Being Changed by Cross-Cultural Encounters: The Anthropology of Extrodinary Experience 9781442602366

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BEING

C H A N G E D . . . reviews

"This is a challenging and thought-provoking book. Ten anthropologists testify frankly and openly about the spiritual encounters and altered states of consciousness which they experienced as their fieldwork drew them into deepening relationships with their hosts and consultants in Asia, Africa, and the Americas. Sensitively confronting the personal dimensions of their research, their essays explore the ways in which participatory anthropology fosters a creative synergy between enhanced self-knowledge and deeper understanding of others." Jennifer S. H. Brown, History Department, University of Winnipeg.

"Anthropology presents its fieldworkers with a paradox. The methodological approach of participant-observation says that anthropologists should try to experience the world the way their subjects do. Yet the discipline, a Western science, tends not to take seriously accounts of mystical, transcendent experiences. Here are 12 essays by 10 anthropologists who do take seriously their informants' accounts of dreams, visions, trance states, spirit encounters, etc. Some report on their own 'extraordinary experiences' generated within the reality of their informants' culture. This is a book about culture, and reality, and ways of knowing, and its premise is that this type of experience may be essential to the fullest understanding of cultural reality. It raises and discusses challenging theoretical and methodological questions, with important implications for the conduct of our discipline. It is an important book, ground-breaking—and overdue." Phillips Stevens Jr., Department of Anthropology, State University of New York, Buffalo.

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BEING CHANGED The Anthropology of Extraordinary Experience

Edited by David E. Young & Jean-Guy Goulet

IB broadview press

© 1994 broadview press Ltd. Reprinted 1998

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without prior written consent of the publisher — or in the case of photocopying, a licence from CANCOPY (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency) 6 Adelaide Street East, Suite 900, Toronto, Ontario M5C IH6 —is an infringement of the copyright law.

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data Being changed: the anthropology of extraordinary experience Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1-55111-032-6 (HARD COVER) ISBN 1-55111-040-7 (SOFT COVER) I. Ethnopsychology. 2. Psychological anthropology. 3. Intercultural communication. 1.Goulet, Jean-Guy, II. Young, David E. GN5O2.B45 1994 155.8 C94-930290-2 Broadview Press Post Office Box 1243, Peterborough, Ontario, Canada K9J 7us in the United States of America: 3576 California Road, Orchard Park, NY 14127 in the United Kingdom: B.R.A.D. Book Representation & Distribution Ltd., 244A, London Road, Hadleigh, Essex.SS72DE Broadview Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council, the Ministry of Canadian Heritage, and the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program for our publishing activities.

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CONTENTS

DAVID E. YOUNG AND JEAN-GUY GOULET: Introduction

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PART I: EXTRAORDINARY EXPERIENCE AND FIELDWORK JEAN-GUY GOULET: Dreams and Visions in Other Lifeworlds

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MARIE FRANCOISE GUEDON: Dene Ways and the Ethnographer's Culture

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EDITH TURNER: A Visible Spirit Form in Zambia

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PART II: MODELING EXTRAORDINARY EXPERIENCE CHARLES D. LAUGHLIN, JR.: Psychic Energy & Transpersonal Experience: A biogenetic structural account of the Tibetan Dumo Yoga Practice

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RAB WILKIE: Spirited Imagination: Ways of approaching the shaman's world

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DAVID E. YOUNG:Visitors in the Night: A creative energy model of spontaneous visions

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PART III: Taking Our Informants Seriously rgkrjkjrafl;dskflfdkdflkdsflkslfkfsoororfmddfdflksflkdsflklflfdklg

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LISE SWARTZ: Being Changed by Cross-Cultural Encounters

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ANTONIA MILLS: Making a Scientific Investigation of Ethnographic Cases Suggestive of Reincarnation 237

PART IV: CONCLUSION YVES MARTON: The Experiential Approach to Anthropology & Castaneda's Ambiguous Legacy

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JEAN-GUY GOULET AND DAVID YOUNG: Theoretical and Methodological Issues

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REFERENCES INDEX

337 372

D A V I D E.

YOUNG

AND

JEAN-GUY

GOULET

Introduction

This book is a collection of original papers by Western-trained anthropologists who have had experiences which fall outside of the range of what we tend to regard as "normal." We have called such experiences "extraordinary," but it should be kept in mind that experiences which may be extraordinary for Western-trained anthropologists may be commonplace for most traditional peoples around the world. The focus of the book is on dreams and visions which carry an unusual degree of reality — as in the case of Goulet who, while sitting quietly in a native Indian ceremony sees someone fanning the fire, only to realize with a start that the person he is watching is himself; or Turner who, while participating in an African curing ritual, sees the ihamba spirit emerge from the body of the victim. In addition to accounts of extraordinary dreams and visions, the book includes other experiences such as that of Swartz whose day-to-day life was changed by contact with a Cree healer, or Mills whose work with the Beaver and Gitksan on their "stories" of reincarnation led her to consider the possibility that reincarnation might, in fact, actually occur. An interesting aspect of extraordinary experiences is that they often take a form and content consistent with one's host culture — even if the anthropologist is relatively new to that society. How and why does this happen? There is no clear answer to this question, but this book will explore some possibilities. Regardless of how extraordinary experiences can be understood analytically, one thing is clear: anthropologists who have such experiences are usually changed by them. Extraordinary experiences tend to INTRODUCTION

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challenge one's conceptions of reality in the sense that normal ways of classifying perceptual data are no longer adequate and the boundary between the real and the imaginary is blurred. This blurring of the boundary between the real and the imaginary happens to everyone, of course. It is experienced whenever we ease our hold on the world of "common sense" reality and participate fully in a drama, a symphony, or a sports event. Nevertheless, experiencing "alternate realities" provided by other cultures can come as a shock, especially when there is no experiential context in which such experiences can be placed. Extraordinary experiences force one to deal with the possibility that reality is culturally constructed and that instead of one reality (or a finite set of culturally-defined realities), there are multiple realities — or at least multiple ways of experiencing the world, depending upon time, place, and circumstances. When the anthropologist has an extraordinary experience which challenges his/her conception of reality, the experience can be suppressed and the "threat" minimized. Or the experience can be accepted as valid and one's schemata reorganized to accommodate the new reality. In either case, the investigator may choose not to relate these experiences to others because of fear of ostracism. Fear of ostracism is not unfounded if one does not have the tools which allow the experience to be framed in a "believable" way to the listener. Because of the fear of ostracism, an entire segment of cross-cultural experience common to many investigators, is not available for discussion and scientific investigation. A basic premise of the contributors and editors of this book is that anthropology stands to gain by taking up challenges posed by ways of knowing that are unusual to us. To begin, extraordinary experiences related in this book should not be described as "paranormal" or "supernatural". Such terms imply distinctions such as real versus unreal, or normal versus abnormal which exclude, rather than invite, serious intellectual consideration. Likewise, we do not feel that such experiences necessarily fall into the realm of religion. To put the matter succinctly, we would like to distance ourselves from New Age approaches which tend to view reality in terms of different dimensions, and enlightenment as a movement to ever higher dimensions, either in this life or in lives to come. Because it has to do with ultimate meaning of life, the New Age movement qualifies as a religion. What we are talking about in this volume has nothing to do, per se, with religion, although it has indirect implications for the socialpsychological study of religious experience. We want to entertain 8

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the notion that what was is seen at first as an "extraordinary experience" is in fact the normal outcome of genuine participation in social and ritual performances through which social realities are generated or constituted. Although we are suspicious of attempts to view reality in terms of different dimensions, we do not reject the concept of "multiple realities" as espoused by scholars such as Mead, Schutz, and Goodman. But this concept does not imply that reality itself is multi-dimensional. Rather, reality is experienced in different ways, depending upon cultural context and one's state of mind. Even within a single culture, reality is experienced differently, depending upon whether one is taking part in a religious ritual, attending a drama, or drinking an intoxicating beverage. In other words, from our perspective, what we have called an extraordinary experience probably is not the result of experiencing something from another dimension, but an experience which occurs when one opens one's self to aspects of experience that previously have been ignored or repressed. If we are genuinely open to alternate ways of perceiving, experiencing, and interpreting reality, our normal ways of processing and classifying information are challenged and something has to give. As a child of Western culture, anthropology is the heir to an intellectual tradition which, until recently, has not taken extraordinary experiences seriously. The case of dreams and visions can be used to illustrate this point. As a result of 18th century Enlightenment, intellectuals dismissed visionary experiences as the source of a belief in spirits and ghosts. Experiences of such phenomena were described as hallucinations, and the beings encountered in such experiences were termed apparitions. This sort of terminology persists to this day. In 1900 with the publication of The Interpretation of Dreams, Freud made it respectable to study visionary experiences. His emphasis, however, was on analyzing these phenomena in terms of unconscious psychological processes and defense mechanisms such as wish fulfillment and projection. Thus in his own way, Freud perpetuated the rationalist distrust of products of the imagination. In line with the rationalist bias in the Western tradition, anthropologists normally give little credence to informant accounts which do not accord with the world view of Western science. For example, instead of investigating the "truth value" of experiences such as "seeing spirits" or engaging in "soul travel," anthropologists generally prefer to use functionalist, structuralist, or symbolic models to explain why their informants have (or claim to have) such experiences. Semiotically-oriented anthroINTRODUCTION

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pologists attempt to go beyond traditional structural and functional analyses to treat informant accounts as "texts" to be analyzed in terms of their meaning. This willingness to focus on meaning is refreshing, but it is not as radical a departure from traditional structural-functional analysis as it might seem. Neither the structural-functionalists nor the semiotic-symbolic anthropologists consider viewing their informants' "stories" as accounts of reality which could have explanatory value for Western culture. To state this thesis most baldly, and thereby to run the danger of exaggeration in order to make a point, anthropology has not been fully able to shake off its earlier involvement with cultural imperialism. The emic (inside) reality of one's informants is frequently viewed as something which may be intensely interesting — even eminently reasonable (given the premises upon which the system is constructed). But emic views are not considered as serious alternatives to Western scientific conceptions of reality. In other words, one's informants are not taken seriously. Recently, however, some anthropologists have begun to take what might be called an experiential rather than a rationalist approach to extraordinary experiences. The emphasis of this approach is on the firsthand experience of rituals designed to induce altered states of consciousness and on viewing phenomena such as dreams and visions as alternate ways of processing insights and information relevant to one's life situation. For the first time, the experiential approach allows anthropologists, such as those represented in this book, to view visionary experiences in a way that is compatible with the views of most traditional cultures around the world. There is no consensus, however, as to how extraordinary experiences such as dreams and visions are to be interpreted. At one end of the interpretive continuum represented in this book is Edith Turner who believes that the simplest way to interpret an extraordinary experience is to accept the native account of what has happened. At the other end of the continuum is Charles Laughlin who believes that such experiences can be satisfactorily explained with a neurological model. Most of the authors fall somewhere in between. In other words, they believe that native accounts of what the anthropologist regards as an extraordinary experience should be taken seriously but do not have to be taken literally. In other words, they must be reframed or translated if they are to make sense to outsiders. We will allow each author to speak for himself/herself on this issue.

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What the two editors can do, however, is to speak for ourselves. We can outline the kind of personal biases that will be discussed more fully in our two individually-authored articles. It is our point of view that anthropologists should, at a minimum, temporarily suspend disbelief, and attempt to take as seriously as possible informants' reports of extraordinary experiences, as well as their explanations for them. This is a minimal condition because good ethnographic reporting requires a real effort on the part of the anthropologist to go beyond simply recording what is said and done to as deep an understanding of the native meaning system as possible. Beyond these minimal requirements, there is a great deal of variation among anthropologists concerning how far the investigator should go in adopting the explanatory models of one's informants. It may not be practical to either prove or disprove many aspects of a native model. Both editors agree that if a particular belief is, in principle, beyond the scope of scientific investigation, there is very little to be gained by debating its "truth value". If, on the basis of existing evidence, however, a native belief appears to be testable in some way (or is at least capable of suggesting testable hypotheses), the anthropologist may have some obligation to point this out. He/she may even wish to pursue the issue and engage in collaborative research with other scientists with a view to collecting evidence pertaining to the truth value of the belief in question. In other words, paradoxical as it may seem, subjecting emic claims to etic investigation is an expression of an anthropologist's willingness to take traditional cultures seriously. Another way to take traditional cultures seriously is to use the rich non-western traditions, which have been developed over long time spans, to provide a multi-faceted view of reality which might overcome some of the limitations of a single, dominant, Western view. What we are arguing here is that after anthropologists have come to some understanding of the world view of their informants, they should proceed to use these world views to address larger questions, such as those dealing with the nature of reality, or with pressing ethical and social issues. There is a well-known Japanese movie, Rashomon, which revolves around the fact that several people have witnessed a murder. As the plot unfolds and each witness is questioned by the authorities, it becomes apparent that no two people saw the same thing. The Western viewer anticipates that by the end of the movie, the authorities will sift through the differing accounts and piece together what really happened. They are usually surINTRODUCTION

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prised, when in typical Japanese fashion, the movie ends without a clear resolution. In the process, however, of seeing the event through the eyes of different people, the viewer is presented with a much richer understanding of the reality of the situation, in all of its complexity, than is the case with most Western "murder mysteries." If clarity, parsimony, and logic are the criteria of successful metaphysical enterprise, there is an obvious advantage in selecting a single view of reality and regarding the other views as skewed or illusory. If reality is complicated enough to transcend the theoretical and methodological blinders of Western science, however, having access to a variety of views on matters such as "the nature of cause and effect relationships" or "the nature of our relationship to the physical environment" might be an advantage — even if the views are not consistent. How one builds meta-models of reality on the basis of crosscultural, and often contradictory, world views is one of the central theoretical tasks facing modern anthropology. It is not something anthropologists can do by themselves, as the task of understanding the universe in which we live is a concern of many human endeavors —including science, art, philosophy and religion. As a first step, however, anthropologists can begin to take their informants seriously and to entertain the idea that an informant's account may be more than a "text" to be analyzed. It may have something of value to contribute to our understanding of reality. This book therefore attempts to do three things: (1) provide personal accounts by anthropologists who have taken their informants' extraordinary experiences seriously or who have had extraordinary experiences themselves, (2) develop the beginnings of a theoretical framework which will help facilitate an understanding of such experiences, and (3) explore the issue of how such experiences can be conveyed and explained to a "scientifically-oriented" audience in such a way that they are not automatically dismissed without a fair hearing. The book is organized into four parts. Part I consists of articles by anthropologists who describe extraordinary experiences they have had in the field and how their normal perceptions of reality have been challenged by such experiences . In the lead article, Jean-Guy Goulet raises a central question of how to deal with one's extraordinary experiences in the context of ethnographic reports. Marie Francoise Guedon describes the process by which an anthropologist is changed by experience in another

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culture, and Edith Turner describes seeing a spirit form while conducting fieldwork in Zambia. Part II deals with modeling extraordinary experiences. Charles Laughlin uses the concepts of biogenetic structuralism to account for extraordinary experiences in a way that can be comprehended by a "scientifically-oriented" audience. In contrast, Rab Wilkie attempts to convey his understanding of extraordinary experiences by creating a fictitious scenario in which basic issues are discussed by the participants in an elder's council. David Young takes a stance somewhere between that of Laughlin and Wilkie; he argues that the anthropologist must be a cultural broker who can use meta-models that encompass the views of one's informants as well as the views of a scientific audience. Part III deals with taking our informants seriously. C.R. Wilson relates how his experiences in Bolivia affected his own sacred world view. Lise Swartz describes how working with a Cree healer affected life on a sailboat with her retired husband. Antonia Mills documents the cross-cultural prevalence of a belief in reincarnation and describes the effects of this research on her own views. In the concluding Part IV, Yves Marton discusses the questions surrounding Castaneda's work and persona, and mentions one of his own "extraordinary" experiences, which occurred after participating in an Afro-Cuban Santeria ceremony. Finally, the two editors examine themes and issues that are raised either directly or indirectly by the contributors to this book. They argue for the necessity of revitalizing the experiential approach by developing the "intellectual tools" that will allow anthropologists (as well as lay people) to be more open to experiential journeys that may take them beyond the conventional Western boundaries of society and self.

INTRODUCTION

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PART I: EXTRAORDINARY EXPERIENCE AND FIELDWORK

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J E A N - G U YG O U L E T

Dreams and Visions in Other Lifeworlds

INTRODUCTION Ethnographers have often found themselves immersed in societies in which people talk about their dreams and in which other people readily interpret them, societies in which "the world of ghosts and spirits is as real as that of markets, though real in different qualitative ways than can be ethnographically described" (Obeyesekere 1990:66). This paper argues that in the process of anthropological fieldwork it is possible, and even useful, for the ethnographer to experience this qualitatively different world of ghosts and spirits, and to incorporate such experiences in ethnographic accounts. The paper illustrates the manner in which this can be done and discusses some of the issues that arise from the inclusion of the anthropologist in an ethnography of the society of others, a society in which ghosts and spirits are as "real" as merchants and clients, a society in which accounts of dreams and their interpretation are a normal process of interaction and decision-making. A good ethnographic description of such social experiences does not come easily. Ethnographers constantly remind themselves — lest they be reminded by their colleagues — never to "go native," never to become one of "them," lest the resulting 16

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ethnography become a naive espousal of another people's worldview and ethos thus losing all objective and scientific value.1 The challenge is "to be one with them yet not one of them" (Obeyesekere 1990:11). Geertz (1986:373), who reminds us that "we cannot live other people's lives, and it is a piece of bad faith to try," insists that as ethnographers we "can but listen to what, in works, in images, in actions, [others] say about their lives." In his view, whatever sense is made of "how things stand with someone else's inner life, we gain it through their expression, not through some magical intrusion into their consciousness" (Geertz 1986:373). Accordingly, the fieldworker is expected to focus exclusively on the public system of symbols — speech, art, actions, artifacts, etc. — in terms of which individuals interact, order their subjective experiences, and speak about them. I agree with Geertz that we cannot live other people's lives nor magically intrude into their consciousness, be they members of our culture or of another culture. But to see the task of the ethnographer as Geertz portrays it, precludes the reporting and analysis of the kind of nocturnal and waking dreams documented in this paper. His views cannot accommodate all that we can do and learn in the field, not only about others, but also about ourselves in interaction with them. Ethnographic work can — but does not necessarily need to — go hand in hand with inner experiences, dreams and visions, on the part of the anthropologist that can become part of normal interactions with others. Anthropologists may then do more than listen to what others say about their lives. Anthropologists may pay attention to their own lives, including their inner lives, and listen to other peoples' response to their accounts of their dreams and/or visions experienced while living among them. To do so is not an impediment to the empirical task of anthropologists to describe "the way in which religious beliefs [among others] appear to the believer" (Geertz 1971:99). Rather the presentation of such data on the part of ethnographers is crucial to the presentation of evidence "that what they say is a result of their having actually penetrated (or, if you prefer, been penetrated by) another form of life, of having, one way or another truly 'been there.' " (Geertz 1988: 4-5).2 It is generally true that as an ethnographer, "I begin to understand the other culture, not on the basis of accumulated data (that are by themselves empty of understanding), but when I can relate to my informants dialogically, such that their actions make reasonable sense to me, as mine to them" (Obeyesekere 1990:226). This is also true of accounts of dreams and visions. DREAMS AND VISIONS IN OTHER LIFEWORLDS

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I understand a people among whom dreams are readily talked about and interpreted when I can relate to them in such a way that their dreams make reasonable sense to me, as mine to them, precisely because they exhibit similar content or images, are amenable to similar kinds of interpretations, or are seen locally as consistent with the expected consequences of ritual actions. Having had dreams and visions in the lifeworld of others that appear to flow into one's own stream of consciousness from one's immersion in that lifeworld, and having entered into meaningful conversations and interactions with others on the basis of such accounts of dreams, the anthropologist can simply ignore them in the presentation of one's work, or can attempt to incorporate these dreams and visions in one's ethnography. To choose the second alternative is to' range beyond Geertz' admonition. To be one with them in a society in which "the world of ghosts and spirits is as real as that of markets, though real in different qualitative ways" (Obeyesekere 1990:66), the ethnographer — and the reader — first have to contend with the fact that, in these societies, the distinctions familiar to the Western mind between the world of everyday life and the world of dreams are simply not drawn. Moreover, in such societies one often finds well-developed traditions for inducing visions and/or lucid dreaming, traditions that are available to individuals as part of their social development.3 Such traditions seem incompatible with the ethnographer's own society's low tolerance of fantasies and of the primary thought processes in general. Hence the reticence of ethnographers to cross over to others and "enter with them into dreamland, for to do so is to venture beyond the confines of civilized man," into a realm of experiences "which white men tend to hide in asylums" (Burridge 1960:251). As Rappaport (1979:130) notes, "the empirical and logical rationality that defines knowledge as knowledge of fact" is a rationality that is not hospitable to "the insights of art, religion, fantasy, or dream."4 Nonetheless, this paper, and indeed this book as a whole, argues that an interpretive synthesis of data pertaining to another society and culture may fruitfully include the anthropologist's accounts of his/her own dreams and visions as they inform his or her interaction with others in their lifeworld. This argument is made despite the fact that ethnographers' experiences of dreams and visions were, and still are, most often suppressed in ethnographies (Stoller and Olkes 1987:ix-xii; B. Tedlock 1991a:7l-72). To do otherwise was, and still is, to open oneself to the charge of having "gone native," or, worse, of harboring in one's mind superstitious beliefs that ought to be superseded 18

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by reason and scientific knowledge. "The kind of thinking that leads to paranormal beliefs is all too common outside anthropology," writes Lett (1991:325); "we need less of it within our own ranks."5 The inclusion of material drawn from one's own subjective life while in the field runs counter to the normative anthropological practice of distancing oneself from those about whose institutions, beliefs, and experiences one is writing. Personal narratives generally — not only those of dreams and visions — tend not to count as "professional capital" as they "are often deemed self-indulgent, trivial, or heretical in other ways" (Pratt 1986:31). Many years ago Burridge (1960:1) noted "it is a shame that this should be so," but so it is. As a result anthropologists inevitably provide descriptions and analyses of what others do, think, dream, see, and feel, without ever portraying themselves as doing, thinking, dreaming, seeing, and feeling in similar ways. The classic ethnography is by definition an account of the "other," of "his" — and very seldom "her" — vision of his or her world. Contemporary challenges to this classic view of ethnographic work are many. It is now more generally accepted that others should be seen not "as ontologically given but as historically constituted" (Said 1988:225), that is to say that the representation and perception of the other are a derivative of the anthropologist's interpretive assumptions rather than of a substantive, external reality (Combs-Schilling 1989:13). It is more clearly recognized than ever that all ethnographic data are produced or created in the context of social, dialogical interactions between ethnographer and informant (Ruby 1982, Marcus and Fisher 1986, Clifford 1988, Foster 1990). At its 1989 annual conference the Association of Social Anthropologists recognized that "the extent to which autobiography can be written into ethnography is a matter for creative experimentation" appropriate for the anthropological endeavor (Okely 1992:24). Indeed, because "the experience of fieldwork is totalizing and draws on the whole being" of the ethnographer, it cannot be "trivialized as the 'collection of data' by a dehumanized machine" (Okely 1992:3). This being the case, the ethnographer's experiences of interaction in another lifeworld ought to be viewed for what they are, namely viable tools of research (Peters 1981:39; Myerhoff and Ruby 1982). The pursuit of engagement in a qualitatively different lifeworld ought to go hand in hand with the observation of participation. Such an approach leads to a narrative ethnography, one that focuses not on the ethnographer himself or herself, "but rather on the character and process of the ethnographic DREAMS AND VISIONS IN OTHER LIFEWORLDS

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dialogue or encounter" as the context in which experiences arise and data are generated (B. Tedlock 1991a:78). To be one with others in their society, in an ethnographic dialogue, one must become, at least to some extent, a competent member of their society. This competency, as will be illustrated in this paper, may extend to the realm of the imagination. For although "there is no known device that measures the degree of penetration into an alien culture," one may assume that the deeper the participation in the new culture, the more one would expect changes at a "psychic level in the patterns of cognitive and emotional response and in the unconscious manifestations through dreams and visions" (Kimball 1972:191). This is especially so, I believe, when anthropologists "render themselves vulnerable to the total impact not just of the other culture but of the intricate human existences of those they are 'hired' to 'study'" (Turner 1985:205). When this occurs accounts of dreams and visions on the part of ethnographers may enter into the construction of meaningful social interactions in the lifeworld of the people they find themselves with as did, for instance, Myerhoff with her vision of herself impaled on the Maya tree of life after having ingested the Huichol peyote (1972); Grindal with his vision of the dancing corpse of a deceased Sisala in the midst of a funeral (1983); and Lederman with her experience of the "Inner Wind" when in trance as an apprentice to a Malay shaman (1988). These, and many other extraordinary experiences reported by anthropologists, are discussed in the final chapter of this book. The kind of experiences referred to here often evoke a sense of shock and disbelief. Moreover the report of such experiences on the part of ethnographers immediately bring to mind Castaneda's work which is seen as "parables posing as ethnography" (Geertz 1983:20) or as an "elaborate hoax, a brilliant effort to make a lot of money as best-selling author" (Stoller and Olkes 1987:25). The highly questionable authenticity of Castaneda's work makes any report of "extraordinary" experiences risky in the profession (de Mille 1981, 1981a, 1981b). This, however, should not rule out their presentation altogether. Such accounts can fall under the rubric of "good ethnography," which "must disturb, shock, or jolt us into an awareness we did not have before" (Obeyesekere 1990:224). Good ethnographic reports, whatever their subject matter, jolt us into new awareness, for they are derived from lived experiences that challenge our own conventions and assumptions in life. Good ethnographic reports

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evoke a realm of human experience and in the process lay the groundwork for its explanation within anthropology.

DREAMING IN THE GUAJIRO WORLD The following account of preparing for and then engaging in fieldwork among the Guajiro of South America illustrates how the progressive immersion into another lifeworld may become the medium through which "bits and pieces of incoherent and technical knowledge," including knowledge about dreams, suddenly "acquire an organic unity and meaning it did not previously possess" (Levi-Strauss 1963:373). In 1975, as I prepared to leave for South America for fieldwork, I read many ethnographies. Among them, a narrative of the James Bay Cree dreaming patterns impressed me particularly. It described a Cree stepping out of his house in the morning and telling his neighbours he had awakened from a dream of an Eskimo woman. The man then walked back into his house, came out with a gun, and headed for the bush. Immediately, his neighbors began to prepare for an evening feast of moose meat. In the afternoon, the successful hunter returned to the village, and the feast was held as expected. A few words, the mention of a dream, and the agenda was set for the day. Why? Because among the Cree, it is commonly understood that "dreaming of an opposite sex person, especially of foreigners, must be taken as an indication of game close at hand" (Tanner 1976:220-21, my emphasis). In 1975, as I read this account, I wondered about the story of the Cree hunter. It seemed strange to me that a dream had to be taken as an indication of the presence of game in the area, and that an account of that dream could in effect be taken as a communication that one is going to hunt moose. I wondered at the notion that Cree individuals shared a symbolic system of representation and communication informed by images remembered from dreams. As I had never experienced such a manner of attending to dreams and accounts of dream, it remained, in my mind, closer to the realm of fiction than to social processes of day-to-day communication and decision-making in the lives of ordinary human beings. This kind of communication through accounts of dreams was to become an important feature of my field experience among the Guajiro. My initial contact with the Guajiro was in the context of a boarding school where I began to learn the native tongue from Guajiro students who spoke both Spanish and their DREAMS AND VISIONS IN OTHER LIFEWORLDS

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mother tongue. In the course of time, I befriended the family of my favorite instructor in the Guajiro language. I told them I wanted to live among the Guajiro to learn their way of life, and specified that I wanted to reside where I would never hear a word of Spanish. The family arranged for relatives in the Guajiro hinterland to take me in as^a household member. It was agreed that my instructor would spend ten days with me and serve as an interpreter, after which he would return to school. I would then live for over ten months among a population of monolingual Guajiro speakers, herders of sheep, goats, and cattle in the semi-desertic environment of the Guajira peninsula in Colombia (Goulet 1978, 1980; Saier 1987). I was on my own among the Guajiro for the purpose of understanding their point of view, their vision of their world. When we arrived at the place I was to live, we were welcomed by the elders of the household. After we exchanged the traditional Guajiro greeting, they immediately proceeded to ask my instructor whether I knew how to dream. I answered in the affirmative, which, my instructor later told me, was a necessary condition for my acceptance into the family and locality. I was surprised at such a condition and, at the time, could not appreciate its significance. In the course of time, I became aware of, and came to participate in, a complex system of dreaming and dream telling that is at the very core of the Guajiro way of life, a system in which animals dreamt-of represent human beings, and vice versa (Goulet 1978; Watson-Franke 1981; Perrin 1987a, 1987b). This feature of Guajiro dream interpretation was similar to the one reported for the Cree. In the interest of brevity, I will focus on the highlights of a process that extended over nearly a year. Each morning, soon after sunrise, I joined the extended family members — fourteen in all — in the kitchen area to drink a small cup of strong, dark coffee. An adult would invariably ask "jamusu pulapuiri?" — "how were your dreams?" The round of dream telling would begin, different individuals telling his or her dream in turn. Comments from the grandmother or from another adult usually followed, after which everyone left for their chores. Although I understood the initial invitation to tell dreams, it is only gradually that I gathered an understanding of what was being told. Interestingly enough, the first dreams the family members insisted that I understand were ones concerning my beard. They began to report seeing me in dreams with a shaved face. On the second such report within a week, I sensed they would prefer I shave my beard, but I did not make too much of it until neigh22

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bors also reported having had dreams of me with a shaved face. Although I did not know if they really had such dreams — Gua jiro themselves recognize that individuals may make up stories about what they supposedly dreamt — it became clear that my beard was an issue of some importance to the local community. I therefore asked them what would happen if I was to keep my beard. The answer was that if I did not shed my facial hair, sheep they were herding would become ill, shed their hair, and die as a result. In Guajiro dream symbolism, white men are represented as sheep. It appeared to me that family members and neighbors were saying: "Either you or your counterpart in the animal world will lose hair. If you insist on keeping your facial hair and an animal later dies, you will be responsible for that animal's death." I knew enough about the allocation of responsibility for occurrences of misfortune in small-scale societies to appreciate that it was just a matter of time before an animal in the locality would become sick, lose hair, and die, making me liable to accusations from the owner that I was responsible for the loss, and hence liable to pursuit for compensation. I therefore chose to shave, to everyone's satisfaction. I had been persuaded to change my appearance through their communication of wishes in the idiom of information received in dreams. I had demonstrated that I was prepared to take accounts of dreams seriously and to act upon them as a reasonable person. Thus in the eyes of the Guajiro, I was acting as a member of their moral community. In the course of time, I too began to share Guajiro-like dreams that contained elements of the Guajiro world (i.e., sheep and bull) that are recurrent symbols in their own dreams. As such dreams emerged in the context of fieldwork, they became amenable to meaningful narration and interpretation in dialogical interaction. For instance, on September 16, 1976, I had the following "Guajiro" dream, in the context of a burial ceremony. In the dream, I looked at a man attempting to kill a large bull. The bull was tied to a tree. The man, holding the bull by a horn, tried in vain to push the blade of a long knife through the backbone to the heart. The bull would tense up, shift position, and the knife would inevitably slide to the left or the right of the strong head and neck. The image was still vivid in my mind when I woke up. When I shared the dream, someone immediately asked if I could describe the mark on the bull's hind leg. Among the Guajiro, names and associated designs used in branding are transmitted matrifilially. Thus the brand reveals the owner's matrifilial identity. In the dream, I remembered seeing DREAMS AND VISIONS IN OTHER LIFEWORLDS

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a brand on the animal, but not having paid attention to it, I could not identify it for my auditors. To them, this detail was of utmost importance. The bull clearly represented a man, and the brand on the animal would have pointed to his identity. A week later, on September 23, news came that a man had survived an ambush and had killed his two aggressors. Members of the family immediately commented that my dream had pointed to this event. To the Guajiro, the man — represented as a bull in my dream — had escaped being murdered.6 The Guajiros would not agree with Geertz view that, as an ethnographer, I could but listen to what they had to say about their lives. Rather, they expected me to dream and to pay attention to my dreams as indeed they would do. They invited me to join with them in the interpretation of dreams. To report my dreams and to engage with them in their interpretation was again to demonstrate that I was prepared to take accounts of dreams seriously and to act upon them as a reasonable person. What the Guajiro code of interpretation of selected dream images did was to direct our thinking: when reporting a sheep, think of a white man; when reporting a bull, think of a male Guajiro; and so on. Invariably, specific individuals and events were found to match the dream's predictions. Guajiros then tell each other, as indeed they told me: "yes» your dream is true!" In the light of these experiences among the Guajiro, the account of the James Bay Cree preparing for a feast of moose meat following a man's dream of an Eskimo woman became highly plausible. Following an account of a dream, the Guajiro of Colombia and Venezuela, like the Cree of subarctic Canada, is led to think about typical events that are retrospectively seen as predicted by the dream. The experience among the Guajiro clearly established in my mind that an ethnographer can not only learn the language of the people he or she lives among, but can also, to some degree, experience in dreams symbols that inform their lifeworld, and engage with them in their interpretation. I learned from firsthand experience that such dreams were readily interpreted as foretelling events in the Guajiro environment. Of course, no dream interpretation is ever free of interpretive assumptions. B. Tedlock (1987a: 105-131), for instance, demonstrates how a dream by her husband was subject to two radically different interpretations in the context of Hopi and Quiche epistemological and ontological assumptions. Dialogues with people other than Guajiro would have led to other interpretations of my dreams.7

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The experience of fieldwork, writes Levi-Strauss (1963:373), represents for the anthropologist "not the goal of his profession, or a completion of his schooling, or yet a technical apprenticeship—but a crucial stage of his education, prior to which he may possess miscellaneous knowledge that will never form a whole." "Where relations between individuals and the system of social relationships combine to form a whole," the anthropologist, continues Levi-Strauss, "must not merely analyze their elements, but apprehend them as a whole in the form of a personal experience—his own" (my emphasis). Indeed it is only through successful fieldwork that the anthropologist's knowledge "will acquire an organic unity and meaning it did not previously possess" (1963:373). The personal experiences of Guajiro-like dreams did precisely that; they gave me an apprehension as a whole of what Guajiro were talking about amongst themselves, and at times with me. My experience and accounts of my own dreams made accounts and interpretations on the part of Guajiro of their dreams all the more intelligible in the context of their lives and culture. Without this personal experience the bits and pieces of exotic and technical knowledge accumulated about the Guajiro would have lacked unity and coherence.

DREAMS AND VISIONS IN THE DENE THA WORLD Participation in Guajiro interpretations of dreams — however limited — jolted me into an awareness I did not have before. Unbeknownst to me at the time, meaningful interaction on the basis of accounts of personal dreams and visions would also prove possible with the Dene Tha of Chateh in northwestern Alberta, among whom I was to undertake long-term fieldwork, beginning in January 1980. My interest was in the Dene Tha version of the Prophet Dance complex, a major vehicle through which an aboriginal world view is expressed, transformed, and conveyed among Northern Athapaskans (Spier 1935, Ridington 1990, and Goulet 1982). In Chateh, the Prophet Dance is officiated over by the Dene Tha elders known in the local dialect as ndatin, from the verb ndate, "he/she dreamed." When speaking in English, Dene Tha refer to such an elder as dreamer, prophet, or preacher. Prophets who claim knowledge on the basis of dreams and visions say that they know because their mind is powerful.8 As I prepared to study the Prophet Dance, I was particularly impressed by Turner's work on understanding rituals and their

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"creative function" in creating and re-creating "the categories through which men perceive reality" (1968:7). I was therefore prepared to follow Turner's counsel to investigators of ritual processes "to learn them in the first place 'on their pulses,' in coactivity with their enactors, having beforehand shared for a considerable time of the people's daily life and gotten to know them not only as players of social roles, but as unique individuals, each with a style and a personality of his or her own" (1975:28). It was Turner's view that through learning rituals "on their pulses," "in coactivity with their enactors," investigators could make themselves "vulnerable to the total impact not just of the other culture but of the intricate human existences of those they are 'hired' to 'study'" (1985:205). By these means, suspending as far as possible their own social conditioning, investigators could "have sensory and mental knowledge of what is really happening around and to them" (1985:205), effectively transcending their own ethnocentrism and culturally derived notions of what is real and rational. The conditions described by Turner were largely achieved in the course of my fieldwork among the Dene Tha. The first two periods of fieldwork were spent learning the local dialect. As I did so, Dene Tha elders encouraged me to speak Dene in public on the premise that some would understand me, some would not understand me, but that I would surely improve. They also continually called upon me to translate for them on and off the reserve in their dealings with police officers, nurses, teachers, store managers, car dealers, insurance agents, and government officials. The elders would most often have a bilingual grandchild with them, as a witness — and precaution — to my efforts and growing skills. Each successive period of fieldwork led to greater involvement in the daily lives of the Dene Tha, and greater ease in understanding and speaking the native tongue in normal, day-to-day circumstances, even though I never approached in the local dialect the degree of fluency I enjoy in French and in English. I was also able to learn Dene Tha ritual processes "in coactivity with their enactors" (Turner 1985:205) because I was invited to do so. Indeed, the Dene Tha held that it was only in coactivity with them in their rituals that I would gradually develop an appreciation for their inner dynamics and their many levels of meanings. Thus, consistent with their view of knowledge as firsthand experience, they offered me little in the way of instructions or a body of interpretations before I engaged with them in rituals. Rather, the invitation was there to join and to 26

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learn from within, in the process of taking part in the ceremonies themselves. As described below the process of immersion in the Dene Tha lifeworld was a gradual one, beginning with efforts on my part to communicate in the world of everyday life according to Dene norms of interaction, and eventually leading to dreams and visions that the Dene Tha interpreted as ways of "knowing with the mind" (Goulet 1987). From the onset of fieldwork among the Dene Tha I knew that they communicated in ways which appear to Euro-Canadians as indirect and restrained. These ways had first come to my attention in the late 1970s in a story told by Rene Fumoleau who arrived in 1953 as a missionary in Fort Good Hope, and who has since assimilated Dene values to a rare degree for a nonDene (Fumoleau 1981). The story begins with Fumoleau attending a conference in Yellowknife, along with numerous Dene leaders and community members from across the Northwest Territories. In the course of the conference, Fumoleau expressed to a Dene friend his wish for an opportunity to spend time in the bush. Proceeding with typical Dene sensitivity not to impose oneself on others, Fumoleau did not expect an immediate response to his statement of interest. He was conducting himself as a Dene would have conducted himself. Hence at the end of the conference he did not know what would come out of the communication of his desire to spend time in the bush. Fumoleau and his friend were soon hundreds of kilometers apart, he in Yellowknife, north of the Great Slave Lake, and his friend in Fort Good Hope, on the Mackenzie River. A few weeks after the conference, a Fort Good Hope resident stopped by Fumoleau's house to visit and have tea. In the course of their conversation, the visitor mentioned that Fumoleau's friend was to spend a few weeks in the bush in the fall. No more was said on the topic, but Fumoleau understood that he was being told that the opportunity was there for him to soon join his friend. A few more weeks went by and another visitor from Fort Good Hope stopped by Fumoleau's house, one who would mention in passing the exact date on which Fumoleau's friend had chartered a small plane to be flown with his family to their trapline in the bush. Here was the invitation to go along. Fumoleau simply packed what he needed to spend a few weeks in the bush, and boarded a plane that flew him to Fort Good Hope. There, his friends simply took him aboard their chartered plane and left for the bush. On the strength of this story, and on the basis of many similar ones heard over the years, I proceeded to communicate in this DREAMS AND VISIONS IN OTHER LIFEWORLDS

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fashion with the Dene Tha. In the course of my second period of fieldwork, when I sought to establish a relationship with Alexis Seniantha, the leading Dene Tha prophet, I decided to visit his son and daughter-in-law. During the visit I mentioned once to Alexis' son that I wondered if his dad knew that I was interested in learning from the Dene Tha prophets. The remainder of the visit was spent talking of local events, trapping, education, and so on. A few days later, Alexis himself stopped for tea at my place, while on his way to the band office for business. We conversed for more than two hours, speaking in the local dialect the entire time. In the course of our conversation, Alexis twice mentioned that he prayed in the Dene Tha way in his home on Sunday, around 10:00 a.m. Hearing this, I said nothing to the effect that I would be pleased to join him, nor did I offer any comment on the information. This was, however, the first time that I interacted with the Dene Tha in this manner on such important issues. I went to other Dene Tha friends to explain what I had done, beginning with my visit to Alexis' son and daughter-in-law, and ending with Alexis' visit to my place. I asked them what would happen if I did not show up on Sunday at Alexis' place. They immediately answered that he would conclude that I had no ears. To them, I had been told in unambiguous terms to come to the elder's home. Among the Dene, one offers information in an apparently restrained manner; others respond in an apparently equally restrained manner. The appearance of restraint exists, however, only in the eyes of non-Dene. From the perspective of the Dene Tha, their style of communication is clear and unambiguous. Once the differences in the pattern of interaction and the builtin assumptions are identified, these examples of communication become perfectly understandable. Proceeding in the culturally appropriate manner, I therefore joined Alexis in his house every Sunday morning for many months to come. And so began a long series of meetings that included accounts of dreams and visions Alexis had experienced in his life, accompanied by numerous performances of drumming and singing. Sessions with Alexis soon led to similar ones with other Dene Tha prophets. As I spent more and more time learning thus about the Dene Tha ways, I came to the point of offering gifts to two Dene Tha prophets, asking for their help, on the occasion of important meetings I was about to have in Ottawa. Like Barbara Myerhoff, who had wanted to experience the peyote so important to the Huichol she was studying, I similarly wanted to experience the intercession of the elders so often 28

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sought by Dene Tha and other Natives from Western Canada. I proceeded in the culturally appropriate manner and bought the gifts one normally brings to these elders. Gifts, usually in the form of tobacco and objects such as shirts, moccasins, a piece of tanned moose hide, gloves, knives, etc., are said to be for the animal spirit helpers upon which the elders call to cure or assist the one who brings the gifts. When I presented the gifts to two elders in their homes, independently of each other, they each took the gifts and told me that they were quite happy that I was finally taking this step. Each went to his bedroom to get his drum and begin a session of instruction and intercession for me. A few days later, I traveled the more than eight hundred kilometers to Edmonton where I stayed over at my brother's house before taking the plane the next morning. When we went to bed in the early hours of the morning, my sister-in-law said not to worry, for she would wake us in time to get to the airport. In the morning, to my surprise, I awoke to the sound of drums. My eyes still closed, I paid attention to what was happening and saw the two elders to whom I had brought gifts. They were drumming, and smiling at me, one of them saying, "Remember the gifts were to get you to Ottawa." I opened my eyes, looked at my watch and realized it was 6:45 a.m. Somehow my brother's alarm clock had not functioned and everyone in the house was sound asleep. I woke my brother, and forty-five minutes later, we were at the airport in time for the 8:00 a.m. flight. Clearly this dream would not have occurred had I not been deeply involved with Dene Tha elders, in their lifeworld. To the elders, to whom I later reported the experience, this was a simple case of "knowing with the mind," a normal and recurring feature of non-verbal communication in their lives, particularly in the context of ritual activities. Dene Tha speak of the elders' ability to travel long distances in spirit, with their animal spirit helpers, to help the spirit of the individual who has asked for their help. In their view, this is how I was helped. I doubt that it can be established scientifically whether or not these animal spirit helpers really exist, or whether Dene Tha elders really travel in spirit to assist others, near and far. I am satisfied with the notion that this is the particular idiom Dene Tha use to think and talk about such experiences, thus making them meaningful and intelligible. At times, Dene Tha themselves may be more or less dissatisfied with this idiom, and ask how such experiences really come about. Analytically we can, and ought to, distinguish between the experience itself and the idiom in which the experience is talked DREAMS AND VISIONS IN OTHER LIFEWORLDS

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about. I think that the appearance of the two Dene Tha elders in a waking dream was a product of my unconscious mind somehow keeping up with the passage of time and in effect creating a dream that would effectively pull me out of sleep. In other words, the dream really happened at the most propitious time; how it is to be accounted for is another question altogether, one that I and David Young pursue at greater length in the last chapter of this book. Consider the following case illustrating what the Dene Tha take as a case of knowing with the mind in the context of a ritual process. In July 1984, I joined the elders who were sitting around a fire in a teepee discussing the preparation of ceremonies. As we progressed in the round of talk, smoke gradually filled the teepee. Annoyed by the smoke, which hurt my eyes, I wondered what could be done about it. I suddenly realized that I was looking at a detailed life-size image of myself. Here was my double before my very eyes, wearing the same clothes I was then wearing, kneeling by the fire, fanning the flames with my hat. I kept looking at the image, aware all the while, of the smoke in the teepee, and wondering who would do something about it. Then someone — a non-Native — got up, went to the fire, knelt down, and started blowing on it. Immediately, with a loud voice, an elder told him not to blow on the fire, and instructed him to fan the fire with his hat or some other object. The rationale for not blowing on the fire was that such an action would offend spiritual entities and induce a violent wind storm in the camp. Listening to the elder, I realized that I had actually foreseen the proper way of fanning a fire. Up to that time, I knew neither the right nor wrong way of fanning a fire, nor the rationale behind the prohibition against blowing on a fire. Neither did I know that one could see so vividly, in image form, what the proper action should be in a given situation. From the Dene Tha point of view, I had experienced a form of teaching and communication that occurs not through the medium of words, but through the medium of images. Conversations with Dene Tha about this range of phenomena gave new meaning to Turner's invitation to fieldworkers to "suspend as far as possible their own social conditioning in order to have sensory and mental knowledge of what is really happening around and to them" (1985:205).9 Accounts of normal human interaction in everyday life between the natives of a society and ethnographers are not surprising, and most readers will find them quite acceptable. Do we not say, "in Rome do as the Romans do"? Becoming familiar 30

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with local norms of conduct and interpretation, indeed in patterning his or her own behaviour according to these local norms, the anthropologist becomes intelligible to others and they to the anthropologist. Only then does the ethnographer reach the point when he/she ceases to be puzzled by them and they cease to laugh at the ethnographer's blunders (Obeyesekere 1990:226). These are essential steps towards an ethnography that effectively captures a local worldview and ethos. In the cases at hand, to choose to go through a third party, rather than directly to the individual to whom one wants access, is correct and rational in the Dene way. To offer Dene Tha prophets the appropriate gifts accompanied with tobacco to indicate a request for their assistance is also correct and rational in the Dene way. Can we also say that it is effective? What validity is there in the Dene Tha view — and indeed of many other people's view — that ritual processes generate in the participants certain kinds of subjective experiences uniquely appropriate to the circumstances? Did the images of the Dene Tha elders appear in my consciousness at the appropriate time to wake me up and remind me that the gifts were to get me to Ottawa because of our preceding ritual interaction? Did the image of myself fanning the fire in the appropriate manner appear as it did before my eyes because I was engaged in a ritual performance in coactivity with others who expect, and often report, such experiences? Images experienced as autonomous — unexpectedly appearing before one's eyes—is what I experienced while with the Dene Tha in their lifeworld. This was the case when I first heard and then saw, my eyes still closed, the two Dene Tha elders drumming to wake me in time to board the plane. This was also the case when I sat by the fire and saw myself fanning it in the appropriate way, and equally the case when I attended a conference and suddenly saw a recently deceased Dene Tha appear before my eyes (see Watson and Goulet 1992:219-220 for a discussion of that experience). Following Price-Williams' (1987) suggestion, experiences of the world of images reported in this paper can be referred to as waking dreams rather than as apparitions or hallucinations, the terms that would immediately come to the mind of the religionist, the student of the paranormal, and the psychiatrist. In a waking dream, "the imaginative world is experienced as autonomous," that is to say "the imager does not have the sense that he is making up these productions, but feels that he is getting involved in an already created process" (Price-Williams DREAMS AND VISIONS IN OTHER LIFEWORLDS

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1987:248). Greeks clearly had such experiences. Parman (1991:18) notes that in Homer's time "one did not have a dream, one 'saw' a dream figure (oneiros)." Plato discussed the phenomenon of images that enter the stream of consciousness of individuals "no longer in control of their own imagination", in a state of "enthousiasmos," or ecstasy (ek-stasis) (Kearney 1988:102-105). Closer to us, repeated psychic experiences such as these led Jung (1965:183) to the crucial insight that "there are things in the psyche" which we do not produce, but "which produce themselves and have their own life." The people among whom fieldworkers live offer their own models of such experiences. They often mention that they first hear a voice telling them "Look! Over there!" The Dene Tha say of such experiences that they are "like a movie being shown before your eyes."10 The metaphor of the movie projector suggests a source located outside of themselves. In the Dene Tha view, although one sees with one's mind, the source of the projection is in deceased human beings or in spiritual entities living in the "other world." This is precisely the view that nineteenth-century European authors, the majority of them male physicians, tried to dispel from the public mind. They also drew on the image of a projector, that of the magical lantern by which specters were made to appear before the very eyes of spectators. But they used this image not to affirm, but to dispel the notion of a spirit world. When these authors drew upon the metaphor of the phantasmagoria—a name, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, invented for an exhibit of optical illusions produced chiefly by means of the magic lantern, first exhibited in London in 1902— they saw in the magical lantern "the obvious mechanical analog for the human brain." Their analogy served to relocate "the world of ghosts in the closed space of the imagination" (Castle 1988:58). "Siindit'ah edawohdi (with my mind I know)," say the Dene Tha. "With your mind you hallucinate," respond the physicians. Faced with these opposing views, what are the options? On the one hand, one may agree with Stoller and Olkes (1987:229) who, at the end of an experiential journey into the world of Songhay sorcerers, declared that respect for the culture of others means "accepting fully beliefs and phenomena which our own system of knowledge often hold[s] preposterous." To hold such a view is, in effect, to become one of them. On the other hand, one may agree with the interpretive anthropologist and ethnomethodologist to suspend belief and disbelief about what other people 32

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say about their reality, and describe the procedures through which they constitute their social reality as Watson and Goulet (1992), and Watson (1992), for instance, do with ethnographic data from the Dene Tha. The first point of view fails to distinguish analytically between the experience itself and the interpretive framework within which the experience has meaning. I am not prepared as Stoller and Olkes suggest, to accept fully the Dene Tha beliefs. Merely replacing my old interpretive framework with a new one would not necessarily allow me to understand the experience in a more profound way. I am not prepared, however, to deny or ignore a range of phenomena they and I have experienced, but that often is seen as preposterous in Western systems of knowledge. I therefore cannot accept fully the perspective of the interpretive anthropologist or ethnomethodologist as it involves distancing oneself from the people with whom one is working to such a degree that important experiential qualities of dreams and visions are lost. In my experience of waking dreams, the autonomous quality of images which appear unexpectedly before one's eyes cannot be denied. This kind of experience is reported again and again by individuals — including ethnographers — in many lifeworlds, including our own (B. Tedlock 1991b: 162-164). True, an introspective investigation of such experiences of extraordinary perception is impossible. However, this is also the case with ordinary perception of smells, sounds, and images of objects and people in our environment. In their case, write Bateson and Bateson (1987:92), "I know which way I aim my eyes and I am conscious of the product of perception but I know nothing of the middle process by which the images are formed" [emphasis in text].10 Thus we must recognize that in the world of everyday life, as in the world of dreams, we look at the products of cognitive processes without any awareness of these processes by which images and perceptions are produced. What I am advocating is a middle way which involves accepting the reality of extraordinary experiences but which leaves open to investigation the issues of where such experiences originate. Extraordinary experiences and accounts of them clearly inform social interaction in societies in which "the world of ghosts and spirits is as real as that of markets, though real in different qualitative ways" (Obeyesekere 1990:66). Anthropologists who enter such worlds, and suspend as far as possible their own social conditioning, consistently report extraordinary experiences that are consistent with the ones described by the people they "study." The essays in this book, as well as the work of D. DREAMS AND VISIONS IN OTHER LIFEWORLDS

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Tedlock and B. Tedlock (1975); Favret-Saada (1980); Peters (1981); Stoller and Olkes (1987); Jackson (1989); E. Turner, Blodgett, Kahona and Benwa (1992), among others, represent steps toward dealing with such experiences—those of the anthropologist and of the "Native"—without denying them any truth.

