The Way of the Heart Warrior
There are tectonic moments in a life when the Earth beneath our feet shakes and shifts and the world upends itself in a convulsion of change and realignment. The path, once so clearly unrolled before us, fractures into rubble, falls into a yawning, steaming chasm, and a new, open way appears in another direction. Do you recoil in fear and shy away from this strange and unfamiliar road or do you step forward and see what lies onward? This weekend will present such a choice.
The domed, eight sided temple nestles in the quiet woods surrounded by a web-work of small, barely-cleared walkways running between ferns, bushes, and trees. The bright spaces between the trees are tightly speckled with snowflakes languidly dancing a silent, swirling rhythm, falling and flying in one motion. Each one ends its journey with the gentlest, unheard sigh as it comes to rest alongside its cousins huddled together among the tree roots.
I do not know these men, these strangers who were only names on an email until this moment, yet here I am to share a circle with them, to share feelings and secret intimacies of our lives. The voice of shame and fear in my head is deafening, screaming for me to leave though there is nowhere to go.
Growing up I was taught that men did not talk about feelings. In fact, men should not have feelings at all. Men drink, swear, brag about sexual conquests, and deride those we dislike. Men talk about tits and sports and cars and tools. Men insult those who do things differently than they do. Men tell you to “get over it” and “suck it up.” They don”t hurt, they never admit weakness, and to be vulnerable is the most unmanly trait of all.
These were the lessons of my father.
When I would cry, he would call me a pussy. When I would laugh or play he would call me a baby. When I did not want to do something I was not ready to do he called me coward. At 14 I was expected to behave and talk and be a ”man” exactly like him. If I was not, I was shamed and insulted no matter where we were or who was listening.
I learned his lessons well and came to believe this toxic version of masculinity. I had to or I would not have survived. I hid my feelings so deep even I could not feel them, I never did anything silly or just for fun, and I took no risks. Who I was and what I wanted were neither important or valuable. I learned that I did not matter and that I was not worthwhile. These things became the foundation of my sense of self, the backbone of my story. I was ashamed of everything I was. The boy I should have been was silently annihilated as the leering monster who was supposed to be my father mocked my humanity. My gentle, bright soul was twisted into a dark, gnarled husk. I could not even weep for what I had lost because men do not cry.
When Dr Z invited me to this circle my intellect was intrigued. I had done so much amazing work with him one-on-one I was curious about what could happen in a group. But soon the fear and shame took hold and I began to doubt. I worried I would be too selfish and take over the meeting, I feared I would be seen as ridiculous or weak, I wondered what even going would say about my masculinity. Men don”t do such things.
My trust in Dr Z won the day because my trust is hard-earned. My father”s betrayal of his sacred duty to love and nurture his child taught me a deep lesson of distrust long before I ever set out into the world on my own. Being vulnerable was merely a way to pain because people will always grind your heart beneath their heel. But I had taken a risk and made myself vulnerable to Dr Z so many times and on each occasion he treated that vulnerability with respect and reverence, returning only love and understanding to me. And so I rode the train north to meet these men with my fear and shame, loyal soldiers still fighting a long settled war, whispering incessantly in my ear.
I busy myself with preparing my spot in the temple, laying out my sleeping pad and bag, making small talk after introductions, trying to get the lay of the land to ensure I make as few mistakes as possible. Can it stay just like this? Can we just hang out and talk about football and not be serious about anything? I feel judged already because even though you are here for the same reason I am it”s somehow ok for you but not for me. I am not qualified to be here, I don”t know what I”m doing, I”m going to fuck this up for everyone.
Soon there were 7 of us circling the centre of the temple: 2 guides, Dr Z and Dr Y, and 5 travelers. Dr Z welcomed us. I want to crawl away, I do not belong here.
The temple contains elements of buddhist and shamanistic practices. Large windows with shelves for altars face the cardinal directions, Paintings depicting the aspects of the compass points hover over each one, giving that direction its character and meaning.
North is night and spirit and winter. South is day and passion and summer. East is humour and youth and spring. West is wisdom and age and winter. As we move around the compass rose from altar to altar, painting to painting, I draw more inward and silent, forming a shell of emotional protection and rejection around me.
This is silly, the voice of my father says, this is fucking stupid. You”re an idiot for being here. My jaw clenches with strain as I struggle with the feelings of shame that come from being here and not being fully here. I insult this process by being here and not being engaged. You can”t even do this right! His voice shames me no matter what choice I make, what action or inaction I take, whatever thought I do or don”t think. For as l long as I can remember this has been my story.
