring the transition from seminary into full-time ministry, with my career blossoming and all that. But in a preparatory process of reflection, I discovered something else.
I was told to go sit by the stream near where I was camped and ask the water why I had come. Ask and listen. And when some reason emerged, deny it. Say NO to it, push it away, ask again and listen some more.
So I contemplated the relatively lush riverbank world, contrasted with the dry, dusty desert surrounding it. I watched a hummingbird visit, enjoying the rush of what water there was, and soon found myself listening to an inner dialogue about circles. I realized how many of my life struggles have stemmed from trying to replace a linear worldview with a more circular one. I was thinking about how my ministry could be viewed in circles. Circles were calling me for consideration and integration. So I rejected all this, and finally left the river, saying no to circles.
When I returned to the process later I continued denying the notion of circles, trying to make room for other possibilities. Instead, it came on stronger. An appeal prayer came to me easily. I found myself asking: “May the circles of my life and my love be shown to me, that I may rest in them, every deeper, and move with them, ever stronger.”
I liked this and it liked me. Enough resistance. It seemed I was there to explore my relationship with circles. I could take that out on the Vision Fast and see what happens.
Meanwhile, on the evening before, I was sitting quietly on a rock above the ravine that held the stream, trying to determine—just for fun—exactly where the full moon would come up over the mountainous horizon.
The scene was again one of extreme beauty, with nearby trees and bushes framed by a large, barren landscape and I was very inspired. Let me read from my journal:
As [the moon] appeared, I exulted and stood up [on the rock] — only to be shook to my depths by a sharp rustling right beside and below me. Suddenly I began to hear what could have been rattlesnake shakes — rattlers which, I had learned, sleep by day and hunt by night — but I couldn’t quite tell if they were ground noises or tree noises. My adrenalin was sky high. Am I just hearing maybe an unusual birdcall or is this an encounter with Sidewinder?
It was still pretty dark and I was quite petrified. They like rocks, I remembered. Is there a crack in the one I’m on? Am I safe? All the cautions about how they don’t hunt people and are, in fact, usually more afraid of us that we are of them, etc., etc., were slow in getting to my sensibilities. I was scared.
Gradually I calmed down enough to get out my flashlight and scan the ground. Nothing to see anymore, of course… Elemental fear loosened its grip on me. I was a little embarrassed and a lot instructed.
I spoke about this experience in group the next day and received an important teaching. The appearance of animals or other natural phenomena, especially within ceremonial time, can be seen as visitations from the hidden world, often with messages for us. It was easy for me to accept this, given my inclination toward the mysterious interconnectedness of life.
Whenever we had such an encounter we could immediately speak to the spirit of that entity and ask what the message was. Then hear what comes up right away. Don’t resist these messages, but take the first thing that enters your awareness, before your rational self can alter or censor it. I liked that idea.
When I was climbing up the stream ravine from my second intentional conversation with the water, I got a chance to use this teaching. Again from my journal:
Just as I arrived at the top of the incline, right at my camp, I was again startled by a sharp rustling. This time I saw the snake, moving very quickly away from me. It was as long as my wingspan, probably two fingers width, with a stripe down its length. Very impressive. NOT scary.
This time I felt honored and sat right down to talk to the snake spirit. I asked if it had a message, and what I learned — quickly — was this: making my fears visible diminishes them. Hmm…
Meanwhile, in months of preparation before this program, I had been fasting on liquids only for various lengths of time, getting my body used to the regime. (I have been doing this periodically for most of my adult life, and indeed, in preparation for this sermon, I again fasted for two days, ending yesterday.)
And so, finally we were going out on the mountain. We drove and then hiked up to our base camp in the Inyos, at 9000 feet elevation.
Our arrival task was to select a direction to eventually walk off in for the four-day Vision Fast. The choice would come to us through listening carefully and being called that way. We would carry two extra gallons of water to place out there ahead of ourselves and then return to base camp for a last night together.