CONCLUSION I began with the generalization that "individuals dream in the symbols of their society, as they think in the categories of their own language" (Wilson 1971:57) and went on to suggest that fieldworkers immersed in a society and language other than their own may also come to dream and think in the symbols and categories of their fieldwork environment, although they do this only to some degree like a native, but never as a native. As the ethnographer progressively becomes immersed into a lifeworld that is eminently real to the natives who construct and inhabit that world, his/her accounts of dreams and visions become more readily understood by the natives. This provides the ethnographer with increasing credibility and allows him/her to communicate at ever deeper levels about matters of great importance to the natives. In other words, a growing proficiency in dreaming, remembering one's dreams, and interpreting one's dreams according to local rules of interpretation allows the fieldworker to do better ethnography. This is of course possible only if ethnographers pay attention to their own inner lives and share their dreams and visions with others accustomed to talking about and interpreting such phenomena. In a sense, fieldwork is an experience in socialization: one withdraws from one's usual social environment and draws near to "others" to learn how they think, feel and behave. To gain entry into the lifeworld of others, fieldworkers leave a society whose conventions they have mastered and enter the society of others who become their teachers. Over time they experience normal human interaction in a new locality, leading to a deeper and deeper understanding not only of another people and culture, but indeed of themselves as human beings. This process of immersion in another lifeworld may well lead fieldworkers, unwillingly at times, and at a level of consciousness they may not have anticipated, to enjoy glimpses of what it is to interact with them in the context of information derived from accounts of dreams and visions. This process of immersion, however, comes

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to an end as the fieldworker withdraws from the field and reenters the academic circle of peers. Anthropological convention required fieldworkers to relegate "the personal to the periphery and to the 'merely anecdotal': pejoratively contrasted in positivist social science with generalisable truth" (Okely 1992:9), and thus to "leave behind them" the kind of experiences that form the substance of this book. Traditional anthropological conventions are giving way to creative experimentation. As more and more anthropologists bring "extraordinary" material to the fore, we not only make ourselves more hospitable to the processes and products of ritual, imagination, and dream, we also have the opportunity to develop within anthropology a greater sophistication in dealing with an essential aspect of the human experience—the inner life as revealed in accounts of dreams and visions interpreted in coactivity with others in their lifeworlds.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I thank Christine Hanssens, Stan Gibson, David Young, and Graham Watson for their comments on earlier versions of this paper. I, of course, remain fully responsible for the ideas expressed in this paper. I am indebted to the Guajiro of Colombia and Venezuela and to the Dene Tha of northern Alberta, Canada, with whom I shared accounts of dreams and visions while living among them. The Guajiro among whom I conducted fieldwork in the central region of the Guajira peninsula of Colombia and Venezuela lived in a locality named Aipiachi. Fieldwork that extended from the month of September 1975 through the month of November 1976 was supported by a grant from the Canadian Research Council. This assistance is gratefully acknowledged. The Dene among whom I conducted fieldwork live in Chateh, also known as Assumption (see map in Asch 1981:338). Fieldwork extended from January through June for five consecutive years (January 1980 to July 1984), and has been followed by regular shorter visits since. The first two periods of fieldwork were spent mainly in the study of the local dialect, which made possible regular interaction with monolingual Dene Tha dreamers. Financial support from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council and from the Canadian Research Center for Anthropology, is also gratefully acknowledged.

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NOTES 1. See B. Tedlock (1991a:70-7l) for a review of the most famous cases of anthropologists "gone native," that of the German scholar Curt Unkel in Brazil, the American researcher Grant Hamilton Gushing among the Zuni, and the Englishman Verrier Elwin in India. In Gone Primitive (1991) Marianna Torgovnick discusses the work of Malinowski, Mead, Leiris, and Levi-Strauss, as various anthropological attempts to come to terms with the "native" or "primitive" without becoming one with them. 2. Part of the challenge for the anthropologist coming back home is to convince others that their reports are accurate and trustworthy. Thompson and Joseph (1986:62) write that following the original publication of The Hopi Way in 1944, she "was amazed and amused" when some of her colleagues "decided quite seriously that [she and her colleague] had invented the Hopi world view." Many years later, to the authors greatest satisfaction, "from the most conservative Hopi pueblo came the word that we [Thompson and Joseph] are the only ones who have told the truth about the Hopis" (1986:62). The debate surrounding the reports on the Tassaday as a contemporary stone-age people only recently contacted by "outsiders" (Dumont 1988; R. Lee 1992; Headland 1992) and the one about Margaret Mead's alleged errors in her characterization of Samoan culture (Freeman 1983, 1989) are two examples of current anthropological debates concerning colleagues' purported contributions to knowledge. The controversy surrounding the work of Carlos Gastaneda (de Mille 198la and Marton, in this book) and the work of Florinda Donner (De Holmes 1983; Picchi 1983; and Pratt 1986:28-33) are the most prominent recent cases of works that fail to convince anthropologists of the factuality of their contents. 3. Relevant literature on the vision quest among North American Indians can be found in Benedict 1923; Devereux 1957; Hallowell 1966:267-292; 1992:80-92; Ridington 1990, and Kehoe 1992. Bourguignon 1972; D'Andrade 1961; Dentan 1986; Dugan 1985; Eggan 1949; Gackenbach 1987; Grunebaum and Caillois 1966; B. Tedlock 1987a; and Perrin 1990, offer useful case material from many other cultural areas, and review methodological and theoretical issues involved in the study of accounts of dreams and/or visions. In the process of ethnographic encounters anthropologists have often paid attention to their own dreams. As noted by B. Tedlock (1991b:165), some have published accounts of their

36

JEAN-GUY GOULET

dreams first noted down in their journals (Malinowski 1967:66-82, 202-208; Nadar 1970:111-112; Caesara 1982:22), "while others have also told their dreams to members of the society in which they were working for the purpose of having them interpreted (Bruce 1975; Jackson 1978; B. Tedlock 1981; Stephen 1989)." Contents of such dreams often reflect stages in the process of accommodation to a new social identity as one lives and participates in a new society (Anderson 1971). 4. The historical processes leading to this Western inhospitality are well documented by Keith Thomas in his Religion and the Decline of Magic (1971), which offers an excellent description of the secularization of European thought with the concomitant decline of ghost beliefs in the 1600s and 1700s. Tambiah (1990:18-32) offers a review and discussion of the discussions that followed the publication of Thomas's work. Castle (1988:52-56) reviews the many polemical treaties published in England, France, and Germany, beginning around 1800, all dedicated to the eradication of the belief in ghosts. "In the very act of denying the spirit-world of our ancestors," notes Castle (1988:30), "we have been forced to relocate it in our theory of the imagination," a fact with far-reaching implications. Richard Kearney's The Wake of Imagination (1988) and Susan Par man's Dream and Culture, An Anthropological Study of the Western Intellectual Tradition (1991), trace the development of Western discussions and polemics on the status of imagination from the time of the Greek philosophers to contemporary postmodernist writers. 5. Lett (1991:307) is particularly critical of Long for displaying "flagrant gullibility and egregious irrationality in his edited volume entitled Extrasensory Ecology: Parapsychology and Anthropology (1977)" and of Margaret Mead who throughout her career "did little to disguise her unwavering sympathy for paranormal claims." Lett (1991:319) who faults Jackson (1989) and Luhrman (1989) for their assumption that the scientific method cannot be applied to magic and other paranormal claims, similarly criticizes Stoller and Olkes (1987) for his deliberate setting aside of the scientific approach to the production of verifiable and replicable knowledge in his study of Songhay sorcery, thus leading himself to "be duped by a standard series of illusionist's tricks that include misdirection, sleight of hand, and after-the-fact interpretation." 6. The usual Guajiro pattern in butchering a cow or bull is to first knock the animal unconscious with a blow on the forehead using

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37

the blunt side of an ax, and then to bleed the animal to death. The only time I observed a different pattern of butchering among the Guajiro was on the morning following this dream. On that day, to my surprise, I saw a cow being slaughtered as I had seen in my dream: the animal's head tied close to a tree, a man holding the animal by the horn and plunging a knife through the back to the heart. It is possible that the account of my dream went beyond the circle of the family members with whom I shared it, and had somehow influenced the Guajiro to modify their usual behaviour that day. Or perhaps what I had dreamt simply coincided with the manner in which slaughtering would proceed on this day. 7. In the psychoanalytical tradition the break between Freud and Jung hinged on their conflicting interpretation of a crucial dream Jung reported to Freud (see Jung [1965:158-162] for a discussion of this dream). Where Freud saw in Jung's dreams the veiled expression of repressed death-wishes, Jung saw in his dream "a kind of structural diagram of the human psyche" giving him his "first inkling of a collective a priori beneath the personal psyche," the guiding image that was to lead him to his theory of the archetypes. 8. For presentations of Dene Tha worldview and religion see Goulet 1982, 1988, and Watson and Goulet 1992. In the anthropological literature, people of this community are referred to either as Slavey (Asch 1981:348) or as "the Dene-tha branch of the Beaver Indians" (Smith 1987:444). The Department of Indian and Northern Affairs Canada (1987:91) lists the reservation as Hay Lake with a population of 809 in December 1986. 9. Turner's admonition is reminiscent of that of C.R. Rogers who, sixteen years ago, advocated that psychologists open their minds as well as their "whole selves" to learning from the individual. Rogers noted that opening themselves, psychologists may well be led to investigate mysterious, and possibly personally threatening phenomena, classified as parapsychological. Rogers makes it clear that he is "not suggesting that we 'know' there is a separate reality [or realities]. . ." (1973:386). 10. See Bateson and Bateson (1987:92-95) for a discussion of the experiments constructed by Ames to identify some of these unconscious processes governing ordinary perception.

38

JEAN-GUY GOULET

MARIE FRANCOISE GUEDON

Dene Ways and the Ethnographer's Culture

INTRODUCTION A few years ago, I was told that my published Ph.D. dissertation, People of Tetlin, Why Are You Singing? (1972) was being used in the local school of Tetlin (Alaska), "to teach the kids their own culture." I suppose this was meant as a compliment. After all, the research, conducted between 1969 and 1972, had been encouraged by the Tetlin, one of the Nabesna Indian villages located in eastern Alaska, not too far from the Canadian border. The people of Tetlin belong to the large Athapaskan linguistic family, the speakers of which, the Dene, occupy most of inland Alaska and northwestern Canada. The dissertation had been revised by local informants with whom I had checked information and wording, and to the extent of everyone's knowledge, the text was accurate. As in the case of all monographs, it was incomplete and could only deal with a partial account of my experience and learning. The people I had come to know as my instructors were quite aware of my limitations and of the restrictions of the written word. While the story I was telling may have bypassed much of what I had been taught, it was still a valid story as far as its details went.

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My writing, however, conveyed to the children of the village not only the stories of girls growing through puberty rituals, or the rules by which men and women established their relationships with each other through kinship and clan membership, or the description of potlatch and other feasting, but also a very definite, though implicit, definition of culture. That definition was meant for academic ears, not for Dene children. I did not know enough at the time to realize the difference between my own working definition of culture and a definition informed by Dene values and conceptions. I had assumed that a connection, if not a direct fit, could be found between my notion of "culture," and its Dene equivalent, if any. When I became aware of the possibility that this assumption was incorrect, the issue was too vague for a sustained discussion and its theoretical interest was minimal. Yet the question grew until I could no longer ignore it. The examination of this question provides a window on my personal and professional intellectual evolution in the context of my journey among and with the Dene.1 The juxtaposition of the concept of culture as seen in the eyes of the anthropologist and the concept of culture as seen in the eyes of the Dene is not a rhetorical exercise since the Dene themselves, and the Dene Nation, are now involved in preserving, developing and defending what we and they call their culture. But culture according to whose definition? What would the concept of culture be like if it were developed by Dene speakers? This I cannot describe, although I suspect that in their eyes culture becomes the Dene Ways. What I can do is work on an idea of culture which would bring out some of the features of Nabesna life that acted as pivotal points in my representation of Dene Ways in contrast to the received anthropological representation of Nabesna culture.2 In the pages that follow, I will therefore proceed from three perspectives. First, my discussion is informed by my early presuppositions about culture, in so far as they were revealed to me by some obvious incomprehension or failure on my part to perceive a feature or trait of the Nabesna context, as a cultural trait. Second, I will draw upon significant subjective experiences among the Dene and some twenty years of comparisons between various Dene groups (Nabesna, Atna, Wet'suwet'en, and lately, Navaho) and non-Dene groups (Tsimshian, Salish, Tlingit and Inuit). And last, I will describe what I think are assumptions made by the Nabesna people about their lives, their world and themselves, the Tetlingqort'ani or Dine, and draw the implica-

40 MARIE FRANCOISE GUEDON

tions for a re-definition of the anthropological concept of culture.

MY STATUS IN THE COMMUNITY AS A FEMALE FIELDWORKER My perception of the Dene people was shaped, to an extent I did not appreciate until much later, by my status in the community. When I began work as an ethnographer, I was young and unmarried. If I was considered a professional observer or recorder whose work was to produce a book on Nabesna culture, I soon realized the people of Tetlin were not treating me as a mature person. Rather they were taking me in as a person to educate (a child just past puberty, as one of my informants tactfully indicated). This task was undertaken by a group of older people — most often women — in Tetlin and later in Tanacross.3 My relationship with my instructors, both male and female, was personal from the start. They made it clear that I could not learn about Dene ways of life and language without myself growing into this learning. Most explanations, statements, and stories, had therefore a double purpose: to provide me with reliable information to "write down for the book," and to orient my personal upbringing. This second purpose was never far from the surface in our interviews. For instance, when I was asking questions about the fate of pregnant, unmarried girls, B. assumed this was a personal query and answered immediately, "I knew you were going to get in trouble, living alone as you do. . . . " In such a context, I could not avoid being exposed to the dynamic aspects of the socialization process, and therefore, to culture itself. I perceived attempts by my instructors to first teach me certain items, then, only later, another set of items. There was a definite progression in the stories I originally thought had been given to me according to my prompting. How I learned about menstruation taboos illustrates this process. At first, I was told stories about Tinica (puberty) girls kidnapped by strangers and then rescued by their families or by some animal. I was told of the taboo prescriptions accompanying the lengthy retreat in the woods marking the onset of puberty or followed during menstruation. Later, I noticed how the old women, especially, would look at me, and with a glance, stop me from making the wrong move; and reward me similarly for the right gesture. I learned, without ever being told so, to walk while keeping my feet together on the path; to put one foot on the DENE WAYS AND THE E T H N O G R A P H E R ' S CULTURE

41

door step; not to step over a stream, over a path, over a tool, never over a man; and to stay in my tent for three days every month. The climax of this socialization process came during a feast when I stepped over the very tip of the corner of the paper rolled out on the floor as a tablecloth. When I came back to sit at my place, the elders seated along that entire roll of paper had piled unto and around my plate all the food, including the canned fruits, that had been served to them. "They were not hungry any more," they said. Their giggles and laughter pointed to another explanation which came embarrassingly veiled in allusions, when the oldest woman, taking pity on me, whispered to my ear: "when girls . . . you know . . .". I never stepped over anything from that point on. I translated all these experiences into a lapidary saying: "When a woman, don't step over anything." But this was not a Dene way of stating this series of prohibitions. No one ever told me anything of the kind. I began to understand the taboo not as a rule to be obeyed, not as a general principle of conduct, but as the expression of my personal relationship with streams, paths, door-steps, men, food, and even myself as a woman. Several weeks later, one of my mentors related the story of her puberty retreat. She described in detail how she was rushed into a small hut in the woods, where she kept all by herself, legs folded, experiencing early yearnings for fresh food and company, using the hollow bone tube for drinking little sips of tepid water. She then talked about the progression of her emotions and feelings during the several month ordeal, her fears, the increasing shyness, her getting used to herself, the changes in her perception of the world and of herself: "My fingers got skinny, I could touch easy . . .". She then carefully brought to my attention a number of prescriptions applying to both the puberty period and to the menstruation period, and for the first time, she discussed some of their underlying principles: In these days, when blood come, what you do, what you think, it stays with you, that's why. (S)he sleeps on dark pillow, (s)he gets black hair, long time, like mine . . . My Grand-Ma, she lets me know. You want nice mouth . . . Small like this. You don't laugh; big mouth, that way . . . (S)he wants new habits, wants to change something; change it that time . . . Enji ! You think good thought. S(he) wants to learn, learn that time. Me, I learn moccasin, everything, sewing, my Grand-Ma taught me, stories, everything. If you

42 MARIE FRANCOISE GUEDON

go with bad people, you get into trouble. It stays. You think good thoughts, do good things for yourself. While she was speaking, I thought about the usual translation of the Dene term "Enji" (inchee), first presented to me as signifying 'impure,' but which she immediately corrected as 'danger.' She leaned toward me and concluded: "These days when you sleep, it's like being born, you are all new. Women, every moon, they can change." And with a bright twinkle in her eye, she added: "Poor men don't have that! Stuck with themselves . . . ". Such an admission of power could be offered only after I had shown I understood her story, and previous ones, as role models for my own transformation. Being a woman was not a state of being or even a biological fact. It was a process, an act of participation. Learning thus about menstruation taboos, I found it increasingly difficult to speak of belief — a term with strong intellectual and cognitive connotations — for most of the content of the "belief" I was taught was physical and kinesthetic. Through many similar experiences, embedded in a definite progression in the stories and information given to me, and with the help of Dene friends over many years, I came to realize that perception of process is the key to the Dene way of life as well as to an understanding of their notions of community, technology, family, religion, and knowledge. All of these the Dene view as processes rather than as definite, bounded systems. As I accepted this Dene perspective in my methodological and theoretical approaches to Dene culture, new insights became possible. Participation-observation as methodology became a process of personal maturation of the ethnographer in the Dene culture, a process carefully supervised and supported by the Dene themselves. After many years of fieldwork among the Dene, a Dene told me that there was no point in talking about certain things "to a white man, even an anthropologist, unless you knew he was going to understand." Significant novel personal experiences shared with the Dene were seen as indications that they could talk about certain things in greater detail and depth, for in their view, I was going to understand.

KNOWING STORIES; KNOWING THE LAND The one area that was most forcefully presented to me as an intrinsic part of the Dene Way consisted of the stories: "Old DENE WAYS AND THE ETHNOGRAPHER'S CULTURE

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stories good for training. When (s)he hears old stories, that's how (s)he learns his own way. Have to keep Indian way. If you don't listen, you got like white man. (S)he talk white man way, (s)he don't good for nothing" (Guedon, Field Notes, October 22, 1970). What my Nabesna instructor called "stories," that is, most oral literature, included the several well-defined categories of the Yenida'a or "really old time stories" (the great mythological cycles of Raven adventures and of Smart Beaver's travels), the animal legends, the clan origin stories, the children's fables, the funny stories (replete with plays on words), and finally, historical or pseudo-historical accounts (relating events which are part of these experiences lived by the actual members of the native communities, their neighbors or their ancestors). All these texts were relatively stable over time, in form and content, as long as one stayed within the same kin group. In Tetlin, I have collected texts in English which were very similar to those collected by Robert McKennan in the same village thirty years before my own visit. Yet, each teller impressed his or her own mark on the stories, and from one family to the next, the details would vary. Stories were usually told in response to a question of mine or to a situation; they were also geared to my level of understanding and to the lesson I was supposed to learn. As I grew up, the stories got more complete, the play on words, and the funny or sexually explicit details also increased together with the number of stories themselves. I was thus exposed to several versions of the "same" story, from the same instructors, at different points in time. Four general remarks are called for to clarify the place of stories in the Nabesna process of teaching and learning. First, all my instructors seemed to respond to my questions by stories rather than direct explanation.6 What is being taught through the stories is matched in importance by the fact that stories are the medium through which something is taught. Second, myths and legends inform the routine of daily life. The context in which the stories are told is part of the oral tradition. The stories, outside of those semi-formal occasions like winter evenings, were told to me, the ethnographer, much as they were told the children at home, following an incident related directly or indirectly to the story, and in the bush, during tea break or in the evening. While the big myths were to be told only in the winter time, preferably during "the big moon festival," when spirits and monsters are away, these myths were nevertheless very often alluded to. As for the animal legends, they were told anytime and repeatedly. Third, stories provided a larger context for 44 MARIE FRANCOISE GUEDON

coping with particular events such as a death, accident, or an unexpected happening, or for discussing such topics as dying, puberty, or the conception of one's own life — autobiographical material in particular in the case of each of my Dene instructors was usually framed by stories, or transformed into one. An interesting visit, a difficult or successful expedition, a completed feast, a problem to solve, were all followed by the same statement: "this will make a good story." Such a comment introduced the transformation of a mere happening into something that could be told, discussed, or meditated upon in the solitude of one's mind. As long as an experience offered material for thought or joking, it could be integrated into one's life and considered positively. And last, stories offered models for behavior and were used as explanations or justifications for taboos and ritual. Each animal mentioned in a myth thereby acquired definite characteristics, personality traits, and spiritual qualities, resulting in logical consequences for people coming into contact with them. For instance, if one meets a porcupine on the trail, one will know that no bear will bother the traveling party, because of "the bear and porcupine story." Similarly, women are not supposed to tell bear stories, or even pronounce the name of "that which walks upright," "the big one," because of the story of the girl who married the bear, and of the story of a she-bear marrying a man. Whenever captured, wolverine is treated as a most important guest because of the actions of its ancestor in the mythical cycle of Smart Beaver or of "the one who went around the world" (wolverine was not as transformed as the other animals, and kept part of its former spiritual characteristics).7 The territory or landscape definitely contributes both to the continuity of legends, taboos, customs, and other traditions, and to the sharing of their content. When I first approached the Nabesna, I questioned the mechanisms by which matrilocality (even temporary) could be envisioned in a society in which subsistence depended on hunting. Were not men supposed to hunt better in a land they knew intimately? The question ignored many factors, including the important role of female hunters and the fact that it does not take a lifetime for a male hunter to learn the configuration of a new territory, especially when most of the time is spent outdoors, moving around, with a well developed sense to observe and remember the details of the environment. The most important factor in the acquisition of intimate knowledge of the land is the inclusion of the land itself into the cultural environment and process. DENE WAYS AND THE ETHNOGRAPHER'S CULTURE

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This factor was paramount in my own socialization process, as well as in that of Nabesna children. It is in the bush, along the trails that, while I learned the details of the natural environment, I was taught most of the techniques, stories, rituals, and traditions concerning animals and the environment at large, the earth and the winds, the mountains and the rivers, and the proper attitude toward them. It is while walking along the trails and the rivers, on the lakes, in the marshes and on the slopes, that the elders would, day after day, describe for themselves, for their children, and for me, the ethnographer, all the events, big or small that had marked the lives of past and present members of the community. All knowledge was associated directly or indirectly with specific localities or landmarks. Beginning with the trails themselves, the navigable streams, the blazing marks left at eyes' height, the paths opened by hares and other animals including the lookouts for moose or caribou, the flats with the muskrat colonies, the beaver dams, the different fishing spots, the blueberry clearings, the red currant slopes, the raspberry patches; and including as well the singular details, the odd-looking trees, large birches, dark clumps of spruce, deep lakes inhabited by monstrous fish, the cliffs dug by dragons, the old camps haunted by an old shamanic presence, or the river turns where Tunqasqe, the master of the water had been seen; all these were explicitly linked to specific landmarks. Equally important was the spot where Maggie had saved her husband by undressing in front of a grizzly attacking him, the place where my partner had killed her first moose, where Joe built his cabin three winters ago, where Titus' favorite dog fought against a fox, and the one where Nancy found a fox puppy, where Annie's grandfather had seen a talking tree, and the place where I had heard the story of Bear and Porcupine for the first time. It was while walking (and navigating) the territory that one reads and rereads one's personal history and the history of the whole community, always different, always renewed, and yet in richer details than in any printed book. This was especially noticeable when I traveled with women eager to make enough noise to frighten bears away! Walking the trails, crisscrossing the landscape, the travelers, whether newcomers, children, or old-timers, shared an immense pool of the most precious knowledge concerning animals of course, but also concerning all the non-human powers of the land and the atmosphere. One also learned precise behavioral patterns, physical postures, rhythms, and mental attitudes. (It is only after I left Alaska that I noticed I had somehow learned to place my feet differently while walking on 46 MARIE FRANCOISE GUEDON

the narrow trails to which I had become accustomed.) There was also the endless stream of messages sent, in a shamanic mode, dream-like, by the details of the environment. Each tree has a different personality, each set of tracks announces more than the history of some animal, signaling an encounter with a spiritual power of some kind, and prompting a reference to a bit of story, a joke, or a memory. Each bend in the trail was pregnant with a potential announcement from the shape of a shadow, the design of a branch, or the marks in the earth itself. The bush was an endless source of knowledge. Always changing, this landscape was alive on many levels, natural, historical, personal. The landscape was explicitly shared and socialized. It was also known at a most intimate level, and it was only through shared moments of intense silence or through equally intense bursts of poetry (a few words reuniting for instance the tracks of a fox, the shadows on the snow, the call of a swan in the evening sky, and the memory of one's lost brother) that I came to glimpse the passionate longing that linked each of my instructors to the world around them.8 My instructors did not seem to separate the stories from the landscape — both were equally meaningful. None of them could talk about the Dene Way without mentioning sooner or later the territory that supported it. If technology did not appear to be part of a Dene "culture," as I shall shortly demonstrate, the territory was definitely included in the definition, both as a carrier of traditions (as content), in the forms of resources, life style, and landmarks, and as a medium (as process) through which the Dene ways could be transmitted and created. All my Dene experiences lead me to conclude that the Dene territory is best defined not as "cultured" but as cultural. From this perspective the land is perceived as a process and as an unfolding story.

ACQUIRING NEW TECHNOLOGY; LEARNING EXPERIENTIALLY Technology plays a dominant role in the official definition of the northern hunters-gatherers by the dominant society and by ethnographers. This may be why I was surprised by the casualness with which Nabesna people treated what I considered traditions essential to maintaining their hunting-gathering way of life. A number of remarks made by John Honigmann (1949:xx) in his study of the Kaska (Southern Yukon Dene), are relevant here DENE WAYS AND THE ETHNOGRAPHER'S CULTURE

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as they pertain to acculturation as generally understood by anthropologists. In Honigmann's view (1949:xx), Dene attitudes to the aboriginal style of adaptation is characterized by "utilitarianism, defined as a practical functional approach to living," an attitude that helps us understand that they "have been far more ready to borrow technological improvements than they have been to modify adjustive pattern of behaviour." In the light of this attitude found among the Nabesna, and which is probably characteristic of the Dene in general, we should re-assess all these acculturation studies using material culture as a measure of cultural changes. In the light of this utilitarian attitude one understands why technological change such as provoked by the industrialization of Alaska and the Yukon was not perceived by my informants as a direct threat against their way of life. A large caliber gun allows a hunter to shoot at a distance without invalidating the rules of behavior vis-a-vis the animal. A chain saw does not give one license to cut more trees, but only to cut them faster. It is the relationship with the animals, the materials, the environment that matters. The transmission of the system of taboos, prescriptions and ritual gestures expressing that quality is a far greater concern than the adhesion to a set of techniques or the preservation of some tool. When it came to technological innovation, the center of my informants' preoccupation was not the object, not even the behavior itself, but the quality of the behavior, seen as the expression of a relationship.9 They were concerned by the deterioration and shrinking of the land, by territorial considerations, by the loss of their language, and by their relationship with white administration. Schools especially were viewed with ambiguity. In spite of the fact that they were conscious of the modifications brought by snowmobiles, chain saws, electric generators and tape recorders, they preferred to focus their attention on how to adapt these new tools to their activities. I remember a three-day muskrat trapping expedition on foot, in the spring snow of early April, 1971. The party consisted of three older women, one young man, one young woman, three children between 6 and 12 years of age, and myself. We each carried the clothes on our backs and a blanket. We had, as a group, one ax, three guns, one bag of tea, a box of matches, two knives, and two backpacks (one of which was mine — with notebooks, etc.). I also had a can of peaches. Halfway through the first day, we ate the peaches and thereafter used the can to make tea. I had never before traveled so light. All the food — whether muskrat, duck or lily bulbs — water and shelter material 48 MARIE FRANCOISE GUEDON

came from the surrounding environment. We slept in a spruce bough lean-to and cooked on open fires. We used the pot waiting for us in the cabin in the last Tetlin camp to boil a muskrat stew. We left the pot there when we left. Every problem was solved with a minimal amount of effort and material. We crossed the frozen lakes carrying poles just cut from the bush, in case the ice would break, then used small poles to poke the banks of the river to search for water-lily bulbs cached there by the muskrats. A shirt could become a rope; an old screwdriver could be used as a knife or a scraper. One used what was there and adapted what was available. This simplicity was deceptive. The dean of the expedition remarked quietly that white people had been rescued from starvation on that very spot, sitting unknowingly on sackfuls of water-lily bulbs. The environment can give no more than what is knowingly asked from it, and the best snare will not catch a rabbit unless properly set. The materials are simple, but the technology creatively adapts to circumstances carefully observed and assessed; knowledge is what really counts. Knowledge of the land, of the resources, of the weather, but also knowledge of the material with which to make tools, of the techniques and processes, of the possibilities offered by each situation. Knowledge is therefore spurred by inventiveness. Technological knowledge is ever tested, never taken for granted, and always actively pursued and remembered.10 While I was trying to reach the elements of a technological tradition that would be shared knowledge, all my instructors consistently described techniques from an individual point of view as a personal experience: "That's the way I do it." I never heard anyone tell me, in a normative mode: "That's how one should do it." Even when I persuaded a friend to show me how to weave beaded head bands and sew moccasins, she maintained the same attitude. Whether I asked "how do people here do this?" or "how should I cut this?" she would reply in the first person. She, like all her colleagues, made it clear that I was not going to go very far by asking questions. I was to keep quiet and watch her hands; then she could explain. But she was not going to tell me how to do it. That was for me to test and decide. Even relatively simple processes were occasion for individual treatment. For instance, moose and caribou skins were tanned by being scraped, soaked with a compound usually made with the brain of the animal mixed with other ingredients to form a kind of "soup," then smoked. A more precise description varied from informant to informant (even from mother to daughter). One said, "I use moose brains, and I add fish heads, works better DENE WAYS AND THE ETHNOGRAPHER'S CULTURE

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that way. My sister, she puts soap, no fish." Her daughter insisted on baking soda: "My auntie (father's sister) showed us that way; me, little bit different." D.'s sister explained "I use brown soap, brain." Hearing this, D. remarked she used moose brain, or any animal brain, "folds skin with baking powder, all that wet is gone, really soft and white" (Guedon, Field Notes, North Pole, October 1970). In providing this additional information there were no hints of a value judgment. The patterns used for moccasin embroidery circulate throughout the community, though each woman has her favorite style and colors. I nevertheless expected the patterns used to cut the skin pieces for the moccasins themselves to be quite standard. I was wrong. They are carefully kept and re-used, but individual differences are noticed and acknowledged: "My sister learned from my auntie, me, I watched my mom. Cade, my oldest sister, she does little bit the same, little bit different — I like it better this way" (Guedon, Field Notes, Tetlin II). The surprising result is five different patterns for four sisters and their mother! Variations like these are found among male as well as female tasks, in hunting and trapping techniques, in the details of preparing rabbit snares or arranging the net for ice fishing.11 Although one would expect variations from one individual to the next in a society known for its individualistic tendencies, I had not anticipated that variations would be recognized and validated as such. It was with pride that individuals described "their way" of doing things. However, this pride never implied any judgment concerning others' ways. I never heard anyone boast of the superiority of his or her methods compared with those of others. I never heard anyone criticize anyone else's method. A method or "way" is pronounced adequate for its proponent on the only criterion of its effectiveness. Moreover, the source or sources of information on technical knowledge are given with as much precision as possible (this applies to all information): "I learned this from my dad . . ." or "My auntie used to tell me about her grand'ma going there when she was a kid . . ." or "Me, I tried it this way" or "I heard it last year from someone, somewhere down Mentasta." One always knows the relationship between the information and the person transmitting it. Among the Dene, learning is personalized. When I was learning to embroider moccasins, I was learning to become a moccasin embroiderer. I was not simply taught hunting techniques; I was imitating a hunter. I was not transmitted a skill, I was presented with a whole person shaped by that skill. Some of the older people stated that if a skill or knowledge was transferred 50 MARIE FRANCOISE GUEDON

from one person to another, the first person might lose that skill. Knowledge was therefore not to be taken lightly; it was akin to spiritual power (as acquired and handled by those we call shamans). This is also why it was deemed best for the elders to teach the younger ones, rather than let the active adults lose part of their precious skills. We may note that such a notion, used only on occasion, offered a good excuse to someone who was not entirely willing to work for somebody else. Over a period of time, one notices the multiplicity of sources used by an individual. Not one source is singled out among others or totally neglected — one can learn from a relative as much as from a stranger, from a child as well as from an experienced elder. Nothing is validated on the strength of the authority or status of the person giving the information. While the elder's experience is to be considered in judging the information he has transmitted but, personal experience is always the final test for the validity of the knowledge.12 In such a context, a body of knowledge maintains itself precisely because knowledge (with the exception of magical songs) is not confined to a few persons, but is sought by everyone, and from everyone. Unilineal transmission from teacher to pupil is not typical of Dene learning. Rather, the Dene have access to a pool of knowledge from which everyone draws according to needs. Reinterpretations and transformations according to personal experience also become accessible to others. Every individual ends up with different notions and information; yet the common pool of knowledge is kept alive. The process of learning through personal experience, by watching someone else or by listening to stories, is not limited to childhood. Indeed, the Dene explicitly value learning as a process. My informants maintained that the way one learns is part of their ways. The acquisition of knowledge and the socialization into Dene Ways are expected to go on for a lifetime. (I was told several times in Tetlin that a man could not consider himself an adult until at least the age of forty!) Learning is also always contextualized. One learns the place and time where the knowledge can be put to action, and the information is never divorced from its application and its natural and social environment. Furthermore, information is not divided into bits to be assembled later but is kept together as aspects of a whole process. Finally, the information itself, if one could conceive of such a thing in practical terms in Dene thought, does not matter as much as the relationship process it sets in motion between the learner, the teacher, and the environment.13 DENE WAYS AND THE E T H N O G R A P H E R ' S CULTURE

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ACQUIRING DREAM POWER BECOMING A SHAMAN So far we have juxtaposed stories and technology to demonstrate that while anthropologists tend to emphasize technological and material elements of Nabesna life to define their culture (and thus assess the extent of culture change), the Dene themselves emphasize stories and relationships to self, other, and the land to define their ways (and thus assess the extent to which they preserve their way of life, albeit with a new inventory of technological implements). In the last section of this paper, I will draw on this contrast between the anthropological and the Dene perspectives to propose a new definition of culture. Before doing so, I want to examine some of the implications of my instructors' discussions of shamanism for our understanding of culture as a human attribute. Shamanism permeates all of Nabesna culture: the worldview, the subsistence patterns, and the life cycles. My instructors, however, did not perceive shamanistic powers as something strictly human; dogs, for instance, could be involved in the shamanic business, as spirits or as assistants. In the traditional stories and in the actual experience of my instructors, wild animals were described as capable of singing, dancing, dreaming, praying, and even healing. Shamanic powers were at work before human beings were well established on the land. For the Nabesna, shamanism precedes "culture" as a human given.14 Furthermore, my Nabesna informants assumed a deep connection between their brand of "medicine" (i.e. shamanic practices) and other Dene, as well as Inuit, Tlingit, and even "white" medicine.15 Indeed, none of my instructors presented shamanic practices as specifically Nabesna or Dene.16 Not only was it assumed that these practices could be understood and applied by anyone, it was also specifically stated that being non-Native did not bar one from dreaming and therefore from accessing shamanic powers (Guedon, Field Notes, October 1970). As for myself, I can only testify that whenever I inquired on such matters, my understanding and acceptance of the Dene perspective were tes ted by my instructors before they gave an answer. While the notion that I could learn to speak the Nabesna dialect was debatable, my identity as a foreigner was never mentioned as an obstacle to my inquiring about or acquiring "dream power" (i.e. shamanic powers). "If you dream, everybody dreams, even little bit, you are little bit a sleep-doctor" (Guedon, Field Notes, Tetlin, 1969). For instance, my early questions about 52 MARIE FRANCOISE GUEDON

dreams and their connection with power elicited only vague or even negative answers. "I've heard about it," was the best answer I would receive. I was left with the impression that if shamanism and dreaming had been present in the previous generations, this was no longer the case. The first intimations of a different reality came surreptitiously in remarks exchanged seemingly in passing: "I dreamt about my auntie last night, she was speaking to me." "Did you see that light around the sun yesterday? Maybe something's happening." "They found a dead animal on the highway, my dad's taking care of it, you better stay with me. Not good for babies, bad dreams." Dreams were definitely part of Dene life. When I noticed that my own dreams were becoming clearer and stronger, I began using them as a starting point for some of my inquiries, and to test the reactions of my informants. They were most rewarding. Discussion of dreams soon became a welcomed ingredient in my interviews. For the first time, I witnessed people carrying on conversation among themselves or instructing children on that topic in my presence. The topic of shamanism was no longer taboo, and I was then repeatedly told by several older members of the community that "everybody who dreams is some kind of sleep-doctor, everybody has power." These statements, offered in passing during normal conversations, had an authority of their own precisely because they were stated as matter-of-fact. I felt at once tested and acknowledged. I had been in Tetlin for four months when I woke up one night with a startling and powerful image in mind. I had dreamt that a wolf was knocking on my door and was sitting there in front of me, eyes bright and intent, watching me. The following morning I went to my oldest instructors with a very personal and relatively strange concern in mind: Could the wolf be telling me something? The two women probed with questions for which I had only very vague answers. [I. stands for instructor; M. stands for myself] I

What kind of wolf was it. . .? How did it feel. . .? And how do you feel now? Did it say anything? How do you feel now, remembering it.

M. I knew it was a wolf; he just sat there, looking at me. I don't know how it felt. . . it felt more like waiting I guess. It is a beautiful animal. I feel a bit sad, I guess. Or worried, like. . .

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I. Have you seen it before? Do you recognize it? Did it threaten you? Did it speak to you? M. No. I don't think I met it before, and it was not frightening, just . . . just . . . It was not a toy or a little thing or an image, it felt like somebody I'd better respect. No, I don't think it said anything but maybe . . . I don't know, like waiting. I. It doesn't feel to me like a dream doctor-animal. Maybe something else. What did you feel about feeling sad? Were you thinking about somebody when you woke up? M. I was thinking about my dad. I don't know why. I. Maybe that wolf telling something about your dad? How you feel about your dad now? How you feel about that animal? M. I just feel worried. I don't really know, except I feel sad and worried, and I don't know what to do. And that wolf was not sad, you know, come to think of it, he was kind of grinning. . . That's right, part of me wants to take the next boat or the next plane, and part of me is waiting here. [You say] maybe my dad's sick or something, and I am so worried, deep down, and that wolf is strong and kind of happy looking, so maybe I should be ready to go, but I won't go yet. I. Wolf is good dream, you know, long time ago, wolf was people like us, that's the story I heard . . .

A few days later, I received a letter from my mother telling me that my father had indeed been very sick, but was now well on his way to recovery. I shared the news with my instructors. They immediately said: "It's good for you to know things, you can teach your kids too." Their comment sanctioned my introduction to a different way of seeing. To my instructors the important issue was whether I could personally participate in the Dene dream process. This participation increasingly called upon my ability to respond non-verbally to Dene expectations of proper behavior on the part of one who knows. Expectations were most often conveyed in the form of stories or statements made in the third person. When told the Bear story, I knew that I was advised from now on not to pick all the berries on a bush or to gather 54 MARIE FRANCOISE GUIDON

those that had spilled on the ground (they belong to the earth) or to take walks by myself in the woods, as I used to. I stopped calling bear, lynx, wolverine, by their name, and instead used the ritual denotations, e.g., "the big one," "the one with the stick legs." I was made to understand there was no excuse anymore for ritually wrong behavior: "You got to protect yourself. As long as you don't know, it does not matter." For the first time I heard injunctions from my instructors: "When you go in the woods, don't think about the big one, don't think about it, think good thoughts. . .". "Animals, they hear you, they hear your thoughts, you watch your words, you think well of them." "When you're woman, you don't step over that stream, fish don't like this, my grand'ma she teaches me well. . . When blood comes, think good thoughts, it stays with you!" The full weight of female ritual prescriptions fell on me without warning. I had the feeling people thought I knew a great deal more than I had actually been able to learn. Furthermore, a definite statement was embedded in these injunctions, whether addressed to me personally, or to the children around: "watch your thoughts." I was not prepared to participate in a world where "thoughts," by lack of a better word, were assumed to shape reality. It would take me another ten years before I finally grasped the notion that my instructors were talking about thought as communication with other thinking entities and therefore having consequences when heard and acted upon, rather than thought as a kind of mental force, our usual metaphor in the Euro-American world. Meanwhile I had to struggle with the simple problem of understanding how one could live in a world where everyone could presumably hear everyone else's mind. I was soon to grasp that I was expected to participate in the Dene world and to go well beyond a mere acquiescence to different beliefs and behavior. In the fall of that same year, during a berry-picking expedition, one of the pubescent girls in our party disappeared from sight. She was found within the hour, unconscious, and obviously sick (ashen face, dark rings around her eyes, clammy skin). She was brought back to the village where her grandmother, one of my major instructors, took over the responsibility of bringing her back to the human realm. The entire community discussed the case and constructed an explanation of her disappearance, which was finally attributed to a kidnapping by a bushman, i.e. a spirit-like humanoid also called "Nahani" and well-known in most Dene communities for prankish and wild behavior. The grandmother sat by the girl, stroking her face and body. She DENE WAYS AND THE ETHNOGRAPHER'S CULTURE

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confirmed the diagnosis, and ordered all windows and openings to be covered so the child could not be "called back by the wild." I had never seen her before act with such authority and power. She began to pray in a loud voice to Jesus asking him to send back her grandchild. Then she looked at me and ordered me to come to her and take one of her hands in mine. For the rest of the ritual, I shared with her whatever I could find within myself to give. When the girl finally opened her eyes, the grandmother let go of my hand. Later we had a cup of tea. I felt our relationship had deepened, although I could not describe what had happened. For less than an hour, I had been linked with someone in ways I could not describe in my own vocabulary. Of one aspect I was very conscious: my mental processes, my very own thoughts, mattered. They mattered to the community, to the family, to the living things around us. That web of relationships I had become aware of was the very locus of shamanic practices. Healing was no longer a matter of imposing one's will on people or elements; it had to do with communicating with the patient, with the sickness, with the agents responsible for the situation, with what we call spirits, and with whoever could help. No intellectual understanding of that redefinition of power could match the experience of that mental nakedness this elder asked from me that day, when in order to "think" clearly and purposefully according to instructions I had previously heard but not perceived, I had to strip myself from patterns and definitions of myself I now knew as flimsy protective screens and self-aggrandizing theories. The task engaged all my intelligence, all my intent . . . but I could not give what was asked from me, except at the most superficial level. Only several years later would I dream and experience in the dream what I described as "deliberateness" and recognize then the touch of the grandmother's mental state. Toward the end of my first year in the field, in spite of my awareness of my limitations, or maybe because of it, my questions about thinking and dreaming, about power and spirit, were met with personal responses from my instructors. In November, I dreamt I was a falcon, flying upriver. I told the dream to my hostess. I told her that at the end of the dream "I saw myself piercing the sky with my beak, and I emerged right in front of the cabin." "Once", she shyly replied, "I dreamt I was an otter, and I swam down into the water, into the mud at the bottom, and I dug my way in, and when I got out, I too found myself in front of the cabin." We marveled together at the coincidence, speculating at the nature of the world where many paths lead 56 MARIE FRANCOISE GUEDON

home. I acknowledged the new found freedom of a common language built on shared experience and shared questions. My own induction in the Dene Ways leaves me convinced that the Nabesna elders, like the Wet'suwet'en elders, would not refuse to reveal anything of their practices to anyone who is clearly able to at least keep a neutral but open attitude in the matter. In my experience, the reported secrecy surrounding shamanism is not part of the shamanic complex itself, but has evolved and is manifested at times as a response to obvious incomprehension on the part of non-Dene visitors. The gradual process of greater and deeper participation in the Dene Ways obviously stretched my own belief system beyond what I thought possible when I began fieldwork among the Dene. When listening to comments on myths like the Raven or Hewho-walked-around-the-earth, I perceived a definite sense of an important difference established between humans and animals in the mythical time when animals and humans separated from each other. If I juxtapose the non-human world with the human society, as far as I can define them using the elements found in the myths and the hunting and shamanic ritual practices, I would conclude that the use or presence of language, of clothing, of cooked or dried food and so on are potential attributes of culture as a human quality. (Generally animals do not speak as humans do, they are dressed with fur or feathers, they eat their food raw, and so on.) Yet we have to notice that many animals in the myths and in shamanic stories will often appear in their own homes as "cultured" beings; that is, they speak, they are dressed, they cook and dry their food. The difference between human and non-human is not one of essence — it is one of perspective: They are animals because we are usually unable to see their culturedness. In order to join them at this level, as cultured beings, we have to leave our own community and become wild, i.e., non-human, or become shamans. Shamanic rituals lead the practitioners into the non-human world, within a mental space in which the Nabesna attributes of culture do not operate as usual, if at all. In the dream world, the structure of reality is stretched, for "When you dream, you can do anything, things you can't do when you are awake!" The ways in which the elders interpret dreams are also relevant here. One of the main question elders ask is "How do you feel?" This is not, as I first thought, only a way to check the validity of the dream. It is a specific inquiry about the feelings and other sensations caused by the dream. Such feelings could then be correlated with possible events generating similar feelings — "Do you DENE WAYS AND THE ETHNOGRAPHER'S CULTURE

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remember a time when you felt that way?" The dream, then, is seen as an anticipation of a real experience, anticipation perceived first by the body. This I found very different from looking at dreams as representations or symbols, a view which allows, or forces us, to distance ourselves from the dreams while transforming them into cultured objects. While I tended to look for symbols and meanings in dreams, my mentors were asking me to check for kinesthetic and other memories of experiences to match the feeling generated by the dream. I learned to relate to dreams without transforming them into accounts to be analyzed. Dreams, the Nabesna taught me, may be human, but they are not part of culture. One can therefore move consciously, explicitly, into the non-human world without making it part of the human system. Furthermore, though shamans or "dreamers" draw on a common pool of tradition, ultimately they cannot rely on anything but their own visions and their individual intimate experience. Shared knowledge, or formal elements, are used as markers or sign posts rather than as a closed framework. Each "dream doctor" composes (they would probably say: "is given") his or her own shamanic universe. In order to summarize the practices of the Nabesna shamans, and their deliberate use, then abandonment, of the traditions, knowledge, and symbols provided by their community, I find it most useful to refer to Edward Sapir's position in his article on "Culture, Genuine and Spurious": To say that individual culture must grow organically out of the rich soil of a communal culture is far from saying that it must be forever tied to that culture by the leading strings of its own childhood. Once the individual self has grown strong enough to travel in the path most clearly illuminated by its own light, it not only can but should discard much of the scaffolding by which it has made its ascent. (1963[1924]:107) The Nabesna individualism, also found among other Dene groups, is a Dene characteristic to be re-defined, and its role in the formation of the concept of Dene culture and of Dene Ways merits a thorough discussion which must wait another paper. I will limit myself here to one aspect of this vast theme. One of the preoccupations that emerges from both stories, in general, and advice on shamanic matters is the need to keep the human side of human dealings with the non-human world as human as possible. Again, I would not have been able to focus 58

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my attention on that aspect of morality without the day-to-day shaping of my own behavior by the Nabesna people. This preoccupation was not explicitly stated, at least until late in the course of my interaction with Dene; rather it was ingrained in the fabric of the daily routine. I came to perceive the Nabesna camp or village as surrounded by non-human powers. These were not necessarily hostile, but they were definitely inhuman. Within each household, a number of small, varied, but precise gestures were made every night to ensure that the powers of the outside, i.e. of the forest or of the night, would not intrude on human lives. One did not have to build a temple to consecrate a space where the sacred could manifest itself. One did, however, enclose a special space where human beings could live without having to prepare for the intrusion of spiritual forces, and where one could think without fear of one's words or thoughts being taken seriously by the powers at large. In this context, morality can be described as founded on the perceived necessity to protect the human character of human life, the human quality of the human community. This is especially striking for shamans and for women, both of whom are in an ambiguous situation vis-a-vis the non-human world. Unlike the hunter for whom contact with animal powers is framed by his position of predator which defines him as a human being, the shaman must go to the limit of the process of being transformed by the animals he or she "knows." Then he, or she, has to come back. The greatest shamanic powers are of no value unless the shaman can bring to and share with the human community what he/she has learned. Women also stand in a particular position vis-a-vis the nonhuman world. Judging by the thrust of the advice given to me as a woman, keeping wilderness apart from the human, or rather, keeping the human world human, is a special concern for them. This concern is not an abstract notion born from cosmological principles; the concern is a very concrete one, expressed daily in the ongoing negotiation linking both the animals to those who live by hunting them, and the living to the dead. This concern was never so clear as during puberty and menstruation ritual isolation. But it was also explicitly expressed when I was inquiring about dreaming (shamanism), death, hunting, and any matter bringing human beings outside of the camp or village. The closer I got to the non-human world, the more intimate my relationship with that world, the more care I was advised to take toward protecting the community, the children, my own future

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children, and myself, lest the wilderness spill over into the human quality I was asked to protect. This aspect of morality, placing me as it does any individual human being, whether man, woman or shaman, in the middle of a web of relationships with human and non-human beings, brought to my mind again the image of a center from which movement proceeds. It is up to the individual to construct these relationships, while going back to and maintaining the integrity of the center. Morality, then, in this context, would not have to do with the formulation of, and obedience to, definite limits or norms. Rather, Nabesna morality stresses the process of becoming human, and it entails negotiating one's position in the world of powers so as to maximize one's identity together with one's relationships. The formula "stay within the norms" has no meaning in Dene.

CULTURE AS LIFE If I wanted to construct a concept of culture that would integrate Nabesna values, I would assume the following: The ethnographer's culture shaped as it is by the society under study is not equivalent to the anthropologist's theoretical concept of culture. The anthropologist's professional understanding of culture does not properly recognize the notions, attitudes, and values entertained by the Dene towards what they call their Ways, or their culture (following the new term they are taking from the wider society). The English term "culture" did not become part of Tetlin language until the mid 1970s. Its origin as a borrowed term may be linked to the question of land claims, as well as to interaction with anthropologists and linguists. While I was in Tetlin, I did not use the term culture, preferring the then still prevalent expression, Dene Ways. The school and the government also represent an important set of players in the game of defining Dene culture, in cultural centers, in cultural development programs, or even in social welfare agencies. The very agencies that had decided in the 1960s that native children were culturally deprived and would be better off in white foster homes are now promoting Native culture, or what they see and present as such. Finally, courts of law also play a role in the definition of northern cultures. When land claims are debated the courts tend to define a culture as a "traditional way of life," and treat culture as synonymous with technology. The notions of cultures intro60 MARIE FRANCOISE GUEDON

duced by all major players in the north have not been studied yet (see Roosens, 1989 on ethnogenesis). The native political scene is none the clearer for it. When Dene people speak about "Indian Way," "Dene Ways," the "old people's ways," or the "old ways," by opposition to "white ways of life" or "new ways," they focus on specific qualities and traits. These are most often implicit, but they were always presented to me within a precise context.17 What is it then that I recognize from one Dene group to the next? First, the Dene Ways are processes; they do not refer to a reified series of descriptive or normative statements. This emphasis on process is reflected, as far as my own work is concerned, on the use of "my story," the very process of my own socialization into the Nabesna communities, as a major source of data in the light of which one may uncover aspects of Dene life. These aspects could not have been elucidated by an emphasis on spoken statements alone or by an objective observation of others' behavior. Second, the lack of a need for consensus when validating one's own knowledge or value judgment is again a facet of the Dene "individualism." It should be kept in mind in the light of the other Dene values. Third, this individualism is accompanied by a weak development of formal rules. The implicit idea is that what is shared is not only the content of knowledge, but also the attitude toward knowledge, its value, and the process of its transmission and acquisition. This view challenges the notion that culture is shared. By itself, knowledge does not constitute culture. The transmission and application of knowledge do. The manner in which I tell and use a story will say as much about my participation in the Dene Ways (my Dene identity) as the story itself. The story is to be told by an individual to other individuals. Knowledge is not institutionalized. Rather it is always contextualized: socially, through its explicit link to the people transmitting it; geographically, through its many associations to a specific territory; and practically, by being embedded in concrete experiences and/or stories. At a seminar on contemporary issues in American Indian Studies, I once jokingly introduced the question of what would happen to the concept of culture if we removed its connotations to agriculture? We plant ideas in someone's mind and cultivate our minds. Could we come up with a concept that would reflect a gatherer's natural philosophy and way of life rather than such ideas as domestication, boundaries, or fields? An important consequence of such a shift is that we would no longer reify culture nor consider culture as something to manipulate. DENE WAYS AND THE ETHNOGRAPHER'S CULTURE

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To conclude, I suggest that if we do take Northern Athapaskans seriously, we will see that the very nature of their cultures have strong implications for our theoretical work and writing. In the mid-1970s, Richard Slobodin remarked that Northern Athapaskanists had not "so far, produced very much in the way of synthesis on the ethnological theory, nor what in Robert Merton's terms might be called middle-range theory," and that the ethnographic record at best offered a "random series of pictures, in greater or less detail, which taken together, produce some strong impressions; a 'feel' about the material," that nonetheless left the reviewer with a sense that "the overall scene is full of lacunae" (Slobodin 1975: 789). I submit that these impressions, which Richard Slobodin explains by the brevity of the history of Northern Athapaskan studies and the resulting "relative immaturity" of theoretical work in this area, are also due to the very nature of the cultures studied. Our theoretical work is affected by the teachings of our informants, and by the socialization process in which we are all engaged, especially when dealing with the Dene socio-cultural context, where local circumstances pull us within the community. Our anthropological research will necessarily reflect Dene values and cultural landscapes. Ridington observes that while in principle "anthropological theory may, and in some cases should, reflect the thought world of the people we study as well as those of our own academic traditions," this is factually true in the case of Northern Athapaskanists: "the social theory of subarctic people themselves has exerted a powerful influence on several generations of anthropologists in formulating their own theories about the individual in society" (Ridington 1990:100; my emphasis). To this observation I would add that even the form of our research might be shaped by our field experience and the theory of learning of the people with whom we work as anthropologists. If this is the case, the tendency found among many of us, contemporary Athapaskanists, to present our findings in the form of narratives rather than in the format of systematic reconstructions of structured systems of beliefs, norms or practices, may also reflect our field experience, i.e. a successful enculturation process. We tell stories like our mentors and we have learned to work in contexts. In other words, in my case, the Dene Ways are intruding on my notion of culture as well as in my descriptions of "Nabesna culture." Culture becomes what can be transmitted through stories. (See Brody 1981; McClellan 1975; Ridington 1988; Sharp 1988.)