I feel Dr Z’s gaze on me many times though I never meet his eyes. I know he is quietly appraising that I am not talking, barely contributing, when the others are seeing deep meaning in the bits and bobs of the altars and in the nuances of the paintings. I say a few things to appear engaged, to avoid being a disruption and more importantly to avoid being singled out. I do what I have always done in uncomfortable situations, try to hide in the crowd and not stand out too far in any direction.
But he knows. I know he knows and though I am horrified I am not surprised when, back in the circle, he speaks directly to me.
“You seem very contained, can you speak on that?”
NO! I do not want to! Why did you do that? But I respect Dr Z too much to be anything but honest, though every fibre in me screams in protest. I gird my loins and speak about what I am feeling, about the lessons my father taught me, and how this does not fit the story I have been told about what being a man is. I look at the ground as I speak. I am ashamed of everything. Feeling exposed and vulnerable is the most terrifying thing you can imagine for one who knows toxic shame. Even though I know rationally that these are kind, accepting men my emotional truth, the vigilant protectors of my psyche standing guard around the clock always watching to steer me away from potential shame or ridicule, tell me that revealing such feelings is dangerous and will only lead to more pain.
A, as I will call him, is huge presence in the circle. The energy of his words has enlivened the room throughout the day. His enthusiasm is infectious and uplifting. As I speak I catch brief glances of him, I try to make eye contact because it”s polite but my contempt for my own weakness is overwhelming. I do not want anyone to see that weakness in my eyes.
He looks over and sees me. His eyes are wet with compassion and sorrow at the story I tell. There is disgust there, too, in the slight curling of his lip but I instinctively know it is not meant for me, it is for the trauma that had been visited upon me. It is a rejection of the inhumanity and cruelty that one person can subject another to.
When A responds to my words he tells me a different story. His is a story in which men do not give credence to petty ideas and silly rules that hide their humanity. His story is one of delighting in our nature, of the bravery of embracing our feelings and our weaknesses, of the power of being vulnerable, of the grace of crying, and the beauty of sharing our hearts with others. He tells me that my father is not a man at all because he would never have had the courage to come to sit in this circle.
A’s is the story of the Heart Warrior.
Still overwhelmed I can barely look at him even when Dr Z asks me to. I struggle to hide my emotion because not feeling is still my truth, the soldiers fight the emotion with tooth and claw. But there is a release of tension in A”s acceptance and compassion and I begin to let go and interact more fully, speak more deeply, embrace the experience, and I step through the first veil.
Each of the travelers tells their own story. Some stories are of fear and doubt, some are of abuse, but all are of pain and the joy in overcoming it. These deeply wounded men sit next to me and gave to each other no sympathy, no sorrow, no pity. There is only love and hope and compassion within this circle. There is acceptance and a deep seeing of the beauty within. Above all else, there is no ridicule or judgement.
Dr Z speaks of the Way of the Heart Warrior, a warrior that does not battle people but rather the darkness that can hide in themselves and others. A Heart Warrior battles anger with love, sadness with compassion, and despair with beauty. This circle, these stories, the love flowing through this room, are all the path of the warrior. The world tells us that shadow and conflict and material goods are what we need but the warrior counters with sure knowledge that those things will never bring peace, only more suffering.
Dr Z is a man of great caring and control. But when he speaks of our “sick society” that causes so much pain I feel that this comes from a deep place. There is a subliminal vehemence, a depth of emotion, in that phrase that I have never heard from him before. Perhaps without his intending them to, the words strike out into the air with palpable impact.
Evening comes and so too the time for the medicine ceremony. At Dr Z”s request, we venture out into the woods, each in our own direction, to find a place of solitude in which to build an altar out of whatever natural materials are at hand. I stop at the first place that spoke to me; four tall trees arranged in a trapezoid, their trunks reaching far above my head. I build my altar of wood and leaves there and stare upward to the tree tops and the sky beyond.
I note that I feel a need to make the best altar, that I need to prove I am worthy. I wonder about the others and if they will build something more ornate than I am and thus invalidate me. I am being competitive in perhaps the least competitive moment I”d ever been in. I am ashamed. I am always ashamed.
We went inside and performed the ritual of the medicine. Dr Z offers thanks to “this beautiful molecule that opens our hearts.” In an instant the last two years of work the three of us, the doc, the molecule, and me have done together and I, too, am awash with gratitude.
MDMA has been called “penicillin for the soul.” It is an empathogen, it allows us to feel without the grim shackles of shame and fear imprisoning us and enhances empathy and connectedness. We call it “heart medicine” because it opens and frees our hearts to all the beauty in the world, not just that we have have been taught is acceptable.
