The Ache is the Path You Must Take

I left the land and community where I lived for 13 years, just a couple years back.  I held a farewell show called Life//Death//Life to honor my community, to employ my gifts, and to garner loving support on my move across the country.

The show was born out of an ache.  An ache that I couldn’t quit.  Couldn’t douse in sugar. Couldn’t drown in alcohol.  Couldn’t Netflix my way out of.  One of those nasty, persistent, deep-in-the-soul, do-I-really-have-to-do-this type aches.

And I was wise to resist it.  I was validated in why I didn’t want to put the show on.  And why I had to do it anyway.

I was humiliated many times during the process of putting that show on.  A reporter from the local newspaper wanted to know why I was charging $25 a ticket and who did I think I was demanding that kind of money.  A close friend told me they couldn’t participate in the show because it didn’t feel like it was in alignment with their values.  I printed out 125 programs that I thought people would purchase.  I still have about 100 in storage. 

I was deeply embarrassed, ashamed and humiliated many times in that short 6-week journey of putting on that performance. 

And. 

I survived. 

I survived it all. 

Survived the reporter. Survived my friend.  Survived the printing cost.  Survived.

And each time became a little lighter.  Each time learned that I’m that much more resilient.  That the worst thoughts that I can have about myself are never the totality of me.  But I am a wild and multitudinous bouquet of all that is.  The parts I love and the parts that I am still learning to love. 

(And it was a fucking BRILLIANT show!  One of the most beautiful things I’ve ever been a part of and it expanded my capacity and taught me to trust myself, my ache, my life.)

David Richo has a book called How to Be an Adult.  Its amazing. 

In it, there’s a section called Declarations of Healthy Adulthood.  And one of those declarations has been painted on the inside of the cave walls of my heart:

I am free enough to let my every word and deed reveal who I am.  I love being seen as me.

Say it out loud.

I am free enough to let my every word and deed reveal who I am.  I love being seen as me.

I am free enough to let my every word and deed reveal who I am.  I love being seen as me.

I am free enough to let my every word and deed reveal who I am.  I love being seen as me.

And sometimes.  There’s a giant fucking ACHE that prevents us, that prevents ME, from letting my every word and deed reveal who I really am.

I get afraid of the idea of what will happen when I let my every word and deed reveal who I am. 

So, I hedge. I hide. I wait. I invent reasons not to.  I postpone.  I fill my time with other things.  Often worthwhile, beautiful things.  People.  Projects.  Relationships.

 

But. 

 

There’s still an ache.

 

And no amount of running around and scurrying in the family, in the community, in my business will satisfy the throb of that ache.  The ache of my own soul’s turmoil inside my chest.  Slamming, banging, pounding to be let out and to be free to run and romp and definitely fuck my tidy plans up.

 

The Ache is the Path you Must Take. 

 

What the heck?! 

 

And its relentless. 

 

The soul is relentless.

 

And its sights are high.

 

And your vehicle as it stands right now is not suited for the journey.

 

And it must be changed, transformed, refined and even sometimes, humiliated, to become the vehicle that will take you where your soul wants to take you. 

 

Putting on Life//Death//Life was an ache that I could not ignore and it brought me directly into my fears and I felt their teeth against my skin and felt the heat of my blood drip but soon each of those bites mended and the next bites were all gummy-toothed and sweet.  No punctures.  No blood.  Just a little less fear at the next nippings.

 

I’ve got aches.  I’ve got pains.  And its not the standard 39-year-old aches and pains of a stiff low back and hamstrings tight as therabands.

There’s a book of poetry that is WAILING inside my gut to “HURRY UP!” and “YOU DON’T GET TO DECIDE!” and “THIS ISN’T EVEN ABOUT YOU!”

There’s a whole onslaught of resources, materials, inspirations, podcasts, interviews, worksheets, rituals, celebrations, courses, journals and books that I am ready to pour into a community of people who want to give their gifts more fully, more boldly, and in the loving support of a community of others endeavoring to do the same.

And this ache, this sacred ache inside of me, is no longer satisfied with the meager rations I’ve been giving it. 

 

There’s an Ache.  And it’s the path I must take.