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Like the older Koyukon people described by Richard Nelson (1983), my instructors are confronted by the loss of land, language, and traditions (in the technical sense of the term). They grieve both for their beliefs and for their children and grandchildren. Every funeral for an elder brings an acute sense of loss for what has not been transmitted, for stories now forgotten. This sense of loss centers not on cultural content, but on process, on the possibility of living a human life. The loss is focused directly on the quality of the young people's lives, on the possible relationship with the animals and the earth, on the Tightness of things which can not be experienced any more, on a love for the woods and the river that can not be recreated inside a school or a truck. The Dene Ways, the old ways matter because they are ways of becoming, ways of relating, ways of learning. These ways are not things, not rules, not bits of knowledge. The Dene ways have to do with living itself. My Dene instructors would have appreciated Edward Sapir's definition of culture "not as knowledge, nor as manner, but as life" (Sapir 1924:110).

NOTES 1. In 1972, at Bryn Mawr College, after a healthy dose of American cultural anthropology in Kroeber's tradition, to counterbalance my French philosophical upbringing, I completed my Ph.D. dissertation which was published shortly after. It took me the next decade and renewed contacts with other Dene and non-Dene Amerindian communities to appreciate how much I had been changed by my contact with the Tetlin, Tanacross and Northway people, how effective and long lasting the training I had then received was, and how subtle the Dene process of socialization had been (Guedon 1988). Between 1972 and 1977, I visited Wet'suwet'en communities in northern British Columbia. In spite of the geographical distance between them and the Nabesna, I was struck by the underlying similarities linking the two areas. I went on working on the ceremonial life and the shamanic practices of the Dene and their neighbors, the Tsimshian, as well as the other Pacific Coast people, from the Salish to the Tlingit, then to the Pacific Coast Inuit, and Aleuts. Against this colorful background, the Northern Dene cultures displayed a marked originality and shone with a brilliance all their own. In 1977, I left the National Museum of Man, in Ottawa, Canada, to join the Department of Anthropology and Sociology at the University of British Columbia (where I remained until 1989).

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While continuing various research interests, I had the chance to discuss with, and listen to, Dene students attending my classes. It is from them, from their remarks and questions, their criticisms and struggles, that I learned the necessity to explore the concepts of culture and cultures in a reflexive manner. As anthropologists, we are used to opposing and juxtaposing culture (as in culture versus nature) and culture (as in Dene cultures). Mason (1946:37) could write that the Dene had a minimal culture. Such a claim seems outrageous today, but Mason was not that bad an ethnographer; his summary of the religious beliefs of the Native people of the Great Slave Lake reveals a good grasp of the fundamental principles of Dene religious life. His statement indicates to me that Mason could not find there what he thought was a proper culture. What did he find then? And in what way did that contradict his expectations? or mine? These questions led me to look beyond content and structure toward process as a main conceptual tool, a methodological move that was sustained by an anthropology graduate seminar held at U.B.C. in 1988-89 on "Contemporary Issues in American Indian Studies." I recognized that some of the questions which had followed me since my first field experience in Dene country had to do with basic assumptions about culture, and that my own notion of culture had been, and still was, deeply affected by my meetings with Dene people. 2. This essay focuses in part on the modern multicultural situation, which has recently attracted the attention of several contemporary anthropologists. I am at the moment restricting myself to the perception people of Tetlin may have of their own "ways" and will only mention in passing the equally important and tremendously complex question of their present use of the term culture (which was still practically unknown in Tetlin in 1969-72), and of the evolution of their representation of themselves to the world and to other Dene. I will also leave behind the subtle relationships between Dene ways and Dene or "Indian ways." 3. My instructors, as all Nabesna people, were extremely diverse in personality and style. Because we "talked," they had to become my classificatory cross-cousins or paternal aunts; their husbands became my classificatory "cousin-brothers" (or parallel cousins), which, because of the avoidance rule between clan siblings of opposite sex, made it more difficult to work with them — but I did make contact with them as well as with some of the older men in the cross-cousin category. Even instructors who were close relatives each lived in his or her own particular world; each was nego-

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tiating in a particular way his or her experiences with the "white" world encroaching on their lives. They were all bilingual to a certain extent, while not always at ease with English. Though certain values were obviously shared by all, they acknowledged and appreciated their individual differences. On the other hand, they all refrained from discussing each other's views, and I likewise, would find it difficult — even today — to mention people by name, or to reveal the details or their individual lives, unless specifically directed to do so by the person or persons concerned. 4. I later understood that men can work at their own transformation through rituals, "quests" and dreams. 5. My own preliminary studies of the distribution of Dene myths throughout western North America confirms the paradoxical conjunction of relatively important individual and local variations and a general stability of themes from the Navaho to the Inqalik, from the Koyukuk to the Kaska. 6. Similar observations are made by Cruikshank (1983, 1984) for the Tutchone and Tagish, by Ridington (1988) for the Beaver, and by Goulet (1987) for the Dene Tha. 7. The Smart Beaver cycle of stories is a most important one, equaled only by the Raven stories. It relates how the hero brought some human quality to the environment by confronting spirits and other powers, and by modifying or taming the giant animals who roamed the earth during the early days (and thereby transforming them from "cannibals" into game), each retaining however some characteristic traits from its former nature. Though the hero also learns from a number of friendly animals how to make snowshoes, bow, and canoes, among other tools, he is not praised for his improving a primitive technology; rather he is presented foremost as the originator of the human way of life (Dene Way), because he gave human beings and animals their present position as predators and preys of each other and because he exemplifies the "normal" (i.e. "harmonious" — the Navaho term corresponding to the Nabesna term is translated as "beauty") relationships between human beings and non-human beings. 8. Richard Nelson (1983:242-245) has described a similar process at work among the Koyukons (in central-western Alaska), who may well be representative of other Dene groups in this respect. If this is a Dene trait, a community separated from its land base, unable

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to read itself in such a fashion, would find itself culturally impoverished and cut off from its main means of transmitting its cultural roots to the new generation. Schools may be more threatening by teaching the children not to walk freely in the bush, than by bringing in new techniques and concepts. 9. When considering the contemporary modes of living, the Nabesna appeared rather "blase" in my eyes. Later, I came to wonder whether, in the economic sphere for instance, working in an office or a sawmill were to be perceived not as part of a "culture," but rather as an acquisition technique, which, like all techniques, could be modified according to one's needs, and which, furthermore, having no direct relationship with the world of nature, was not considered important. To be sure, as soon as these modern activities infringed upon or modified one's relationship with the native community or the natural environment, as when the organization of the office work prevented women from participating in the life of the family or people from coming to a potlatch, or as when developments on the Alaska highway were perceived to reduce wild animal habitat, the responses were immediately to the defense of Dene values. But the "white man's" culture, in so far as it presented itself as built on technology, was, I think, perceived by my older instructors as a non-culture. 10.The learning process itself has been described for other Dene groups (see among others Christian and Gardner 1977, for the Slavey, and Cruikshank 1979, 1983, 1984, for the Tutchone), each author stressing the acquisition of information by watching experienced people or doing on the one hand, and listening to stories on the other hand. Based on his experiences among the Beaver (a Dene society of northern British Columbia and Alberta), Robin Ridington has elaborated on the theoretical consequence of such an approach: In thinking about hunting and gathering people who must move frequently from place to place, . . . technology should be seen as a system of knowledge rather than an inventory of objects. . . . The essence of hunting and gathering adaptive strategies is to retain and be able to act upon, information about the possible relationships between people and the natural environment. When realized, these life-giving relationships are as much the artifacts of hunting and gathering technology as are the material objects that are instrumental in bringing them about. (Ridington 1990:86)

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Ridington concludes by suggesting that we include divinatory practices and dealings with spiritual powers in hunting technology, like the Beaver who, "certainly . . . viewed knowledge as a means of production more fundamental than any set of artifacts" (Ridington 1990:95). 11. It was equally difficult to reach some kind of agreement on the details of hunting ritual prescriptions. While my informants more or less agreed most of the time on the principles behind the observances, principles in keeping with and validated by the myths used as references for the animals concerned, they each had a personal version of taboos and rituals which would be followed on different occasions. Other ethnographers have mentioned the vagueness and contradictory character of northern Dene tradition concerning the animal and spirit world (among these, McClellan 1975 and Nelson 1983). As far as relationships between the animals and the human beings were concerned, all of my instructors agreed on the necessity for respect. Taboos and prescriptions concerning handling of game and consumption of meat were numerous, detailed and varied. The normative aspect of these rules was weakened by the fact that they could be interpreted differently by different people or according to the situation; they could be tested and revised according to the person's experiences. If a taboo had been broken by someone without obvious penalty, it could be reinterpreted. 12. Catharine McClellan (1972:XVI) summarizes one important feature of such learning: I think it must be understood by those who teach Indian children from traditionally-oriented families that the distinction between what is to be learned by doing and what is to be learned through verbal instruction alone may be drawn quite differently by Indians and Westerners. It may be that the increasing emphasis on verbal instruction in advanced grades, regardless of the subject matter, helps to cause the withdrawal of older native children about which White teachers so often comment. It would be useful to know just how the Indians have incorporated the idea of instruction through reading into their ideas on education. 13.1 have related elsewhere (Guedon, manuscript) the reactions of the Tetlin elders to the first walk on the Moon, which one of them witnessed on television during her first trip to Fairbanks (it

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was also her first experience with television), and then described to her neighbors and relatives back in Tetlin. While those who had remained in Tetlin expressed their dismay (fed by the local fundamentalist Christian preachers), our traveler stood up to testify in front of the others that the world was not going to be destroyed by the hole the astronauts had opened in God's sky. She had seen with her own eyes, she said, the astronaut on the moon; he was not walking . . . he was dancing, a strange thing for Americans to do, but a good thing. The dance made everything all right . . . and everybody agreed. (Guedon, Field Notes, Tetlin, 1969). I think this was because dancing was perceived as expressing the new relationship between humans and the moon. 14.Nabesna shamanic practices have obviously been transformed by the presence of missionaries and Christian preachers for whom shamans are the pagan servants of the Devil himself. In 1972, there were only a few people who openly admitted they were "dreaming." Yet shamanic elements pervaded the daily pattern of life: in the handling of game, in taboos related to women, in healing gestures, in placating rituals, in visions of and communication with dead relatives, and throughout the community, in the attitude toward dreams. Further, few of my instructors had any qualms about bringing Christian figures into the context of shamanic practices. Christian healing was not a contradiction in terms. This attitude might find a first explanation in a transcultural perspective toward both religion and shamanism, or even in the Dene general attitude toward ideas in general. In this respect, Catherine McClellan's remarks (1967:130) are still valid today for the Nabesna: The shamans are among the most important individuals in the native groups of the Yukon Territory, Canada. Despite the fact that these aboriginal practitioners have allied themselves with Christianity in several ways, analysis suggests that the degree of syncretism is not actually very great, and that shamanistic absorption of Christianity typifies a patterned adaptability that can be discerned in other facets of native life. This involves a characteristic willingness to entertain and even to search for new ideas. However, since only those concepts that help practically in the business of living are permanently incorporated, aboriginal traditions may remain virtually unchanged. This tendency is linked to a fluid and unformalized, yet pragmatic approach to life, and to a prevailing desire to avoid any sort of overt crisis.

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15. Throughout the North, stories about shamans repeatedly pit one local "sleep doctor" against shamans of other places, including Inuit. This shamanic network operates positively too, and I have heard from Copper River, to Tetlin, to Fairbanks, the story of those shamans from all over Alaska who banded their powers together in order to defeat the Japanese fleet and the German army! This story is interesting because it indicates again a transcultural perspective on shamanic practices which echoes a similar perspective on religious practices: "That's good, your grand'pa used to bless the bread before eating it; we do same thing; my dad, he told me, treat the animal well, take care." The attitude is what matters, not the specific gesture or object toward which it is directed. 16. One of the most important results, for me, of these contacts with different Dene ethnic groups was the conclusion that, indeed, I could talk about "a Northern Athapaskan culture area." (I am now engaged in comparing the Northern Dene with the Navaho, Apache, Yupa and other southern Dene groups, where I am finding a cultural continuity far greater than I first suspected, provided I take technological variations and adaptations in consideration.) 17. My representation of Dene Ways presupposes a natural philosophy. I use the term natural philosophy which, in my view, includes the notions people entertain about the characteristics of their world, their attitudes toward their notions and toward this "commonsense knowledge." I have found language to be the most direct route to questions of culture. Similarly for each of my Dene instructors, whether Nabesna, Carrier or other, language remained the essential cultural marker. The slow but steady passing of a dialect and the increasing number of children unable to speak their maternal language was cause for great worry and sorrow since "they talk like us" was the easiest way to identify members of a contiguous community, by contrast with strangers. Each of my instructors also remarked from time to time on the difficulties in translating from Dene to English (though this was admittedly recognized only after real trust had been established between us). Later, my U.B.C. Dene students would note that "English is not adequate to talk about what really matters. . . ." Yet, a real effort was made to accommodate to the new language. If stories could not be told in

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Dene, then they would have to be told in English. The essential would still be there . . . or would it?

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EDITH TURNER

A Visible Spirit Form in Zambia

INTRODUCTION Africans are acutely conscious of spirits. Anthropologists have long been interested in what Africans believe about spirits and the ritual events which surround spirit encounters. But it is the Africans' reports of experiences with spirits that are regarded as appropriate anthropological material, not the experiences themselves. It is the same with religious studies. Scholars of religion tend to explain accounts of spirit encounters in terms of metaphor. The issue of whether or not spirits actually exist has not been faced. When an anthropologist has an unusual experience, this is even more difficult to handle because the essence of anthropology, according to some, lies in its impartial observation and the search for objectivity. An unusual experience may take the form of a hexing, seeing a mysterious light (as with Evans-Pritchard 1976 [1937]: 11, among the Azande), encountering a ghost, and so on. These episodes have a variety of fates. Some are recorded but are mentioned only in passing or become the climax in a book which is published as a novel, such as Return to Laughter (Bowen 1964 [1954]). By far the majority go unrecorded. One may hear anecdotes brought up in informal conversation, at parA V I S I B L E S P I R I T FORM IN Z A M B I A

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ties, in students' kitchens, and in other non-structured contexts. But writers (and publishers) usually feel that this material is not suitable for inclusion in a serious anthropological publication. Favret-Saada, the author of Deadly Words (1980), an account of the central role of witchcraft in Bocage culture, maintains that it is necessary for the ethnographer to undergo the experience he/she is attempting to understand. Favret-Saada experienced being the object of witchcraft and learned how to resist it. She says (1980:22) that to understand the meaning of "unwitching": "there is no other solution but to practice it oneself, to become one's own informant, to penetrate one's own amnesia, and to try and make explicit what one finds unstateable in oneself." She produced a good ethnography. Paul Stoller experienced witchcraft among the Songhay of Niger and found himself to be changed as a result. He says (1984:110), "all my assumptions about the world were uprooted from their foundation on the plain of Western metaphysics . . . my view of Songhay culture could no longer be one of a structuralist, a symbolist, or a Marxist." What are the implications of the kinds of statements made by anthropologists such as Favret-Saada and Stoller? This article is an attempt on my part to deal as honestly as possible with my own experience of a spirit form among the Ndembu of Zambia. An experience such as this, as in the case of Carl Jung's mystical experiences, takes one into the realm of existential religion and what Paul Tillich (1959) called matters of ultimate concern. In the face of such experiences, academic anthropology seems to fall away and become of lesser concern. Nevertheless, the ethnographer's own experience of spirits and witches should be treated as anthropological data. Is it correct for our discipline to close itself off from what is of major concern to its field people? I am afraid there is a realm ahead for some of us — a rather frightening one — into which we must pass if we are to hold up our heads as anthropologists: the realm of spiritual experience.

MY UNUSUAL EXPERIENCE I had returned to Zambia in 1985 to do four months' fieldwork in my old field area among the Ndembu, known through the publications of my husband Victor Turner (1957, 1967, 1968, 1975) who died in 1983. The Ndembu are a matrilineal people living in what was once high savanna forest. Their homes are

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circular clusters of huts, each circle housing an extended family, grouped in larger townships or vicinages. They grow cassava and vegetables, keep a few cattle, and also occasionally hunt for antelope. In our early fieldwork in the 1950s, Vic and I had become very interested in the elaborate ritual system, by means of which a situation of conflict or disease could be turned around in the course of a performance into one of relief and amity. At that time, we looked at ritual from the point of view of culture. We believed that symbolism has the power to change the human heart. The strength and sensory richness of a symbol, when linked to some ideological message (see V. Turner on polarization of a symbol 1967:54-55), could effect a transfer of energy and heal the patient. Vic's analysis of the curative ritual of Ihamba (1968) was strongly empiricist and psychologically based. Thus I was not prepared in any way for a spirit experience on my return visit, though through the years Vic and I had become closer to "the anthropology of experience" (Turner and Bruner 1986). In 1980 Vic argued that lived experience in anthropology is primary; thought is its interpreter. My own anthropological writing has attempted to put the reader wholeheartedly into a specific cultural context. I was anti-ethnocentric, allowing the religions of the field people full place in my respect, very much desiring that they be understood, but with little regard to the possibility of encountering an unusual experience myself. I didn't know what I was in for. It was a small experience, but one which demanded a reorganization of the way I did anthropology. It was curious to be back in Mukanza Village after thirty-one years. The changes were great. The widespread deforestation made me feel cold as if I were walking into a tragedy. All one could do was not to think about it. The complex and beautiful initiation celebrations had been marred and often obliterated by Christianity. I began to hate my own religion. It was a matter all over again of "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." But curative rituals were on the upgrade. Almost at once opportunities for participation came my way. The African doctors were businessmen and there were advantages in having my support. Also, as with business enterprises, the rituals were popular because they worked. I began to perceive that through the decades African curing has been passing through an exploratory, experimental stage, in an environment where it was impossible for official medical authorities to hamper and limit it, simply A V I S I B L E S P I R I T FORM IN Z A M B I A

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because there was no economic base for licensing and control, and few funds for "health education." In the field with me was Bill Blodgett, the undergraduate son of a friend, who obtained tape recordings of the rituals and discussions, and also took many photographs. Owing to Bill's social activities, we made acquaintance with a couple of Ihamba doctors, those who treat a sick person by removing from his/her body a dead hunter's tooth (ihamba) which has been wandering around inside, giving the patient severe pain.3 The ritual of extraction was the subject of an important part of the fieldwork Vic and I had done three decades earlier, so I had in hand our own publication on Ihamba (The Drums of Affliction 1968) which proved to be of great interest to the Ihamba doctors Bill and I met — Singleton and Fideli, the latter of whom remembered playing with my son Freddie when both were youngsters. Singleton and Fideli invited us to an Ihamba curing session and appointed me as one of the doctors — something I had not really bargained for. Nevertheless I accepted at once. How, I wondered, would this experiment in the anthropology of experience turn out? Singleton and Fideli first decided to schedule the ritual on Thursday, November 28, 1985, and began to send out messages to participants. Then the news came through that Princess Anne of England was to visit the Ndembu on that day on behalf of Save the Children Fund (the children were indeed growing up stunted because of lack of food). So the date for the Ihamba was rescheduled earlier, for Wednesday the 27th, thus adding an irregularity which became important to the event itself, as we shall see. Imagine Kahona, a circular village on rough common ground. Eight thatch-roofed houses with mud brick walls rise under the spreading arms of banana trees. Bill and I were walking up a little path of red dirt leading from the motor road to the village. It was 7:00 a.m. and the sun was not yet up. All was damp with a hint of rain. In the dim light we peered about. Was anything going to happen? At last Vesa, an apprentice, approached, followed by Fideli, and they gave us their courteous greeting, "Shikenu mwani" ("Welcome, come in"). Vesa initiated the ritual by bringing out the drum, a tall African bongo, on which he placed a flat basket containing various items of equipment: a musical rasp, an ax, and two small bags, one made of mongoose skin. The basket's contact with the drum dedicated it to ritual, for the word ngoma (drum) also means ritual. Vesa and Fideli then raised the basket between them high into the air, thereby honoring it.

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We left Kahona Village and went off single file to collect Singleton at his hut. He came forth sleepily at our call. He was a tall man with a long, lined face — a face capable of unearthly flashes of irony and mischief. He was a man who said what he thought, an elder. Singleton wore old blue overalls. He carried himself with ease even though he was thin and must have been nearly seventy. Fideli was his nephew. Fideli's face shone with the health of early middle age, an able man, a thinker with a knowledge of science. He carried himself this morning with the buoyant air of one looking forward to a procedure in which he was well-versed. His faith was Baha'i, which is tolerant toward other religions. With Singleton in the lead, we set off into the low scrub to look for yitumbu (medicines) — bits of a special tree and plants. None of the plants, as far as I could ascertain, were mind-altering drugs. But they had power, as will be demonstrated as the story unfolds. We soon reached an area wasted with overcropping. Vesa followed after Singleton, carrying the basket that contained the ritual equipment. Then came Fideli with the ax. I came next, followed by Bill with his long legs and youthful goodness of expression. As we walked, Singleton played rhythmically on the wooden rasp, singing a plaintive phrase in which we all joined: Mukongu, katu-ka-tu-ye. Mukongu, katu-ka-tu-ye. Hunter spirit of the medicine tree, let us go. Hunter spirit of the medicine tree, let us go. We sang the second line a note below the first, in falling tones, with Fideli's light bass continually sounding a fourth below. Singleton walked swiftly now, weaving toward a bush he had spotted among the mounds. It was mufungu, the African oak, and was called ishikenu or "welcome" or "first" tree, the greeting tree. Mufungu means "the gathering together of a herd of animals." Singleton hunkered down before the base of the tree and took his mongoose skin bag from which he drew a lump of red clay which he rubbed in a broad line down the west side of the trunk, then in a line from the foot of the tree to himself, and finally down the east side of the tree. He drew the lines to call ihamba (the tooth spirit) to come soon — to direct ihamba along the lines. Singleton told us, "Ihamba knows 'I am soon going to A V I S I B L E S P I R I T FORM IN Z A M B I A

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be out of the patient.'" (Singleton saw the tooth-spirit as a conscious being.) Then Singleton took a cup of beer and poured it out at the foot of the tree, on both sides, saying loudly and abruptly, "Maheza!" "Maheza!" we shouted back. "Ngambu!" "Yafwa!" we returned, with special emphasis on the last word. I remembered this chant from the old days (Turner 1968:167). It means, "Friend! Sudden death! It is dead!" Singleton addressed the tree, his tone urgent and harsh: "This medicine was brought by Kamawu; it came down from him to Koshita, and from him to Sambumba, and from him to Chisanji, then to Muhelewa Benwa. Today it is in my hands. True! This red clay of yours has reached us. It's bad that we have often lacked the tooth-removing ritual. We put this red clay of yours on the western side of the tree. You deserve one cup of honey beer; you will be blessed. Give us the power to cure this woman well. You others who made things hard for us, you who were altogether bad, have a drink of beer on the other side. They really fucked up; besides, they failed to shoot animals" (he used the pejorative word for having sex, kusunjd). In this conjuration, Singleton emphasized each name of his ihamba doctor ancestors who had handed down the ritual in a kind of apostolic succession. He was talking to those old healers, even including the bad ones, the ayikodjikodji as they used to be called in the old days (Turner 1967:138). I watched seriously, trying to connect with the spirits, although I was not a member of the family to which the doctors belonged. Following his appeal to the ancestral line, Singleton was told what to do by the spirit of his father, Sambumba, and the others. Fideli explained that we were not going to take any medicine from this tree because it was the mother tree. "You don't cut the mother." We soon came across another mufungu, and this one supplied the necessary bark and leaves which would call a large gathering of people. Singing our song to the gentle rasp of the reed as it swished over the musical bar, we went on to a musengu tree (which means "blowing on the food and blessing it for the ancestors," from kusengula, to bless), from which we took some bark to make drinking medicine. We also picked some leaves for washing the patient's body. Then we continued the search. We stopped and looked around. We were on a path above a long derelict garden without a bush in it. "It's all been dug," said Singleton to Vesa with disgust. "Search carefully in this area. 76

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We may never find the tree I've been telling you about. We're back where we started, at the first mufungu. I think I saw the tree I'm after when we passed before. I don't want to go all the way over to Mindolu Village for it." "Look! Over there!" said Vesa. It was a small tree called mukosu (soap root, derived from kukosa, to wash; when well infused, this medicine becomes a lotion to wash all the bad things out of the body) which needed extra care in the cutting. Singleton took the ax while Fideli held the basket beside the trunk. Singleton very neatly cut grooves in the bark outlining a 4 x 6 inch vertical rectangle, with Fideli squatting beside him to catch the chips in the basket, careful not to touch any. "If any of them fall to earth you can't have Ihamba," said Fideli. Singleton then levered off the rectangle of bark with his ax and let it drop safely into the basket. "Ihamba permits us to catch it without running away — just as the piece of bark is caught in the basket. Ihamba might fly away so we must be careful to make ihamba honest. Mukosu has a strong smell; the piece of bark is used as a lid when the ihamba tooth is brought out of the patient's body and put into a tin can. Ihamba doesn't like the strong smell and will not try to come out of the can and escape." Then we took bark and leaf medicine from the mucha tree (the coco plum), often used for ancestor rituals because its pit is very durable and resists decay. It resists time. The wood is hard and the fruit is sweet. It too wants people to gather. We went to a mututambulolu shrub (the Congo pepper, which expels stomach gas and reduces fever; the name means "to swarm", as bees do around flowers) where Vesa squatted down and proceeded to tear open the whole root, while Singleton addressed the spirits in a throaty voice, "You are my elders, those that are underground, really underground." He was speaking to those old hunters, wild man Chisanji, his father, his hunter uncles. Then he said to Vesa, "Chop some medicine." The root was large and plump. He took the entire system, then replanted the top and filled up the hole again afterwards until the dirt was level with the surrounding surface. The root is bright orange inside; when mixed with beer it makes ihamba obey. As Fideli the scientist explained it, "The medicine passes into the bloodstream, goes throughout the body, and kills the germs troubling the patient." We took from the muhotuhotu some of its long sensitive leaves. Singleton said muhotuhotu was gathered because its leaves fall all at once; every bad thing will come out of the patient with A V I S I B L E S P I R I T FORM IN Z A M B I A

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this medicine, including the ihamba inside her. We also took musesi, a very strong tree with hard wood that could even take away the evils of unmotivated witchcraft. Now Singleton spotted a kapepi sapling. He set himself beside it and with rapid deft strokes of his ax, cut it down and made it into a chishinga (forked shrine pole), sharpening the branches into tines exactly as Mundoyi had done in 1951. Kapepi sets your teeth on edge with its bitterness. As a result bad teeth drop out — a major desideratum in the case of the ihamba tooth. Its name derives from mpepela, the wind, which is ubiquitous and invisible, a quality desired by all hunters (V. Turner 1967:290). Then Singleton circled around a bed of what looked like bracken with broad double leaves which I recognized as the stems of the bright red tuber, nshindwa. The above-ground knobs are like fruit, thirst quenching with a very tart lemony flavor. The plant itself (mutungulu) is used as a medicine. The rest of the underground system was a fine wandering mass of black roots. Singleton sometimes cured malaria with these roots by running them into cuts on the left shoulder of the patient, or used them infused in cold water as a poultice. I wondered if they contained bitter quinine. Mutungulu has other uses as well. Singleton told us that ihamba may have little children inside the patient's body. The drum ritual may successfully bring out the mother ihamba, but her children may remain inside, as indeed the afterbirth may. However, scraped mutungulu roots, put into a cupping horn with other ingredients — a mixture called nsomu — can kill the afterbirth inside the body and make the entire ihamba brood come out. So the doctors took several tangles of the long roots. Singleton circled around another shrub with fixed attention. "This is the tree which I didn't think anyone could find. Go easy on the leaves. Take them from the eastern side, not the west. It is musoli" He explained that with musoli the ihamba would appear quickly and would not be able to hide. It was the tree of revelation, from kusolola, to reveal, but it was now rare. We took a few of the big leaves and some bark from the east side, the side of the sun's revealing, and went on singing — "Mukongu, kaatu-ka-tu-ye." We continued on our way, now searching for an ironwood tree to provide fuel for the ritual fire. Meanwhile we passed among young trees and found a termitary made by a species which produces small mud towers eight inches or so across and about a foot high. "We are lucky," said Vesa. "Here's a big small anthill."

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"Let me see it," said Singleton. "Yes, that's it. We won't find another one like this." "We should take it out whole, right from the bottom," said Fideli. They lifted it out and Vesa sheared off the domed top. We saw the termites flooding the broken bowl below, each grabbing an egg which was borne off to safety. Vesa carved the stump into a house shape, a cube, and put the cube into the basket, then replaced the dome on the broken termite house. The cube would be placed at the foot of the chishinga shrine pole, becoming a grave for ihamba, that is, for the dead hunter who now existed in the form of ihamba as spirit. We came to a huge anthill and found a chikwata thorn tree upon it, a purgative medicine. Chikwata was added so that it would catch (kukwata) the ihamba with its thorns. We picked its branches carefully. We found a plant called mutuhu ("no reason") barely four inches high by the side of the path. We took it all, exposing startlingly black roots which showed a brilliant white interior. Mutuhu used along with mututambololu calls ihamba to come out. The two comprise a potent, dangerous coming-out medicine for inducing abortions. We went on singing. The doctors were concerned about the ritual firewood; it had to be ironwood because this wood was strong, tall, and unbending, and had no stringiness in its texture to tie up huntsmanship. At last, just as we were turning back, we came across a felled ironwood tree. Fideli got astride the bare trunk and hacked patiently at it with his ax, careful to let none of the firewood fall to the ground. When they collected enough they gave the wood to me to carry, which I was glad to do. "There are medicines for the below and the above and inside — every medicine to make ihamba come out," said Singleton. "Let's go back to the road." We returned to the house of the sick person, Meru, a middle-aged woman who was a classificatory sister of Singleton's. She was still inside. We found a spot behind her open-air kitchen to establish our shrine, and Fideli laid an antelope skin on the ground so that Vesa could set down the basket. First the shrine pole (the forked pole of bitter wood, sharpened into horns to attract the hunter's spirit) was planted and the spirit house set in front. Then the antelope skin was put in the shade of a tree for Meru to sit on.

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Singleton and Vesa prepared the medicines, found a can to receive the tooth when it was taken out, and covered the can with a smelly castor oil leaf and soap bark lid to keep the tooth inside. Singleton lit the ironwood fire with matches instead of using kitchen coals. Everything must be new. Etina, a female assistant, pounded the leaves. Then she took a calabash of water and poured some on the ground to the east of the mortar, to the west, and finally into the mortar to make the leaf tea medicine. The libations were for the useless spirits, the ayikodjikodji, who must not be left out. One pan of cold medicinal tea was set aside while another pan of tea was heating on the fire. Cupping horns lay ready in the medicine basket. We needed drums, so a boy was dispatched to find them. People were beginning to collect. Now Singleton medicated his doctors. He, Fideli, Vesa, Luka the second apprentice, and I drank some of the tea. For a moment it made my head swim, but soon my senses cleared. Singleton announced to the crowd, "If there are any pregnant women here, go away." The concentrated "coming out" influence of the medicines and ritual objects was so strong that there was real danger of a miscarriage. Singleton inspected the shrine and said, "Look, we've made a mistake. We should have things laid out so Meru faces east where the sun comes out of the earth, not west the way we've got it." "We did that because of the shade," said Fideli. "But no matter, we'll leave it. We shall see." A small procession was approaching — Vesa leading Meru, the woman with an ihamba tooth in her body. Vesa seated her on the antelope skin. She made faces at the sight of the medicines around her and the razor blade in the basket. This was a miserable, proud, suffering woman. They washed her with spongy masses of the medicine, squeezing all the pounded leaves onto her body until she was entirely drenched with them. This was to open her from the outside. The doctors used red clay to draw a line down her brow and nose, temples and cheekbones, protecting her head. Then they gave her medicine to drink — to open her from the inside. The power was growing. The doctors took castor oil leaves, laying them over their fists. Then with a concerted shout — "Paya!", smacked the leaves with the other palm, and the leaves fell on Meru in blessing. "Maheza! Maheza!" "Ngambu!" shouted Singleton. "Tafwa!" ("My friends, he is dead!"), we all replied. 80

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Then began the drums in an irresistible rhythm heightened by clashing ax heads, while we sang and clapped. Singing, Singleton came close to Meru and shouted, "Come out!", directing his call into her body. Then they began divining the ihamba's name. "If it's you, Nkomba, shake. If not, don't shake." They were speaking to the inside of Meru's body. She hardly shook at all, sitting there with her legs straight out on the antelope skin. "Is it Kadochi? Shake if it is. Quick now!" Singleton danced the antelope mating dance in front of Meru. Already the group had increased to a crowd of about thirty people, at least half of whom were children. A young woman with an armful of school books passed behind them, saw what was happening, gave a sniggering laugh, and continued on her way. The doctors made tiny slits in Meru's back, then sucked on cupping horns and placed them over the slits. "Come out!" shouted Singleton at the place where the horns adhered. Meru suddenly said her first words (coming out with "words," mazu, helps to make the ihamba come out). "I don't agree. I have something in my liver, my heart. It's my children; all my children have died. I just want to die because there's no one to look after me." The people heard her frankness and were pleased. They continued to sing. But Singleton was not satisfied. "I haven't seen you shake happily yet. You're stiff with worries." "I heard how Meru's own younger sister cheated her," her brother said. "When the sister went to sell the beer that Meru brewed, she didn't bring Meru the full price. Her own sister cheated her out of her money." By speaking for her, the brother helped unblock more of her "words" — grudges which had to come out. Meru shook violently in corroboration, but she was tired. From the divination they perceived that the spirit inside her was the old hunter Kashinakaji. More "words" came out such as "I don't see Paulos in the crowd. Where is he?" Meru was offended. Paulos was her wellto-do classificatory brother. It was revealed that Paulos had never been told of the change of date for the ritual. "If you want Paulos to come, shake. If not, don't shake," Singleton said. She shook hard and they sent a messenger for him. Worse was to follow. The assistant who was supposed to change the tape recording cassette had reversed it instead, thus erasing one side. Bill was angry. The crowd immediately sensed this and turned in silence, hoping to hear Bill's "words".

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"Perhaps these foreigners are closing up ihamba," someone said. "They ought to come out with their grudges." "He can't say words," said Fideli. "He doesn't know our language. Besides, Edie is a doctor. Why should she close up ihamba?" Meru broke in with "words" spoken in a high oratorical tone, reiterating all her complaints and ending with, "The way things are, I'll die." Singleton was still for a moment, attentive. "I've seen that it is the ihamba, so he must come out." He was very happy, addressing Kashinakaji in Meru's body, "Forgive us, grandfather ihamba, I have to take you from the body of my sister so I can keep you with me." Then he said, "The man who has come is your brother; he is coming right now." He was talking to Meru this time, telling her that Paulos had arrived. Paulos had indeed arrived and he was in very ill humor. "You told me Ihamba was to be on Thursday," he said. "And you go and hold it on Wednesday. Is that good manners?" Everyone tried to explain. Then the drums began once more. The heat was drawing up black clouds above us. Meru fell shaking in the midst of the singing, and Singleton again tried to draw out the tooth. Voices broke in, "Yes, let her fall half-dead like that. Do you want the witchcraft dancing in her? You do." The doctors wanted the spirit to show itself so they could bring it out. Yet there was a tone of horror in the voices. So many grudges were coming out. It was a long ritual. The cupping horns were reset; the drumming began anew; and Singleton repeatedly traced a path on her back to direct the trouble that he could feel under the skin. Meru spoke from her ritual position, "I feel resentment." "We have seen the ihamba," said Fideli. "And you have put on your words." Others in the crowd also enunciated "words," coming out with their own resentments. Now Meru would not even shake. Meru's pain got to us all. We stood with bitter expressions, gazing at her. Fideli took a leaf poke and dripped medicine on Meru's head. Singleton held his skin bag in front of her face, then brushed her face with it. But Meru would not shake. Meanwhile our translator, dizzy with gin, turned to me and said nastily, "Paulos is angry because you never came to see him when you said you would." I was overcome. I was supposed to have gone on the Saturday before. But old Line died on Saturday and I was at the funeral. One thing after another! I left the 82

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translator and went around to the other side of the crowd, mortified. Again the crowd sensed anger and waited for my "words", but I would not speak. After thinking a minute I came back and explained matters to Paulos about the funeral. I was very upset. How could I publicly bad-mouth the translator? There I was stiff with worry, and it was stalemate in the Ihamba. I was a participant and participants should not be uptight like this. At the same moment, Singleton remembered that Meru was facing west. Nothing would "come out" like that. He shifted the whole ritual scene into its mirror image, and we all moved around until Meru was facing east in the direction of sunrise. This was quite different. I gazed across the crowd at my translator. "They want my words," I thought. "I want to participate so much. But how can I?" I was forced to accept the impossible and in accepting it, tears came into my eyes. My eyes stabbed with pain, and the tears came out. Just then, through my tears, I could see Meru sway deeply, and everyone leaned forward. I realized along with them that the barriers were breaking. Something that wanted to be born was now going to be born. Then a certain palpable social integument broke and something "calved" in the whole scene, myself along with it. I felt the spiritual motion. It was a tangible feeling of breakthrough encompassing the entire group. And then Meru fell! Amid the bellow of the drums, Singleton swooped rhythmically with his finger horn and skin bag, ready to catch the tooth. Bill beat the side of the drum in time to the rhythm, and as for me, I had just found out how to clap. You simply clap with the drums, and clap hard. All the rest falls into place. Your whole body becomes deeply involved in the rhythm, and all reaches a unity. Singleton was at Meru's side and the crowd was on its feet clapping. Singleton pressed Meru's back, guiding and leading out the tooth — Meru's face in a grin of tranced passion, her back quivering rapidly. Suddenly Meru raised her arm, stretched it in liberation, and I saw with my own eyes a giant thing emerging out of the flesh of her back. It was a large gray blob about six inches across, opaque and something between solid and smoke.4 I was amazed, delighted. I still laugh with glee at the realization of having seen it, the ihamba, and so big! Everyone was hooting, and we were all jumping with triumph. The gray thing was actually out there, visible, and you could see Singleton's hands working and scrabbling on the back. And then it was there A V I S I B L E S P I R I T FORM IN Z A M B I A

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no more. Singleton had whatever it was in his pouch, pressing it in with his other hand. The receiving can was ready; he transferred whatever it was into it and capped the castor oil leaf and bark lid over it. It was done. But there was one more thing. Everybody knew that they had to go through one last formality, divining the afterbirth. "If ihamba has not come out, shake. If it has come out, don't shake," said Singleton. Meru was quiet. At once there was a huge flash of lightning and a clap of thunder that exploded overhead. Meru sat up panting. The longed-for rain poured down and we all rushed into the kitchen shelter. "Go to the house you two," said Fideli. Bill and I rushed through the curtain of rain to the house. Bill stumbled before he entered, fell into the mud, and then entered out of breath. Singleton came in with his blue shirt dark with water, carrying the receiving can which he set down on the floor. I wore a big smile. He held up his hands to us. "See, I have nothing in them," he said. He squatted down and dredged for a long time in the bloody mixture. At length he drew out an old tooth, a molar, of natural size with a dark root and one side sheared off as if by an ax. It was the ihamba — a tooth of the old dead hunter, Kashinakaji. On the evening of December 3, Singleton and Fideli visited our hut to discuss the Ihamba. The first thing that Singleton said was, "The thing that we saw, we were five." This was his statement that the doctors too had seen a thing. The doctors were Singleton, Fideli, Vesa, Luka, and myself.5 I respectfully described what I had seen, but Singleton made no comment. He did not describe what he had seen. I was in no mood to become analytical so I did not push the matter. When the keystone of the bridge is put into position and everything holds, you tend to just look on with your mouth open. This is what happened to me. If I were to have become analytical I would have had to be a different person from the one who saw the spirit form. My role was to be a participant observer so I could describe the background events and how the medicine was collected and used — in other words to tell the story. Yet in order to complete this kind of story, there is the question whether I actually helped the healing. It should not be forgotten that I was there very much as an auxiliary. But as such I was part of the process, and it is my sense that Fideli knew what he was doing when he invited me. (Some further background to this is available in E. Turner 1992.) Let us say that 84

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although I did not come out with any "words" like the rest of them, my tears must have been obvious, and they are a kind of language. In previous rituals the wave of release had not included me. This time it did. It was something not coming from me, not coming from them, but happening to all of us together. The time sense was not that of cause and effect; these things come as wholes. Either I was in the group or I wasn't. Such differences from Western ways of thinking are themselves interesting. I feel that my own experience of tension and its release was probably necessary for me to have partaken in the good outcome, just as Singleton and Fideli had previously come out with their "words" as well. How it was that the release happened to everyone simultaneously, including the patient, I do not know. That is how it was. I am sure it wasn't me that caused the extraction and cure. But maybe I did help, for I certainly was right in it in that particular way. That this is possible for an articulate outsider, is what is both humbling and intellectually exciting about the event. It has made me thirsty for more. Having completed the description I feel that the reader knows what is mainly important about the ritual and the spirit form. My wider speculations came later. Because the material is so unusual, I include my speculations in the next section. That same evening, Singleton told us he had sent a hunter into the bush to bring back an antelope, to be shared among the five doctors. We drank honey beer, listened to the tapes, and sang and laughed a lot. Throughout the visit Fideli kept exclaiming, "I'm so happy!" praising the Baha'i deity Baha'ullah, talking about his upcoming trip to the Baha'i temple at Haifa in Israel, and trying to get Singleton to say what Ihamba was all about. Singleton was stressing the hunger of the ihamba tooth, its desire for meat; and practical as usual, how to satisfy it — which was finally done as follows. On December 6 at 6:00 a.m., Singleton fed the ihamba with meat from an antelope. He opened the abdomen of the antelope and cut out a half-inch piece of liver which he trimmed into a disc with a hole in the center. He took the disc and a sac of blood into Meru's house, and we followed him. The winnowing basket lay ready on the dirt floor, with Singleton's mongoose skin pouch on it. There was also a clean Vaseline jar with a lid, now half full of maize meal made from the grain "which is hard like a tooth." Singleton added his liver disc and sac of blood to the basket. Then he took some red clay out of the pouch, crushed it with the end of his musengu horn, and smeared some clay over his fingers for protection. He picked up the liver ring and A V I S I B L E S P I R I T FORM IN Z A M B I A

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carefully removed the ihamba tooth from his pouch. Choosing a tiny piece of red clay, and holding the tooth and clay together, he inserted them into the hole in the liver ring. He put the ring containing the ihamba into the Vaseline jar, stuffing it in and positioning it with his thumb at the center of the surface of the corn meal. Then he poured over it the blood from the sac, and screwed on the lid. The bottle was now a brilliant red above and white below, a union of blood and meal. Bill wrote later, "Subjectively, I felt very strange. Images flashed through my mind . . . bread and wine; semen and menstrual blood; solid and liquid; yin and yang; a boulder in the stream and the water; time flowing past; life itself." Apparently, we both felt as if a kind of resolution had occurred. Even the reader may sense the effect. Singleton said that when ihamba was fed with blood it was satisfied, and so it appeared to be. Now that the feeding was done, Singleton called Meru into the house. She came running, radiant, with smiles all over her middle-aged face. Singleton took the blood sac and marked her on the shoulders and beside her eyes. She was now cured and protected.

COMMENTARY The principal issue raised by this description of a visible spirit form in Zambia is not the correct method for symbolic analysis, the meaning of the ritual, nor even the style of the report itself, but the question, "What is actually going on here?" This raises a second question, "Have I left the field of anthropology entirely by asking the first question?" My colleagues warn me that not every anthropologist can have such an experience and that it would make other anthropologists anxious about whether they should try to have such an experience. This implies that I should keep quiet about my experience and perpetuate the myth that such things don't happen. I don't intend to do that. Rather, my intention is to engage in dialogue with other anthropologists who have had such experiences in order to build up a reliable body of data on spirits and similar phenomena. Hopefully, the establishment of regularities and thus a more general understanding can be derived from such a body of data. If it becomes respectable for anthropologists to admit to such experiences when they occur, it would become possible to speak from within a culture, rather than as an outsider. Ethnography 86

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could become an endeavor shared by natives and anthropologists. It would become possible to focus in a meaningful way on those rare events that are central to the life of many traditional societies. To return to the central issue, what was actually going on in ihamba? The most parsimonious explanation would be that spirits actually exist. This would account for the importance placed upon the rituals by my consultants and it would also account for my own experience. Following the same line of argument, we could say that somehow medicines do really talk to the ihamba in their own way and say "Come out!" Singleton did really speak to the spirit of Kashinakaji inside Meru's body. As Victor Turner has demonstrated in his work, the deeds of the Ndembu display a coherence and elegance which invite the most complex analysis. This coherence may be due to the fact that, in Ndembu terms, "the spirits show them the way." But there is a matter which does not seem to make sense — the human tooth that Singleton showed Bill and me in Meru's house after the ritual. The existence of this tooth creates certain dilemmas. Which caused the disease, Kashinakaji in spirit form or the tooth? Did two things come out of Meru? Or did Singleton knowingly use sleight-of-hand, to produce the concrete human tooth? How much does it matter? In this connection, the reader may be reminded of the renowned essay by Levi-Strauss, "The Sorcerer and his Magic" (1977:446-453). The editor of the book in which this account occurs asks the question, "Since the sorcerer is aware that he is using sleight-of-hand how does he retain his own faith in the system?" (Landy 1977:445). Quesalid was originally a cynic who for power reasons obtained "shamanic" training in the art of hiding a tuft of down in the cheek which the practitioner could pretend was the pathological foreign substance he had sucked out of the body of the patient. Having learned and practiced this procedure, Quesalid found to his surprise that he was actually able to cure his patients. Of course it has been pointed out in recent ethnography (for instance, A. Campbell 1989; Stoller 1984) that traditional peoples do not make the same distinctions between "real magic" and artifice that we do. Does the truth lie in Levi-Strauss's claim that the cure demonstrates "the coherence of the psychic universe, itself a projection of the social universe" (1977:446)? Levi-Strauss (1977:452) lists the many elements of the total situation in a healing ritual:

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in which sorcerer, patient, and audience, as well as representations and procedures, all play their parts. Furthermore, the public must participate. . . . It is this universe of vital effusions which the patient . . . and the sorcerer . . . allow the public to glimpse as "fireworks" from a safe distance. In contrast with scientific explanation, the problem is to articulate . . . the states, emotions, or representations into a whole or system. The system is valid precisely to the extent that it allows the coalescence or precipitation of these diffuse states, whose discontinuity also makes them painful. To the conscious mind, this last phenomenon constitutes an original experience which cannot be grasped from without. Certainly one cannot fully grasp the Ihamba experience "from without," but I do know what it was like to experience it from within. I was overjoyed at seeing the spirit form and at Meru's obvious deliverance. It was only later that I tried to understand the experience "from without." What I saw come out was not a tooth, so how do we account for the existence of the tooth? There was nothing in our audio tapes, recorded in a variety of circumstances, that hinted of duplicity. Later in my reading I came across a chapter entitled "Extracting Harmful Intrusions" in The Way of the Shaman by Michael Harner, one of the few descriptions that does not ascribe an extraction to trickery (1980:115-117): Illness due to power intrusion is manifested by such symptoms as localized pain or discomfort, often together with an increase in temperature, which (from a shamanic point of view) is connected with the energy from the harmful power intrusion. . . . A shaman would say that it is dangerous not to know about shamanism. In ignorance of shamanic principles, people do not know how to shield themselves from hostile energy intrusions through having guardian spirit power [for a similar reason Singleton warned us that we should drink leaf medicine to shield ourselves from the escaping ihamba] ..

..

