Entering Water: Sea Lion

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. 2, June 2012 56-76. feel confident in my fitness, but I feel worried about the cold and the possibility of hypothermia. Tom gives me the go signal, and I walk slowly into the water.

Entering Water

I lose faith in words and enter water – diving, rolling, looping, with a female sea lion as my guide, attentive and reflective, with soft, water eyes.

I walk slowly into the water and then enter completely. I start swimming with one of my own styles that I call “sea lion style,” which is similar to breaststroke arms with a dolphin kick. I relax and allow my body time to adjust to the cold. This is my first open water swim, and panic arises from the vastness of the water. This will be embarrassing if I scratch right now, I think. I relax my body and my breath, and the panic eventually subsides. After about five minutes, I ease into a freestyle stroke and begin to experiment with sighting techniques. The basic idea seems straightforward—lift your head so you can look ahead and then get it down quickly so it doesn’t throw off your horizontal body positioning. I also experiment with integrating the sighting into a natural breathing pattern. I haven’t done it before, so it takes me a few minutes to figure out. I start to feel scared from looking into the depths of the green water. I ground myself by looking at the cliffs to the right and the left. They are stunningly beautiful, and the sunlight on the golden aspen trees is divine. I visualize that I am on a long walk on top of the water, which helps calm my fear. My body begins to generate more heat, and I begin to feel more comfortable in the cold water. We are following English Channel rules, which means no assistance in or out of the water, no physical contact with the boat or crew, and no wetsuit. Additionally, I don’t wear a swim cap, since I like to feel the micromovements of the water on the top of my head, which adds to the risk of hypothermia. The danger is real—standard hypothermia charts list the estimated time of survival in this temperature water as one to six hours. I call this time period the “death zone.” I sight on a promontory about 2 k ahead and to the left, and then I allow my mind to move freely and become still. I started swimming four years ago in Alaska. I knew how to swim already—I learned in this lake 40 years ago, but I was not very good at it. When I started swimming again, I was working at a desk job, and I was out of shape. On my first day, I could only swim ten lengths. Over time, I improved, and eventually swimming became a spiritual practice for me.

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 59 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. After two years of practice, I had a breakthrough idea while I was reading Cecil Cowan’s book Breakthrough Swimming. In one chapter, Cowan discusses propulsive mechanisms, including the swimming movements of marine mammals. My idea was that I might be able to learn more about swimming from observing a sea lion. A few days later, I drove from Anchorage down to Seward to visit the Alaska Sea Life Center. I entered the building, wandered around, and eventually approached a large aquarium for sea lions that allows for underwater viewing. At that point, my swimming story became a little more interesting for me. I reach the first promontory, and look up at Tom. My body has adapted to the cold water, and I am no longer worried about hypothermia. “We got this,” I say. I tread water by the boat for a moment. “How do you spell hypothermia?” Tom asks as a hypothermia check. I spell it with no problem. He drops a napkin with some banana and orange pieces into my hand. “You need to eat,” he says. I know my body nutrition needs during endurance events fairly well, in large part due to experience in a double century cycle race I completed in Alaska, and don’t feel the need, but I take a bite of banana to appease Tom. Treading water is tiring me out and cooling me down, and eating food is throwing off my breathing, so I decide to forgo any more feeding stops. I reach up and drop the rest of the food onto the boat, give Tom a thumbs up sign, and move back into freestyle. I sight off another promontory about 4 k ahead and to the right, and I stretch into a longer, more fluid stroke and allow my mind to quieten again. Since it was a winter day in Alaska, I was alone in the aquarium area. I walked slowly to the glass and noticed a single female Steller sea lion. I paused and made an intuitive request to watch her swim. When she replied, Yes, I made another request to take notes. It was a rude request for a first meeting, but there was a need. She said, Yes, with no hesitation and then continued swimming. My mind flashed to the fall of 1988, when I was studying Aikido in Iwama, Japan, with Morihiro Saito Sensei. He spoke during a class, “In 40 years of studying with Ōsensei, I never asked him a single question.” Ōsensei refers to Morihei Ueshiba, the founder of Aikido. I interpreted Saito Sensei’s words to emphasize the quality of his attention to Ōsensei. I brought a similar quality of attention to the sea lion. The first thing that I noticed was her eyes, which were soft, relaxed, and fluid. They seemed to move fluidly between two major states—attention and reflection. During the attention state, her eyes moved with incredibly fluid and precise micromovements that seemed to indicate that she was tracking minute details in her external environment. Then her eyes would fluidly shift to a reflective state, and it appeared her attention was drawn inward. I’m meditating all wrong, I thought. In my practice of lap swimming in the pool, I would enter into reflective states, but I would not balance them with this quality of attentive states. I watched her eyes more closely and gained a deeper feeling for the typical amount of time that she spent in each state, the fluid manner that she transitioned, and the relaxed, fluid, quickness and precision of her attentive states. The lessons in her eyes were profound for me and eventually formed a basis for my style of shamanism. The next thing that I noticed was her spine. Her

