Decades ago, I was a great fan of Carlos Castaneda’s Don Juan books. I say fan, but I was more a follower or devotee, convinced that I, too, could leap into the wonderful world of wizardry. I was about 20 years old then, and although ordinary life did not seem exciting enough, it held out the promise that we could make of it anything – anything at all. UFO’s, peace and love communes, angels and devils, and, of course, Carlos and his Yaqui (Indian) way of knowledge. All of these wonders were possible outside the gray flannel world that my teachers and parents were pushing me towards.
Those were the days when I experimented with anything that could deliver me to another, more exiting reality, and the American Indian way of sorcery, as told by the certified anthropologist Castaneda, seemed the coolest and the most reliable. Castaneda did not hide the fact that there was great danger in the Way of the Warrior, as the name implies. The spirit world, he found, was full of beings incompatible with the human way of thinking. They could be summoned and worked with for great “power,” which is what his American Indian teacher Don Juan told him it was all about, but to gain the power was likened to hunting an animal for food – yes, it gave one power, but it did not want to do so. It could be cajoled or forced into it, and that was the way of the teachings – to gain power without being killed or driven mad.
Fortunately, I never found any power this way, but if we believe Castaneda, he did – and then he went mad. His publisher and his handlers did not want this to be known, but towards the end of his life it became obvious to those who looked into it. For one, his books changed. First, they turned from startling revelations to something more akin to the “Lost” TV series, with lots of additional characters who were involved in a story with no meaningful end. Then they became downright boring, teaching odd dance steps and yoga postures as the concrete “way of the warrior,” which were about as “warrior” as the Good Ship Lollipop. It was apparent that Castaneda, in fact, had gradually given up his writing to someone else, until it was not his at all.
I have a few personal vignettes on him that might be interesting. One, I knew a woman in anthropology who had bought a small bit of land in the Colorado Rockies during the early 70’s hippie movement, when the state was first being “Californi-ized,” along with several of her hippie friends. Most had since sold their lots, but she had retained hers. One day while vacationing there, her ‘tween daughter mentioned meeting an odd man in the nearby hills who, after investigating, turned out to be Carlos himself. I asked the woman what he was like. “Weird” is all she would say. She meant that to mean “so weird that it is uncomfortable talking about him.”
Another happened when I was attending the conference of the hippie wing of the American Anthropological Society in Berkeley @ late ‘90’s. There, a group of people had formed a dance/exercise group supposedly based on Castaneda’s new warrior dances, and they were giving a participation performance (for a fee). I and the woman I was with walked out after about 15 minutes. It was nonsense, a Richard Simmons- like rip-off of the early and exciting Castaneda books, a Led Zeppelin acid rock riff made into elevator music. I was there to tighten my warrior skills, not to tighten my tush.
In the aftermath, I met several people who supposedly knew Castaneda or people who knew Castaneda, and also read the last interview that had been done with him. Although the warrior world is quite different, from our perspective Carlos had gone around the bend with paranoia. Shortly after, he died at the age of 70 from causes unknown. All odd and, again from our perspective, evidence of psychosis.
Or not. I am now on another spiritual quest, this time with the Catholic version of Christianity, and, from an outside perspective, some of the spiritual actions in the Church are not that much different from the Yaqui way of knowledge. The ways and means are certainly different – we are not hunting power from reluctant spirits, but begging for its gentler version, grace, from a god that exists to give, but we are still fighting spirits. Here, there are actual battle lines drawn, positioning the minions of Satan against the angels and saints, the minions of God. It was this mentality that had the Catholic clergy of the Conquest zealously crush American Indian sorcerers like Don Juan. I once hated that about Christianity, but now am more ambivalent. I know very little about the spirit world, but I do know that evil spirits do exist, at least in the mind. Although many of the priests of old used tactics that now are unacceptable, they very well may have perceived real evil in the spiritual practices of others. And if nothing else, they perceived it among themselves.
This I know because I have perceived this evil myself.
For me, it usually comes as an internal voice, like the sneering of a precocious teenager. It mocks anything to do with religion. This happens not only with perfectly normal doubts – for instance, the doubt that Jesus actually was the son of God – but also to fairly benign activities of the Church that require some degree of belief. Late at night, it sometimes shows itself in greater force, playing on any fears or regrets I may have, in an attempt to keep me from any spiritual attachments whatsoever. It might also play to my sense of self-importance, insisting that I would be a fool to give any of my will or belief over to scripture or liturgy, or to anyone else’s idea of truth. It is almost a caricature of evil influence, that little devil on the shoulder telling one to have another piece of cake, but its affects sometimes run deep.
In fact, it would win me over were it not for the counterforce, which is often presented here in these essays. This is the voice of the angel on the shoulder, which tells me golden truths that are so obviously true when spoken that all doubts pop like soap bubbles. It tells me – in a way, shows me – that creation is divine and lit with spiritual force. It tells me that the ultimate creative force is absolute goodness and union. It tells me that evil is short-sighted ignorance mixed with a desperate fury of will without reason, not worthy of consideration. And it assures me that, whatever life is, it does not end, not as we think. There is mystery and surprise there, and, finally, hope that lights the end of the tunnel, however dark it might seem.
