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Encounters on
the Shaman's Path
with anthropologist Dr. Hank Wesselman, PhD.
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by Dr.Hank Wesselman, P.h.D. |
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The Meeting on the Mountain
In our last column, I wrote about my first meeting with the Hawaiian elder Hale Makua on the Big Island of Hawaii at the end of 1996—a fortuitous trail crossing that took place at the New Millennium Institute in Waimea. Makua, as he was generally known, was kahuna on both sides of his family. He was a mystic and the keeper of an extraordinary body of knowledge that had been passed down through his family lineages for thousands of years.
We had lived on the same island with this kahuna for many years, yet we had never met. Why had we suddenly been drawn together at this time in our lives, I wondered.
Several days later, I was scheduled to do a book signing at the Prince Kuhio Mall over in Hilo, and once again Makua showed up to hear what I had to say. A shopping mall was not the best place to have a meeting as a lot of people recognized the chief and drew him aside to ask advice or simply to talk-story.
But throughout the time we were there, I could feel Makua observing me, tuning in to what I was saying even as others held his attention. I kept track of him as well. Clad in another bright aloha shirt and his dark blue shorts, his humor was always there, frequently erupting into explosive bursts of laughter as he leaned on his carved walking stick.
As the afternoon event came to a close, Jill and I corralled our children and bade Makua goodbye, reaffirming the time and place of our agreed upon meeting the next day. Then we withdrew to the Volcano House, a hotel up in Volcano National Park where we would stay for a couple of nights. The hotel’s windows look down and out across the immense crater of Kilauea, a side vent on Mauna Loa’s southeastern shoulder at the 4000 foot level that is shrouded in mystery and myth.
During the years we had lived on the island, we had developed a respectful and rather formal relationship with the volcano goddess Pele. This had seemed like the right thing to do, a form of insurance, if you will, as we were living on the Western flank of Mauna Loa, the world’s largest, continually active volcano. We had always brought flowers from our garden, and these offerings were usually made to Pele by our small daughters.
This was the first time we had been back on this mountain in seven years, and despite the fact that we were all tired from a long day, I felt a sense of urgency. So that same night, close to midnight, I left Jill and the children sleeping in our hotel room and headed back downstairs to the car.
I brought with me the flower leis Makua had given us several days before, a little tired at this point but still vibrant and fragrant. I brought as well a Liberty House shopping bag filled with offerings from the various shamans and medicinemakers I had come to know across the years.
I had wrapped each power bundle in a ti leaf from plants growing on our land on the other side of the island, honoring the way in which Hawaiians offer gifts to the formidable spirit who makes this stark, lunar landscape her home. On top was my own pu’olo (wrapped offering). I had brought my rattle, a candle, and some incense as well.
I drove slowly down the park road into the caldera, watching for anything out of the ordinary, then stopped the car at the spot I was looking for. I switched off the engine and the car lights, then carefully stepped out of the safety of the vehicle and into the night. The winter sky was brilliant with tropical stars and the silence was total, the Pleiades directly overhead. To the north, I could barely see a dim cluster of lights many miles away on the crater rim above me--the hotel where Jill and the children were asleep. To the west, the dark, vast shape of Mauna Loa soared into the sky almost 14,000 feet in altitude, impressing me as always with its unimaginable, magnificent mass.
After standing in the night for long moments, I switched on my flashlight and slung my bag of offerings slung across my shoulder. Pushing the rattle into my belt and placing the candle in a pocket, I carefully began to make my way across the broken rocky landscape, pocked here and there with steaming sulfur vents, their black mouths rimmed with yellow and puffing smelly fog.
Those who have been to this place during the daytime know that it has been designed by Nature on a monumental scale fit for a goddess. In the middle of the night, it is a place of mystery in response to which one’s fears may suddenly emerge, manifesting themselves in ways that the unsuspecting may find overwhelming.
As I walked carefully, avoiding the gaping crevasses and upthrust shelves of basaltic lava, I began to sing ‘my song,’ a kind of personal signature I had sung here before. It was a traditional way of announcing who I was and what I was doing in this place. I set my intentions for protection and support at the highest level as I knew that this place was dangerous, very dangerous.
I also knew that according to local lore, if I did not follow protocol precisely, the goddess would not be pleased. It was not so much that she would punish me. I was, after all, an outsider. But she would not be pleased. Those who have read my book Spiritwalker will know of what I am speaking… and why.