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 60 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. swimming demonstrated a remarkable flexibility, strength, and coordination in spinal movement—more proficient than any yoga practitioner that I had ever seen. For the next several hours, I observed other large and small details of her swimming—diving, rolling, and looping movements; body positioning and posture; characteristics of propulsion and glide; patterns of muscular exertion and relaxation; underlying emotions; and more. Finally, I felt complete for the day, offered my heartfelt thanks, and departed. When I arrived back in Anchorage, the local pool was still open, so I immediately entered the water. I experimented with translating sea lion swimming movements to my human body. There was a dialogue in the translation process between my ideas and my body, and I quickly downloaded large amounts of information into cellular, experiential body knowledge. I pause for a moment and look up at Tom. I scan my surroundings and absorb the beauty—patches of green and gold on the land, strokes of white and blue in the sky, and colorful moving reflections on the water surface. Savor it, I think to myself. I give Tom a thumbs up sign and return to freestyle. Over the next few weeks, I deepened my development of sea lion style swimming. As I refined the style, the style began to refine me. My eyes changed, and my movements became more fluid and graceful, even on land. Eventually, I began to look at videos of other marine mammals, study the nuances of their swimming movements, and develop additional styles. Over time, my swimming practice evolved to become a waterdance.

Standing and Floating

As I immersed myself in this swimming practice, I began to reflect on its metaphoric implications for my work with feminist theory. In turn, feminist theory continues to influence how I conceptualize and theorize my experiences with shamanism. In the introduction to The Feminist Standpoint Theory Reader, Sandra Harding (2004) describes standpoint theory as “a seductively volatile site for reflection and debate about difficult to resolve contemporary dilemmas” (p. 13). Harding further notes that, in the technical sense, a standpoint is not simply a viewpoint or a perspective, but “a different, somewhat hidden phenomenon that we must work to grasp” (p. 8). The meaning of this “technical sense” varies from one standpoint theorist to another and is either articulated directly or can be approached by examining the specific context. For my purposes, I use “standpoint” to refer to both a perspective and an articulated theory of that perspective—the specific, holistic, intersectional situatedness of an individual and the complex ways that individual may conceptualize and theorize their identity in relationship with broader, intersectional communities. Members of similar identity groups often have a similar standpoint in the sense of their perspective and situatedness; however, in practice, it is often an academic specialist who produces an articulated theory of that standpoint for themselves and the members of their identity group. In “The Social Construction of Black Feminist Thought,” Patricia Hill Collins (1989) describes this distinction as two types of knowledge and offers a crucial, often overlooked insight into their interdependent nature:

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The first level includes everyday, taken-for-granted knowledge shared by members of a given group […]. Black feminist thought, by extension, represents a second level of knowledge, the more specialized knowledge furnished by experts who are part of a group and express the group’s standpoint. The two levels of knowledge are interdependent; while black feminist thought articulates the taken-for-granted knowledge of African American women, it also encourages all Black women to create new self- definitions that validate a black women’s standpoint. (Collins, 1989, p. 750)

In Collins’ construction, the first level of knowledge is referred to as the standpoint, and the second level of knowledge is referred to as an expression of that standpoint—“Black feminist thought.” Some feminist standpoint theorists switch that construction and refer to the first level as a perspective and the second level as a standpoint. Collins’ emphasis on interdependence highlights the dynamic, dialogic relationship between the two levels. In my construction, I use “standpoint” to refer to both levels in order to emphasize this interdependent relationship. The “specialized knowledge furnished by the experts” is interesting in two ways. First, it often consists of knowledge provided by an academic specialist (an academic theorist theorizing the academic theorist as the expert) and may occasionally contain a subtle conception of itself as a “higher” knowledge. This conception and its broader context can sometimes create tension in the interdependent relationship between these two levels of knowledge, as portrayed in Alice Walker’s short story “Everyday Use” in the characters of Maggie and Dee (Wangero) (1973/1994). Furthermore, in writing “Everyday Use,” Walker demonstrates the production of narrative as an alternative modality for expressing and negotiating a black women’s standpoint. A second interesting aspect of this “specialized knowledge furnished by the experts” is the way it may come into contest with a broader community of experts who are not members of the given group. Collins asserts that black feminist thought is suppressed by a Eurocentric masculinist knowledge validation process:

Just as the material realities of the powerful and the dominated produce separate standpoints, each group may also have distinctive epistemologies or theories of knowledge. […] black female scholars may know that something is true but be unwilling or unable to legitimate their claims using Eurocentric masculinist criteria for consistency with substantiated knowledge and Eurocentric masculinist criteria for methodological adequacy. (Collins, 1989, p. 753)

Collins’ point about distinctive epistemologies emerging from separate standpoints is compelling. She continues her discussion by identifying positivist methodological approaches as a means of the suppression of black feminist thought, listing the requirements of these approaches, and describing their effects on African American women. Some of these requirements include objectivity, absence of emotions, disregard for ethics and values, and adversarial discourse. She then discusses an

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 62 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. Afrocentric feminist epistemology, which is so distinct that it must generally be expressed outside of the academy:

Traditionally, such women were blues singers, poets, autobiographers, storytellers, and orators validated by the larger community of black women as experts on a black women’s standpoint. Only a few African American feminist scholars have been able to defy Eurocentric masculinist epistemologies and explicitly embrace an Afrocentric feminist epistemology. (Collins, 1989, p. 770)

A path to bridging this epistemological divide may be present in Collins’ initial description of a black women’s standpoint:

Two interlocking components characterize this standpoint. First, black women’s political and economic status provide them with a distinctive set of experiences that offers a different view of material reality than that available to other groups. […] Second, these experiences stimulate a distinctive black feminist consciousness concerning that material reality. (Collins, 1989, p. 747)