We each paired up with a “buddy” who was similarly directed and each set of questers moved out to find a common location which would serve as their stone pile, a place each one would go to every day and make some visible notation that we were all right. As long as the stone pile had been changed since you were there last, you knew your buddy was okay. With my buddy Rob, I went west, toward a better view of the Sierras. (I have always been called to large vistas and distant views.)
After picking a spot for our stone pile and scouting around a bit, as Rob and I returned to base camp, I spotted another snake, a small one. Turns out I was the only one who saw snakes during the entire program, and I had five such encounters. Lucky me.
The next morning at dawn we had a departure ceremony and each of us left a physical piece of ourselves there in a ritual circle. I let go of my watch, symbolically… One by one we were smudged with ritual smoke and blessed thoroughly by our teachers and then left the circle to begin our Vision Quest. I picked up my pack, plus two more gallons of water, and walked silently with Rob toward the west as the sun rose behind us. I felt good.
We went about a mile to our stone pile and then nodded goodbye, heading in different directions. I went even closer to the Sierras. I then did my own ritual of threshold crossing. I broke a stick in two and poked them each into the ground spread apart, like a doorway. I stood before this threshold, smudged myself and honored the spirits of the mountain, asking for permission to be there and for guidance in my quest.
I had put on a blue medallion for the occasion, one which was given to me by a good friend at a youth conference a few years earlier and I declared it to be symbolic of both all the women who have gifted my life and of the feminine aspect in myself. While clutching it, as I would do so often in the days ahead, I dedicated my Vision Fast to Barbara Wells and to the growing bond between us. (This was the first summer in our emerging relationship.)
I passed through my homemade threshold, totally alone in the sunny Inyo Mountains, with four days and nights wide open in front of me, and I wept, feeling quite full. I repeated my appeal in a quavering voice: “May the circles of my life and my love be shown to me, that I may rest in them, every deeper, and move with them, ever stronger.”
I set up my lean-to tarp and sleeping bag in a little valley, away from likely lightning ridges. (We had heard some hair-raising accounts of sudden storms out there.) The tarp was bright blue, so that part of my world became known as Blue Valley.
Up on a hill next to Blue Valley was a great setting for my days. The remains of a dead juniper tree, looking like upright driftwood, had a perfectly sized seat with my name on it from which I could look out at the majestic Sierras. On the ground in front of this “power seat” I arranged stones and pieces of wood in a large circle to symbolize my connection to the Medicine Wheel.
I spent much of each day seated thus, sitting in the illuminating east, facing the inquisitive west, my only steady companions the multitude of pesky flies. Off to my left about 20 feet away was a set of piñon pine trees from which I could hang my hammock in relative shade, when the afternoon sun was bearing down on my pale skin. Heat was never a problem at 9000 feet but exposure was. I called my upland quarters, Hammock Hill, and faced not a little joshing from the group before and after we went out. They ribbed me more than once: “There’s Jaco out on the mountain, crying for a vision—in his hammock!” Oh, well. So be it.
I moved around usually in short spurts, not often feeling hungry but nonetheless realizing a physical weakness that I needed to cultivate, not push. I had four gallon jugs of water, one for each day. They said if we ever felt thirsty, it meant we weren’t drinking enough. (Have you ever tried drinking a gallon a day? It’s not as easy as it sounds.)
That first day as I was wandering about up on Hammock Hill I got another message that I look back upon now quite fondly. In my journal I wrote:
I heard a loud sound from the south—very unlike normal desert noises, I thought. Sounded more like heavy machinery, but soon I pinpointed it as a small, but wild twister, a funnel of wind, cruising along the valley at an amazing roar…
The little twister was impressive. I’ve never seen a large-scale tornado in person, and this one was small, but still powerful—[and really loud. I watched it fade into the mountainside.] It made me sit right down and ask what message it might be bringing me. Taking the first response, as I was taught, I found in my head and heart the words: “Barbara is in your circle.” I knew then that I would answer “Yes” to love.
At 9000 feet, the high desert terrain all around me was dotted with small bushes and a few juniper or piñon trees, none of which got very tall. There were flat rocks and sandy soil everywhere. That first evening I stayed up on Hammock Hill to greet night fall and told myself I would go to bed when the planet Venus set, not too long after the sun.
