Becoming a Community Organism

Becoming a Community Organism (2019)

 I live on Earth at present, and I don’t know what I am. I know that I am not a category. I am not a thing — a noun. I seem to be a verb, an evolutionary process — an integral function of the universe.  

R. Buckminster Fuller (1970)

During many plant medicine journeys, I fell into the pits of hell. I saw war, famine, torture, and anguish as if I were living it. I felt it so deeply that I would howl in despair for hours. The plant was showing me the world’s pain as being my own.

Has colonization made us so numb that we cannot, in ordinary times, feel the suffering of millions living in poverty, oppression, and hunger? That we do not notice the species that have supported us for millions of years disappearing every day? Does the food we eat, the water we drink, and the life we live dull our capacity to feel—and therefore act? Have we become mechanized, insensitive, anesthetized?

Our environment is toxified by chemicals, dogmas, electromagnetic waves, radioactive residues, light pixels, and other negative influences. How, then, do we individually and collectively act as white blood cells in a sick and imbalanced system?

How do we decolonize and rewild ourselves, purifying the toxicity brought by dogma and a mind-control education that molds us into obedient workers, feeding the ruling class’s addiction to control, power, and greed? How do we drink and transform the pus of the world? How do we embrace its pain and oppression as our own?

Perhaps our longing for community is a natural biological impulse to evolve into being an organism—becoming a part of a whole, with a function in the body of the Earth.

Indigenous peoples, those who resisted or survived colonization, do not see themselves as separate from their environment. Living on ancestral land, they maintain ongoing dialogue with their forebears, dancing in communion with the spirits of those who came before.

Uprooting people from ancestral lands—through war, genocide, private ownership, speculation, and eminent domain—breaks their connection not only to place but to purpose: the care of the land that sustained generations. Without a sense of place and belonging, we cannot function fully as humans. We lose touch with the larger system from which we are born and to which we return. We become colonized.
 

Our longing for community is a whisper, sometimes a scream, from the depths of our DNA, our collective memory, our tribal and animal roots. Trusting this impulse is key to transforming the human world into a new organism, where every part is essential, aligned toward maintaining health and balance.
Where do we begin, if we are to follow these natural impulses and restore balance on Earth—“repairing the world,” as the Hopi say?

Creativity in its purest form is the voice of the Earth. We must learn to listen to our innermost feelings and dreams, trusting the impulses that emanate from the heart of the planet.
We are creatures of the Earth. Our colonized minds make us believe we are separate from this larger body—our Mother.

If our hearts ache these days, it is because we are feeling. And to feel is to be capable of imagining and creating life beyond the machine, to relearn how to be fully human.

We have all glimpsed community—the sense of belonging to a larger organism. We feel it in sacred union with another, with family, with a team, in ecstatic dance, in forests, or swimming with a pod of dolphins. In these moments, we function as an organism: giving to it and receiving from it. When the organism knows its purpose, it operates at a higher frequency, healing, inspiring, and invigorating its cells.

The threatened state of our natural habitat is activating deep biological processes in us. Some will become sick—physically, emotionally, spiritually—processing centuries of oppression, genocide, lies, mind control, and pollution.

Yet the Earth, in its infinitely perfect design, is equipped to heal. The pus of the planet must be understood and transformed.

Community—with humans and non-humans alike—is the phenomenon that will carry us to a new level of existence. We do not yet know how humanity will evolve or what potential lies in our DNA.
 

“There is a river flowing now very fast. It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold on to the shore. They will feel torn apart and suffer greatly. Know the river has its destination. The elders say we must let go of the shore, push into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open and heads above water. See who is in there with you and celebrate. At this time, take nothing personally, least of all yourself. For the moment we do, our spiritual growth halts. The time for the lone wolf is over. Gather yourselves! Banish the word ‘struggle’ from your attitude and vocabulary. All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.” (This quote is widely attributed to Hopi elders, specifically from a message delivered in Oraibi, Arizona, on June 8, 2000)

 
We must trust that we can evolve together. Like birth, this evolution can be glorious, messy, and terrifying. We are both future humans and doulas in this process.
We are in a chaotic phase of metamorphosis—internally dying and being reborn. 