Several steps may serve to bridge these types of epistemological divides. One step may be to consider the premise that a distinctive set of experiences can stimulate a distinctive type of consciousness. A second step may be to give attention to alternative styles of communications from members of given groups—to listen to the songs, poems, autobiographies, stories, orations, or scholarship, etc. A third step may be to reflect on exclusionary epistemological patterns and to consider creating a more inclusive, polyphonic epistemology. One way feminist theory influences my conception of shamanism is in the development of a shamanist standpoint. I suggest that contemporary shamans can be viewed as a given group “with a distinctive set of experiences that offers a different view of material reality than that available to other groups.” These experiences may include deep relationships with specific landscapes, deep relationships with specific plants and animals, callings, initiations, near-death experiences, major illnesses, visions, relationships with spirits, training practices, healing practices, and journeys to other worlds. I further suggest that this set of experiences stimulates a distinctive shamanist consciousness concerning a material reality. A second way feminist theory influences my conception of shamanism is in the development of a shamanist epistemology. As Collins notes, a distinctive Afrocentric feminist epistemology has arisen from a black women’s standpoint. In a similar fashion, I suggest that a distinctive shamanist epistemology arises from a contemporary shaman’s standpoint. Additionally, contemporary shamans who desire to express a shamanist standpoint in an academic environment may face similar epistemological divides to those that Collins details, and they may strive to adopt nontraditional and transgressive rhetorical strategies in efforts to bridge these divides. In the development of a shamanist epistemology, I am primarily influenced by another feminist standpoint theorist.

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 63 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. In “Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective,” Donna Haraway (1989) advocates for a feminist theory of situated knowledges:

I am arguing for politics and epistemologies of location, positioning, and situating, where partiality and not universality is the condition of being heard to make rational knowledge claims. These are claims on people's lives; the view from a body, always a complex, contradictory, structuring and structured body, versus the view from above, from nowhere, from simplicity. (Haraway, 1989, p. 589)

Haraway’s argument for locational epistemologies is compelling. These partial, situated knowledges form a heteroglossia of local knowledges and ethnophilosophies that exist in a complex tension and resonance with universalizing, totalizing epistemologies (p. 588). Haraway’s theory of situated knowledges is a very close fit for a contemporary shamanist epistemology that is grounded in embodied relationships within local cultures and landscapes, which are then shared in larger, webbed, conversational relationships. I call shamanism with this epistemology “relational shamanism.” A third way feminist theory influences my conception of shamanism is in the development of a generational standpoint. In this effort, I am largely influenced by Third Wave feminism. In her January 1992 Ms. Magazine article “Becoming the Third Wave,” Rebecca Walker concludes with strong performative words that both describe and create: “I am not a postfeminism feminist. I am the Third Wave.” In this performative, Walker begins to articulate a generational feminist standpoint that is distinct from Second Wave feminism. Since then, Third Wave feminism has evolved to include a remarkable breadth and depth of scholarship, and a theory and praxis that incorporates elements of womanism, postmodernism, post-structuralism, postcolonial theory, ecofeminism, queer theory, and numerous other intersections. (In this scholarship, the wave metaphor and the generational division have been meticulously problematized in the process of their general acceptance.) Borrowing from feminist terminology and echoing Walker, I make a similar pronouncement. I am not a neoshaman. I am Third Wave. In this performative, I acknowledge and invite attention to Third Wave feminist scholarship, and I draw a generational distinction between Third Wave shamanism and a previous generation that I call “Second Wave” shamanism. One key characteristic of Third Wave shamanism is this practice of relational shamanism—situated, partial knowledge claims based on embodied relationships within local cultures and landscapes, which are then shared in larger, webbed, conversational relationships. A good example of a Third Wave shamanist text is Hillary Webb’s (2004) Traveling Between the Worlds: Conversations with Contemporary Shamans, in which Webb engages in conversations with numerous contemporary shamans and links their diverse, situated knowledges. Third Wave shamanism exists in a complex tension and resonance with the universalizing, totalizing epistemology of Second Wave shamanism—in particular, the Core shamanism of Michael Harner and the Foundation for Shamanic Studies (FSS). Harner is generally recognized as one of the three central figures in the

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 64 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. Western movement, along with Mircea Eliade and Carlos Castaneda. According to a quotation from Roger Walsh and Charles S. Grob highlighted on the FSS website, “Michael Harner is widely acknowledged as the world's foremost authority on experiential and practical shamanism” (as cited from FSS). Core shamanism foregrounds its own universalizing and decontextualizing epistemology:

Core shamanism consists of the universal, near-universal, and common principles and practices of shamanism not bound to any specific cultural group or perspective, as originated, researched, and developed by Michael Harner. (FSS)

One tension is that from a Third Wave shamanist standpoint, the practice of researching Indigenous religions, universalizing and decontextualizing their practices, and then copyrighting and selling those practices is seen as a colonizing methodology and a hurtful appropriation. One resonance is that in addition to the differences between partial, situated shamanist knowledges, there are commonalities, and research into comparative shamanisms is seen to be valuable. In addition to universalizing and totalizing all of the world’s shamanisms, Harner goes on to totalize all of the spiritual experiences in all of humanity:

