Thursday, December 28, 2006 at 1:01am
Undercover shaman post-Katrina
Column: wavelength
The high heat, little sleep, constant awareness, the commingled energies of 600-plus disaster workers in a tight space, and the complete unusualness of this experience shift my perceptual reality. The hours melt and the days merge; I am in a prolonged trance state.
This altered state allows me to slip into my other identity as shaman. A shaman denotes someone who moves into a trance state and works with Spirit to find answers, create healing, or be an agent for change, all for the highest good. Shamanism is a divinely connected work that is predicated on intention and alignment with spiritual allies; it uses the imaginal realms to journey, understand energy dynamics, and reinstate balance. There are many ways to be shamanic, but all roads lead to wholeness.
In my case, it was the land and what the land held that called for my attention. The land holds memories, energies, and unfinished business. The closer we went to the coastline, the closer we were to areas where the air smells of death. It is the unforgettable stench of decomposing bodies. The scent stays with me, haunts me into remembering what has transpired on the land.
There are two points of geography that called to me and, later, followed me home:
There was the downtown Biloxi-Gulfport casino area, sitting on the coast and secured by the National Guard with armed, manned posts at every intersection point. There are double columns of concertina wire that parallel the railroad tracks and the coastline. These enormous coils of wire keep intruders from entering the decimated areas.
Casinos have been shoved off their foundations. Street blocks are skewered into a mountain of giant pick-up sticks. The once bustling metropolitan area is non-existent; it is merely rubble. It looks as if a bomb has exploded. There is no sound, no noise, everything is dead quiet. I witness the destruction, breathe in the death, and, silently, say prayers for the deceased.
Days later, we, my mental health colleague and I, are traveling on I-10 headed toward New Orleans; we pull off the Interstate at the Waveland exit. The main road into town is punctuated by seemingly abandoned cars. Actually, these cars once held families who had attempted to flee the force and onslaught of Katrina; cars that now serve as burial sites. As we drive into the town, the decomposing death smell is potent and more pungent; it's as if the sea breezes refused to dilute the reality of what had happened.
There is the deadly quiet and the total destruction. There are foundation slabs, the remaining testimony to a once-standing house. Mattress pads are wrapped around tree limbs. There is the odd teddy bear bearing witness to what was once a family home. There are boards propped against trees and partial structures with boldly spray-painted red symbols by FEMA that indicate the dead found in the remains and status of the house. There is one lot, amid slab, trees, and wreckage, where there is a black spray-painted piece of plywood, propped up facing that street, that reads: "The Smith House — Bayberry Street — We are ok." I cry when I read their sign.
We drive through a neighborhood of once lovely homes, nestled by trees and situated in a scoop of coastline. Everything has been reduced to pieces of rubble; everything is twisted, broken, shattered, upside down, out of place, and out of context. There are no people. What once was, is no longer standing. It is like a Stephen King movie: surreal, grotesque, and eerie.
We drive onto a roadway that intersects beach and waterfront homes. There is a young man, looking more like a boy than a man, sitting on an aluminum folding chair with a rifle, presumably loaded, across his lap and a sign lettered in orange that says, "Beware, Keep Out." An orange painted skull and crossbones accentuate his message.
Other than the young man guarding over what was once a stately home amid moss-draped trees, and the National Guard clearing debris from the far end of the beach, I am alone. At my request, my colleague has dropped me off. I walk to a point on the deserted beach. I intend to do a ritual for the dead. I move into an altered state as my arms immediately lift up in invocation. I call in everyone who has died on the entire multi-state stretch of coastline. I call for any soul who is lost, in trouble, traumatized, or who can't find the light. I say, "Rest in peace, Rest in peace, Rest in peace" again and again, until I feel empty.
The force of this energy is such that I am knocked off my feet. I am told to repeat my actions. I do so again. I stand strong, raise my arms, and continue to say my litany of "Rest in peace" to all the souls. I say it over and over and over again until, once more, I am knocked off my feet. I am told I am finished, but I was only finished for the day. There was more to come.
