Feeling Connected Pt. 1

I follow Randy and his wife June, up the winding highway 150 to Ojai. His wife drives like a lunatic and I have to be Mario Andretti to keep up.
Randy is an actor friend and aspiring writer who attends a bi-monthly peyote ceremony in the Ojai valley for his Native American religion. He tells me this is the most profound spiritual experience of his life and urges me to check it out. How can I resist the invitation?
I have always loved and respected Native American pathways and appreciated their tradition and deep connection to the earth and nature. I do harbor a bit of trepidation at the thought of ingesting peyote. I am generally a person who avoids drugs and alcohol, not because I am a prude or a square, I just never liked the idea of that kind of unnatural escape and always thought it would hamper my creativity.
As Randy’s wife, June, Nascars the highway, I begin to feel nauseating fear building in my guts. I am concerned I might be socially pressured to take the drug or fall victim to some Indian faux paux if I am not careful. I don’t want to embarrass Randy and make everyone feel uncomfortable being the only one who doesn’t fully partake in the ritual.
On the drive up, Randy and June pull along the side of the road and Randy tells me he saw “Coyote” cross the road which is a good omen for tonight’s ritual. “Coyote” symbolizes good fortune and a safe trip. A red-tailed hawk is also spotted on the drive which means favorable blessings and self-awareness. They fail to mention though what the omen means for all the flattened bunnies, squirrels, raccoons and other small varmints June leaves in her relentless wake.
Randy is small and wiry with an enormous head. His acting skills are unparalleled but his writing is average. His wife is a very plain, blond woman with a low, subdued energy level and she seems to hold in a lot of emotion, perfectly contrasting Randy, who is very flamboyant and outspoken. I had originally assumed he was gay at our first meeting and was rather astounded when I learned he was actually married to a woman, with real parts and everything.
At a rural site off the highway, we collect long timber poles to construct the teepee. Randy ducks out of the work by talking incessantly with anyone who will listen or by making himself look busy by kicking around in the dust and removing things from the soles of his shoes. His wife vanishes for a while, also opting out of the hard labor which is reserved for the men of the tribe.
We share a peace pipe as we construct the teepee, to appease the spirits. It is not actually a pipe but a small, flat cigarette tied together with string. I am the fifth in line to take a puff. I have never smoked anything so I am clueless how to do this. I just play along trying my best to look reverential so as not to piss of the Road Chief, Rick, a massive, kindly man with a barrel chest and giant brown hands and calves. He appears quiet and humble when you meet him on the street, but at this ceremony he is larger than life, a gargantuan personality who seems to spiritually come alive in his element and drift back into obscurity when trying to re-assimilate into the white man’s world.
The teepee is constructed and other attendants begin to trickle in. It is an earthy crowd, many of the people not looking like they hold down regular jobs. Besides the Chief, his daughter, the Fire Man, and the Drum Man, I think everyone else is white.
I roam off by myself to walk along a river and get in touch with nature and God. I sit quietly by myself and do some simple meditations and prayers. I want to be open and humble for this experience to get the most out of it. I know my cynicism is my own worst enemy and don’t want it to spoil the experience. This is obviously a very sacred ritual to these people and to harbor negative thoughts has always been my undoing.
Alone, out here in the forest, away from everyone, I feel peaceful and connected.
I notice a spotted hawk perched on the roots of a tree that has been swept over in the recent rains. I remove my shoes and cross the river, climbing up on the opposite bank to get a closer look at the hawk. He doesn’t fly away. He doesn’t seem to mind my approach at all. I think to myself, maybe this is another sign; this great bird telling me everything is okay and I am actually close to nature and connected with Mother Earth.
I walk right up to the hawk, and strangely, he doesn’t move, just looks at me. I peer around wondering if this is someone’s domesticated pet. The hawk is massive and beautiful, with a white tail, spotted wings, and bright yellow eyes.
I “pish” at him to show I am not here to harm him. Pishing is a high-pitched, squeaky sound birdwatchers use to connect with birds. The hawk tilts his head sideways inquisitively, when I make the call. He doesn’t show even the slightest ounce of fear.
I look at his wings and talons to see if he is injured but find no signs of external damage.
I gaze around again wondering if this is some joke or someone is taping a hidden camera show. I actually expect the owner to come around a corner yelling, “get away from my bird, jerk!”
I move a few inches closer, making another pishing sound. He stays in that exact spot, only shuffling his talons a little on the branch.
I hold out my index finger as you do with a parrot when you want him to perch on you. I think of the majestic thrill of being connected to this great raptor and having him sit on my finger. He just watches my finger, deeply interested. I move it toward his spotted white belly, pishing quietly again. He looks into my eye as if he has known me for ages. He sees through all my insecurities, my limitations, my human frailties. For him, I am only another creature of the forest. I represent no predatory threat or challenge. I think of the great St. Francis of Assisi and his amazing spiritual advancement where he could commune with wildlife and they would follow him around like Dr. Doolittle. I understand that when you are in tune with the Divine, nature automatically obeys. I was beginning to sense that I, myself, despite my failings and cynicism, was perhaps truly a spiritually advanced soul who had finally attained mastery over beasts of the field and birds of the sky.