 

Love,

Peter McLean

 

PS.  If any of this resonated with you, would you send me a quick note?  Could be simple as a heart emoji or that pukey-green-face-I’m-gonna-be-sick emoji.  Or even a giraffe. I’ll know.

PPS.  If any of this resonated and you want me to send you a link that would give you free access to the course I am putting together called Transformation, just respond back with the word Transformation and I’ll make sure you get the link when the course is complete. 

PPPS. If you’d like to be sent a poem of mine, respond back with HOWL in the email. I’d love to send you one. I’ll probably read it and send the audio version too.

Avalanche Creek -- Autumn 2022

I can’t comprehend what our ancestors learned from careful study of the natural world.  It began there.  With careful study and observation.  Over long periods of time.  Or said another way.  Through deep care and devotion. 

Through deep care and devotion we learned what the forest sounds like when a large cat is coming.

Through deep care and devotion we learned which plants and trees are good for making baskets.

Through deep care and devotion we learned which vines, which mushrooms, which cacti can bring us into deep connection with the Great Spirit. 

Through deep care and devotion we learned to sing, tell stories, dance, make art, make love, raise shelters, raise families, eat well, grieve our sadness, learn our boundaries through our anger, and to love and to love and to love.

 

I felt our ancestors with us yesterday.  In the divinely timed thunderclaps.  When the fire would pop or fall apart.  When the rains came in.  When the rains moved off.  When the sun shone.  When Mt Sopris showed snow.  When the dippers flew chattering and fast over the giggling crystal river.  When the red earth caught our feet.  When the smoke teared my eyes.  When the stones held their heat.  When the stellar’s jays squawked and chided.  When the caramel vanilla aroma caught my nose off the ponderosas.

I felt our ancestors.

I felt your ancestors.  In each of you.

In your honesty.  Courage.  Bravery.

In your tenderness.  Vulnerability.  Disclosure.

In your 2 Year Vintage Poetry composed and kept and brought up from the cellar for us to bubble on.

In your watercolor painting of submission, acceptance, and dancing with the rain and wind.

In your Mountain Climbing Manifesto penned in mythopoetics.  A man’s mantra for remembering the secret names of the divine. 

I saw your ancestors In your heart breaking for land, for humanity, and the gulf we get to bridge between the two.

In your willingness to see the gifts hidden in blindness and the courage to ask for them by name.

In your unabashed acknowledgment of your magic hidden and in full 6’5” display.

In your quiet, humble, contentment with self, the alchemy of water into broth, and the deep aquifer of self-love required to enjoy such a miracle.

In your earnest longing to become an elder, to become what you are surely on the path to be becoming. 

And in my fear, my human fear, my fear born of a desire to provide, a fear that is not unique to me, to this time, but has been around for as long as hunger has.

 

My prayers for us are simple.  We treat ourselves with deep love, deep respect, deep gentility.  And.  That when we hear the roaring, we move towards it. 

That when we meet the big hairies and the big scaries, we learn their names, ask what they need, and give where we can.

That we give and we give and we give and we give.

Even though.

We might not SEE the sacred mountains.

As we thought we would. 

As we hoped we would.

As maybe we were promised.

But that we give nonetheless. 

That our lives are lived in earnest offering to bring ourselves, our communities, our descendants to the Sacred Mountains, to the Sacred Lake, that they may see it, experience it, even if it means, even AS it means, we may never see the Sacred Mountains or Lakes for ourselves. 

This is our contribution.  This is our offering.  This is our gift.  Our thank-you to those that came before.  Our gift to those who we are bringing in. 

And.

Our contribution. 

Does not have to be massive.

But.

It has to be honest.

And honest contributions are often born from honest pain.

Like Davis showed us, we give what we are wishing we received. 

Let our broken hearts be the guides into our gifts, our contributions, our honest effort in bringing the Sacred Mountains just a step closer.

Each moment is a moment.

To bring them closer.

By listening to a lover.

Patience with a child.

Courage inside a family structure.

Each moment is a moment to move through the meadow.

To give an eye.

To stand in the center of the new place, quiet, and listen for what to do.

Each moment.

Each moment. 

Each moment. 

