The Water Ritual

Early in the summer of 2019, I got in contact with a person whose work I admire, and asked them a question about spiritual and mental health. They recommended a shaman they trust, and I went about setting up an appointment with him to do some journey work on my behalf. Soul retrieval work.

I had my meeting with this shaman, took down my notes, and within a couple weeks I had done the first of the two rituals he prescribed to me. The second ritual got pushed back for months. That year was unkind, to say the least. Distractions and heartaches. Life things. Very likely some results of the first ritual, in hindsight. These things tend to have unexpected consequences. By the time I finally got around to doing the second ritual, summer was coming to an end in Wyoming.

From a 2016 trip. That is drinkable water. Comes right out of the rocks, and there’s nothing above it at that altitude.

It was to be a water ritual, and I needed to pick a place in nature where I could submerge myself in a body of water. I didn’t have to think about it for long. I knew a place up a canyon with a gorgeous, private pool feeding a creek, where water trickled off mossy rocks. Perfect for a skinny dip and some ceremonial singing, praying, screaming and other things outlined in my instructions; one specific piece being the Ho’oponopono prayer. I was to make offerings and release grief to be carried away by the stream.

Months before this, I had bought a plane ticket and made some arrangements to go to New York for a workshop, which would fall right on my birthday week. This all lined up with some synchronicities and themes moving through my life. It was also hosted in part by the shaman that I had just worked with. It felt so poignant, and the plane ticket was dirt cheap (almost magically so), so I happy birthday’d myself. Not that I could really afford any of that, but I was trying to get out of my comfort zone because depression was trying to murder me. I was trying to…hell, I don’t know. Chase my destiny? Take risks? Something profound, I’m sure of it. I’m an important wizard, didn’t you know? It was all happening, maaaaaaaan. Anyway…

I realized I needed to do the water ceremony before I took the New York trip. I can’t meet my shaman and tell him I didn’t finish the work! Also, for my own spiritual development reasons, I guess. Right. No more letting time slip away. I picked a day, packed my offerings and some snacks to break my fast when the time came. After some meditation and prayer, I headed out of town.

This canyon is not a climb, but a gradual incline. Traveling up into it is pretty simple, but still physical. You walk up one side until the foliage gets too dense, then you cross the creek — usually some rock hopping — and head up on the other side of the canyon for a bit. After zig-zagging for about an hour, you’re there.

It was a lovely, clear August day. A bit hot and a bit dry in the early afternoon, but that’s perfect for a skinny dip. I was energized. Glad to be out. Grateful to be on an adventure, one that was completely by — and for — myself. Feeling like I could trust myself, trust my body on that journey, and leaning into the joy. I was picking up trash along the way as I went, trying to do right by country. Heard a couple groups of people laughing and having a good time on the way up. It was a good day and I was at ease.

Also from the previous trip.

Eventually, I reached the bend in the creek that happens right before the pools. Another five or ten minutes, and I’d be there. This bend is accompanied by a formation of boulders. One small outcropping of three boulders on one side of the creek, partially sunk down into the ground by the stream, and another massive boulder on the other side. I stopped on that outcropping to rest.

I had a walking stick with me, and I stuck it in a sort of indent in the side of the boulder next to me. Somehow, though I barely shifted my weight at all, my walking stick skipped out of that crook and I pitched forward. The next moment, the stick caught on something else. As I went forward, my right arm that was still holding the stick went back. My trusty staff had found some sort of freak-perfect combination of angle and leverage, and rotated my shoulder right out of socket as I fell. When I hit, I also bounced the left side of my face off the boulder I had been standing on. When my face bounced, my left front tooth chipped. It was one of those strange, shock-induced slow motion effects — I actually watched that piece of tooth go flying off and disappear between the rocks, never to be seen again.

I would later realize that I felt no pain when I smacked my face, and there were no cuts or bruising, no damage of any kind, even though I hit hard. Can’t chalk that up to adrenaline. Or being a tough guy. It really is unexplained. I’ve heard of people having experiences wherein their “chi fired” during the moment of injury, and they walked away from things unscathed. That makes as much sense as anything. It could also be that I was walking with some kind of protection from a benevolent guide. Who knows? I should have had at least a concussion, but I didn’t.