I move my index finger right up to the spotted hawk’s belly, pressing it against the downy feathers. My eyes are like poached eggs; like a kid at his first big Christmas.
Then he pecks the shit out of me.
He freakin’ annihilates my finger.
He grips it in his razor-sharp beak and doesn’t let go for what seems like forever.
The hawk issues a piercing shriek and flies off, brushing my cheek with his wing as he goes.
For a moment I am stunned. I can’t believe he did such a thing. We were getting along so well. My finger is throbbing. The bird instantly shatters my delusion of being at one with nature. I look up and catch a glimpse of him disappearing over the tree line. What an asshole. You build up a man’s hopes like that, then yank the rug out from under his feet.
I hold my bleeding finger under the freezing water of the creek. There is a gash right at the joint that oozes blood. The pain continues to throb dully.
I am not really sure what my intention was at having a wild hawk perch on my finger, and after about twenty seconds, after I get over the shock of it, the whole idea seems really rather idiotic. Completely idiotic, as a matter of fact. What the hell was I thinking?
Ever notice how lots of things don’t seem that idiotic until you actually do the idiotic thing and look back and go, “hey, that was really freakin’ idiotic”?
Sometimes it’s too late to know you were an idiot at the time until after you are an idiot and realize it. Words of wisdom. You can write that down if you like.

Later that night, inside the teepee, the Fire Man burns wood in the center of the dirt floor with cedar incense which is supposed to curb the feelings of nausea which can accompany ingesting the peyote, the key ingredient being mescaline.
We sit in a wide circle around the fire. I was told to bring a few pillows and a blanket but I have forgotten. I use my sweatshirt to pad my seat. For now this suffices.
Rick, the Road Chief, starts off with a short prayer: “I am going into my place of worship. Be with us tonight, oh Creator.”
I end up being seated right next to Rick and his sister, Glenda, a heavy-set, simple woman who smiles a lot but doesn’t say much. She passes me this tea that tastes like clay and I take a sip and pass it. They begin chanting as the Drum Man beats the drum. The tea is passed again and I take another sip. This tea seems to have a relaxing effect as I can feel my pulse rate slow, the thrumming of the blood in my veins at my neck keeping beat with the steady thud of the drum. A warm, mellow feeling washes over my body blanketing every fiber of my frame.
Glenda passes me peyote which looks like slices of a dark-colored mushroom. I notice everyone wolfing this stuff down like it’s going out of style. I look at Randy as he sways and chants, his eyes closed, in some kind of deep trance.
The humming vibrations of the chanting bore deep in my chest. I can feel my ribs quivering. I try to play along as the Fire Man is now using the flaming coals to fashion amazing designs on the floor of the teepee. He creates a flaming mountain. Then he creates what looks like a coyote. Then an inverted deer. Glenda keeps passing me peyote and notices my constant squirming as the pain in my knees and ankles from sitting for so long in one spot grows unbearable.
“Take more peyote. I will help relax you,” she says quietly.
I am relaxed. Don’t I look like I’m relaxed? She didn’t know I am stuffing the peyote underneath my sweater. After a while I have a big pile of the stuff under me and I am worried how I am going to dispose of it before the Road Chief sees me and gives me a sound boxing to the ears.
It is about at this point that alarming numbers of the congregation begin to vomit into the dirt in front of them. Randy had explained this is people upchucking their sins and impurities, a direct result of the peyote ingestion which forces everyone to face their own hidden demons. For right now, I am okay with my sins, demons and whatnot just so long as I didn’t have to hurl my guts out in front of strangers on the dirt floor of the teepee. This only proves to heighten my fear of eating the drug.
The drum finally reaches me. Each person has a turn to pound on it and do their own personal chant. Everyone gets into the groove and knows the lingo, letting the Great Spirit guide their words and song.
When the drum comes to me, I kind of look around for some guidance but no one seems to offer any. The Chief’s sister motions to the drum as I sit in dumb silence holding it between my knees like my pecker. Finally I belt out the only Indian chant I know from childhood, “Hiawatha! Hiawatha! Hiawatha! Hiawatha!” while banging on the drum like a cretin. A few white people shoot me scornful looks like they think I’m not being serious. No one else seems to notice or care or are too embarrassed or stoned to look at me and make a scene. Some are busy vomiting, and for a moment I think this is a direct result of my pathetic chant. I look at Randy to make sure he isn’t giving me the stink-eye, and fortunately, he is whacked out of his mind, swaying too and fro and humming something unintelligible.
I am not sure if it is the strange tea or the chanting or the drumming or the smoky ambiance of the cedar incense but there are rare moments when I am taken away and feel I am in touch with that deeper place I saw on the mountain when I looked inside myself in deep meditation. I suddenly feel at one with this motley group of white people who want to be Indians.
Then I begin hallucinating.
The Fire Man spins an incredible flaming eagle on the floor that rises up like the Phoenix, out of the ashes and hovers in the center of the teepee. I look around to see if anyone else notices this apparition and everyone is off in dreamland, chanting and swaying. Then I am suddenly lifted off the dirt floor!