Each of us has a story that we live in. Parts of this story were written by ourselves, parts of it by our parents, parts of it by the society and world we grew up in. Some of it is unique to us and some we share with others. There is a family story and a Portland story and an Oregon story and a West Coast story and an American story and a human story. Our personal story shares chapters with all of these others and just as those stories are a part of ours.
MDMA lets me step outside the pages of my story in and see it clearly, with an unbiased eye. I can be and see and feel without the filters of societal norms, gender expectations, and faux appropriateness. I can flip through pages and read the words with a gently critical eye, not allowing the bias of the authors come off the page.
Our stories are just that, stories, but when we live inside them and believe them they have incredible power over us. Stories can be inspiring and fulfilling. They can also be incredibly destructive and diminishing.
My story was a dark one for decades. It was a tale of self-hatred and disgust, of bilious anger, and of a deeply wounded and lost little boy who never got to grow up not understanding why he hurt so very much. With Dr Z I have spent more than two years re-writing that story. We”ve written new passages of understanding and penned entirely new chapters of my history to replace the doctrine of hate and scorn I saw in the mirror of my father”s black eyes.
But I think I have never written so much as I have this night. This night will rip more pages out of my book at one time than I ever have before . With a grand, sweeping flourish of the pen I will feverishly and dramatically re-work the entire story of who I am and choose to be.
The afternoon was so very serious, full of ritual and, at times, heavy discussion it is almost comical how the mood lightens after we swallow the small pills in the candle-lit evening. Small talk, jokes, and work anecdotes give us a period to relax in before the heart medicine takes effect. When it does, Dr Z invites us all to return to our altars in the dark and be in that space for a time.
Light diffuses down from the moon hiding behind a thick layer of clouds, the only thing visible other than the snow. The world is black and white, shadow and glow. Standing at my altar I look up, exactly as I had done before in the light and instantly I realise why I chose this place. I chose this place because I could look up, because the height of the trees seemed grand and impressive. More importantly, it gave me something far away and out of reach to focus on. In the dark I see that I was never paying attention to the world around me, I was not present in my own life, but was always looking for the next time to make it all better, wondering what the next step is whilst not paying any attention to where I am at the moment. Up is tomorrow- it”s the next job, it”s the next place I move to, it”s the next thing that will make life “so much better.”
It”s a gut punch. I pull my eyes downward and gaze at the shadow shapes around me. I feel the intricacy of the plants and the delicate crystals of snow and wonder at the immensely complex beauty with arms” reach and I regret what I have missed. I have denied this to myself for so long, always looking over the fence to see the greener grass, never taking in the beauty and goodness already present.
My hat comes off, my coat”s zipper shreds the silence, and I stand with my arms out to my side letting the cold touch my skin, drinking the moment in great draughts of appreciation for all that I ignored earlier. I stand and shiver, not caring that I”m cold loving that I”m cold ecstatic that I can be cold grateful for the cold, making a point to feel everything the world has given me to feel in this moment. Right now is important, tomorrow will handle itself when it gets here, but this is where and when I am and I will revel in it.
I stand and think of nothing but the now, fully present for perhaps the first time in my life, taking joy in all the small wonders and sensations of this place until Dr Z gently rings the singing bowl to call us inside.
Lying with my head to the centre of the circle I swim in possibilities, owning this new way to think of the moments of my life. Looking to my left I see M, lying face down. I see in his face something happening for him, something important and compelling. Without a thought I reach out to him, you are not alone, I am here for you, and he quickly clasps his hand to mine. What we say will remain between us but we talk for a long time, hand in hand, with no shame or awkwardness or self-judgement.
This is what the story of our society denies us men- meaningful connection. I look into M”s eyes, hold his hand, and hear his words deeply. I give him my words in return and they are unabashedly compassionate and caring. All the nonsense I was taught about manhood sloughs off me to drop to the floor, a pale, wrinkled, moulted skin I have outgrown that, whilst it may bear my shape, no longer contains me.
I feel M”s painful wounds and joyfulness in sharing as he does mine in return. There is no weakness here, we join our strength and become powerful beyond imagining. Energy shimmers in the spaces between us and I feel the new words of my story being written onto the pages of my soul.
Without even realising it, I am finally rejecting the dark story of the toxic masculine and replacing it with a new, beautiful tale of lightness of spirit in which men are fully human and hold their hearts open for all to see and experience. I embrace this new story and step fully onto the path of the Heart Warrior. I pass through the second veil.
Soon A is looming over me, his great head blocking out the dark skylight. He leans over me in a way that only a short time ago would have caused me to squirm in homophobic terror but now seems as natural as a stuttering breath blowing across a steaming cup of coffee.