After having personally practiced shamanism, shamanic healing, and shamanic journeying for more than half a century, I can say that there is nothing I have encountered in reports of the spiritual experiences of saints, prophets, psychedelic drug experimenters, near death survivors, avatars and other mystics that is not commonly experienced when following classic journey methods using a drum. (as cited from FSS)

This perspective exemplifies Haraway’s distinction between universality and partiality and illustrates “a view from above” – the world’s foremost authority, “a view from nowhere”—passive voice obscuring the identity of the experiencer, and “a view from simplicity”—an astonishing reductionism of the diversity of humanity’s spiritual experiences. As a near-death survivor, I have an alternative perspective. I can report that when I was 22 years old, I was riding a motorcycle at night, eight miles south of Pinedale, Wyoming, and I hit a moose and nearly died. I suggest that Harner has not had that particular experience. Although feminist theory significantly influences my conception of shamanism, I am left with a feeling of something undiscovered—the potential of an unanswered question. What happens when the central metaphor of feminist standpoint theory—standing on land—shifts, and I enter water?

In a Middle

I am a woman who understands the necessity of an impulse whose goal or origin still lie beyond me. —Olga Broumas, “Artemis”

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 65 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76.

I reach the second promontory and look up again at Tom. “What was the date two days ago?” he asks me as another hypothermia check. I’m bad with dates, and it takes me a moment to remember that today is the first of October. I count back and answer with no problem. “You need to eat,” he says, offering me another napkin with orange slices and banana pieces. “I need to keep moving,” I reply. “I get too cold.” My skin is a splotchy red, blue, and purple, but when I swim, I am warm inside. “I don’t need to eat,” I continue. “I know my body, trust me.” Tom reluctantly agrees. I give him another thumbs up sign and start into freestyle again. There are no more promontories—I’m sighting off of the finish now. We have four miles down and five to go. The water is like glass, and the sunlight is golden on the eastern hills. It looks like smooth water for the rest of the way. I relax into my stroke, and my mind floats freely. Back in Alaska, my swimming practice was going well. My styles were evolving, and I was maturing in a fulfilling way. I was considering a large sea lion tattoo for my back. Then something unexpected happened. A polar bear spirit came to me in a vision. His presence was strong, and he projected an image of a polar bear tattoo on my back. I was quiet, respectful, and on my best behavior. After he left, I exhaled in relaxation and confusion. I took a moment to remember the lines, colors, and shapes of the tattoo, so I didn’t forget them, and then I tried to process the experience. One confusion was that the artistic style of the tattoo was Southeast Alaskan—maybe Haida or Tsimshian, and I had never heard of any polar bears in that area. Another confusion was that I didn’t have any kind of a relationship with any polar bears in this world, so it made no sense to me that a polar bear spirit would come to me. I decided that it was probably because I had created a polar bear style of swimming that I was practicing daily. I had discovered a video on the Internet of a polar bear swimming in ice filled open water, and I watched it reverently as if I were studying an ancient sacred text. Then I translated the movements into my body to recreate the style. I decided that I would deepen the relationship with the polar bear spirit guide, which would probably mean a lifelong commitment. We were still in an interim period, however, and I needed to maintain impeccable behavior. I felt that an Alaska Native style tattoo would not be appropriate for me, so I began the long process of studying styles of art, going to the local zoo to observe a live polar bear, and designing my own tattoo. I estimated that it might take me a year or two to complete the design. After a month or so, another unexpected event occurred. A sea lion spirit came to me in a vision. She joined the polar bear spirit, and they stood side by side. It was clear to me that I had to choose one or the other. I relaxed my body and mind completely, and I allowed time for reflection. When the reflection was complete, I chose the sea lion spirit with no hesitation. I looked at her, and her eyes pooled with water. Then I looked at the polar bear spirit, and I thought to myself, That’s it. You

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 66 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. just lost a polar bear spirit guide. To my surprise, however, he did not leave me. He bowed in respect, and moved into the background. A few days later, I was reflecting on my visions. All of the spirits moving around made me think of elk. I grew up with elk, and I had seen a lot of elk, but I did not have a relationship with an elk spirit. As I reflected, my mind settled on the memory of an elk body that I had seen when I was a young boy. As I recalled this memory, I felt a great sense of sadness and loss—something noble had passed by, and I had missed it. In that moment of deep sadness, an elk spirit emerged from the body of the elk and approached me. Then the organ of his heart merged with my heart, and the bones of his head merged with my head. I hear an air horn go off in the distance. I turn and look for Tom. He is back around 400 meters. I figure his engine has died. I feel calm. We are not out for any speed records today, just a finish. And if we don’t get a finish, we still have a great day of swimming. I turn and swim back to the boat. By the time I reach the boat, Tom has the engine going again, and he waves his arm for me to go. As I turn and head back toward the finish, I notice the sun is low on the horizon. An hour later, the wind picks up, the sun sets, and we are headed for dark water.

Dark Water

I am a man who feels my way through water.