But the stars were wonderfully intense, so I lingered, happily locating a good number of less obvious constellations as I watched Venus sink into the Sierras and darkness overcome the terrain. I was glad I brought along a small star chart. The moon that had been full the week before was coming up later and later, so it was quite dark as I ventured down the hill toward Blue Valley.
I was walking among all these small bushes near where I had seen a small snake earlier in the day, when suddenly I got this wave of fear. Where am I? Yikes! I realized I had been tromping along in simplistic security in the mountain desert, all alone on a very dark night. I paused to catch my suddenly shortened breath and looked up. What a relief—the stars were my comfort and reassurance. From then on, I felt more balanced in that space, between the celestial canopy and the grounded earth.
With the setting of the sun also went the wind—and the flies. It was like their shift ended and they were just gone, boom. However, look who just punched in: the desert mosquitoes. They hounded me every night (except the one time it went down to 30°) but were gone at dawn, when the well-rested flies returned. I had to severely meditate on finding a separate peace with these tiny indigenous creatures. After all, I was the intruder in their world, and they had considerable power to pester
Awaking on my first morning alone, I began to feel more connected to this bleak, yet beautiful landscape. There really is something special about the desert, and the high desert maybe even more so. I was getting a feel for it, losing the fear of it. I began to appreciate the simple complexity of the ecosystem, skeeters and all.
Back up in my power seat on Hammock Hill, I found myself quite naturally—almost unconsciously—picking up stones and rubbing the edges of one with another, softening their sharpness. I did this while thinking of other things, but then it hit me that I was rounding edges again. I’ve had a bit of a lifelong reputation among friends for rounding edges, especially in the few carpentry projects I’ve attempted.
So here I was, instinctively smoothing edges again, and given the purpose I had discovered for my Vision Quest, I suddenly began to see this theme of rounding sharp things as part of a circular movement in my life. Our teachers had spoken of trying to find threads of import that weave all the years of one life together. Often from such insights, they said, can come a medicine name, one that you take on because it suits your nature, because it speaks for your essence and your vision in the world.
I had not expected to find such a name, but suddenly I had it, and it fit me all the way back into my youth. I became ROUNDER. I have not used this name much, but still it sits well with my soul, and helps me deepen my identity as part of a greater circle.
Out there, with all the space in my days and my uncluttered mind, I was able to listen to the universe and pursue thought lines at a wholly different pace and depth than in my normal life. Many deeper thoughts came to me. It was a very evocative and productive emotional climate.
In that vein, while musing in my hammock, I discovered in me some new words to an old song, words that answered the musical question: “Will the circle be unbroken?” My verses mostly tell some of the story of this adventure, but the CHORUS, which is in your order of service so you can sing along on it, says,
(SING…)
“Yes, the circle is unbroken in the dark and in the light. Here’s a deeper celebration: in diversity we unite.” Here are some good folks, come from all over, just to search their hearts and minds. All of our stories, aimed at glory; in this world it takes all kinds. CHORUS The wind was howling, bugs were dancing on a desert mountain day. I was reclining, kind of pining for my home so far away. I was a stranger in some danger, out of my element you might say, But then it hit me and it fit me: I was a part of it in my own way. CHORUS All of these creatures looking at me, all of these plants and rocks and hills, They’re all so different, yet not distant; we’re so connected it gives me chills. CHORUS Now everybody has their own style, their own way to get things done, But there’s a universal healing in the knowledge we are one. CHORUS
Each late afternoon I would amble slowly over to the stone pile to see what design my buddy Rob had created earlier that morning, and to leave him one of mine. It was a nice connection. On my last trip there I finally noticed the abundance of crystals all around, especially many white ones. So I collected a few. How had they managed to escape my eye for three days? I was amazed at my narrow vision. I guess I was too busy looking either far away at the Sierras and the stars or far inward at myself.
In general, I was not feeling very adept at doing rituals like chanting, or dancing, or drawing deeply on the medicine wheel directional powers, or designing elaborate symbolism into various objects. I made a few feeble attempts but by and large the authenticity wasn’t there for me. It often felt hollow, like I was using other people’s words and ideas, which I very much honored, but couldn’t get behind.
