what are animist forest circles?
a personal story from younger times
In my last post, I mentioned that animist forest circles is returning. I also shared a bit of my perspective on why time off from paid work is really time “on” in some more universal, cosmic sense. And how, when we’re in situations where we can afford to do so, we can use this time to intentionally shape our capacity to give our unique gifts.
However, I did not talk about what animist forest circles actually is. And if you got shared on that article, but have never walked through the forest with me, it’s quite possible that it made very little sense.
Maybe it’s best to start with a story.
a story
I was introduced to a very simple, powerful form of transcendental meditation in college when I stumbled across a course offering provided through the music school in a special, sun dappled corner of their jazz department called Contemplative Studies.
Very few of the people in that class were actually studying music, interestingly enough. And I only shared one class one time with a lovely gentleman who was actually studying jazz. More than a few D1 football players were often in the class, however. This was something I was not too pleased about at the time.
The rest of the makeup of the class was usually wanderers, seekers, and young hopefuls looking for someone to teach them something about how to be human.
The course was taught by a professor named Martha Traverse, and it was all about sitting meditation, walking meditation, and connecting deeply with nature. Martha had spent years, and continued to spend years, building a profound relationship with a village in the Andes, studying alongside a jovial and compassionate iachak who she writes about in detail in her book which just came out. We will be looking at passages from this book in our upcoming circles. It is beautiful, simple, and powerful, just like all of Martha’s teachings.
What now seems inevitably so, I fell head over heels in love with the course. I think I took three or four courses with her on different occasions during my sojourn at the university.
For years, I had been longing for someone to teach me what the heck meditation really was. By the way people talked about it, I knew it was important. And that it held a key to something I had been searching for. But the way people described how to do it felt desperately foreign and untouchable.
As a 19-year-old, I craved big, face-slapping, body-dunking feelings. I craved romance that would knock me into a ten foot hole. I craved professors who would bestow upon me an epic riddle that would reveal how life really is and who who I really had the capacity to be. I wanted late-night party stories, drowned in alcohol and sparkle dusted with euphoric highs, that could show my infinite propensity for wild, full-bodied living.
And, logically, following this lust for life, my longing for connection to something greater than myself (god? spirit? pachamama? universe?) was saturated with a lust for big, face-slapping revelation. I wanted to know the sun drenched relief of complete peace, the ecstatic bliss of entheogenic connection, the swollen knowing of oneness1.
The face-slapping longing, perhaps needless to say, waltzed in the door hand-in-hand with a hope that these kinds of connections would arrive at the pace of the sensorial highway of tequila shots or a dose of mushrooms or a week-long romance in Portugal. As I read Martha’s course description, I certainly harbored the youthful hope that if I meditated diligently enough, I would jump into the pool of oneness and lock in my connection to the cosmos, brushing aside any slow plodding up the mountain and teleporting to the peak.
Much to the dose of my needed medicine, from the first day, it was clear that Martha’s teachings involved zero shortcuts.
Martha was not a fan of plant medicine, or easy trances, or big, flashy breakthroughs. She didn’t tout fast ecstasy. The methodical simplicity of her teachings almost taunted and laughed in the face of our fast-paced, gratuitous, miracle-seeking culture. She spoke to dedication, practice, and open-hearted connection. She shared simple mantras, techniques on how to focus the breath, methods for walking slowing, observing thoughts, and dedicating oneself to training.
She gave simple, inspiring talks before we meditated. She gave direct instructions on how to sit upon the zafu pillow. She suggested interesting books. She taught us how to notice what arises within and what arises without.
There was no face slapping, body dunking, or otherwise.
We were walking in slow, slow circles around a rather uninspiring building on a patch of lawn surrounded by some trees on the northern campus.
I was hooked.
I could feel from the beginning that this was medicine for my fast-paced, racing self, racing towards some finish line where I could finally experience Life. For my splashing, dunking impulses to bash myself into life so I could really feel something.
I could immediately feel the resounding truth in the simplicity. A confirmation of this nagging feeling that had already developed inside of me, one that whispered maybe there are no real shortcuts. Not for the kind of enduring wisdom and connection I really sought.
Recently I’ve been sitting with the first chapter of The Unlikely Peace at Cuchumaquic by Martin Prechtel, where he describes the way the indigenous youth on his reservation refused to cross finish lines during foot races. It infuriated the white coaches. These boys would beat olympic records and refuse to “win” the race, instead opting to chat, and smoke, and stop to look at things on the side of the trail, and include all neighbors and friends in the race, waiting for them to cross the finish line.
