Entering Water: Sea Lion Shamanism
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Entering Water: Sea Lion Shamanism John Farrell Kelly In this article, I express a style of shamanism that I call “Sea Lion” shamanism. I describe some of my personal experiences that led to the formation of this style, and I explore how feminist theory influences my conception of shamanism. I theorize a shamanist standpoint and epistemology, and I situate Sea Lion shamanism within a generational standpoint that I call “Third Wave” shamanism. I review and discuss some of the recent scholarship on shamanism, and I offer a brief description of my approach and style. In order to better express some of the nuances of the subject matter, I adopt a different voice, and I move fluidly between creative and academic writing.1 Calling Myself a Shaman I called myself a shaman once. I wasn’t thinking, and it just slipped out. I was having coffee with a friend, and she told me that I seemed distracted. “I saw something that I thought was significant, and I’m trying to decide if I should say something about it,” I said. “How do you know it’s significant?” she asked. “Well, I don’t know if you believe in such things, but I’m a shaman.” She looked at me with a puzzled expression, and I continued. “There are two types of shamans—those who have been initiated by the earth, and those who have been trained by other shamans. I’m the first kind.” “I thought you were a mystic healer,” she said. “It’s similar,” I said, “like a classical musician and a jazz musician. They’re both musicians, but they have different styles.” “I see,” she said, and our conversation went on to other subjects. Later, I was back at home, lying down and resting, and I felt bad about the interaction for two reasons—first, I was worried that my friend might think I was delusional and drop me, and second, I wasn’t really sure if I actually was a shaman or not. Fortunately, a dandelion spirit came to me in a vision. “Let’s go ask the first spirit,” she said. “That should clear the matter up.” It sounded like a good idea to me, so we set off on a journey to the home of the first spirit (I’m bending the details). We shapeshifted into Arctic Terns and left Alaska, flying south toward Hawaii. I had a strong intuition where to go, and we followed that intuition. There was a mild Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 56 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. headwind, but we just relaxed and paced ourselves. About halfway to Hawaii, we saw a small island in the middle of the Pacific, and I knew we were there. We landed and looked around, but the first spirit was not home. Neither of us was surprised though, as we did not expect the first spirit to be there. We made ourselves at home and rested from the journey. Night eventually came, and we had a wonderful view of the black sky and the stars. I decided to go for a swim, and the dandelion spirit followed me. We shapeshifted into sea lions and entered the water. It had an unusual silky-smooth texture, but it felt wonderful. I dove and twisted at the same time, and the waterscape changed. Suddenly it was daylight, and the water was a beautiful turquoise-indigo color. A large humpback whale was swimming a short distance in front of us. Oh, I whispered in my thoughts, the great mother. Then the scene changed, and we were all on land, human, in an open hut. The dandelion spirit and I were children, around five or six years old, and the great mother was around 30 or so. The great mother was gentle and kind. When I told her I had called myself a shaman, she said, “You did what?” Her tone of voice was so funny that the dandelion spirit and I burst into uncontrollable laughter. We laughed so hard that tears flowed from our eyes. We laughed so hard that we fell to the ground and rolled with laughter. Finally, after minutes and minutes of laughter, we calmed down, said our goodbyes, and left. The flight back was calm, and when we got to Alaska, the dandelion spirit stayed with me for a while, then left. I felt much better after the journey, and I wasn’t worried about my friend leaving me anymore. A few hours later, I realized that I had forgotten to ask the great mother if I actually was a shaman. I thought about it for a while and eventually decided that I am a human who is learning and growing in my own way. This is one of my myths. In a Beginning I work in silver the tongue-like forms that curve round a throat an arm-pit, the upper thigh, whose significance stirs in me like a curviform alphabet that defies decoding, appears to consist of vowels, beginning with O —Olga Broumas, “Artemis” Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 57 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. “Oh, man,” I cry, as my feet touch the water. It’s significantly colder than I expected, and I feel a moment of panic about today’s goal. I sit on the edge of a pontoon boat at the north end of Fremont Lake, surrounded by the wilderness of the Wind River Range. My ally in this adventure is Tom Brown, an Australian who has lived in Pinedale, Wyoming for the past 16 years. We just met yesterday. I was in Pinedale visiting my parents and doing a long swim in the Pinedale Aquatic Center of three hours, and Tom happened by for the last half hour. When we finished swimming, we both sat in the hot tub and ended up chatting. “Have you ever thought of swimming the length of Fremont Lake?” he eventually asked me. “Yeah,” I laughed in response, “for the last four years.” The lake is nine miles long (15 k), so it’s a respectable distance. Tom laughed back, “I’ve been thinking about it for the last 16 years. I wanted to be the first to swim it, but at my age, I don’t think I have it in me anymore.” Tom is in his mid-60s, but he is tall, lean, and tan, and looks in his mid-30s. He was one of the first solo swimmers of the Rottnest Channel Swim, and he just returned from a swim trek in Croatia. “I have a boat, and I’d be happy to crew for you,” he said. I laughed back, “In October? No way!” I thought about it for a while, and then said, “Well, why don’t you give me your number, and I’ll go up to the lake tonight and feel the water, and if it’s not too cold, I’ll give you a call.” It turns out that the water didn’t feel too cold (it was around 57° F / 14° C), so I called Tom, and we decided on today, since the weather forecast was less favorable for later days. Australians are famous for their swimming and their sense of adventure, and I tend to like both, so between the two of us, we ended up in our current situation. It was short notice, but we had a window of opportunity, and we wanted to take a shot. I stand, build up my courage, and jump into the water. It’s a shock—my breath stops, my muscles contract, and my head aches severely from the cold. I swim about 25 meters from the boat to the upper shore and walk onto the beach. I turn around, look at Tom, and wait for his signal. I’m tall, with short white hair, blue eyes, and a smooth layer of fat that should serve me well today. My body is tattooed and scarred, but holding up fairly well for 48 years. My first tattoo is a geometric shape, an arrow pointing upward to a circle, on my left upper arm that I had done in Toulon, France, when the aircraft carrier I was stationed on stopped there for a port visit. My second tattoo is an elk on my right upper arm that I had done in Santa Fe, when I was attending massage therapy school. My third tattoo is a Hawaiian flower, Naupaka Kahakai, around my left ankle, that I had done when I lived on Maui. The rest I had done in Alaska. My fourth and fifth tattoos are an Om symbol on my left forearm and a Dharmachakra symbol on my right forearm. My sixth tattoo is a fireweed flower and a bumblebee on my right calf. My seventh and eight tattoos are an aspen leaf beside the Om symbol and a snowflake beside the Dharmachakra symbol. My most visible scar extends from just below my sternum to a few inches below my navel—a reminder of a night I hit a moose on my motorcycle, eight miles south of Pinedale. I also have a broken humerus bone from a night I was hiking in Alaska and a moose hit me. I feel joyful standing on the beach, and I feel nervous but excited about the swim. I have dreamed of this moment for years. For me, this swim is a ceremony. I Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 58 Vol. 6, No.