When I was 26, I was still in the Navy, stationed at a shore duty position in Seattle, and I had a very disturbing series of recurring nightmares. In the first dream, I was looking at a mountain lake, and there were huge, rusty pipes on the side of the mountain that were pouring toxins into the water. I woke up sweating and shaking. Over time, the dreams got progressively worse. Toward the end, I was boating on the lake. In the final dream, I was swimming in the toxic water. I opened my mouth, and toxic water poured into my body. As I spit it out, I also spit out a chicken bone. In the middle of the lake, there was a wooden sign that read “You’ve Been Warned.” A large booming voice spoke the words out loud. I woke in a panic. Of what? Of what? I thought. I was in counseling at the time, trying to work through some historic family issues and some issues with my Command, but I couldn’t grasp the meaning. A few nights later, I had a blissful kundalini experience and then a psychotic, suicidal depression. It was much worse than hitting the moose. I spent two weeks on the mental health ward at the Naval Hospital, Bremerton. After eight years in the Navy, I was given a medical discharge for atypical psychosis. The psychosis was real, and the emerging capacities were also real. In the summer of 1988, I was studying yoga in Pune, India with Geeta Iyengar. During one class Geeta said, “If you enter into a depression, do not despair. The seed

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 67 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. of that depression is the root of your yoga.” For me, the seed of that depression is the root of my shamanism. Later, the dreams returned. In the first dream, I was swimming underwater in Fremont Lake. This time, the water was not toxic—it was just an opaque green. I couldn’t see anything, but I felt at peace. I listened to my intuition, and let it guide me. In the second dream, I was at Fremont Lake again. This time, I was in the water at the beach at the south end of the lake. The water was clear, but much lower than usual. I stood on some of the glacier rocks that had become visible and then swam from one rock to the next. One of the capacities that emerged was a greater sense of empathy. Another capacity that emerged was a greater ability to feel energy—both color and texture. I entered into a romantic relationship with a master energy healer, and we trained together intensively for three months. Then we parted, and I moved to Santa Fe to attend a year of massage therapy school. In the twilight, a strong head wind picks up, and one to two foot waves come at me. They are not like gentle ocean swells—they are fast, tight, breaking waves. When I look up, I see the face of a wave, and I can’t sight. This is the most difficult time of the swim. Then it gets worse. When I try to breathe, I get a mouthful of water from a wave. I immediately have a panic attack. I counter the reflex to fight for air, and I relax completely. Then I try to breathe again, and I find air. A few strokes later, I get another mouthful of water and another panic attack. I relax again and find air. I look at Tom in the boat, but I do not consider stopping. In a worst case scenario, I will switch to another style. I pay close attention to the feel of the water, and I experiment with modifications to freestyle. Then I discover that if I tuck my head slightly and change the angle of my face to the wave when it breaks over the top of my head, a pocket of air forms that I can breathe. I feel relieved. I know I’ll be able to finish. It takes constant attention to the water, but it’s possible. Then darkness settles, and it is completely black. With the wind, the waves, and the darkness, swimming is a bit sketchy. Tom is getting blown around a lot on his boat, and in addition to driving, he shines a flashlight on me so he can monitor my progress. I feel a bit apprehensive in the darkness, but I tell myself that a lot of open water swimmers swim in the dark, so I can, too. Instead of fighting the darkness and trying to swim faster, I relax completely into the darkness, and I imagine swimming indefinitely. I sight off of a bright light from Lakeside Lodge in the distance and a fainter light to the left. Eventually, we approach the south shore. A former high school classmate of mine, Ward Wise, is waiting for us on the beach, shining a light to guide us. Finally, I feel sand beneath my arms, and I know we have made it.

Emerging from Water

you'd emerge clean caesarean, flinging live rivulets from your hair, your own

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 68 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. breath arrested. Something immaculate, a chance crucial junction: time, light, water

—Olga Broumas, “Sometimes, as a child”

Finally, I emerge cold, exhausted, crawling onto shore, shivering into a new birth.

I feel sand beneath my arms, and I try to stand up. For some reason, I cannot balance. I think the cold water on my eardrums has impaired my equilibrium. Ward offers to help me. By English Channel rules, I have to emerge completely out of the water with no assistance, so I ask him to hold off. I crawl out slowly and finally emerge completely. I have spent over six-and-a-half hours in the water. Ward helps me stand up, hands me a towel, and helps direct Tom to land on the beach. “It’s a long, cold swim,” I say to Ward, and we laugh The air temperature is in the 40s, and I am getting cold, fast. This transition is dangerous. I dry off quickly and change into dry clothes, but I slip into a moderate hypothermia. It’s familiar territory, but it’s dangerous ground. Ward helps me to his truck, which is parked on the beach with the heat running. I climb inside and wrap up in a large blanket. “Do we need to take you to the clinic?” Ward asks. “No,” I reply. “I’ll be fine. I just need a little time.” Ward and Tom drive me to the house and drop me off. I head right for the bathroom. I am still quite dizzy and nauseous. I throw up, but then feel a little better. I take a long, hot shower, which works well to warm me up again. Then I fill a water bottle with a mix of grapefruit juice and water and head right to bed. As I wake in the night, I hydrate with the mix. The next morning, I am almost completely recovered. I have some tendon soreness in my shoulders, and some chafing on my shoulders from the breathing, but other than that, I am fine. I call up Tom and help him tow his boat back to his house. Then I go down to the local pool for a two hour recovery swim and a long hot tub soak. Back in Alaska, my swimming was still going well. I was finding peace and healing in the water. Then something unexpected happened. During one of my journeys in the spirit world, I went much further than I had ever gone before, and I emerged into the upper world. When I returned, I was disoriented and in shock. It was much more than my mind and emotions could process. It took me a month to recover.