He writes, “Everything in Nature ran according to its own nature; the running of grass was in its growing, the running of rivers their flowing, granite bubbled up, cooled, compressed, and crumbled, birds lived, flew, sang and died, everything did what it needed to do, each simultaneously running its own race, each by living according to its own nature together, never leaving any other part of the universe behind. The world’s Holy things raced constantly together, not to win anything over the next, but to keep the entire surging diverse motion of the living world from grinding to a halt, which is why there is no end to that race; no finish line. That would be oblivion to all.
For the Indigenous souls of all people who can still remember how to be real cultures, life is a race to be elegantly run, not a race to be competitively won. It cannot be won; it is the gift of the world’s diverse beautiful motion that must be maintained. Because human life has been given the gift of our elegant motion, whether we limp, roll, crawl, stroll, or fly, it is an obligation to engender that elegance of motion in our daily lives in service of maintaining life by moving and living as beautifully as we can” (9).
A regular meditation practice feels like this, to me. A continuous race with no finish line, one that we run not to win ecstatic bliss, or personal healing, or an instagram version of self that others can be jealous of. A regular practice is about keeping the entire surging diverse motion of the living universe from grinding to a halt. It is about accessing presence to the gift of our elegant motion, and living lives in service of maintaining Life by moving as beautifully as we can. This beauty is accessed through presence. And presence is accessed through a fierce dedication to all that is beautiful and holy.
Sometimes this meditative movement/non-movement leads to ecstatic bliss, or personal healing, or connection with complete oneness.
But through the simplicity and dedication emphasized in Martha’s practices, she emphasized how this training should not be held in our bodies as a determination to reach these finish lines. These moments of bliss and total peace are components of the flow which come and go like the dance of water. This training is to train. It is the movement of life, where we dedicate our presence to presence, where we try to learn to listen and feel and see. This is a daily, lifelong practice for humans, and is not about glamour and reward. It is about gratitude, and discipline, and a fierce love for all things alive.
Prechtel writes, “For the Indigenous souls of all people who can still remember how to be real cultures, life is a race to be elegantly run, not a race to be competitively won. It cannot be won; it is the gift of the world’s diverse beautiful motion that must be maintained. Because human life has been given the gift of our elegant motion, whether we limp, roll, crawl, stroll, or fly, it is an obligation to engender that elegance of motion in our daily lives in service of maintaining life by moving and living as beautifully as we can.”
As I engaged in the weeks, then years, of walking and sitting meditation practice with Martha and the thirty to forty other dedicated young adults in her class each semester, I found parts of me grounding in the earth and opening to the sky. My heart was opening, my mind was clearing, and I felt more solid and free. I noticed a markedly significant difference between the days I meditated and the days I did not. I noticed a delightful uptick in beautiful synchronicities on the days I was more present. I noticed the awareness that came with clarity.
So, yeah, everything was going pretty well. I was filled with gratitude. However, one day, Martha introduced a new practice. A much more directly animist practice.
Animism is “the belief that objects, places, and creatures all possess a distinct spiritual essence. Animism perceives all things—animals, plants, rocks, rivers, weather systems, human handiwork, and in some cases words—as being animated, having agency and free will” (Wikipedia). (Thank you Wiki for a sweet definition.)
Animism a feature of almost all spiritualities, mystic traditions, and most religions. Animism is normative consciousness, as Joshua Schrei likes to say.
This day, Martha spoke to us of the spirit of the plants right outside the door of our classroom. It was autumn in Michigan, and the air was turning cold, and all of the earth outside of our classroom had a soul.
She asked us to spend some time with a plant of our choice for a good chunk of time. Her instructions were minimal, simple, and slow. We were to listen closely, and maybe, if we slowed down for long enough, something / someone would speak to us.
I was filled with the wildly uncomfortable tension that fills my body when I know I both long for something so deeply and also that I probably won’t be able to attain it. At least, not for a long time and a lot of practice. As she shared her wisdom and understanding of the animacy of the planet, a vast, expanding longing filled my upper belly. I wanted to hear the trees speak to me. All I wanted was to hear the communication of plants and animals. Was this really possible? Could it really happen? Could it happen for me?