The shamanic removal of harmful power intrusions is difficult work, for the shaman sucks them out of a patient physically as well as mentally and emotionally. This technique is widely used in shamanic cultures in such distant areas as Australia, North and South America, and Siberia. 88

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If you ever viewed the film Sucking Doctor, which shows the healing work of the famous California Indian shaman Essie Parrish, you saw a shaman pulling out intrusive power. But Western skeptics say that the shaman is just pretending to suck something out of the person, an object that the shaman has already secreted in his mouth. Suck skeptics have apparently not taken up shamanism themselves to discover what is happening. What is happening goes back to the fact that the shaman is aware of two realities. As among the Jivaro, the shaman is pulling out an intrusive power that (in the Shamanic State of Consciousness) has the appearance of a particular creature, such as a spider, and which he also knows is the hidden nature of a particular plant. When a shaman sucks out that power, he captures its spiritual essence in a portion of the same kind of plant that is its ordinary material home. That plant piece is, in other words, a power object. For example, the shaman may store in his mouth two half-inchlong twigs of the plant that he knows is the material "home" of the dangerous power being sucked out. He captures the power in one of those pieces, while using the other one to help. The fact that the shaman may then bring out the plant power object from his mouth and show it to a patient and audience as "Ordinary State of Consciousness" evidence does not negate the nonordinary reality of what is going on for him in the Shamanic State of Consciousness.6 In this long passage from Harner, the dual nature of the intrusive object is directly addressed: The shaman is aware of more than one reality. He/she captures the essence of the intrusive object (the spirit of Kashinakaji the hunter) — which in the shamanic state of consciousness among the Jivaro may have the appearance of a spider, but among the Ndembu (or at least in my experience of an Ndembu ritual) has the appearance of a six-inch gray blob — which he/she then gathers into something which is seen as a piece of wood or a tooth (which are also significant in themselves). Such a dual system also appears among the Wlabiri of Australia whose doctors found a dingo spirit inside the patient which they extracted in the form of a worm (Cawte 1974:48). This sort of explanation differs from that of Levi-Strauss who argued that Quesalid was an imposter who went on to become a great shaman in whom the radical negativism of the skeptic A V I S I B L E S P I R I T FORM IN Z A M B I A

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gave way to more moderate feelings until he eventually lost all sight of "the fallaciousness of the technique which he had so disparaged at the beginning" (1977:45). Both the tooth and the tuft of down become more significant when considered in the light of Harner's explanation. Victor Turner had some insight into the concept of alternate realities when he argued that the tooth is the slaying weapon par excellence, the epitome, the personification of the sudden aggressiveness needed by a carnivore to bring down a fleeing animal. In the following passage about the forked pole shrine of the Ndembu, Turner (1967:298) implies a good deal when he describes the synthesizing and focusing capacity of ritual symbolism: It must be stressed that the chishing'a [forked pole shrine] is regarded by Ndembu not as an object of cognition, a mere set of referents to known phenomena, so much as a unitary power, conflating all the powers inherent in the activities, objects, relationships, and ideas it represents. What Ndembu see in a chishing'a made visible for them in its furcate, ambivalent, and awe-inspiring nakedness, is the slaughterous power of Wubinda itself [the Ndembu spirit and cult of huntsmanship]. The curious thing about this passage is the belief that shines out of it, the transmutation of symbols into reality. In his sympathy with the Ndembu, Turner thus goes beyond the idea of symbol as abstract referent. Now we see the shrine pole as one of the poles (as if magnetic) of the two realities, the one the material shrine pole and the other the spirit realm, between which the power of Wubinda jumps back and forth, as it were, into recognition and out of it.7 Victor Turner's own writings constantly show this ambiguity, sometimes espousing the beliefs of the people he studied and sometimes speaking from the standpoint of positivism (for the former see V. Turner 1975 and the latter V. Turner 1968). It was that unitary power, combined with the medicines, the participation of the five doctors and the crowd, and the doctor's tutelary spirits, that drove into visibility the spirit substance that I actually saw. Thus working backwards, the Ndembu were right to regard symbols not as "objects of cognition, mere sets of referents" but as "powers," using Turner's words (1967:298). And working backward still further, it might even be said that many of Turner's analyses of symbols enable us to trace not psycho90

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logical processes but actual spirit ones, the paths of their power toward us. But this Turner was only able to suggest, as in the example of the quotation above. Anthropology forbade that he overstep its boundaries. Because of this, a shallower idea of symbolism has begun to affect many researchers so that their understanding stops at the surface of symbols — at their social and psychological effects. They themselves cannot see these material forms as objects with actual power, even though their field people do. These anthropologists have shown themselves to be fundamentalist secularists, however much they bend over backwards to empathize with the people they study. So when I consider the ihamba tooth which was the result, the trophy, the material prize gained from the long morning of ritual, and wonder about its appearance at the end, what then? Was it that the tooth, brought into ritual focus, was employed to pull toward itself, like a magnet, the harmful thing I saw? That is not quite it. Singleton used the same word, ihamba, for the thing that was inside — that is, the one I saw coming out — and the tooth, which in the doctor's view had indeed been inside. The doctors could switch from addressing "grandfather" to commanding a biting "thing" to come out. When the ihamba, whatever it was, that had invaded the veins and arteries of the victim was extracted, it took the form of a gray blob which seemed to be absorbed into the tooth. This concept of an entity inside reminds me of a report by Essie Parrish, the Porno shaman referred to above: When that sick man is lying there, I usually see the power. These things seem unbelievable but I, myself, I know, because it is in me. . . . Way inside of the sick person lying there, there is something. It is just like seeing through something — if you put tissue over something, you could see through it. That is just the way I see it inside. I see what happens there and can feel it with my hand — my middle finger is the one with the power [compare the photograph of an Ihamba doctor holding his middle finger over a divining mortar in Victor Turner's book, The Drums of Affliction(1968:169)]. The pain sitting somewhere inside the person feels like it is pulling your hand towards itself - you can't miss it. (Harner 1980:127-128) Singleton's skill appears to correspond to that of Essie Parrish, an articulate, English-speaking woman, albeit from an entirely A V I S I B L E S P I R I T FORM IN Z A M B I A

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different culture area. Fideli told us that you could see the ihamba moving through the veins of the body: "I am telling you the truth." He did not use the "tissue" image, but there are many references in the tapes to seeing and sensing the ihamba. Singleton said, "I've seen that it is the ihamba, so he must come out of her." "We have seen the ihamba," said Fideli. Fideli also said, "When an ihamba goes into a horn you feel it vibrating." All of these sayings were vindicated by the actual sight of the spirit form, gray, quite definite, like a round blob of plasm.8 It is this object which is central to my account. It was, for me, the afflictor in a different shape. What is important in Ihamba is the moment when Singleton clutched the "thing" in his skin pouch. This is the moment when the ihamba that was formerly within was translated into a concrete object which is placed in the receiving can. The fact that the doctors allowed the same word, ihamba, to run as it were out of Meru's body, into the receiving can, and later into the Vaseline jar, attests to its processual unity, its unbroken flow of identity. We could put it backwards: "that ihamba tooth in the Vaseline jar was the ihamba that was in the receiving can, which was the ihamba that Singleton clutched in his mongoose skin bag, which was the ihamba that came out of Meru, which was the ihamba that had been hurting her with all the agony of a tooth." When operating in the forward, cause-and-effect mode, Meru's affliction by a human tooth looks impossible; in English the only words for such a process are "trickery," "sleight-of-hand," and the like. But these terms derive from quite a different world from the scene at Kahona. Looking backwards from the outcome of the Ihamba to Meru's sickness, the picture does not seem so impossible. This is because the past is only verified by the future (Wagner, personal communication9) and this ihamba was destined to be fed. Thus its past took shape after the event, as a computer shifts everything that has been written to adjust to new insertions or formatting commands. What the ihamba itself consists of is the biting inside, that hard spirit which cannot come out without a sudden transformation, effected socially by living people communicating with the spirit, ready for the "coalescence or precipitation of the diffuse states," in the words of Levi-Strauss. It is what it is. The last question concerns particulars and universals in the sensing of spirits in different cultures. The Ndembu cosmology of course is not everyone's. At the moment we cannot fathom why each culture has its own. There appear to be no universal 92

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"spirits"; only a few of the world's cultures have experienced "angels," for instance. Others have knowledge of animal helpers, while Africans know the support of dead kin. At least we have found out, partly with the help of Victor Turner, that ritual and systems of spirits and power objects are intimately concerned with people in the living context of their compeers. In a paper like this, honesty becomes very important, and what is personal is part of the process. Therefore I include a paragraph from my notes that shows a certain distress: Writing this last passage is like wading through glue. Something is trying to stop me. The devil disguised as Christianity is furious that I have found him out. "We are not ready for your universalisms," he says. "It is not time. Quick! Back to your old beliefs. You never saw a spirit." How does acceptance of the informant's world view affect anthropology? It leaves a door unlocked. Those who have gone so far, like Alan Campbell (1989), could find this little door and be free to come and go. Let me explain. Campbell wrote an extremely sympathetic book on tolerance for the oddities of Wayapi Indian thought. Yet he confessed that he did not regard shamanic manifestations among the Wayapi "as entities in the form of animals or people"; he felt he ought to see them "as conceptual devices . . . metaphors through which the living world is expressed" (1989:90), a theory he derives from "minuscule points of grammar" (1989:21). Is this faithful reportage of the people's experience? The people would deny it. The "metaphor" model is everywhere to be found in anthropology, but it is rarely found in the real world where events of the psyche are regarded as common place, where different cultures have for long been exploring the intangible in terms of their everyday experience, where to date in some hospitals in America nurses are trained to understand the near-death experience,10 where stories of spirits and lights and midnight paralysis and hagriding (Hufford 1982a) continually emerge when there is a listener who will not mock them. Thus it is becoming clear that what we are referring to are not unusual experiences, because they occur to so many people. Furthermore, when one reviews tests made on telepaths and such specially gifted persons, the phenomena they handle can hardly be called unexpected because such persons have developed skills to induce them. The development of skills is seen, for example, among Balinese trancers, Brazilian Umbandists, and circum-PaA V I S I B L E S P I R I T FORM IN Z A M B I A

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cific shamans, as well as among African doctors. It is time that we recognize the ability to experience different levels of reality as one of the normal human abilities and place it where it belongs, central to the study of ritual.

NOTES 1. My thanks are due to the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research and to the Carter-Woodson Institute for AfroAmerican and African Studies at the University of Virginia, for grants-in-aid to make a restudy of the Ndembu. I am particularly grateful to William Blodgett whose unstinting help made the enterprise possible; also to Singleton Kahona and Fideli Benwa and their ancestors who were the true authors of this paper (and to whom this paper is dedicated); and to Benwa Muhelwa, Fideli's father, who was also a wise teacher in matters of ritual; to Cecile Clover, and many others. Finally I acknowledge the intellectual legacy of Victor Turner, which is beyond price. 2. I capitalize Ihamba when referring to the ritual, and use it uncapitalized (ihamba) for the object, the tooth, and its spirit appearances. This will help to distinguish the ritual from the afflicting agent in the following account, much as the Africans distinguish them contextually. 3. Hunters actually remove a tooth from a dead comrade and carry it with them on their expeditions in order that it might help them kill animals. How the tooth gets into a victim is a matter that may not be published. 4. I believe that if I had tried to touch the gray form, my fingers would have gone through. 5. Bill saw no spirit form; however, in other matters he received "second-sight" messages from a different African doctor and was interested. 6. Victor Turner's book (1968) showed that the extraction of harmful intrusions is not limited to the Americas, Siberia, or Australia, but is found in Africa as well. The distinction between shaman and spirit-guided healer has created confusion here. Singleton was not the kind of shaman defined as one who lies prone while his shamanic consciousness wanders forth to bring back the helping

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spirit to the sick person. He was the kind of healer who is endowed with a tutelary spirit who guides him in his craft. Both types of healer are guided by a helping spirit. In Africa, it is the patient who falls in trance, and by lying prone in an altered state of consciousness, her body responds to the medicinal and ritual "calling out" effects so strongly focused upon her. A similar stage of consciousness radiates all around the ritual core, a fact wellknown to the doctors, who medicate those who are closely concerned (as we were medicated) in order to give them power to see the spirit and for protection. 7. The ritual also gave exercise to the sense of "off and on," in the repeated shift into another level of reality and back into the mundane. This shifting occurs in rituals elsewhere, often in masked rites involving masking and unmasking such as in Tubuan initiations in New Ireland, in trance rites where the difference between the realities is clearly seen, and anything of the "now-you-see-itnow-you-don't" kind. 8. As for the Ndembu, in William Blodgett's field notes of 1985, page 219, Philip Kabwita refers to the bad ghost musalu. "Munginju medicine makes musalu visible. You can see musalu, which comes in smoke or mist, when you drink pounded leaf medicine." 9. Roy Wagner (personal communication) put it this way: "The body's construct is one ahead, and perception one step behind the 'now'." 10. See Josephine Memorial Hospital Nursing Standards, Crescent City, California.

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PART II: MODELING EXTRAORDINARY EXPERIENCE

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CHARLES

D. LAUGHL1N, JR.

Psychic Energy & Transpersonal Experience: A biogenetic structural account of the Tibetan Dumo Yoga Practice

INTRODUCTION Mystical traditions from many cultures describe extraordinary experiences involving the unusual movement of energy within the body. These experiences may be profound, may be the consequence of entering an alternative phase of consciousness, and may be culturally interpreted as both numinous and sacred. In this paper, I wish to operationalize the concept of psychic energy in such a way that a biopsychological account of such experiences is possible. I will begin with a phenomenological definition of "psychic energy" and then will offer a personal account of my exploration of Tibetan tantric Buddhism and the experiences that arose as a consequence of performing tantric "psychic heat" PSYCHIC ENERGY & T R A N S P E R S O N A L E X P E R I E N C E

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rituals. I will then describe what I believe to be the basic structure of psychic energy experiences cross-culturally, and suggest a tentative neurocognitive and neuroendocrinal model to account for the structural invariants within those experiences. But first, I must lay the groundwork for this somewhat unorthodox approach to the ethnography of religious practice.

THE PERSPECTIVE: BIOGENETIC STRUCTURALISM PLUS TRANSPERSONALISM The perspective taken here is that of biogenetic structuralism (Laughlin and d'Aquili 1974; d'Aquili, et al. 1979; Rubinstein, et al. 1985; Laughlin, McManus and d'Aquili 1990), which is an anthropological framework grounded in the neurosciences and which has developed a number of formulations to account for cross-cultural universals in the structures of experience, especially the relations of cosmology, symbolism and experience attained in alternative phases of consciousness (d'Aquili 1983; d'Aquili and Laughlin 1975; MacDonald, et al. 1988; Laughlin 1988; Laughlin, McManus and Shearer 1984; Laughlin, McManus and Webber 1984; Laughlin, et al. 1986). I am particularly interested in the neurophysiological processes that produce the crosscultural invariance among extraordinary experiences in general, and psychic energy experiences in particular (e.g., Laughlin, et al. 1986).

Transpersonalism Transpersonalism labels a movement in science toward the acknowledgment and significance as data of extraordinary experiences that go beyond the boundaries of ordinary ego-consciousness (Laughlin, McManus and Shearer 1983). Roger Walsh and Frances Vaughan in their book, Beyond Ego, use the term transpersonal to "reflect the reports of people practising various consciousness disciplines who spoke of experiences of an extension of identity beyond both individuality and personality" (1980:16). A range of such experiences have been reported in the clinical literature, as well as in textual material from various religious traditions and cultures. The Journal of Transpersonal Psychology lists a number of these experiences in the preface to each issue (see also Lee 1980 and Wilber 1980). Kenneth Ring (1976), working from the research of Stanislav Grof (1976), has developed a typology that groups such experiences into ever expanding con-

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centric rings from normal waking consciousness in the middle (themost narrow field), through what he terms preconscious, psychodynamic, orthogenetic, trans-individual, phylogenetic, extra-terrestrial, and superconsciousness, to void consciousness at the periphery (the most expansive field) (Ring 1976:127). As formal disciplines, transpersonal psychology dates to the latter 1960s (Sutich 1968; Boucouvalis 1980) and transpersonal anthropology to the mid-1970s (S. Lee 1980:2; Laughlin, McManus and Shearer 1983:141). Transpersonal anthropology is simply the study of transpersonal experiences cross-culturally (Laughlin 1988; Laughlin, McManus and Shearer 1983). "Transpersonal anthropological research is the investigation of the relationship between consciousness and culture, altered states of mind research, and the inquiry into the integration of mind, culture and personality" (Campbell and Staniford 1978:28). Anthropologists have all along recorded data on extraordinary experiences reported by informants, as well as religious institutions and ritual practices associated with such experiences (see J. MacDonald 1981 and Laughlin, McManus and Shearer 1983 for surveys). A few researchers have even undergone spontaneous transpersonal experiences themselves while in the field (see Gorer 1949 [1935]:131, Harner 1973a; Grindal 1983; Coult n.d.; Chagnon 1977). Others like Katz (1982:6ff) and Stoller (1989) have reported participating in ritual practices intended to incubate such experiences, without actually attaining the intended state (or failing to report it if attained). But looking back over the history of the discipline, few ethnographers have actually made the effort to incubate alternative states themselves. This is curious in the face of evidence that many, if not most, human cultures operate upon a cosmology of multiple realities (Schutz 1945; Eliade 1964; MacDonald et al. 1988; Poirier 1990), the reality of which is commonly verified through direct transpersonal experiences attained in alternative states of consciousness (Bourguignon 1973; Ehrenwald 1978; Laughlin, et al. 1986; Stoller 1989; Obeyesekere 1981). However, as other authors in this volume and elsewhere give evidence, reports of spontaneous transpersonal experiences while in the field do seem to be on the rise. For example, Carol Lederman reports such an experience during her investigation of a Malay shamanic ritual. She found Malays reluctant to talk about their experiences of the Inner Winds during trance states. "They told me that the only way I could know would be to experience it myself" (Lederman 1988:805). Eventually, her shaman/teacher sat her down and began a ritual that led to her PSYCHIC ENERGY & TRANSPERSONAL

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entering a trance state. "At the height of my trance, I felt the Wind blowing inside my chest with the strength of a hurricane." When she described her feelings to her informants, they responded, "Why did you think we call them Winds?" (Lederman 1988:806).

The procedure and personal change The methodology in transpersonal anthropology is essentially no different than for any other aspect of the ethnographic enterprise. Basic participant observation is geared to the demands of the questions being asked and the domain of culture being explored. In this case, the questions involve the relations of symbolism and mystical experience. Transpersonal participant observation therefore requires that more emphasis be placed upon participation, than upon more passive observation — what Goulet and Young (this volume) refer to as "participant-comprehension." Transpersonal participant-comprehension means following the instructions and procedures given from within the culture (perhaps as given by a teacher, shaman, or guru) leaving oneself open to whatever experiences arise as a consequence of performing ritual and symbolic practices, and recording what happens, using whatever symbolic media are available (see Laughlin 1988 for some of the methodological issues involved). This participation frequently requires the "suspension of disbelief" necessary for entry into domains of occult meaning and experience. Initiation into mystical practices ideally occurs, of course, after the researcher is well steeped in the cosmological and mythopoeic framework from which these practices derive much of their meaning for the host culture. It is the methodological challenge posed by this book, as well as by previous writings of this author (see Laughlin 1988; Laughlin, McManus and Shearer 1983) that transpersonal anthropology is required for a full description of the experiences upon which the cosmologies of many non-Euroamerican societies are grounded. Of course, as the editors of this volume make plain, the ethnographer's eventual interpretation of transpersonal experiences may not be that of his or her informants in the host culture. Indeed, it is my belief that anthropological science derives from applying etic methods and explanations of human activities to the fullest possible range of emic data. Those ethnographers who insist upon solely emic research can never hope

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to produce viable scientific explanations of native experiences, whether those experiences be commonplace or extraordinary. In this study, I wish to combine both an emic exploration of the experiences I had while exploring the Tibetan tantric Buddhist tradition (including seven years from 1978-1985 as a monk), and an etic explanation of those experiences based upon neuroanthropological considerations. The experiences I will report differ from spontaneously occurring transpersonal experiences in at least three respects: (1) they occur as a consequence of a specific intention to seek personally transformative experiences, (2) they occur within the temporal frame of the development of consciousness, and (3) they involve an unusual degree of ref lexivity as an active ingredient of the experience. With respect to the latter difference, the techniques used to incubate these experiences presume for their efficacy, a facility for what we have elsewhere (Laughlin, McManus and d'Aquili 1990) called mature

contemplation?' Transpersonal anthropological research of necessity takes on a reflexive, as well as a developmental, perspective. Thus, the phenomenology of reflexivity is, itself, part of participant-comprehension, for intensification of awareness changes the experience of self and world (Myerhoff and Ruby 1982). Just as with any intense fieldwork, the doing of transpersonal ethnography changes the organization of consciousness of the ethnographer. He or she is never the same again, and everything written about culture and society thereafter takes on the unmistakable flavor of that change.3

BASIC CONCEPTS The sensorium The sensorium is the functional space within the nervous system wherein cognized reality is portrayed in moment-by-moment experience. The sensorium is a time-honored term in science and medicine (Newton used the term in the 17th and 18th centuries!) that generally refers to the "whole sensory apparatus of the body." The experiential component of cognized reality is a construction involving the moment-by-moment reorganization of perceptual and cognitive structures. And, as both perception and cognition are mediated by living cells within the nervous system, the part played by both is an active one, perception actively enPSYCHIC E N E R G Y & T R A N S P E R S O N A L E X P E R I E N C E

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gaging cognition, cognition actively engaging perception. Cognized reality is thus in part an entrainment of cognitive and perceptual networks which is designed to portray an unfolding world of experience to the organism. The functional space within which cognition and perception are combined into a unitary experience is the sensorium. A significant feature of sensorial activity is that it normally forms a total field of experience as it unfolds each and every moment. Perception does operate to differentiate percepts, attentional structure operates to assure a point of view, and cognition may perform operations upon percepts, but the world of experience tends to remain "stuck together" within sensorial space.5

Dots: the basic unit of experience There is another significant feature of sensorial activity that is a bit tricky to talk about, for it may seem contrary to naive introspection. This is one reason that evidence derived from transpersonal introspection is so important to our work. Most westerners, including most scientists, are very poor phenomenologists. They are not trained to anything like the level of transpersonal sophistication to be found in certain other cultural traditions. As noted earlier, the mature contemplative is a "statespecific" scientist who has undergone training sufficient to examine the internal features of his or her own mentation while exercising an uncommon degree of tranquility and vigilance. It seems apparent to the mature contemplative that experience arising within the sensorium is comprised of innumerable, almost infinitesimal and momentary particles ("sparks," yods, bindus). This is because the process of contemplation inevitably leads to the lodging of awareness in the ongoing present moment with a dropping away of anticipatory cognitive processes (the "future" component of cognition) and of memory of cognitive processes (the "past" component of cognition).6 What is left is an intense awareness of, and perhaps absorption in, the phenomenological components of experience. These particles manifest and dissolve in epochs, and epochs in temporospatially compact series ("heaps," "chunks") that are recognized as objects (see Mahathera Nanarama 1983). This fact is commonly missed to naive introspection simply because people are not trained to concentrate upon the mechanisms of their own perception; as it were, to perform a "phenomenological reduction" (Husserl 1960; Mer104

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leau-Ponty 1962:xi). But with training, it is quite easy to become aware of the activity of these tiny and momentary sensory events and their organization into cognitions. They are found to comprise phenomena in all sensory modes, and are especially easy to confirm as the building blocks of objects and movements in the visual field. Labeling these particles of experience after their visual form, I will call them sensorial dots. Thus, the sensorium is experienced as a field of dots that is perceptually and cognitively distinguished into sensory modes, and within sensory modes into distinct forms and events. The basic act of perception is the abstraction and reinforcement of invariant features in the unfolding field of dots (see Gibson 1969, 1979). It is the job of the sensorium to portray an internalized world of phenomena by ordering dots into recognizable configurations. The notion of dots is thus equivalent to Lonergan's (1958:442) concept of "prime potency." Potency is the raw "material" of direct experience that is to be known, Husserl's "lifeworld." As such, potency exists as a set of primitive limitations upon form and action. Thus, prime potency is "the potency of the lowest level that provides the principle of limitation for the whole range of proportionate being" (Lonergan 1958:442). Dots are the prime potency of the cognized world without the manifestation of which the whole intricate fabric of form, anticipation and action would cease. Where our construction differs from the many Eastern cosmological and Western philosophical notions of a fundamental particle is that we make no claims about the constitution of objects in the world apart from perception of them.7 Furthermore, experience is comprised of dots whether or not the stimulus triggering neurocognitive processes is external or internal to the organism. Both the perception of a car "out there" and a car "in a dream" involve the forming of phenomena within a field of dots. The field of dots in perception is analogous to the particles that make up the image on a TV screen, or in a newspaper photo. We are ordinarily not aware of these particles, but they are there to be seen if we look for them. Dots are introspective events that are momentary to perception, and yet which contribute to much more enduring events such as forms, patches of color, textures, etc. It is apparent to the contemplative mind that all verbalized thoughts, images, percepts, and even perceptual space, the edges of forms, and colors in all hues (including black are comprised of dots. Yet dots are seen to have no permanent form or enduring substance. They are transitory, impermanent, PSYCHIC ENERGY & TRANSPERSONAL EXPERIENCE

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and without stable structure, but are vibrant, scintillating, and alive. They provide the finest grade of sensorial "texture" of which awareness is capable of resolving within any sense modality. It is true to say that without dots there can be no phenomenal form, and that there are phases of consciousness in which the only awareness of form is awareness of a field of dots. There are also phases of consciousness that transcend awareness of dots and dot-comprised form, but this is a matter beyond the scope of the present discussion.

Psychic energy The word "energy" derives from the Greek energeia which means "activity," the concatenation of the two roots en, "in," plus ergon, "work" or "action." And, of course, the word "psychic" comes from the Greek psyche which means soul or mind, and which is also associated with the principle of life, or breath. Thus the term "psychic energy" connotes the activity of (or occurring within) consciousness, mind or soul. Operationalizing the term within the present transpersonal framework, we may say that psychic energy refers to the experience of the activity of dots within the sensorium. The direct perception of psychic energy, as usually described in higher psychic energy experiences, may be interpreted as the perception of the movement, unfoldment, transformation or flow of dots and patterns of dots in consciousness, whether or not the existence of dots per se is recognized by the perceiver. It is presumed in this definition that the activity of a field of dots is a pan-human universal. It is universal because the physiological structure of the sensoria and perceptual systems of all humans is the same. As a pan-human universal, the activity of fields of dots comprising the experiential component of cognized reality will produce a recognizable pattern in the reports of introspection cross-culturally. This presumption amounts to a strong form of W.T. Stace's (1960:29) "principle of causal indifference": The principle of causal indifference is this: If X has an alleged mystical experience PI and Y has an alleged mystical experience P2, and if the phenomenological characteristics of PI entirely resemble the phenomenological characteristics of P2 so far as can be ascertained from the de-

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scriptions given by X and Y, then the two experiences cannot be regarded as being of two different kinds. But methods of cross-cultural comparison must be sensitive to the invariance embedded in the seemingly variant, culture specific, traditional modes of symbolic expression.8 In short, there is the immediate perception of sensorial events, and there is the interpretation of them vis-a-vis traditional symbolism and cosmological understanding (Stace 1960:31); and of course there is the interaction between the two.

EXPERIENCING THE DUMO "HEAT" The Tibetan tantric Buddhist conception of the psychophysical body is similar to that of the Hindu view. The body is made up of a system of channels (Skt.: nadi\ Tib.: rtsa ) through which psychic energy passes. This psychic energy (Skt.: prana\ Tib.: sugs) may be experienced as breath and as psychic heat, or dumo (Tib.: gtum-mo; see Govinda 1969 [I960]: 137-186; Evans-Wentz 1958:172-208; Chang 1963:55-81 for discussions of dumo). Psychic energy, and thus dumo, may be experienced as concentrating upon distinct centers in the body, the so-called chakras. Recognizing that the work of contemplation requires energy, there are ritual techniques for generating and distributing psychic energy in the form of dumo for the purpose of energizing contemplation. In other words, the mindstate requisite to mature contemplation (Skt.: mahamudra; Tib.: phyag-rgya-chen-po; a term used both for the work of contemplation and the realization of the Void, or sunyata, Tib.: ston-pa-nid; see Wang-ch'uk Dorje 1978) is only possible when the psychic energy is active and appropriately distributed throughout the psychophysical body. When the energies are thus active and appropriately distributed, the mindstate of the mature contemplative spontaneously arises. In the discussion that follows, I will be mainly concerned with the experience of dumo, and only indirectly with the appropriate use of those energies to attain insights into the nature of mind, or the state of contemplation itself. However, I should emphasize that in Tibetan Buddhism, as with all sects of Buddhism, the transpersonal experiences that may accompany the generation of dumo are not the goal of the practice and, if made the goal and thereafter clung to, are considered hindrances of the worst kind relative to the real goal, the realization of mature contemplation. P S Y C H I C E N E R G Y & T R A N S P E R S O N A L E X P E R I E N C E1 0 7

Dumo techniques There are specific ritual practices in Tibetan tantric Buddhism designed to evoke experiences of psychic heat. What follows is a considerably simplified version of the yoga of psychic heat. The practitioner is directed to sit quietly and calm the mind, and then to imagine the body as an empty vessel. He then visualizes an energy center located in the area of the navel (Skt.: manipura\ Tib.: Ite-bahi hkhor-lo). He visualizes a small but intense flame in the navel center and then imagines a drop or radiant bubble in the energy center located at the crown of the head (Skt.: sahasrara-padma\ Tib.: hdab-stori). While doing breathing exercises designed to bring the breath down through the two main side channels (Skt.: Ida and pingala) to feed the flame in the navel center, the practitioner imagines the flame entering the central channel (Skt.: susumna; Tib.: dhu-ma rtsa). The flame starts out as a thin thread of iridescence and then becomes more intense as the breathing continues to fan it. It becomes larger and longer until it reaches the crown center. The flame melts the drop in the crown center which becomes a bliss-nectar that flows down to permeate the entire body. The flame also is imagined to fill the entire body. Awareness of the body is eventually lost and all of consciousness is a sea of dumo. The kinds of experiences that arise doing this meditative work may also arise spontaneously, or during other meditation practices, especially those involving the visualization of central channel or energy center images.

Dumo experiences Wind is mind moving. Breath is the inner wind. I am fearful of movement, Of change. I scream at the wind! Wind passes me by, Too pure for comment. By author Numerous visual images have spontaneously appeared during my practice of dumo or related meditations. My impression from discussions with other meditators is that some meditators are 108

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more susceptible to experiencing these images than are others, but that among those that do experience them, their motifs are frequently universal. Those suggesting energy centers include a sphere floating in space, suns radiating energy, and spinning planets with Saturnian rings. Those suggesting movement of energy through channels include a radiant sun over a torrential waterfall, tubes spewing smoke, bubbles or streams of energy. Any of these may be experienced as inside or outside of the body. For example, the body may be perceived as an image of myriad tubes through which pass energies moving away from or toward radiant spheres, spinning spoked wheels or planets located up and down the central channel. One of the earliest and most profound experiences I had of psychic energy was during a weekend "loving kindness" retreat in 1979. Part of the work was to imagine a rose in the heart region while repeating the famous mantrum, Om Mani Padme Hum, associated with the deity, Chenrezig. Numerous visual images spontaneously arose during this retreat, including a rosecolored sun emitting radiant rays of rose-colored light, two rosecolored planes, one above me and one below, formed by conjoined bubbles, a bush sprouting innumerable red roses, blue tubes spewing rose energy, and a long lake between mountain peaks with a golden mountain at the end of the lake. At one point while in a steady state of absorption and blissful peace, the image of a beautiful blond female figure dressed in a red schift appeared walking away from me in my left visual field. At first, I intended to ignore her as I routinely did with all other distractions from the object of my meditation, but then I intuited that "she" was an archetypal expression of my "anima" (the Jungian term for a male's female aspect). So I sent her a blast of loving feeling visualized as a laser beam of rose-colored light emanating from my heart. Both the figure and my bodily self-awareness instantly exploded into a rapidly expanding sphere of rose-colored energy. Within a split second, my consciousness was in a state of intense absorption upon boundless space filled with pulsing, shimmering rose-colored particles and ecstatic bliss. There then followed the eruption of a soundless scream and another energy explosion from the depths of my being that culminated in the awareness of the visual image of a tunnel or birth canal. When corporeal awareness gradually returned, I spent a couple of hours in complete tranquility, either contemplating the essential attributes of mind, or in absorption upon this or that symbol as it arose before the mind's eye.

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A similar experience led to what I came to call the Rue d'Ecole insight, named for the fact that it occurred while I was meditating in a small hotel on that street in Paris. I had been doing breathing meditation and had shifted to meditating on the myriad sounds around me. In a sudden shift of consciousness, I became aware that the entire sensorium — and not just the visual sense — is made up of particles. Sight, sound, touch, taste, feeling, pain emotion, somesthesis, all of these are the way the mind has of chopping up an essentially undifferentiated field of dots (remember that I have generalized the concept of "dot" to all sensory modes). The entire world of phenomena became a single monad of vibrant sensation. Only much later did I learn that this experience has been called the coincidentia oppositorum in the Western mystical tradition. I discovered early in the dumo work that the practice was associated with increased sexual arousal. Feelings of lust would increase in both waking and dream states. I began to understand why psychic energy is often called "psychosexual" energy or "libido." There came a point in the work, however, when I discovered that the energy activated in the central channel could be willfully switched from a lateral, outward direction which was experienced as sexual arousal to an ascending direction which was experienced as intense, but non-sexual bliss. I eventually learned during dumo practice to rapidly flip the direction back and forth so that one moment I was sexually aroused and the next in a tranquil, centered, and blissful state. The energy in the central channel felt much like a hot fluid that was being shunted one way or the other at a "valve" or juncture in the system of channels. I realized that this experience accounted for why Tibetan yogis equate semen with the ascending fiery energy of dumo. It also became apparent why Freud initially conceived of the libido in sexual terms and later as referring to the entire field of life energy. Practice of dumo often led to an expanding and focusing of consciousness. The energies in the navel region would initially ascend into the head and the entire sensorium would seem to catch fire and discorporate into its constituent dots. This was always associated with intense rapture. Then as this intense experience subsided, the entire field of consciousness would have expanded and at the same time cleared of discursive thought, fantasy, desire, and other distractions. Subsequently, and for some period of time, the mind was free of distractions and could focus upon any object it desired to contemplate (an idea, a question, an image, an aspect of the sensorium, etc.). Concentration 1 10

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was exceptional and there was a free flow of insight related to whatever was the object of meditation. As a consequence of many such experiences, I recognize the essential similarity of these with the IKia experience described by Katz (1976; 1982) for the Bushmen of southern Africa.

PSYCHIC ENERGY AND HIGHER PHASES OF CONSCIOUSNESS Although psychic energy as defined here is apparent in a quite ordinary way and at any time to mature contemplation, I am primarily interested in certain regularities in the reported experiences of psychic energy had while practitioners in various cultures are in what they report to be extraordinary phases of consciousness (or "trance"). As I have described for my own experiences with dumo practice, these experiences are frequently dramatic in description and exhibit a number of invariant features which should hold for cross-cultural comparison. The reader should, however, remain aware that we label these "higher" phases only because they are coded as such in their respective traditions. We make no claim that such dramatic experiences are in fact the highest form of mystical experience — indeed, there are mystical traditions such as Zen and Tibetan mahamudra that code such dramatic experiences as major hindrances on the path to mature spiritual awakening and associate them with low level awareness and immaturity, the healing or untangling of "energy blocks," and even neurosis. These traditions would hold that the very dramatic quality of these experiences signals the fact that the practitioner is spiritually off-balance relative to the goal of perfect awakening — a view incidentally with which C.G. Jung would have agreed. But it is again beyond the scope of this paper to discuss these issues.

Flow The experience of a greater flow of energy in the body/sensorium seems to be an inevitable consequence of the exercise of sustained concentration, be that upon a physical task such as racing, dancing, swimming, and the like, or upon some object of contemplation: Flow is the holistic sensation present when we act with total involvement, a state in which action follows action accordPSYCHIC ENERGY & TRANSPERSONAL EXPERIENCE

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ing to an internal logic, with no apparent need for conscious intervention on our part. Flow is experienced in play and sport, in artistic performance and religious ritual. There is no dualism in flow. . . . Flow is made possible by a centering of attention on a limited stimulus field, by means of bracketing, framing and often a set of rules. There is a loss of ego, the self becomes irrelevant. Flow is an inner state so enjoyable that people sometimes forsake a comfortable life for its sake. (Turner 1979:154; see also Csikskentmihalyi 1975) Flow is an experience that may be associated with the unfettered release of all bodily and mental tension. Total flow is the experiential polar opposite of total, "up-tight" stress. Depending upon how blocked the energy resources are under stress conditions, flow may or may not involve the experience of a marked release or upsurge of energy which may be interpreted at the time as "floating," "bliss," "ecstasy," "exhilaration," etc. Full flow may be characterized by the cessation of verbal chatter and fantasy. Consciousness is notably clear of worry, defensiveness and ego-centeredness. Entering flow is commonly reported to be like "breaking through" to another plane of consciousness, as "attaining one's second wind," and as if the "bottom had fallen out from under" the normal range of consciousness. During the experience of full-on flow, there may be a sense of access to an endless source of energy, and the awareness of bodily movement as smooth, effortless and blissful (Csikskentmihalyi 1975).

Centeredness A more refined, and presumably more advanced, form of flow involves the movement of energy toward (or into) or away from (or out of) the central axis10 of the body. The centering of bodily energy in a vertical axis may be experienced directly as bodily (i.e., proprioceptive) sensations and symbolically in visual imagery. One may see in a vision the movement of energy in a central tube or shaft, the trunk of a tree, a vertical stream of water, etc. The sensations of energy movement ("bliss") may radiate outwards to encompass the entire body, even the entire perceptual world. The variations are endless, and undoubtedly are related to the axis mundi motif in cosmological myth (Eliade 1964).

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Circulation Centered psychic energy is often experienced as circulating around the body axis, and often concentrated at one or more points along the axis. The classic example of circulating, concentrated energy is the chakra, a Hindu term that literally means "wheel" (Kakar 1982: 201; see also discussion below). Again, a discrete center of psychic energy may be experienced somaesthetically as a sensation of heat, bliss or movement at a particular place in the body, and symbolically as a scintillating bubble or sphere, a rotating wheel, ball of fire, "space station," lotus or other flower, rings around a planet-like sphere, etc. References to "circulation of light" within the body and cosmos to be found in the ancient Chinese meditation text, The Secret of the Golden Flower (Wilhelm 1962), would seem to provide one example of such experiences. Circulation of energy may be experienced as moving centrifugally away from the center, or centripetally toward the center (Woodroffe 1974:7). The center may feel like a spot of intensely hot and blissful energy that is radiating outwards from the body and into the world. One may perceive a radiant "sun," "moon," or other astronomical body emitting rays of light outwards into the world. On the other hand, one may feel energy moving inwards and concentrating upon a particular spot in the body. One may see the image of an inwardly spiraling vortex of light, perhaps condensing at a particular spot.

Ascending and Descending It is not uncommon for the report of centeredness to emphasize the ascending and descending direction of energy flow. Energy may be experienced as originating from below and moving up the body axis, originating above and moving down the axis, or both. Once again, the experience may be somaesthetically one of a flow of energy from above or below, producing bliss or ecstasy in the body. The experience may also have a visual component such as radiant light from a source above or below (see Eliade 1965; Bucke 1961 for various descriptions), a waterfall down the central visual field, a shaft of light, tube of flowing particles, movement of a mist or cloud of energy, movement of consciousness up or down a shaft, stairwell or hole, etc. Movement of energy up and down the central axis is frequently associated with emotional outbursts and the spontaneous release of P S Y C H I C E N E R G Y & T R A N S P E R S O N A L E X P E R I E N C E1 1 3

tension (the latter called "dearmoring" by Reichian psychologist, Alexander Lowen 1976). Of notable significance would seem to be the interaction of polarized energy sources, especially those associated with above and below, left and right. The higher phases of consciousness and the more profound states of illumination or insight are frequently associated with the integration of these polarities by axes of energy flow, and perhaps eventually the realization of an even, unblocked and undifferentiated totality of energy flow in every moment of consciousness. In some cases, the establishment of a free flow of energy between an energy center above (e.g., in or above the head) and one below (e.g., the belly, genital-anal, or somewhere further below) is requisite for a phase of consciousness during which profound and numinous experiences are attained. This phase is commonly described in terms of a "clarification," or an "expansion," of consciousness, and is one during which superior power, illumination, transcendent insight and vision are attainable. It is in such a phase of consciousness (often described in the ethnographic literature as "trance," "ecstasy," or "altered state") that a shaman may experience a journey into the ethereal or chthonian realms of cosmological reality. The journey to one or another of these cosmic realms is a common motif in both mythopoetic texts and dramas, and in dream reports.

Dreambody The flow of psychic energy in the body, revealed in various phases of consciousness as somaesthetic sensations and symbolically as visual forms, may be interpreted in some cultures as a "dreambody" (after Mindell 1982). The dreambody (i.e., "soul," "subtle body," etc.) is the perceived, conceived, or imagined "real" body of perceived energy flow within the sensorium. The perception of energy flow within the body is, of course, dependent upon the phase of consciousness being attended. Viewing the body as a concrete, physical "thing" or entity is typical of the phases of consciousness most concerned with adaptation to the external environment. Views of the body in other phases (e.g., dream, lucid dream, meditation, hallucinatory drug experience, etc.) tend to be more evanescent in substance and plastic in form (see Kakar 1982:187 on tantric subtle body). The dreambody is perhaps capable of extraordinary deeds, able to meta-

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morphose at will, and free to travel to other worlds (see Poirier 1990 on Australian Aboriginal Dream Time experiences).

THEORETICAL FORMULATIONS I now wish to turn my efforts to developing the outlines of a theory of psychic energy. I want this theory to account for the cross-cultural incidence of what are coded as "higher" (or "more advanced") experiences of psychic energy, as well as the biopsychological structures that mediate such experiences. This is a tall order and will require that I review some ancillary research and theoretical formulations before I will be in any position to present a well-rounded, if tentative, account. In particular, we must look at the semiotic relations between sensorial and nonsensorial processes in the body. We must also model the relations between the complementary systems that control the distribution of metabolic energy in the body. Remember, I make no attempt here to account for the insights, alterations in personality or healing effects often associated with psychic energy experiences, although the theory may well be utilized in that way.

Homeomorphogenesis Sensorial events are experienced as percepts and relations that, consciously or unconsciously to the perceiver, are formations within a field of dots. Percepts and relations among percepts gain their "meaning" by penetrating to neural networks (the discrete organizations of neural cells the functional process of which is information of various sorts) whose activities produce the cognitive associations of those percepts. All sensorial events operate thereby as symbols and are linked to "meaning" through the process of symbolic penetration.In theory at least, any neural network within the nervous system may be entrainedto the networks mediating percepts, with or without intervention of conscious awareness. Thus any network may potentially participate in the field of meaning and actions associated with a sensorial event. Recognition of a particular object or pattern can produce the experience of love or terror, voiding of the bladder, movement of the hands, salivation, increased blood pressure, fantasies, thoughts, and reminiscences. The extent of penetration from a symbol to its meaning (the integrative mode), and from meaning to its sensorial symbols (the PSYCHIC ENERGY & TRANSPERSONAL E X P E R I E N C E

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expressive mode) will be determined by various factors, including whether or not the process is conscious, the perceptual frame of reference in which the symbol is embedded, the intensity of evocation, the state of arousal of the organism, the duration of peripheral stimulation, the degree of novelty involved, and so on. The range of intentionality to which a symbol or sensorial field may penetrate is vast and multileveled. Yet it is a process integral to the functioning of the human nervous system and is a principal mechanism by means of which different parts of the organism communicate with one another. Symbolic processing is often completely internal to the physiology of an organism. The organism is a community of cells organized into multiple physiological systems and into multiple levels of hierarchy. And these various somatic systems must communicate with each other in order that their discrete functions remain organized in a manner that maintains their adaptation within the context of the activities of the organism as a whole. The nervous system is only one system in the body, and it carries out its activities in intimate concert with other physiological systems. The brain acts by moving muscles, it is fed by metabolic processes and the circulatory system, and it controls many vital functions by regulating endocrine activities and hormone levels in the body. This intimate entrainment between the nervous system and other somatic systems, and between one neural system and another, entails penetration. That is, the activities of one system produce effects upon another system. For example, a disorder in the colon may produce generator potentials in nociceptors in that organ that in turn penetrate into the central nervous system, and the organism experiences abdominal pain. The effect produced by one system upon another will not be the same as the change of state in the original system. The change of state of system B will be only partially isomorphic with the change in system A that produced it. This is because each system must manifest its responses to inputs in keeping with its own unique organization. A change of state in some somatic system penetrating to, say, the visual cortex can only produce a visual effect. Thus, although the systems of the body intimately interpenetrate via entrainment of their functions, the effects they produce upon each other vary with the particular functional organization of the systems involved. We can say, therefore, that a morphogenesis (a change in form or organization) occurring in one somatic system may produce a morphogenesis in other somatic systems, but that the various changes of state are only partially 1 16

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isomorphic with each other. Penetration between the various parts and levels of the body may therefore be said to result in "homeomorphogenesis."14

Symbolism and Homeomorphogenesis Homeomorphogenic interactions between entrained neurocognitive systems, or between neurocognitive systems and other somatic systems, can have an expressive, symbolic quality when any of the neurocognitive systems involved mediate sensorial events. A quite common situation is one in which a transformation in a somatic system that does not mediate experience produces a transformation in a neural network that does mediate experience. In this case, the sensorial event may be understood as a symbolic expression of the other non-sensorial somatic event. For example, the colonic disorder mentioned above produces the experience of pain. The pain is not the disorder, but rather signals the disorder. A physician may palpate the abdomen and ask for reports of any overly sensitive spots. Healers in all cultures use experiential events to diagnose the causes of disease, causes that are usually unconscious to the patient. Diagnosis, whether by self or healer, is always an interpretive process because of the homeomorphogenic relationship between the disorder and the symbolic expression of the disorder in experience. The integrative mode is equally important to our discussion in that a sensorial system may produce a non-sensorial effect upon some other somatic system. For example, one can elicit a stress response from various bodily systems by merely imagining a dangerous, shocking, or painful experience. One may suddenly imagine cutting one's finger and evoke motoric and endocrine activities appropriate to actually cutting a finger. Many societies utilize symbolic means in healing under the presumption that in some manner or other the symbols penetrate to the disorder and effect a cure. The usual state of affairs is a continuous feedback interaction between sensorial neural and non-sensorial neural and somatic systems. Causality is usually systemic and thus recursive — operating in both directions. But emphasis will be laid here upon which system initiates the interaction, for it has much to do with the role played by the symbolic process in cognition. It is thus fair to ask whether the symbol is an expression of unconscious processes in the organism, or whether the symbol is the penetrator to unconscious processes. This bidirectional communicaPSYCHIC ENERGY & TRANSPERSONAL

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tion between discrete systems is crucial to the maintenance of whatever degree of fragmentation or integration of systems is characteristic of any particular individual. Much of the intent of the Tibetan tantric system is to evoke integrative homeomorphogenesis during the process of maturation.

TUNING THE ERGOTROPIC AND TROPHOTROPIC SYSTEMS We agree with J. Davidson (1976:359; see also Fischer 1971) that there exists only one theoretical formulation in the neurosciences that can effectively be used to account for the experiences that arise in meditation and higher experiences of psychic energy. That perspective is Gellhorn's theory of autonomic-somatic integration (Gellhorn 1967; Gellhorn and Loofbourrow 1963; see Lex 1979 for a summary). According to Gellhorn's model, the somatic system that controls the distribution and utilization of metabolic energy in the body is comprised of two complementary (sometimes antagonistic) systems, each of which entrains functions located in cortex, core brain, lower autonomic and somatic structures. One system is called the ergotropic system and the other the trophotropic system.

The Ergotropic System The ergotropic system subserves our so-called fight or flight responses; that is, the physiological components of our adaptation strategies to desirable or noxious stimuli in the environment. Anatomically, the ergotropic system incorporates the functions of the sympathetic nervous system (one-half of the autonomic nervous system), certain of the endocrine glands, portions of the reticular activating system in the brain stem, the posterior hypothalamus, and portions of the limbic system and frontal cortex. The principle function of the ergotropic system is the control of short-range, moment-by-moment adaptation to events in the environment. It is designed to come into play when the possibility of responding to stimuli arises. It is so constructed as to shunt the body's metabolic energy away from long-range developmental activities and into initiating and carrying out action in the world directed either at acquisition or avoidance of stimuli of interest to the organism. Under generalized ergotropic arousal, a number of organic responses may be experienced, including shivering, constriction 1 18

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of the surface veins and capillaries (paling of the skin), dilation of the pupil of the eye, increased heart rate and blood pressure, increased muscle tension, decreased salivation ("dry mouthed"), constriction of the throat, increased rate of respiration, erection of body hair ("hair standing on end"), and desynchronization of cortical EEG patterns (indicating discordant or disharmonic cortical functioning). These responses, all of which subserve adaptation in one way or another, are commonly associated in experience with positive or negative emotion. Objects or events associated with responses will typically be perceived as desirable or undesirable, attractive or repulsive, friendly or hostile, beautiful or ugly. The ergotropic system prepares the organism to obtain objects (like food, water, or a mate) required for the continued survival of the organism or species, and to avoid objects (like poisons, enemies, and predators) dangerous to survival. A fundamental problem in nature is how to eat without being eaten. The ergotropic system in humans is the product of millions of years of selection for responses that solve that problem.

The Trophotropic System The trophotropic system is far less dramatic in its activities, but is nonetheless the system responsible for regulating all the vegetative functions, such as reconstruction and growth of cells, digestion, relaxation, sleep, and so on. Anatomically, the trophotropic system incorporates the functions of the parasympathetic system (the other half of the autonomic nervous system), various endocrine glands, portions of the reticular activating system, the anterior hypothalamus, and portions of the limbic system and frontal cortex. It is the trophotropic system that controls the somatic functions responsible for the long-term well-being, growth and longevity of the organism. This system operates to maintain the optimal internal balance of bodily functions for continued health and development, both of the body and consequently of the mind. Under the influence of the trophotropic system, a variety of physical and mental responses may be experienced, like warmth and "blushing" at the surface of the body due to release of sympathetic constriction of veins and capillaries, constriction of the pupil of the eye, decreased heart rate and blood pressure, relaxation of tension in the muscles, increased salivation, relaxation of the throat, slowing and deepening of respiration, erection of the penis and clitoris, and synchronization of cortical EEG PSYCHIC E N E R G Y & T R A N S P E R S O N A L E X P E R I E N C E

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TABLE 1: A Summary of Some Functions of the Trophotropic and Ergotropic Systems TROPHOTROPIC SYSTEM

ERGOTROPIC SYSTEM

Storage of vital resources.

Expenditure of vital resources.

Digestion and distribution of nutriments.

Digestion stopped.

Bronchi leading to lungs constricted and coated with mucus.

Bronchi opened.

Heart rate and blood pressure reduced

Heart rate and blood pressure increased

Collection of waste by-products.

Endocrine system releases chemicals that increase efficiency of muscles.

Constriction of pupils.

Dilation of pupils.

None.

Erection of body hair.

Synchronized EEG.

Desynchronized EEG

Erection of penis and clitoris.

Ejaculation.

Increased salivation.

Decreased salivation.

Respiration slower and deeper.

Respiration faster and shallower.

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patterns (indicating harmonized higher cortical functions). Relaxation (reduced arousal) and its concomitants are commonly associated either with disinterest in events in the environment, or with dispassionate concentration upon some object. Judgments as to desirability or undesirability of the object are suspended. The relaxed person is typically experiencing a comfortable, warm, womb-like indifference to, or enjoyment of, the environment. The fundamental function of relaxation is perhaps less obvious than that of ergotropic arousal, but is nonetheless crucial to the survival of the organism. It is mainly during relaxation, and particularly during undisturbed sleep, that the body processes nutrients and uses these to repair itself and grow. In other words, when the body is not finding food and avoiding becoming food (ergotropic reactivity), it is reconstructing and developing itself (trophotropic reactivity).

Complementarity The ergotropic and trophotropic systems have often been described as "antagonistic" to each other. This means that the increased activity of the one system tends to produce a decreased activity in the other. This is the case because each system is physically designed to inhibit the functioning of the other under most circumstances. If a person gets excited about something (angry, anxious, afraid, strongly desirous, etc.) the ergotropic system not only produces the requisite physiological, emotional and behavioral responses, it also puts a damper (via reciprocal inhibition) on the trophotropic system which was previously subserving digestion and other metabolic activities. Likewise, when a person relaxes (say, after a heavy meal), the trophotropic system actively dampens the activity of the ergotropic system. A summary of the reciprocal functions of the two systems may be studied in Table 1. The relationship between the two systems would be better described as complementary, rather than antagonistic, for each serves the short- and long-range well-being of the organism. It is really a matter of the balance of functions, the trophotropic system maintaining the homeostatic balance so necessary for health and growth while the ergotropic system facilitates the moment-to-moment adaptation of the organism to its environment. As such, they are not anatomical mirror images of each other. The "wiring" of the ergotropic system is designed to arouse the entire body for potential response to threat. Under normal conPSYCHIC ENERGY & TRANSPERSONAL EXPERIENCE

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ditions, when the ergotropic system is activated, the entire body/mind become aroused. Properly functioning, it is a turnedon/turned-off kind of system. By comparison, the trophotropic system is "wired" for the fine tuning of organs in relation to each other as the demands of internal maintenance shift and change. Its resources can be activated for one organ or body part, or it can turn on globally as during sleep when the entire skeletal musculature is "turned off." The point to emphasize is that whereas the trophotropic system is designed for continuous activity, the ergotropic system is designed for sporadic activity. We are "wired" for short, infrequent bursts of adaptive activity interspersed with relatively longer durations of rest, recuperation and growth. Prolonged ergotropic reactivity may cause depletion of vital resources stored up by the trophotropic system in various organs, and may cause fatigue, shock, body damage, and, in extreme cases, death (Selye 1956; Antonovsky 1979).

Tuning The particular balance of ergotropic and trophotropic activities under particular environmental circumstances is susceptible to learning, and there is evidence that their characteristic balance under stress is established as early as pre- and perinatal life. The learned (conditioned) ergotropic-trophotropic balance relative to any environmental stimulus is called tuning (Gellhorn 1967:110 ff). When we say that someone "gets up-tight around authority figures," we are referring in part to a discrete ergotropic-trophotropic tuning relative to people in authority. Or if we say that someone "calmed down when he got a back rub," we are referring to a different discrete tuning relative to being stroked. A learned change in the characteristic ergotropic-trophotropic balance relative to a stimulus is called retuning (Gellhorn 1967). Events like football games, rock concerts and combat patrols that previously elicited excitement (ergotropic reactivity) may after retuning be met with a relaxed response (trophotropic reactivity). Some authorities have argued that ritual control of ergotropictrophotropic balance forms a basis for primitive healing techniques and for evoking alternative phases of consciousness (Gellhorn and Kiely 1972; Lex 1979). There are a number of ways that ergotropic-trophotropic retuning may be accomplished:

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1 Rational Mediation: Under certain circumstances the rational faculties mediated by the cerebral components of the two systems may intercede to modify tuning to some extent. A particular emotional response may come to be recognized as inappropriate to a situation, and this knowledge alone may result in some retuning. This is common to many forms of group therapy. 2. Heightened Awareness: Increased attention to one's own psychodynamics may result in direct awareness of the cognition producing an ergotropic response. The lifting of the operation into consciousness may be sufficient to produce a retuning. An example would be the cognitive therapy of A.T. Beck (1967) in which techniques are utilized for uncovering the operations mediating affective disorders. 3. Abreaction: By "reliving" a traumatic event in our past, the characteristic tuning of ergotropic-trophotropic functions may be altered. This is particularly useful in cases where autonomic and limbic responses are linked to images operating unconsciously to ego. 4. Drivers: Lower autonomic systems may be tuned and re tuned directly by penetration from external stimuli without necessary intervention of higher ergotropic-trophotropic centers (Gellhorn and Loofbourrow 1963; Lex 1979). These stimuli are called drivers and may take the form of repetitive stimulation such as drumming, flickering light, chanting or sexual intercourse. Drivers may be used in ritual circumstances to bring about simultaneous discharge of both systems (e.g., orgasm) which sets the stage for a radical retuning of the systems relative to particular stimuli (Lex 1979). Such drivers are an autonomic example of symbolic penetration. Awareness and abreaction tend to be evoked, so to speak, from the top down ("top-down retuning"). That is, the first three tend to require a retuning of higher cortical systems before lower limbic and autonomic-endocrine systems follow suit, but the last method operates directly upon lower autonomic-endocrine-somatic systems first, followed by higher center retuning. Rational mediation is notoriously ineffective when the system has been tuned in association with image-centered trauma. Such associations (entrainments) are typically established during pre- and perinatal life, and early childhood, when virtually all learning in-

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volves autonomic-somatic and imaginal systems, rather than higher cortical processing (Piaget and Inhelder 1969).