I came to the conclusion that I was just not grounded enough in this tradition to really own all the language, all the process. I was glad to adopt and adapt what did feel real to me; that was what our teachers told us to do anyway.
On the last night I slept—or tried to—inside the circle I had made in front of my power seat. I had packed up my Blue Valley and was prepared to head back to find Rob and base camp at the first stroke of dawn. The suggestion to us had been to bed down facing west, and at some point during the night, shift to face east and the rising sun. This would be a Purpose Circle, offering more insight into my vision for the world.
It was a very long night. Not much sleep. For over an hour or two, I could hear one of my peers drumming from a ridge some distance away—an intense sound. I did things like write by flashlight a long list of Circles and Cycles, just a few of which were:
The celestial cycles — blood circulation — water: sky to earth to sky to earth — record albums — family circles — belts and beltways — ripples on water — circular logic — bathtub drains — and dogs chasing their tails…
As for my Purpose, I confirmed that I should keep on doing what I’m doing, going in the direction I’m going, toward a more circular spirituality. My purpose, I felt, is to model the exploration as authentically as I can. During those last long dark hours, I watched the parade of constellations overhead, trying to estimate how long it would be ‘til sun up.
Finally, an orange haze signaled at last that I could get up and on my way. Rob and I greeted enthusiastically and returned to base camp. We reentered the ritual group circle we had left there, got smudged and blessed even more prolifically by our two teachers, and then reunited with our peers amid much affection and encouragement. We were all “elders” now.
I felt a whole lot closer to them than I had expected. What a bonding experience to be so alone, together! We dusted ourselves off that afternoon in a hot springs and then descended into an evidently traditional ritual for returning questers: a nearby restaurant’s food bar, an experience designed to shock us back into our abundant American culture.
One of our teachers — a large fan of William Blake’s — gave us each customized sayings from Blake’s book, Proverbs of Hell. We shared them eagerly and delved into their meanings together. Mine was: “Improvement makes straight roads; but the crooked roads without improvement are the roads of genius.” Hmmm… I still get value from remembering this.
Over the next three days we shared our stories and received questions to ponder from our teachers. The incorporation phase would still be the hardest, we were reminded. “How will your life change with this new sense of yourself?” we were asked in very personal ways. We got individual challenges to carry our vision forward, in service of the earth. We were reminded that the planet is in crisis and we must all use our gifts and our hearts to show the way toward a more balanced future.
Our final farewell ceremony was at a creek on the west side of town. We were all packed and told to meet out there with a towel, unsure of what our teachers had in store for us. They made one more large circle in the sand and we each ritually entered that threshold which would point us back to our other landscapes.
One by one they took a small handful of Big Pine sand and rubbed it into our hair, saying that we will actually take a part of this landscape with us. Then they shampooed each of us fondly, finally sending us on our way. I drove off immediately with messy, wet hair, to meet up with Barbara at a UU Bed and Breakfast in West Hollywood, no less. (From there we would drive together for eight days up the coast, a road trip that would cement our budding relationship.)
The whole event, for all of us Vision Questers, I daresay, was one big affirmation, both from our wise and gracious teachers and from our own boost in self-esteem. Some of the others had had serious trials out there and were very high for just having survived the experience. The group sessions afterward were extremely interesting and rich.
Me, I thought it was beautiful: the solitude delectable, the insights and inner movements very important, the fast encouraging and cleansing. I was less thrilled by the ritual aspects, but my appreciation for that kind of activity was very much heightened. I loved the sense of connection to other life; since then I’ve felt much more open and able to hear lessons as they happen to me. And I felt quite confirmed on my current life path.
The depth of listening that I cultivated in that physical and spiritual environment created a very evocative and productive emotional climate, one I have periodically sought to replicate, even if for shorter periods.
I went to the mountain desert because I wished to live deliberately, even if only for a week or so. I wanted to front the essential facts of my life and see what it had to teach. I returned with a deep sense that yes, the circle is unbroken, and I am challenged to stay balanced within it.