 

Thank you for sharing such beautiful, honest, and human moments together yesterday. 

My heart is full.  My fire tended.  My head bowed.

 

 

Peter McLean

A Watershed of Love

Fall Equinox, give or take, 2022

I moved to the Connecticut River Valley on March 28th, 2010, my 25th birthday.

I’ll be moving to the Lake Pend Oreille watershed of Sandpoint Idaho by February 28th, 2023.

1 month shy of 13 years.

That’s 4,720 days of living here. That’s 168 new moons. 168 full. That’s 24 equinoxes. 24 solstices. 12 birthdays. 1 back surgery. 7 winter squash harvests. 7 seasons of wash, pack, deliver. 7 incredible farm crews. Lived in 6 apartments. 2 tiny house locations.

Countless swims in Lake Acadia, the Levenger’s Pond, the Upper Hadley Reservoir, Lithia Springs, the Fort River, the Mill River, the Swift River, the Westfield, Buffum Falls, Mormon Hollow Brook, Cranberry Pond, Cranberry Brook, the Sawmill River, the Quabbin Reservoir, Pumpkin Hollow Brook, Lake Wyola, Fiske Pond, Dunbar Brook, Spalding Brook, Tully Lake, The DAR, Ashfield Lake, the South River, The Conway swimming pool, The Chesterfield Gorge, the Green River, the Deerfield River, likely more riverine lovers whose names and nights I don’t remember in this moment. And the mother of them all, the all-accepting, ever gracious, Connecticut River.

I’ve taken my tears and my grief and my giddiness and my despair, my loneliness, my joy, my overflowing love to Rattlesnake Knob, Rattlesnake Gutter, Pigpen Ledges, Long Mountain, Mt Orient, Norwottuck, Bear, Tink, Little Tink, Mt Tom, Goat Peak, Mt Toby, Stoddard Hill, The Horse Caves, the dogbane patch, the fen where Ben laid down on the ice shelf and watched the February water flow.

I’ve taken my heavy hearted prayers all along the meadow between Pomeroy and Potwine.

I fished the rock dam during the shad run. Didn’t catch anything but jock itch.

I walked the sandplains at dawn listening for gobblers and god.

I saw bear prints in the mud at Bennet Meadows.

I ate mushrooms and floated down from Vernon dam to Munn’s Ferry.

I harvested fatwood from downed pines, pitch and white.

I built a house and moved it twice.

Lived with water.

Lived without.

Grew food.

Grew mold.

Grew good.

Grew old.

I’ve walked for days in the rain with Willie and Foxy and cried for 3 hours when we reached the closed visitor’s center.

I’ve walked from the Notch to Puffer’s Pond.

I’ve walked from my house to the post office.

I’ve walked.

And I’ve driven.

God, have I driven.

I drove to Hawley and learned how to drink and party and play stump and toss up a timber frame.

I drove to Wendell State forest to sit between two brooks and be baptized by a well-aimed raindrop.

I drove to the Sunderland Corner Store for a good year and a half.

I was a walking sausage, egg and cheese for a good stretch there.

I’ve made fires for myself and others.

I’ve made fires I didn’t light.

I made fires I kept burning for 4 nights.

I’ve made fires I light and forget to tend.

I’ve made coals from friction.

Read loads of non-fiction.

And can recite Carl Sandburg’s Wilderness with imperfect diction.

I’ve commissioned 6 embroideries.

Made 3 myself.

I’ve come home to a fire already made in my house.

I’ve come home to a gift of a giant burl and not known who left it.

I’ve come home to a bundle of dogbane scraped and placed on my porch.

I’ve come home to James Frank doing Tai Chi under the walnut.

I’ve come home to a Foxy dog wagging and wanting.

I’ve come home.

I’ve come home.

I’ve come home.

And now.

I’m leaving home.

I’m leaving home.

I’m leaving home.

And I don’t know yet how to say thanks.

Because, you see, none of the beauty above, did I find or make or encounter or experience, completely by myself.

There is a story.

For each memory.

And each story has a cast of characters.

How do I say thanks to Neill for showing me fire?

How do I say thanks to Dan and Karen for the wagonfuls of love?