A THEORY OF PSYCHIC ENERGY I have presented the phenomenology of psychic energy and have described personal experiences I had "in the field" that illustrate this phenomenology. I have also distinguished a number of structural invariants in the experience of psychic energy in higher phases of consciousness as evidenced by my own experience and that of people cross-culturally. I have examined theoretical concepts by means of which I may speak of the relations between neural and other somatic systems and sensorial events. And I have suggested that the only currently available perspective from which to formulate a tentative theory of psychic energy is via the ergotropic-trophotropic model of metabolic energy distribution. I now wish to put all of these elements together to suggest an account of psychic energy experiences in higher phases of consciousness. I have defined psychic energy as the experience of activity of fields of dots within the sensorium. All that we are, or ever can be phenomenally aware of, is comprised therefore of psychic energy. And this includes our awareness of metabolic events occurring in our body. We know that we need nutriment when we feel hungry, that we are injured when we feel pain, that we are relaxed when we feel calm, and aroused when we feel excited. Some people have unfortunate neurophysiological disorders which cause them to be unable to feel when they have been injured. And many of us walk around unconscious of the fact that we are hypertense because we are "disconnected" from our bodies. But when the systems of the body are operating in an ideal state of uninhibited or unobstructed interpenetration, we may say that a process of homeomorphogenic interpenetration exists between the sensorium and its activities, and the greater organism and its activities. It is tantamount to a microcosm-macrocosm relation — one of partial isomorphism — in which events in the body are represented by (expressive mode), or produced by (integrative mode), patterns in the flurries of dots within the sensorium. The cognitive system is designed to detect invariance in the patterns formed within the field of dots and to construe a reality from the totality of such patterns. Thus, patterns of sensorial psychic energy may in some instances be the consequence of metabolic events in the body, and 124

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in other instances produce metabolic events in the body. One feels pain when a finger is cut, but one can also produce somatic responses characteristic of injury by merely vividly imagining a cut finger. The causality between sensorial and non-sensorial somatic events is interactional. Furthermore, the sensorium, like the rest of the nervous system, participates in the ergotropic-trophotropic balance. That is, the sensorium registers somatic events energized by the bicameral ergotropic-trophotropic system, and is thus a part of their organization. Simply put, an excited somatic system produces an excited consciousness, and vice versa. A calm consciousness is mediated by a calm body. There is no such thing as a calm mind in an excited body. When tuning is in favor of trophotropic activity, this activity includes a predominance of trophotropic activity within the sensorium. The same may be said for predominantly ergotropic tuning. An ergotropically tuned sensorium may be a welter of rapid, even confused, thoughts, sensations and images, whereas a trophotropically tuned sensorium may be fairly clear, even blank.

HIGHER PSYCHIC ENERGY EXPERIENCES Homeomorphogenic relations between sensorial and non-sensorial ergotropic-trophotropic events hold as well for higher phases of consciousness and experiences of psychic energy encountered during them. From the model presented above, we may hypothesize four categories of ergotropic-trophotropic events and their sensorial concomitants that may occur during extraordinary phases of consciousness: 1. Hyper-trophotropic tuning Trophotropic activity is tuned exceptionally high resulting in an extraordinary state of relaxation. This happens of course in normal sleep, but may paradoxically occur during meditative states accompanied by keen alertness and vigilance. In extreme form, hyper-trophotropic tuning may be experienced as a sense of oceanic tranquility and peace in which no thoughts or fantasies intrude upon consciousness and no bodily sensations are felt. The meditator feels like he is floating on a calm and waveless sea. In Buddhist psychology such a state might be termed "access concentration" (upacara samadhi).

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2. Hyper-ergotropic tuning

Ergotropic activity is tuned exceptionally high resulting in an extraordinary stage of arousal and excitation. This may occur under a large variety of circumstances where output of motor activity is continuous and rhythmical, as in dancing, long-distance running, swimming, rock climbing, etc., or where processing of information is continuous and so voluminous that interjection of thought and ego-centered decision-making would prove disadvantageous, as in motor car racing, piloting a jet fighter, etc. This state will also be associated with keen alertness and concentration in the absence of superfluous thought and fantasy. The practitioner feels like he or she is a conduit for vast quantities of energy which are flowing effortlessly through his consciousness. This is the full-on flow experience noted earlier. 3. Hyper-trophotropic tuning with ergotropic eruption

As noted by Gellhorn and Kiely (1972), under certain circumstances, both systems may discharge simultaneously. In this case, the meditator is in a state of oceanic bliss and perhaps by intensifying his concentration upon the object of meditation a bit more, experiences absorption into the object (appana samadhi in Buddhist psychology), an experience inevitably accompanied by the sense of a tremendous release of energy. The meditator may experience one or another of the "active" blisses, energy rushes, and other movements and sensations in the body. 4. Hyper-ergotropic tuning with trophotropic eruption

Simultaneous discharge of both systems may be attained via the opposite route. The practitioner may experience a trophotropic discharge in the midst of hyper-ergotropic tuning. Again, this may be the consequence of enhanced concentration, as well as trophotropic drivers such as rhythmic stimuli. The practitioner may experience an orgasmic, rapturous or ecstatic state arising out of a generalized sense of flow. This may occur as a consequence of practices like Sufi dancing and marathon running.

Driving and Peak Experiences Both the ergotropic and the trophotropic systems may be driven directly, either from the top down or from the bottom up. The 126

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dancing of the !Kung Bushman adept which brings about the arising and ascension of enhanced psychic energy (n/uni) may be interpreted as an example of hyper-ergotropic activity driven by rhythmic motor activity, resulting (under proper conditions) in a trophotropic eruption during which the !Kia mindstate arises. The dancing is a bottom-up driver, as it is operating initially upon the lowest level of ergotropic-trophotropic hierarchy. Another common bottom-up driver is fasting, a practice often preceding or accompanying other more active ritual procedures (e.g., North American Indian vision quests). Fasting is known not only to reduce caloric and other nutriments available to cells, but also to decrease the amount of important hormones such as Ts in the blood, as well as their receptor cell sensitivity, thus providing a probable mechanism of energy conservation (Schussler and Orlando 1978). Fasting may thus be interpreted as a bottom-up driver of trophotropic activity, for it tends to have a tranquilizing effect upon the body. The two systems may be driven as well from the top down. This is frequently accomplished by concentrating upon imagery, which we have already noted may produce an increase or a decrease in somatic arousal, depending upon the content. Prolonged and intense meditation ("devotion") upon a lotus above the head, or upon a Sacred Heart in the chest, may first result in an ever more enhanced concentration leading to hyper-trophotropic activity, and under the proper conditions, to an ergotropic discharge — perhaps a minor discharge at one or another of the sympathetic plexes, or a full-on discharge throughout the system as described in Pandit Krishna's "kundalini awakening" in the Hindu tradition (see also Woodroffe 1974; Mookerjee 1982; Prabhavananda 1963; Sarandananda 1978; Vivekananda 1982) or St. Margaret Mary Alacoque's (Tickell 1869) sustained "rapture" in the Christian tradition (see also Stierli 1957 on St. Catherine of Siena; Herambourg 1960 on St. John Eudes; Anonymous 1871 on St. Gertrude; and Jeremy 1962 on St. Mechthild and St. Gertrude).

CONCENTRATION AND THE PRINCIPLE OF HOMEOMORPHOGENIC RECRUITMENT Psychic energy is usually felt as bodily sensations, or "seen" as visions of energy flows as described above. Occasionally, there may be auditory or other sensory modal components to the experience. The point to emphasize is that the sensorial compoPSYCHIC

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nents of the experience bear a homeomorphogenic, causal relationship to the ergotropic-trophotropic transformations associated with them. If they are expressions of those transformations, sensorial events are brought into synchronous entrainment with the ergotropic-trophotropic events. If they are initiators of those transformations, sensorial events bring the greater ergotropictrophotropic events into entrainment. Whether top-down or bottom-up drivers are operating, the key element is usually concentration upon a single process or object leading to eventual harmonious, homeomorphogenic entrainment of operating systems at all levels of the hierarchy. We may thus define a principle of homeomorphogenic recruitment: sustained concentration of attention upon an object or process of contemplation, if carried out with sufficient intensity, will tend to cause the eventual recruitment and entrainment of most, if not all somatic systems at every level of hierarchy within the body. Bentov (1977) has hypothesized that certain meditative procedures lead ultimately to the synchronization of all of the standing waves of the body to the rhythm of the dominant, aortic standing wave. If true, this could be considered a special case of our principle. Whether the experience of psychic energy flow is the result of explicitly applied drivers, or due to the spontaneous retuning of the systems as an unintended consequence of inadvertent drivers, the "higher up" in the ergotropic-trophotropic systems the effect reaches, the more divergence may be expected in the experience. This is because the range of possible entrainments is most limited at the lower end of the hierarchy (i.e., in autonomic, endocrine and other somatic systems) while it is less limited in the midrange structures (i.e., midbrain and limbic systems) and least limited at the higher end (i.e., in cortical structures). In other words, we would expect the imagery and intuitive insights associated with psychic energy experiences to vary a good deal more from individual to individual, and from culture to culture, than would somatic and affective components. Much of the apparent diversity in psychic energy experiences cross-culturally derive primarily from different codes used after the fact to describe the more symbolic and interpretive aspects of the experience — precisely those aspects that are retained most easily in memory and most easily described in natural language and art.

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STRUCTURAL INVARIANTS AND ERGOTROPIC-TROPHOTROPIC TUNING And yet, as we have seen, despite different cultural and symbolic traditions, there is a recognizable structural invariance in the reports of higher psychic energy experiences. We suggest that the sensations of flow so common to these experiences derives from the breakdown of body image entrainment in favor of direct entrainment with proprioceptive fields (i.e., sense receptors that deliver information from muscles, tendons, arteries, etc.) in the body. This amounts to interpenetration of proprioceptive neural networks and the neurocognitive systems mediating consciousness. The distinct sense of centering, as well as ascending and descending of psychic energy, likely derives from interoceptive sensing of autonomic and endocrinal activities, which for the most part are most active at the center of the body. The most obvious origins of such activity are the two sympathetic trunks (part of the ergotropic system), which lie on either side of the spine, and the great vagus nerve of the parasympathetic system (part of the trophotropic system) that sweeps down from the base of the brain to emerge at the base of the spinal column to innervate the sexual and other organs. Sensations of circulation and heat at discrete centers at the center of the body, such as the heart region, may be accounted for as interoception from one or another of the sympathetic plexes. The Hindu root center may well be mediated by the pelvic and coccygeal plexes, as well as innervation of the prostate and sexual organs. The navel center may be innervated by the solar plexus, the heart center by the cardiac and pulmonary plexes, the throat center by the pharyngeal plexus and thyroid-parathyroid complex, the brow center by the carotid plexus, and the crown center by the pineal gland. These suggested associations should be treated at the moment as purely hypothetical, for there is little direct correlational evidence as yet to support them. The symptoms of "dearmoring" or de-stressing characteristic of many reports of psychic energy experiences may be interpreted as the development over time of: (1) local ergotropic-trophotropic tuning within the individual organ or muscle group, (2) asymmetry of functioning due to differential left-right tuning, or (3) differential tuning between various levels in the hierarchical organization of ergotropic-trophotropic functioning. In other words, retuning may not occur all at once, or in a harmonious manner throughout the body. For example, retuning may occur asymmetrically due to asymmetrical functioning at the various levels of the system from the autonomic system up to and inP S Y C H I C E N E R G Y & T R A N S P E R S O N A L E P E R I E N C E 29

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eluding the cortex. This may be expected especially in the case where a particular ergotropic-trophotropic balance is conditioned to a phobic or other highly charged image. Many meditators may experience more dearmoring symptoms on the left side of their body because the right lobe specializes in entraining images, and especially faces, to emotion. In such cases we might suppose that the right side of the body would become more relaxed than the left side of the body until sufficient retuning has occurred to balance the two sides. Visual and other sensory components of "visions" may be accounted for in part as homeomorphogenic representations within the sensorium of some or all of these proprioceptive/interoceptive inputs. As the usual body image is replaced by flow experience, the visual system may become entrained to the process, thus providing the image of a radiant energy body, perhaps with glowing energy centers perceived as a radiant heart or lotus or sphere with Saturnian rings. The culturally conditioned expectation set of the practitioner will have a determinate effect upon the details of the vision and especially upon the interpretation of symbolic material encountered. In any event, the full-on, simultaneous discharge of the ergotropic and trophotropic systems would seem to set the stage for an ultimate mystical experience, which appears to exhibit crosscultural structural invariants as well (see Scharfstein 1973: Chapt. 10; Stace 1960; d'Aquili 1983). A consideration of mystical experience is beyond the scope of this paper, other than to note that ergotropic-trophotropic retuning would seem to be a prerequisite for certain transcendent, transpersonal experiences that are often enough at the very core of religious belief and institutions. !Kia, visitations from Christ, encounters with deities, as well as perhaps profound insight and attainment of "power" or "genius," would all seem to be anticipated by, or accompanied by, profound alterations in the flow and form of psychic energy. As I have shown, such alterations may be accounted for in part by reference to principles of organization operating in the human nervous system.

NOTES 1. An earlier version of this paper was presented at the annual meeting of the Northeastern Anthropological Association in Lake Placid, New York, in April, 1985. The author wishes to acknowledge the invaluable help of Lois and Gerard Chetalat, Radika

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and Dr. Ami Sekar, M.D., Mr. John McManus, Mr. Mark Webber and Professor John R. Schumacher during the research phase of this work. This paper is dedicated to the memory of Pandit Gope Krishna. 2. In terms of Theravadin Buddhist insight practice, a "mature contemplative" may be any meditator who has realized at least stage four, but not necessarily stage twelve, of the Satipatthana course of insight (see Buddhaghosa 1976; Mahasi 1978; Nanarama 1983). This is roughly the same level of "phenomenological reduction" as Brown and Engler's (1980:160) "insight group" and above. And in the Tibetan Mahamudra tradition (see Wang-ch'ug Dorje 1978) this is roughly equivalent to the stage of "signless concentration" or above (Brown 1977:257). At this level "the yogi sees subtle cognition in 'fore-clarity' (gsal-ngar) that is at a stage before it is built up into higher cognitive events. Adjectives such as clarity, brightness and clear light are commonly used; the mind is seen in terms of light rays" (Brown 1977:256-257). 3. For extensive discussion of the methodological issues involved in doing and analyzing transpersonal ethnology, see Laughlin 1989; Laughlin, et al. 1986; Laughlin, McManus and d'Aquili 1990. 4. Dorlands Illustrated Medical Dictionary, 23rd edition. 5. We are ignoring here the significance of episodes of simultaneously fragmented consciousness. 6. In terms of Buddhist psychology, a reduction is performed during insight meditation from awareness of the "serial present" (santatipaccuppanna}, which is a construct combining perceptual, memory and anticipatory components, to the "momentary present" or "real now" (khanapaccuppanna). Reduction to awareness of the momentary present may lead to absorption (khanika samadhi) in the dissolution of the field of dots at any moment (i.e., in the citta-kkhana). 7. Our concept of dot is similar to Whitehead's (1978) notion of "actual entity" or "actual occasion." But ours is intended as a descriptive empirical, rather than a theoretical or metaphysical category. Dots are not our version of McCulloch's (1965:37) "psychon," the theoretical basic psychic unit. In this respect the concept of dot is analogous to the ancient Sanskrit concept of bindu (meaning "dot" or "drop"; see Woodroffe 1974) which is the elemental particle of prana, the fundamental energy comprising the entire universe —

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again, an empirical concept. The bindu is directly experienceable — at least by yogis — as the building block of phenomena from the most gross object such as a table or a planet to the most subtle like the breath or spirit. Empirical dots and theoretical "atoms" are undoubtedly at least partially linked. Indeed, we suspect that early atomist theories in Western metaphysics and science, as well as eastern ontologies, are examples of projection by inquiring minds of their own essential organization upon the world. The notion of something like the monad as the ultimate building block of the world goes back to the early Greeks, and is specifically referenced by that term in metaphysics in the 18th century by Leibnitz in his Principles of Nature and Grace. Many philosophers over the centuries (e.g., Kant, Husserl, and Whitehead) have developed monadologies. The term "monad" derives originally from the Greek root meaning "one" or "unit," and is used in most cases to refer to a simple, irreducible particle of reality from which all composite things in the universe are constructed. The monad is frequently conceived as a source of power in its own right, and, as in the case of Whitehead's "actual entity," a point of consciousness. The concept of monad seems closer to a mental particle than, say, the notions of atom or molecule, but it is usually not clear (and this is the crucial point to me) to what extent the monad is intended in these philosophies either as an empirical, descriptive term, or strictly to apply to consciousness rather than the whole universe. The "atomistic" views of pre-Socratic Greek philosophers like Heraclitus and Empedocles were almost certainly partly based upon intense mystical introspection (see Edwards 1967:477 ff, 496 ff). Empedocles (a physician and in the latter part of his life a confirmed mystic) in particular saw the world of the senses as in constant change, being comprised of a perpetual remixing of tiny, permanent entities (Edwards 1967:497). However, the views of many later philosophers such as Descartes, although also positing atomistic metaphysics, seem more based upon rational analysis than upon introspection. A major difference between the early Greek and later views of monads is that the early view — and the one most akin to direct perception of dots by contemplatives — stressed the active nature of these particles (often associated with the subtle element fire), whereas most later philosophers took the mechanical view of their nature (see Merchant 1980). An interesting exception was the seventeenth century philosopher Pierre Gassendi, who tried with some success to introduce the early Greek conception of the atom as an active particle into science (Merchant 1980).

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8. The author practiced one of the preliminary meditations (ngondro) carried out by Tibetan yogis which is termed dkyil-'khor, or "mandala offering" (Beyer 1973:433ff). This practice involves the construction of a mandalic form out of rice atop a round, mirrorlike surface and then wiping the surface clean. The yogi concentrates on the operation of assembling and disassembling the rice form while repeating a chant that speaks of the construction of the mystical cosmos surrounding the mythical Mount Sumeru. This operation is repeated, often hours at a time, at least a hundred thousand times during the basic introductory work prior to advanced tantric practice (MacDonald, et al. 1988 for a more complete description of this practice). As with any meditation, many experiences may arise during the course of this work. One of the main insights that will inevitably arise is that the mirror practice is a symbolic replica of the sensorium, and that the rice grains are dots, the mandala the totality of forms that arise in the sensorium via the organization of dots, and the wiping clean of the mirror is the flux of sensorial events, including the dots making up the events. Full realization of the essential impermanence of sensorial events is considered in some Buddhist traditions to be a principal watershed in the psychological development of a being. 9. For a detailed discussion of the significance of these images, or "universal signs," see Laughlin, McManus and d'Aquili 1990:200202. 10. It is interesting that the word "axis" comes from the Latin for axle, thus denoting a center around which something turns. 11. The author had a relevant experience while participating in Maulave (Sufi dancing) in which the task was to spin around to music while visualizing a central crystal-form axis running up the center of the body and colorful energy streams flowing out of the palms. There came a point in the dance when concentration became extremely intense and a shift of consciousness occurred during which energy seemed to center in that axis and the entire world of phenomena seemed to be spinning around the center of energy movement in the axis. This was associated with intense and blissful energy movement in the axis. A moment later concentration was broken by thoughts about the experience, and the author fell down as a consequence.

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12.The concept of symbolic penetration has been worked out with great care. For further discussion see Laughlin and Stephens 1980; and Laughlin, McManus and d'Aquili 1990. 13."Entrainment" is a technical term in neurophysiology referring to the interconnection of different neural networks into a single functional array. Just like combining different railroad cars into a train, different neural networks may be combined and recombined to perform different functions. 14.Homeomorphogenesis is a neologism required by the fact that I could find no currently used term in either systems theory or mathematics, much less in the neurosciences, for the kind of relation we wish to emphasize. The term combines the concept morphogenesis out of certain biological formulations with the root homeo- (as in the word "homeomorphic," meaning of similar form or structure) to denote causally linked transformations of a similar, but not exact, kind in two or more structures. 15. For a more complete critique of the psychophysiology of meditation systems, see Laughlin, McManus and d'Aquili 1990:307-333. IG.Gellhorn and his associates have worked within the theoretical formulations first outlined by W.R. Hess (1925).

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RAB WILKIE

Spirited Imagination: Ways of approaching the shaman's world

INTRODUCTION The following material represents a transcript of a discussion which took place recently in Edmonton, Alberta. The general topic is the spirit world of the Native shaman and the manner in which it is approached by non-Natives, such as anthropologists. Prior to assembling, the participants were told that the discussion would center around the question: What happens when we open ourselves to the shaman's world? While the discussion is moderated by an anthropologist, the participants include a diverse range of individuals: a graduate student, journalist, Jungian analyst, Native social worker, storeclerk, educator, and a ceremonial magician. Each presents his or her unique view based on experience, and attempts to relate that view to the matter at hand, which from the outset is brought to focus by the student's account of once seeing a spirit or "gnome" in the northern Canadian bush. The proceedings are organized as a "talking circle," a type of round-table discussion in which each participant, in sunwise SPIRITED IMAGINATION

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(right to left) order, is given an opportunity to contribute something to the whole. This format is based on the traditional council circle employed by various North American Native peoples, and on similar systems used in other parts of the world, often by other indigenous societies or sub-cultures. In European traditions, it closely resembles the sacred circle of ceremonial magicians and witches. When used to structure discussion, this format encourages the creation of — if not consensus or general agreement — a multi-faceted group perspective of the central issue. As important as the outer form of this "medicine circle" is the inwardly shared aim of all participants: to explore and clarify their various perspectives without slipping into the kind of debate that so often characterizes the Euroamerican approach. The method of encircling an issue is inclusive rather than exclusive, and regards each participant's view as valid and necessary. The group seeks to transform through communication their implicit unanimity of purpose into an explicitly shared understanding. In so doing, they may also experience the nature and strength of the group-mind at work. A further aim may be to attain a common vision or overview, though this requires more time than a single meeting can provide. The organizers of this session, therefore, did not assume that such a goal would be achieved. The discussion was an experiment, designed simply to test the potentials of the "talking circle" for dealing with conceptual issues that non-Natives usually approach in a less formal, or certainly less sacred, manner. They knew the results would be suggestive rather than definitive. Usually discussions are oriented toward intellectual communication, but in this case the use of imagination, a more direct approach to the shaman's world, is also encouraged through the use of a guided visualization. Intuitive and intellectual expression are both utilized with the understanding that they can be complementary if their limitations are respected. Too much analysis can obstruct intuition while too little discrimination may give rise to confusion and error, but when thinking and intuiting are balanced, they may conjoin in wisdom. A major component of the talking-circle is its ritual and sacred aspect. In Western cultures, particularly in North America, this kind of formality has all but disappeared from the educational process. Ritual has been reduced to "mere formality" or organization, and the sacred is kept to chapel and church. But in other cultures, for example the traditional Amerindian, education is as much a process of spiritual growth as it is the acquiring of practical skills and knowledge. "What might happen if a sacred 1 36

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dimension was re-introduced into a Western educational event?" was one of the questions the organizers of the present discussion sought to address. Before the session began, each participant was directed to prepare himself or herself by contemplating a personal aspiration or ideal, thus establishing a focus and tone for the evening. The proceedings are then opened by an initiator who calls upon the Powers or Principles of the cardinal directions of the Circle, and requests from each the kind of guidance and inspiration specific to that quarter. These Powers and their attributes vary across cultures, and even within a single tradition in accordance with ceremonial purpose, but some elements, like the fourfold division of the circle, are almost universal. In the present instance, terms and symbols employed are basically European, because most of the participants are Euroamerican, but approach universality due to their natural correlation with the diurnal cycle of the sun. The Guardians of the Quarters are represented by Classical Greek deities who, according to their traditional attributes, may be seen to approximate their Native American counterparts — the Grandfathers and Grandmothers. Greek, rather than Celtic or Judaeo-Christian, deities are invoked because they were deemed to be most suitable for the occasion, being as they are so closely associated with the Western academic tradition, rooted in the ideals of the ancient Hellenic gymnasia. By asking European deities to oversee the proceedings, we may understand better how the ceremonial circle works for Native Americans. For instance, in a shaman's invocation we may have some difficulty understanding the function of Grandfather Eagle and his role of representing the East. If this function is held by Aurora, Goddess of the Dawn, the principle of illumination and clear-seeing becomes more apparent. However, though the invocation of gods and goddesses near to our own ancestral roots may help us understand the invocations of another culture, we should not assume that spirit-beings of different traditions, and the effects of their being summoned, are identical. Radical differences may exist behind superficial similarities.

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The Transcript INVOCATION SPEAKER 1 (Brigette) Good evening everyone. My name is Brigette, and as you have been told, our discussion tonight is about shamanism and how we might better understand the Native world-view. We shall attempt a rather unique format, a rather formal one, in the way we approach and structure the proceedings. I have asked Phillip here, who is especially knowledgeable about ritual traditions, to devise an invocation suited to our purpose. Phillip? If you will . . . SPEAKER 8 (Phillip) A long time ago things were different, and yet some things don't change. The beginning of a new day is not what it was, yet the sun still rises. Today, many of the uncertainties and fears of night and darkness have subsided. At least we do not as a rule post watchers to guard the camp against marauding beasts. The darkness we fear has become metaphorical. Now we fear the darkness of ignorance, the mind unlit by a good idea. As I invoke the Power of the East and the rising sun, think of the goddess, Aurora, and the transformation of dim quiet landscapes into humming bright day. The flooding light may remind us acutely of the illumination we all crave, that transforms inner darkness utterly from despair to joy. In the name of Aurora I open the East. May the inner light dawn as surely as sunrise in the outer world creates new beginnings. May we be open to Illumination. The fullness of day is not what it was. Many of us now do not see noon except from lunchroom windows, as we pause in the midst of daily activities for a little nourishment. Yet still the sun culminates, crosses the meridian, reaches its peak of enlightening power, and reduces shadows to their barest minimum. Our biggest problems will shrink like these shadows. Let us walk under the sun at noon as if with Apollo in his hour of victory, and exalt in the light of total awareness. In the name of Apollo I open the South. 1 38

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May the power of attainment glorify every heart with confidence self-made or inspired by another. May we open to the triumph of Light. The end of the day is not what it was. We do not hasten to build fires before darkness, though we may hurry for other reasons — perhaps to gain refuge at home from daily turmoil. As the sun slips to the western horizon, we seek rest and entertainments. By firelight or film screen we absorb old stories, told by a teller shadowed near flames or invisible behind actors' apparitions. In the fading light we enter a world unlike day-time, ruled more by fancy than reason. Constellations, and perhaps the moon, appear in the indigo sky. This time is like a magical theatre, the star of which is Aphrodite, Queen of Evening. In the name of this Queen I open the West. Under her rule may we find rest and visions, enchantments that heal and revive good spirits. May we be open to her enriching Beauty. The depth of night is not what it was, yet it is still the source of wisdom — if we would but remember our dreams. When outer light vanishes, and our senses retreat, they flame anew on an inner plane behind the silken veil of sleep. Herein rules the Moon, high priestess and chatelaine of life's greater mysteries. No sunlight or reason may pass within, save by reflection. In the name of Selene I open the North. At the bottom of night may her mirror shine reflecting truth and wisdom. May we be open in Silence. All these Powers are but facets of the One reality that shines at their center, informing and embracing all — the bright fire of consciousness, around and through which the cycles of life in time revolve and evolve their being. Therefore . . . In the name of the One and All I open this circle of discussion. May it serve to clarify, and suggest some answers, to our central question: "What happens when we open ourselves to others, specifically to those who are at home in a world that to us seems strange, SPIRITED IMAGINATION

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such as the spirit realm of the shaman?" May our activities this evening be fruitful and serve to benefit all beings.

FIRST ROUND: INTRODUCTIONS SPEAKER 1 (Brigitte) Our discussion begins with the First Round in which each of you may tell us something about your personal background, experience, and special areas of interest that may be relevant to our discussion. It isn't necessary to go into great detail, but we would appreciate knowing something about you so that we have an idea about where you are coming from. SPEAKER 2 (Peter) Well, my name is Peter, and I'm a graduate student of anthropology. I was raised in Vancouver in a very British family and I spent a good part of my youth traveling around the world, more recently in Canada. I have worked in the bush, often as a forest ranger on fire look-outs, and eventually ended up in Alberta where I studied for my first university degree. I am most interested in archaeology, but, probably because my Welsh grandmother was a Spiritualist, I am also fascinated by shamanism. Obviously, archaeology in the Americas cannot be fully appreciated without a good understanding of aboriginal beliefs and traditions. SPEAKER 3 (Lazlo) Some of you might know my nom-deplume, Gerard Cloutier, but tonight I'll be my old self: Lazlo Blok. I'm a journalist, specializing in politics and history, but I'm really a would-be novelist who has yet to write a Chapter Two.(I've written dozens of Chapter Ones.) Newspapers and magazines have been my bread and butter, but now I'm discovering that there's a whole lot more to the politics I write about than just ideologies and the sordid history of human passions. Anthropology, I'm finding, helps me understand these things much better. I am seriously thinking about turning over a new leaf and becoming an anthropologist. When I travel now, I spend more time in the countrysides of various nations exploring landscapes, and I guess what one might call "the spirit of place," and how it manifests through a people, shapes their history, traditions, and imaginations. I may soon switch to writing travel articles and books, and try to guide the 140

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reader through the inner and outer landscapes I have discovered. This isn't new. Writers have always done this. But I believe the relationship between external and internal environments is poorly understood today. Also, landscapes change. They are changing so fast now that most writers have been left in the lurch leaving only camera crews to film the action. When writers finally catch up and start producing more than hasty scripts, I think we'll all be profoundly surprised. SPEAKER 4 (Karen) My name is Karen. I'm an educator associated with a school board of a small city, though at university I took many courses in anthropology and almost decided to make that my main field of study. I think that much of what we are talking about is much ado about nothing, or at least about something not very relevant to modern issues. The problems that should concern us are those about our emotional and mental health, and the deteriorating physical health of the environment. The situation is becoming more critical day by day, and I believe the only way to begin resolving these problems is through education, especially of younger people and children. My interest in this discussion may seem to be negative, because I want to warn you that we could be wasting our time. This kind of fascination with fringe phenomenon tends to lead us down the garden path. Are we not just encouraging a kind of elitist intellectual entertainment? We must learn to face the real issues of life more efficiently. But, I am interested in Native culture and education, as well as the way any mind works, so there will be a positive side to my contribution. SPEAKER 5 (Joe) [Speaker 5 stands up and reaches across to each person, shaking hands as he introduces himself.] How are you? I'm Joe, and I'm originally from northern Ontario, up around Lake-of-the-Woods, that area. My family are mostly Ojibway, Cree, but we've got a lot of French, English, Scandinavian, and who knows what else mixed in there. I really didn't know much about the Indian side of things until I was well into my twenties, and had gone through a lot of troubles. I was in and out of jails since I was the legal age to be put in one. But then, when I was traveling out west, I met an old man, a Cree elder, and that was the beginning of my Indian education. Maybe twenty years late, but better late than dead — which I would have been by now if I had gone on the way I was going. Now, I'm considered to be a social worker, and we do a lot of sweats, ceremonies, singing . . . that kind of thing. There's a SPIRITED IMAGINATION

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lot of doctoring to be done yet, but slowly we're getting our act together. We're finding our roots, what it is to be Indian, and that's when the healing starts. When the sap can rise again. SPEAKER 6 (Shelly) Hi! I'm Shelly, and I'm real happy to be here with you all tonight. I work as a clerk in a department store and have recently started going to sweat-lodge ceremonies guided by a local Native elder. I'm learning a great deal from him about Indian traditions. This is all very exciting and educational, but what I really like best is just being with the Native people. It's like finding my family, and I don't have any Indian blood in me at all! I'm second generation European, and when I was growing up at home, family life was okay, but there always seemed to be something missing. I didn't ever really feel at home. It wasn't because of the people in our family, it was more a feeling of not being a part of the country — the land. We have a house and property and everything, but no roots here, if you know what I mean. I guess they take centuries to grow. But being with Indians, for me, is like being with my long lost ancestors. Usually when I'm with Indians around the fire I don't want to ask questions. I just want to sit there and feel part of everything. And you know, it's not a strange experience at all, it's very familiar. It seems like I haven't felt that way for a very long time, though I can't remember when. Maybe it's an ancestral memory. I think this is what it was like for my great-great-great grandparents. SPEAKER 7 (Vera) I am a Jungian analyst and artist. Both my livelihood and creative explorations involve working in some depth with the imagination, which I take very seriously, but I see its products: dreams, art, or contact with spirits, as passing scenery that does not always need interpretation. Trying to figure out the meaning of everything can really bog us down. We should see these things simply as what we move through on the road of personal growth and development. If a person is intent on movement, he or she does not waste time stopping to examine signposts and bushes, or to talk with every passerby! I would say more, but I'd rather see us get on with the discussion. Oh, and my name is Vera. Sorry! SPEAKER 8 (Phillip) That's most interesting Vera. I, for one, look forward to hearing more from you tonight. As you heard from our moderator earlier, my name is Phillip. I've been a student for many years of the Western Mystery traditions, which include the Rosicrucian, Masonic, Hermetic, and 142

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Pythagorean. Some of you in your readings may have come across a few of these before, at least the Masonic. Another is the Hebrew Qabalistic school for which I have a particular fondness. I find its philosophy and symbolism easy to work with and, surprisingly, quite applicable to modern life despite its venerable age. I think most non-Natives could understand shamanism better if they first explored their own spiritual heritage. There are crucial differences, of course, but also much in common

SECOND ROUND: DISCUSSION SPEAKER 1 (Brigitte) In this next round we shall begin to focus more on our topic of discussion. Peter suggested to me earlier that we might be interested in hearing an account about something that happened to him several years ago. To me, it seems quite relevant, so, Peter, go ahead. SPEAKER 2. (Peter) Well, this happened when I tried to build my first, (and almost my last!) wooden cabin. I'd be very interested in hearing what everybody thinks about it. One long Yukon summer day, I was helping a friend put up a small cabin in the wilds north of Whitehorse. By about nine o'clock in the evening we had constructed the square floor, and the walls, which lay horizontal on the ground, one in each of the four directions. We were probably more tired than we knew, after working since morning, but after a coffee break we felt like continuing because there was still plenty of daylight. To us, having grown up near Toronto, it didn't seem late. It was like afternoon down south! We managed to raise the south wall into place with only some minor problems and were positioning ourselves for the next. I was standing inside on the floor and my friend was outside on the grass. I was mentally exhausted though my body still felt like working. It was a curious state to be in. Usually it would have been the other way around towards the end of a day of physical labour — the body tiring before the mind. The sunlight seemed to maintain physical energy, while the mind still responded to a cycle set by southern habits. I was a little disoriented and was about to collect mind and body for the raising of the western wall when I lazily and briefly regarded a bush growing several yards beyond the north wall (still lying flat on the ground), where I seemed to detect some motion. During this moment of distracSPIRITED IMAGINATION

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tion, I saw a very small, bearded man. He must have been no more than three feet tall. I moved to get a better view, but when I looked again, he was gone. I thought I must have been "seeing things." My friend called to me then, asking if I was ready for the next wall, and from my changed location I helped him hoist and brace it into position. Not firmly enough, though, because suddenly the wall toppled inward upon me. After the crash we stood, rather stunned, surveying the situation. I was still standing, even if the wall wasn't. It lay flat on the floor, surrounding me, as I stood inside the open square of the window frame. If I had been standing in my original position, from which I had moved to get a better view of the apparition, I would have been severely injured. We decided to call it a day. When I returned to my home in Whitehorse a couple of days later, my family was relieved to see me alive. My son had dreamt that I'd been in an accident, and my wife, upon hearing the dream had feared the worst. SPEAKER 3 (Lazlo) Now, that's a good story. It's the kind that's exchanged for another "true" tale around the campfire and one's companions don't know whether to believe them or not. What interests me most about this story is the variety of ways in which it can be "explained." There are the kind of explanations that are brief and rational, and intended to discourage further investigation so one can move on to "more important things," and then there are the kind of answers that are tantalizingly inadequate, which of course tempt deeper delving. This can lead to a maze of possibilities, speculations, and utter confusion, or, preferably, to deeper knowledge. The way down leads into the underworld of human imagination, the normally subconscious realms explored by shamans and psychologists, and which lately has become a training ground for some anthropologists. The short and dismissive answers to questions about the nature of "magical" experience have served me well in the past, letting me get on with business at hand, but over the years, magical events have not stopped occurring. They are fewer, but more potent, and the theories I've considered have softened and expanded but include some rather large holes. Some are big enough to swallow entire philosophies! The next time I encounter a major hole, I intend to probe deeply. It might be the en-

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trance to a cave full of treasure. Does anyone here know about bears? SPEAKER 4 (Karen) I don't think it will do you much good to go off into fantasy. Certainly an explanation can be incomplete, or as you say, full of "holes," but falling into one won't help. If you want a flawless theory surely you must cover the holes, mend them like you would a garment, and incorporate your results into the overall design. The simplest explanations are always the best, though they may not satisfy your need for complexity. Maybe this need is misplaced. If you want to be creative, perhaps you should channel your energies in another direction, into that novel you want, to write rather than into anthropology. If anthropology is to be scientific and capable of efficiently explaining human experience (and I think it should), it must not get lost — not in abstract theories, and certainly not in imagination, whether in the personal imaginations of individual anthropologists or in the collective imagination of a whole tribe or culture. These are treacherous waters. No, I would say that the anthropologist should be concerned only with simple facts. A fact may float on a sea of wonderful fictions, fancies, and myths, but it is the only way to navigate safely across. I mean, do you want to get across, or succumb to the lure of the deeps? Not the latter, of course! Now here's a fact. When someone is tired the mind can play all kinds of tricks, including the production of hallucinations. The seeing of the "gnome" was simply that. The escape from injury was fortuitous, and there really seems to be no connection with the glimpse of the gnome except that both incidents resulted from disorientation and fatigue. The son's dream may indicate the family's anxieties about the father who may have been perceived as courting disaster because he was unfamiliar with the Yukon summer and cabin construction. This has much to do with psychology and very little with anthropology, unless we are interested in the folklore of gnomes. I suppose one might wonder what a European gnome was doing in Canada, but the simple explanation is that Peter has a European imagination. In fact, the gnome-sighting event demonstrates clearly that such creatures are produced by imagination and are without objective reality, otherwise he would have seen a Native Canadian spirit, a "manitou." Look at human experience in terms of its adaptive efficiency. Omens, signs, intuitions, or any paranormal occurrences tend to SPIRITED IMAGINATION

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arise in crisis situations, when an individual is in danger of straying from reality. Such "supernatural" events can be useful, but only when we understand that they are a subconscious survival mechanism, intended to get us quickly back on track — to confront real problems. When we are well-adapted, paranormal events do not occur. We don't need them. On the other hand, if we interpret the phenomena of signs and spirits incorrectly, or let them become a fascination in themselves, our grip on reality may loosen further. For example, if I am driving at night and begin to see pink elephants bathing in ditch-water, I had better stop. I have either been drinking too much or I am much too tired to continue driving. Only an idiot would try to engage them in conversation! SPEAKER 5 (Joe) Peter's story is not so unusual. I've heard non-Natives before tell me such things. They see our spirits differently than we do, if they ever see them at all, and the spirits they see are sometimes like ones in their old stories. But what is important here is that Peter and his friend were building the cabin without first asking permission. They were asking for trouble. When we go somewhere and want to set up a camp, we check first to see if it's okay. We ask the spirits. You were lucky though. The spirits must have liked you and warned you about trouble. You got the warning — just enough so that you moved where you couldn't get hurt. Who you saw by the bush was maybe a local earth spirit. An Indian would have seen him differently, probably more like an Indian, but it's all the same thing. But next time, you better make sure everything's okay before you go building your cabin, eh? SPEAKER 6 (Shelly) I think we are missing out a lot if we don't have Indian friends, like Joe here. Psychology is all very well, but it really only gives you a little part of the big picture. If you have a problem you might go to a psychologist who might help you a little, but I think our main problem today isn't really personal. We don't have to straighten out what's inside of us but where we are with everything outside — with other people, nature, and spirits, which are so much a part of nature. That's what we need to be more open to, and Native people can help us with this. SPEAKER 7 (Vera) This is interesting. Peter, you really were open, just the tiniest bit, to being changed by the spirit world. 146

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Enough to save your skin, I'd say. However one might choose to explain the event, whether in terms of conscious and sub-conscious communication, or picking up signals from the spirit world, the transaction was real enough. It was not just plain dumb luck. This kind of event tends to happen in silence, when mind and body are in a state of equilibrium. I can imagine what it was like: the quietness of the countryside at that time of day as you neared the end of your work, the calm that set in when you were tired but continued working, almost automatically. The element Earth is associated with the body, the landscape, and the sensing function, all of which figure significantly in this experience. The land was unfamiliar, you were unaccustomed to this kind of physical labour, on top of which you were experiencing a slight dissociation of mind from body. Your psychological projection produced a figure associated in the racial or collective consciousness with the Earth. If your sensing function was largely repressed and introverted, it might produce such a figure. SPEAKER 8 (Phillip) Everybody, please note that the first wall raised was in the South, not perhaps the best place to begin since symbolically the beginning of a cycle corresponds with sunrise and the East. The South corresponds with noon and the culmination of light and power. Obviously they were still feeling energetic though it was well into evening. The Western wall which they had trouble with symbolizes completion and rest, but they needed more rest than they realized before the task could be completed. Rest was imperative, apparently, as indicated by the appearance of the gnome in the North, the direction of Wisdom. It is well worth noting too that the cabin was to be square, symbolizing the Element of Earth, as was perhaps the windowframe which saved this person from injury. In Qabalistic tradition the Hebrew letter, HEH, means "window" and relates to the sense of sight. In later philosophical developments HEH became associated with the first sign of the zodiac, Aries the Ram, and by extension to represent any new beginning or cycle of experience. This incident would therefore, according to our metaphorical and intuitive mode of thinking, seem to mark a crucial stage and new beginning in this person's life, when he also learned to see in a new way. During the most important tasks in life and stages of unfolding consciousness the outcome is critical even though this may not be consciously recognized at the time. If Peter had been SPIRITED IMAGINATION

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more close-minded or skeptical he would not have responded to the movement near the bush, probably would not have moved, and therefore would have been injured by the falling wall. However, had he been completely free of skepticism, the gnome and his warning would have been perceived more clearly, and the accident totally avoided. Was there actually a gnome there? Well, yes and no. Maybe. I believe that some form of energy did come into the ambit of Peter's perception, and let us call this form a "spirit." Under normal circumstances, and to most people, it would be imperceptible, but in his changed state of consciousness brought on by fatigue, the energy-form was perceived. During the initial adverting of attention to this entity, perception was clear but did not convey a message. For a meaningful message to be conveyed, at least to levels closer to the threshold of normal awareness, namely the levels of archetype, myth, and culturally derived conditioning, the entity has to take on a recognizable form. We may however question whether this form of a gnome was produced by the entity itself, which somehow knew which form would be appropriate, or by the subconscious mind of the person projecting onto the entity. I suggest that the likely answer is that there was a collusion between the entity and the person's subconscious mind. Implicit in my last statement is an acknowledgment of the objective reality of the entity, or energy-form. In my opinion, based on personal experience, such a thing may more meaningfully be called a spirit because they do have a mind of their own, even though it exists at a more rudimentary level of consciousness than the human. Yet I hasten to add that by rudimentary I do not imply less sensitive or responsive. If anything, at this level consciousness is more alive, and more powerful, than at the human level. As human rather than elemental beings we have a greater range of potentials and choices, and are therefore more complex, but we do not have a monopoly on intelligence. Spirits are very sensitive to humans, and are greatly affected by them, for good or ill, depending on human mind-states. The level of interaction, though, occurs on a subconscious emotional level.

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Thank you for each of your contribu-

Our next round will be quite different from the preceding ones. So far, we have been discussing Peter's experience and the nature of imagination, but all of this is just talk. Now we shall attempt a more direct approach to our topic, entering into it, so to speak, rather than walking around and poking at it from outside. Peter, with a little coaching from Phillip, has come up with another story, but this one, unlike his earlier account, is completely fictitious. Phillip calls it a "magical journey." I believe a Jungian psychologist would call it an exercise in creative imagination, and others, a guided visualization. While listening to the story, let it work upon your imagination, and afterwards each of us can describe what was seen and felt. SPEAKER 2 (Peter) First of all, get comfortable. Settle back into a more receptive state, and be prepared not only to listen to this story, but also to take part. A long time ago and when we were children this would have happened naturally, but since we have become "sophisticated" modern adults, we usually need help. As your guide, I will help you. This is a not really a story but perhaps an episode in one, near the beginning, and like all good stories this one comes from the land of spirits. The telling of even a part of the whole story brings into being a bridge between worlds which spirits use for entrance or exit, and which we may cross at will, or not, as we choose. Therefore, close your eyes, and with your inner eye watch the room dissolve until you can see all of us standing outside. The sun is shining as we find ourselves on the lower slope of a small, green mountain covered with a sparse forest of northern pine. Its summit, however, is rocky and barren. All around us stretch hills and valleys, with snow-covered mountain ranges disappearing into the distance. The air is exceptionally clear and vibrant, seeming to sparkle with energy in the light of late afternoon. Now we begin to ascend the mountain, approaching it in a gradual inward curve as we walk from east to south, following a narrow trail that weaves upward through the trees. Under our feet we feel the soft ground of pine needles and sand. Soon, the trail hardens as the trees thin out, replaced by outcroppings of flat rock. A ground squirrel further down the slope peers out from its burrow. As we walk up around the west side of the mountain towards the north, the sun sets and the sky darkens. Overhead the constellation of Ursa Major, "The Big Dipper," gradually appears. Returning our gaze to the way ahead, we notice a dark cleft in the mountain-side. It seems difficult to get to because a steep, SPIRITED IMAGINATION

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rocky ravine intervenes, and even though we can't see it in the darkness, we hear a swift stream rushing by below. Suddenly, we hear a soft rustling in some bushes by the gully, and before we can react, a large bear looms briefly before ambling off further up the flank of the mountain. Taking this to be a good sign, we follow him, and soon come to a place where the stream can be easily crossed. After reaching the other side we discover that the bear has vanished, and the cleft, which we are sure must be the entrance to a deep cavern, can be seen not far away. We walk to the cave entrance, and stand for a moment in hushed, alert silence before attempting to enter. High on the rock-face above the cleft we can just make out some petroglyphs or written symbols. Study them carefully and remember them. Then, we hear low, muffled voices, emanating apparently from within the mountain. Listen. Can you make out what is being said? The voices cease, and after a moment a very short, stocky figure trudges into view. In the dim starlight it looks like a Dwarf. He raises his hand in salute and bids us state our name and purpose. The first request is easy enough to respond to, but we must consider our intent carefully. Our reply may be simply that we come in peace and wish to explore the mountain. Having satisfied the Guardian, he vanishes back into darkness. More murmuring is heard within, then a small hand stretches out and motions us to follow. We do so, and find ourselves walking down a long tunnel. Ahead of us we glimpse the Dwarf and some of his company turning a corner and disappearing. On either side of us are rows of flickering torches, and in the walls we can see and feel glistening veins of metal, possibly silver and gold. Higher up there are formations of crystallized, snowy ice fanning out in exquisite patterns from cracks and fissures in the ceiling. Finally the tunnel broadens and we walk out into a huge cavernous chamber. It is approximately circular with four entrances, including the one we have come in by, presumably marking the cardinal points of the compass. The rocky walls are studded with natural gem crystals in all the hues of the rainbow. In the center of the chamber there rests a great hexagonal crystal of purest white in the shape of a snowflake or flower. On top of it, at its center, a brilliant flame burns. Not far from the crystal flower there stands a pair of empty, throne-like seats, carved from black and white rock. Overhead,

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to our astonishment, we can see the night sky through the highdomed ceiling which must be composed of clear crystal. We decide to approach the central flower, and as we do, the fire upon it brightens. A beam of light streams upward from the tip of the flame. Looking up, we see the ray of light connecting with a star seen through the center of the dome. It is Polaris, the North Star. The star grows more luminous until it forms a sphere of white light which then slowly descends towards the flame. Through the bottom of the crystal flower, apparently rooted in some unknown depths, another beam of light streams downward. Then just as the white sphere gently settles around the flame, a scarlet orb floats up from below to join it. Together they create a shimmering aura of white and red lights, gradually blending into one rose color as the flame within grows and brightens. The whole chamber, for a moment, is suffused with a blush of golden amber light. Behind the thrones we now can see an old man standing. He is holding a lantern and tapping the glass. He looks at us and smiles. We go over to greet him and ask what he is doing. He confesses that we have caught him in the act of re-fueling his lantern. Its flame burns with the same color as that of the central fire we have witnessed. He asks if there is anything we'd like to see while we're here. He has a little time to spare. We each think about this opportunity, and perhaps ask him to take us to a particular area of the chamber where he can reveal or explain something of importance to us. [Pause] Having done this, he says it is time to go — he to his duties, and we, back to our world. He accompanies us to the entrance we came in by and wishes us well. The Dwarves, he assures us, will make sure we find our way out. Then thanking him for his wisdom and assistance, we begin our walk back through the tunnel to the outside of the mountain. We arrive back at the tunnel entrance without incident and find the sky brightening in the east. This makes our return trip much easier. We retrace our journey down around the mountain from the north, crossing the western, then the southern sides, following the trail gradually downward until we are back on the lowermost slopes.

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We gaze one last time at the mountain, then allow our minds to return to normal waking consciousness and awareness of where we are. Before opening your eyes, however, review the events you've experienced and recall important details. For example, do you remember seeing the glyphs over the cave entrance? What were they like? Did you hear what the Dwarves were saying before they let you into the passage? And if you asked the old man to reveal something to you, what did you see or learn? Good! Now let's share and discuss what happened. Lazlo, what did you experience? SPEAKER 3 (Lazlo) I have to confess to some irritation with the way things went. Maybe I was just not in the mood for a journey into Storyland and would have preferred to talk some more. So many interesting ideas have been brought up. However, by the time Peter was walking over to the cave, I was beginning to get more interested. The first thing I remember seeing with any clarity was the writing on the wall. (In fact, this was about the only thing in the whole story I saw clearly.) It looked like Assyrian cuneiform, and as we went in through the tunnel I felt as if we were going into some kind of Babylonian ziggurat. I don't know why. Then the deeper we went, the more irritated I got. I began thinking about many different things, none of which had anything to do with mountains and Hades. At some point I must have dozed off because I remember suddenly becoming aware of Peter's voice describing an old man with a lantern, and I felt myself to be very old. I felt something in my hand, and when I looked to see what I was holding, I saw that it was a green tablet, like a shard of pottery, with an inscription on it. It reminded me of the Assyrian glyphs though the marks were not the same at all. In the upper left corner was a geometric figure, two interlocking triangles like the Star of David. Not much happened after that. SPEAKER 4 (Karen) If no-one minds, I'd prefer not to say anything this time around. I want to hear what other people experienced first. SPEAKER 5 (Joe) I'm not usually a party-pooper, but I've been into the mountain before, and since I knew Peter was doing okay as the lead man, I took off after that bear. Yeah. She went up on top. You folks did good in there, no doubt about that, though a couple of you looked pretty goofy at times. 152

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I didn't do much. I just sat up there on the mountain top looking around over my country. Mighty fine scenery, though that clear-cutting has got to stop. You can see it for miles. On the trail back down I found a real nice berry patch. Lowbush cranberries. I'll take you there sometime. They should taste even better after the first frost. Sweeter. SPEAKER 6 (Shelly) I followed the journey carefully and saw everything pretty much as Peter described. I was a little surprised though that Grandmother bear seemed so disturbed. She told me not to be alarmed, but there would be some difficulty along the way. Maybe not everyone would be able to go into the mountain. The writing above the entrance was really interesting because it was in English. It said "Know Thyself," which I believe was inscribed above certain ancient Greek temples. The walk down the tunnel was wonderful because the walls came alive with the reflected light of the gold and silver veins running through the stone. I could feel the energies of the sun and moon pulsing through the whole mountain. Yet when we got to the main chamber it felt empty, like a waiting room, or as if we had come during somebody's day off. The Grandfather who showed up seemed to be a caretaker who bumped into us accidentally. Still, he did show me where to look for the most sacred object in the chamber. That's what I asked for. It was a dish carved out of bone, the top part of a skull I think, and filled with shining water. That was the most vivid event in the whole journey. I was really reluctant to leave and had to hurry to catch up with everyone else as they started back up through the tunnel. SPEAKER 5 (Joe) You're right Shelly about some problems, but they've got nothing to do with going into the mountain. It's more like what comes out. Are we ready for that? Well, I guess some of us are or we wouldn't be seeing the little people. SPEAKER 7 (Vera) I spent a lot of time in the main chamber with the Hermit. One of the Dwarves joined us after a while an elder. Most of what we communicated was about my personal life and career, and the deeper meaning of relationships in which I am presently involved. The details wouldn't be of much interest to anyone here, though maybe the fact that such conversations can occur is encouraging. There is much wisdom to be found in them. SPIRITED IMAGINATION

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Before I left, the Dwarf gave me a rattle made from a gourd with beans inside. I understood that I should study it and make one just like it for myself. The rattle reminds me of my head, and my thoughts, like the beans, have to be shaken and rolled around in order to produce results. SPEAKER 8 (Phillip) Since our main focus, initially at least, was gnomes, I took the question of their nature and origin with me into our journey. The appearance of Ursa Major in the sky, and then its terrestrial counterpart, the bear, was especially meaningful as we prepared to enter the mountain. The mountain is a symbol par excellence of the element Earth, and has always been considered the appropriate dwelling-place of goblins, gnomes, dwarves, and other such tribes. They are, of course, Earth elementals, on the same level of reality as other elemental creatures such as sylphs, sprites, and salamanders, corresponding respectively with Air, Water, and Fire. By the way, I have been hearing lately and persistently from dwarves that they would like us to capitalize "Dwarf" just as we do other racial or national appellations like Caucasoid and Chinese. Dwarves are easily miffed, so I would recommend agreeing to this if you want to get on their good side. The bear is also associated with mountains and caves, and back into the "Old Stone Age" was worshipped as almost a deity by our remote ancestors. The bear was to some extent a forerunner of "God." In consultation with The Wise Old Man, our primary guide for this journey, I was informed that it might be useful to trot out an old belief concerning the origins of life on the planet Earth. However strange it may seem to some, it can often be heard to resonate with a racial memory deep within the psyche. Human beings evolved as a result of inter-breeding between different species, terrestrial and celestial. The latter came from a civilization associated with the seven stars of The Great Bear, Ursa Major. They roamed space for a long time before they came upon this lovely blue planet and decided to investigate. Finding its taste sweet and addictive, they stayed. After a while it became impossible to leave, even if they wanted to, because as they consumed terrestrial substances they became heavier and lost memory of the space realms. They had been beings of pure and formless energy, but now gradually, over eons of time, began to manifest in material form.

