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Road Diary: Friday November 1: We were originally scheduled to work in Galway tonight, but the sponsors have decided to offer the seminar at the Complimentary Healing Center in Dublin. "How will anyone know to come?" I ask. Dumb question. "They're telling all their customers," I'm told. Tara jabs me with her elbow, a gesture that says, "Just enjoy the ride." She is speaking of the metaphorical ride. The physical ride is to take place in a tiny four passenger vehicle. I'm 6'1" tall and Nigel is taller than me. Plus we have a driver and Jeannie and Tara and a whole lot of luggage. "Won't fit," I say. "Sure it will," says the driver, who is also one of the festival sponsors. Somehow, Nigel packs and repacks until he fits the suitcases in the trunk or ties them to the car. All but Tara's. The back seat is designed for two narrow people. Nigel being tallest gets the front seat. Jeannie, Tara and I squeeze into the back. The plan is to balance Tara's suitcase upon our laps in the back seat. The trip takes four hours. In Dublin, we stop at the home of Sean and Ann Lawlor. Sean is a successful film actor. He is home in Ireland during a break in the filming of Titanic in Mexico. The walls of his home display many mementos from Braveheart, Mel Gibson's film about Scottish hero William Wallace. In Braveheart Sean plays young Wallace's father in the opening 15 minutes of the epic film. Ann fixes a wonderful dinner and I enjoy talking with Sean, who understands the "troubles" better than anyone else I've talked with in Ireland. Having read several books on the subject, I find myself unable to comprehend any kind of lasting solution short of British withdrawal and civil war. The sponsors drive us to the Complementary Healing Center to conduct a "Past-Life Breakthrough" seminar. I count seven people in attendance other than the sponsor's family members and festival people. To my horror there is no sound system. Never in my life have I conducted a workshop including altered-state sessions without a sound system. "The center has never owned one," I'm told. There is nothing I can do but walk away, or adhere to the "show must go on" tradition. I look at Tara, whose eyes are wide. She has a soft voice and is horrified at the idea of leading a meditation without a microphone or music. "We can do it," Tara whispers. My wife is a calming influence. She helps me to be the detached Buddha I'd like to be. But right now I'm over it. We spent $2,000 on plane tickets, supplied them with $1,500 in product and expected $5,000 plus in fees. "Breathe deeply." Tara squeezes my hand. Your expectations are in conflict with what is I tell myself. It's my fault. I let our success in England cloud my judgement and I let my desire to work in Ireland stand in the way of basic business practices. "Let's just do it, Richard." Tara's natural response is to make the best of any situation. But right now, she doesn't want to be in the environment if I confront the sponsors. I don't want to make her uncomfortable or let down the paying participants. After all, seven people paid to be here. We present the seminar the best we can under the circumstances. Tara projects her voice like a trouper. The participants, unfamiliar with past-life regression, are delighted. Following the seminar, we return to the Lawlor house. The plan is to leave with Nigel and Jeannie for the Wicklow Mountains. Only problem, the sponsors have left no one in Dublin who knows how to get to the retreat site. There isn't even a phone number to call. I laugh. Life is always easier when you stop trying to control a situation. Instead, just go with the flow and see where you end up. I ask Ann if we can sleep on the floor. Saturday November 2: Ann cooks an Irish breakfast for which we are all grateful. We thank her and apologize for involving her in our ongoing soap opera. I couldn't care less about going to a sweat lodge retreat. "Let's find a hotel and enjoy a wild weekend in Dublin," I suggest. But Nigel is a featured presenter. He would like us to come along for moral support. "At the rate we're going, there will only be a couple participants," I say. "Is it worth it?" I'm out-voted. Nigel, Jeannie and Tara think we should go to the mountains if only we knew how to get there. Finally the sponsors call wondering where we are. "We waited up for you last night," they say. "We're just irresponsible people," Jeannie mumbles. Ann volunteers to drive us. We get lost. Stop and buy water. Get lost again. But a couple hours later we arrive at a hippie farm situated on a hill overlooking the Irish sea. Climbing out of the car, I step in duck shit. From my initial vantage point, as far as I can see, the farm is covered with duck shit. In an open field, the sponsors have