I feel the need to explain why being called a witch is something that stopped me in my tracks.  I have been proud to be a rebel or outsider all of my life, not being willing to be defined by any category or fit into the main stream ideas of what a woman is supposed to be.  I have flaunted my independence, and happily yelled “THANKS!” when someone told me I was weird or different.  However, unlike when a fellow yelled at me from his passing car, “DYKE!” in my buzz cut college phase (I was fine with that mistaken label), being called a “witch” felt too close to home, insidious, and brought up a sinking feeling of terror. 

 I couldn’t understand why I would feel that way in terms of my actual life.  I have never identified myself as a witch, although in my spiritual practice I do some things that might raise the eyebrows of bible thumpers (such as meditation, using homeopathy and herbs to treat illness, and dowsing, a very useful skill I learned from an old woman in the mountains of North Carolina). Of course, my shamanic work could be classified as witchy were it not for its connections to the indigenous populations…or are they “witches”, too?

 While I lived in the village where I was “identified as a public enemy” (before I knew anything about these behind-the-hand remarks about me) I had intuitive flashes in which an angry mob would come drag me out of my office, grab me by my hair and drag me down the street.  The intuitive vision would stop there, not revealing the fate of the woman I seemed to be in the inner vision.  But the feeling of cold stones weighing down the innards of my belly did not easily or soon cease. 

This was not an entirely new sensation for me.  Back in Asheville NC, where we lived for 7 years, I had multiple odd spontaneous awarenesses that involved flashes of me being disemboweled, drowned, or beheaded.  One such instance was preceded by a physical break down of my right shoulder…for weeks it got more and more sore and incapacitated.  After many attempts to have it corrected through chiropractic and massage work (and Advil), in a strange fit of inner knowing, I paused in the living room on my way to take some laundry upstairs and asked silently what my body was telling me. 

Giving in to the motion, my body then took over…I began to move as if somebody much bigger than me was rearranging me like a puppet.  My inner eye saw a lovely young woman with reddish blond curls and a long flowered dress being brought forcibly into a crowd of people.  She must have been 18 or 19 years old.  She was pretty, but had a gleam in her eye and a set to her jaw. My right arm went slammed tight behind my back, fist up behind my heart.  I was forced down to my knees.  My head was pushed down so that I was crouched over.  In my mind’s eye, I saw a bloody stump of a tree, where I was now resting my chest.  As my eyes looked down on red ground, I heard and felt a stalwart, “I will never let this happen to me again.”  Then the “memory” faded, and miraculously, my right shoulder was completely cured.  Never another pain.

I stood there in a bit of a daze.  What the hell had just happened?  Was that girl me?  I wasn’t scared; more I had the feeling of knowing that my body had revealed something to me, and because I gave it permission, something had been released.  It was a pivotal experience affirming my life philosophy, which I have incorporated deeply since, that our bodies are the key to so much wisdom.

Was what happened a playing-out of some kind of cellular or collective memory? Or did I actually live through that?  When I was called “witch” in the tiny town in Colorado where I used to live, was it bringing forth another wave of memories that were asking to be acknowledged and released through me?  If so, what did this mean to me personally?  Why is this such a prominent and repeated feature in my life?

And that’s why I am asking these questions of all of you wise people, and why I feel the need to explore this line of thought.  What is a witch, really?  Where did the word come from, what are its origins?  And when did it become a word for something that was evil, scary, and needing to be put to death?  

And do any of you have these spontaneous memories or experiences?  If so, I would be so honored to hear them.

First let me say that I am not so much a popular movie buff.  I do like some movies that happen to have fallen in the popular range, such as Star Wars and Lord of the Rings…those stories carry that mythical quality that appeals to my Hero’s Journey mentality.  But most of the time, I will not see movies that most others see; I usually find them to be hollow.  I certainly don’t attend first run movies in the theater unless there is some very good reason to see it on the big screen.