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At first, their form became a denser energy like mist or auroral light, then they took on more substance until they assumed a more tangible shape, finally as primate animals. Only when they reached this stage did they begin to reproduce sexually and enter into cycles of birth and death. Before that, they were immortal. More accurately, they did not "become" animals but entered into an increasingly intimate symbiosis with denser and denser forms of evolving earthly life. So intimate did relationships become that many of the original celestial beings came to identify exclusively with the life of their hosts. Some became totally grounded, mortal, and human. Others, however, did not completely lose contact with their celestial identities and origins. They did not enter into the human world, but associated themselves more with the animal, plant, and mineral kingdoms; and their forms did not precipitate as far down into materiality. They retained the characteristics of an energy body, invisible to most human perceptions. They entered into, and to a large extent created and enhanced, the life and consciousness of this planet. Some of these spirit-beings are known to shamans and other sensitive people and are the socalled Dwarves, Elves, and Faeries of European lore. Since these folk are more attuned to nature than most human beings are, they are particularly concerned about our current state of affairs, and have been making considerable effort lately to re-establish communications with us. Inter-dimensional relationships have rarely been successful in the past, but at least in earlier centuries we were on talking terms, however garbled the reports. Ironically, perhaps to us, the spirits say that the outlook for decent dialogue has never looked better because human beings are becoming more rational and intelligent, and less superstitious. The whole thrust of terrestrial evolution is towards the stars, to regain our connections with the universe, but there is no need to abandon or destroy the planet in the process. As angry as we might be with the Earth for having trapped us for so long, we should remember how beautiful it was to us in the beginning, and realize that beauty can be restored, and magnified, if we give back to the Earth even a small fraction of what we have taken so freely. In truth, the anger is misplaced because it was our own decision to partake of the Earth's nourishment. Yet we should not be angry at ourselves either. Look upon this anger simply as a new energy in the universe that we have not yet learned how to SPIRITED IMAGINATION

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use properly. If we direct it positively and creatively our planet can become a conscious part of the galaxy. When love replaces hate, barriers dissolve and bridges appear. Light may take four years to travel to the nearest star, but you can get there in a twinkling of an "I."

FOURTH ROUND: SUMMATION SPEAKER 1 (Brigitte) I should remind you that we did not intend to draw any conclusions here tonight. We came to present our views and consider those of others. You probably did not expect to participate in a guided fantasy, however, so I understand how some of you may feel disoriented. Thank you Phillip, and everyone else, for your contributions. We shall now begin the fourth and final round of our session in which we shall try to summarize our thoughts and experiences. I realize that we have brought forth many different aspects of our general topic: the spirit world of the shaman and how it is approached by non-Natives, and have discovered new questions that may seem more interesting than the one with which we began: "What happens when we open ourselves to the shaman's world?"; however, keep this original question in mind as you respond. SPEAKER 2 (Peter) After all that has transpired, I'd just like to say that what has impressed me most was Phillip's psychological interpretation of my experience of the gnome. Looking back over my life since that event, I see that it probably was a turning point. I was pretty much at loose ends, having dropped out of high school, and had spent almost ten years traveling around. At the time of building that cabin, I was thinking about settling down, and afterwards began to realize the work required to establish the kind of livelihood and lifestyle I wanted. When I got into this, I missed the freedom and adventure of the old days, but gradually I found other possibilities opening up. I learned how to use my mind, developing intuitive as well as intellectual skills. I have been able to share some of these with you here tonight. As Vera observed, I was, "accidentally," opened to the shaman's world and subsequently underwent changes, though these were very gradual. Only now, many years later, can I see them. Most important, however, I don't think I could begin to understand and appreciate these changes, and their catalyst, without 156

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recourse to modern psychological theory. For me, that's what organizes the mythic, imaginal, and spiritist elements of experience into something that makes sense. But, rationalization is beneficial only after the fact — we must be open to wonder first. SPEAKER 3 (Lazlo) The most interesting and troubling part of this session for me was the guided visualization. Everyone got into it in varying degrees, and some of us may have had significant insights in the process, or at least been pleasantly entertained. Fine. But did this exercise help us to understand imagination or the spirit world any better? If so, how? And have our views changed as a result? I can't answer these questions. Not now. Some things I experienced made a strong impact. There were a few vivid scenes. I know that I was touched deeply, but there's no way I can comment on this right away. It will take a while for my rational mind to click into gear and begin to make sense of it. I described some images in detail, but I don't think the sharing of simple descriptions goes anywhere. Some of you in your reports paid relatively little attention to detail and focused on meaning — personal or, supposedly, universal. As marvelous as your prophetic wisdom may be to you, I have to admit I am not impressed. It means little to me. I'd like talk about my experiences afterwards with Phillip, Peter, and anyone else who's interested, but at present I really have no more to say. SPEAKER 4 (Karen) Well, to my surprise, I enjoyed the visualization. A little fantasy does give the mind a break. But Lazlo's comments brings me up short. He's right of course. It is very easy to get completely off the track by sharing fantasies instead of looking into the nature of imagination itself, not to mention how that relates to spirits. I'm sorry now that I did not speak up when we were reporting our experiences. I had very clear and detailed imagery walking up and into the mountain. (I KNOW where that mountain is!) But as I heed Lazlo's words, the desire to share my experiences collapses like a ton of bricks. I would have trouble relating them to the questions being asked here tonight. Evidently my imagination is strong, and it is meaningful for me to go into it, but I don't see any connections with our topic. My imagination seems to be totally different from the world of gnomes and spirits. At least it has little in common with what I think that world to be. Maybe my concepts are wrong? I don't know. SPIRITED IMAGINATION

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SPEAKER 5 (Joe) Yeah, you guys need some time to think. I wouldn't push it. We've been trying for a long time to get through to you, and it's backfired too often. But maybe now that we're beginning to work a bit more closely together, things will improve. We'll just have to wait and see. By the way, that old man? That was Jimmy Laughing Wolf. Must be looking in on us. He says he's happy the way things are going, and those Mohawks ... they really crack him up. They know some pretty good jokes. Did you know "Canada" was a Mohawk word?. SPEAKER 6 (Shelly) I think I know why some of us had trouble. A guided visualization may seem contrived, but it can lead into the spirit world, if we let it. The only difference between a "story" like this and a day-dream, between a night-dream and the spirit world, is in how aware you are of what's happening and how deeply you go. A shaman moves through all of these levels, but unlike most of us he can do it without falling asleep at that twilight zone between fantasy and dream. He knows how to stay awake, so he can get the knowledge that allows him to work changes at deeper levels of reality. SPEAKER 7 (Vera) Brigitte, you are right in observing that other, more interesting, questions have arisen in the course of our exploration. Obviously we are changed by "opening ourselves" to a new experience. How we are changed depends on who we are. Much depends on our adaptability to unfamiliar conditions and influences, how we think and perceive, and on interest, motivation, and intention. Of all these factors, I think interest is the most important. To me, this implies a happy combination of intelligence and receptivity, which guarantees positive change — growth in knowledge and consciousness of oneself, others, and the world in general. But interest does not seem to have been generated by the question about how we are changed. If I am not mistaken, we have shown more interest in the nature of our subject and how to approach it than in what happens when it is approached. Some of us ask, "What ARE spirits and gnomes?" Others wonder, "WHO are they?" and though this may either indicate a difference in familiarity with the phenomenon or in mental inclination, these questions have little to do with how we might be changed. Appropriately or not, we take for granted that changes will occur, and that they will be beneficial.

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But dare I say, we are not a typical group. Not one of us has explicitly addressed the potential of negative personal results from exploring the world of spirits. And yet we must be well aware that such exists, that most people are wary about "dabbling with the occult," and that some are very fearful indeed. Horror stories in literature, films, and other entertainment media abound, perhaps more today than at any other period in recent history. What are we to make of such fears? Some of us here tonight must be well acquainted with some of the pitfalls that attend the novice, or even an adept, who ventures into, or attempts contact with, the spirit-world. Yet we have heard nothing of this from them. (Joe, you old fox, you've been especially circumspect.) But I guess you will have us wait for another time. I will suggest this, however, that these fears are the dragons that guard great and precious treasure of knowledge, and that the magical weapon wielded to slay them is none other than intelligent question, forged in the fire of passionate interest. We could have more carefully prepared a question, the appropriate one for each of us, before our journey into "the Hall of the Mountain King." The right question can transform mere fantasy into a sacred quest. The crystal flower in the center of the main chamber can become an altar, above which one might see the Holy Grail. SPEAKER 8 (Phillip) We may not want to get too caught up in the romance of the mystical. It does not appeal to everyone. Yet visions and dreams have changed the world. Who was that scientist who discovered the shape of the benzene molecule in a dream? Kekule, I think his name was. His dream had a great effect on the development of chemistry and changed the world. He didn't actually see the molecule in his dream, but a symbolic image that demonstrated the same essential pattern. What made his dream effective, though, was the information he already possessed about chemistry. Inspiration comes when we can make the connection between conscious knowledge or theory and subconscious symbols. If one asked the old man in the mountain the right question, maybe this would lead to a discovery as important as the benzene molecule! But we have to know what to ask. That's the real issue. In my view, that's what school and university should be for, to learn one thing: how to ask the right questions. As to summarizing my experience of tonight's session, I find that I am at a loss. I appreciate the comments following upon SPIRITED IMAGINATION

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our magical journey, especially yours, Vera, but I'd say our discussion seems to be in tatters. Instead of moving towards a clearer articulation and sharing of views, let alone an overview, I fear we have fallen into disarray. But even this is change, isn't it? Sometimes we must break old patterns before a new one can be formed from more adaptable parts. Maybe Brigitte can pull something together from all of this?

CLOSURE SPEAKER 1 (Brigitte)

I'll try. We have covered a lot of ground.

By way of summary, I would say that most of us agree that the shaman's world of spirits is closely linked with the world of the imagination, and that an effective approach to understanding shamanistic beliefs and activities is through the cultivation of our own imaginative and intuitive capacities. However, in my work I've seen that Euroamericans often encounter problems when exploring the imagination in any depth. I think this comes from our social conditioning which undervalues the power and usefulness of the non-rational functions of mind. Compared with aboriginal societies, ours permits only superficial expressions of imagination, and tends to segregate these from the "real" business of life. Imagination for us is mere diversion and entertainment. Such conditioning runs deep in our society and cannot be changed by wishful thinking, and a simple experiment can only serve to acquaint us with the problem. Meaningful access to the inner world requires considerable practice and training. At some stage this involves a form of deep psychic therapy and transformation. This has always been true for the shaman, and would be just as inevitable but more difficult for a non-Native. Doubly difficult, in fact, since afterwards he or she would not be a central figure in society but an outcast — part of the lunatic fringe. Nevertheless, in cultural studies the relationship between people and spirits will undoubtedly continue to attract increasing attention. Beliefs and customs that have been documented and described in the past by anthropologists, and rarely understood, will be approached more openly and with a greater willingness to enter into and experience their consequences. Anthropologists are not as ethnocentric as they once were. The very nature of their studies has seen to that. Spirits may be hypothetical entities to the investigator, but real enough to the 160

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shaman, so we allow our separate realities to co-exist. Study and exploration are easier when conflict is absent, and when peace of mind persists we become more receptive. Veils part. The primary ethic taught by Cree elders involves the balanced development of Respect, Honor, Love, and Relationship. To the Euroamerican scholar, this combination of virtues may seem to lack one of great importance, which could be called Intelligence or Wisdom, but these four are nevertheless a prerequisite for rewarding experiences with spirits. Only when respect is established can spirits be perceived or will they meaningfully respond. Further developments can occur when the elders, their teachings, and the spirits themselves are honored. The degree to which our pursuits are fruitful depends, as in any pursuit, on motivation and the extent to which it arises from love — love for the object of our interest, certainly, but equally for the pursuer — ourselves, and for all our "relations" who will benefit from our activity. The four virtues of Respect, Honor, Love, and Relationship mark the cardinal directions of the medicine wheel, but Wisdom in fact is not absent at all. It is represented by the central fire. When properly enclosed it provides illumination within, and warmth. SPEAKER 8 (Phillip) Let us therefore keep open not just our physical eyes, but also the eye that looks within, the seer that accesses our spirited imagination. Let us now close the Circle: I close the East and give thanks to Aurora and the power of Illumination. I close the South and give thanks to Apollo and the power of full Awareness. I close the West and give thanks to Aphrodite and the power of compassionate Visions. I close the North and give thanks to Selene and the power of deepest Wisdom. We thank the Creator, the One at the Heart of All, for guidance and blessings. May our activities here and always serve the many, by unfolding compassion, ripening wisdom, and quickening awareness. Haiii!

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POSTSCRIPT AND CONCLUSIONS The Edmonton meeting purportedly recorded in the above "transcript" is fictitious. It did take place, but only within the author's imagination. This paper is a creative project designed to allow the reader to experience the core material, presented in the transcript, in different ways. Initially, the reader will naturally assume the account is factual and approach it with a different level of interest and receptivity than he or she would if the proceedings were known beforehand to be imaginary. The subsequent knowledge that the events are fictional will no doubt alter the reader's perception of them, even after a second reading. I hope this method of presentation encourages easy and immediate access to the "spirit" of the topic before reflection and analysis are deployed to make sense of it. My original intent was to experiment with the "pow-wow" format, lifting it from its traditional social context to use it as an abstract framework for organizing and expressing a variety of views. This worked very well for the creative process, permitting a spontaneous flow of ideas and characterizations to emerge. It worked so well, in fact, that the topic, a secondary consideration at the outset, took on a life of its own. I had never had much interest in spirits, before, during, or even after sighting the gnome, though as a secondary result of fieldwork in later years, I had learned to treat spirits and their occasional appearances with respect. During the writing of this paper, I dare say that simple respect has, through increasing familiarity, taken on some of the characteristics of friendship, however tentative this may seem at times. I am cautious, however, about trying to explain spirits. I am even more cautious about testing theories or initiating any kind of direct probe into their sensitive yet potent realm. An indirect or spontaneous approach tends to yield better results. During the preparation of this paper I attempted to keep my personal judgments at bay in order to let other people's views emerge. Each speaker expresses ideas drawn from a variety of sources, mainly Native elders and Western psychologists, anthropologists, and metaphysicians. Certain speakers show the influence of specific individuals. Phillip, for example, is modeled after a ceremonial magician whose ritual invocations, derived from British traditions, have helped me become more aware of the mythic and spiritual resources of my own ancestry. Peter, who relates the story about the gnome, describes, as accurately as memory 162

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permits, the event I myself experienced in the mid 1970s. Joe expresses the kind of perception and facets of character common to some Native medicine people, one in particular whom I knew in the North. These and other individuals represented at the Round Table express views that I have encountered but do not necessarily accept as agreeable to my own way of thinking. Each view has given me a different vantage point to explore and provided insights, though I am not inclined to settle for any one position. I prefer to play the whole field. When working with Native shamans, I found that I could not begin to understand their worldview and experiences without giving more attention to my own. Certain kinds of events in my life which seemed insignificant to me, like seeing the gnome, were crucial and full of meaning for them. When I could allow myself to see such events as they did, (after considerable effort to reduce my very active disbelief), I entered, however f leetingly, a whole new world. An important question of non-Natives focuses on the "reality" of spirits. Once the phenomenon of their manifestation is experienced and accepted, we wish to know if they are a product of our imagination or if they possess an autonomous, objective existence of their own. We might also wonder about the extent to which they may be mental creations of another person, such as a shaman, or indeed of a whole community. Such intellectual concerns can be unimportant to a shaman. Whatever the nature and origin of spirits, the immediate task may be to treat them with respect in order to relate or communicate with them in an appropriate and mutually beneficial manner. The same holds true for spirit-workers of other traditions as well as for Jungian delvers when encountering archetypes of the psyche. Whether one is dealing with life-forms of a parallel energy-world, personal psychic projections, or denizens of the racial or collective mind, one does well to respect them. In due course, questions might be answered. Relating to spirits does not require erudition or theoretical knowledge, just receptivity, yet sooner or later the intellect begins to seek satisfaction. If Native philosophies and one's own experiential knowledge do not completely satisfy, the quest for a larger perspective and greater understanding may lead the Euroamerican to consider his own neglected traditions. Western mystical and magical philosophies can provide intellectual perspectives that conceive of the spirit domain as part of a complete cosmology, and that address in great detail questions SPIRITED IMAGINATION

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about the objective or subjective reality of spirits. Classical to pre-modern sources may be too confusing or obscure for many of us, but there exists now a large selection of recent literature that bears witness to more current and ongoing developments and clarifications in the field of "occult" studies and the magical side of religion. To the metaphysician, the issue of autonomy among spirits is quite complex, as is the composition and geography of the inner worlds. Some spirits are indeed figments of the human imagination, yet there are others who have been around much longer than human beings. Among spirits there is a vast hierarchy, from simple energy-forms and nature spirits to angelic and higher forms of divine and galactic intelligence. These may be terrestrial or celestial, intimately associated with human life or not, but all are aspects of the one Universal Being, conceived of as the totality, inner and outer, or as its creator. If the metaphysical view proves in any way viable for anthropologists, I suspect we shall find the simple question about whether spirits are autonomous or not rather inadequate. More complex and difficult questions may have to be asked. Between complete autonomy and lack of it, there may be a full octave of relationships and possibilities. According to occult philosophy, there certainly is. A spirit may start as a product of an individual's imagination and may or may not acquire independence, and if it does it may or may not lose it. To complicate matters, some spirits that enter into an association with human beings do not come from the human realm, but from another — such as the elemental domain of plants, animals, and minerals. But here I use the term spirit very loosely. The entities referred to above may in some cases be more aptly called energies, thought forms, or ghosts. One of the tasks a researcher must accomplish before appropriate questions can be formulated is the classification of spirit entities and their associated phenomena. Knowing the difference between a nature spirit or elemental energy and the thought projection of a local shaman may prove crucial. To begin to understand the shaman's world, one must give imagination its due. Symbolically, secrets of the physical world are accessed by the golden key of intellect, the spirit realm by the silver key of imagination. We greatly appreciate the intellect's work though we tend to overlook the value of imagination. Silver, after all, as well as being common is more easily tarnished and needs more frequent attention to maintain its luster and reflec164

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tive properties. Yet if we are willing to invest the additional effort, and are open to sharing a common resource, the creative and practiced use of imagination can release much energy, "inspiring" many by bringing "spirit" into play.

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E. YOUNG

Visitors in the Night:

a creative energy model of spontaneous visions

INTRODUCTION Anthropologists may be changed in a variety of ways by the people with whom they work. It is not uncommon for anthropologists who have had an in-depth encounter with another culture to return to their own societies to discover that they react to many things differently than before. For example, after living in Japan for a year as a young man, I returned to North America to find that the large cities appeared to be much less crowded than what I remembered. I also was more aware of the importance of loyalty in interpersonal relations, and more sensitive to the beauty bestowed upon objects by age. In other words, some of my perceptions and values had been modified as a result of exposure to a different environment and a different set of assumptions about the world. This kind of change is not unusual and has frequently been described in the anthropological literature. A source of change which has received little attention in the anthropological literature is the profound existential shock which 166

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can result from an experience which is not out of the ordinary for the people in the host culture but which is highly unusual for the anthropologist. For example, the anthropologist (as in the case of Turnbull [see Santora 1972] or Turner [in this volume]) may experience the negative power of a curse or see a spirit. Such phenomena may be so far outside the normal experience of the anthropologist that he/she does not have access to relevant explanatory models. Under these conditions, the anthropologist may suffer anxiety and therefore be inclined to repress the experience (or at least to keep it a professional secret) rather than viewing it as interesting data. There is evidence, however, that things are changing. After many years of somewhat dry and sterile reportage in which ethnographers frequently attempted to minimize their personal involvement in the cultures they had studied, there is a growing awareness that ethnography can never be an objective account of the way things really are. Rather, ethnography is a personal account of the nature of the interaction between the ethnographer and his/her informants (Ridington 1989, 1990; Stoller and Olkes 1987; etc.). Whether this growing epistemological sophistication will extend to a greater willingness on the part of anthropologists to discuss unusual experiences, however, remains to be seen. Like the other authors in this book, I would like to push the barriers back a little further so that it may become more acceptable for anthropologists to write about unusual personal experiences. I am also motivated by the conviction that anthropology is not entirely free of an imperialistic attitude which allows anthropologists to describe the strange beliefs and experiences of their informants with equanimity, but to react in shock when they have an extra-ordinary experience themselves. When an informant reports that he has seen a spirit, the anthropologist accepts the report as anthropological data and makes the report appear reasonable by using some type of structural, functional, or symbolic analysis to show how it fits into the overall cultural scheme. But when the anthropologist sees a spirit, the experience is generally not regarded as appropriate anthropological data and consequently is not analyzed as such. If the type of analysis we impose upon our informants does not seem appropriate for analyzing our own experiences — even though some of our own experiences may be very similar to those of our informants — what type of analysis would be appropriate? This is the topic of the paper. In order to address this issue, I will focus upon two personal visions. VISITORS IN THE NIGHT

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MY VISIONS In 1984 and 1985, a northern Cree healer participated with me and colleagues at the University of Alberta in a scientific study of the effectiveness of Native medicine for treating non-Native psoriatic patients (Young, et al. 1988; Morse, et al. 1988). In connection with the study, the healer built a sweat lodge at my acreage home in the spring of 1985 for treating the patients. A series of four "sweats" occurred over the next several months. This was a very meaningful period for both the patients and the investigators as we were provided with an in-depth encounter with Native religion and medicine. Following the conclusion of the sweats in August of 1985, the sweat lodge was left standing and pieces of colored cloth used in the ceremonies to capture the patients' psoriasis were hung in the bushes near the sweat lodge. From time to time over the course of the next year, I carried burning incense in a clockwise direction around the sweat lodge, in accordance with the instructions of the healer. This kept the sweat lodge "active" in case it was needed for further treatment. My extraordinary experiences occurred the following winter (1986), over a period of several weeks — usually at around 3:00 a.m. On two separate occasions, I was awakened by the sensation that there were visitors in the bedroom. When I opened my eyes to look, I was able to see clearly what appeared to be human figures despite the darkness of the room. Frightened by these visions, I switched on the light, at which point the visitors disappeared. It should be noted that, unlike waking from a dream, there did not seem to be any transition from a vision state to a waking state. Another difference between dreams and these visions is that in my dreams, I experience doing or observing something at another time and place. The figures in my vision, however, appeared in my bedroom where I viewed them briefly from my bed before turning on the light. The first visitor was an Indian dressed in light brown buckskin pants, tunic, and moccasins. He wore a brown cloth band around his forehead, with the loose end hanging down on one side of his head, and a matching brown cloth band around his waist, with one end hanging down the side. He was standing in the doorway between the bedroom and a bathroom leading to the hall connecting the front and back entries of the house. When I saw him, I thought he was an intruder and yelled, "How did you get in here?" and switched on the light — at which point he disappeared. 168

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The second visitor, who appeared several weeks later,1 was a tall Caucasian man with close-cropped hair, dressed in a long brown robe tied with a narrow sash. He strode briskly into the bedroom through the same doorway in which the Indian had stood, holding a small, lidded square box in front of himself. Hanging on to his robe was a boy of eight or nine, also dressed in a brown robe and hurrying to keep up. Both figures, unlike the Indian, were somewhat transparent in appearance. The man strode around the end of the bed and came up to the head of the bed on the far side, holding out the box as if to present it to me. Again, I panicked and switched on the light, at which point both figures disappeared. It should also be noted that on the two occasions when the visions occurred, my wife was sleeping in another room as she customarily does if she is unable to sleep. Thus I do not know whether or not my visions would have been shared by my wife if she had been present and awake at the time.2

PLACING THESE EXPERIENCES IN BROADER PERSPECTIVE Carl Jung (1960 [1920]:303) made an interesting comment concerning the universality of such experiences: It is generally assumed that the seeing of apparitions is far commoner among primitives than among civilized people, the inference being that this is nothing but superstition, because civilized people do not have such visions unless they are ill. It is quite certain that civilized man makes much less use of the hypothesis of spirits than the primitive, but in my view it is equally certain that psychic phenomena occur no less frequently with civilized people than they do with primitives. The only difference is that where the primitive speaks of ghosts, the European speaks of dreams and fantasies and neurotic symptoms, and attributes less importance to them than the primitive does. I am convinced that if a European had to go through the same exercises and ceremonies which the medicine-man performs in order to make the spirits visible, he would have the same experiences. He would interpret them differently, of course, and devalue them, but this would not alter the facts as such. It is well known that Europeans have very curious psychic experiences if they have to live under primiV I S I T O R S IN THE NIGHT

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tive conditions for a long time, or if they find themselves in some other unusual psychological situation. The discipline that developed in the West to study "psychic" experiences is known as parapsychology. Parapsychology includes the study of dreams that contain verifiable information not otherwise known to the dreamer, waking visions, voices, psychokinesis (unexplained influence upon external objects or processes), and "miraculous" recoveries from disease or injuries (Edge, et al. 1986:47). It also includes what has been termed clairvoyance (unexplained awareness of hidden objects or distant events), precognition (unexplained knowledge of a future event), and telepathy (Krippner and George 1986). An interesting collection of visions is Apparitions by Green and McCreery (1975), based on approximately 1,800 responses to appeals in the press and over the radio by the Institute of Psychophysical Research in 1968 and 1974. Responses came from around the world — supporting Jung's contention (above) that visions are not limited to "primitives." An example of such a report which is similar to my own is as follows (Green and McCreery 1975:70): One night, two years ago, I woke up, quite naturally, and saw a tall man standing close to my side of the bed. I was not still dreaming. I saw the large bay window, the streetlamp opposite, the furniture in the room, and the man. His face was long, melancholy, and slightly moustached. He wore a check overcoat, and a trilby hat. The overcoat had a wide belt at the waist. I think he seemed to me to be about fifty-ish, or perhaps less. Suddenly, I was afraid, and I screamed and screamed, waking my husband in a fright. As I was comforted, the man vanished. When I was somewhat pacified, I had an odd feeling that I had been wrong, precipitate in treating him as an enemy — that he had wanted to tell me something that concerned me, vitally. Of course, I got over the shock, but I have always been certain he was no extended "dream" figure. I have dreamed ever since I can remember, and no-one ever came so close to me with such clear, breathing reality. I have never forgotten exactly how the man looked at me. Research conducted on case studies such as this has found "a high degree of consistency observed among reports of spontaneous psi experiences collected during diverse periods from dif170

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ferent populations and by different methods" (Edge et al. 1986:53). West (1960:65), in an influential textbook on parapsychology, concludes that case reports of spontaneous visions, most of which are non-recurrent, differ consistently from altered states of consciousness associated with psychosis, drugs, starvation, or sensory deprivation in the sense that the former (spontaneous visions) are integrated with the individual's surroundings (usually occurring in the experient's actual environment) whereas the latter generally involve experiences in other settings. Tart (1975) developed a systems approach in which any discrete state of consciousness must be actively maintained by various stabilizing processes. If these stabilizing processes are disrupted, a new state of consciousness is constructed. Between the disruption of one state and the formation of another, however, consciousness is relatively fluid and unstructured. It is during these chaotic states that phenomena such as visions are likely to occur. My visions (and the example provided above) fall within a state of consciousness termed by Tart (1965) as the hypnopompic, a transitional state that occurs as we awaken from sleep. In a similar vein, Murphy (1966) argued that it is in the transition between states of consciousness that psi-conducive energy is freed.

MY PRELIMINARY INTERPRETATION AND THE REACTION OF MY INFORMANTS In retrospect, I could not help but view these experiences as meaningful — not to be denied simply because of their novelty. Nor have I been embarrassed about relating these experiences to a number of Native and non-Native friends. The response has usually been something like this: "Well, I've never told anyone about this before, but I had an experience similar to yours." As a result, I have heard a number of interesting stories, the likes of which I had never heard before. My initial reaction to these visions was that they represented intuitive, probably unconscious, insights of some sort. My "aesthetic" hypothesis went something like this: To understand an unconscious insight, it must assume a form we can apprehend. The individual who has a vision somehow must externalize, energize, and anthropomorphize his/her insight. Such a phenomenon would not be a simple psychological projection in the way that projections are usually conceived. It would be a projection of energy which takes on an independent form for a limited VISITORS IN THE NIGHT

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period of time for the purpose of teaching or dialogue, after which it dissolves back into its source. Thus a "spirit" is akin to a work of art in that energy is molded into a concrete statement which takes on a life of its own in the sense that it has the capability of revealing something to its creator which is not always welcome but which cannot be ignored. When I described my experiences soon after they occurred to my northern Cree healer friend who had constructed the sweat lodge, he said: "Oh, I know the first spirit, a Grandfather who frequently helps me with sweat lodge ceremonies. Sweatlodges attract bad as well as good spirits, so he was probably checking on you to make sure you were all right. You have nothing to be afraid of. In fact, you are blessed. There are lots of people who would like to see one of the Grandfathers but never do first hand." He was baffled by the second spirit, however, and said, "I have no idea who that might have been. I have never met a spirit like that." Some time later, when my healer friend and I were discussing my interpretation of the visions, the healer said (in paraphrase)3: I have found in my own experience that there are two kinds of spirits, those you can control and those you can't. The spirits you can control are always at your beck and call. They are reliable and can be counted upon to do what you ask them to. The spirits you cannot control, like the Grandfathers, can be asked to make an appearance or to do something for you. But whether they do it or not is up to them. They are fundamentally beyond human comprehension and persuasion. The greatest of them all, the Great Spirit, is so much beyond human comprehension and control that we Indians don't even try and approach him directly. So there is a kind of hierarchy. The spirits on the lower end of the scale appear to be the ones you are talking about. But regardless of what kind they are, spirits always take a form which allows them to talk to us. When a plant spirit appears to me, it takes the form of a human, maybe just the top half. But that's all it needs to be able to talk to me. An animal spirit may take the form of an animal but it may also take the form of a human. Likewise, an elemental force of nature, a Grandfather such as the North Wind, may also take the form of a human. That does not mean that they really are humans, but they take a form which we can understand. That is as you would expect.

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When I described my experiences to a visiting Zen monk who stayed overnight in our home on January 31, 1987, his response was interesting: "I don't know anything about the first visitor, but the second appears to have been Jizo, the Buddhist patron saint of travelers and the guardian of children. He usually carries something in his hands and is accompanied by children. It is a common vision among Buddhist monks."4 Concerning my hypothesis that my visitors were externalized projections of deep, intuitive insights, the Zen monk thought a while and then said (in paraphrase): Although I don't talk about it much for fear of misunderstanding, we are frequently called upon by lay people to deal with "spiritual" manifestations. I recall one person who was being bothered by a spirit who refused to leave. I could see the spirit myself so I knew it was not just a psychological projection. But I could also see that it was a product of the individual's anxiety and fears. When I explained the nature of the spirit to the individual, the person relaxed and the spirit was gradually absorbed through the top of the person's head. It did not bother the person anymore after that. When I asked if all spirits were of this kind, the monk said: No, many "spirits" are created by ourselves for one reason or another. There are many other spirits, however, over which we have no control. Regardless of their origin, however, spirits are not considered by most Buddhists to be supernatural phenomena. They are part of the natural world which has many levels, many of which are unavailable for experience by most people. Regardless of their nature, when they appear to us they take a form which we can understand. It is natural that an Indian might see an animal spirit, just as it is natural that a Buddhist might see a Buddhist saint, or a Christian an angel.

DEALING WITH THESE EXPERIENCES INTELLECTUALLY I will now expand my original hypothesis concerning the nature of the "night visitors" into what I call a creative energy model. Before explaining the model, however, it is necessary to discuss the criteria employed in constructing the model. These criteria VISITORS IN THE NIGHT

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basically are statements about what I expect of the model. If the model has any scientific value, it should be possible to deduce a testable hypothesis, but that is beyond the scope of this paper and must be left for further research. Rather than testing the model, I will present information that supports its plausibility. It is obvious that if the model is not plausible, it will not be seriously considered by my reading audience. If the model does appear to be plausible (at least to some people), it may stimulate further discussion and research — in which case it will prove to have heuristic value.

CRITERIA FOR THE MODEL My Ph.D. training in anthropology included coursework in psychology, and my orientation is primarily that of a psychological anthropologist. Because of this orientation, it would be very easy for me to write off my visionary experiences as hallucinations. But I have never been tempted to do that for they seemed as real and authentic, in their own right, as my ordinary waking experiences. Instead, I have tried to find a way to make sense of these experiences which would do justice to their authenticity while not wreaking violence upon my scientific world view. Moreover, I have felt strongly that any model I construct should not contradict the experience of my informants whose cultures provided the stimulus for the experiences. Let us examine these criteria in more detail. 1. The model should be true to one's experience

By this I mean that the model should not distort the visions by enclosing them within so many analytic constructs that the original experiences lose their vitality and existential quality. When the first vision occurred, I believed a real flesh-and-blood Indian had somehow gotten into the house and had been standing in the doorway watching me until I woke up. I was upset by the intruder. My emotional reaction seems to have been a mixture of anger and fear. I yelled at the figure and flipped on the light — not so much in order to be able to see the figure better, as he was clearly visible, but in order to illuminate the rest of the room and to give me a greater sense of control over the situation. In other words, the figure was so real that the model would not be true to the experience if the vision were treated as some kind

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of dream. Experientially, there was no similarity between the vision and a dream. It is important to describe visions as accurately as possible because the details may provide clues concerning the meaning of the visions. Because my experiences were burned in my memory, I can, at will, call up images of the figures which are still vivid enough to allow me to continue to notice new details. For example, when I looked through books on North American Indian costumes at a later date, I realized that the costume of the Indian figure in my vision was unusually plain. The buckskin was smooth like suede, rather than having the variable texture of native-tanned hides, and the tunic and trousers lacked fringes, beadwork, or other embellishments. Finally, the sashes (around the head and around the waist) had the uniform texture of manufactured (rather than handwoven) cloth. The overall effect was elegant in its simplicity. In retrospect, the costume appeared to be modern — at least in materials if not in design. It should also be noted that whereas the first visitor was experientially indistinguishable from a real person, the second visitor (as well as the child clinging to his robes) was somewhat transparent. This may have been a clue provided by my unconscious mind that the experience should be recognized as a vision. If I had taken that clue, I might have reacted differently and reaped the benefit of whatever "gift" the figure was bringing me. Instead, I reacted in the same way that I had to the first visitor. I flipped on the light and the vision disappeared. In brief, although both visitors were real enough to evoke a fearful response, they were not really the same experientially. The significance of this difference, however, was not apparent at the time of the second visit. It became apparent only upon later reflection. 2. The model should not do violence to the views of his/her informants

My informants in this case were my two friends, the Native healer and the Zen monk. They represent the two meaning systems (outside of my own cultural background) — Japanese Zen Buddhism and Native religion — which have had the greatest impact upon my world view, and these two informants were the experts I relied upon to help me interpret my visions. It is clear that both of these experts believed that my visions were not hallucinations but experiences of some type of reality at least partially external to myself. Moreover, both of my informants stressed that the experiences were not isolated, idiosyncratic encounters, but VISITORS IN THE NIGHT

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commonplace among initiates in the cultural settings from which they come: Native believers in the case of the first visitor, and Zen Buddhist monks in the case of the second visitor. What was implied was that although I was neither Native nor a Zen monk, I had allowed myself to experience both of these cultures in considerable depth. As a result, under the right conditions I was able to access experiences normally available only to initiates. 3. The model should be broad enough to encompass the anthropologist's own interpretation as well as the interpretations of his/her informants

According to the first criterion, above, the model should be true to the visionary experience being analyzed. According to the second criterion, the model should not contradict the views of the informants whose cultures appear to have supplied the "raw material" for the visions. The point I now wish to make is that the model should encompass my own interpretation of what happened as well as the interpretations of my informants. In other words, what is needed is a meta-model which is capable of finding common ground between the various interpretations of the original experience. Finding common ground does not mean focusing upon obvious similarities (if there are any) and paring away the rest. Rather, it means developing concepts which are sufficiently broad and powerful that they provide a means of seeing connections which would otherwise be impossible to see. To use a time-worn example, it is difficult to find much similarity between an orange and apple until both are lumped under the concept of "fruit" which allows oranges and apples to be compared to "vegetables" such as spinach and peas. The ability to develop meta-concepts is an essential tool of the trade for anthropologists (Click 1977). Otherwise, ethnology, the endeavor of comparing ethnographic descriptions of individual societies, would be impossible. Without the possibility of conducting cross-cultural comparisons and making cross-cultural generalizations, anthropology would forever be mired in particularistic description and cultural relativism. Therefore what I am proposing is not something new. The only novel aspect of my proposal is that meta-models are useful, not only for comparing two or more ethnographic descriptions, but for bridging the gap between anthropologists and informants. When this gap is bridged, the anthropologist can take the model back to the host culture and find a sympathetic ear from one's informants. When this gap is bridged, the anthropologist 176

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is also in a better position to attempt to talk about the experience to individuals in his/her own culture — the subject of the final criterion. 4. The model should be capable of communicating meaning to individuals in the anthropologist's own culture Finding an explanation which does not do violence to one's own experiences and those of one's informants, while communicating these experiences to others with a "scientific world view," requires ingenuity. The attempt may involve what Bandler and Grinder (1982) have called "refraining" — trying on different explanations for size until one is found which serves the purpose. It's a little bit like rotating factors in factor analysis until the best possible fit is found, at which point the most salient dimensions are given a name. Or it's a little bit like consciously constructing a "myth" which provides a bridge between experience and explanation. A religious myth is not something which is untrue, but neither is it taken in a highly literal way. Gregory Bateson and his daughter, Mary Catherine Bateson, advocate adding "as if" in religious discourse in order to remind ourselves that religious discourse should not be treated like regular prose. Thus, according to the Batesons (1987:29), the Lord's Prayer becomes: "It is as if you or something were alive and personal, and if that were so, it would perhaps be appropriate to talk to you in words. So, although, of course, you are not a relative of mine, since you only as if exist, you are, as it were, in another plane." In other words, religious discourse is a language of metaphor. As the Batesons point out, however, "metaphor is not just pretty poetry." Even our scientific understanding of the universe is necessarily metaphorical because the very act of perceiving and conceptualizing dichotomizes a universe which is, in its fundamental nature, a unity. A myth is a device which encapsulates and explains a highly meaningful piece of one's experience. An "anthropological myth" must bridge the gap between one's experience, that of one's informants, and the scientific community. It is thus a hermeneutic device which ultimately must be judged in terms of its ability to communicate meanings which would otherwise be too alien to be plausible. In brief, I would like my model to be able to convince the reading audience that it is worth considering the idea that visions, such as the ones I had, are not hallucinations but manifestations of reality that impart information that could not be accessed in any

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other way. Having laid out the criteria for the model, let us turn to the model itself.

A THREE-STAGE CREATIVE ENERGY MODEL In order to avoid the connotations associated with hallucination, it is necessary to assume that my visitors had some sort of ontological reality of their own. But it is not necessary to assume that either their existence or their forms were entirely independent of my mind. It seems to me that underlying what we normally call "consciousness" are increasingly unconscious levels of being until we reach what Tillich (1951) called the Ground of our Being, the ultimate reality in which we all participate. In Buddhism, this is viewed as a level of reality which connects us with all other things in the universe. This Eastern understanding of the nature of the universe has some striking parallels with the findings of modern physics, which is why some contemporary philosophers of science such as Capra (1975) and Prigogine and Stengers (1984) use language similar to that of Eastern philosophy to describe the non-dualistic universe which is being revealed through the study of sub-atomic particles. To understand these deeper levels of our being, however, they must be anthropomorphized into something with which we can communicate. The artist attempts to do this through creating significant forms which are concrete and tangible enough to provide feedback to the artist and to communicate to others. Is it not possible that visions are deep, intuitive insights which are anthropomorphized and energized by the beholder? In other words, is it not possible that what is frequently called a "spirit" is a type of hermeneutic bridge which allows one to dialogue with those levels of one's being which are not normally accessible? Such a phenomenon would not be a simple psychological projection in the way that projections are usually conceived. It would be a projection of energy — an aspect of the person — which takes on semi-independent form and consciousness for a limited period of time after which it dissolves back into the ground from which it came. Like a work of art, such a phenomenon is a creation which takes on a life of its own in the sense that it has the capability of providing a "revelation" to its creator which is not always welcome but which cannot be ignored. I will now examine this hypothesis in more detail — using a three-stage creative energy model. 1 78

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Producing and Externalizing Creative Energy There is a belief in many cultures that energy can be accumulated and externalized for a variety of purposes such as healing or sending curses. This belief perhaps has received its most systematic formulation by the Chinese who have developed the concept of qi (spelled in a variety of ways, but pronounced chee). A good definition of qi is provided by Holbrook (1981:229): Ch'i is of two basic kinds: ch'i as energy-matter, the basic substance-and-force of the universe, and ch'i as energy, or better, force, as distinguished from shui (substance). . . . In living things, ch'i is what might be called "vital force," but, it is important to understand, it is not life itself. Life is ch'i (vital force) in combination with certain physical properties, [it] is an energy-substance with a metaphysical as well as a physical aspect. According to Chinese medical theory, the coronas evidenced by Kirlian photography of animate things would be life itself. (It is life's relatively physical aspect which makes life Kirlian-photographable by interaction with electricity.) Ch'i taken alone has only one physical property in the sense we attribute to "physical": weight, or mass. It has no shape, color, size, sound, smell, or taste. Beyond its mass, the existence of ch'i is recognized through its effects, for example, the shapes of Kirlian coronas. The Chinese have developed many ways of manipulating qi within the body, including massage, acupuncture, herbal remedies, the martial arts, and qi-gong exercises. Practiced by Buddhist and Taoist monks as early as 3,000 years ago, qi-gong consists of specific breathing and physical exercises, both of which require intense concentration. Through daily practice, an individual supposedly can acquire the skill to lower blood pressure, pulse and metabolic rates, and oxygen demand (Eisenberg 1987). According to my Chinese informants, a handful of qi-gong masters have learned to accumulate and project qi out of the body for purposes of affecting material objects or for treating patients. Western observers have witnessed qi-gong masters moving objects, such as a pendulum, without touching them, and lighting an unattached fluorescent bulb for several seconds by grasping it with both hands (Eisenberg 1987). While attending a conference in Beijing in 1987,1 witnessed qi-gong masters manipulating the limbs of paralyzed patients without touching them. After a VISITORS IN THE NIGHT

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patient had been carried onto the conference platform and placed on his/her back, the qi-gong master stood behind the patient, where he could not be seen, and used his hands to orchestrate the movements of the patient's arms and legs from a distance of approximately 15 feet. I also had the unusual experience of participating in an experiment in which a qi-gong master stood behind several volunteers, including myself, and manipulated our arms in unison. I felt a slight tingling in my arms and fingers as I "involuntarily" moved my arms in circles — sometimes large circles and sometimes small, sometimes fast and sometimes slow. Chinese researchers claim that these results are not achieved telepathically, but by energy transmissions from the fingertips of the master. At the conference, I viewed documentary infra-red footage of the build-up of heat in the brain and fingertips of a qi-gong master as a result of performing qi-gong exercises preliminary to treating a patient. The results of such demonstrations are difficult to evaluate and generally are met with widespread skepticism (Krippner and Villoldo 1976). Nevertheless, cross-cultural reports of individuals who can externalize and control energy are so widespread that they merit serious anthropological investigation.

Providing Creative Energy with a Tangible Form If a vision can be regarded as a work of art, as argued above, it may be the ultimate expression of artistic realism as indicated in the following quotation by Tyrrell (1973 [1953]:60) who wrote a classic study of the numerous cases of "apparitions" that have been collected over the years: Apparitions behave as if they were aware of their surroundings. . . . It [an apparition] may come in at the door. It nearly always moves about a room with normal respect for the position of the furniture. If it wanders about the house it makes normal use of doors, passages, and staircases. . . . Visible apparitions behave as a rule (there are some exceptions) with regard to the lighting of the scene, the distance from the percipient, and the presence of intervening objects, exactly as a material person would do. This, again, may not seem surprising at first sight; but it is very significant in view of the fact that the apparition has no physical basis [emphasis added], and no need to pay any attention to physical lighting. 180

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Tyrell goes on to develop this theme, using a dramatic analogy (p. 96): An apparition is a moving picture in three dimensions, and its creator has access to unlimited stage-property. Moreover, he has solved the problem of exhibiting three-dimensional pictures to a collective audience and can allow, down to the minutest detail, for the individual circumstances of each percipient, so that each appears to see the same visual solid from his own point of view. This dramatic theme is further developed (p. 101) as follows: The work of constructing the drama is done in certain regions of the personality which lie below the conscious level. . . . Perhaps it would be useful here to introduce a metaphor and to compare the consciousness of the agent to the author of a play, and that "something" within him which works out the idea in dramatic form to the "producer." Further, the "something else" within him which expresses this drama in the sensory form of an apparition may be compared to the 'executor' or 'stage-carpenter' of the play. Tyrrell's dramatic analogy is consistent with the model I am developing. Where my model disagrees with that of Tyrrell, however, is over the issue of whether an "apparition" has a physical basis. Tyrrell assumes that it does not — an assumption which leaves him with two major problems: how the hallucination behaves so realistically, and how it is that many apparitions are seen by groups of people. He himself admits that both are major problems. The realistic behavior of apparitions, for example, entails a complex blending of normally produced perceptions of the surroundings with hallucination: "In the majority of cases apparitions obscure the background. This implies minute and accurate co-ordination between normal and hallucinatory sensedata; for exactly that part of the normal sense-datum which would form the background if the apparition were not there is inhibited to make room for the hallucinatory sense-datum of the apparition" (Tyrrell 1973 [1953]:92). The problem of group hallucination is even more challenging. An example of a vision shared by more than one person is the

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following account (related in Green and McCreery 1975:46-47) by a husband and wife: Husband's account: In April of last year, while the light was still good, I was returning home from a walk with my wife, and when within a few yards of the gate, which opens into a straight path leading to the house, both my wife and I saw a woman pass through the open gate and walk straight to the house, when, on reaching the door, she disappeared. I ran to the door, opened it with my latchkey, and expected in my astonishment to find her inside, for she seemed to have walked through the door. It all seemed so real that I at once searched the house, but in vain. Wife's account: My husband now began to cross the road, bidding me follow, and take care not to fall on the loose stones. I did so, naturally looking down at my feet, until a little more than halfway across the road, or about 6 yards from the gate, when on raising my eyes I saw a gray figure walking up the path to the door. She was then about a yard inside the gate, and although she had appeared so mysteriously, I felt no surprise, she looked so thoroughly commonplace and substantial. My husband saw her enter the gate, so there can be no question as to which of us saw her first, but I was certainly the first to exclaim: "Who is that?" although my husband's exclamation followed so quickly that they might almost be considered simultaneous, as indeed I believe Mr. Barber described them in his letter to you. I next said: "Stop a moment and let us see who it is," but he answered, "No, it is no good letting her ring," and hurried forward with his latchkey. The distance from the gate to the door is 7 1/2 yards, and when I first saw the figure I should be about 6 yards from the gate. My husband would be at least a couple of yards in front of me, and as he saw the figure actually turn in at the gate he had a better view of her shawl and bonnet. I only saw that she was in gray, and that it was no one we knew. She walked quietly up the path and then up the two steps to the door, and I always fancy I saw her raise her hand as through to ring the bell, but of that I cannot be sure, and then against the dark door she vanished completely. . . . Tyrrell and others of his persuasion attempt to explain this kind of phenomenon (numerous cases have been collected) in 182

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terms of telepathy in which each of the participants plays his part in expressing a collective idea-pattern (1973 [1953]: 113 ff) so that the apparition is viewed from different angles appropriate to the position of the viewers. In my mind, the difficulties of the hallucination-telepathy model are so great that the possibility of some kind of physical presence must be considered. Why does Tyrrell reject this possibility? He argues (1973:52) that apparitions must be non-physical because "(i) they appear and disappear in locked rooms; (ii) they vanish while being watched; (iii) they sometimes become transparent and fade away; (iv) they are often seen and heard by some of those present but not by all; (v) they disappear into walls and closed doors and pass through physical objects; (vi) people have put their hands through them and walked through them without encountering any resistance; (vii) they leave no physical traces behind them/' I believe that with the possible exception of TyrrelFs point number iv,6 these characteristics of visionary experiences are not incompatible with my model which hypothesizes that so-called apparitional figures are some type of energy field which is projected and given form by an individual. In other words, an apparitional figure may be something like a holographic projection which can be seen by more than one person and which can be turned off. The program for the projection may be formulated in an unconscious dimension of the person which needs expression or which has information to offer concerning a critical problem facing the individual. For a limited period of time, an anthropomorphic figure comes into being and has a life of its own. A more radical solution to the problem of how energy is materialized into visible form is provided in The Tibetan Book of the Great Liberation, subtitled The Method of Realizing Nirvana Through Knowing the Mind. In an English version of this text, Evans-Wentz (1954:29), the editor, summarizes (in a footnote) the Tibetan belief concerning the "y°ga of dominion over bodily form" as follows: Inasmuch as the mind creates the world of appearances, it can create any particular object desired. The process consists of giving palpable being to a visualization, in very much the same manner as an architect gives concrete expression in three dimensions to his abstract concepts after first having given them expression in the two dimensions of his blue-print. . . . Madam Alexandra David-Neel (1931), who investigated these magical matters among the Tibetans

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. . . herself, after some months' practice, succeeded in creating the form of a monk which followed her about and was seen by others. She lost control of it, whereupon it grew inimical; and only after six months of difficult psychic struggle in concentration was she able to dissipate it. Although this account falls within the parameters of what my model attempts to explain, I am skeptical about the longevity and independence achieved by Madam David-Neel's vision. Regardless of its accuracy, the account is probably not greeted with skepticism by Tibetan Buddhists whose view of the relationship between mind and body is different than the dualistic view common in the West. Govinda (1969:67-68) explains the Tibetan view of the relationship between mind and matter in terms of the concept of rupa which means "form" or "shape," "without indicating whether this form is material or immaterial, concrete or imagined, apprehended by the senses (sensuous) or conceived by the mind (ideal)." The concept of rupa transcends the distinction between mind and matter, both of which can be traced back to elements which have no substantial reality but which continually appear and disappear. "They form a continuous stream, which partly become conscious in living beings in conformity with their tendencies, their development, their sense-organs, etc What we call matter, can only be defined as a particular kind of sense-impression or mental experience which accordingly takes its place among the elements or faculties of consciousness" (p. 68). Despite the fact that the Buddhist view of reality seems "mystical" to most Western people, it has received considerable attention in recent years because of the findings of modern physics — the implications of which are equally as "mystical." A good summary of the implications of quantum physics for understanding the relation between mind and body is provided by Edge, et al. (1986:287 ff). The gist of their summary is as follows: Quantum theory indicates that at the atomic and sub-atomic level, the behavior of a basic particle such as an electron cannot be precisely predicted except in terms of probabilities. In other words, there is a range of potential locations. According to the Copenhagen interpretation, "the electron, before its location is observed, is not merely in an unknown location; it is in an indeterminate state (in effect, it is nowhere in particular) until it is 'observed' by means of a suitable instrument. The act of observation somehow forces a decision (in technical terms it 'collapses the state vector')." 184

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The implication is that we not only discover the laws of nature but participate in making them. This implication has been developed by theoretical physicists such as E.H. Walker (1977) who proposes that conscious intention can influence the outcome of an indeterminate quantum situation. "What the theory proposes is that the subject's will brings about a correlation (agreement) between the imagined and the actual outcomes of the quantum process" (Edge, et al. 1986:289). Such ideas have naturally stimulated considerable debate and experimental studies, not only in the physical sciences, but in the social sciences as well, where it has become increasingly common to argue that social reality is constructed. For purposes of this paper, it is sufficient to point out that, with the breakdown of a clear distinction between mind and matter, it may not be entirely implausible to entertain the notion that an aspect of one's being can, under the right conditions, be externalized and given form.