dug a fire pit and built a sweat lodge -- branches form a dome, which has been covered with many layers of blankets. The outside fire pit smolders and rocks glow red -- ready to be ceremoniously added to maintain the temperature within the lodge. A sweat is in progress. One of the female sponsors opens the door flap and leans out saying, "Get undressed and join us." "Without fasting or preparation?" I ask. "Oh, you'll be all right," we are assured. Maybe, maybe not. I don't know much about sweat lodges, but I know this is a bad idea. To participate in a sweat lodge, you fast and you take your bottle of water in with you and adapt to the heat over a period of time. We decide to wait. Later in the day, Skyhorse will lead a Lokota lodge, then tomorrow one of the sponsors will lead a Druid version of the ceremony. Nigel and Jeannie feel more obligated to participate, because they're officially part of this event. We wish them luck. The main building is a cozy house with a large dining area and sleeping loft spread wall-to-wall with sleeping bags. There are several private bedrooms and we're grateful to be assigned one of them. A separate A-frame is heated by a wood stove and serves as a classroom. A cement-block shower building includes a couple more bedrooms. Outside, several dogs run free, a pig squeals in his pen and a dozen ducks have the run of the property. Tara and I decide to explore the Irish countryside. We climb up a hill, over a rock-wall fence into an open field and straight toward a solitary dolman stone. The site of the stone in the distance makes our hearts beat faster. Why? It's just a big stone sticking out of the ground, planted there by ancient Celts for some unknown reason. But on some level, Tara and I both identify and are delighted by our find. Three feet in front of the dolmon is a perfect raven feather. Tara squeals with excitement. Her spirit guide Abenda makes her presence known in this way. A feather, especially a raven feather, is left in a meaningful location, or at an important time. A message to say, I'm here, you'll do fine, all is as it should be. Or in this case, maybe to say, The dolman is a special gift I think you'll enjoy. Tara does psychometry upon the stone and perceives it to be one of 20 that once stood in a circle on this site. Standing stones in Ireland often date back to the Bronze Age. Maybe some of the surrounding protruding rocks were once part of the circle. Further up the mountain a circular mound attracts us. The rocks appear naturally formed. We climb to the top and find a comfortable area to sit among the moss. The sky is overcast and it's chilly enough to wear ski jackets. Below, the landscape rolls down to the sea, separated into various sized sections by rock walls. In the distance a farmer moves sheep from pasture to pen. On the sea, boats slowly disappear beyond the horizon. We hold hands. Tara goes into meditation. A few minutes later she opens her eyes and explains that she saw a lion walking toward her, then in a flash, she was seeing though the lion's eyes. "Sounds like powerful symbolism," I say. She is deep in thought, seeking an interpretation. I am fascinated by the way the sun breaks through the clouds, illuminating one field for a few moments. A minute later, miles away, another field lights up, "As if blessed by the heavens," Tara says. No sooner has she said the words than a patch of sunlight falls upon us, illuminating an area no more than 20 yards in diameter. "Oh, my God," I whisper. "Exactly," Tara says. Ten seconds later our world returns to overcast gray, and we're trembling. "Wow, between finding the dolman and ..." Tara finishes my thought, "It's obvious that we weren't supposed to join the sweat lodge." During our years together, I've had many rich, magical experiences with my wife, but this day will forever remain a highlight. Back at the farmhouse, we meet Nigel and Jeannie walking to the dining room. Both are red faced and a little wobbly. "I see you had a good time," I say. "It was not a good time," Jeannie says. We are served a vegetarian dinner. The pumpkin soup is tasteless, but probably one of the healthiest concoctions I've ingested for many a day. The vegetable casserole is "interesting," but the crusty, freshly-baked, whole-grain bread is heavenly. I can live on this bread if I have to, I tell myself. The eating area is crowded. Tara joins one group at a long picnic table and I sit with people I don't know at a table for four that extends into the living room. Not everyone is here for the sweat lodge. Evidently the farm also rents rooms to New Age travelers who have learned of its existence. Drew Lawrence, a Vedic astrologer from Los Angeles, sits across from me. He will be in Ireland for the next month, conducting readings for clients he has