How do I say thanks to Norwottuck, the glacier, Lake Hitchcock and the hike Tamsin and Suz and I walked that brought me there?

How do I say thanks?

How do I say thanks for the guys at Sibies who would write the Celtics’ score on the outside of my sub sandwich wrapper when I worked the door at the Moan and Dove?

How do I say thanks?

How do I say thanks to Greg for living his life like an oak tree who’s canopy I can always see?

How do I say thanks to Judy for sending me out and bringing back in a way that will be forever changing my life?

How do I say thanks to Erica for her song, her sapping with me, her holding circle with me, her never ending flow of beauty?

How do I say thanks?

How do I say thanks for all the meals, all the visits, the hand massages, the bedside cries when my back was fucked and my spirit despairing?

How do I say it?

How do I say thanks for these lungs that heave and hug my ribs and that my ribs were made to float and protect?

How do I say thanks for miracles?

How do I say thanks to Al and Suzanne for being land, for being earth animated as people, for accepting their role and stepping into it even more?

How do I say thanks to Lawrence? For always being there, always being there, always being there. For me. And for about 500 more. How?

How do I do it?

How do I say thanks to Magdalena, Kate and Kyra?

How do I say thanks to Nate, Andrew, Willie, Greg, Martin?

Anna, Sky, Tamara, Billy?

To Walker and his iron mule?

To Ryan and his home moving skills?

How do I say thanks to Becca for opening her land to me while the Covid Moment was in full swell?

And to Rich and Susan who helped me land and build my house in their precious Eden?

And to the women I’ve loved and the women that have loved me?

How do I say thanks for holding my heart so well?

How do I say thanks to all the circles I’ve been invited to sit in?

How do I say thanks to everyone who’s ever joined me in an effort?

How do I say it?

How do I sing it?

How do I dance it?

How do I moan it?

Cry it?

Whimper it?

Grieve it?

Cleave it?

Heave it?

Believe it?

How?

How does one swim in 60 waters — and leave?

How does one swim in love — and leave?

How does one walk trails, walk paths, walk tree lines, field edges, waterlines, riversides, and deep divides — and leave?

Can I bring all this with me?

Can I bring all of you with me?

Can you keep some of me here with you?

Can these rivers carry some of me after I’ve left?

Can these mountains hold me in their ore?

Can you hold me in your heart?

Can I hold you in mine?

Can I believe that I’ve been saying thanks? That I’ve been saying I love you? That I’ve been squaring my tab?

Can I believe that?

Does the sunflower go through turmoil as it collects the sun’s rays on its way to death, its way to leaving?

Can I trust that my dropped antlers have been just enough and are feeding just enough mouse and vole?

Can I?

Its hard to leave this place. These people.

I don’t know my shape in any other tank.

I don’t know what the watershed of Sandpoint will make of me, or I of her.

I don’t know what ponderosa pine pitch smells like.

I don’t know where my trails are for my grief walks.

I don’t know where my swims are that mark the big moments, the sad moments, the hard moments.

I don’t know where the dogbane patch is. Where the basswood can be harvested. Where the folks are that want to gather around the fire.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

All I know is — I’m leaving.

And I’m sick about it.

And I don’t know how to say goodbye to a place a people a land after almost 13 years.

But.

One thing I do know.

Is that I am innnnnnnnnnnnn looooovvvvvvvvveeeeeeeee.

In love.

On love.

Under love.

Tucked up and wrapped in mountain-textile love.

Stuffed with the abuela’s homemade recipe love.

Illuminated by a hundred thousand flickering candles of love.

I am in love.

I am of love.

I am more love than I am bone.

I am more love than I am skin.

I am more love than water!

Than frykkin’ WATER!

I am walking love.

And I have one person to thank for that.

Well…

I guess that’s not true now that I think about it.

I have hundreds of thousands of people to thank for this great love that my four tires are spinning helplessly in.

Hundreds of thousands of hands to shake, cheeks to kiss, necks to hug.

Hundreds of thousands of fires to start, tend and bring wood to.

Hundreds of thousands of gatherings to call and invite these people to.

And this is my life now. The manifestation of that desire to say thanks.