We share our secret wishes and fears, our hopes and despairs. A asks me a question and I respond as my story tells me to; I can not, I do not, I am not.
“Do you hear yourself,” he asks, nearly groaning in pain. “You defeat yourself before you even try, you limit yourself and box yourself in.”
Again, I see it all in an instant. I see the story that limits me, reading it for the first time without being in it. I see the lessons that taught me to think in this limiting way. Pages are ripped out and thrown into the fire. I can, I do, I am.
My hand on the side of his face, his on mine, A helps me re-write those pages and bind them to the chapters of my story. We talk of possibilities and capabilities and fulfilling the promise of our gifts.
Deep inside, diminished to the role of distant observer, my ego watches me wander outside the boundaries of my story and is amazed. I am connecting with these men in deeply meaningful ways that just a few hours ago terrified me. In this moment I revel in the freedom and the love we share. I see these men not as sources of shame or reasons to think of myself as inferior but rather for what they truly are- beautifully imperfect, lovingly courageous human beings.
A”s story of manhood finds its way to my heart and I feel the old chapters floating away as new ones are feverishly written. I feel liberated, freed of the emotional chains I”ve been hobbled with since the first time I learned that “boys don”t cry.” There is almost no resistance as I pass through the third veil.
Night in the temple deepens though the candles burn as bright as before. The shadows are thick with meaning and import, laden with the happy weight of revealed truths and hope. The beautiful molecule has worked its magic and slowly we notice it leaving us, but the ceremony is not done.
We gather again as Dr Z pass out bowls of mushrooms to begin the second part of the ceremony. As much as the first half was about connection with others and compassion now we prepare to go inside, to delve deeply within our Selves to find what needs to be found, to feel what needs to be felt, to reveal the secrets we hide from our own eyes.
They taste of Earth magic, soil, and night. Born not in the bright expostulation of the Sun”s light but in the dark, secret places where the mysteries of existence are whispered in endless silence. They waste no energy on being pretty or flavourful, their work is too meaningful for such banality. We gratefully accept their gift into our bodies and begin our private journeys.
As the magic overwhelms me I lie back and sink deeply into the ground, exploring passages far below. For a time I am unencumbered by thought and live in a state of pure emotion. I exist, I feel, I am, but, for a time, I am not me.
In the black void there is nothing and I am no one when the music begins. Loud and beautiful it reverberates through the darkness and slowly gives shape to the formless. I feel my body again, I sense the blanket covering me and the pillow cradling my cheek, and I return to being me. I do not know this music, it is not for me, but it tethers me into this place and I ride the waves of sound to the candlelit room.
The music fades and rises again, a different tune, a haunting melody, a lilting flute that reaches into me with the sharp blade of recognition. This music is for me. He is playing this for me. Fear grips me again.
I played this song over and over when I was young, hiding in my room in my head. It was beautiful to me and I escaped in it. There is a connection made, the music creates a link and the magic hurls me back,. I am there, in that room, watching my younger self lie in bed. In the flash of a moment I see things I knew but could not let myself know before now.
The room was unadorned. I lived in that space for years and never once put up a poster or a decoration or anything to show I was there. I had no furniture other than a bed, my clothes were laid out on boards supported by cinder blocks. It was as stark as a prison cell. Lying in that bed I saw the boy reading a book, listening to the music, escaping to the only place he could be free from the pain. He didn”t know why he hurt so much but he hurt. He wanted to be strong but he was in so much pain but he could not admit, even to himself, that there was any pain at all. His father beat him with his words every day and he could do nothing but believe them. He was dying an invisible death.
I watch him, as silent and motionless as he, seeing past his expressionless face into his broken heart. He was so very alone, no one came, no one helped. He could not admit to himself that he needed anyone, because his father”s voice would call him weak. He was weak for hurting, he was weak for needing, he was weak for feeling, he was weak.
So he lay there alone, trapped. Books and music took him away from the terrible reality he endured every day. He walled himself in a cocoon of fantasy and dissociation and numbness. He learned how not to feel, to wall off every emotion and box it away hopefully never to be found again. He learned to hide himself behind a mask of expected responses and rejected his own personhood. He sent his true self so far inside he would not find it for decades. The death of the Self is neither fast nor dramatic, it happens one cruel word, one dehumanising moment, one more betrayal of a parent”s trust at a time.
Back in the temple I sat up, eyes wide with panic and suffering. The music plays on, its impact deafening. My heart is pounding in my chest, heaving up and down with laboured breaths. I am in both places at once, feeling in both places at once, hurting in both places at once.
