I bet you can’t guess why I haven’t written a post in a while! You might check the last two and see I just published them. But they’ve been sitting as drafts for months, untouched. But that’s by the by.

No, the reason I haven’t written anything new in a while is because of the blog’s name. Because it’s called ‘Roaring Bear’.

The funny coincidence is that one of the old posts I just published actually plants the seed for this post. In fact I’m probably only writing this post because of that old draft post. And it’s all to do with my name.

See, the post in question breaks off just before talking about my buddhafield revelation around hugs.

Yep. Hugs. For years folk have been telling me I give great hugs. I have to take their word for it; I’ve never hugged myself, and wouldn’t know. But after this Buddhafield revelation of the importance and fundamental humanity of hugs, coupled with the fact that people had been calling me out as a hugger for years… well, I realised that this name of mine, ‘roaring bear’, was actually complete tosh. I had found a more fitting name; ‘Bear Hugs’.

Of course, this left me in a bit of a dilemma with this here blog of mine. I’d given it the wrong name! Whoops!

So I stopped writing it.

‘Til now. Because there’s a truth here worth honouring. And it would appear to be the right time to do so.

When we seek animal names – or some name to represent us other than our parental given names – we invariably choose something that isn’t really representative. Oh, it speaks to us alright. It speaks to us loud and clear. It speaks to us of the person we wish we were, but are not.

Roaring bear was who I wanted to be. I wanted to be heard. I wanted my opinion to matter. I wanted some goddamn respect! And the fact is, I can roar. Occasionally, when its really, really important, I can roar with the best of them.

But in truth, I am no roaring bear. In sacred spaces I have come to respect in myself a silence first and foremost. I speak when I truly feel passionately that I simply must say what is in my heart. But most of the time I recognise that my thoughts and judgements, my desire to be validated and my perceptions acknowledged, the very promptings of my mind – these are all just so much noise. I am a far greater presence in my silence than I could ever hope to be in my chattering.

Hugs speak from the heart, to the heart. Ignoring all the rubbish in our heads, hugs are the direct line from heart to heart; the closest the two organs can possibly get. I guess that is why people like my hugs, even when they’re beyond exasperated by my cognitive hyperactivity. … And I too have finally come to realise which makes my life happier.

That’s the beauty of a true name. You don’t have to aspire to it. Whether you know it or not, it’s already you.

So what about this blog. Well, I think I’ll keep it. I know who I am, but this mysterious universe of ours often has a habit of playing the long-ball, setting up a play long before we can see the need.

I’ll trust the original name. Perhaps at least here – where there is no one else to speak first – it is after all right for my voice be heard.

This post was originally the latter half of the post Fathers Without Fathers. That was getting too long so I split this off. Hopefully it still makes sense in its own right.

Many of today’s healers and spiritual teachers from my culture overcame a spiritually bankrupt youth. They became healers and guides precisely because they had to overcome this loss and reclaim it for themselves. My parents are among this group. Many forgave their ancestors – their own parents – because they could see that the parents had no way to know and no way to heal. Their parents had grown up in a different world and simply did not have the option. They too had been abandoned by their ancestors. So they were forgiven. I respect this forgiveness, deeply.

It’s a little different if your parents are themselves healers. It’s a little different when the world you live in is full of teachers older than you. Forgiveness for being spiritually abandoned has to come from a different place.

And forgiveness is required! Our parents do know of spiritual matters and they are not ignorant to the need of the soul and psyche. But they still abandon us. Again, not because of any ill-will, but because they do not know how not to. I see a great need for strong elders in my culture – as you’ll have picked up from my last post.

So, why do I feel we are abandoned by the older generation? Well, when I look to then I see them focus on their own healing. They share this with me and hope that by sharing their story I will learn something from them about how to live my own life and I too will feel more whole. Well, no, I’m afraid not.

There is a story of a horse, and a story of a rock… TO CONTINUE

I’m looking at you old man, I’m looking at you old woman, and I’m wanting you to be a clear elder. You’ve done the work, now fucking step up and do your part in your culture. But careful! You can’t just step up. This would be like saying “I am now a master”. Great, but who is your master? Who watches you? Who guides you? And how long for, and why should I trust them.

Perhaps there are answers to all this. Perhaps there are indeed wise elders in my culture. But I can’t see them. Make yourselves known! Show your faces. Thousands of us are silently screaming for your presence.