In the western side of Kilauea’s crater is an immense pit, a vertical, circular opening into the earth that is more than a half mile across and many hundreds of feet deep called Halema’uma’u, the ‘house of mists and ferns.’ This is Pele’s traditional home.
As I arrived at its precipice where the shattered stone substrate drops away into the vertical dark void of eternity, my flashlight couldn’t begin to take in its immensity, let alone penetrate to its floor far below. As the clouds of steam issuing from the black vastness before me proceeded to blot out the stars, I began to wonder if I had made a serious error coming out here in the middle of the night. The air around me felt nervous and choppy. As the mountains humid breath dampened my clothes and hair in the foggy darkness, I wondered uneasily if I would be able to find my way back to the car.
I have written about what then happened on that fateful night in my book Visionseeker, so suffice to say here that the goddess did indeed make an appearance, although not in the form many would assume. I would recommend that those who have not read Visionseeker do so as so many circuits were established in the narrative recorded in that book.
It was close to dawn when I returned to the hotel, mind-blown yet intact, and as I stumbled from the car and headed for our room, I was more than impressed by all that had transpired in the night. I was also filled with anticipation for the meeting with the kahuna that would happen on this day.
After an hour or two of fitful sleep, I rose and we had some breakfast at the hotel. Then toward noon, we headed for the park’s visitor center, a short walk through the fern forest from the hotel. Makua and his partner Nina appeared on schedule in an old pickup.
As we stood exchanging pleasantries, a Hawaiian woman happened to pass by driving a park vehicle. Upon seeing the chief, she immediately stopped and disembarked, leaving her truck running in the center of the parking lot. Makua glanced at her and smiled, waiting for her approach. When the two Hawaiians were face to face, they looked deeply into each other’s eyes, then pressed their noses and foreheads together for long moments in a sort of embrace, still eye to eye. When they disengaged, both smiled again and kissed each other on the cheek. Without a word, the woman got back in her car and drove on. The chief was obviously well known to the park staff. Makua then turned his attention toward us with an explanation.
“This is what we Hawaiians call ‘the honi.’” He paused and looked at Nina who smiled. “We press our faces together, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, and we share the breath—what we call the ha, the divine breath of life.” He smiled, as if this said it all. Then he looked at Jill thoughtfully and added “The ha is part of the word aloha. This term has many meanings according to its context, but in essence, alo means face to face, and ha is the divinity.” She grinned, then the chief returned his attention to me. “Where is your car? We are going to my office.”
We followed his truck down the crater rim road, past the steam vents and the military recreational center, to a turnoff where a sign directed visitors to an overlook of the crater. We drove over a short rise and then down, circling left into a long parking lot and stopping at its end. We disembarked and headed toward the edge of the land that dropped away into the crater about 50 yards ahead.
This is a dramatic locality to say the least. First time visitors often stop and just stare, awestruck at the extraordinary experience of suddenly finding themselves right on the edge of the caldera, a good 500 vertical feet above a frozen lake of black stone that stretches away for many miles in all directions. On this day, steam was rising from countless fissures and fumaroles scattered across the wrinkled broken surface below, and there, to the right, was the immense pit of Halema’ma’u, the very place I had done ceremony in the darkness the night before. The air was crystal clear, a light breeze murmuring among the scrubby ohia trees along the rim.
I turned and looked at the summit of Mauna Loa behind us. Above the rounded mountain top hovered a curious lenticular cloud, a huge one more than a mile across that resembled a stack of three immense flying saucers parked on top of each other. Makua followed my glance. “Interesting clouds,” he observed with a grin. It was more than interesting. In all the years I had lived in the islands, I had never seen their like before.
After another thoughtful look at the cloud formation, Makua led us to the left, walking slowly along the caldera‘s rim with the aid of his stick. “This place is called Uwe Kahuna,” he said, ‘the tears of the kahuna’. This is where we came to cry for a vision… a place of power both for men and for women.”
Without further comment, Makua took us first to the Womens’ Place, a locality where women made medicine. Others who had been there before us had left leis and flower offerings now dried, hanging on the dwarfed trees. Approaching the precipice, he helped first Nina and then Jill to sit right on the very edge, their legs dangling straight down over hundreds of feet of open space above the crater floor directly below. I looked uneasily at the ground. There were long cracks paralleling the rim, and the women were sitting between those fissures and the edge.