Our ego must trust that we are all in this together, activated by the dire state of the world. 

The energy pulsing from deep within the Earth propels us toward an evolutionary leap to ensure humanity survives, even if only for a little longer.
We are healing and detoxifying the planet, while drawing on its vitality to fuel our sacred walk. 

 

This is the new medicine we must embrace.

“Walk in beauty,” the Navajo say.

What do we have to lose anyway?

May our walk be magical like in a forest, full of interesting creatures and wonder. 

May we feel at home there, in our own heart, free like all beings should be.

Re-populating Farmland (2019)

Designing the new agrarian settlements

Fourteen years ago, while driving on a west coast freeway, I had a vision so vivid that I overshot my destination by 17 miles.  In my mind, I saw people arriving on farmland devastated by chemical-based agriculture, pouring out of colorful semi-trucks – vigorous young people, children and elders, too. They all were highly organized, and well-supplied.
Some trucks were set up for cooking, others for carpentry. Already, the group had erected mess halls, bunkhouses, shops and bathrooms to accommodate large numbers of people.  And crews were working the land, using technologies to remediate polluted and sterile soil to grow organic food. They were an Earth Restoration Corps.

At the time, I was deeply involved in running a community dance project in several cities, so I put the vision on the back burner of my creative kitchen.  A few years later, though, I had the space to bring it forward, and I began to dig into the challenges of creating a sustainable culture, including the critical need for healthy soil. Soon, I was growing my first home garden, then came a community garden in San Pancho, Mexico, and finally the creation of Gaia Gardens, a large urban farm in Santa Fe, New Mexico. 

From those experiences a larger vision emerged. A year and a half ago, the Mil Abrazos Community Land Trust, a nonprofit created during the Gaia Gardens experience, purchased 32 acres of irrigated land 30 miles south of Las Vegas, NM, along the Pecos River.  Mil Abrazos’ mission is to create a new agrarian settlement that will be a farm with affordable housing, a school for learning life skills, and a demonstration center for deploying appropriate technologies in the modern world. Beyond this, it will be a place of practice for cooperative living, for the young and the old and everyone in between. 

I am already hard at work constructing the foundation of this settlement. I have been building a basecamp, and begun reaching out to both the local community and the larger Northern New Mexico area, to start a conversation about how to create an agrarian settlement that can inspire and support a rejuvenation of our farmland. 

When driving through our region, be it Mora, Abiquiú, Chama, Villanueva, Ribera, Penasco, Anton Chico and many other irrigated areas, you can’t help but notice how little “agriculture” is left.  Most of what people call agriculture in the region consists of growing hay and grazing a few cattle on irrigated pasture or on public land, both of which can harm the land unless done with a holistic approach.

It was not always this way. Until World War II, these areas were the breadbaskets of the region, growing an abundance of diverse foods. But the cheap price of oil after the war made it possible to import food from far away places, food usually grown on large commercial farms powered by underpaid and abused immigrant labor from south of the border. Young people did not stay on the family farms, and were drawn to the new jobs offered at Los Alamos, Sandia Labs, Kirtland Air Force Base and other urban areas.   With good salaries, they could afford to buy cheap food grown elsewhere. 

The people who stayed on the land resorted to grazing cattle for a living, which doesn’t require nearly as much labor as growing vegetables, fruits and grains. With able bodies deserting the family farms, rural food stores disappeared and fresh food was no longer available as it had always been.  People’s health started to decline.  With poor health, poverty crept in and more farmlands were abandoned.

Today, in New Mexico, over 90% of the food we consume is imported, while thousands of acres of fertile and irrigated land is either left fallow, or is used for growing alfalfa and grazing cattle.

This dismal situation is actually a golden opportunity for a new generation of rural settlers. The older generation needs help maintaining ditches to keep the irrigated lands alive and to protect their water rights from the State, which is always looking to supply urban and suburban expansion. They also need new ideas for using the land beyond hay and cattle grazing. Many modern city dwellers, on the other hand, hunger for a simpler lifestyle, and for connecting once again with the land. 