Empowering the Visionary Form to Communicate Carl Jung (1960 [1920]:301-318) believed that parts of the psyche, which he called "autonomous complexes," very rarely become associated with the ego. What are generally regarded as "spirits" are unconscious autonomous complexes which appear as projections in space. Jung divides the unconscious into two parts. One is the personal unconscious which includes all those psychic contents which have been forgotten during the course of the individual's life, subliminal impressions which have too little energy to reach consciousness, unconscious combinations of ideas that are too indistinct to cross over the threshold into consciousness, and psychic contents that are incompatible with the conscious attitude. The impersonal or collective unconscious includes material that is not unique to one individual such as instincts and primordial images which provide the basis of thinking. Material from the collective unconscious is projected externally when something so devastating happens to the individual that his previous attitudes to life break down, or when the contents of the collective unconscious accumulate so much energy that they start influencing the conscious mind. Whenever contents of the collective unconscious become activated, they have a disturbing effect which can lead to psychosis unless these materials can assume a communicable form such as a vision. If successful communication is established, the driving forces locked up in the VISITORS IN THE NIGHT

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unconscious are canalized into consciousness and provide a new source of ideas and psychic energy. Anthropologists are well aware of the fact that individual and cultural responses to dreams and visions are quite varied. They range from a belief that what is experienced in dreams and visions are "more real" than what is experienced in normal waking life, and should therefore be used as a guide to the rest of life, to a belief that dreams and visions are forms of fantasy or "hallucination" and should not be allowed to interfere with the rest of life. Even if the dream or vision is repressed, however, it has done its work; it has changed the individual's outlook in subtle ways. Cultures which acknowledge and value what can be learned from the unconscious have devised special technologies, such as trance, hypnotism, and meditation, for breaking through psychological and cultural screens to access deeper levels of awareness. In those cultures which do not value what can be learned from the unconscious, individuals may be wary of alternative states of consciousness and may even learn to suppress their memory of dreams. Even in these "rationalistic" cultures, however, individuals sometimes come into intimate contact with ideas and practices which challenge their own "normal" modes of thought and experience. When this happens, the individual's psychological and cultural screens can be cracked enough to allow creative insights and energy to come bubbling through from deeper levels of being. Regardless of whether the unconscious levels of being have been actively sought (through a special technology) or find spontaneous expression in phenomena such as dreams and visions, if an individual breaks through the last of the multi-layered screens which insulate us from the ground of our being, he/she may have a shattering experience (frequently referred to as a mystical or enlightenment experience). Such an experience may change the ways in which the personality and "normal" consciousness are organized (Salzman 1959). Although the mystical experience is sometimes referred to as a "religious" experience, it is probably not the result of an encounter with a transcendent or supernatural being. It is simply a direct encounter with the basic nature of reality.7 It tends to be a liberating experience because the psychological and cultural screens which make "normal" life possible are temporarily set aside and things which normally cannot be seen or experienced become apparent. The extra-ordinary becomes visible.

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If there are many levels of being underlying conscious experience, the "reality" expressed in a vision is not necessarily an "ultimate" reality. It may be as mundane as a fear or an anxiety which has not been allowed expression in everyday life. Regardless of the level from which it comes, however, it has an urge to make itself known. If the urge is powerful enough, it will evade all of the normal psychological and cultural barriers and take on a form which is so realistic and compelling that it cannot be ignored. To insist on calling such visions hallucinations is a blatant expression of positivistic thinking. It could be argued that the deeper levels of our being have at least as much reality as the role-playing that we normally associate with everyday life. If this is so, the forms that appear in visions should not be ignored, but treated with respect. It may be difficult to decipher the message carried in a vision (especially if the vision is "cut short" as in my case), but we should at least make an effort to understand, as the message may be of great significance.

THE MEANING OF MY VISIONS In neither of the meaning systems represented by my two visions — North American Indian religion and Japanese Zen Buddhism — would the visitors to my bedroom necessarily be regarded as the spirits of disembodied souls. According to my Native informant, ghosts of departed people may be trapped on this plane of existence for some reason, but these are not the kinds of spirits who would normally be called upon by a healer to assist in healing ceremonies. Spirits who appear in visions are often "Grandfathers" such as the primordial forces of nature, exemplified by wind and fire, which have been around for a long time and which possess great power. Another class of Grandfathers, less powerful than the first, are the spirits associated with animal and plant species (not to be confused with the souls of individual animals or plants). For example, my Native informant has three main animal spirit helpers: the bear, the bison, and the eagle. When these spirits visit the believers in the course of a sacred ceremony, however, they are not to be thought of as a real bear, a real bison, or a real eagle. When they assume these forms, they are a manifestation of the desirable qualities represented by the creatures with which they are associated at a cosmological level. For example, the eagle represents farsightedness, whereas the bear represents good parental care. In other words, the natural world around us has qualities which can help us in time of VISITORS IN THE NIGHT

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need, provided we know how to access them. Under certain conditions, these qualities can manifest themselves spontaneously. In Buddhism, the bodhisattvas are not historical figures who have achieved enlightenment but manifestations of aspects of ultimate reality. Thus Kannon, a popular deity in China and Japan, is a manifestation of compassion. The concepts of aspect and manifestation, however, are not just abstract theological ideas, nor are they simply symbols. Kannon does not represent compassion. Rather, Kannon is the active principle of compassion at work in the universe. As such Kannon is manifested in concrete deeds of compassion; Kannon can also appear in human form to those in need. In terms of specifics, it is difficult to ascertain what my visions meant. I have looked through dozens of books in the hope of finding a picture of the costume worn by the Indian visitor. Thus far I have not found a close match, although the Native dress of the Southwest (such as Navaho, Apache, or Hopi) seems to be close. For the time being, I have very few clues concerning how the Native visitor might be interpreted — apart from the opinion offered by my healer friend — that the visitor was a spirit helper who was checking on my welfare. The prospects for a more detailed understanding of the second visitor are better. At the time of my visions, I had heard of Jizo, but I had been told that he was the patron saint of travelers (much like Saint Christopher in Catholicism) whose statue is frequently placed at busy intersections. I had, in fact, taken a picture of such a statue on a trip to Japan. But the Jizo in my slide was not carrying anything, nor was he accompanied by a child. The summer following the visions, my wife and I conducted an educational tour to Japan. My wife and I went to several Buddhist cemeteries where we indeed found Jizo statues approximating the figure in my vision, although there were differences. The main similarities between the Jizo statues and the figure in my vision are that both wear the robes and close-cropped hair of a Buddhist priest; both are carrying something in their hands; and both have one or more children clinging to their robes. The main differences are that the figure in the vision is tall and thin (and appears to be Caucasian) whereas the Jizo cemetery figures are shorter and stockier and have Oriental facial features. The other notable difference is that whereas the figure in my vision is carrying a small lidded box in both hands, the Jizo cemetery figures hold a scepter in the left hand and a jewel (about the same size as the box) in the right hand.

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More recently, I did some historical research on Jizo.8 According to Eliot (1959 [1953]:56-57), Kshitigarbha, the Sanskrit name for Jizo, is one of the great bodhisattvas. He has no known historical origins but is believed to have struggled toward perfection through countless existences and to have refused Nirvana in order to help suffering humanity. His original vows were to save us from wandering in the six paths of existence (Suzuki 1974). Basically, he is a guide to the spiritual life. Although of minor importance in India, Kshitigarbha became a popular deity in China (under the name of Ti-Tsang) and Japan (under the name of Jizo). The name Kshitigarbha can be translated as "earth womb" or "earth storehouse" and has been interpreted to mean that he is Lord of the nether world. He has vowed to deliver all creatures from hell and visits them in their place of suffering. He is even said to suffer in their stead. In Japan, in addition to being the protector of roads, Jizo aids women in childbirth and takes a special interest in the souls of dead children (Eliot 1959 [1953]: 127-128), particularly children who have been killed in automobile accidents (Kennett 1972). Jizo also guards children from epidemic diseases and other illnesses, and is involved in cases of spirit possession in which children serve as mediums (Czaja 1974:266-267). In previous births, Jizo is believed to have been a woman twice and is said to have some feminine traits (Eliot 1959 [1953]:128). In Japan, Jizo is often represented as a shaven priest who carries in his right hand the shakujo (a clerical staff originally used to strike the ground and frighten away small animals who otherwise might be trodden on), and in his left hand a mani (jewel), signifying that he is ready to give anything out of compassion (Eliot 1959 [1953]:354). More specifically, the jewel has the power of preventing unhappy events, prolonging life, and insuring safe delivery of babies. It is viewed as the perfect symbol for prevention and procreation (Czaja 1974:38-39). Jizo also has connections with the pre-Buddhist shamanism of Japan. When Buddhism came to Japan, it attempted to replace shamanic and Shinto deities with Buddhist deities. Jizo replaced Dosojin, an earlier phallic deity, in his function as the protector of children. At a popular level, Jizo was given the same attributes that had been given to Dosojin, and is sometimes carved in very elongated proportions as lying within the hull of a boat, an old phallic symbol which represents both the male and female principles (Czaja 1974:169). Another function of Dosojin which Jizo assumed in the popular mind was that of rainmaker. In time of drought, farmers in the Kyoto area climb to the top of Mount VISITORS IN THE NIGHT

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Atago where they bind a statue of Jizo, promising to release him as soon as he intervenes with the gods to bring rain (Czaja 1974:245). I cannot provide a definitive interpretation of the meaning of the two visions — especially since they were interrupted when I panicked. It is interesting to note, however, that the visitors represented the two cultures, other than my own, with which I have had the most in-depth contact. And both figures (assuming that the Indian visitor is a Grandfather which helps my healer friend with his healing ceremonies) are associated with healing and/or the prevention of disease and calamity. This is appropriate, given the fact that their appearance followed the construction of the sweat lodge which was used to treat psoriasis patients. It may also be important that at that time, I was in the midst of trying to reconcile the deep impact of Native religion upon my life with the long-standing impact of Zen Buddhism. Although they seemed compatible in many ways, Native religion is much more concrete with its emphasis upon nature, whereas Zen emphasizes transcending the world of attachment in order to reach the Void (the realm of pure potential which is beyond time and space). Both approaches have great appeal for me, but I wasn't sure whether I should try to keep them separate or to synthesize them within my own personal world view. Given this dilemma, it is interesting that representatives of both sides of the conflict put in an appearance. It is also interesting that the Native visitor was solid and concrete whereas Jizo was somewhat transparent. But I don't have the feeling that they were competing for my allegiance. Instead, they seem to say that the concrete and the abstract (the right brain and the left brain — speaking metaphorically) are both necessary and must be kept in balance. Other meanings will undoubtedly unfold when the time is right.

CONCLUSION One of the major themes of this article is that visions are not that rare. They occur in all cultures and to people from all walks of life. Visions are regarded with respect in many societies and frequently are intentionally cultivated. In Western society, however, visions have been regarded with suspicion and described as apparitions and hallucinations. Because of this Western bias, many anthropologists have concealed their visions rather than viewing them as interesting data. It is time that more anthropologists begin sharing their visions with each other and asking 190

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meaningful questions such as why visions frequently appear during an in-depth exposure to a different culture; and why the visions of anthropologists often take on the form and content of the cultures in which they work. It is also time that more anthropologists begin sharing their extraordinary experiences with the people with whom they work. Sharing experiences of this sort can open the doors to a deeper level of communication between anthropologists and informants, and deeper insights into society as viewed by one's informants. Another major theme is that anthropology is still saddled with a curious blend of relativism and ethnocentrism. The traditional relativism of our discipline has made us tolerant of other modes of thought and behavior, but we don't really take our informants seriously when their world views differ radically from our own. As a result, anthropology has too often missed the opportunity of using its extensive cross-cultural data base to address significant questions concerning the nature of the relationships between mind, body, culture, and environment. We claim to be holistic and to be concerned about such relationships, but much of what we write is increasingly specialized and fragmented. Or worse, we explain away what our informants say by subjecting their beliefs to some kind of structural, functional, or symbolic analysis. It is time that we as anthropologists begin to take our informants more seriously and attempt to build models that will do justice to both our own "scientific" world view (which we cannot leave behind) and the world view of those who see reality in a different way. This requires more than a hermeneutic method which translates meaning from one system to another. It requires an honest effort to try and find some common ground. Only in this way can we move beyond relativism and ethnocentrism to a type of inquiry which involves treating our informants as colleagues in the anthropological endeavor. This does not require us to accept without question the things our informants tell us. Healthy skepticism is at the heart of science. But it does mean that we should attempt to suspend disbelief and assume that the explanations of our informants could be true, and therefore worthy of serious consideration and/or investigation. Following the criteria for developing models described above will not necessarily produce hypotheses that will hold up in the face of systematic research and experimentation. The model presented in this paper, for example, is highly speculative. It may or may not be of value in the long run. But by attempting to do justice to my own world view, as well as those V I S I T O R S IN THE NIGHT

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of my informants, such a model forces us to at least consider explanations that lie outside of our normal cultural models. Meta-models of the sort developed in this paper may open up avenues of investigation which would remain closed if we had to wait until all of the evidence is in.

NOTES 1. I described each of these experiences to my wife the mornings following their occurrences; and soon after the second experience, I described the visitors to my healer friend — a topic we returned to in subsequent conversations. Because I am in the practice of tape-recording conversations with my healer friend, I have transcripts (on file with the Centre for the Cross-Cultural Study of Health and Healing, Department of Anthropology, Edmonton, Canada T6G 2H4) which include references to various aspects of my visions. Because I regarded these experiences as personal rather than anthropological data, however, I did not provide a detailed description of my visions until the spring of 1988 when I related them in a paper presented at the Canadian Ethnology Society conference held in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. The present paper is, in fact, an expansion of that conference paper; and the session in which the conference paper was presented (chaired by Jean-Guy Goulet and me) provided the impetus for this book. 2. A Native student at the University of Alberta told me that both she and her husband have been simultaneously awakened in their bedroom by a "spirit" with whom they both conversed. According to the student, this experience has been repeated several times. 3. One of the most important conversations dealing with the healer's interpretation of "spirit" visitors and what determines the form they assume took place at our home on the evening of November 15, 1987. My recollections of this conversation were recorded the following day. The tape and its transcription are on file with the Centre for the Cross-Cultural Study of Health and Healing (op. cit. in footnote #2 above). Numerous other tape recordings of conversations with the healer (or recollections of such conversations) are also on file with the Centre. Some of the information contained in these tapes have been included in Cry of the Eagle: Encounters with a Cree Healer (Young, Ingram, and Swartz 1989).

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4. To check the accuracy of my reconstruction of the Zen monk's response to my visions, I provided him with a copy of a conference paper (see Note 2 above) in which his response was included. He made one correction (included in the present version of this paper). The monk also discussed the propriety of including his response in a published report with the head of the monastery with which he is associated. The head of the monastery had no objection to making public use of the monk's response. 5. There is a body of literature in the West, associated with "neoplatonism," which developed the concept of an "astral" body which is conceived of as the vehicle of life-bearing energy. The astral body is described as the exact replica of the physical body which forms a bond between matter and spirit. The astral body is said to be the seat of the intellectual and emotional faculties. Under the right conditions, the astral body can leave the physical body and travel to other places. As such, it is a kind of materialization (for a summary of concepts related to the astral body see Walker 1974). Despite its superficial similarities, the concept of an astral body is quite different from the idea, developed in this paper, that visions are projections of unconscious aspects of one's being which assume anthropomorphic forms consistent with what is attempting to be communicated. In other words, I do not conceive of my visions as being "doubles" of my own body. 6. It is not clear from the perspective of the model developed in this paper why a collective vision is not always shared by everyone in the group. A partial explanation may be provided by Marsh (1977:125) who summarizes earlier work by Ornstein (1986 [1972]) as follows: Ornstein. . . has noted that we are not equipped to experience the world as it fully exists. The human eye sees only a very limited band of the entire electromagnetic spectrum. The human ear hears only a limited range of all the possible sound waves. What we select from the available stimuli for the content of our consciousness at any particular moment is influenced in part by our own biological receiving mechanism, as well as by our momentary needs, and our whole past history, which includes the way in which Western culture has defined and structured reality to exclude the intuitive perceptual mode.

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7. This assumes, of course, that there is an external reality to be experienced. Some people are agnostic about this (see Laughlin in this volume) since experience is always the product of an internal, mental, or neurological event. Others advocate some kind of idealism in which "external" reality is viewed as the product of a mental event. In an extreme form, idealism postulates that all of reality occurs in the mind of God. My own position cannot really be described in terms of either idealism or realism. I believe that the "self consists of multiple dimensions that extend in a continuum from the phenomenological world of the senses to the deepest levels of the self which participate in a basic reality in which all things are connected — what Tillich (1951) referred to as "the ground of our being." All of these dimensions are equally real, but they are not all equally accessible. Such a world view, like any world view, cannot be proven or disproven. It involves what Kierkegaard (see Hannay 1982) called a "leap of faith." After one takes such a leap, however, it colors the way that one perceives the world and the way that one thinks. Being aware of how one's biases color one's perceptions has been referred to by some anthropologists as "self-reflexivity" (Watson and Watson-Franke 1985). In my case, self-reflexivity includes the recognition that I am not a religious person in the ordinary sense of the word. I do not believe in a Supreme Being who created the Universe and who transcends its creation. Although I was raised in the Protestant tradition, my own views are more compatible with some of the pre-reformation mystics or Eastern thought as expressed in Hinduism or Buddhism. After finishing a graduate degree in religion at Yale University, I traveled to Japan where I encountered Zen Buddhism. It had immediate appeal for me as it was in accord with my own experience of the universe as a source of mystery and awe, a constellation of creative, formative principles which unceasingly manifests itself in an ongoing evolutionary process of which galaxies, humans, and all other things are temporary manifestations. Partly as a result of this orientation, I have found it relatively easy to empathize into a Native world view in which Nature is not viewed as an artifact but as something alive. Sharing these biases may help the reader to understand "where I am coming from" and to make any adjustments that may be required for my argument to be understood. 8. I am indebted to Lise Swartz for helping research this topic and for providing useful comments on the paper.

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PART III: Taking Our Informants Seriously

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C. RODERICK WILSON

Seeing They See Not

INTRODUCTION The question of whether or not we allow ourselves to be affected personally by extraordinary experiences while conducting fieldwork can be conceptualized as a particular variant of a general question in the philosophy of science, "the question of prematurity and uniqueness in scientific discovery." In an article with that title, the molecular geneticist Gunther S. Stent (1987:98) raises the question of the appropriate scientific response to "troublesome subjects" such as extrasensory perception (ESP). He notes that there are three possible responses: The first of these is that the truth or falsity of ESP, like the truth or falsity of the existence of God or of the immortality of the soul, is totally independent of either the methods or the findings of empirical science. Thus the problem is defined out of existence . . . [The] second approach is to reformulate the ESP phenomenon in terms of currently acceptable scientific notions, such as unconscious perception or conscious fraud. Hence, rather than defining ESP out of existence, it is trivialized. . . . The third approach is to take the proposition of ESP literally and to attempt to examine in all seriousness the evidence for its validity. . . . The reason . . . for the futility of a strictly evidential approach to ESP is that in the absence of a hySEEING THEY SEE NOT

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pothesis of how ESP could work it is not possible to decide whether any set of relevant observations can be accounted for only by ESP to the exclusion of alternative explanations. For Stent, then, research on ESP is not unscientific; rather it is premature. That is, it cannot now be connected with what he calls "canonical knowledge" or "the predominantly accepted scientific view of the nature of things" and will, like the brilliant and now known to be valid, but nonetheless premature work of Gregor Mendel, be ignored by one's contemporaries. "Such work has to be disregarded, even if it cannot be accounted for, in the hope that it will eventually turn out to be false or irrelevant" (1987:99). Stent's argument certainly explains why, in spite of considerable statistical and other documentation, ESP continues to be a "troublesome subject." It also explains, although not intentionally, why so much science is conformist in nature. There is no point in getting off the beaten path because the rest of us aren't there is the implicit message. The anthropological self-image features the notion of being off the beaten path. This is generally true only in a geographic sense, as the pressures toward cultural conformity are as strong within our anthropological culture as they are without it.2 Nevertheless, the geographic mobility of the anthropologist does have the great advantage of, at least periodically, providing an opportunity to stray on to, for us, less well-traveled paths. This may entail suspending our normal ways of perceiving in order to see what is literally in front of our faces. Failing to change our normal ways of perceiving, we see not what they, our informants and the people we work with, are seeing. Let me share one such path with you. I will begin anecdotally. In 1978-79 I was engaged in fieldwork in Amazonian Ecuador, working closely with an old friend, Dr. James Yost, who was then attached to the Summer Institute of Linguistics and had lived among the Waorani for some seven years. He had been asked to collect data on the Waorani for Berlin and Kay's cross-cultural study on the evolution of basic color terms. This involved showing the subjects a finely graded series of colored cards covering the entire spectrum and determining if each subject possessed a basic color term for the card, a term like red or green, as opposed to a term like "the color of fresh pig blood" or "the color of a newly-emerged banana leaf." One afternoon a Waorani man identified a strongly bluish card as being "leaf colored." The protocol stipulated that such 198

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determinations were not to be questioned, but Yost is too good an anthropologist to be intimidated into slavish conformity. He immediately responded, "Where have you seen a leaf that color?" Whereupon the man twisted around in his hammock, pointed to some treed hills visible in the distance through a clearing, and said, "Right there!" And he was, of course, precisely correct. During the next few days, another identification occurred several times that we also found puzzling. Several people indicated that cards located near the bottom of the overall chart, i.e. cards that were toned quite darkly, and were in the sector that I would identify as being "purplish," were what they called "sky colored." The puzzlement, of course, came from the fact that most of the other "sky-colored" cards selected were white, very light gray, or very light blue. In fact, the obvious gloss for "sky colored" in Waorani is "white" or "light." So why were some of these people identifying some of the relatively dark purple cards as being "sky colored" or "light"? An answer came a few days later, as the village put on a party that lasted through the night. Somewhere around three in the morning I found myself sitting on an old ironwood log in the middle of the village. The singing and dancing had died down, at least for the moment. Because this was a large village, the ring of giant trees circling it did not crowd in overhead. My eyes were drawn to the sky and stars overhead when suddenly it dawned on me, "This is the color! This dark middle of the night sky is the exact shade of the purple, 'sky colored' card!" The point, I think, of both incidents is that Yost and I, as members of North American culture, or better, as members of scientifically oriented North American culture, both "knew" that forested hillsides that appear to be bluish or purplish are in fact covered with trees whose leaves, when viewed at close range, are "normal" green. Moreover, we both knew that the apparent color change has to do with such phenomena as the diffraction of light, the existence of particulate matter in the air, and so on. To put it another way, we carried around with us scientific explanations of natural phenomena that allowed us to "normalize" observations, to bring observations that ran counter to the usual into conformity with the expected. I have no serious doubt that these particular "scientific" explanations are essentially correct. But still, I am concerned about the fact that my vision is so "normalized" that I could not see what was literally in front of my face. I begin with these anecdotes because they spoke powerfully to me. They are used here, however, in a very general fashion. SEEING THEY SEE NOT

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The specific issue I wish to address is not related to color categories, but rather to the question of what other kinds of phenomena I cannot see because of my cultural and/or anthropological background.

INTO THE SACRED WORLD Our culture, generally, and our anthropological culture, specifically, are highly secularized. In contrast, the tribal or folk peoples with whom most anthropologists work have, or had, sacred world views. This contrast clearly identifies one of the major dimensions on which anthropologists and informants differ. If the relationship is conceptualized as consisting of two factors, the "reality" of the informant's sacred world view and the degree to which it touches the anthropologist personally, one derives four possible ways in which an anthropologist can respond to a sacred world view. First, it is possible that the spiritual dimension of the informant, as opposed to mind or body, is regarded by the anthropologist as unimportant because it is essentially "unreal" or not rooted in reality, while the anthropologist also personally regards the holding of such a world view negatively. In such a case, the spiritual dimension will be defined as irrelevant. This attitude is pervasive in some of the social sciences and is not unknown in anthropology. An anthropological colleague is so "thoroughly agnostic" (his words) that he will not even listen to spiritual material that is recounted to him by his closest informants. Second, an informant's spiritual experiences (defined as encounters with spirits or other entities possessing supernatural or non-natural powers) may be regarded as real by the anthropologist in the sense that the informant believes them to be real and hence they inform behavior. Although the anthropologist does not consider these experiences or the beliefs associated with them to be personally relevant, they are nonetheless regarded as culturally relevant phenomena to be reported as cultural data functionally or otherwise connected to other aspects of culture. Typifying this perspective is the standard phrase used by anthropologists to introduce an informant's description or explanation of a spiritual experience: "The [insert name of group] believe that. . . . " This prologue effectively distances the anthropologist from what are obviously perceived to be irrational ideas. A third possibility involves the anthropologist realizing that there may be very direct personal consequences for him/her 200

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and/or his/her informant consequent upon the informant holding a particular sacred world view, whatever his/her view may be of the ultimate reality articulated in that world view. Thus the anthropologist may be forced to take action to avoid the consequences of a taboo or curse, for instance. In extremely adverse circumstances, the situation may seize the entire attention of the persons involved, but because the attention, however intense, is rooted in a perception of ultimate unreality, it is of only pragmatic importance to the actors. The final alternative is that one may accept the possibility that a sacred world or spiritual encounter is rooted in reality and may allow it to touch one's self personally. That is, the sacred world view may be taken seriously. This fourth way of responding to a sacred world view appears to be very rare in the discipline of anthropology, but it is this possibility that is here being explored. Allow me to return to my personal experience. Some four years ago, I made arrangements with a spiritually active young Cree to speak to one of my classes. He delivered an interesting and informative, but very general and introductory, lecture to the class on Cree symbols and meanings. The class listened with great interest and attentiveness. The next day I used the talk as a springboard for analytic comment. One of my major points was that such belief systems are not static because practices such as shamanic healing have a pragmatic, experiential base. That is, the shaman does not blindly follow a predetermined formula, but continues to do that which works, and rejects or modifies that which does not work. At this point, most of the class (which had given the Cree lecturer rapt attention) registered widespread disbelief. They simply were not willing to accept shamanism as having any kind of even quasi-experimental or semi-scientific basis. I do not wish to lay an excessive load on a simple incident, but this strikes me as quite typical and highly significant. Beliefs or practices which can be accorded respect by reasonably enlightened people when encountering aboriginal populations are dismissed from serious consideration within our own intellectual tradition. This "respect" is frequently the product of a relativism rooted in ethnocentrism: "I can respect your beliefs and practices because they are totally other, and so do not touch me and my experience." The moment an attempt is made to bring alien beliefs and practices into the arena of scientific investigation, one is dismissed as a crank. Let us move to a somewhat broader perspective. The inability to take seriously a sacred world view is not restricted to the SEEING THEY SEE NOT

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academic community. This inability tends to dominate even that one sector of our general society which one might expect to have resisted a secular world view, and which frequently talks at length about the problems engendered by a secular world view. I refer, of course, to the religious community within our society. A small experiment which I have engaged in several times is simply to ask a religious person what they would do if they were planning an outdoor wedding and were concerned about the weather. Many will mention prayer, but in my experience few will mention it first, and none will rely on it solely. For the vast majority of North Americans who consider themselves to be active Christians, one finds out about the weather from the weatherman and one does not actively attempt to alter the weather by prayers. Even in our churches, secular ideas, like high and low pressure systems, predominate. Perhaps the best way to make the point is to refer to a story told by Jacob Loewen,3 an anthropologist who has spent most of his life doing work related to Bible translation. He writes: In 1961 David Wirsche and I were in Panama with the recently started Choco church. Aureliano, the prophet of the young church, had invited us to be his guests. While we were at his house his wife, Nata, fell ill. Before long, she was seriously ill. From the little medical studies I had done, I realized she was suffering from pneumonia and so I immediately dispatched a messenger with a canoe and some money to the small town at the mouth of the river, half a day's journey away, to see if he could buy some penicillin, streptomycin or some of the sulpha drugs, because all I had with me was some aspirin and some anti-malarial medicine. . . . When the messenger returned, he brought us the sad news that none of the medicines I had asked for were available. So day by day we were forced to watch the pneumonia become more virulent. About that time I happened to be reading the book of James in my devotions and when I got to the fifth chapter and there read that "If anyone is sick, he shall call the elders, and they shall anoint the person with oil and the prayer of faith will raise the sick," I suddenly found myself in a fierce inner struggle. I knew what pneumococci looked like. . . . 1 knew what the material antidotes to them were. . . . Since germs for me belonged to the category of the material, they could be "killed" by specific other materials, but I didn't have a category for the Spirit of God in the germ-killing function. I suddenly realized that . . . I didn't have the faith to truly 202

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believe that God would heal. In fact my Christian culture had taught me that you should never pray this prayer without adding, "If it is God's will." . . . I also knew that these Indian Christians were literalists. If they would see this biblical injunction, they would do just what it said. . . . Finally in desperation I took a felt pen and wrote out a translation of this passage. . . . I gave this translation to our host and then went out to his banana plantation where I walked and struggled with my conscience. I stayed away for one and a half hours, but when I returned I still had not resolved my inner battle. On arriving at the house I found Aureliano very upset. . .. "Where in the world have you been so long?" "What's the matter, were you looking for me?" "We certainly were looking for you! We want to know where you got this message." "I got it from the Bible." "Can you prove it?" "Yes I can." I then read the portion to them from the Spanish Bible. "How long have you known that message is there? More than a week?" "Oh yes. I have known it for a long time already." "Well, how come you didn't say anything when you saw my wife dying?" "I don't know." "What were you afraid of?" "I was afraid it might not work!" "What might not work?" "That if we pray, God might not heal." "Well why shouldn't he heal, if we pray?" The leading men of the church were already present, five of them. So David Wirsche and I and the five Indian men got together in a circle around the woman, the Indians applied the oil to the woman's chest and the two men at the end of the circle put their hands on the woman's chest and all of us prayed to God for her healing. I can report to you that the woman sat up and was visibly relieved after the prayer. I was deeply grateful that she really showed such tremendous improvement, but she wasn't fully healed. . . . at least our prayer had not been a flop and I was really grateful for that. However, next morning Nata experienced a relapse and it looked like she was dying. While I was debating within myself about what to do now, the Indians, without inviting David and me, again anointed the sick SEEING THEY SEE NOT

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woman with oil, prayed for her, and healed her. Immediately, she got up and began to do her housework. Later in the afternoon, as she was making supper, I was sitting on an overturned canoe they were mending in the yard and her husband came to sit down beside me. I looked up at his wife and said to him, "Isn't it wonderful, this morning Nata was dying and now she is well, making supper." Then Aureliano with smiles all over his face said, "Yes, that Spirit of God is really powerful, when he goes after those fever spirits, they really run!" Then I added, "I also noticed that when you prayed for her this morning, you didn't take David and me into the circle." At that point the smile dropped from his face and putting his arm around my shoulder, he sadly said, "Jake, I am sorry, but it doesn't work when you and David are in the circle. You and David don't really believe." (Loewen 1974:4-11) My point, of course, is that I know of no one in our society who has, over a lifetime, more consistently lived out his Christian ideals. Loewen's cross-cultural missionary experiences have led him to appreciate qualities found within a world view more thoroughly sacred than that into which he was socialized. Nevertheless, he finds himself unable to transcend the secular assumptions and understandings of his particular birth society. Given a general reluctance in our society, even among those of a religious persuasion, to accord significance to a sacred world view, what kinds of experiences have I been part of that lead me to suggest that perhaps things should be otherwise?

PERSONAL EXPERIENCES OF THE EXTRA-ORDINARY There is, firstly, what might be termed the negative perspective, or the testimony of the dissatisfied beginning. Ever since beginning graduate school, I have encountered individuals from other cultures who were in some way dissatisfied with their ethnographic portrayal. In the context of this discussion, the person who most strongly comes to mind is a very bright and forceful student from a Nigerian indigenous elite enrolled at the University of Alberta several years ago. He became incensed when he discovered the anthropological literature on West African shamanism and animism. He characterized it as hopelessly naive, largely because the anthropologists were talking to those whose 204

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understanding, in his view, was limited and simplistic and because they saw Africans as being naively religious. A less extreme case involves a spiritually oriented Cree friend who criticizes one aspect of Feit's portrayal of the James Bay Cree perspective. In particular he objects to Feit's use of the term "steward" to picture the role of the Cree hunter in relationship to the animals (1986:182). While admitting that the concept of "steward" may convey adequately some aspects of the role, my Cree friend is adamant that the term suggests a difference in status between the hunter and the hunted and thus undermines the egalitarian nature of the relationship. Such criticism suggests that perhaps even the best ethnographers among us have missed core aspects of what many of our informants regard as the most important part of their lives. Despite the exasperation informants frequently feel as a result of the superficiality of anthropologists, many of them continue to try to help us understand that a sacred world view is not necessarily incompatible with Western culture or totally beyond the ability of anthropologists to comprehend. I think of my good Papago friend, Cip Manuel, who with humor and dignity took me to the sacred places, recited reams of Papago liturgy, and with an open hand, shared his life. It did not approach the formal apprenticeship he had undergone, but I think he felt that it was getting me started and that perhaps I had potential. I also think of the Metis architect, Doug Cardinal. Although I do not know him well, I have had extended conversations with him on a number of occasions. Here is one of Canada's most outstanding architects, a master in a profession widely regarded as one of the most technical and competitive. He not only has succeeded in "our world"; he apprenticed himself to a shaman as an adult to learn experientially what it means to be an Indian. The irony is that he credits much of his success as an architect to the competitive edge inherent in a sacred world view. In part, this is because our secular perspective concentrates on externals (on what Indian philosophers might call epiphenomena) and because pursuing a sacred perspective in the native tradition forces one to seriously confront one's inner self. I have placed myself in the hands of a shamanic healer only once. The healer was Joe Couture, a Metis from northern Alberta, a Ph.D. in psychology, a former Oblate priest, now a university professor. I cannot say that the results were spectacular or even unambiguous, but something did happen, and it was relevant but unanticipated. The occasion was a retreat conducted for Oblate missionary priests in which the leaders were native SEEING THEY SEE NOT

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shamans. I asked ffor Joe'a ministrations because of a choronically bruised right heel. While he held his extended hands over me, I was aware of what could be described as a low level energy flow from my head down my body. The flow did not, however, reach my injured foot, but stopped at my knee — which was not consciously bothering me at the time but which, interestingly, had been severely wrenched some months earlier and which later required corrective surgery. The result is intriguing, but I would not stake a lot on it. I could cite cases involving others, including members of my own family, that are much more dramatic. I could also cite cases that appear to be absolute flops.

CONCLUSION Several times, thus far, I have implied that anthropologists might be well advised to take sacred world views seriously. What might this mean? I have two suggestions. One way in which sacred world views might be taken more seriously is through what might be termed radical empiricism. The title of this paper is taken from a Biblical text, Matt. 13:13-15: " . . . because seeing they see not, and hearing they hear not, neither do they understand . . . lest perhaps they should perceive." To me, it well expresses much of what we have been discussing. It implies that often we do not truly see that which is before us, that we do not see because that would involve new perceptions, and for this failure, we are the poorer. For the most part, anthropologists have refrained from reporting on experiences that are off the beaten path, either culturally or professionally. This failure to deal with what is an important segment of cultural experience for many groups around the world has the consequence of maintaining the "prematurity" of any serious discussion of sacred world view. A radical empiricism would require anthropologists to entertain the possibility that an informant's explanation of an extraordinary experience might be true. This, in turn, would involve subjecting the explanation to the same kind of rigorous scrutiny that we apply to other types of information supplied by informants. Rigorous scrutiny involves skepticism, among other things. But rigorous scrutiny also implies that one is taking an explanation seriously and not dismissing it a priori as fantasy or superstition. For me, this gets very personal at this point. I was raised in a conservative Christian environment and have been a practicing Christian all my life. Becoming an anthropologist intensifies, of 206

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course, the tension inherent in being a Christian in a fundamentally secular society. One is aware of the reality of one's own experience; one also becomes increasingly aware of the range of alternative explanations for those experiences. Among other things, this means that agnosticism and atheism are open options. The central point I would make in this connection, however, is that fieldwork experience involving other cultures and their experience of the sacred has made those options less viable. In other words, an increased awareness of the importance of the sacred in the lives of traditional peoples has not so much changed me as it has reinforced my own awareness of the sacred or reaffirmed me in my deviance from the dominant society in which I live (it has also made a major impact on my thinking about the sacred, but that seems a less important point). One consequence of learning, at least a little bit, to see the sacred in the everyday reality of other people is that one is also more aware of the sacred in one's own reality (this being, of course, merely a restatement of an ancient anthropological truism). While there is a vast anthropological literature on shamanism in tribal society, there is virtually no mention of what seem to me to be closely parallel phenomena in everyday North American society. My suggestion is that those elements of Christianity that emphasize personal devotion, the direct apprehension of the Spirit, and the contemporary manifestation of the gifts of the Spirit (including healing) can readily be conceptualized as being modern versions of ancient shamanic practices that have survived (or been reinvented) in twentieth-century institutional religious life. Although the parallels between traditional shamanism and contemporary "charismatic" Christianity seem to me to be striking, just as striking is their virtual invisibility. I recall a conversation several years ago with a sociologist friend, a fellow Christian, but whom I would say had not learned to "see." A third person had mentioned a case of faith healing; my friend expressed extreme skepticism on the grounds that if it had actually happened it would be front-page news. My sense is that such healings must be an almost daily occurrence in a city the size of Edmonton; I have yet to see one make even the back page of the news. The second suggestion as to how one might take a sacred world view seriously has to do with our conceptualizing of problems, especially our working hypotheses. One possible model for us might be the Gaia Hypothesis. This is the notion that the entire earth, "animals and plants, the air and the oceans, the SEEING THEY SEE NOT

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whole business together, is really . . . a single self-regulating entity," a system that "appears to exhibit the behavior of a single organism, even of a living creature with formidable powers" (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation 1985:10). The hypothesis was put forward by a British chemist, James Lovelock (1979), and has been pursued by, among others, the American biologist Dr. Lynn Margulis, a major participant in the CBC Ideas program cited above. Some of the specific propositions that follow from the hypothesis are that the atmosphere is not merely the environment of life, but it is actually part of life; or that intelligence is an inherent property of systems. Lovelock and Margulis make the argument that pursuit of an apparently mystical idea has in fact been very productive because it has led them to ask questions that other people were not asking. In other words, addressing questions that do not fall into the realm of what has traditionally been defined as science can, in fact, produce whole new fields of scientific enquiry. If it is productive for scientists working in such fields as bioatmospherics to assume purposiveness and sentience in their systems — systems that to most of us are clearly only material in nature — perhaps anthropologists should take seriously those traditional peoples who also understand that the world around them exhibits the characteristics of a living system.

NOTES 1. An earlier version of this paper was delivered at the annual meetings of the Canadian Ethnology Society on May 12, 1988, at Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. 2. One piece of evidence in this regard is that the first response from the audience at the session where many of the papers published in this book were first delivered was from the Dakota anthropologist Bea Medicine, who commented that we were brave people to be discussing such issues in public. 3. A greatly abbreviated but much more accessible account of this incident can be found in Loewen (1975).

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INTRODUCTION Anthropologists are trained to investigate, analyze and interpret data from cultures different from their own. In our striving to make anthropology scientific, we build constructs, models, and theories. We stress objectivity and neutrality. We struggle to design studies that are replicable and valid. Armed with these scientific concepts, we confront our informant, ready to record and interpret his/her rendition of reality. But often, unwittingly, we distort the data by dissecting and rearranging them [data] into preconceived or superimposed categories and frameworks. In attempting to explain behaviors or beliefs which do not appear rational to us, we use functional or structural theories that we believe will best explain the data. In doing so, we essentially imply that our informant's premises are false. Traditional anthropological methods are now being critically examined and challenged as anthropologists try to understand the meaning of an individual's experience in a specific cultural setting. Some see this as a long-overdue paradigm shift, others as a means to humanize anthropology, to question the "scientific" nature of our discipline and the assumptions that have guided our field for the last several decades (Clifford 1988; KeesBEING CHANGED BY CROSS-CULTURAL ENCOUNTERS

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ing 1976; Langness and Frank 1981; Ruby 1982; Watson and Watson-Franke 1985). These anthropologists support and encourage introspective, self-reflexive reports of their personal experiences when conducting fieldwork with members of a culture different from their own. Still, these reforms, however welcome, are not sufficiently radical to allow most anthropologists to take seriously an informant's description of, and/or explanation for, experiences which fall outside the range of what is considered "normal" in the anthropologist's own culture. This paper will explore some of the newer approaches in anthropology through analysis of what happened to me when I attempted to take my own informant seriously. A person's sacred world view is based on premises of what the universe is like. Geertz has defined sacred world view, or religion, as follows: "a religion is: (1) a system of symbols which acts to (2) establish powerful, pervasive, and long-lasting moods and motivations in men by (3) formulating conceptions of a general order of existence and (4) clothing these conceptions with such an aura of factuality that (5) the moods and motivations seem uniquely realistic" (1979:79-80). In other words, religion is a way of defining reality, of making sense of the world, of explaining events that are interrelated. A sacred world view is supported by observations of events that confirm a people's conceptions. "Anthropologists," writes Keesing, "have tended to look at [religious systems] obliquely, as reflections or projections of social life, rather than as intellectual systems in their own right" (1976:385). Instead of explaining my informant's sacred world view from a traditional anthropological perspective, I intend to explore events from personal experience that will shed light on the logic of my informant's interpretation of reality. If we attempt to take our informants seriously, we must explore the essence of what the informant claims to be true. If an informant tells me that there exist good and evil spirits in the world who have power to help or harm, to cause health or disease, my first responsibility as an anthropologist is to consider not only why this belief is held, but also what evidence there is to support this belief. This is not usually done. Good and evil spirits generally are not accepted by anthropologists as having reality other than as concepts serving to prevent alienation, to oppress women, to reintegrate individuals into society, or as mechanisms of social constraint such as leveling devices. If, from the outset, however, we take an informant seriously, we must attempt to truly understand his/her view of the world. Hence, 210

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we can entertain from the start the possibility that good and evil spirits exist. Anthropologists have long been aware that they are not and cannot be "objective" observers. Objectivity is indeed being questioned even within the natural sciences: . . . quantum physics posed some deep paradoxes regarding the observable and the observer. Even in subatomic physics the process of observing irrevocably changes the events being observed. . . . Thus an older emphasis on 'objectivity' and 'prediction' has had to be scrapped or given new form. (Keesing 1976:5) Interaction with other human beings, particularly where extensive fieldwork is undertaken, inevitably changes both the anthropologist and his/her informants. What follows is a personal document of the changes that occurred in my behavior as a result of two significant experiences: (1) working with Russell Willier, a Woods Cree medicine man from northern Alberta, and (2) adapting to life on the sea. More specifically, it analyzes how symbols (an Indian "protector" and the belief in a guardian spirit) adopted from one culture were used to adapt to a new sub-culture (the live-aboard sailing experience).

HOW I RECEIVED THE PROTECTOR My story unfolds in the spring of 1988 when Russell Willier presented me with a protector, a small leather pouch containing sacred seeds. But the story does not unfold in a vacuum, being influenced throughout by my previous interactions with Russell and the knowledge he imparted to me. It is therefore necessary to describe briefly some of the events that occurred prior to receiving the protector. I first met Russell during the early 1980s when I was a graduate student in anthropology at the University of Alberta. I became a member of The Psoriasis Research Project, headed by David Young, which documented Russell's traditional healing practices (Young, et al. 1988). Aside from the research proper, upon which my Master's thesis was based, I had many opportunities to spend additional time with Russell in a variety of activities and we established a friendship that continues today. During my work with Russell, I became more and more intrigued with the spiritual world he described, particularly with the con-

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cept of a guardian spirit which is "a supernatural protector acquired by an individual — frequently in a dream or vision — who takes special interest in the person's welfare, often endowing him or her with spiritual powers" (Bock 1988:47). Russell's sacred world view, described in Cry of the Eagle (Young, et al. 1989:15) asserts that an individual can influence events if one knows how: . . . an individual like Russell Willier who has a sacred world-view invests an enormous amount of effort in its interpretation. He experiences his dreams as indications of the 'way things are moving,' and he perceives meaningful signs in events that some people would consider trivial. The essence of Russell's world-view is that nothing happens by chance. All things in the world are interrelated and mutually influence each other. If one knows how to 'read the signs,' the future may be predicted. This does not necessarily imply a deterministic world. If one perceives 'how things are moving,' action can be taken and the course of events changed. People are the victims of fate only when they do not understand how to react to the 'pattern' in the things happening around them. The ability to understand what is happening and to act in a way that changes the future course of events entails power. The power of understanding the 'way things are moving' and the power to act in a way that changes things come ultimately from the Great Spirit, mediated by numerous good and bad spirit helpers. Russell's sacred world view differs radically from my own. I was raised Lutheran, converted to Judaism in early adulthood, and at the time of meeting Russell, considered myself an agnostic with great antipathy towards organized religion. Despite an interest in Zen Buddhism and Taoism, both remained beyond my understanding, somehow always at the edge of attainment, yet never truly comprehensible. When I began to learn about North American native beliefs and saw how Russell interacted with his environment, I discovered much that was valuable. I could empathize with behaviors that stressed reciprocity, living in balance and harmony with nature, a certain amount of selfsacrifice, and a respect for Mother Earth which means acting in accordance with nature rather than controlling it. I considered Native religion to be a more personal experience of the sacred, with some chance of witnessing manifestations of the numinous. If Russell had visions, why couldn't I? 212

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The concept of a spirit helper particularly appealed to me and I asked Russell how a non-Native might attain a guardian spirit. He explained that one could do this by going on a vision quest: fasting and praying for four days in the wilderness during which time a particular animal spirit would appear. He added that the experience could be quite frightening to the uninitiated for which reason a guide and interpreter of the vision would be needed. Circumstances did not permit me to pursue this direction at the time. However, in January of 1987, a graduate course in North American Native Medicine presented an opportunity to experientially find one's guardian spirit. With instructions similar to those found in Michael Harner's (1982) The Way of the Shaman, each student was instructed to imagine finding a hole in the earth, to enter this opening which would become a deep, narrow tunnel and to descend to the underworld. There we were to search for a guardian spirit which we could expect to see three times in different perspectives. Upon a prearranged signal on a drum, we were to return from our imaginary journey by the same route. We laid back on the floor, forming a circle with our outstretched bodies, closed our eyes, and following the beat of the drum, descended, each to his/her own sacred space. During the first few minutes I found it difficult to visualize anything. Then, gradually I experienced a sensation of soaring above a wide, winding river. I continued my flight, searching for my spirit animal, but saw only the endlessly winding river. It was with great disappointment that I reluctantly abandoned my journey upon hearing the command of the drum — four loud, steady beats. I was reminded of the scene from the film Emerald Forest wherein the young protagonist soars above the Amazon River in his spiritual quest. It suggested the eagle as my spirit helper. A few weeks following this experience, which I had not discussed with others outside the classroom, a very dear friend presented me with a gift in celebration of successfully having defended my M.A. thesis: a silver eagle on a chain with "Lise M.A." engraved on the reverse. The present astounded me since I knew I had not mentioned my experience to her and I interpreted this gift as confirmation of my belief in a guardian eagle spirit. The eagle spirit, representing far-sightedness, transcendence, and the ability to plan ahead, in Russell's cosmology, is symbolized by the color yellow and the direction east. When I speculate about the possibility of transference of a particular guardian spirit, several coincidences occur to me, each connected with the eagle spirit. Only one patient in the Psoriasis Research Project reported an unusual experience during a sweat lodge ceremony B E I N G C H A N G E D B Y C R O S S - C U L T U R A L E N C O U N T E R S2 1 3

— the cry of an eagle! Dr. Young described hearing the beating wings of what seemed to be a large bird during a different sweat lodge ceremony he had attended with Russell. Moreover, Dr. Young recently informed me that behind a carving of an eagle that hangs in his home, Russell has surreptitiously inserted an eagle feather. Another graduate student involved in the research project had the opportunity to live with the Willier family for a summer. During a vision quest, albeit under the guidance of another medicine man, he recounted seeing two eagles, an adult and an eaglet, standing on the ground behind him. Is it possible that through our relationship with Russell, the eagle spirit, Russell's main spirit helper, came to figure significantly in our lives? The following is an account of how I received the protector from Russell Willier. Early in 1988, I decided that I would accompany my husband Paul on his study leave the following academic year. I planned to take a leave of absence from my studies to do some sailing with Paul, after which I hoped to conduct preliminary fieldwork in Israel on Bedawin medical practices. Soon after this decision, Russell, who did not know of my decision, had a dream which he related to my advisor, Professor Young. In his dream, I traveled to a distant land where my light, or aura, disappeared — a premonition that my life would be in danger. Relating Russell's dream to me, Dr. Young suggested I not treat it lightly, but take whatever necessary precautions Russell would recommend, even if this should delay my departure. Russell's first suggestion was that I participate in a four-day vision quest in Swan Hills of northern Alberta, where I would be given a protector. Time and circumstances did not permit this, so we arranged instead to meet in Edmonton before my departure. On May 26, 1988, I presented Russell with a square meter of green cotton cloth (referred to by natives as a "print"), a package of Players tobacco, and some money in an envelope. Assuming that the "distant land" in Russell's dream was Israel, I told him of my plans to work with the Bedawin. Russell then told me that I must pray to the Great Spirit and that when I arrived in Israel, I would find sage growing on hills or next to buildings. I must periodically use this herb to smudge the protector he would give me. I wondered at the time how Russell, who had never been to Israel, would know that sage grew there. As will be seen later, I did indeed find sage in Israel. He then explained that he thought the United States would pull out of the Persian Gulf and Israel, at which time people would band together and fight214

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ing would intensify. He could not elaborate on which people would band together but said that if ever I felt afraid, particularly in a large crowd, the protector would give me warning of impending danger, a signal to leave the area immediately. He also pointed out that if I panicked or became terrified, I could eat some of the seeds contained in the protector to reduce my anxiety. As well, these herbs could be rubbed on the face of someone who had been hurt, particularly in the case of heart attacks. He then presented me with an eagle feather, a braid of sweetgrass, and a protector — sacred herbs and seeds tied into a small leather pouch. The eagle feather should be kept wherever I would be living and the protector worn on my person at all times. Both were to be purified periodically with the smudge from the sweetgrass and the sage.