Avatar was one such occasion.  A bit of a geek for visuals (I am an artist, after all), I wanted to see the new technology every one is talking about.  Similar to when Star Wars first broke into the movie industry, Avatar is carrying a whole new ability to enter the film as if we are part of it, and this is due in no small part to the new computer and filming technologies used to make the movie.

 It satisfied in that respect, totally.  Avatar was eye candy from the beginning, and so the artist geek in me that totally gets off on the visuals was delighted.  Completely.  Very.

And now that I have acknowledged that, I want to deepen the conversation for a moment to the larger philosophical, ecological, and spiritual implications of the film. 

Other innate aspects of me are my love of universal themes, my love of humanity, my love of the earth, and my innate awareness of my connection with All Creation.  This movie appealed to those aspects, as well.

It interested me that the geek side of me was completely revved up…my geekiness seems to live in my head, at least that is where I feel it.  It is a fascination with the pretty things, the distractions, the amazement at what we can create with our brilliant, curious minds.  But the story, and the larger impact, I felt deep in my being.  My experience was of being stretched like taffy from top of my head to the core of the earth, where I choose to ground my energy to the planet.

And perhaps that was intended on the part of the moviemakers.  So much of the time I see humanity hanging out in our heads (what I call “the Penthouse”), a place up high with a fabulous view, where we don’t have to interact with the messy stuff that lay at our feet (the stuff of being human).  We can hide in the penthouse, being fascinated with our mental constructs, believing we have control of our lives, inventing all kinds of brilliant (if flawed) philosophies and get rich quick schemes, and keeping ourselves “safe” from connecting with each other. 

 I see many using their bodies as a kind of walking prop that carries the penthouse around, not really grounding and connecting with the earth in the deep way we were intended to (and our ancestors used to do).  I have done it, too, and feel I am rescuing myself now from the edge of making that way of life a habit for me.  I have made no secret in the years I have been writing publicly that I feel this is a kind of madness, a sickness that has taken humanity away from our feelings of connection with the earth and with each other, resulting in disastrous consequences.

Seeing Avatar left me with a sense of fullness, but not over the top fullness.  It was a fullness that my entire body, my entire Being could hold.  It was a, “Wow, that was an amazing feat of technology, and hmmmmm, yes, that story is so familiar to my heart and belly, and therefore not a big deal”.  I know for some the story will be a new awareness, and perhaps this is even one reason many are so deeply affected by the film.  Perhaps the use of the new technology to appeal to both hemispheres of our brain, coupled with the deep and ancient nature of the story, was a guarantee that the messages would get through, in one way or another.  For this I am glad.  

An utterly visually beautiful film, an eye popping experience of technology….but what really felt important to ME was how old the story is…to me it is the ages-old tale of how we struggle in ourselves to feel as if we are in control of our own destinies, denying our connection to Source and All Creation, the web of life. 

Do we flail about our whole lives, building walls around us, living in a box of our own creation, resisting the attempts of the universe to break though our self-imposed barriers?  Or do we let the Light in; do we take the risk and surrender to love, opening to the inherent goodness of the universe and allowing ourselves to experience our connection with the All That Is?  And what will be the consequences of those choices?  To me, that is the essential message of this film.

The story in Avatar is as old as the hills….perhaps the most ancient story there is.  I pray that each of us find our way back to the awareness and experience that we are all connected in this Web of Life.  Therein lies our salvation.

Wingapo Cheskchamay (“Welcome, All Friends” in Powhatan language)

I share this excerpt from my book with you now because I have lately struck a chord in some of my posts….there are others besides me who do not feel that they fit in, and are looking for their tribe.

Being “lost” is a kind of dramatic tale to weave…..it appeals to many. There are certainly lots of stories in history of “lost tribes” and their tragic search to come home.

I am a prime example of this in a genealogical sense….I see no separation between what lives in my blood, what lives in my mind, and what lives in my heart…..the greatness of my spirit holds all aspects of myself within its hands.

However, I choose that my having been “lost” has brought me many gifts and learnings, and that in the end, I have not been “lost” at all.