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 69 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. On Land we must find words or burn

—Olga Broumas, “Artemis”

I stay at my parents’ house for the next two weeks and help them with some small chores in the afternoons. I have a simple routine—swim for three hours in the morning and then stop by the Rock Rabbit for a large mocha breve and two cookies. Then I drive up to the Fremont Lake overlook and park by the historical marker. I walk up a short hill and sit on a glacier rock among the sagebrush and spend an hour looking at the lake and the Wind River Range in the background. Sometimes I go up again at night and spend an hour looking at the lake in the moonlight. I’m not sure if I should talk about the swim or not. I decide that I might talk a little about it. I walk into the office of the local paper, The Pinedale Roundup, and see the editor, Megan Rawlins. “I don’t know if you think it’s newsworthy or not,” I say, “but I swam the length of Fremont Lake the other day.” She takes me into a back room and does an interview. Then she writes up a very nice article for the next edition of the paper and includes two of Tom’s photographs. People around town are very supportive when they read it. Open water swimming is an interesting sport. Generally people swim in a specific body of water in their local region, or travel to a body of water that they are attracted to. Sometimes they share their experiences. People usually do it for the love of the water, although there is some record keeping—first crossings, fastest crossings, etc. I send a brief email to Steven Munatones and tell him about the swim, and he writes up a nice, brief article in the Daily News of Open Water Swimming. He also writes a short entry for Openwaterpedia and credits me with the world record for the first crossing of the length of Fremont Lake. Sometimes people talk about shamanist journeys to the upper world. I don’t think it’s that important, in the sense that our work and play are here in this world.

Shamanism

What is shamanism? In The World of Shamanism: New Views of an Ancient Tradition, Roger Walsh offers one definition: “Shamanism can be defined as a family of traditions whose practitioners focus on voluntarily entering altered states of consciousness in which they experience themselves or their spirit(s) interacting with other entities, often by traveling to other realms, in order to serve their community” (2007, pp. 15-16). The use of “shamanism” as a scholarly term can be problematical. In “Trends in Contemporary Research on Shamanism,” Thomas A. Dubois (2011) reviews and discusses recent research on the topic of shamanism and identifies one trend that he terms the “rhetorical approach”: “the scholarly examination of the development of ‘shamanism’ itself as a scholarly term and academic construct, particularly as a reflection of broader trends within the academic study of religion and anthropology”

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 70 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. (p. 101). This approach problematizes the development of the term and suggests “the existence of shamanism primarily or even solely in the imagination of Western scholars” (p. 111). The rhetorical approach also criticizes the term and its academic use as a “willful denial of the complexity of ‘primitive’ religions, and the reduction of their diversity to a simplistic unity” (p. 111). In addition to criticizing the term, DuBois notes that such scholarship criticizes the broader context of its use:

The combined weight of such studies reveals the degree to which seemingly objective past scholarship was actually often laced with political, cultural, and social agendas, ones which scholars were reticent about acknowledging in their work or in the writings of their colleagues. (Dubois, 2011, p. 112)

Dubois further notes that “critiques of this sort can be viewed as part of a larger critical deconstruction of the study of anthropology” (p. 111). Despite these criticisms, the term has widespread use in academic writing in numerous fields that DuBois reviews, including anthropology, religious studies, archaeology, cognitive sciences, ethnomusicology, medical anthropology, art history, and ethnobotany. In addition to the rhetorical approach, DuBois surveys research in several other approaches: particularized ethnographic approaches, historicized and politicized approaches, transcendent and cognitive approaches, and neoshamanism. DuBois’s draws a distinction between shamanism and neoshamanism and offers a definition of neoshamanism:

The term implies a distinction between traditional shamanisms that have been passed down from generation to generation within specific cultural traditions (as described in the works of particularist ethnographers) and more improvised, provisional shamanic rituals and experiences often born within workshop settings and informed by past (or recent) ethnographic literature. (Dubois, 2011, p. 114)

The context of this contemporary research on shamanism suggests that “shamanism” is used by scholars as a general term to refer to Indigenous religions. While DuBois’s definition of neoshamanism is helpful, context suggests that “neoshamanism” is used by scholars to refer to the beliefs and practices of Westerners that resemble scholarly conceptions of Indigenous religions, and this usage has more to do with marking Western identity than with time or tradition. In Shamans/Neo-Shamans, Robert J. Wallis notes an academic bias against Western shamans: “There is certainly a snobbish and derisive tone in much literature on neo-Shamanisms: real shamans are perceived to be culturally distant and Other, and therefore ‘authentic’; neo-Shamans are invented, deluded and specious (2003, p. 31). I suggest that Western shamanism resembles female masculinity. Judith Halberstam discusses the difficulty in gaining acceptance: “There is something so obvious about female masculinity and yet something so rigid about our refusal to recognize it, celebrate it, and accept it” (1998, p. 268). At times, Western shamanism is also obvious, but difficult to recognize, celebrate, and accept. In “The Future of a Discipline: Considering the ontological/methodological future of the anthropology of consciousness, Part I,” Mark A. Schroll (2010) discusses