As hard as I hit, I probably shouldn’t have survived.

I ended up almost-upside-down, almost-stuck between the rocks. I definitely panicked for a second as the moment came home to roost. I’m still not sure how I righted myself, but there was some scrambling involved. As an aside, there are a couple things I should explain:

1. This is not the first time my shoulder has dislocated. It’s been a chronic problem for about 10 years at this point.
2. When it comes out, I always put it back in myself (I know, I know, that’s the worst idea ever, but also shaddap).
3. My shoulder doesn’t tug out forward and then hang naturally-if-a-bit-lower. Mine comes out up and back, (known as an ‘inferior dislocation’) which is why that thing happened with the stick, but also why I can manage to relocate it myself. Gravity helps me out. Usually I hold it up with my other arm so it doesn’t get tweaked until I can put it back in. Not a position I would be able to maintain in this instance…

So, after a moment of shock, I tried to get my shoulder to go back in. For the first time in my life, I could not, no matter what I did, find that klunk and the bitter-sweet relief that followed. I managed to get myself into a low squat with my arm propped up on my knee to support my shoulder so it would spasm less. Then I began to scream for help. As I said, I had heard people in the brush on my way up just minutes before this, and I prayed with all my might that they were still there.

I have no idea how long I was out on that rock screaming. Shock plays jump-rope with your perception of time. It couldn’t have been that long before I realized no one was coming, but subjectively, it was a pitiful eternity. The deep rawness I felt when I realized I was utterly alone with it was indescribable and…strangely familiar**. The truth of it found me, and I began to wail in sheer dismay and anger and resignation. I didn’t continue that for long, because I caught myself in the moment, and remembered an important detail: bears and mountain lions do come down into this canyon. Shit.

Actual shit. Bear scat full of choke cherry pits from the previous trip.

Since I didn’t want to have that kind of day, I decided to stop screaming like the wounded animal I was. I took notice of the sun and where it was in the sky. By my estimation it had to be getting close to 3:30 or so, and while that’s not terribly late, it became clear that it was time to figure something out. I tried to get my arm to go in again. No dice.

I noticed some gray and black striped bees crawling out of the rock I was on. I’d never seen anything like them, but it was clear they were investigating me and no, thank you. There was a small pool off to one side of the boulder, opposite the creek. I decided to give those bees some space, so I shimmied my pack off, and slipped down into that pool of water, hoping that the coolness would…something? Reduce inflammation so I could get my arm back in? Cool me off? Help me clear my head? No, it wasn’t so rational. I wasn’t so rational. It was some vague, primal sense that water = healing, like water was the closest thing I had to a mom in that place. The only soft thing in the whole world. It did feel really good, and in some way it did soothe me. Unfortunately, it didn’t help my arm go back in.

I slowly made my way back onto the boulder, made sure the rocky mountain crag wasps (that’s what I’m calling them. They were definitely bees, but ‘crag wasp’ sounds better than ‘boulder bee’. I got injured near them, so I get to name them because that’s how it works, nyeh) weren’t interested in me, and decided to have a drink and a snack. Not like I had anywhere to be, so figured I might as well. My pack was a small, single-sling duffle bag with a draw string tied at the top. I needed both hands for all this container opening. I had to stay in that low squat with my elbow thrown over my knee, but I could still articulate my fingers and my grip had just barely enough strength to assist my other hand with opening everything I brought with me. It felt weird as much as it hurt, and it hurt wrongbad.

By this time, I’d accepted my circumstances. I was somewhat regulated and a bit more rational. A bit more myself. I even laughed (bitterly) to myself as I remembered that screaming was explicitly in the ritual instructions, and well…I had already done a bunch of that. I’d also submerged myself after instinctively gravitating toward water as a healing presence. I realized then that I was already in ritual space. Shock was the trance state that had come upon me for the ceremony. It was at that point I decided, “You know what? I came up here to do a ritual, and I’m going to do a fucking ritual.”