I went outside and chose a tree. Maybe she chose me. I couldn’t be quite sure. Everything was so subtle and unclear that I wasn’t sure if I was being led by my mind, as usual, or something else. I sat with that tree for what felt like two creeping hours, listening and longing and listening. What was I waiting for? What would it sound like? Would she sound like a voice? Or a song? Or a dream? Does everyone really have this power? I don’t know if I’m included in that. How do I know if it’s my own mind or imagination? What am I doing here?
The time passed fitfully. My ego took over and I felt full of shame that I couldn’t hear my tree and full of longing to have the abilities of someone else more skilled than myself.
As I stewed in a soup full of morose self judgement, I began to relax and give up.
The sun was already starting to set as autumn began to take back summer’s long days in exchange for winter’s lengthening nights. I felt the nostalgic caress of gold-infused, chilled air on my skin, and smelled the familiar scent of fall time leaves on the wind. Melancholy took over my heart.
A thought arrived soft, subtle, but clear in the emptiness of the liminal message chamber of my consciousness: Change is good. Seasons are change. This tree will lose all of her leaves, and sleep, all to arise in the spring with the euphoria of new blossoms. Change is growth, change is death and rebirth. She is not sad to lose her leaves; the winter is a cherished part of the process. This is the essence of life.
I sat up. I looked closer at my tree.
What was that?
animist forest circles
My teachings are different from Martha’s, but grow from a foundation of the simplicity and refusal of shortcuts that she taught me through practice. I also pull from many other animist teachers I’ve had the honor of working with around the world, as well as through texts and podcasts I’ve cherished.
Animist forest circles is about practicing presence, slowness, and listening in community. It’s about sitting meditation, and walking meditation, and slow, slow walks in the forest that seek to listen on a level that science deems unscientific. It’s about sharing our experiences and singing songs about earth and life.
We journal to music, I guide somatically-focused, animistic meditations, we use simple principles to hone in on the interbeing of everything during the solo forest walk practices, we read excerpts from animist authors, we share in small groups with deep listening, we share in big groups, we teach one another songs. But the heart of it, in the end, is practicing listening to the trees while in community with other humans who are practicing the same.
Back when I first started Other Ways of Being, I only worked with people 1:1. Shortly thereafter, I expanded to Dialogic Circles, drawing from my love of philosophical discussion facilitation as a former humanities teacher. However, in both of these modalities, I found a gaping chasm lingering in the middle of each practice.
Both of these modalities either perpetuated or upheld extremes that our culture has veered towards through the normative value systems of imperial capitalist colonial hegemony: individualism and/or mind work.
Our culture emphasizes the value of solo work that takes place in the mind. We work on our own individual computers, we talk to our own individual therapists in a room to the side, we jog on our own treadmills, we find food by pushing around our own shopping carts, we find intimate time with our friends 1:1 around small tables.
None of these things are bad. But they are certainly not the whole picture of a full Life. Individualism and the mind are tiny scenes in a much grander movie.
In this cultural obsession with individualism and the mind, collective work, as well as work that takes place in the soma and in relationship with the animate forces of the earth, are devalued or rendered invisible, or are simply entirely inaccessible.
For all my years, I had been craving collective work — work with human and non human beings — in nature. The type of work that retrains our bodies and spirits in how to listen, feel, and see.
This is where one real gap is, I thought. A gap that keeps us from getting to the next stage of The Great Turning. This is what my body and soul crave on a daily basis. This is what I cannot get enough of, no matter how many hours I spend in the forest, or in the presence of present people. Why not focus here?
join us
Animist forest circles was born from a desire to have a regular local practice with other humans in training to experience deep presence in nature. I didn’t want to be limited to distant, week-long retreats that left me longing for more, only to experience this special environment once a year. I wanted something every week. A practice. I wanted time, rhythm, and regularity. I wanted a place to commit oneself to longing, awareness, and clarity.
Animist Forest Circles aims to provide a regular, rhythmic place of practice in community.
If you are interested in joining, but would like to hear first from past participants about what it was like for them, please reach out to me at maris.harmon at gmail. I would love to connect you.
If you are a former participant, you are welcome to take 30% off of the price tier where you situate yourself. If you were referred by a former participant, you are welcome to take 15% off the tier where you situate yourself.
Thank you for reading me and being with me.
I look forward to the magic we can create together.
Okay, let’s be real. I still crave all of these things. I don’t want to hide behind my 19-year-old self’s naivety. I think this longing, in relationship with aged nuance and balance, is what brings us closer to god. Anyway, that seems to be what most Rumi poems are saying.