An excerpt from “The Blue Eyed Indian”
By Licia Berry www.liciaberry.com
Copyright 2008

Outer Banks of North Carolina

“My European ancestors were among the first to arrive at the remote barrier islands of what is now called North Carolina’s Outer Banks. In the 1500’s, the islands were alive with the Croatoan Indian hunters and fisherman who scoured the maritime forests and the rich waters for bountiful fish and game. When the fair-skinned people with the blue eyes arrived from the giant crafts on the water, my Indian ancestors were intrigued, and being polite, welcomed the visitors to their island. They feasted together, they showed the guests their lovely island (like we would for any tourist to our home town), and eventually, some of them fell in love.

Some of the fair skinned people feathered into life with the Indians; others went north to create the English settlement of Roanoke Island. This settlement later became “The Lost Colony”, when, fearing they had been abandoned by the English and needing help to survive, they returned south to live with the friendly Croatoan Indians in what is now Buxton, NC. These are the people I come from.

When the next larger waves of Europeans would arrive to the New World a generation or two later, they wrote with their quill pens in their journals of the peculiar “Blue Eyed Indians” they encountered along the North Carolina coast.

As more Europeans arrived, the goodness of the land on the Outer Banks was coveted for its rich resources and its location as a close ally to the ports in Virginia. The Indians began to feel the conflict that these fair skinned people brought into their midst. Skirmishes broke out, and eventually, the fair skinned people overtook the islands that had been occupied by Indians for 10,000 years.

Outer Banks Indians fishing on Pamlico Sound

The blue-eyeds among the Indians had a choice to make; were they white, or Indian? They would lose their lands on the island if they sided with their red-skinned kin….Would they survive if they sided with their European blood? For some, the call to explore the blood of their parents or grandparents, those who had come from far across the waters, brought a certain sense of longing, and they stayed with the whites. A few elected to go with the tribes, who retreated inland to nurse their wounds and to make plans about how to carry on. Some went north to now Virginia to be absorbed into the great Powhatan nation; others remained in the woods and wetlands of inland coast and eventually disappeared into the trees with their culture. The Croatoan had lost their best fishing grounds, lost many of their children and suffered humiliation after opening their arms and hearts to these fair-skinned people. But those who were part Indian, those who elected to stay with the Europeans, lost the precious knowledge and support of their Indian culture.

Generations of Europeans came to the Outer Banks and settled on this wild coast, making their living fishing those waters once enjoyed by the Powhatan, and scavenging off of the hundreds of ships that floundered on the Diamond Shoals, earning the nickname “The Graveyard of the Atlantic”. My father’s side of the family still remains on this remote outpost, miles off the mainland of our country. They speak in a soft brogue that reminds of me of Scotland, England and a faint tongue that is lost, the language extinct except for a few words. They are stoic and stubborn, refusing to leave the island when hurricanes bear down on the fragile sands. They also don’t like to admit that they are part Indian.

In fact, I didn’t know that we had any Indian blood until I was in my thirties, when a rebellious aunt whispered to me of our history. I have observed a bigotry and arrogance in some of these noble Hatteras people, as if they are better than every one else, perhaps because of what they have survived as they eke out their livings in this harsh place. I have never understood this stubborn need to protect our “heritage” as all-European (or, all white as they would say). Perhaps when they were forced to make the decision to be “white” in order to keep their homes and land on Hatteras Island, a psychic door closed on any other possibility.

But I was different.

All of my life the spirits of the wind, the water, the rocks and trees and earth have spoken to me. As a child, I was a wild nature girl; tangled hair and dirty face were my costume….I fought taking baths and showers, preferring to remain sister to the dirt. In frustration and in answer to my defiant nature, my mother chopped all my hair off at age 6. I tried to get lost in the woods and never could, because I knew the way home. The animals were my guides and messengers. The forest whispered of its love for me. The universe supported me, and Nature was my friend.