So I did. I got out all my offerings — some rose water and a quartz and some ash from an Ostara fire to symbolize new beginnings or some shit like that. Among other things. I managed to get lids off jars, pour things out and say some prayers with my raw, desperate voice. There was some intermingling of the grief I came to release, the feeling of being punished by god, and prayers for mercy and safe passage. Some of it got said with words, and some of it got poured out. Sadly, I can’t say I had the capacity to Listen for any response. To be honest, I also had trouble expressing gratitude in the moment.

I ate and drank a little more, got everything back in the bag, tied it up and made a few more attempts with my arm. There was still no correcting it. One more look at the sun told me that it was, without exception, time to go. I had to take a moment to accept that I was about to experience a whole lot of pain if I wanted to live. I realized I couldn’t traverse the foliage and rocks on the sides of the canyon in my condition, and that meant a straight slog all the way back down the creek. I wrangled my bag on, but couldn’t sling it over my chest anymore. Instead I just had to kinda…dangle it awkwardly from my neck and hold it to me as best I could.

Stepping down into the creek to start the trek, the first thing I noticed is that the rocks on the bottom were covered in moss. I had to do a sort of hunched shuffle, trying to angle my body to make my shoulder feel a bit less wrong. Many times, I would take a step and my foot would slip, jarring my body and producing another fit of excruciating spasms. After a short while of this, one hypnotic step after another was all that existed. Eyes only on the space directly in front of me.

The stream only came up to the shins in most places, but it began to deepen as I progressed, eventually getting up to my thighs before it even registered. My heart sank as I remembered why, looking up to see the small dam that regulates the creek. I deliberately didn’t mention it earlier, because it’s better for dramatic effect now. See? I’d forgotten that it even existed until then. Since I can’t walk underwater (some wizard, huh?), I would have to get out of the creek and go up the incline. I still don’t remember how I managed to scale the pile of small boulders that made a slope up the one side, but I sure do remember having to hop down the drop on the other.

With the dam behind me, it was smooth sailing. Relatively. At one point I stopped to lean against another rock, and decided to try my shoulder one more time. I used the rock as a prop and did some kind of funky thing with my arm. Finally, mercifully, it dropped back into socket. The moment that happened, through no will of my own, the words “I’m sorry, please forgive me, thank you, I love you.” began pouring out of my mouth. Words I had forgotten to say with my prayers up-stream. I was still in ritual space, and it wasn’t done with me yet.

After continuing on for a bit, I realized I must be getting close because the sides of the canyon had begun to taper down. I looked for a way out and found my way up a slope and back out onto the road. The sweet sweet road. I could see my car…about a half mile behind me. It turns out I’d walked much too far, but god damn it — things were flat and dry. I made it. Leonardo, eat your fucking heart out.

So I went home. I sat on the couch and stared at the wall. I had something real to eat. I took a selfie of my stupid face with my broken tooth and my greasy hair and I posted it on Facebook with zero context because I’m nothing if not a man of my generation. Then I went to a walk-in dentist and had them do a temporary filling, because it would be time to go to New York in just over a week and I was already going to feel like an out-of-place redneck without help from a jagged front tooth. Happy birthday to me. I thought they were kidding when they said Dirty Thirty.

I’ve had many reflections on this incident, and some input from other parties since then. There will be a sort of epilogue post eventually, where I’ll dip into some of my conclusions, questions and further experiences.

**I realize just now, at the time of writing, that there is some part of me that has always felt this way. Some part of me that feels perpetually wounded and abandoned, just by virtue of being in this body and in this world. I’ve always been shot through with that fundamental-separation-from-god thing that I think Sufi works describe best, but this is a more visceral thing. It’s taken two years for that to unpack, and no matter how much I’ve reflected on the story, it took me finally writing it out to fully explore that lesson. To fully hear that wounded person, to know they’ve been stuck on that rock for over 30 years. I could barely deal with it for half an hour. I think I understand the concept of soul retrieval in a more integral way. How do we fail to show up for ourselves? How do we go back for those pieces? How loud do they have to get before you hear them? Loud enough to kill you, if that’s what it takes. If you’re reading this, then you’re part of this exploration. Time and consciousness are strange that way. So thanks for walking with me. Be well.