Feeling Connected - Native American Peyote Ceremony Pt. 1
Posted 05-05-10 at 06:09 PM by defconprods
Tags birding, birds, hawk, native american, peyote
I follow Randy and his wife June, up the winding highway 150 to Ojai. His wife drives like a lunatic and I have to be Mario Andretti to keep up.
Randy is an actor friend and aspiring writer who attends a bi-monthly peyote ceremony in the Ojai valley for his Native American religion. He tells me this is the most profound spiritual experience of his life and urges me to check it out. How can I resist such an invitation? “Most profound spiritual experience” is just what the doctor ordered.
I have always loved and respected Native American pathways and appreciated their tradition and deep connection to the earth and nature. I did harbor a bit of trepidation at the thought of ingesting peyote. I am generally a person who avoids drugs and alcohol, not because I am a prude or a square, I just never liked the idea of that kind of unnatural escape and always thought it would hamper my creativity.
As Randy’s wife, June, Nascars the twisting road, I begin to feel nauseating fear building in my guts. I am concerned I might be socially pressured to take the drug or fall victim to some Indian faux paux if I was not careful. I didn’t want to embarrass Randy and make everyone feel uncomfortable being the only one who may not fully partake in the ritual.
On the drive up, Randy and June pull along the side of the road and Randy tells me he saw “Coyote” cross the road, which is a good omen for tonight’s ceremony. “Coyote”, he explains, symbolizes transformation and spiritual renewal. A red-tailed hawk is also spotted on the drive which means freedom and clarity of self-awareness. They fail to mention though what the omen is for all the crushed bunnies, squirrels, raccoons and other small varmints June leaves in her internecine wake.
Randy is small and wiry with an enormous head. His acting skills are unparalleled but his writing is average. His wife is a very plain, blond woman with a low, subdued energy level and she seems to hold in a lot of emotion, perfectly contrasting Randy, who is very flamboyant and outspoken. I had originally assumed he was gay at our first encounter and was utterly baffled to learn he was actually married to a woman with real parts and everything.
At a rural site off the highway, we collect long timber poles to construct the teepee.
Randy ducks out of the work by chatting incessantly with anyone who will listen or by making himself look busy by kicking around in the dust and removing things from the soles of his shoes. His wife vanishes for a while, also opting out of the hard labor which is reserved for the men of the tribe.
We share a peace pipe as we construct the teepee to appease the spirits. It is not actually a pipe but a small, flat cigarette tied together with string. I am the fifth in line to take a puff. I have never smoked anything so I am clueless how to do this. I just play along trying my best to look reverential so as not to piss of the Road Chief, Rick, a massive, kindly man with a barrel chest and giant brown hands and calves. Appearing quiet and humble when you meet him on the street, Rick is larger than life at the ceremony, a gargantuan personality who seems to spiritually come alive in his element and drift back into obscurity when trying to re-assimilate into the white man’s world.
The teepee is constructed and other attendants begin to trickle in. It is an earthy crowd, many of the people not looking like they hold down regular jobs. Besides the Chief, his daughter, the Fire Man, and the Drum Man, everyone else is white.
I roam off by myself to walk along a river and get in touch with nature and God. I sit quietly by myself and do some simple meditations and prayers. To get the most out of this experience, I want to be open and humble. I know my cynicism is my own worst enemy and don’t want it to spoil the experience. This is obviously a very sacred ritual to these people and to harbor negative thoughts has always been my undoing.
Alone, out here in the forest, away from everyone, I feel peaceful and connected.
I notice a spotted hawk perched on the roots of a tree that has been swept over in the recent rains. I remove my shoes and cross the river, climbing up on the opposite bank to get a closer look at the hawk. Oddly, he doesn’t fly off. He doesn’t seem to mind my approach at all. I keep thinking maybe this is another sign; this great bird telling me everything is A-okay and I’m actually close to nature and connected with Mother Earth, as opposed to being the neurotic white guy bound fast to his schizophrenic material longings.
I walk right up to the hawk, and to my astonishment, he doesn’t move, only rivets me with his stern gaze. I peer around wondering if this is someone’s domesticated pet. The hawk is massive and beautiful, with a white tail, spotted wings, and bright orange eyes.