The elder then reached down and picked some bright red berries from the olelo shrubs that grew in tufts, here and there. He gave some to Nina and to Jill and then some to me as well before tossing his own berries into the crater. We followed his example as he murmured “These belong to Pele.”
Then he beckoned to me and the two of us walked on to the Men’s Place of power further up the rim. After a hundred yards or so, he stopped and pointed to a large stone. “That’s all that remains of a heiau that once stood here. This is a good place to make offerings,” he gestured toward a ti leaf-wrapped object placed on the stone’s summit. Perhaps he had left it there himself before our arrival, I thought.
The chief and I stood there in silence for long moments, taking in the spectacular view. Then, propping himself against the stone and indicating the length of his intricately carved walking stick with a sweep of his hand, he said “This is my story.” He pointed to the sculpted head at its apex. It had a grimacing open mouth in the Polynesian style and wide-open eyes that curved back and up.
“This is Kanaloa, the akua of the deep ocean, the ancient progenitor and sustainer of life. He was among the first who came here from the stars… from the star you call Sirius to be precise. We call it A’a, burning bright.” He smiled. “Kanaloa came here from A’a with his wife Male Ula,” he pointed to another carved face further down the stick. “She is a fish goddess.
“They came in a celestial canoe made of light. They found this earth covered with water much like their home world and they dove deep. They decided to stay. They sent the canoe back to A’a and it eventually returned bearing the Water Clan people who also came here from Sirius.”
“Are you of the water clan, Makua?” I asked. He nodded with satisfaction. “I am.” He thought for a moment as he regarded his walking stick with great affection. “I am also a whale… and the whales are the record-keepers.
“This ko’oko’o,” he continued, “tells only part of my story, of course. Here,” he indicated a stack of parallel lines lower on the stick “are the ancestors… my ancestors,” His voice drifted off as his dark eyes unfocused.
I watched the kahuna with great interest. With his bushy long hair tied back, white on top and dark underneath, and his long full white beard framing his dark face and spilling down his chest, he certainly looked the part. He picked up my thoughts immediately and glanced at me with a grin. ‘Uh-oh,’ I thought (I had forgotten his clairvoyance). He simply laughed with the joy of it, then turned toward the crater right below us. “I must call them now, to witness what will transpire between us on this day…”
With that, Makua closed his eyes for long moments, and when he opened them again, he began to chant in Hawaiian. As his voice rose, I listened to the tiers of Polynesian names as they flowed out of his mind and rolled off his tongue, his beard and hair lifting with the winds as they circled around us. In response to his voice, I felt the daydreamy state of light trance begin to descend upon me, and in this expanded state, I watched, enthralled, as he began to transform right before my eyes.
It was as though he was assuming form after form as he addressed the people of the past, and it slowly dawned on me that what I was seeing was his ancestors as they touched him, each in turn becoming one with him as he, in turn, became one with them.
I understood with complete conviction what was transpiring. He was using his own body, as well as his mind, as a bridge across time. He was literally functioning as a gateway for his ancestors to step into our world once again… and I could see it happening right before my eyes.
He continued to lean on his stick, supported by Kanaloa and his wife, and by all the ancestors recorded there, and he called them to himself, summoning them to come and watch and listen to our words. As he chanted, his eyes ranged outward through the living air across the crater to the forested rim beyond.
We were standing right on the edge, the ground around us fractured and broken, with wide cracks revealing the next chunks of real estate destined to crash into the depths below, hopefully not on this day. I stood very still and listened to the beautiful flow of Hawaiian words for a half an hour or more. Long-tailed white crater birds rose to his voice, circling in the air above and looking down at us curiously before knifing away on the wind.
The chief smiled as they came and went, then he turned his attention to the great pit of Halema’uma’u below us. I heard the name Pelehonuamea repeated several times—Pele of the Sacred Earth—and understood that he was calling to her, summoning her to come out and join us here on the ridge. The most amazing thing then happened.
I could feel a static charge of electricity begin to build around us and my skin began to crawl. It was as though a lightning strike was about to happen, yet the sky was clear except for that stack of lenticular clouds above the mountain’s summit. They had not moved an inch, despite the stiff breeze. As I felt the charge building, building, I was suddenly was covered in chicken-skin (goose-bumps to mainlanders.)