built up over the years. We know people in common. Excerpt from Tara's Journal: "After lunch, Skyhorse led the classroom session. A Lakota Sioux with long graying hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and wearing a ski jacket. After a talk about 'journey sticks,' he sent each of us alone into the woods to prepare our own -- to find a stick and decorate it with natural materials that tell our story. Deep in the forest, stripes of sun occasionally illuminated the mist. No wonder the Irish believe in Leprechauns and fairies. This was a magical place. "I found a stick about three feet long -- a divining rod. The bottom of the stick, I decided, would be my physical reality, the middle, my mental life, and the upper portion, my subconscious mind. Finding a discarded cassette tape (Koko's Crackling Christmas), I used long grass to tie it to the bottom of the stick . (What better way to remove trash from the forest!) After all, tapes are a big part of my reality. Also, the tape title seemed to reflect my philosophy that every day should be Christmas. The true purpose of your life is to experience joy. "A small pine cone was tied on to represent Lake Arrowhead in my life, but I couldn't find anything watery for Malibu. Again, using grasses, I entwined a beautiful, round, multi-faceted rock as the center of my world." Tara's journal continues for four more pages, describing how each item she found in the forest relates to some aspect of her life. Upon hearing her journey-stick story, I am amazed. My shaman wife naturally relates to reality through nature and animal symbols. For the life of me, I can't identify, but I am always fascinated by the way she views the world, and amazed at how accurate she is when projecting the symbols. The planned sweat lodge never takes place. After dinner, we gather in the classroom, and Nigel conducts a Romancing the Soul group meditation, which is quite unlike anything I've ever experienced. The idea is to explore various aspects of your soul and grail quest. Nigel's voice is deep and rich. I'm soon in an altered state of consciousness and receiving visions that are as vivid as watching a movie. They're also disturbing. Dressed in a red martial arts gi (I have a martial arts background), I am ascending stairs until I become a raven flying above a castle. From far away Nigel's voice is telling us to approach the castle gate keeper, so I fly down and land on his hand. Looking into his eyes, I say, "I'm a way clearer." When told to enter the castle and go to the room where the Holy Grail is displayed, I become human again. At the door to the grail room, instead of knocking or turning a knob, I spin into a side kick and break open the door. There on an altar sits the grail, which I pick up, turn over and shake, as if to empty any liquid within. Then I hang it upside down upon my belt and leave. Nigel is telling us we can choose between several doors leading out of the castle. I choose "service." Beyond this door is a jeweled sword, which I pick up and spin in the air. It is the sword of wisdom that cuts through delusion. Once awakened, I try to analyze the symbols. I accept being a "way clearer," one of thousands planting New Age seeds that will hopefully some day replace the need of organized religion. Christianity wiped out Paganism and in the process burned between three and nine million woman at the stake. The New Age is a modern form of Paganism. Hanging the religious symbol of the grail upside down on my belt like a trophy seems self-explanatory. The raven is an occult/pagan symbol and is considered magic -- a keeper of the soul. They blend with the "black void" and safely carry a soul to its destination. My martial arts attire and the sword of wisdom relate to Zen. My books and seminars communicate a philosophic mixture of Zen and metaphysics. Sunday November 3: Lazy day. Enjoyable conversations. In response to requests, after lunch I conduct a past-life regression. Next, Skyhorse leads a peace-pipe ceremony in which we all smoke and verbally express our response to the experience. This is a rich and fulfilling experience. Late in the afternoon, Patrick Smith builds a huge fire to heat the rocks for the Druid sweat lodge. Nigel, Jeannie and I decide not to participate. We're deep in a conversation about how we can work together back in the US. Besides, it's getting dark, the weather has turned cold and the idea of leaving the lodge to cool off naked in the frigid winds sounds like a prescription for pneumonia. Tara's Journal: "Within the lodge, there was a white feather on the ground in my sitting position -- a calming omen, because the woman conducting the sweat is known for her brutal, no-nonsense sessions. Prior to beginning, we all verbally announced what awareness we hoped to obtain