I “pish” at him to show I am not here to harm him. Pishing is a high-pitched, squeaky sound birdwatchers use to connect with birds. The hawk tilts his head sideways inquisitively, when I make the call. He doesn’t show even the slightest hint of fear.
I look at his wings and talons to see if he is injured but find no signs of external damage.
I gaze around again wondering if this is some joke or someone is taping a hidden camera show. I actually expect the owner to come running around a corner yelling, “get away from my bird, jerk!”
I move a few inches closer, making another pishing sound. He stays in that exact spot, only shuffling his talons a little on the branch.
I hold out my index finger as you might do with a parrot when you want him to perch on you. I think of the majestic thrill of being connected to this great raptor and having him sit on my finger. He just watches my finger, deeply interested. I move it toward his spotted white belly, pishing quietly again. He looks into my eye as if he has known me for ages. He sees through all my insecurities, my limitations, my human frailties. For him, I am only another creature of the forest. I represent no predatory threat or challenge.
I think of the great St. Francis of Assisi and his amazing spiritual advancement where he could commune with wildlife and they would follow him around like Dr. Doolittle. I understand that when you are in tune with the Divine, nature automatically obeys. I was beginning to sense that I, myself, despite my failings and cynicism, was perhaps truly a spiritually advanced soul who had finally attained mastery over beasts of the field and birds of the sky.
I move my index finger right up to the spotted hawk’s belly, pressing it against the downy feathers. My eyes are like poached eggs; a kid at his first big Christmas.
Then he pecks the shit out of me.
He freakin’ destroys my finger.
He grips it in his razor-sharp beak and doesn’t let go for what seems like an eternity.
The hawk issues a piercing shriek and flies off, brushing my cheek with his wing as he goes.
For a moment I am stunned. I can’t fathom what has just happened. We were getting along so well.
My finger is throbbing.
The bird has instantly shattered my delusion of being at one with nature.
I look up and catch a glimpse of him disappearing over the tree line. What an asshole. You build up a man’s hopes like that, then yank the rug out from under his feet.
I hold my bleeding finger under the freezing water of the creek. There is a gash right at the joint that oozes blood. The pain continues to throb dully.
In reflection, I wasn’t really sure what my intention was at having a wild hawk perch on my finger, and after about twenty seconds, after I get over the shock of it, the whole idea seems really rather idiotic. Completely idiotic, as a matter of fact. What the hell was I thinking?
Randy is an actor friend and aspiring writer who attends a bi-monthly peyote ceremony in the Ojai valley for his Native American religion. He tells me this is the most profound spiritual experience of his life and urges me to check it out. How can I resist such an invitation? “Most profound spiritual experience” is just what the doctor ordered.
I have always loved and respected Native American pathways and appreciated their tradition and deep connection to the earth and nature. I did harbor a bit of trepidation at the thought of ingesting peyote. I am generally a person who avoids drugs and alcohol, not because I am a prude or a square, I just never liked the idea of that kind of unnatural escape and always thought it would hamper my creativity.
As Randy’s wife, June, Nascars the twisting road, I begin to feel nauseating fear building in my guts. I am concerned I might be socially pressured to take the drug or fall victim to some Indian faux paux if I was not careful. I didn’t want to embarrass Randy and make everyone feel uncomfortable being the only one who may not fully partake in the ritual.
On the drive up, Randy and June pull along the side of the road and Randy tells me he saw “Coyote” cross the road, which is a good omen for tonight’s ceremony. “Coyote”, he explains, symbolizes transformation and spiritual renewal. A red-tailed hawk is also spotted on the drive which means freedom and clarity of self-awareness. They fail to mention though what the omen is for all the crushed bunnies, squirrels, raccoons and other small varmints June leaves in her internecine wake.
Randy is small and wiry with an enormous head. His acting skills are unparalleled but his writing is average. His wife is a very plain, blond woman with a low, subdued energy level and she seems to hold in a lot of emotion, perfectly contrasting Randy, who is very flamboyant and outspoken. I had originally assumed he was gay at our first encounter and was utterly baffled to learn he was actually married to a woman with real parts and everything.
At a rural site off the highway, we collect long timber poles to construct the teepee.
Randy ducks out of the work by chatting incessantly with anyone who will listen or by making himself look busy by kicking around in the dust and removing things from the soles of his shoes. His wife vanishes for a while, also opting out of the hard labor which is reserved for the men of the tribe.