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 71 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. the limitations of traditional scholarly approaches to shamanism and calls for a type of personal, experiential approach—autoethnography:

our understanding of shamanic and/or other related states of consciousness has been greatly enhanced through ethnographic methods, yet in their present form these methods fail to provide the means to fully comprehend these states. They fail, or are limited, because this approach is only a ‘‘cognitive interpretation’’ or ‘‘metanarrative’’ of the actual experience and not the experience itself. (Schroll, 2010, pp. 1-2)

Joan Townsend (2005) discusses experiential shamanist approaches in “Individualist Religious Movements: Core and Neo-shamanism,” which she calls “Modern Shamanic Spirituality” and divides into two categories—Core shamanism and Neo-shamanism. Townsend discusses two central figures in Modern Shamanic Spirituality—Michael Harner and Carlos Castaneda. Wallis (2003) discusses three key figures in neoshamanism—Mircea Eliade, Michael Harner, and Carlos Castaneda. Eliade is further described as the “forefather” of neoshamanisms. Wallis also discusses earlier Western interactions with shamanism from the 1600s to the present (pp. 24-35). Jeremy Narby and Francis Huxley (2004) offer another historical perspective in Shamans Through Time: 500 Years on the Path to Knowledge. Townsend makes a compelling point about the influence of personal epistemologies (and ontologies) on our approach to shamanism: “Ultimately, how we, as anthropologists/social scientists, understand, interpret, and evaluate traditional shamanism as well as individualist religions including Core and Neo- shamanism depends in large part on our personal epistemology—our personal paradigm of reality” (2005, p. 6). Townsend notes that we either believe there is (or could be) a non-ordinary spirit world, or we do not, and this belief significantly shapes our perspective. I fall into the first category. I identify with a generational standpoint that I refer to as “Third Wave” shamanism that is characterized by a “relational shamanism”—situated, partial knowledge claims based on embodied relationships within local cultures and landscapes, which are then shared in larger, webbed, conversational relationships. I refer to a previous generation of Western shamanists led by Eliade, Castaneda, and Harner as a “Second Wave” of Western shamanism, characterized predominantly by Harner’s universalizing, decontextualizing Core shamanism. I refer to earlier generations as a “First Wave” of Western shamanism that contains the historical expressions described by Wallis, Narby, and Huxley. (Obviously, shamanism can be theorized to have existed for thousands of years, and this Wave theory is limited in scope.) Two problems in the research and practice of contemporary shamanism may be worth addressing briefly. One problem is that the scholarly research of Indigenous spiritual traditions is often hurtful in its colonizing methodology and epistemological objectification. Wallis (2003) notes that “historically volatile relationships between Indigenous communities and anthropologists and archaeologists are well documented worldwide” (p. 208). Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999) provides a compelling critique of colonizing research methodologies in Decolonizing

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 72 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. Methodologies: Research and . Smith emphasizes the problem of objectification:

the problem to be reiterated again is that it has been taken for granted that indigenous peoples are the ‘natural objects’ of research. It is difficult to convey to the non-indigenous world how deeply this perception of research is held by indigenous peoples. (Smith, 1999, p. 118)

Self-determination and active participation form central components of Smith’s decolonizing methodology. Additional Indigenous methodologies are presented in Handbook of Critical and Indigenous Methodologies (Denzin, Lincoln, & Smith, 2008). A second problem is the appropriation and commercialization of Indigenous spiritual traditions by neoshamans. Terry Macy and Daniel Hart (1996), provide a compelling critique in the documentary film White Shamans and Plastic Medicine Men. Although this film addresses Native American spiritual traditions in particular, its lessons can be applied to spiritual traditions of other Indigenous groups. One lesson is the importance of content and context. Darrell Robes Kipp discusses the case of the plastic shaman and the pretend Indian:

Both operate off a list of symbols, and they are more concerned with the arrangement of the symbols and the display of the symbols than they are with the content and the context behind the symbols. (quoted in White Shamans and Plastic Medicine Men)

These symbols might include drums, sweat lodges, feathers, burning sage, etc. Kipp further notes that an essential part of the content is the teachings, which have a deep historical context:

One of the things I’ve been told is that you can have the pipe, but it’s not empowered without the teachings. And that the teachings that go with tribal religions often have this long association from the beginning, the genesis of the tribe to the present day. (quoted in White Shamans and Plastic Medicine Men)

Another lesson is the hurtfulness of the commercialization of the sacred. In addition to his words, Tony Incashola’s tone of voice and body language poignantly express this hurt:

They have only seen the profit sign. I’ve heard people where they charge anywhere from fifty to a hundred dollars to take you into a , which to me is very hurtful to the ancestors who looked at the sweat lodge as a place of sacredness. (quoted in White Shamans and Plastic Medicine Men)

For my part, I adopt “shamanism” to form a conceptual framework for my personal experiences. I use “shamanism” in the scholarly definitional sense of

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 73 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. interactions with spirits and journeys in a spirit world in order to serve a community. In the following paragraphs, I briefly discuss a personal approach to shamanism. When I enter into wilderness, acculturation gradually fades, and I enter into a deep relationship with a specific landscape. I feel the age of my surroundings— something much older than contemporary culture. For me, a basic practice of shamanism is entering into deep relationship with wilderness and returning. Over time, this relationship shapes me and teaches me. Eventually, I feel something ancient that flows through the wilderness. I call this something Deep Water. For me, shamanism is the flow of Deep Water. In this sense, it can never be permanently lost in a culture, because it will always be discovered by anyone who can feel it, describe it in their own words, and integrate it into their own culture in their own way. Another component of shamanism for me is journeying. On very long, deep journeys, other experiences unfold. The point of these experiences is how they may serve to assist in the healing and growth of this world—how they may guide the everyday relationships that we have with each other and with the earth. In the final section of this article, I briefly express Sea Lion shamanism using a concise literary form—sutra:

Of minimal syllabary, unambiguous, pithy, comprehensive, continuous, and without flaw: who knows the sutra knows it to be thus. —Vayu Purana

Sea Lion Shamanism

Water.