But bringing these two populations together is not easy. As much as people say they would prefer to live in a rural community, raise their children in a farm setting, and spend their elder years in Nature, there are many obstacles that keep them from their dreams: The price of land is high, and though we might imagine the bucolic village life, the truth is that it requires patience, skills and courage. And the families that have lived for generations on the land are not always welcoming to outsiders who come in with new ideas or who lack an understanding of the cultural context. 

So where do we start?  How do we move from the when-I-win-the-lottery or when-I-retire fantasy, and begin a journey towards a different life for ourselves and future generations.
We can look at history. There’s been a multitude of communal experiments in which people have left the city in search of a more satisfying life. In the 1960’s and 1970’s there were the intentional communities started by hippies, back-to-the-landers movement, and the kibbutz experiments in Israel. But you can go back much further to the 1880’s in Germany, when a young and educated generation left cities polluted by the coal-powered industrial revolution and resettled in the country, launching what we know today as the alternative health movement.

And there is Cuba. When the Soviet Union collapsed, Cuba lost all its subsidies-imported oil, fertilizers, tractor parts and imported food, overnight.  They recalled the old timers who knew how to farm with draft horses.  They went organic.  They cultivated every empty city lot.  The average Cuban lost 30lbs.  Cuba is now one of the most sustainable countries in the World, despite a 60-year U.S. embargo.

How do we draw from the successes and failures of all these experiments, to design a new form of existence where simplicity, sharing, caring and cherishing Nature are the tenets of our lives. That’s what I have been contemplating over the past 18 months as I have planted windbreaks, built basic housing and workshop space, and become more attuned to the land and community along the Pecos River that has lived in this region for generations.
For me I see an obvious link between the need to reclaim and restore farmland for food security, and the creation of new agrarian settlements.  They go hand in hand.   Farming must return to a community model.  Agricultural land must be reclaimed into the commons.
I also see that it must be done in collaboration with the elders who are still living in these remote agricultural areas; they hold a wealth of knowledge, as I have learned as a member of my local acequia.  We need to capture the story of their generation, learn about the food they grew, and the grain surplus that was milled all over the region when most of the food grown was for human consumption.

Much like those well-organized farmer-settlers I saw in a vision 14 years ago, I am eager to collaborate with people who are ready to tackle the challenge of revitalizing our rural areas while rising to the bigger ecological, social and economic challenges of our times. Together, I believe we can prepare for what looks like a difficult period of massive climate change; we can harness our collective resources, ingenuity and wisdom to create food security for our region; we can start innovative cottage industries that can co-exist with small agriculture and provide a resilient economic base to the rural communities of the future; we can help young people re-populate farmland, raise their family on the land and live a good life; and we can all learn how to work together with fair-minded practices of governance and love.
I know we can do it.  Now is the time to engage a deeper part of ourselves, to radically broaden our imagination, rediscover our humanness and create new models of sustainable existence. 

We must bring people back to the land to care for the land that feeds us. These ancient breadbaskets in our backyard are where civilization will survive.

As much as the ecological predicaments we have created can seem insurmountable, we can also look at the task ahead as a sacred mission to rebuild our beautiful World.


See more at www.milabrazos.org

 

Standing Rock (2016)