We share a peace pipe as we construct the teepee to appease the spirits. It is not actually a pipe but a small, flat cigarette tied together with string. I am the fifth in line to take a puff. I have never smoked anything so I am clueless how to do this. I just play along trying my best to look reverential so as not to piss of the Road Chief, Rick, a massive, kindly man with a barrel chest and giant brown hands and calves. Appearing quiet and humble when you meet him on the street, Rick is larger than life at the ceremony, a gargantuan personality who seems to spiritually come alive in his element and drift back into obscurity when trying to re-assimilate into the white man’s world.
The teepee is constructed and other attendants begin to trickle in. It is an earthy crowd, many of the people not looking like they hold down regular jobs. Besides the Chief, his daughter, the Fire Man, and the Drum Man, everyone else is white.
I roam off by myself to walk along a river and get in touch with nature and God. I sit quietly by myself and do some simple meditations and prayers. To get the most out of this experience, I want to be open and humble. I know my cynicism is my own worst enemy and don’t want it to spoil the experience. This is obviously a very sacred ritual to these people and to harbor negative thoughts has always been my undoing.
Alone, out here in the forest, away from everyone, I feel peaceful and connected.
I notice a spotted hawk perched on the roots of a tree that has been swept over in the recent rains. I remove my shoes and cross the river, climbing up on the opposite bank to get a closer look at the hawk. Oddly, he doesn’t fly off. He doesn’t seem to mind my approach at all. I keep thinking maybe this is another sign; this great bird telling me everything is A-okay and I’m actually close to nature and connected with Mother Earth, as opposed to being the neurotic white guy bound fast to his schizophrenic material longings.
I walk right up to the hawk, and to my astonishment, he doesn’t move, only rivets me with his stern gaze. I peer around wondering if this is someone’s domesticated pet. The hawk is massive and beautiful, with a white tail, spotted wings, and bright orange eyes.
I “pish” at him to show I am not here to harm him. Pishing is a high-pitched, squeaky sound birdwatchers use to connect with birds. The hawk tilts his head sideways inquisitively, when I make the call. He doesn’t show even the slightest hint of fear.
I look at his wings and talons to see if he is injured but find no signs of external damage.
I gaze around again wondering if this is some joke or someone is taping a hidden camera show. I actually expect the owner to come running around a corner yelling, “get away from my bird, jerk!”
I move a few inches closer, making another pishing sound. He stays in that exact spot, only shuffling his talons a little on the branch.
I hold out my index finger as you might do with a parrot when you want him to perch on you. I think of the majestic thrill of being connected to this great raptor and having him sit on my finger. He just watches my finger, deeply interested. I move it toward his spotted white belly, pishing quietly again. He looks into my eye as if he has known me for ages. He sees through all my insecurities, my limitations, my human frailties. For him, I am only another creature of the forest. I represent no predatory threat or challenge.
I think of the great St. Francis of Assisi and his amazing spiritual advancement where he could commune with wildlife and they would follow him around like Dr. Doolittle. I understand that when you are in tune with the Divine, nature automatically obeys. I was beginning to sense that I, myself, despite my failings and cynicism, was perhaps truly a spiritually advanced soul who had finally attained mastery over beasts of the field and birds of the sky.
I move my index finger right up to the spotted hawk’s belly, pressing it against the downy feathers. My eyes are like poached eggs; a kid at his first big Christmas.
Then he pecks the shit out of me.
He freakin’ destroys my finger.
He grips it in his razor-sharp beak and doesn’t let go for what seems like an eternity.
The hawk issues a piercing shriek and flies off, brushing my cheek with his wing as he goes.
For a moment I am stunned. I can’t fathom what has just happened. We were getting along so well.
My finger is throbbing.
The bird has instantly shattered my delusion of being at one with nature.
I look up and catch a glimpse of him disappearing over the tree line. What an asshole. You build up a man’s hopes like that, then yank the rug out from under his feet.
I hold my bleeding finger under the freezing water of the creek. There is a gash right at the joint that oozes blood. The pain continues to throb dully.
In reflection, I wasn’t really sure what my intention was at having a wild hawk perch on my finger, and after about twenty seconds, after I get over the shock of it, the whole idea seems really rather idiotic. Completely idiotic, as a matter of fact. What the hell was I thinking?
Total Comments 0
