Quest

I’m walking Hergest Ridge with a friend when she asks about my recent Vision Quest in Longsleddale Valley. She feels confused by the term and her question carries a hint of skepticism. I take a deep breath and begin with my winding drive through the valley, the glorious banks of bluebells, sheep roaming within hand-crafted stone walls. And then my arrival at base camp where I’m greeted by Jon and a beautiful dog, Bran, who joins in our human embrace with his long elegant legs and heart-tending paws. 

“What do you need?” Jon asks.

“Exactly this,” I reply. “Energy of dog.”

It is the first of several wishes granted during an extraordinary ten days. Days that seem hard to describe to a friend rooted in the language and theory of Christian tradition. As my story gathers pace and I mention sitting in council, she seems irritated by the unfamiliar phrase. 

“Just talking then,” she says, with an edge. 

“Not just talking; we create a deep listening space where humans and the rest of nature become like a sacred ear.”

“Talking and listening then,” she sums up, intent on rendering it mundane.

And it’s true that council does feel natural and innately human, but also revelatory and divine. To be in circle with others, to pass a talking piece hand-to-hand, to speak and be heard, to listen and bear witness - these simple, deliberate acts open up a field of consciousness where transformation takes place.

Within the circle of humans sits a circle of stones, one for each of the four directions. The stones anchor us, and the qualities of each direction are represented by objects placed in the centre on an animal hide. It is here that ancient ritual meets current intent and the field becomes alive and spontaneous. When Bran dances up and drinks water from the shells placed in the south, he is a welcome part of the ritual. Imagine doing that with the communion wine in one of our more rigid churches. 

As each person speaks, they reveal the material within them that needs attention, nudged along by the gentle and precise interventions from our seasoned guides. I receive several such nudges from Jon in the form of a word repeated, emphasised, reflected back. ‘Matter’ - ‘mutter’ - ‘mother’. Questions arise. What did it mean to matter so much to my mother? How do I matter to myself now?

“But what did it give you?” my friend asks, impatient with my esoteric mumblings. 

I move on to describe my solo time, perched in a tent on the hillside in battering wind and rain. She asks about the challenge of days without food. I tell her it was easy, surprisingly so, and helped draw my attention towards ritual. There is no plan, no blueprint, it’s just you and the relationship you create with inner and outer nature. ‘Self-generated ritual’ is just a way to describe the practices and processes that emerge. You trust what comes and you follow your own guidance during four spacious days and nights, a full symbolic circumference of the medicine wheel. 

“But what did you get from it?” my friend asks again.

“Solo time is a mystery of one’s own making. It’s when the matter in me meets the matter out there and the alchemy that happens,” I explain, repeating a phrase that came out of me during a council session.

With each explanation, my friend waves a dismissive hand - or so I imagine - and repeats her question. We run through: ‘clarifying my intention’;  ‘psychological shift’; ‘a feeling of peace’; and land on ‘an experience of wholeness’. This last statement gets a positive reaction, but she wants ‘wholeness’ to be a permanent state. I propose that we move in and out of such states and this is part of being human. But we can build a practice and we can peel away obstructions. A shift that seems minute to the casual observer can feel seismic within. Quest as gateway drug to life’s true intoxication.

“But you could do a quest on your own and not pay,” my friend reasons. 

“You could,” I reply, “but you would miss the mysteries of council and the support of guides, and I haven’t even got to the miracle of return.”

If preparing for quest is like ploughing the ground of one’s psyche so the seeds of solo time take root, then return is a sweet taste of future harvest. How glorious it is to walk back down the hillside, pause by the rushing river, receive the innocent stare of a lamb tucked in her damp field crevice, and then step back into circle.

‘To tell your human story, relieved of the burden of meaning, is a great gift,’ I write in my journal. By this, I mean sharing the story of solo time and being mirrored by a guide. When my story returns to me via Alex, the cohesive, detailed wonder of it releases tears and a bow of gratitude. Pieces of me align; base metal turns to gold; the alchemy has taken place, but the burnishing of this gift, the nourished embodiment, will be mine.

I choose not to share my intention, my rituals on the hill, or the details of return with my friend. The ground between us isn’t ready. I lapse into generalities and she grows quiet. At one point, she stops, closes her eyes, and listens to the wind soughing in the trees. 

“There, I say. That is quest. The message that the wind brings through the pine.”

“No message,” she replies, but her whole being has softened and become calm.