People have been asking about my experience at Standing Rock. 
I could write many details about how I helped keep the Medics and Healers camp clear of clutter because of the overwhelming amount of people and supplies arriving daily. Or how I removed piles of heavy snow that had accumulated in the camp, helped setup large tents for the newly arrived, installed woodstoves, helped finish an emergency shelter and more.
But upon returning home, I have been reflecting on a larger topic:  what are the after effects of participating in a large prayer gathering like Standing Rock, where hundreds of Native tribes are gathered for the first time in history, where sacred fires are tended and women elders are nurturing the emergence of a new governance to guide this unprecedented resistance and sovereignty movement.
What happens when you enter the energy of a working hive and surrender to the needs of the hive?
What takes place in one’s system when you keep your attention in the moment, being willing to do what it takes to keep the collective tasks flowing to serve a camp that’s hosting and feeding thousands of people daily?
What happens when you realize that you are welcomed in an Indigenous-centered environment, mostly populated by privileged white folks and start embracing the fact that your Native hosts and their ancestors have endured (and are still enduring) genocide for the past 500 years?
And what happens when one is focused on tending to the well-being of a group a midwives, one of whom, a member of the Mohawk Nation, I had the privilege of traveling with from Colorado to North Dakota?
As when entering any powerful ritual environment, one’s Spirit can be deeply touched by the fire (maybe the water in this case!) of the sacred space opened by the sincerity and sheer scale of the praying.
I left sooner than expected because I started getting sick, something that rarely happens to me.  I went to bed the last night with a fever, headache and upset stomach.  I did not want to be a burden to a camp already burdened with sick and wounded people.
I drove for two and a half days with shivers and congested lungs.  I slept two nights in motels and took 4 scorching hot baths. I chewed on Osha roots the whole drive and kept an open mind.
On the last 50-mile stretch before arriving home, I started feeling sad.  I wasn’t quite sure where my feelings came from, as I should have been happy to be arriving home.
As I laid in bed that evening, I let myself sink into my sadness and was overwhelmed with grief.  It was as if I was on my deathbed without having made Peace with my last partner of five years.  I decided I couldn’t die in such a state and picked up the phone.  I hadn’t been in communication with her for a few weeks.  For an hour, we cried the deepest tears that we’ve ever cried together, acknowledging the gift that living and working together for 5 years had been.  The healing felt much deeper than our shared experience. I felt as if the imprint of our families’ history was releasing itself from our lives.  It was a remarkable and surprising experience.
I remember that during the first night of the blizzard at Standing Rock, I had a dream.  I was running on water, totally thrilled to have mastered that skill.  In the dream I called a friend, who happens to be a midwife, and told her that her son Kailash should come run with me on water.  Upon waking that morning, it dawned on me what an auspicious dream it was while at Standing Rock, where thousands have been protecting water and the lives it supports.
Mount Kailash, the mountain known as Kailāśa in Tibet, lies near the source of some of the longest rivers in Asia: the Indus River, the Sutlej River (a major tributary of the Indus River), the Brahmaputra River, and the Karnali River (a tributary of the River Ganga). It is considered a sacred place in four religions: Bön, Buddhism, Hinduism and Jainism.
Needless to say that I worked with great joy that day, feeling quite blessed.
The day after returning from Standing Rock, I tried to write about my experience but nothing would come up. 
It’s then that I turned on some music and started dancing.  I felt indeed as if I was running on water.  My Spirit was soaring.
Dance has always been a big part of my life and I’m again deeply inspired by the power of its medicine.
Over the years, I’ve come to understand that we can’t underestimate the healing power of our ecstatic expression on the collective, whether it is being kind, generous, artistic, loving, forgiving, playful or erotic.
More than ever, the World is calling us to release fear and embrace Life.
I am getting more confortable daily with embracing the energies of grief and ecstasy as two sides of the same coin.
So I dance, I pray, I trust and I listen deeply to my intuition.  What does the world need from me right now?  How can I best serve the evolution of humanity?  How can I keep reminding myself that everyone of my actions is influencing the collective?  How can I evolve as a man while the world seems to be disintegrating into absolute madness? 
I cry, I dance, I laugh.  I love every moment that I have left to live.
Mni Wiconi
Water is Life.


Poki (2016)

A Teaching from my Mother (1995)

My Christmas present to my mother (and myself) was a week long retreat at Plum Village, Thich Nath Hanh's spiritual community in France. One of my Dharma friends had suggested that I go there as I was relating to her my hesitation between visiting my folks back home, going on a meditation retreat or taking a beach vacation to Baja.

The idea sounded great. I wondered, however, how my mother would react to such an invitation, since she is not a meditator, has never gone on retreat and does not like to be around too many people. To my great surprise and delight, she accepted and said it would certainly help her relax if nothing else!

Last year she had a mastectomy, underwent chemotherapy, is on anti-depressant and sleeping pills, and has attempted suicide at several occasions. She tends to constantly be on the go and seriously prone to depression.