I try to hug the boy, to let him know he is not alone, but I am a ghost. Dr Z ends the music to allow us to finish our journeys and he goes down to the kitchen to prepare food. I sit dazed and unsure of what to do, aching for the boy and feeling his desperate loneliness, his need for love and his inability to ask for it. The others breath deeply in the candle glow as I feel the boy”s sadness engulf me.
I stand unsteadily and rush downstairs, my socked feet slipping on the tightly coiled stairs, to find Dr Z. He is facing away from me, tending to his pot of vegetable stew, when I pull him away from his task and clasp him tightly to me and weep into his shoulder. For the first time I ignore the story I was told and I cry for that young boy, for me, for all that was lost, for all that was wounded.
“No one came,” I sob. “I was so alone, he hurt me so much. No one ever came.”
Another set of arms wrap themselves around us both and I hear M say, “We”ve got you.”
This was a place I”d been trying to reach for months. I knew through my work that I had never grieved, never had given that young man compassion. The old habit of shutting down feelings before they were actually felt had proven difficult to break. To this day some part of me blamed and hated myself for not being stronger, for being wounded. No longer. I finally know, not just in my head but in my heart, that I was to blame for none of it. I was, and remain, innocent of the crimes I was punished for. From this moment on I will accept neither guilt or complicity for what happened.
The overwhelming sadness washes the remaining magic from me, the ghost of me fades from the long ago room until I am fully back in the present.
The others filter down and we joke and chat over bowls of veggie stew and lightly reminisce about our journeys. I am exhausted from the work I have done in the last eight hours and am the first the leave the table. I gratefully slip into my sleeping bag, curl the pillow under my head, and once again slip away into the dark.
The morning is bright and cold. I brew a steaming mug of camp coffee and walk once more to the tall trees. I stand there for a long time, reviewing and reliving last night, understanding and integrating the lessons and revelations, never once looking up. Things are different now, I can feel it. I know some of the ways I am changed, can guess at others, and am sure there are even more yet to be revealed.
Inside there is toast, coffee, eggs, togetherness, and laughter. There is a sense of ease, camaraderie, and love in this group the likes of which I have never experienced before. The tension of yesterday is entirely gone, replaced with fellowship and trust.
I feel the happy absence of the old biases. Talking with these men is simple and uncomplicated. Yesterday I feared saying or doing the wrong thing, stepping outside the bounds of accepted ”male behaviour,” but today I know all I need do is be me and that will be accepted.
Back in the circle, we speak in turn about our experiences. Each man bares his heart to the others. When there is fear, it is met with support. When there is pain, it is met with love. When there is triumph, it is met with cheers. This is a circle of Heart Warriors, brave men willing to defy how society says we should be and act, who bring light and compassion as their only weapons. I sit proudly as one of them.
Dr Z reads a poem about a man calling his father on the telephone. The poem creates an image that I understand deeply; a shadow father living inside me continuing the story of abuse.
What I meant was that my father
was an enemy of my humanity
and what I meant behind that
was that my father was split
into two people, one of themliving deep inside of me
like a bad king or an incurable disease—
blighting my crops,
striking down my herds,
poisoning my wells—the other
standing in another time zone
I have lived this poem* for most of my life. That cruel, tormenting voice always there, always whispering into the backside of my ear.
The words strike a resonance within me and the tears flow quickly from my eyes. I cry in full view of six men without shame or embarrassment. I don”t wipe my face or turn my head or hide behind a forearm, deliberately letting these tears be seen. This is me. This is how I feel. This is who I am. This is emancipation.
I may never fully free myself from that terrible voice, but after this day it will no longer have any power over me. The final veil rips open and I step trough. I am free.
—–
The next morning I am home. Quietly standing in the kitchen, coffee in hand, something passes through my thoughts and I ponder it for a moment. I think of the weekend and its lessons and I feel the urge to cry again. The habits of the past hold little sway this morning and I gladly let the emotion escape. I have decades of this to catch up on.
It is glorious, the ability to feel, being unbound from the story that told me not to. I will never be bound by it again. My life will be different now, more meaningful and impactful. I will live my life not just for myself, not just for the selfish goals we are taught to pursue, but will spread love and compassion as far and wide as I can. I will walk the path of the Heart Warrior.
Still crying, I laugh. A deep, vibrant belly laugh that turns my face up in defiant glee through the tears. As the grief pours out so does the joy at its release, delighting in the ability to feel. I cry and laugh for a long time. I clutch my chest in sorrow and punch the air in victory with both fists.
This is now my story to write.
*Excerpted from Phone Call, by Tony Hoagland