Shamanism

1. Everything is spirit. 2. Spiritual growth is valuable. 3. There are infinite ways to grow spiritually. 4. One way is to practice Shamanism. 5. There are infinite ways to practice Shamanism. 6. One way is to practice the six branches of Sea Lion Shamanism.

Sea Lion Shamanism

1. Attention 2. Reflection 3. Fluidity 4. Knowledge 5. Empathy 6. Reverence

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 74 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. First Water

1. We emerge from Deep Water. 2. Deep Water and our world emerge from our Creator. 3. Our Creator emerges from First Water. 4. First Water can be described as empty. 5. First Water consists of itself and all that emerges from it. 6. Even at rest, First Water has presence.

Water laps the shore, beloved friend sleeps nearby. Sea lions slip out of sight as I crawl into my tent . . . How long would it take to dream only of wilderness?

—Carol Hult, “Wilderness Dreams”

References2 Broumas, Olga. (1977a). Artemis. In Beginning with O (pp. 23-24). New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. ——. (1977b). Sometimes, as a child. In Beginning with O (pp. 1-2). New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Collins, Patricia Hill. (1989). The Social Construction of Black Feminist Thought. Signs. 14(4), 745-773. Colwin, Cecil. (2002). Breakthrough Swimming. Champaign, IL: Human Kinetics. Denzin, Norman K., Yvonna S. Lincoln, & Linda Tuhiwai Smith. (2008). Handbook of Critical and Indigenous Methodologies. Los Angeles, CA: Sage. Dubois, Thomas A. (2011). Trends in Contemporary Research on Shamanism. Numen 58, 100–128. Foundation for Shamanic Studies (FSS). Retrieved from http://www.shamanism.org Gilligan, Carol. (1982). In a Different Voice: Psychological Theory and Women’s Development. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Halberstam, Judith. (1998). Female Masculinity. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Haraway, Donna (1989). Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective. Feminist Studies 14(3), 575-599. Harding, Sandra. (2004). Introduction: Standpoint Theory as a Site of Political, Philosophic, and Scientific Debate. In Sandra Harding (Ed.) The Feminist Standpoint Theory Reader: Intellectual and Political Controversies (pp. 1-15). New York: Routledge. Hult, Carol. (2011). Wilderness Dreams. Cirque 2(2), 26. Retrieved from http://issuu.com/burwellm/docs/cirquevol2no2. Macy, Terry and Daniel Hart (Producers). (1996). White Shamans and Plastic Medicine Men [Motion picture]. Narby, Jeremy and Francis Huxley. (2004). Shamans Through Time: 500 Years on the Path to Knowledge. New York: Tarcher/Penguin. Schroll, Mark A. (2010). The Future of a Discipline: Considering the ontological/methodological future of the anthropology of consciousness, Part

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 75 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76. I: Toward a New Kind of Science and its Methods of Inquiry. Anthropology of Consciousness 21(1), pp. 1-29. Silko, Leslie Marmon. (1977). Ceremony. New York: The Viking Press. Smith, Linda Tuhiwai. (1999). Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. New York: Zed Books. Townsend, Joan B. (2005). Individualist Religious Movements: Core and Neo- Shamanism. Anthropology of Consciousness 15(1), 1–9. Vayu Purana. “Of minimal syllabary.” Retrieved from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sutra. Walker, Alice. (1973/1994). Everyday Use. In Barbara T. Christian (Ed.) Everyday Use: Alice Walker (pp. 23-35). Women Writers Texts and Contexts Series. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Walker, Rebecca. (1992). Becoming the Third Wave. Ms. January-February, pp. 39- 41. Wallis, Robert J. (2003). Shamans/Neo-Shamans: Ecstasy, Alternative Archaeologies and Contemporary Pagans. London: Routledge. Walsh, Roger. (2007). The World of Shamanism: New Views of an Ancient Tradition. Woodbury, MN: Llewellyn Publications. Webb, Hillary S. (2004). Traveling Between the Worlds: Conversations with Contemporary Shamans. Charlottesville, VA: Hampton Roads Publishing.

Notes

1 Carol Gilligan’s “different voice” is not restricted to a particular gender: “The different voice I describe is characterized not by gender but theme. […] My interest lies in the interaction of experience and thought, in different voices and the dialogues to which they give rise, in the way we listen to ourselves and to others, in the stories we tell about our lives” (1982, p. 2).

2 In a stylistic transgression, I have modified APA style slightly by adding first names, in order to add clarity and reflect a more holistic situatedness of the authors, which is more consistent with MLA and Chicago Style. I have also slightly modified the capitalization style for titles.

John Farrell Kelly University of Alaska Anchorage/USA e: [email protected]

Journal of Men, Masculinities and Spirituality .:: www.jmmsweb.org ::. 76 Vol. 6, No. 2, June 2012 56-76.