Suffice to say that after her accepting my invitation, I began to wonder if I had made a good decision. Could I stand being with my mother for a week, and in a retreat environment? I had made reservations, the dices were rolled.

We arrived before dinner on a Saturday and were quickly shown our rooms. A permanent resident briefed us on the daily routine, rules and code of conduct - a familiar world to me since I have been a Buddhist practitioner for several years.

Meals are an integral part of mindfulness practice. The first half of every meal is taken in silence. Since food is a major part of my mother's life, she quickly forgot the meal rules and started eating before the first Mindfulness bell indicating the beginning of the meal, and started talking to retreatants seating next to her. Her attention span is very short and she already had forgotten the rules.

I immediately tensed-up, like a parents watching a child doing something forbidden. Anger arose in me and I quickly reminded her of the rules and the reasons behind these rules. A new world for her. That night, as we were going to bed, she confided to me that the place felt a bit like a jail! I was able to lovingly say to her that such a place is called a monastery!

For the first couple of days, there were several other tense moments, such as when, during the walking meditation led by Thigh Nath Hanh, my mother began walking twice faster than the group's pace, passing everyone until she found herself right behind the leader, and got right into his foot steps. It was both hilarious and unnerving but there was really nothing I could do. I had to let go, begin releasing my judgments and trust that the community would take care of her. I began to relax.

Other events triggered feelings of embarrassment, anger, impatience and shame. Each one became an opportunity to watch all of the invisible ties that link me to my mother. Each time I saw that it was time to give her and I our freedom.

People in the village quickly embraced my mother, admiring her for the fact that she came to {Plum Village with no prior meditation experience. The village soon became a mother to my mother, and I could be free of the responsibilities that I dreaded. I began to breath and enjoy my retreat, and so did my mother!

I watched her doing her walking mediation early in the morning. She joined a Christmas choir rehearsal. She attended all the Dharma talks and even asked questions. She befriended a Tibetan nun, and a Belgian woman who regularly comes on retreat.

People were touched by my mother's realness, curiosity and innocence. They could also feel her tremendous pain. They responded compassionately to her, enjoying her company, sharing laughter's and always demonstrating patience, kindness and joy.

Another striking memory was during a tea ceremony. Cookies and tea were being passed around. Everyone was waiting for everyone to be served and for the bell to be rang. I heard crunchy noises behind me, and as I turned around, realized that it was my mother eating her chocolate cookie, oblivious to the outside world. I looked at her with disapproval in my eyes. As I turned back, a seven-year-old girl across the room was also absorbed in eating her treat. Noticing her, I smiled and quickly had a powerful insight. My mother and the child were doing the same thing. Why was I smiling at the child and frowning at my Mum? My mother is like the seven-year-old girl, totally pure and innocent. She is not doing this to piss me off. As I contemplated these thoughts, a wave of love rushed through my heart.

From that moment on, my time with my mother took a different color. I had so much more space for her. She received a lot of attention from many of the nuns and long term retreatants. She got more love than she probably ever got in her life.

As with most older folks, the fear of the "sect" thing was probably in her mind before she went to Plum Village. To her great surprise, she found people extremely tolerant, compassionate and kind. As we left a week later, the whole Village sang her a beautiful song. She cried, and everyone came to hug her.

I can't say enough about how it's probably touched her life and gave her hope about humanity's ability to love. She now talks about healing with great enthusiasm. That short stay helped her see things in a different light and she made new friends.

Without my friend's suggestion, I would have probably never dared sharing such an experience with my mother. I would have been afraid of being judged for my spiritual views, or not wanting to be burdened by her presence during a retreat.

We now have a new topic of conversation and a much stronger and loving connection. I will certainly go back with her. She was a great teacher for me.