My hair and beard were cut quite short on that occasion, but I could feel that charge of mana causing my hair to stand up… and I watched, astonished, as Makua’s hair and beard began to stand up and out as well. It was as though we had put a hand on one of those round metal devices in science museums designed to conduct electricity.
His hair and beard continued to expand around his face and head like a halo, and then the Hawaiian elder finished his prayer by lifting any kapu, any restrictions, to our upcoming talk. With the cessation of his words, the charge slowly diminished until he and I regained our normal appearance. He smoothed back his hair and beard with a practiced gesture. “Now we can talk.”
We walked back along the rim of the crater, inviting the women to rejoin us, then we moved our vehicles to a small turnaround just beyond the parking lot entrance where a picnic shelter had been put up by the park service for tourists. It was a simple structure backed up against a wall of lava, its wooden uprights crowned by several sheets of corrugated metal roofing under which stood two standard wooden picnic tables with long wooden benches along both sides. A metal trash can completed the ambiance of the place with a portable lua to one side, partially concealed by a dark ohia tree with clumps of brilliant ferns at its base. A large stone rested just next to the shelter.
Makua sat down heavily on one of the benches behind a table. Adjusting his hips and back into a relatively comfortable position, he let his breath out slowly as he continued to lean on his stick. His wounds from Viet Nam obviously provided him with ongoing discomfort, even after all these years. The kahuna looked us over speculatively as Nina sat down next to him and Jill and I seated ourselves across. He smiled then and said “The office is now open. How may I be of service to you?”
This was turning into a very good beginning, I thought. I took in the minimalist structure with its sides open to our wild surroundings and said “Your office, huh? Great spot! Low rent!” We all laughed and he countered “And I bring the Ford Foundation folks here too.” More laughter.
A most interesting conversation then unfolded in layers as we slowly revealed ourselves to each other with explanations, talking about what we had all been doing while on walkabout through this particular life cycle. I asked him more about the Ford Foundation and learned that one of the directors had been brought into connection with Makua by chance, a meeting that had literally blown the Ford guy’s socks off according to Nina. She told us that this powerful individual now regarded Makua as a sort of personal advisor, a relationship that had provided funding that allowed the chief to attend various international conferences and to visit with the various Native American nations. His travels had taken him all over Africa and Polynesia where he was now regarded as an esteemed elder and major spokesman for the world’s indigenous peoples.
I observed Nina while we talked. She was an Anglo woman of middle age and diminutive stature compared to the massive Hawaiian man sitting next to her. Her graying hair was tied back like his, and her pert, bird-like expression missed nothing. We learned that she had grown up in New Jersey and had been involved in a former marriage that had produced two children. Subsequently, she had begun to have vivid dreams about meeting a big Hawaiian man. She provided a rough outline of what had then transpired in her soft, often squeaky voice, telling us of how she had flown to Honolulu on impulse in 1987, to begin her search for this man.
Throughout her account, Makua listened to Nina with his full attention, chipping in here and there with laughter. When the story came to the part where he was on his way to somewhere in Honolulu one afternoon, he stepped into the narrative. He had happened to be passing a favorite bar in the Waikiki district, he observed, when a thought appeared in his mind like magic. “Time for a Mai Tai!” he announced with a bellow of laughter, naming a powerful rum drink popular in the islands. On impulse, he had turned and walked back into the bar, and it was there that he had met Nina.
As they spoke together that first afternoon, Nina had realized that Makua was the one that she had dreamed of and so she had told him the story of it. The kahuna’s response: “Do you play chess?”
They had played chess, game after game for several days in a row, and had been together ever since. Throughout this account, I was able to perceive the great affection that existed between them as well as a certain something in Nina to which I knew the chief had also been attracted. Nina was a gifted clairvoyant. Suddenly, embarrassed by the attention fastened upon her, she looked at Jill meaningfully and asked if she’d like to take a short walk.
‘Women’s talk,’ I thought, then realized as they got up and departed that it was their way of giving me and the chief time to get to know each other, one on one, as fellow men and as potential friends. He understood this as well.
We will talk more about this meeting next month. Until then, allow me to invoke Makua who would become my great friend, and with his blessing (and his words), I extend to each of you the Light and the Love of the Ancestors, The Source of Life, rejoicing in the Power and the Peace, braided with the cords of Patience, revealing the tapestry of the strongest force in the Universe, your Aloha.
