Once.
Then.
Now.
On
a cool November night in 1964, older Boy Scouts orchestrated the drama in the
darkness. I sat on the ground with a
group of initiates in a small amphitheater in the edge of the woods above the lake. In the
chilled silence, the darkness seemed absolute until a small flame appeared on
the other shore of the lake. It drifted slowly across the lake. As the flame
approached the shore below the amphitheater it became a torch casting a dim
light and revealing a war canoe paddled by eight Indians. Thus began our induction
into the Order of the Arrow (an honor society for Boy Scouts, to recognize
experienced Scouts and to develop camping craft and instill values like
service to others and personal self-discipline).
As the Scouts attired in buckskin and feathers walked into
the amphitheater a flaming arrow zipped from above us and into a fire pit,
alighting a bonfire and casting form and color into the woodland arena. The
Chief among the Indians spoke briefly, borrowing words from the Scout oath: . .
. honor . . . duty . . . God . . . country . . . service . . . physically
strong . . . mentally awake . . . morally strait. He instructed us: no talking until tomorrow
evening, walk in single file behind the torch and follow instructions.
We followed meekly as the torchbearer led us into the woods.
The line of boys shuffled slowly through the darkness and across wooded hills. Deeper
into the night, an Indian not much bigger than me grabbed my shoulders from
behind, forced me to the ground and said, “Stay here. I’ll be back in the
morning.” Then he was gone and I was alone in the cold night with only a
blanket. I slept little but learned a few things about myself and about the
night. In the woods, there is no absolute
darkness. Starlight filters through a treetop canopy. Movement is discernable
as small breezes pass through the forest. Silence is naught. Tree limbs creak.
Dry leaves rustle. Train whistles carry through the void between earth and
stars. And time creeps like a worm through soft, damp earth.
The next day, I worked alongside my peers on the waterfront
and the trails of the Scout Camp. We dug,
cut, raked, lifted and cleaned in silence. Food was meager – a cup of juice,
crackers and cheese, an apple and some water. At dusk we were led back to the
amphitheater and given our white sash embroidered with a long, red arrow. We were certain, at least for a while, that
we had become someone different.
Much later in life I have wondered about this event. The
Indian rituals and the aloneness of the forest are vivid. But the impact on my
teenage self seems relatively transient. Within a day or so continued to think of myself far
more than I thought of others. I still valued play over work. Like the rituals
of church and the admonitions of family and teachers, the rituals of the Order
of the Arrow seemed much less significant from only a few days’ distance.
How forceful must a rite of passage be to change us
significantly? How profound? Are transformations planned or
accidental? Might rituals be more transformative
if they match the rigor and purpose of the vision quest, an ancient rite of
passage for Native American teenagers? When ready for the quest, an Indian
teenager treks alone into the wilderness without food or water. He wanders for
several days seeking spiritual energy and self-identity. Deprived of human
contact and sustenance, the teenager slowly attunes to the spirit world and comes
in contact with a guardian animal or force of nature, possibly through a vision
or dream. At least that is the intent. I
wonder how many Native American teenagers actually participate and how often
they are transformed into more self-aware and thoughtful people. Can
transformation occur so quickly?
Perhaps I should not be so skeptical of either my Order of
the Arrow experience or the vision quest. If nothing else, on my quest I
learned not to fear the forest at night.
I learned to survive a day without talking and with less food than
I thought I needed. Ten years after that experience something motivated me to
hike and camp alone for three days in a wilderness area where I slept without a
tent on a highland bald and was nearly rutted out my sleeping bag by
a big buck whose eyes and antlers glowed in the dark. Now, decades later, though
I enjoy the company of friends in the backcountry, I sometimes camp and fish
alone. There is something strangely communal about silence that is not
silent and darkness that is not dark.
I ponder the influence on my life of these experiences. I recognize
several effects of aloneness: very intense and focused solving of basic
problems; alteration of time and space; time travel, backward and forward;
dreams and visions. Though the wilderness accommodates this kind of experience,
it might not be essential. But we must dismiss and ignore what surrounds us to gain freedom.
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