Martin may believe that this culture can’t contain the magic he does. Bollocks! And true. If noone will teach me, then I will do the best I can, based on the best efforts of those who came before me. I will do this. And I know I will be dangerous for doing it. I know I will cause damage. Not by intention, but simply because noone ever showed me the way to do it safely. Noone ever showed me how to do it well. Noone ever showed me jack. Just like school, a teacher for a term or a teacher for a year is nothing. It’s the years that does it… the long haul, the slow burn.

There is a great pain in my heart where there should sit old shapes wrapped in blankets. Listening to my woes around a fire, and giving me inscrutable suggestions that baffle my mind. And perhaps ten years later when I finally understand their words, they should still be there wrapped and warm round that fire, for me to return and give them thanks.

These shapes are shadows and the fancy of smoke rising from my own little fires. These fires are small and do not light the world. And the tears from my eyes sizzle on the twigs and briefly douse the flames.

To those younger than I, to those who follow me, I swear and promise to be there. There will come a time when I will look into the eyes of a grown man not my son, and I will see the lesson he has learnt in his eyes, and I will honour him. Because when he was a little boy, I will have looked in his eyes and helped plant the seed of those lessons. This I promise. Although I still have no idea what that looks like.

As usual I’m writing this well into the wee small hours of the morning. Apparently this is the only time I get to actually sit down and write anything. I guess if that’s the way it is to be then it is the way it is to be.

(I’m also finding these posts tricky to write; there’s so much I feel like I want to say, and offering that in a coherent, hopefully interesting manner isn’t something I’ve spent any time practising. So, if you would, I’d ask a little forebearance while I find my feet here )

Today I want to write about Buddhafields festival and specifically how it was for me.

My little joke about it is that it’s a bit like making an omelette. You start by cracking a few eggs. In my case the first egg was a lovely massage to get me arrived and in my body.

The second egg was a ‘medicine woman’ who actually spent most of her time talking about her breakdown on the way to the festival. So, mostly useless. But not totally; I did learn a lesson about when to look for teachers and when to just focus on developing my skills in my own time and my own way. In itself a powerful lesson, but one I think I will come back to another time when I have more to say on that journey.

The third egg was lovely. This was a woman who had studied Reiki, Vortex Healing and even gone to South America and spent some time studying Ayahuasca shamanism. Mostly I think she was just trusting her intuition. And it worked. A lot of what she said was really powerful. In particular, what I remember as ‘new’ to my awareness was that I could let go of some of my childhood traumas which I’ve been really working with lately. Specifically, I should let them go in the fire. Whether a real fire, or some fire medicine of the soul I don’t know. I’m wondering whether the latter might not be more powerful than the former…. we’ll have to see.

The final egg came on the next day and was unsought. The previous ones I’d all signed up for sessions with and explicitly decided to do. This last one just happened as we were walking past her tent and she popped her head out. She happened to be free, and something told me that there was something to this – a very Buddhafields kind of energy; just going with the flow. I loved it. And wow. It was such a simple session, but I walked out of it feeling great. Why?

Well, I know exactly why. The guru of this particular practitioner was all about hugs… Of which there’ll be more in a layer post.

There are stresses and strains, joys and pains, beautiful days and sour times indeed. The shape of my heart is not for words. I hated it for a while, infuriated and frustrated with the bullshit in all of us and the organisations we create. I loved it for a while, held and blessed by the strong, gentle arms of good men standing true. I wish for many things, but today just live in response to life as she finds me. My mission is retired. My mission is not renewed. My mission is most unclear. One day I hope to hear its song again, in the words of my heart, which cannot be spoken. The shapes of my mind are words for the wind, and as useful as pigeons. But today was a good day.

Alastair
Roaring Bear

I wanted to just put up a little post to acknowledge that I still have every intention of continuing with this blog.

The problem I’m experiencing writing posts for this blog isn’t the lack of things to say, but rather how to say them. I have a bunch of posts in draft format which are a bit like the first two posts… quite waffly and rambling. And certainly too long.

The thing is that in many ways what I’m trying to write about on this blog are some of the common wounds carried by people in our culture and possible paths of healing for those wounds. But these wounds have effects on both the personal level and the social level. And they are rooted in the circumstances of the present and the specifics of our history. To understand anything in this requires both a willingness to absorb the detail and a capacity for perceiving holistically. But to write a good blog post requires a to-the-point theme and concise delivery. Sadly the inspiration and the mechanism don’t seem to be an easy fit!

So, I’ve started keeping a list of post themes that I’m carrying around with me and adding to as they become apparent. Hopefully this will provide some juice!

In the meantime, on random news, I’ve updated my other site TransitionSeed.com. I have a sense that it would be good to develop this, but as with all things, it’s proving hard to pin down my elusive thoughts and gut feelings on this.

Fingers crossed.