With warm thoughts—Dr Hank
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Dr. Hank Wesselman, P.h.D
Anthropologist, Shamanic Teacher, Healer, & Author
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Dr Hank Wesselman PhD., holds advanced degrees in anthropology and zoology from the University of California at Berkeley and the University of Colorado at Boulder.
Since 1971, he's conducted research with an international group of scientists, exploring eastern Africa's Great Rift Valley in search of answers to the mystery of human origins--fieldwork that has allowed him to spend much of his life living and working with traditional peoples, rarely, if ever, visited by outsiders.
During this time, he has worked with many notables including Prof F. Clark Howell, Dr Don Johanson, "Lucy's" discoverer, as well as members of the famous Leakey family.
He is currently engaged in fieldwork in northern Ethiopia with the Middle Awash Research Project headed by Prof Tim White, where he is reconstructing the paleoenvironments of sites dated between four and six million years old that have yielded the fossilized remains of humanity's earliest ancestors.
Dr Wesselman has taught anthropology for the University of California at San Diego; the University of Hawai'i at Hilo's West Hawai'i campus at Kealakekua; California State University at Sacramento; American River College and Sierra College in northern California; and Kiriji Memorial College and Adeola Odutola College in Western Nigeria, where he first became interested in indigenous spiritual traditions while living among people of the Yoruba Tribe as a US Peace Corps Volunteer during the 1960s.
Dr Hank (as his students call him) is also a shaman in training, now in the 23rd year of his apprenticeship. His autobiographical trilogy Spiritwalker, Medicinemaker, and Visionseeker describes an ongoing continuum of visionary experiences that began spontaneously out in the bush of southern Ethiopia in the 1970s, resumed in Hawai'i in the 1980s, and continue to the present day.
Combining the sober objectivity of a trained scientist with a mystic's passionate search for deeper understanding, Hank's books and teachings contain revelations about the nature of reality, the self, as well as the shaman's spiritual worlds.
Since 1994, he has offered seminars and training workshops at many internationally-recognized centers such as the Esalen Institute in California, the Omega Institute near New York, and the New Millennium Institute in Hawai'i.
Hank's newest books include the Journey to the Sacred Garden: A Guide to Traveling in the Spiritual Realms, and Spirit Medicine: Healing in the Sacred Realms (co-authored with transpersonal medical practitioner and soul retrieval specialist Jill Kuykendall).
He currently serves on the advisory board of the Society for Shamanic Practitioners, is a member of the American Academy for the Advancement of Science, the American Anthropological Association, the Society for the Anthropology of Consciousness, and is featured in Traveling Between the Worlds: Conversations with Contemporary Shamans by Hillary S Webb.
In addition to his scientific publications, he is at work on a book about his expeditionary field experiences in Africa.
He has also written a small book for children: Little Ruth Reddingford and the Wolf.
Contact info and workshop schedule:
www.sharedwisdom.
com
email:
hw@sharedwisdom.com
Notes & Updates
from Dr.Hank
Descriptions of the workshops and presentations offered by Hank Wesselman and his wife Jill Kuykendall, as well as the website links to the centers where they will be held in 2007, are now taking form on their web site:
www.sharedwisdom.
com
Soul Catchers
I discovered, quite by accident almost 15 years ago, that I am married to a great soul catcher. My wife Jill Kuykendall was trained in the Western medical paradigm and has worked as a physiotherapist in acute care rehabilitation in hospital as well as home health settings for more than 25 years.
Today, Jill works primarily in transpersonal medicine and has a private practice devoted to soul retrieval. Clients come to her from all over the country, as well as from abroad and she is usually booked up months in advance.
Interestingly, the transpersonal nature of this work means that it is “nonlocal’ and is just as effective when done long-distance, revealing that Jill can still do the work on behalf of those who cannot travel to meet with her in her office.
Jill is the co-author with me of Spirit Medicine and wrote the chapters on soul loss, soul retrieval and more. As you may be aware, we have a website <www.sharedwisdom.
com> where Jill has a page describing the nature of her work in soul retrieval.
For those interested, there are also two hour-long interviews with me posted on the Broadband Learning Channel <www.bblc.tv>, one of which is focused upon health, illness and healing the soul in the indigenous perspective.
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