Amidst the wealth of impressions that linger from Amara & Sara Pagano’s remarkable workshop at Breitenbush this past week, I keep coming back to the equally remarkable men I met during my trip … the kind of men that this shame-based sleepwaker has rarely (ever?) met in his life, men who are modelling possibilities that consciously serve the divine feminine - spirit, flow, Gaia - rather than the usual litany of competition, reptillian bullshit and life-denying evil for which my gender carries such an ancient and unspeakably heavy responsibility (and to which it adds more karmic weight with each fresh hell committed in the name of God and "our way").
Okay, sigh, since that last line is so dark, i'll begin with the lightness of being and rooted authenticity of my coming-and-going Olympia host Mark - father, drummer, mountaineer, honorary Parisian and dab hand with an espresso machine.
Then the wise, contained, in-process individuals I met deep in the transformative dance in those enchanted Oregon woods: Duncan, the master photographer who feeds the fire and honours the directions with immense dignity; Ronny, he of the clear strength, one-pointed focus and heart dedicated to love & partnership; John, the Oly father who knows that a Golden Retriever is unconditional love incarnate and that, yes, an arrow is just an arrow; Eugene, the Orange County teacher trainee destined to make such a difference as his future unfolds; meditative, musical, brave John from Portland who understands the power of ‘ohm’ and other core expressions; and Dave, the collegiate wrestler whose world was rocked by the Berkeley free-speech movement in the late '60s and today is dancing into his own incredibly young '60s.
Plus other men met in the dining hall, hot springs & sanctuaries: Michael, the foodservice maestro on the music-festival circuit; Harold, the 20-year BB kitchen boss; photographer Joss, once a 4x per week 5R regular in Portland who joined us during the celebratory community dance; Mike, the math grad specializing in fluid dynamics and sacred geometry now headed east to Penn State; a young BB employee with the improbable but totally apt name Mahatma Wildman, who understands the inchoate power of the full moon in Capricorn as it rose over Mount Jefferson @ 2 a.m. on a blessed (for so many reasons of this Canadian's heart) July 1; the BB security guard who welcomed us back "anytime" to a serene place he refers to as "ma"; Stewart, the Cal State Fullerton prof who slays & rebirths first-year innocents through integrative, humanistic psychology; the nameless coast guard man from Coos Bay emerging from a month hiking in the Utah canyons, agape at the elemental wonder of silence & wind-carved rock; and even young Forrest, aged 6, who chases bumble bees but promised me he wouldn’t harm them. (continues ...)
Returning home, I discovered that my host – the aforementioned Mark – had secreted a scrap of paper in my satchel. His note reads: “This Tang Dynasty poet is one of my favorites. May your path have little wind, and beautiful views. Come again.� And so here, without his permission but knowing he won't mind me taking a liberty, is the poem he gifted me, one by which I’ll remember the conscious choices and conscious paths led by conscious men I respect and honour.
Climbing Up the Cold Mountain
Clambering up the Cold Mountain path,
The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on:
The long gorge choked with scree and boulders.
The wide creek, the mist-blurred grass.
The moss is slippery, though there’s been no rain
The pine sings, but there’s no wind.
Who can leap the world’s ties
And sit with me among the white clouds?
- Han Shan