To all the ancestors that watched and waited and learned the ways. The ways of animals and plants, sky and stars, trees and seas, shelter and shine.

To Kelly’s ancestors.

To my ancestors.

This is my thank you.

This is how I say Thank You for bringing my love to me and me to my love.

This is how I say thanks to this land. These people. This community.

By playing my role in this great chain.

My Thank You is my life.

My Thank You is why I call us into circle.

My Thank You is why I want us to talk and share and gather and encourage and love each other.

Because.

Without the fires lit, the food hot, the spirit bright in the hearts, I would not have made it.

My ancestors would not have made it.

Kelly would not have made it.

Her ancestors would not have made it.

We live our lives in beauty now to support love finding love in our descendants.

Keep it up.

Keep making it hard to leave.

Keep living lives of beauty and wonder and artistry.

It keeps us alive.

It keeps us fed.

It keeps us warm.

And it brings love to the fore.

That’s my Thank You.

Bringing love to the fore.

May it find you.

And buoy you.

And may your uplifted, buoyant spirit bring another up.

And another.

And another.

Love radiating up and out.

I have so much to learn.

I am grateful to keep trying.

Keep practicing.

Keep remembering that every moment is available for love.

I lost track of that painfully the other day on a call with a dear friend, Andrew.

I was reminded of it again by the grace in his approach to our repair.

My life is rich with people who bring love to the fore.

Rich rich rich.

And rivers too.

And mountains too.

And meadows, and forests, and farms, and neighborhoods.

And soon.

I’ll bring you all with me out to Idaho.

Out to the rivers, the flowers, the moose beds, and mountain rain showers.

I am not traveling light.

I’m bringing a watershed of love with me.

I hope you enjoy the ride.

Thanks for reading,

Peter McLean

Love and Wisdom: Earned, Burned and Learned -- A Correspondence

Some back story here.

Kelly and I were offering our Lindworm Retreat last month and there was a moment of great discovery, great opportunity, that was accompanied by great fear. As the facilitator of the space, I listened closely and began to prepare my response when one of the participants stepped in and shared a context for us all to orient around that almost immediately dissolved the fear that had just been so present.

It was a wake up call for me. I told my friend, mentor, collaborator, Ash Jansen, about the moment.

Below is her hard earned wisdom set to her characteristic, poetic score.

Hello Peter Philip,

I’m chug chug chugging along on a train to New London, Ct. and thinking about you and what you shared about the Lindworm retreat. I obviously don’t know the details and you’re right to acknowledge your limitations (i.e. lack of experience) with the ways the underworld and other worlds can be expressed in the deep work of soul. And you know me, Pete, I’m no phd but i have some indigenous wisdom around that. I say indigenous because I recently read that Science dismisses indigenous wisdom as “anecdotal”.

Well how about that.

It occurs to me that pretty much the only wisdom I’m drawn to is anecdotal. Get that text book out of my face. I want to know what people’s bones know. Tell me what happened to your hands. To your feet. Mouth. Belly. “nether parts” (god I love a good euphemism). And I don’t mean to throw the baby out with the bathwater. I’m on the receiving end of a lot of scientific gifts. If I’m in a car accident you know where to take me and it isn’t to a shaman. At least not first.

So I’m writing to say, for whatever it’s worth, here’s some stuff I’ve learned from experiences beyond normal consciousness….

When we crack open give us ground. (we may need to run, eat some meat, get our hands in a garden or to lie down, be moved into a restorative yoga pose, who knows but be listening to your inner guidance as well)

Do your best to track what’s happening verbally. It may sound like a big word salad but listen to the language and listen for the feeling underneath it.

The cracking is like the crowning of a baby’s head in birth. It’s not that something is starting. It’s that it’s breaking through to the surface. A seed cracks its container and then roots in the dark for awhile before shooting up and sprouting on the surface.

Keep the container for what’s happening simple. Trust it. Offer water. Something sweet maybe. Pay attention to your surroundings. The more than human world offers support, too.