Perhaps the goodness seems too saccharin, like simple dream candy, but it is not, not when compared with the evil counterforce. This, in a way, is what makes it so real – that there is a tension behind our being, a battle to be won. It is never dull, never boring, and it lights all with meaning, even in the dark fear of the night.
In fact, this spiritual struggle is much like Castaneda’s, except that is has meaning far beyond a struggle for simple power. It is not about winning magical skills to experience the thrill of life, but rather about gaining power over one’s will to alter the foundation of life and the world beyond life. For the sorcerer Don Juan, living life “impeccably” meant having absolute control over the will to manipulate the spiritual realm, but in the religious quest, gaining control over the will is meant to will oneself to the divine power. Rather than being about gaining personal power, it is about losing it for the attainment of a far greater power that might give nothing in the ways of earth.
The struggles of the spiritual warrior run parallel, but the goals differ. With different goals we use different means, and through both, we become very different people. Religious seekers do not hunt spiritual forces to steal their power, but rather seek to share in a power that only increases for both giver and taker. In this there is cooperation, not winner-take-all competition. This creates someone who gives rather than someone who takes. Because religious seekers are not competing for power in the spiritual world, the tendency in believers is towards less tension rather than more; that is, the closer the seekers get to their goal, the less fear they have because their spiritual target desires and rewards their presence. This would decrease rather than increase the likelihood of paranoia. And the thrill the religious seekers seek is knowledge, knowledge that can bring power but only as an afterthought. It is the kind of power that the Yaqui warrior might not even understand. It is not about personal glory, the way of the egotist, but rather about losing oneself in the glory of the eternal act of creation, which is union and bliss. Loving bliss.
Both ways bring excitement. Of the sorcerer’s ways, I have known of them in South America, and eventually this path leads to competition not only with spirits, but with other sorcerers who wish to steal each other’s power. Of the religious way (as I call it, to include others besides my own), it should and often does lead not only to cooperation, but to insights that exceed those of the sorcerer. For the sorcerer seeks his own will, and so is confined to what his will can accomplish, but the religious seek the will of God, which can accomplish anything.
Such, anyway, is my experience. It is not the same with everyone, but I would say that the way beyond self – that is, the self-less way – is the better of the two for both depth and sanity. As for excitement, both have traits of the Way of the Warrior, but only one makes sense in the end. The other ends like Lost, with a lot of storm and fury and weirdness that signifies nothing.
Decades ago, I was a great fan of Carlos Castaneda’s Don Juan books. I say fan, but I was more a follower or devotee, convinced that I, too, could leap into the wonderful world of wizardry. I was about 20 years old then, and although ordinary life did not seem exciting enough, it held out the promise that we could make of it anything – anything at all. UFO’s, peace and love communes, angels and devils, and, of course, Carlos and his Yaqui (Indian) way of knowledge. All of these wonders were possible outside the gray flannel world that my teachers and parents were pushing me towards.
Those were the days when I experimented with anything that could deliver me to another, more exiting reality, and the American Indian way of sorcery, as told by the certified anthropologist Castaneda, seemed the coolest and the most reliable. Castaneda did not hide the fact that there was great danger in the Way of the Warrior, as the name implies. The spirit world, he found, was full of beings incompatible with the human way of thinking. They could be summoned and worked with for great “power,” which is what his American Indian teacher Don Juan told him it was all about, but to gain the power was likened to hunting an animal for food – yes, it gave one power, but it did not want to do so. It could be cajoled or forced into it, and that was the way of the teachings – to gain power without being killed or driven mad.
Fortunately, I never found any power this way, but if we believe Castaneda, he did – and then he went mad. His publisher and his handlers did not want this to be known, but towards the end of his life it became obvious to those who looked into it. For one, his books changed. First, they turned from startling revelations to something more akin to the “Lost” TV series, with lots of additional characters who were involved in a story with no meaningful end. Then they became downright boring, teaching odd dance steps and yoga postures as the concrete “way of the warrior,” which were about as “warrior” as the Good Ship Lollipop. It was apparent that Castaneda, in fact, had gradually given up his writing to someone else, until it was not his at all.
I have a few personal vignettes on him that might be interesting. One, I knew a woman in anthropology who had bought a small bit of land in the Colorado Rockies during the early 70’s hippie movement, when the state was first being “Californi-ized,” along with several of her hippie friends. Most had since sold their lots, but she had retained hers. One day while vacationing there, her ‘tween daughter mentioned meeting an odd man in the nearby hills who, after investigating, turned out to be Carlos himself. I asked the woman what he was like. “Weird” is all she would say. She meant that to mean “so weird that it is uncomfortable talking about him.”
Another happened when I was attending the conference of the hippie wing of the American Anthropological Society in Berkeley @ late ‘90’s. There, a group of people had formed a dance/exercise group supposedly based on Castaneda’s new warrior dances, and they were giving a participation performance (for a fee). I and the woman I was with walked out after about 15 minutes. It was nonsense, a Richard Simmons- like rip-off of the early and exciting Castaneda books, a Led Zeppelin acid rock riff made into elevator music. I was there to tighten my warrior skills, not to tighten my tush.