Hugo

Children of the Revolution 
(1999 after the WTO events, Seattle)

I kind of believe in angels but I never thought I would meet so many in just a few days.
And everyone had a face of his and her own.
There was one woman with white hair and white cotton clothes. Her eye had been punched and she was smiling.
There was a 8 year-old black kid who had been gassed on Capitol Hill, along with his parents. He was sitting in a cardboard box and people were signing their name on it.
There was a suburban woman who drove from Issaquah with a minivan load of food for the protesters at the King County jail.
There were young punks helping the soup kitchen at the jail rally.
There was an older activist and poet who was rapping with some kids.
There was a woman physicist from India telling about farmer in her country committing suicide.
There were the naked student women from Santa Cruz dancing with the Steel Union workers.
There was the police officer who asked me if he could buy my afro wig.
There was the baker in Pioneer Square who gave me cinnamon rolls for the police officers.
There were the five young women in black dancing at 6th and Pike, surrounded by police in riot gear.
There was an older homeless native American woman dancing and chanting “freedom”.
There were Teamsters serving coffee for the protesters in front of the Hilton.
There were girls with pierced lips and noses
Guys with tattoos and funny hairdos
Organic people, lawyers and city councilmen and women.
Church leaders, 60’s activists and Vietnam vets.

They all came down from heaven for a big party in Seattle.
Everybody was dressed in funny costumes, even the police!
They threw fire crackers and funny gases.
They made a lot of noise and got their pictures in the paper.

They came from all over the world and distant planets.

They are the children of the revolution and they changed me forever.

Hugo

Dance as Spiritual Practice (2004)

For many years, I sat at the foot of spiritual teachers, listening to ancient esoteric teachings. I was drawn to finding a spiritual practice that would further my development and help me alleviate the suffering inherent to my human condition.

I studied with Tibetan, Native American, Sufi and Zen teachers, as well as with various indigenous shamans from Africa and South America. All the teachings seemed to point to the same thing-life is a sort of a dream and there are ways to approach death with joy.

My sitting was often in the back of the room, as I struggle to assimilate the prayers, songs and sequences of the rituals. I knew my aspirations were genuine yet I felt little progress on the path. I reassured myself that the teachings and blessings of the teachers would be lodged deep within my consciousness to reemerge later in a future existence.

My mind was often very distracted as some of the practices, like in Buddhist Tantra, are done in group. My passion and desire often engulfed my whole mind as I attempted to hold the deity’s visualizations. I resisted doing all of the purification practices such as prostrations or recitations.

Many other newer students would excel and receive advance teachings while I kept a low profile in the back of the room. My Tibetan teachers often intimidated me even though they always displayed amazing patience and kindness with me. I felt so inadequate that I could not even ask any specific questions on the basic mediation practices.

I found solace in taking charge of the logistics of large rituals that literally required turning buildings into temples. Without my feeling useful in that capacity, I probably would have left the teachings much earlier.

That resistance went on for the better part of eight years while I studied with the late Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche, a renowned Tibetan meditation master and physician, and Lama Padma Gyatso, one of his main students, translator and ritual master.

In the meantime, I always danced. I attended every possible Pagan parade, Middle Eastern or African festival, and weekly community dances, as I always felt amazingly vibrant and happy while dancing amongst large crowds on the beat of live drums. I made it my “job” to always show up in wild garbs and delight the old and young alike with my antics.

Now that I have left the mediation hall and entered the dance hall, I realize that my quest for spirit never left me. I had to leave the teacher to encounter the teachings.

As I began to organize the Gypsie Nation dances and was traveling daily around the Big island of Hawai’i where I was facilitating six dances a week, the notions of spiritual practice and devotion came back to reveal their true meaning.

Before each dance, I was reminded, as if my teacher was inside, to reflect on my intentions for my dance-or practice. Chagdud Tulku Rinpoche always gave a dissertation on motivation before each and every of his teachings and empowerments.

At the beginning of my Gypsie Nation adventure, I was grief stricken by a separation from my partner and the sudden death of my Mother. I was dancing to pray for my Mother’s auspicious rebirth, as well as to heal myself.

Everything from sweeping the floor, building the altar, picking flowers, buying food for an offering, or putting special clothes on for the dance took on a new meaning. I had entered spiritual practice through the intensity of my emotions. My life, and the liberation of my Mother, seemed to depend on my concentration and quality of intentions, as if I was approaching death (as taught in many, if not all ancient traditions).