Lastly: remember the one before you is kin. A brother, sister, auntie, nephew, grandfather, daughter etc… What looks like mental illness or instability is its own intelligent response to what’s being experienced. There is deep creativity at work often. When you reflect back on what happened, what you witnessed during the retreat, substitute the one it happened to/through with one of your sisters. Notice any difference in your response? You know your sisters and you know your love is bigger and can hold whatever is happening. Ask yourself when have I been like this? The “volume” may be louder but the song is recognizable.

And… Of course there may be situations that are dire. If someone is violent or you sense that violence is imminent do get help AND stay in relationship as best you can. There may also be situations when someone goes catatonic or seizes. Again, there’s an intelligence at work. Deepen your breath. S l o w D o w n - even as you move efficiently. Slowing down is a function of awareness not speed.

These events are rare and unlikely. If it feels helpful and gives you peace of mind, you can have people sign waivers releasing you from any responsibility.

And listen, these are just some ashes from my times with fire. I’m not suggesting I’m the expert in the room or that I’d know what to do in every situation. What I’m hoping to do is to help you remember what you know. Who you are. How you love. People will look to you to gauge how they should react. Children do that with parents a lot. Know what you know. Know what you don’t know and be willing to engage that. Love love love. Not soft and diaphanous love but that lovelikearock that is undeniable and indestructible.

Like my love for you.

xo ash

Walking My Limp

Walking My Limp

Late August, 2022


Robert Bly has a poem called My Father’s Wedding and in it he writes about the necessity to “walk your limp”. He goes onto say,


Then what? If a man, cautious,
hides his limp,
somebody has to limp it. Things
do it; the surroundings limp.
House walls get scars,
the car breaks down; matter, in drudgery, takes it up.


I feel this part deeply. I feel what happens when I don’t live my true and authentic life even if, and as, my tracks show my limp, show my humanity, show the real and honest and truthful shape of who I am. Who I am in that moment. In that never ever ever again moment.


Why am I afraid of being seen in my striving and becoming?


Why am I afraid of placing myself on the evolutionary chart?


What will happen when you see me? More fully? In this passing passing passing passing phase/moment/blush of my life?


Do I mistrust you all THAT much?


Do I think I have you all duped THAT much?


That the moment the spell I’ve bound you in breaks due to seeing the truth of my limpy walk that you’ll all leave me? You’ll all demand a refund in our relationship?


I sit in a men’s group on Monday nights and thank god and goddess that we have almost as much gray hair in the group as we do brown, blonde, and red. Because. One of these grayhaired sages was listening to me and wrapped it all up in saying,


”Sounds like you’re on your path of learning to love yourself.”


That’s it.


But how do I love these limpy parts?


How do I recognize my beautiful self in all of them?


In my resentment and rage that can boil just under the surface so quickly and so often.


Love that? How?


Rilke-style.


I can’t answer that question.


I have to live that question.


I don’t just have to, I get to!


I get to Where’s-Waldo the beauty and innocence and sweetness and well-meaning nature of that stifled rage.


I get to!

I get to!

I get to!



What tracks are you afraid to show in the sand?

What limp do you not want the world to see as you continue to become?

And what is limping it instead? A relationship, a project, a home?

Do you believe that your limp, whatever it is, is deserving of love?

Can you imagine a being who loves you deeply, sees you clearly, and knows the depths of your pure heart?

How would they speak to your limp?

What quality of shade would their canopy offer?

What song would they warble to your limp?

What poem would they pen to your limp?

What kind of echo would they offer off their canyon walls to your limp?

What kind of bath would they draw for your limp?

What kind of candlelit meal would they prepare for your limp?

How long would they go down on your limp?

What kind of garden would they plant for your limp?

What kind of home would they build for your limp?

What kind of cloth would they drape around your limp?

What hidden and beautiful nature spot would they bring your limp to?

What dance craze would sweep tiktok based on your limp?

What would the Pope need to know so he knew it was safe to limp?

What would the tree that you used to climb outside your grandma’s house say to your limp?

And.

If you had to walk your limp today, what dress, what embroidered shirt, what fur, what pair of earrings, would you want highlighting your incredible gait?

I think the truth is we have no fucking idea what we are hiding from the world. What we are hiding might be the best fucking part. Might be the hottest, sexiest, juiciest part. Might be.. just might be.

Thanks for reading.

Peter McLean