In the aftermath, I met several people who supposedly knew Castaneda or people who knew Castaneda, and also read the last interview that had been done with him. Although the warrior world is quite different, from our perspective Carlos had gone around the bend with paranoia. Shortly after, he died at the age of 70 from causes unknown. All odd and, again from our perspective, evidence of psychosis.
Or not. I am now on another spiritual quest, this time with the Catholic version of Christianity, and, from an outside perspective, some of the spiritual actions in the Church are not that much different from the Yaqui way of knowledge. The ways and means are certainly different – we are not hunting power from reluctant spirits, but begging for its gentler version, grace, from a god that exists to give, but we are still fighting spirits. Here, there are actual battle lines drawn, positioning the minions of Satan against the angels and saints, the minions of God. It was this mentality that had the Catholic clergy of the Conquest zealously crush American Indian sorcerers like Don Juan. I once hated that about Christianity, but now am more ambivalent. I know very little about the spirit world, but I do know that evil spirits do exist, at least in the mind. Although many of the priests of old used tactics that now are unacceptable, they very well may have perceived real evil in the spiritual practices of others. And if nothing else, they perceived it among themselves.
This I know because I have perceived this evil myself.
For me, it usually comes as an internal voice, like the sneering of a precocious teenager. It mocks anything to do with religion. This happens not only with perfectly normal doubts – for instance, the doubt that Jesus actually was the son of God – but also to fairly benign activities of the Church that require some degree of belief. Late at night, it sometimes shows itself in greater force, playing on any fears or regrets I may have, in an attempt to keep me from any spiritual attachments whatsoever. It might also play to my sense of self-importance, insisting that I would be a fool to give any of my will or belief over to scripture or liturgy, or to anyone else’s idea of truth. It is almost a caricature of evil influence, that little devil on the shoulder telling one to have another piece of cake, but its affects sometimes run deep.
In fact, it would win me over were it not for the counterforce, which is often presented here in these essays. This is the voice of the angel on the shoulder, which tells me golden truths that are so obviously true when spoken that all doubts pop like soap bubbles. It tells me – in a way, shows me – that creation is divine and lit with spiritual force. It tells me that the ultimate creative force is absolute goodness and union. It tells me that evil is short-sighted ignorance mixed with a desperate fury of will without reason, not worthy of consideration. And it assures me that, whatever life is, it does not end, not as we think. There is mystery and surprise there, and, finally, hope that lights the end of the tunnel, however dark it might seem.
Perhaps the goodness seems too saccharin, like simple dream candy, but it is not, not when compared with the evil counterforce. This, in a way, is what makes it so real – that there is a tension behind our being, a battle to be won. It is never dull, never boring, and it lights all with meaning, even in the dark fear of the night.
In fact, this spiritual struggle is much like Castaneda’s, except that is has meaning far beyond a struggle for simple power. It is not about winning magical skills to experience the thrill of life, but rather about gaining power over one’s will to alter the foundation of life and the world beyond life. For the sorcerer Don Juan, living life “impeccably” meant having absolute control over the will to manipulate the spiritual realm, but in the religious quest, gaining control over the will is meant to will oneself to the divine power. Rather than being about gaining personal power, it is about losing it for the attainment of a far greater power that might give nothing in the ways of earth.
The struggles of the spiritual warrior run parallel, but the goals differ. With different goals we use different means, and through both, we become very different people. Religious seekers do not hunt spiritual forces to steal their power, but rather seek to share in a power that only increases for both giver and taker. In this there is cooperation, not winner-take-all competition. This creates someone who gives rather than someone who takes. Because religious seekers are not competing for power in the spiritual world, the tendency in believers is towards less tension rather than more; that is, the closer the seekers get to their goal, the less fear they have because their spiritual target desires and rewards their presence. This would decrease rather than increase the likelihood of paranoia. And the thrill the religious seekers seek is knowledge, knowledge that can bring power but only as an afterthought. It is the kind of power that the Yaqui warrior might not even understand. It is not about personal glory, the way of the egotist, but rather about losing oneself in the glory of the eternal act of creation, which is union and bliss. Loving bliss.
Both ways bring excitement. Of the sorcerer’s ways, I have known of them in South America, and eventually this path leads to competition not only with spirits, but with other sorcerers who wish to steal each other’s power. Of the religious way (as I call it, to include others besides my own), it should and often does lead not only to cooperation, but to insights that exceed those of the sorcerer. For the sorcerer seeks his own will, and so is confined to what his will can accomplish, but the religious seek the will of God, which can accomplish anything.
Such, anyway, is my experience. It is not the same with everyone, but I would say that the way beyond self – that is, the self-less way – is the better of the two for both depth and sanity. As for excitement, both have traits of the Way of the Warrior, but only one makes sense in the end. The other ends like Lost, with a lot of storm and fury and weirdness that signifies nothing.
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