(Tomorrow: I talk to dead people)
— — —
Adele R. McDowell, Ph.D., is a psychologist, empath, and shaman who likes looking at life with the big viewfinder. Her email address is {email ARMCDOWELL@aol.com}ARMCDOWELL@aol.com{/email}. © copyright 2006 by Adele R. McDowell
This altered state allows me to slip into my other identity as shaman. A shaman denotes someone who moves into a trance state and works with Spirit to find answers, create healing, or be an agent for change, all for the highest good. Shamanism is a divinely connected work that is predicated on intention and alignment with spiritual allies; it uses the imaginal realms to journey, understand energy dynamics, and reinstate balance. There are many ways to be shamanic, but all roads lead to wholeness.
In my case, it was the land and what the land held that called for my attention. The land holds memories, energies, and unfinished business. The closer we went to the coastline, the closer we were to areas where the air smells of death. It is the unforgettable stench of decomposing bodies. The scent stays with me, haunts me into remembering what has transpired on the land.
There are two points of geography that called to me and, later, followed me home:
There was the downtown Biloxi-Gulfport casino area, sitting on the coast and secured by the National Guard with armed, manned posts at every intersection point. There are double columns of concertina wire that parallel the railroad tracks and the coastline. These enormous coils of wire keep intruders from entering the decimated areas.
Casinos have been shoved off their foundations. Street blocks are skewered into a mountain of giant pick-up sticks. The once bustling metropolitan area is non-existent; it is merely rubble. It looks as if a bomb has exploded. There is no sound, no noise, everything is dead quiet. I witness the destruction, breathe in the death, and, silently, say prayers for the deceased.
Days later, we, my mental health colleague and I, are traveling on I-10 headed toward New Orleans; we pull off the Interstate at the Waveland exit. The main road into town is punctuated by seemingly abandoned cars. Actually, these cars once held families who had attempted to flee the force and onslaught of Katrina; cars that now serve as burial sites. As we drive into the town, the decomposing death smell is potent and more pungent; it's as if the sea breezes refused to dilute the reality of what had happened.
There is the deadly quiet and the total destruction. There are foundation slabs, the remaining testimony to a once-standing house. Mattress pads are wrapped around tree limbs. There is the odd teddy bear bearing witness to what was once a family home. There are boards propped against trees and partial structures with boldly spray-painted red symbols by FEMA that indicate the dead found in the remains and status of the house. There is one lot, amid slab, trees, and wreckage, where there is a black spray-painted piece of plywood, propped up facing that street, that reads: "The Smith House — Bayberry Street — We are ok." I cry when I read their sign.
We drive through a neighborhood of once lovely homes, nestled by trees and situated in a scoop of coastline. Everything has been reduced to pieces of rubble; everything is twisted, broken, shattered, upside down, out of place, and out of context. There are no people. What once was, is no longer standing. It is like a Stephen King movie: surreal, grotesque, and eerie.
We drive onto a roadway that intersects beach and waterfront homes. There is a young man, looking more like a boy than a man, sitting on an aluminum folding chair with a rifle, presumably loaded, across his lap and a sign lettered in orange that says, "Beware, Keep Out." An orange painted skull and crossbones accentuate his message.
Other than the young man guarding over what was once a stately home amid moss-draped trees, and the National Guard clearing debris from the far end of the beach, I am alone. At my request, my colleague has dropped me off. I walk to a point on the deserted beach. I intend to do a ritual for the dead. I move into an altered state as my arms immediately lift up in invocation. I call in everyone who has died on the entire multi-state stretch of coastline. I call for any soul who is lost, in trouble, traumatized, or who can't find the light. I say, "Rest in peace, Rest in peace, Rest in peace" again and again, until I feel empty.
The force of this energy is such that I am knocked off my feet. I am told to repeat my actions. I do so again. I stand strong, raise my arms, and continue to say my litany of "Rest in peace" to all the souls. I say it over and over and over again until, once more, I am knocked off my feet. I am told I am finished, but I was only finished for the day. There was more to come.
(Tomorrow: I talk to dead people)
— — —
Adele R. McDowell, Ph.D., is a psychologist, empath, and shaman who likes looking at life with the big viewfinder. Her email address is {email ARMCDOWELL@aol.com}ARMCDOWELL@aol.com{/email}. © copyright 2006 by Adele R. McDowell