Every dance became an opportunity to bring all of my “stuff” to the practice, and stuff I had! My anger, grief, sadness, disappointment, bitterness, resentment, abandonment and lust gave my dance the octane that fueled my practice.

Day after day, I re-entered the dance hall with humility and devotion-to myself, my Mother, the Earth and the community where the dance was taking place.

In that new spiritual practice, the dance became a radiant mirror to observe my mind, transform my emotions and generate bliss that I could dedicate for my Mother’s liberation.

That new practice had no teacher in human form to intimidate me. There was no right way to do it. I could not possibly mess-up. I could bring everything to the heart of the ritual and dissolve myself over and over again. In each of these mini deaths, I would tap into the abundance of energy and love that seem to permeate the whole Universe and dedicate these treasures to my Mother.

In these times of abundance in spiritual teachings and teachers, I believe that new hybrid environments need to be explored and tended to, so as to offer a joyous entry level for those seeking a connection with their soul. Places that again we can call temples, where the village and travelers come to celebrate the glory of life, and practice in devotion to the spirit of community.

Skywalker
March 2004

Trance-A journey into the Unknown (1991)

I was recently asked at a dance what it was like to be truly with the trance effect of the African drums. I have been exploring intuitively this phenomenon for some time now but never had to explain what I felt to anyone. After a while I told her that it was like " leaning against a heavy door that all of a sudden gives way." The momentum of the resistance to surrendering to the magic of the music, once unleashed, can propel you into unbelievable seconds of freedom and ecstasy.

I have absolutely no training in dance, be it classical, modern or ethnic. Over the years I have always enjoyed dancing, with several periods of two or three years where my emotional states blocked me from enjoying music and free movement. I have gone to many African celebrations where I observed and marveled at the agility of dancers: young, old, fat and skinny alike. Not only did they obviously have a ball, but they seemed to be effortlessly flying through the air, as if carried by invisible threads obviously linked to the music. The master drummers appear to be puppeteers that could entice and hold the dancers in a magical and invisible (to me) web of rhythm. "Wow, if only I could do that! Well, they've been dancing since they were kids! It's in their genes!" My western conditioning would not give me license to enjoy my body the same way or to share the same communal unity that they did. No way!

Imagine my surprise when one day, quite unexpectedly, I found myself, for a fraction of a second, in apparently the same space of absolute surrender and sheer ecstasy! What was I willing to let go of, in order to shift, even for that brief a moment, into perfect harmony with the music? What in the music induced that state? It is obviously well known to indigenous cultures all around the world, and it is somewhat explained by scientists as a trance rhythm.

Our bodies, however minutely described by medical science, are still very mysterious. In my exploration of movement and life in general, more and more I tend to consider my purpose to be the process of remembering my true self, removing the obscurations of my mind and hopefully unveiling the magnificence of a divine being. So with that approach, I already know. I know that I have just forgotten what I already know, despite being told that I need more technique or knowledge!

My experience, often to my great surprise, has shown me time and time again, that everything is in our bones and cells. With enough trust and patience, I think we can have a great time remembering a lot of things that we think we do not know, that no one can teach us, or that we do not feel capable of learning.

How does all this relate to body movement? Well, from that premise, one's desire to discover and surrender to the magic of music can yield great results. We need to learn how to skillfully navigate around and heal our self-judgments and conditioning. From this point on I will refer to these obstacles as "the wall", to avoid redundancies!

My heart often feels for those stuck behind the wall, like watching some homeless people window shopping at Christmas time, with no hope of ever being able to afford such splendid clothes or gadgets. I also often feel that the wall that we communally create hinders my journey into trance. It would explain why indigenous tribal rituals are so effective in propelling participants into altered states, when people's intentions are geared towards creating windows through that wall that seems inherent to our human condition.

So from our western "state", how can we gradually recognize and familiarize ourselves with what makes up the wall and support each other in voyaging to the other side and bringing back to our people the gifts that the journey seems to contain: gifts of joy, timelessness and many other un-namable mysteries. How do we re-teach ourselves what we already know but have just temporarily forgotten, amidst the distractions and glitter of the industrial era? How do we empower ourselves to release the fears and negative thoughts that deprive us from playing, making fools out of ourselves and truly experiencing a more alive and vibrant self?