Yet, I was so different than the family who surrounded me. I didn’t fit; when I spoke of the subtle energy that I tapped into, I was ignored or strongly corrected. I wasn’t hearing and sensing and seeing those things; I was making things up. I got quieter about my feelings, but they never went away. Under the protection of the dense brush and out of sight of my elders, I performed ceremonies to honor dead birds or lizards that I found, to listen to and guide the ghosts that needed help to find their way home, to dance with all of creation as my cohort in life. No one had taught me these things; I just knew how to do them. And then came my initiation into the shamanic world….”

To be continued….

A Blue Eyed Indian

Starburst 1 by Peter Berry www.peterberry.us

The important thing is this: To be able at any moment to sacrifice what we are for what we could become.  –Charles Dubois

With all that is going on in the world these days, it seems the one constant is change.  Of course, change has been happening since the beginning of…well, All That Is.  But it seems to be more intense now, with change happening on top of change happening on top of change.  People are afraid, sad, angry, anxious.  As a family that feels energy patterns and cycles deeply, we can feel the waves of movement that are occurring, even when it appears that nothing is going on….it is movement under the surface, in the depths of the collective psyche.

Change is in inherent in Nature…and we are part of nature.  All we need do is remember playing outdoors as children and feeling that first hint of fall in the air after a long, leisurely summer.  Was it a certain smell, or the way the light seemed to be sharper?  Was it the first leaf turning a slightly duller shade of green into yellow on the favorite tree?  Or was it a sense of inner knowing that the age old dance of cycles was at its work again?  We knew that something was changing, even before we had all of the science knowledge or the words in our heads…we could just feel it.

Change is the way nature works…and since everything is part of Nature (I challenge you to show me one thing that is outside of Nature, just as I would challenge you to show me one thing that is outside of God), everything changes.  We watch the seasons and come to expect those changes, even to look forward to them.  We watch as animals and land forms and weather patterns and plant life evolves over time on our planet, and expect that, too.  In the human realm, our minds change, our bodies change, our beliefs and emotions change, our circumstances change.   But these we don’t allow so gracefully as when we observe the changing of the leaves.  We somehow expect that we humans should be exempt from change, unless of course we consciously choose it.

Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.  –Anais Nin

Since we are part of something much larger than ourselves (and thank goodness for that, I say), we are also part and parcel of the larger energy cycles that move through our universe, keeping the balance of order and chaos that invokes creation.  Since we are not separate from the molecules that make up the matter, and the intelligent energy that holds everything together, we are also not separate from the waves and tides that lap at the shores of all existence.  And since the universe is infinite and constantly expanding, the changing will never stop.  This means we are ALIVE.

Many of us are struggling with the changes that the last months have brought us; as a fellow human, I understand and empathize.  Our family has certainly been through its share of changes, too, and many of them quite challenging to deal with.   Perhaps I am fooling myself, but I believe that things change in order to bring a better order.  In other words, that what begs to be released from our lives is something that we no longer need, even perhaps is unsupportive for our soul-filled life.  Keeping this perspective helps me have a better attitude about changes; I feel that I am surfing the wave instead of being clobbered by it, being subsumed by it, a victim of it. 

It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change.  ~Author unknown, commonly misattributed to Charles Darwin

One of my favorite native teachings is of the Cheyenne way.  It’s said that if you have a cup of water, but the water is no good to drink, pour it out on the ground.  Seems pretty straight-forward, doesn’t it?  But many of us keep carrying that cup of dirty water around with us, whether it be a relationship that is hurting us, a job that is toxic, emotions that are unexpressed, beliefs that are limiting our life to a small fraction of what it could be.  The Cheyenne way is to unapologetically pour the bad water out on the ground.  There is no guilt in releasing what is not nourishing you anymore.  It’s bad water.  Just pour it out.

In the end, change is what runs through us like threads run through a tapestry….there is no escape from it.  I do believe change is the one constant.  And since there is no reprieve, we must choose how we will relate to change.  Will we resist and suffer, railing against the tidal wave, trying to hold it back?  Or will we let the cleansing storm take all the loose and unneeded cargo, and bravely lash ourselves to the helm and steer the best we can through the rushing waters, being our most alert and discerning selves, keeping our eye to the horizon line when we lose our faith?

