Dancing with the Wisdom Keepers

By Jennifer Means

On the ancient homelands of the Onadaga, wise elders from many traditions lead people to connect with the beingness of the world.

“They are listening, they know.” Chief Oren Lyons says about the geese. These geese circled over our heads and honked while we made offerings of tobacco, chocolate, copal and wood to the fire. Now they have landed in the grass behind him. “These geese, they know why you are here.”

Chief Oren is a Faithkeeper of the Turtle Clan, from the Onadaga Nation. He speaks to us about the land that we are on. The roads are the original roads of the Onadaga, his people. He speaks of living for community. He tells of building consensus in the Council of Elders, how leaders need to be great visionaries, looking far into the future at the welfare of the children’s, children’s children. He speaks of the selfishness of the American/European culture, how it breeds separateness, fear and greed. I am struck by his honesty and humor, by his sense of pride and courage, which seems less about ego and more about heart.

We are at the Sacred Fire Community’s first Inter-Spiritual Conference in Silver Bay, NY, on the shores of Lake George in June, 2007. There is a mystical quality here—the lake enshrouded by a thick mist, the waters a deep purple-blue-green in the late afternoon light, the spring air warm and humid.

Wisdom Keepers from many traditions have been gathered here. They have come to teach us, to help us connect to the greater beingness of the world.

For as long as I can remember, I have longed for that connection, for a sense that life was more than just eating, drinking, playing, school, work, sleep and sex. As a young girl I spent hours in the forest looking for openings into other worlds, listening, longing and praying for something that I could never quite reach. It was as if the world was teeming with connection and meaning and I was trapped in a glass box—seeing it, but somehow separate.

I was not born into any tradition. I have had no relationship with the traditional wisdom of my ancestral tribes. I grew up a hippie, a nomadic mutt—without home, without tradition, without elders to teach me.

But somehow, slowly over time, through prayers, and hardships and searching, with help from the Divine, I have found a path toward connection. It is not something that I can create by myself. It requires ceremony, ritual, tradition—and people who belong to tradition, initiated elders who know how to engage with the world.

In the morning Malidome Somé leads us in singing a song to call in the spirit. We start off a little shy, but he beats the drum faster, and the words move quicker and our voices start lift, and get clearer and soon my heart sings out. Malidome is a Dagara Sangoma from Burkina Faso. He was taken from his people as a boy and raised by missionaries. He tells us of his journey, of his abuse at the hands of the Jesuits, his struggle to return to his village, bereft of his language, where only his mother recognized him, his need to learn the ways of his people so that his wounds could be healed. I am moved to tears by his story. He says that modern illness is due to the lack of ritual, that “without ritual humans live in nostalgia.” He teaches us that in the Dagara tradition, everyone is born with a gift, and that gift has a life of its own. It is our responsibility to find our gift, and use it. If you don’t listen to your gift, it will make you sick.

And later, in the rain under the fire tent, Lei O’hu Rider, a Hawaiian Kahuna, blows her breath onto Taro leaves and sends a prayer to the land and blesses it. Thunder claps in response and the rain sings on the roof of the tent and out on the lake. Lei O’hu sings and Madine, her partner, dances the hula and I remember the scent of the island of Kauai, where my husband and I were first in love. It is the only place that I felt a sense of “home.” For years after I moved to Oregon, I would lie on the warm pavement and close my eyes and pretend that the traffic outside the fence was the song of the ocean.

And now here, by Lake George, in the song of the warm rain, I feel the presence of the islands around me. The first notes send me back to a place that is home, filled with magic and meaning. And the tears come. 

There are other great elders here as well—Colin and Niall Campbell, Sangomas from South Africa, Richard Reoch, president of the Shambhala Society, ShaykhaTasnim Fernandez, a Sufi elder, one of the founders of Dances of Universal Peace, Geshe Tenzin Wangyal Rimpoche, leader of the Tibetan Bonn tradition, and many more. All of them offer so much heart and wisdom.

Although the Inter-Spiritual Conference only lasts three days, there is a sense of eternity to it—as if we have been transported into a place outside of time, rich with spirit and heart. I can feel the presence of my relations—my ancestors and descendants—surrounding me, stretching up from the past and out into the future.

The final night an impromptu jam session breaks out at the fire. Shyamdas, a Kirtan singer and devotee of Hindu teacher, Shri Valabhacharya, begins singing devotional chants by the fire. Soon, Lei O’hu joins in with her guitar and Madine hulas. Tasnim sends some of us spinning in a Dance of Universal Peace. Soon, the Sangomas—Malidome, Colin and Niall, along with Huichol Tsaurirrikame Eliot Cowan—begin to drum. So, ecstatic in the fire light, we dance. The sweet air, cleansed by the afternoon downpour, cools us. Our open hearts sing with the joy of experiencing these elders who have brought to us in this place, of dancing with them long into the night

Earlier in the day, Chief Oren Lyons said, “I can go back to my people and tell them that there is hope for you because you know how to dance,” It’s true. It seems as if the Inter-Spiritual Conference has awakened us from a deep sleep. We are dancing with the world, with fire, with life. Everything feels alive. I am enveloped by a sense of hope.

I think of my journey through life, through love, grief and joy, the miracle that brings me to this place. Now, with my heart opened, I know we are all connected, that I am connected with my ancestral heart, with the gifts and work of my life, and forward into the hearts of my children’s children’s children.

Outside, in the grey light of early morning as I pack the car to leave, I see the geese gathering and listening. They know we are connected. As we drive away, they rise as a flock and follow us down the road.