I would dare to answer these ambitious questions by inviting you to release all expectations that this society breeds, with its fixation on perfection. There is no "right way" to do it. Forget about style and techniques to begin with. Just venture to meet the music with your body -- all of it! Dare to go where spirited music is played, preferably live. Let your spirit do the driving. Let your intuition take you to where spirit is. Go with friends, with a commitment to explore, support each other lovingly, share your fears and apprehensions. Be patient and kind with yourself. Just like in meditation, watch the dance of your mind with all its convulsions and reasons. Amuse yourself by observing your judgments of yourself and others. See their effects on your movements and those of others. Always reaffirm your commitment to cut loose and truly experience bliss in your body-- it's your birthright! Your intent will slowly help you get closer to the wall; feel the gooeyness of its content, and soon it will give way.

Approaching the exploration of movement in that way will surely be very revealing with respect to your emotional baggage. It will be great therapy. You may agonize over the thickness of your wall. You may find yourself dancing an angry dance or a very sensual one. Let yourself be surprised and amazed by the expression of your inner world. Let it all be, it's all part of the journey, just as healing often reveals our many demons. Same job! Befriend them all, one after another. Feel their insubstantiality and ridicule. Invite them onto the dance floor. Because when you truly let go, they come with you, but instead of holding you back, they cheer you-up!

By being willing, committed and curious, I become more and more familiar with the texture of my wall. It also changes, revealing new layers in unpredictable ways. I try to be ready to accept what ever comes up and look it square in the eyes. I often monitor how my commitment to "looking good" hinders the freedom of my movements. At the same time I dare to show-off, stepping out of line and breaking from the unspoken collective agreement. I dance in that paradox. I avoid repetitions and patterns. Spirit does not await me behind an orderly arrangement of "Saturday Night Fever" moves. It lurks in the mist of the most disjointed, ridiculous and unexpected steps. It nips my butt when I truly say "yes" to going for it, with no holding back, even if it is just for a fraction of a second. I know then. The quality of sensations is beyond my normal range. My sense of connectedness and balance surprise me. It delights and scares me at the same time. Again, I am in that paradox.

Once inside that space of trance, or ecstasy or whatever you call it, I find it very difficult to stay for more than a second or two. When the (master) drummers are truly knowledgeable and aware of my connectedness with their magic rhythms, I may manage to sustain myself (or non-self) in that space for ten or twenty seconds at a time. It becomes an in-and-out thing, a play between the known and the unknown, a dissolving and reassembling of my perception. One remarkable thing is that it is invigorating rather than tiring. The efforts are only necessary to overcome the resistance to letting go. In the space of trance, something takes over and dances me. I feel weightless and my range of movement is extraordinarily amplified, along with my space perception and balance. There is no effort on the other side of the wall, just sheer fire, joy and life!

The fear that I experience pulls me back into the known, my conditioned assemblage, my zone of comfort. It's like a rubber band effect. I have noticed that in certain environments, such as night rituals, out in nature, with many people dancing freely and few people watching, my ability to sustain the trance increases. So choose your environments properly: hide in dark corners where no one sees you, disguise yourself so no one recognizes you, go out of town, be a fool away from home! Trick and stalk yourself to penetrate that wall. Be imaginative beyond reason. Give yourself permission to be outrageous and ridiculous. Believe me, you'll get used to it.

So I just went through that wall: the "writer's wall", similar to the one I have been describing all along. I do not know how to write or what to write. I am terrified to expose my words and thoughts to others for fear of being judged. I bear the scars of my school years. It took me a long time to come to the table and paper. I had all kinds of reasons and excuses and rationale to avoid writing. Once I finally surrendered to it, there too, something bigger than me took over. It was effortless and nourishing. In many ways I do not care if anyone will want to publish it or whether it will be shredded or praised. I surrendered to the impulse, the spirit, and I let it do its task. So, I'm happy, I did my job. I'm fulfilled.

Oh, I almost forgot. Take your shoes off as often as possible; I think it's one of the secrets!

With love,

Hugo