In the end we can only keep moving forward, honoring all experience, blessing what we must let go of in our lives, and keep living. 

It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new. But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful. There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power.  –Alan Cohen

We have had an eventful time since we left Tucson! 

The drive over to the Pacific was merciless as we did not make reservations (BIG NO-NO when you are driving something 35 feet long and weighing 20,000 pounds), so poor Pete was stuck behind Jude’s wheel for 400 miles until we found a place to stop for the night.  That wound up being Live Oak Springs, a lovely hideaway that has been owned by the same family for 25 years east of San Diego off I-8.  We collapsed, ordered in for pizza, and zoned out in front of the TV for the night.

But the following morning as we shook the trauma of the long previous day off, we had an utterly easy drive and got totally high on the Pacific air.  We cruised through San Diego with minimal stress, and headed north on I-5, the road that we think will be the back bone of our west coast trip.  We will deviate here and there, but will come back to I-5 like homing pigeons as we journey.

We ended on Monday, October 27 at San Clemente, a lovely little beach town.  We stayed at the San Clemente State Beach, which is a gorgeous park right on the cliffs with trails down to the beach.  It was a completely perfect orientation for our being on the Pacific coast….I found myself to be in a little shock, still getting used to the changes in elevation since we departed Colorado at over 8000 feet, but what was more intense for me was the change in density, the energy of so many people in a concentrated area.  While the drone of I-5 is constant and loud, the San Clemente area is a great place to get accustomed to the Southern California (So Cal) vibe because of the prolific buffer zone of Nature.

We came here as a destination because Peter made contact with an old high school friend from Flint School, a sailing school that cruised Europe in over the 1978-79 school year.  We won’t get into what a bizarre and unhealthy experience it was here, but suffice it to say that Peter has had some healing to do about it; part of his process was to reach out to others recently to hear what their experiences were.  A true gift for him has been to hear his own experience echoed and confirmed.  As our guidance supported us coming here, one of the absolute gems that he found in his search for friends from his past is Janet Harder, who now resides in the San Clemente area.  She welcomed us with open arms into her home despite not having seen Pete for 30 years, was the most excellent tour guide with suggestions about places to go, made us wonderful food, and even hooked us up with the gorgeous state park we stayed in.  She is a delight, and I am happy to say, a new friend for me as well!

Janet, Peter and Licia in San Clemente CA

While there, we visited the San Juan Capistrano Mission as part of home schooling to learn about California history.  The oldest building in California, this lovely mission did a great job of linking its long and many-chaptered history together and presenting it to visitors.  I recommend the audio tour that comes with your entrance ticket (thanks for the tip, Janet!).  Of interest to us was how the local Indians, the Acjachemen, assisted the Spanish in building the mission, being close friends and allies for many generations.  To this day, the mission has a special ceremony when a descendant of those Indians passes away. 

Bells and Fountain at San Juan Capistrano Mission 10-29-08

Pete and I even got a date night….we haven’t had one in ages, so it was extra special.  The boys are old enough now that leaving them by themselves for a couple of hours is not a problem…in fact, they are both babysitting age.  We went for a romantic, fog filled night to the Fisherman’s Restaurant on the pier.  We had a delicious dinner, but the view of the foggy evening over the water was unparalleled.

We made a reluctant departure from San Clemente on Halloween, and headed north to Los Angeles (L.A. on Halloween, you say?  That IS scary!)   Obviously, I had to overcome some fear when we were guided to come through here.  But it brought another level of understanding and comfort level about southern California.  Here I have had to confront my judgments about southern California and the people who live here….as usual, what I have found is that judgments are such generalizations, and that they should be challenged and violently broken…..they just aren’t true, and don’t hold up when you come with an open mind and open heart. 

Our adventures in Los Angeles tomorrow……