Scotland Odyssey: The Final Chapter.

I was in my caravan.

Yes, caravan. That's what they call a trailer or manufactured housing in the UK. Yes, we all sleep in trailers—aka caravans—in little bitty rooms more conducive to a hobbit than a full-sized person. We share bathrooms. We eat family-style. We take turns washing the dishes. We make our own beds, sheets and all. We sing. We dance. We hold overnight vigils. When I walk across the nine acres of land, every inch of which has been cultivated, I get a mixed feeling of college and camp. Kids' camp. The kind of place my kids longed to go to all year. Only this isn't kids' camp. We're adults. And we're here because we've chosen to be here. There is a rhythm to the place. We gather together. We open our morning circle together. We have tea together. And there are so many tea breaks in the UK. No. Americans will never understand. We drum together. We sing together. We learn together. We spend time together.

Eventually, I made my way back across the land to my little caravan.

I had just settled in when I heard my name.

I ran to the door.

"...Is your case green?"

"My case? Green?"

"I think it's here..."

"I don't believe you."

"I'll show you!"

It was Thursday night. I followed my clan mate to the office. And there it stood. My green case. My missing green case. My very large green case that had apparently traveled more extensively around Scotland than I had. Bless her, she helped me get that large case over the stones, across the grass and up the steps to my caravan. I rolled it into my room. And discovered there wasn't a single place to put it. Of course there wasn't. Eventually, I pushed enough things out of the way to open the case. And then something wonderful happened. The smell of clean laundry wafted into the room. Clean laundry. A reprieve from the dirt, mold and damp smell of a week in Scotland. There were my bottles of Rhubarb Goddess Aura Spray. I had packed one for each person. I pulled them out, put them into a bag and shoved the case under my bed. Later, I went back and retrieved some underwear, sweatpants and a clean T-shirt. That was about it.

Because somewhere during that week, I had realized something: I didn't need all the things I thought I did. Everything was replaceable. Even my Rhubarb Goddess Aura Spray. And more importantly, I had spent a week without most of the things I usually use to identify myself. My clothes. My belongings. My familiar routines. My carefully chosen outward presentation. And I hadn't been alone. I wasn't sitting at home alone without my stuff. I was surrounded by people. I was interacting with strangers. I was finding my way through Glasgow, getting on buses, navigating train stations and wandering around a mall without the safety net of my suitcase. I had written about all of that already. I showed up at Anam Cara just as I was—which, under the circumstances, should probably have been a wreck. Yet I wasn't. I had people around me. People who laughed with me about it. I had found a group of people who held me. And I think this may be the most important thing I discovered by going to Scotland for Shamanic Training. Not being called back home. Not how to journey. Not the definition of Shamanism. Not the tools. Not the names. Not even the things I thought I was going there to learn. It was the sincere, deep connection I felt—and still feel—with these people.

There is a difference between being with people and being among people. I think we've gotten very good at being among people.

We have audiences.

Followers.

Customers.

Clients.

People who click "like."

People who sign up.

People who come to an event, sit in chairs, listen to the person at the front of the room and then go home.

There is nothing inherently wrong with any of that. But it isn't the same thing. At Anam Cara, we aren't an audience. We're doing things together. Eating together. Washing dishes together. Having tea together. Drumming together. Singing together. Learning together. And somewhere in all of that, something happens that is difficult to describe. You become part of the experience rather than simply experiencing something someone else has created for you.

Coming back to the US after these gatherings feels difficult. Technically, I'm not the only American. But I'm the only one who grew up in the US and lives here full-time. I live in a different culture. And most of you reading this live in a different culture from what I experience at Anam Cara in so many ways. I've written before about how we've forgotten about sound. Rattles. Drums. Music. Singing. But I think we've forgotten something else, too.

We've forgotten what it’s like to be with people.

Not perform for them. Not photograph them. Just be with other people. Eat. Talk. Listen. Make tea. Wash dishes. Sing. Sit together. Be together.

I remember long-ago Sunday dinners. I remember the smells in the house when I'd arrive. My grandmother, usually muttering to herself at the stove, stirring an extremely large pot of spaghetti sauce. Water boiling. Silverware clanking as it was set down on the table. The front door opening and closing. People coming in. People leaving. I remember the numerous dinners my kids and I had together. When I look back, I watched them grow up over those dinners. And outgrow some of our chairs.

Maybe that's part of what I've been remembering since I came home. Being together.

I'm not saying you need to run out and join a group. In fact, I find groups in the US not particularly helpful. Not if the purpose of the group is to gain an audience. I'm interested in something different. Not a group gathered around a person. Not a group gathered around buying something. Not a group where someone stands at the front and everyone else watches. Something where we actually come together and take part.

So I'm offering an invitation. To come and help create being together, because none of us can do that alone. Truly, just come. Come see the land. Come sit and listen. Come watch the birds or the squirrels or the cats. Just pick an animal and likely you'll find it. There are beavers down by the river. Come watch the sky. The sunset. The moon. Come attempt to understand why Rob believes hay is "art." Come for coffee. Come to an event that won't be the same without you. Come because you're curious.

You don't have to know what you're looking for. You don't have to decide whether this work is for you. You don't have to believe anything in particular. You can simply come. And maybe, while you're here, we'll have a cup of tea. Or sit around a fire. Or make something. Or listen to a drum. Or watch the cats. Or talk. Or not. Because I'm beginning to think that some of the things we most need aren't necessarily things we need to learn. Maybe they're things we need to remember how to do. Together.

Come Be Part of It

If you're curious, come take part.

🌿 [EXPLORE THE CELTIC SPIRIT WHEEL →]
A four-week journey through the seasons, elements, directions, story, and your own relationship with the land.

🎭 [EXPLORE THE SAMHAIN MASK-MAKING WORKSHOP →]
A hands-on creative workshop exploring the history and symbolism of masks—and making one of your own.

You don't have to know whether either one is “for you.”
You don't have to believe anything in particular.

Just come curious.