in the sweat lodge. "Once we were seated upon the earth in the blackness, and the intensity of the heat began to build, we started a round of prayers. Then we worked on individual considerations such as, 'What do you need in your life to feel whole?' Each person replied, and ended with the Gaelic word for 'finished.' At the end of each round, more water was dropped upon the stones to send the messages to the Gods. When I couldn't breathe, I leaned down to the grass and easily breathed the earth. Once acclimated, I began to relax into the experience. "I have no idea how much time had passed when the vision of a male Indian appeared. I gasped and jumped when I saw him on the other side of the lodge, staring intently at me. He seemed real -- his face painted half black, half white, with feathers woven into his hair so they hung over his brow. Moving from one person to the next, around the circle of six, he shared words accompanied by the ritualistic bestowing of a material gift. Since I was the only one seeing and hearing him, I repeated his words for each person. 'To Margaret a dream catcher to keep all good dreams and to keep the bad ones away.' To Eileen arrows for wishes, to Norman a blanket. He painted Patrick's face as his own. When the Indian was finished with the others and returned his attention to me, a cat wearing a claddagh crown became a black panther and jumped right at me, entering my throat. Then robe-clad Druids joined the circle with more messages. "More prayers were followed by individuals speaking of their visions. When we finally exited the lodge two hours later, I stood naked in the empty field looking up at the moon. I didn't feel the cold. I had touched my primitive roots and felt warmed and at one with my shamanistic beliefs and Pagan heritage." Monday November 4: Back in Dublin, we sleep on the floor at the Lawlor house. At 5 AM, Nigel and Jeannie insist on driving us to the Dublin Airport, and they wait with us until our plane is called. We wish them good luck on the Dublin appearance the following weekend. At the gate, we say our goodbyes, happy to have made these new friends who feel like old friends. At London Heathrow Airport, while waiting to check our bags to the US, we are told we must see an inspector. Maybe it's because our flight originated in Dublin. Maybe it's the Irish shopping bags, but for whatever reason, the English put us step-by-step through one search after another. Tara and I are separated. In a curtained room, an East Indian man in uniform slowly and carefully examines everything in my suitcase. Sealed boxes of Irish candy are x-rayed twice. Carry on bags are taken apart and when he finds a keyring flashlight, he shows it to me as it were something subversive I should have left home. Next, I am examined with a hand held metal detector. My wallet causes the detector to start beeping. "Oh, come on," I say, when the inspector grabs the wallet as if it might explode. He searches every compartment, behind every photo. My credit cards must appear especially dangerous the way he holds them. His detector continues to beep, seemingly louder than before. Now I am curious. "Aa-haa!" he exclaims, having discovered that a tiny, quarter-inch, foil Rolf's logo on the inside of the wallet is the cause of the beeping. "Looks dangerous to me," I say sarcastically. Mistake. He decides to read my ticket -- my travel history -- Ireland, Galway, Dublin. He reads the ticket again, and then a third time before finally handing it back and walking away. Tara is waiting outside the curtains. "What took you so long?" she says. "Guess I look more like an IRA supporter than you do," I say. "You were Buddha, right?" "Not because I'm detached and cool." "No?" "Didn't want to end up in a terrorist detention center." Once we are airborne and a couple hundred miles out over the Atlantic, Tara asks, "Well, considering all the snags and lost money, do you regret accepting the invitation to work in Ireland?" "Nope, I had a great time. You?" "Me too." NOTE: Back in America, we soon learn that the sponsor's company has bankrupted. No payment is forthcoming. Nigel reports that after a tiny turnout for his seminar, he and Jeannie flew to the Far East where they worked under more profitable conditions. Once they were back in America, it took months of haggling to retrieve their tapes and Irish vat (prepaid taxes on the tapes). In looking back, I feel there were important reasons for this trip -- reasons I have yet to recognize. Meeting new people was part of it. But more reasons will unfold in time. As far as working in Ireland again, we're just waiting for the right invitation. |
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Copyright 2001 by Dick Sutphen, Malibu CA |
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