THE SAILING LIFE In early June 1988, a week after receiving the protector from Russell Willier, my husband, Paul, and I began our sabbatical with a vacation in Florida where we planned to do some sailing prior to my trip to Israel. We had often dreamt of a future time when we might live on the sea, in harmony with nature, self reliant and independent. We decided to take the summer to test how realistic our dream was, how adaptable we were. For a variety of reasons, the trip to Israel was delayed until the following spring. Although I had originally conceived of the protector as something which had been created for my trip to Israel, I came to depend upon it in facing the dangers of the sailing life. The description of events that follows constitutes a record of the manner in which my belief in both guardian spirits and in the power of the protector grew to the point where I could not begin or end a sailing expedition without making appropriate prayers and offerings. As the protector came to provide more and more guidance in my life, a host of troubling questions and unusual feelings became dominant themes of my life-experience. Notwithstanding these, I sensed a gradual shift in my thinking and manner of interpreting stimuli in my environment, indicating Russell Willier's ability to influence my attitude towards the world — a world where events have meaning, and where nothing happens by chance. When comparing the cost of chartering a boat versus buying one, the latter alternative became viable. Perhaps it was only coincidental that a large pleasure craft, Sea Eagle, entered the BEING CHANGED BY CROSS-CULTURAL ENCOUNTERS

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harbour as we boarded a sailboat called Serenity to inspect her, and that this same vessel left the harbour shortly thereafter when we had decided to purchase Serenity. I had not noticed this movement, which was pointed out to us by the yacht broker, who commented that the peanuts, Eagle Snacks, Paul was enjoying were produced by the same company that owned the Sea Eagle. I am usually very alert to eagle symbols in my immediate surroundings, but had overlooked the symbolism on the snacks. I considered this coincidence as indication that Serenity was indeed the right sailboat for us. The following day as we watched Serenity being moved from the sale area to the municipal dock, Paul asked me how I felt about the group of people nearby admiring our boat. They were, however, not admiring Serenity, but rather the school of bottlenosed dolphins in her stern wake, escorting her for some distance. We were to encounter many dolphins during the coming year, and as will be seen, they too figure in my story. We had made a commitment which would change our lives. We had bought a home, albeit a floating one, the first major purchase of our life together. The eagle feather now occupied a place of honour where the mast met the cabin roof of Serenity. I wore the protector, plus my silver eagle medallion, around my neck in a floatable, yellow plastic container which I rarely removed. The fact that the color of the container was the color associated with the eagle spirit is coincidental since the container was purchased many years ago in Israel. Our sailing life began in a week, during which time Serenity had her hull cleaned and painted along with other minor repairs. In the meantime, we picked up my children who arrived from Israel to spend the summer with us and drove to Key Largo where I had arranged for my daughter's birthday present — an encounter with dolphins. At "Dolphins Plus," a marine mammal research and education center involved in the study of interspecies interaction between dolphins and humans, we experienced one of the most enchanting moments of the summer as we swam in an unstructured environment with six mature, female, bottlenosed dolphins. Rarely have I experienced such sheer joy as that of swimming close to a graceful, intelligent, playful creature so different from ourselves yet sharing something that evoked compassion and trust along with a terrible longing for communication. On June 29, 1988, we were aboard, ready to move Serenity a few miles to the marina. The boatyard was closed; we were a little nervous and excited since the boat was not yet familiar. 216

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With trepidation I started the engine, we cast off lines and slowly maneuvered out of the slip into the channel which leads to Tampa Bay. I admonished myself for feeling anxious as I recalled having seen a bulldozer with "Eagle Demolition" written on it just before arriving at the boatyard. I wondered at the time if this was an ill omen, then chastised myself for magical thinking. This doubt over how to interpret eagle symbols would occur throughout our year of sailing. As it turned out, I should have heeded this particular warning. Shortly after our departure an alarm went off, indicating that the engine was overheating. We later discovered that the coolant had been drained and the mechanic had neglected to replace it. They had been negligent in other areas as we were to discover when the boom crashed onto the bimini; the topping lift which holds it up had not been reattached. There were other minor problems, and for two harrowing hours we tacked our way through several regattas on the Bay, unable to inform the other sailors of our inexperience and our faulty engine. We did eventually arrive at our slip — halyards flying, sails loose and flapping, boom fallen, dodger knocked down, and with the engine alarm shrieking, alerting people on the dock who helped with our lines. I blamed myself for not seriously considering the omen, not purifying the boat prior to our departure, and not checking that all equipment was in working order. Once Serenity was shipshape, I performed the purification ritual by spreading smoke from the diamond-willow fungus around the deck and through the cabin, walking in a clockwise direction as Russell had taught me. The eagle feather was placed below where the keel-stepped mast meets the cabin roof and I prayed to the Great Spirit while making a tobacco offering. The following day, we saw our first waterspout, a thin, funnel-shaped tornado usually formed by strong opposite winds and a sudden sharp contrast in temperature. Waterspouts are common along the coastal areas of Florida. Other threats to boaters are violent thunderstorms, squalls, sudden gusts of strong wind, tropical storms, and, of course, hurricanes, not to mention dangerous reefs, strong currents, and drug runners. There were certainly enough dangers lurking in our new environment but we gained confidence with each successful sailing experience and ventured farther and farther off shore. We discovered that live-aboard boat people were very kind and helpful to each other. The small, tight-knit community, although dispersed throughout the marine area, could be likened to a mutual aid society. We all lived at the mercy of the elements, experienced similar fears and problems, and shared a belief in BEING CHANGED BY CROSS-CULTURAL ENCOUNTERS

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the things that are meaningful in life. As one sailor so aptly put it: The freedom of the sea lures men, yet freedom does not come free. Its cost is the loss of security of life on land. When a storm is brewing, the sailor cannot simply park his ship and walk away from it. He cannot hide within stone walls until the whole thing blows over. There is no freedom from nature, the power that binds even the dead together. Sailors are exposed to nature's beauty and her ugliness more intensely than most men ashore. I have chosen the sailor's life to escape society's restrictions and I have sacrificed its protection. (Callahan 1986:84) As an example of the uncertainty of life on the sea, one morning, just as the sun was rising above the horizon, I dressed, went on deck and, facing east to the sun, sprinkled tobacco into the water, offering my prayer to the eagle spirit. We weighed anchor. The wind was from the east between 15 to 20 knots, the seas three feet or less — perfect conditions for sailing. I stayed on deck to raise all three sails while Paul held the boat into the wind. It was exhilarating, sailing at a speed of 6 to 7 knots, the boat heeling moderately as we moved up the coastline. The sun shone bright, the sea shimmered, and fair-weather cumulus clouds floated above. From early morning to mid-afternoon, we sailed parallel to the coast line, perhaps three or four miles offshore. By mid-afternoon, however, the cumulus clouds clustered into thunderheads and the sky darkened. I saw lightning behind us where the storm was strengthening. We could hear the thunder. Afternoon thunderstorms are frequent during the rainy season in Florida. Now, the sailing experience was no longer idyllic and exhilarating. I was apprehensive and worried. We still had miles to go before we could enter the pass into the Intracoastal Waterway. The storm was moving fast and could not be outrun. It was now merely a matter of time until it would break over us. Early evening found us still many miles from shelter. By now the wind howled, the waves were breaking, the sun was low on the horizon, and darkness set in. All sails were lowered and secured. Lightning streaked the sky, offering some visibility as we tried to find the channel buoys which would guide us to a protected anchorage. I saw a flash of "red" lightning in the direction where we expected to anchor. By late evening, we finally found shelter in quieter waters. Exhausted, physically and mentally, we dropped anchor. A can 218

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of beans was opened and eaten cold, and we fell asleep in the cockpit, still fully dressed. In those hours from dawn to midnight, I experienced feelings of freedom, exhilaration, happiness, belonging, apprehension, fear, anger, gratitude, but never dullness or alienation. "There is a magnificent intensity in life that comes when we are not in control but are only reacting, living, surviving" (Callahan 1986:xvii). This was not a typical sailing day as there are no such things. Each time we sailed we were confronted with new experiences, new challenges, no matter how often we may have covered the same route. Morning might find us becalmed, afternoon in stormy weather. By early October 1988, we began preparations for a two-week cruise to the Florida Keys. The October 11 issue of the local newspaper reported that an eagle's nest had been destroyed by land developers. This act was a violation of federal law as bald eagles are an endangered species and therefore protected by the government. The article recounted that it is not uncommon for land developers to poison trees that contain eagle nests, since it is known that eagles will not return to a nest in a dying tree. Again I was faced with the predicament of how to interpret this news. Would it mean damage to Serenity on our forthcoming trip? On October 12, we departed for our trip to the Florida Keys. Except for difficulties in starting the engine, this day and the next were rather uneventful as we sailed leisurely south. By October 14, the winds had increased to 20 knots but no small craft advisories were broadcast on the marine radio so we continued our journey. We saw no problem with sailing 30 miles in the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico until we could enter the protected Intracoastal Waterway at Boca Grande Pass. Before weighing anchor, I watched as an osprey, or eagle, soared over our boat, flying east. By afternoon the winds were blowing 20-30 knots, gusting higher, and the waves were building to an impressive height, for us, of six to eight feet. Serenity was becoming more difficult to handle in these seas, but we were not terribly worried since the pass was in sight and we would soon be anchored in a sheltered bay. We turned east to enter the pass, but in those few miles to safety several misfortunes occurred: the mainsail split in two, the life-buoy was pitched from its holder and tossed overboard, and, unbeknownst to us, the anchor had been hurled from its holder at the bow as a result of the violent movement of the boat. We beat into the ten to twelve foot seas at the entrance to the pass, with waves breaking over the bow, and Serenity pitching wildly into the troughs. Opposing forces of

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tide and wind in the deep, narrow channel skirted by shallows created very unfavorable conditions for a small sailboat. We barely made headway when suddenly Serenity lurched sideways, her starboard beam to the breaking seas. The engine, smoking considerably by now seemed useless since the propeller was out of the water much of the time. We could not raise the torn mainsail. Reluctantly we headed back out to sea, but this too proved to be impossible as we were once again wrenched abeam to the seas. With waves breaking over the stern and in danger of capsize, Paul went forward to attempt to raise the staysail only to discover that the anchor had been torn loose and was holding us, limiting movement in either direction. Paul went forward again, cut us loose and, tossing and heaving wildly in the waves, with the staysail partway up and the propeller sometimes down, we finally managed to reach calmer seas along the protected shoreline. I looked back to see black water and curling whiteheads, and then noticed two dolphins diving under our boat from the starboard side. Until then there had been no time for fear, only the urgency to prevent a capsize. But now, when we were relatively safe, the sight of those two dolphins brought me to tears. Had this been the potentially catastrophic event that the destroyed eagle nest forewarned? Which guardian spirit, if any, had been present in our peril? The eagle spirit? The dolphin spirit? We later heard that other sailors had not been as fortunate in the heavy weather that continued to build that day. One boat was dismasted and a friend had all his sails torn to shreds and was swept overboard. We were grateful to escape relatively unscathed. Increasingly I began to consider the dolphin as an additional guardian spirit, since the sight of dolphins would dissipate my anxiety. Initially I tried not to think about this possibility because I was afraid this might jeopardize the loyalty and protection of the eagle spirit. The more I thought about it, however, the more I became convinced that this hesitation on my behalf either indicated my own possessive nature or the deeply instilled concept of a jealous, all powerful Judaic-Christian deity commanding "Thou shalt have no gods before me." One evening in late fall, while seated in the cockpit watching ominous clouds build, turn dark, and then dissipate, I had a vision. At one point rolling clouds, lit by an almost full moon, appeared to me as an eagle's head. I could distinctly see the face of the eagle as well as its wings. This sight, which lasted perhaps a minute, filled me with fear and wonder. Did the vision confirm the reality of an eagle guardian spirit or was it an hallucination? 220

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I continued to make tobacco offerings with increasing frequency until they became daily events. I also regularly sorted through our leftovers to feed the fish and gulls, experiencing great satisfaction from the idea that this was some small contribution, perhaps pleasing, to my guardian spirits. One day I had the opportunity to save a pelican which had entangled itself in fishing line and was unable to fly and thereby feed itself. I spent the entire day, much to the amusement of fellow boaters, trying to catch the bird. Eventually, I caught it and was able to untangle the line and remove the fishhook from a wing. Later I watched a pelican roosting in a nearby tree and wondered if it was "my" pelican. When I looked again it was gone, but there in its place was an osprey, perched on the same branch. I considered the osprey akin enough to the eagle to warrant my attention. I looked through the binoculars and saw the distinct colors of blue emanating from the west side of the bird, red from the east. Was this some kind of sign or merely due to the fact that light was distorted by the setting sun? My dilemma of how to interpret events persisted, particularly since some seemed relevant and should have been heeded, yet others were inconsequential and impaired my reasoning, as the following example demonstrates. On October 23, I noticed a car with a bumper sticker that read "Eagle War" and I became concerned as to its meaning. I wished I had not seen it. On October 28, I read in the local newspaper: "The body of a man police believe to be in his late 20's was found floating in the Gulf of Mexico about a mile northwest of the Clearwater Pass Bridge on Thursday morning. . . . passengers on a party boat Double Eagle II noticed the body [of a sponge diver] floating in the water about 9:35 a.m. and called the Coast Guard." Again I tried to ignore the name of the vessel but could not. I showed it to my husband, concerned that it might indicate danger to him since it was a man's body. I was uneasy because we planned to sail north in those same waters the following week. On Thursday, November 3, while sailing north in the Gulf of Mexico, we saw Double Eagle II off Clearwater. I dissuaded Paul from leaving the cockpit to go on deck. Shortly thereafter we were caught in crab traps, a constant bane for boaters. Four traps had become entangled in the rudder. We quickly dropped the jib and staysail, but could not head Serenity into the wind to lower the mainsail since we were anchored at the stern by the traps. Eventually, we managed to pull the mainsail down without tearing it on the spreaders. Despite being physically weaker than Paul, I insisted on going overboard to release the traps. I could BEING CHANGED BY CROSS-CULTURAL ENCOUNTERS

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not allow Paul to enter the water. But I only had strength to cut one line loose as it was exceedingly difficult to hang onto the boat with one hand, while working with a sharp knife in the other, especially as Serenity was bouncing considerably and the waves were knocking me about. I was exhausted when Paul pulled me back up. Together we pulled up the other three lines with the boathook (which we should have done in the first place) and cut Serenity loose. We were once again free to sail; no harm had come to either of us; and the omens were forgotten. Yet, had Paul gone overboard, tired as I was, I would not have had the physical strength to pull him up. The next day, November 4, we were tied up at Sail Harbour, Tarpon Springs, unable to continue our journey because the engine would not start. While the mechanic worked on it, we hiked the few miles to town where we saw a homecoming parade for the local football team. One float consisted of a diver piercing a large golden eagle with a lance. The caption read: "Spongers versus Warhawks." All my apprehensions resurfaced. I recalled the recent omens: the "Eagle War" license plate, the body of the drowned sponge diver, and now this effigy of a sponge diver piercing the golden eagle, symbolic of victory over the Warhawks. What could they mean? On November 5, we were still at Sail Harbour and heard in the morning on the VHF marine radio that severe weather was forecast for our area. A tornado watch was in effect and there were severe thunderstorm warnings with hail and dangerous lightning predicted. The wind was from the southwest, above 30 knots, and there were heavy squall lines moving rapidly across the sky on both sides of us. Yet immediately above us, it was sunny and clear. A tornado was reported nearby. The severe weather warnings continued and mariners were advised to seek shelter immediately. We could see the black clouds in the distance, but directly above was still clear. I went to make a phone call, happened to glance at the Yellow Pages that the previous caller had left open, and saw an advertisement for "Eagle Pest Control." The storm did eventually reach us, but it was as if the clouds split and the worst of it fell on either side of us. We continued to monitor the VHF marine radio and heard distress calls from many boaters who had not had sufficient time to reach harbour. If our engine had not broken down the previous day, we would have been caught in this violent storm, 20 or more miles offshore en route to the Suwanee River. Storm clouds split on several occasions, but never as distinctly as on July 3, 1989, while anchored in Tarpon Basin in the Florida 222

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Keys. Cumulo-nimbus clouds had been building all day. Late in the afternoon we sighted a waterspout about a mile northwest of our location. The day was dark, with heavy clouds rolling rapidly across the sky. Terrified, I opened my container, held the protector, and prayed. The black thundercells lowered, became even blacker, and then . . . split! I stared in awe and saw a flash of red lightning between two heavy storm clouds, where the sky was lighter. The waterspout dissipated as it hit an area of mangroves. I did not conclude that I had the power to "split the clouds" (a power Russell claims he has and which David Young witnessed when Russell's hayfields were threatened by an oncoming storm [Young, et al. 1989:19]), but I was certainly relieved. We sailed offshore again, from the Suwanee River, to return to Sarasota since tropical storm Keith, not quite a hurricane but still growing, appeared destined to strike Florida's west coast that week. We felt we'd be safer in our home port. A few days later, tied up at the dock in Sarasota, I awoke to the sound of an eagle's piercing cry. I went on deck with the binoculars and above were two bald eagles circling slowly, counterclockwise, above the marina. I took this rare sighting as indication that tropical storm Keith would indeed come our way. We removed all sails, cleared the decks, and doubled our lines. Two days later Keith hit, passing directly over Sarasota Bay, bringing damaging tides. The Sarasota Herald Tribune (Thursday, November 24, 1988) reported "maximum sustained winds had been clocked at 65 mph when Keith hit the Sarasota coast" and that it had "produced tides 4 to 6 feet above normal". We were actually fortunate that the storm's core had passed directly over us rather than further north around Clearwater as had been predicted. Had the eye of the storm hit further north it would have resulted in a higher tidal surge in Sarasota Bay, which would have raised the water level at our location even more. As it was, the pilings holding the floating dock were only a foot or more above water. A further raise in the water level would likely have caused the floating dock to come off the pilings, causing considerable damage to the 60 boats fastened to it. Two further incidents warrant mention, one from Arizona, the other from Israel. We had occasion, in November 1988, to fly to Arizona to attend a wedding. One morning, while standing outside a relative's house, I made the decision that I would continue working with Russell on North American Native culture. Immediately following this thought, upon looking down, I spotted a coin lying in the grass. It was a Mexican coin depicting B E I N G C H A N G E D B Y C R O S S - C U L T U R A L E N C O U N T E 2R2S3

an eagle clutching a snake in its talons. I placed it in my yellow container. The following day, on our return flight to Sarasota, I read in House Made of Dawn by N. Scott Momaday: "he had seen a strange thing, an eagle overhead with its talons closed upon a snake. It was an awful, holy, sight, full of magic and meaning" (1968:18). On April 30, 1989, I interrupted our sailing life to pursue my original plan for my leave of absence from the University of Alberta — to conduct preliminary fieldwork among the Bedawin of Israel. Leaving Paul in Florida, I traveled to Israel for a month. During my second week in Israel, I boarded a bus to visit Kfar Shibli, an Arabic village in the Galilee. Several friends had advised against this visit, warning that it could be dangerous during this time of the intifada (Palestinian uprising). They cautioned me that once I left the main highway, I would no longer be under the protection of the Israeli army. Throughout the long bus trip from Tel Aviv, I debated with myself whether it really was a wise move. My apprehensions were dispelled when I spotted a van with a large eagle painted on it: I continued the journey. The bus driver eventually let me off at a deserted dirt road leading into the Galilee hills, informing me that this was the road to Kfar Shibli. As I walked along, unable to see any village in the distance and getting further away from the main road, I hesitated about continuing. I intuitively felt that this could not be the right road, returned to the highway, and flagged down the next bus which delivered me to the correct junction. In Kfar Shibli, although greeted with suspicion, I was invited to lunch with the principal of the local school. I noticed sage growing next to his home and when I expressed an interest in the herb, he gave me a bunch. I had looked for sage at the Desert Research Institute in the Negev and many other places visited in Israel, but had not found any. After completing preliminary fieldwork, and having made arrangements to return the next year for a full-scale investigation of Bedawin medical practices, I rejoined Paul in Florida. All of the events described above fueled my belief in both guardian spirits and the power of the protector to the point where I could not leave a marina or weigh anchor without making the necessary offerings. Moreover, these rituals eventually became more elaborate and a daily event. I would rise at dawn, just as the sun appeared at the horizon, face east, and make my tobacco offering. Not being an early riser by nature, I believed this action to be a small self-sacrifice, an indication that I took the protector seriously. Prior to departing on a long cruise, I would first purify 224

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the tobacco over smoldering sage before sprinkling my offering into the sea. I began to feel a strong need to go on a vision quest and to fast several days in the wilderness, thereby earning my guardian spirit. It troubled me that the protector had been given to me without effort on my part. I felt like a hypocrite, relying on the protector only when we were at sea. On land, or safe in a marina, I conveniently forgot to make offerings. There were times when I felt guilty of bribery: tobacco offerings for protection. And to whom should I make the offerings? The eagle spirit? The dolphin spirit? The Great Spirit? Russell had since advised me to make offerings to the spirits of the waterbirds, wind, and sea. I chose instead to remain loyal to the eagle spirit. Neither was I certain what prayers to say while making the offering. Should I thank the Great Spirit for keeping us safe or request continued protection? Perhaps it would be more honorable not to ask for protection, but to beg for courage and fortitude to face the dangers and challenges of the sailing life. This could, I suppose, be interpreted as wanting to be worthy of protection. In time I solved this dilemma by making the vow "I believe" each time I made the tobacco offering. In my mind this represented both gratitude and supplication for continued protection. It bothered me when my family would occasionally joke about my tobacco offerings, laughing that perhaps the Great Spirit was trying to quit smoking. I considered it blasphemy and thought ill luck would come to them. I was aware that I was changing — inexplicably I considered some insects bearers of misfortune, especially grasshoppers, while others were merely bothersome. And why, armed with a protector and belief in a guardian spirit, did I feel so apprehensive much of the time? Most modern people are surprised by the power of nature, especially those who live in cities. In our one year of sailing, we witnessed, or heard of, several catastrophes that happened to our friends. One boat was dismasted, several boats were struck by lightning, one hit a reef and sank, another took on water through a faulty through-hull hose fitting and sank, and a friend was swept overboard at night in a storm. These were not accounts read in boating magazines, which often report on dangers experienced at sea, nor accounts of distress calls, overheard on the VHF marine radio, but personal reports from friends. Fortunately none of these friends lost their lives — but they could have. In spite of my belief in the protector, my dependence on a guardian spirit, I became fearful, constantly vigilant and overly cautious to the consequences of sailing. On sighting a dolphin, BEING CHANGED BY CROSS-CULTURAL ENCOUNTERS

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osprey, and rarely, the bald eagle, I considered following their course, which, naturally, was impossible when navigating from one destination to another. I feared Serenity being struck by lightning, being capsized, being dismasted, falling overboard at night, taking on water and sinking, fire aboard and explosion of our pressurized alcohol stove. I did not sleep soundly when at anchor. I am, ordinarily, not a very fearful person, having in my younger days been an avid rider, skier and skydiver. Yet the dangers of sailing made me apprehensive, often afraid, and sometimes terrified. My husband did not share these fears, some of which would make me refuse to leave the dock, and they became a source of constant conflict between us. Our lack of previous sailing experience or our different characters may explain our dissimilar reactions, but perhaps my fearfulness can also be partly explained in terms of the influence of the protector. Russell had told me that it should be relied on whenever I felt apprehensive; it would give me warning. I took my informant seriously. On the one hand it offered me strength to continue, on the other hand it crippled my ability to use sound judgment. Or did it? With very rare exceptions, I was the one to notice each problem or emergency as it arose: dragging anchor, engine overheating, a break in the raw-water hose, an imminent collision, being enmeshed in crabtraps, etc. It made me resentful. Alert, vigilant and constantly on guard against the unexpected, I was less able than Paul to appreciate the joys of sailing. I was a more prudent sailor than he, but also a better sailor, which he accepted, attributing it to my Scandinavian, seafaring ancestry. Had I not "looked ahead," would we still be alive today? the boat still intact? In time I did learn to relax more and even sleep while at anchor, but rarely without waking several times to check if we were holding.

INTERPRETATION How have I tried to interpret the events and the influence of the protector during our year of sailing? Anthropological treatises on magic, religion and science, in their attempts to explain "primitive" mentality, are generally based on a description and interpretation of research conducted with a specific group of tribal people. I had not set out to investigate the nature of primitive psychology, but as my behavior came more and more to

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resemble what I had read of "traditional" mentality, I decided to explore this subject further. The following analysis concerns the process that occurs when a modern, educated woman, trained in anthropology, exhibits behaviors that have been attributed to "tribal" people. I cannot claim that my conclusions can be applied to a better understanding of Russell's sacred world view, but they may shed light on the concepts of magic, religion, and science. "No people have been as superstitious as those who went to sea, to live or die by the unpredictable whims of wind and waves, totally isolated both mentally and physically from the dry land that is the natural habit of the human species" (de Pauw 1982:12). It is well known that people whose fate depends on circumstances beyond their personal control, such as pilots and sailors, are notoriously superstitious. One old superstition of the sea, still prevalent today, is that "when sailors are troubled about the fate of their ship, there is someone who watches over them" (de Lys 1948:406). For example, Joshua Slocum, the first man to circumnavigate the globe alone in a small sailboat, fell ill. Lying on the floor, he saw a tall man who steered his boat Spray through a storm (Slocum 1955:60). When he recovered, he discovered that Spray had covered 90 miles in rough seas "exactly on her course" (61). Seafarers would often attempt to appease the sea by throwing offerings overboard, even making human sacrifices. Eagles also have long been associated with supernatural powers. The Egyptians, Persians and others "believed that an eagle's presence safeguarded against thunder and lightning . . . those in whose presence the eagle happened to be during the storm were protected from danger" (de Lys 1948:34). It is not surprising that such beliefs and practices proliferate during times of stress and uncertainty. A threat to one's survival should lead to counter measures. Planer suggests that fear is the fundamental driving force of magic. If one has no control over the threatening circumstances, such as a raging sea, even an irrational belief in influences and events that cannot be justified on rational grounds may serve to alleviate fear (1980:5). It could be argued, therefore, that any relief of anxiety or fear, through whatever means, is adaptive since it is common knowledge that continuous stress has debilitating effects on the body, resulting in ulcers and other stress-related illnesses. Malinowski writes about Trobriand sailors as follows: "But even with all their systematic knowledge, methodically applied, they are still at the mercy of powerful and incalculable tides, sudden gales during the monsoon season and unknown reefs. . BEING CHANGED BY CROSS-CULTURAL ENCOUNTERS

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. . here comes in their magic, performed over the canoe during its construction, carried out at the beginning and in the course of expeditions and resorted to in moments of real danger" (1948:30). This describes my own behavior. Initially I purified Serenity when we first boarded; my subsequent tobacco offerings were made when going to sea, not while in a marina; and I would remove the protector from its case and pray when danger threatened. Malinowski argues that it is only in the domain of the "unaccountable and adverse influences, as well as the great unearned increment of fortunate coincidence" that the primitive uses magic. "To control these influences and these only he employs magic" (1948:29). Magic, he says, is a means to an end, while the religious experience is an end in itself. Frazer also makes a distinction between magic and religion by suggesting that magic is direct control over nature while religion is propitiation of superior powers. He takes this one step further to suggest that magic is akin to science in that the "primitive" is convinced he can dominate nature directly by knowing the laws that magically govern the world: "in both of them the succession of events is assumed to be perfectly regular and certain, being determined by immutable laws, the operation of which can be foreseen and calculated precisely; the elements of caprice, or chance, and of accident are banished from the course of nature" (1963:49). Literature on the psychology of religion posits two types of individual religiosity, each representing a different way of viewing and responding to the world: intrinsic-committed and extrinsic-consensual (Spilka, et al. 1985). The intrinsic-committed person believes in a benevolent God who is involved in human affairs. This negates feelings of powerlessness in that one is "the determiner of life's vicissitudes" (27), and not necessarily the victim of fate, luck, or chance. God, the world, and self are interpreted as nonthreatening and positive. By constrast, the extrinsic-consensual individual views God as a punitive, wrathful deity who does not generally get involved in human affairs. This results in feelings of powerlessness and the world is seen as a dangerous, threatening place. The faith of an extrinsic-consensual religious person is superficial, relied on only when needed and not integrated into daily life. Alas, I fall into this last category! I cannot even claim to have experienced what Wallace (1970:237) calls a mazeway resynthesis — a sudden reorganization "of values, attitudes, and beliefs that 'make sense' of a hitherto confusing and anxiety-provoking world" because this produces a 228

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permanent alteration in one's cognitive makeup. In contrast to mazeway resynthesis, hysterical conversion is a temporary state of changed belief brought on by the suggestion of a charismatic leader. The behavior of a hysterical convert "may be in complete conformity with the code to which he has been exposed"; however, "his behavior has not changed because of a radical synthesis, but because of the adoption under suggestion of an additional social personality which temporarily replaces but does not destroy the earlier. . . and is liable, if removed from reinforcing symbols, to lapse into an earlier social personality" (Wallace 1970:197). It is slightly distressing to have to admit that I appear to be a hysterical convert. Striving for safety and security by relying on a protector and guardian spirit places me within an unauthentic mode of being in the world. From the perspective of Bugental's philosophy (1965), my anxieties would be considered neurotic, resulting from efforts to avoid contingency. Each person lives in the midst of contingency, with the awareness that we "cannot know enough to be safe, to be secure, to predict with complete confidence from one moment to the next" (1965:22). Contingency means that we all live with existential anxiety that must be accepted and faced rather than distorted: So long as I recognize and fully accept my contingent situation, so long as I accept the responsibility for choice but recognize the potentiality of tragedy, I will not know neurotic anxiety. But when the load of choice, when the weight of responsibility, when the fear of tragedy strike too deeply, then I am tempted to distort the picture, to dim somehow the realization that seems too awful to bear. (Bugantal 1965:22) We seek ways to reduce our contingency, to make life more certain, by any number of ways. We may, for example, create gods that will protect us, read portents in the stars, or wear lucky amulets to enhance our ability to predict, to have foreknowledge, to forestall impending tragedy. "Whatever the form, if I persuade myself that I have escaped from the province of contingency, that I have achieved certainty, that I am beyond the reach of tragedy, then I am distorting reality" (Bugantal 1965:24). It is this distortion of the existential reality of life that breeds neurotic anxiety. If, on the other hand, we accept our contingency, and respond to existential anxiety by becoming more knowledge-

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able and more skillful we can significantly reduce our vulnerability. In our sailing life, my growing dependence on a guardian spirit and the protector may have made me a more fearful and overcautious sailor, subject to superstition and magical thinking. What I seemed to have focussed upon were the negative aspects of lightning, storms, threatening waves, and all the other characteristics of the unpredictable sea. The function of a protector is not to heighten the dangers of the world, but rather to make it more natural. It should ease one's relationship with the world, make one feel secure and protected. Yet if I truly felt "protected," why did my fears not subside? Russell's response to his protector is likely quite different than mine since his is steeped in a total belief system and way of life. Had I been raised wholly within that belief system perhaps I would have used the protector more discriminately, understanding its value differently. However, I wore it for its protective value only and not as an integral part of a whole way of being. Perhaps it is impossible for a non-Native to respond appropriately to a protector unless one is involved in the whole belief system which has given rise to the concept of protector. When one borrows a symbol from another culture, it cannot have the same significance and value as it would to a Native person. On the basis of the above analyses, my actions could be called irrational, superstitious, magical, inauthentic, and neurotic. Yet, my use of the protector did have its benefits. I could argue that the protector heightened my awareness, made me more sensitive to meaningful messages in my environment, and gave me the resolution to act upon intuitions. Although I may have overreacted and may have become too dependent upon the protector, it is possible that there were occasions when my anxiety was not neurotic, but realistic. Life on the sea, especially for novices, is dangerous! Having the protector encouraged me to control, or at least influence, the course of events in our sailing experiences. Many of my intuitions concerning impending danger proved to be correct, and the actions I took to avoid disaster may have made a difference. However, this would be a functional analysis as is that of Malinowski who states that magic and religion for the Trobriand Islander is used to help preserve the culture. This does not tell us what meaning magic and religion have for an individual of this culture. Magic may be a method of relieving anxiety when faced with immediate danger and the unpredictable, but this

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functional analysis does not necessarily describe the individual's subjective understanding of magical acts. Although it cannot be proven, the patterned relations between warning signs, preventive or evasive action on my part, and disasters narrowly avoided could be treated as data which support the hypothesis that the protector has genuine power and that I had learned to use that power in an adaptive way. If I take my informant and his belief system seriously, I must at least explore the possibility that this hypothesis is correct. This exploration cannot limit itself solely to the data provided above. The data I have already provided can be supplemented with concepts from other sources that lend credibility to the Native view concerning the power of guardian spirits and protectors. The natural sciences are often based upon speculation regarding matters that are virtually untestable. As Keesing writes, the classical view of science "as a search for an orderly framework for explanation of events through systematic observation and/or experimentation. . . has shifted markedly in the last 50 years" (1976:5): . . . modern natural science increasingly is forced to deal with webs of explanation which are only indirectly testable and to postulate entities which are only indirectly observable. Thus subatomic physicists postulate the existence of particles they cannot observe in order to explain their measurements; cosmologists spin theories of the origin of the universe that become more or less plausible on the basis of astrophysical evidence but remain untestable; and astronomers devise more or less plausible explanations of quasars, the mysterious sources of radiation in distant space. Natural science today is much more a business of hypothetical entities and plausible guesses than it used to be. With this in mind, I will now, as my academic supervisor has so often encouraged me to do, go out on a limb, and attempt to answer questions I, like most anthropologists, have tried to avoid in the past. For example, does Russell possess unusual powers? Several synchronicity experiences lead me to believe that he may be more sensitive to certain kinds of stimuli than others. For example, one Sunday while writing an article about Russell, I had one of those rare creative occasions when ideas come one after the other. I was excited and was thinking about calling him since my ideas related to his world view. A few minutes later I BEING CHANGED BY CROSS-CULTURAL ENCOUNTERS

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received a telephone call from Russell, something that only happened two or three times a year. He seemed to intuit that I needed to discuss my ideas with him. There have been other experiences as well that suggest that Russell may have special abilities. During the psoriasis research, one of the patients did not bring his "print" (a piece of colored cloth used in a religious ritual which accompanies treatment) as had been requested. Russell had anticipated that the patient would come emptyhanded and had a print ready for him. Much has been written about synchronicities, those meaningful coincidences that "give us a glimpse beyond our conventional notions of time and causality into the immense patterns of nature, the underlying dance which connects all things and the mirror which is suspended between inner and outer universes" (Peat 1987:2). The study of synchronicity has interested many scholars — Schopenhaur, Kammerer, Pauli, Jung — and is today being explored by both psychologists and physicists. By using principles of quantum theory, scholars are attempting to bridge the gap between mind and matter (Koestler 1972; Peat 1987). Jung and Pauli defined synchronicty as "the coincidence in time of two or more causally unrelated events which have the same or similar meaning" (Peat 1987:23). For Jung, the possibility of synchronistic experience is made possible when an individual encounters an archetypal situation — confrontations with conflict, death, danger, etc. Synchronicity, he says, "represents a direct act of creation which manifests itself as chance" (Jung 1976:504). Synchronistic experiences are associated with periods of transformation and "depend on detecting a deeper meaning to the patterns and clusterings of the phenomena around us" in that they "may involve our becoming linked with the environment in a special way, anticipating events or sensing some underlying pattern to the world" (Peat 1987:29). But what evidence is there to support Russell's belief that we can change the course of events through appeal to the spiritual world? The study of parapsychological phenomena is no longer considered as dabbling in the occult, but has gained academic respectability and is today under serious investigation by renowned scientists who apply rigorous scientific standards (Broughton 1986; Beloff 1985). However, most scholars are still hostile — especially to the results of experiments in psychokinesis which have been conducted on the psychokinetic effects on enzyme activity, on paramecia, on plant growth, and on the healing of lesions in mice wherein a "psi-phenomenon is said to have occurred whenever information is transferred to a physical sys232

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tern without the use of any known form of physical energy" (Koestler 1972:148). Some time ago, I wrote a term paper on the universal claims of traditional healers that there exists a material force inherent in nature which has been referred to as kino oka by the ancient Kahunas, !kia by the IKung bushmen, ka by the ancient Egyptians, ki by ancient Sumerians, ki by the Japanese, qi by the Chinese, chi by the Igbo of Africa, and kundalini or karma by east Indians. Coincidental? Perhaps, but it is more likely that this similarity is due to the explosiveness of the consonant k which may be connected with breath, often associated with spirit and soul. Within our western culture, this power or form of energy has not been entirely ignored and scholars have referred to it by various names: Pythagoras and Galen called it pneuma; Hippocrates, vis-medicatrix naturae; Paracelsus, archaeus; Mesmer, animal magnetism',Reichnback,odic force;Reich,orgone energy;an Becker, electro-magnetic energy (Becker and Seldon 1985; Coddington 1978; Sharaf 1983). All of these concepts of an energy which I will refer to with the Chinese word qi, share several universal characteristics. It can be used for good and evil, to cure or to harm as demonstrated by its effect on bacteria (Grad 1989; Sharaf 1983). When given a location in the human body, it is most often said to be housed at the base of the spine, concentrated in the solar plexus. Intensive concentration and exercise, both breathing and physical, whether in the form of qi-gong exercise or dance, chant and trance, increases its intensity and enables the practitioner to emit it. It penetrates everything, animate and inanimate. It has been said to possess polarity and is sensitive to electro-magnetic forces. Its luminous form, possibly the human aura, emanates from the body, especially from the fingertips. It is influenced by, and fluctuates with, weather conditions. It can be accumulated, stored, controlled and conducted. It induces sensations of heat and may accompany solar rays. When color is mentioned, it is most often blue at one end, yellow or red at the other. It induces similar sensations in recipients — slight prickling and the tingling of pins and needles (Coddington 1978). Qi has as many definitions as authors who have written about it and there does not seem to be a single English word or phrase which can adequately capture its meaning. It has variously been defined as "matter on the verge of becoming energy, or energy at the point of materializing" (Kaptchuk 1983:35); energy plus "the pneumatic stuff that carries it" (Bennett 1978:445); universal energy that "flows into and through the human body" (Weil BEING CHANGED BY CROSS-CULTURAL ENCOUNTERS

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1988:144); "an essential, primordial energy that gives birth to all the elements and is integrated into them. . . an abstract substance in the sky, whereas on earth it is transformed into a concrete physical substance" (Coddington 1978:16); cosmic currents (Rossbach 1983:2); "the active energy that organizes matter into configurations" (Sivin 1976:516); and "energy-matter, the basic substance-and-force of the universe" (Holbrook 1981:229). What I have argued thus far is that belief in the existence of energy or power beyond our present understanding is not limited to Russell or "primitive" people. The next question is how this energy can be manipulated: If some people can detect fields from other organisms [auras], why shouldn't some people be able to affect other beings by means of their linked fields? Since the cellular functions of our bodies are controlled by our own DC [direct current] fields, there's reason to believe that gifted healers generate supportive electromagnetic effects, which they convey to their patients or manipulate to change the sufferer's internal currents directly, without limiting themselves to the placebo effect of trust and hope. Once we admit the idea of this kind of influence, then the same kind of willed action of biofields on the electromagnetic structure of inanimate matter becomes a possibility. (Becker and Seldon 1985:269) Qi-gong, alternately called chi kung, or standing Zen, is manipulation of one's internal qi which can, by a few specially trained individuals, be projected outward to influence animate and inanimate objects. Practiced by Buddhist and Taoist monks as early as 3,000 years ago, qi-gong consists of specific breathing exercises and physical training, both of which require intense concentration (Eisenberg 1987:211). Through daily practice an individual acquires the skill to lower blood pressure, pulse and metabolic rates, and oxygen demand. Projecting this qi outwards results in "increase in body surface temperature" as measured by infrared radiation. Eisenberg, an American doctor, witnessed several psychokinetic demonstrations of qi in China, including movement of inanimate objects such as a lantern and pendulum without touching them; lighting a fluorescent bulb for several seconds by touching it; and the ability to increase or decrease growth of bacteria (1987:136-230). Following these feats, the qigong master reported exhaustion, a feeling of terrific heat, and profuse sweating. Eisenberg had the opportunity of being a re234

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cipient of this emitted qi and described feelings of "pins and needles" which intensified and "changed to electrical impulses" with a "sense of electricity shooting through my arms" (1987:218). Similar sensations were reported by Reich who states that when he held his hand a short distance from accumulated orgone energy, he "noted a sensation of heat or a fine prickling" (Sharaf 1983:281). It is interesting to speculate about these similar physical sensations. I have already pointed out that when I saw the eagle vision I felt a tingling sensation throughout my body. Similar sensations occurred on some of the other occasions connected with the eagle guardian spirit and protector and I am sure that most people have experienced these sensations at one time or another. Is it possible that our physical bodies recognize the manifestation of this "invisible" energy while at the same time our minds may deny its existence? Eisenberg reports that emitted qi has been measured in the form of energy waves and that the Chinese are currently engaged in research to measure qi through the use of nuclear magnetic resonance scanners, CT (computed tomography) scanners, and other electro-magnetic devices (1987:145).

CONCLUSION Whether Russell has the ability to manipulate a special form of energy, I cannot prove. He would say that the proof is in the results. However, he has had the power to influence my attitude towards the world — a world where events have meaning, where nothing happens by chance, where there is no alienation. It is an attitude of awe for a world that reveals other levels of reality. Even the smallest incidents have meaning. For example, when Paul and I walked to sign the purchase-contract for Serenity, we noticed a small mouse in the crevice of rocks along the sea wall. In the four quadrants of the Medicine Circle that Russell has described to us, the mouse represents material possession, a home. Serenity is the first "home" Paul and I have owned. On another occasion, when we were navigating through a long channel, with shallow water and oyster beds on either side, we were accompanied by dolphins for half an hour. Many other boats had run aground in this channel, but we did not. When a dolphin appeared on the starboard side, I would turn more to port, and when on the port side, I would maneuver Serenity more to starboard. I let them guide me. The rational explanation for B E I N G C H A N G E D B Y C R O S S - C U L T U R A L E N C O U N T E R S2 3 5

their presence would be that dolphins hunt in deep water, in this case the narrow, deep channel. Our bow wave could not have been strong enough to keep them with us for such a long period of time since we were moving very slowly. Whatever the reason for their presence, for me it is more meaningful to consider that they were indeed guiding the boat. Peloris Jack, a Risso's dolphin, once assisted boaters by piloting them regularly between dangerous reefs in the Tasman Sea: "For more than twenty years, until the spring of 1912, mariners crossing Cook Strait between the main islands of New Zealand reported being piloted by a dolphin" (Holm 1974:391). My sensitivities to the world around me have changed as a result of taking my informant seriously. I have a greater respect for all living things in nature. I no longer pluck wildf lowers nor collect sea-shells from living creatures. I share our food with fish and birds. Yet I have not come to terms with killing sea-creatures. One appealing aspect of living on the sea was to gain part of our sustenance from it. We purchased fishing rods, a crab trap and shrimp net. I tried to justify killing by accepting responsibility for it, to kill as quickly and efficiently as possible, and in the most humane way, if there is. ever a humane way to kill. And what was sacrificed was eaten — there was no waste. I cannot conclude that the experiences described in this paper were coincidences, figments of an over-active imagination, or the result of magico-religious influence. Neither can I submit these experiences to objective investigation since they are virtually un* testable. But what I can do is to be grateful to Russell Willier for sharing his sacred world view with me and thereby enhancing my own.

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ANTONIA MILLS

Making a Scientific Investigation of Ethnographic Cases Suggestive of Reincarnation

INTRODUCTION Bourguignon (1976:14) says, "The anthropologist's task is not to learn about spirits, possession, reincarnation and such matters as ends in themselves. He is interested in spirit beliefs only as they inform us about people." My position has become quite different. I agree we should learn about what other peoples think about such subjects, but after many years of exposure to the Beaver Indian belief in reincarnation, then exposure to Ian Stevenson's careful studies of cases of children who are said to remember previous lives, and finally after studying cases of reincarnation reported both by the Beaver, Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en Indians of British Columbia and by the populace of northMAKING A SCIENTIFIC

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ern India, I have overcome my initial discomfort with the concept of reincarnation; and I have come to the position that we can make a scientific investigation which will provide us with evidence about whether the belief is, in fact, justified or no more than the result of cultural construction. I now think that it is very germane to the study of human consciousness to learn if there is a personality, or body of ideas, or soul which survives death and manifests itself in a new body, as our informants tell us there is. I have come to appreciate that as anthropologists, we need to be aware of our reluctance to look at the evidence, presented by the people we study, with an open mind. It has taken me a considerable length of time to come to this position. In this essay I will describe the process that led me to overcome my initial resistance to even considering what the Beaver had to say about the topic of reincarnation and how familiarity with Stevenson's studies of cases of reincarnation led me to investigate cases first among the Beaver, Gitksan, and Wet'suwet'en, and then in northern India. I will describe one Gitksan case and then one of twenty cases I have investigated in northern India during three field trips between 1987 and 1989 (Mills 1989). I will explain the criteria (Western) anthropologists can use to evaluate whether such cases present any evidence relevant to the question of whether something like reincarnation is in fact taking place. Finally, I will comment on the possible impact of such studies if the cumulative evidence eventually comes to indicate that some process such as reincarnation does indeed take place.

INITIAL EXPOSURE TO THE CONCEPT OF REINCARNATION When I first heard about reincarnation among the Beaver Indians, it did not even occur to me to question them further about their belief, let alone solicit examples of cases from them. As symbol using animals, we find it difficult to proceed without a mental construct or paradigm. I had no paradigm for reincarnation. In any event, I was busy trying to understand what their living prophet was saying, and what I was being told about medicine fights, medicine (yu), and the import of their rich oral tradition. These topics alone stretched my comprehension. In addition to recording what the Beaver had to say on these subjects, I was trying to test and apply various Western personality theories to and on the Beaver. 238

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However, the Beaver Indians did not let the puzzling concept of reincarnation drop from my consciousness. Sometimes a young child would report that the new baby born in the middle of the night was the reincarnation of a particular person. Sometimes, when I returned after an absence, I would be shown a baby born since my last visit who had a striking birthmark. Over the course of many years the Beaver Indians brought up the subject of reincarnation enough times in a number of different contexts (when talking about humans, or the rebirth of animals, or about the special skills of humans, etc.) that I began to recognize that the concept played an integral part in Beaver Indian cosmology and provided them with an integrated theory of personality. I noted that the Beaver, like Plato, thought that learning was a re-remembering of skills learned in previous lives. However, for a long time I did not know what or how to think about the idea of reincarnation. The concept continued to feel so strange and puzzling to me that I recollect writing to my parents "from the field" and asking what they thought of the idea. My parents, both college professors, had raised me as a Unitarian, and encouraged me to respect and study all religions, but to be skeptical of miraculous events. My father wrote back that when he was in college he had read the Bhagavad-Gita and had concluded on a logical basis that if there was life after death there must be life before birth. At my father's suggestion, I read the Bhagavad-Gita. Later I read the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and still later, The Autobiography of a Yogi. Some familiarity with the Hindu and Buddhist concept of reincarnation helped me form a mental paradigm into which I could then place what the Beaver Indians had to say on the subject of reincarnation. The concept no longer seemed too foreign to handle. In my doctoral dissertation (Mills 1982), I sought to define Beaver Indian spiritual beliefs and to see how prevalent this kind of philosophy was among a sample of ten other North American Indian groups chosen to represent the ten different culture areas. I suspected that belief in human reincarnation would be as integral to other North American societies as well. It was then that I found that the reportage on the subject of reincarnation was incomplete (Mills 1986, 1988a).2 One example of the difficulties of finding information on the subject of reincarnation in the ethnographic literature will suffice. I found that the major investigators of the Yurok of Northern California, Kroeber (1925, 1976) and Erikson (1943), did not

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mention belief in reincarnation. Indeed, Kroeber's commentary on Elmendorf s study of the Twana (Elmendorf 1960:519) says that the Yurok did not share the Twana belief that newborn children are reincarnated from a land of the dead, although he says that some forces initially favored the concept of one rebirth or rejuvenation but the concept did not prevail. However, there is a brief passage in a book by a Yurok (Thompson 1916) which refers to the Yurok belief in reincarnation, from which we can infer that at least until a few years prior to Kroeber's field work, the concept was still extant among the Yurok. Apparently, then, I was not the only anthropologist interested in psychological development who initially missed the opportunity to find out about a belief system which is intimately tied to concepts of selfhood, identity, and psychological processes. I suspect that Westerners' lack of familiarity with the concept has had the effect of decreasing the amount of enquiry on the subject. Stevenson (1984a) has also found that the record of belief in reincarnation in the Human Relations Area File is "almost laughably deficient. The belief was mentioned for some cultures, and yet other important cultures where the belief is extremely important were not mentioned under this heading." Nonetheless, I eventually found that belief in some form of rebirth or reincarnation is reported for hunter-gathering groups in four continents (North America, Africa, Asia, and Australia) and among many agricultural tribal peoples.3 Obeyesekere (1980) has noted the prevalence of the belief and distinguishes between tribal belief in reincarnation in which the goal is to return to the world of the living, and the Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain belief in which the goal of reincarnation is to attain a state of salvation or nirvana in which one does not need to be reborn on earth. Parrinder (1956) describes these as life affirming and life negating views. Since the concept of reincarnation is part of Hindu and Buddhist philosophy, belief in reincarnation is widespread throughout Asia and Southeast Asia.4 Therefore, in terms of population, more people believe in reincarnation than do not (Stevenson 1987). How then, I wondered, had the importance of the concept of reincarnation as an integral part of the social construction of identity, as a part of ethnopsychology, received so little attention?

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CULTURAL CONSTRUCTION VS. THE REINCARNATION HYPOTHESIS Eventually I learned that the importance of a belief in reincarnation in forging a social construction of identity has not been totally overlooked. Dupire's (1982) sophisticated cultural account of ideas of reincarnation among the Serer Ndut of Senegal describes a number of the ways reincarnation concepts impact on the attribution of identity: from divination of the ancestor whose name is to be bestowed on a newborn baby, to the guardian aspect of ancestors to their name-sakes, to the theory of physical (genetic) and temperamental similarity between the deceased ancestor and reincarnate. Dupire describes young children's statements that are considered memories and birthmarks that are considered signs of previous identity. Her work is an excellent example of looking at the categories used to judge reincarnation by a specific people. However, I came to be influenced in another direction. In 1984, I met Ian Stevenson and was introduced to his work, which attempts to discern if such cases give evidence that something like reincarnation might actually be taking place. Stevenson, Carlson Professor of Psychiatry at the University of Virginia, and Director of the Division of Personality Studies, has, over the past 25 years, collected more than 2,500 cases which he calls "suggestive of reincarnation" or "of the reincarnation type." He uses these careful phrases because he is intent on making a valid assessment of such cases to see if they do offer evidence of the survival of some element of a human being after bodily death, or if they are due to construing ambiguous evidence in conformity with a cultural belief in the reality of reincarnation. Stevenson has studied belief and cases in a variety of peoples, which include the Tlingit (1966, 1974b [1966]), the Haida (1975a), the Gitksan (unpublished), the Eskimo (1969), the Igbo of Nigeria (1985, 1986), as well as in the countries of Brazil (1974b), India (1974b, 1975b), Sri Lanka (1977a), Turkey and Lebanon (1980), and Thailand and Burma (1983a). In addition, Stevenson has studied cases among North American (1983c, 1987) and European (1987) non-tribal peoples who do not believe in reincarnation.

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Table 1 Incidence of "Same Family" Cases in Different Cultures

Related

Acquaintance

Unknown to each other

Beaver N=23

Gitksan N=67

Wefsuwet'en N=43

Tlingit N=67

U.S. (non-tribal) N=16

Igbo Nigeria N=53

Haida N=23

23 (100)*

67 (100)

43 (100)

64 (96)

15 (94)

49 (92)

20 (87)

22 (69)

83 (54)

0 (0)

0 (0)

0 (0)

3 (4)

1 (6)

3 (6)

3 (13)

3 (9)

0 (0)

0 (0)

0 (0)

0 (0)

0 (0)

1 (2)

0 (0)

7 (22)

Alevi Druse Thailand Burma Turkey n=32 N=154TN=63 N=80

Lebanon N=31

Sri Lanka N=183

India N=838

TOTAL

18 (29)

19 (24)

6 (19)

29 (16)

485 (58)

48 (31)

34 (54)

37 (46)

9 (29)

75T216 (41)

(26)

23 (15)

11 (17)

24 (30)

16 (52)

79T161 (43)

(19)

*The numbers in parentheses represent percentages. The data are taken from Stevenson (1986) with additional data from Stevenson's unpublished C itksan cases and from the author's data on Beaver, Wet'suwet'en and Gitksan coses.

Table 2 Incidence of Male versus Female Subjects In Cases in Different Cultures U.S.TOTAL

Male

Female

Igbo

Alevi

(Nigeria) N=57

(Turkey)

Haida

(Lebanon)

Tlingit

N=133

N=24

N=125

N=78

44 (77)*

98 (74)

17

86

53

174

22

(71)

(69)

(68)

(64)

(58)

13

35 (26)

7

39

16

30

(31)

25 (32)

97

(29)

(36)

(42)

(45)

(23)

Druse India N=271

Sri

Gitksan

Burma

U.S. non-tribal)

Wet'su-

Thailand

wet'en

Lanka

N=38

N=67

N=230

N=79

N=46

N=117

37

128

57

782

(56)

43 (54)

23

(55)

(50)

(49)

(62)

102 (44)

36 (46)

23

60

483

(50)

(51)

(38)

TOTAL 1265

*The numbers in parentheses represent percentages. The data are taken from Stevenson (1986) with additional data from Stevenson's unpublished Gitksan cases and from the author's data on Beaver. Wet'suwet'en and Gitksan cases.

Table 3 Incidence of Cases of the "Sex Change" Type in Cases of Different Cultures

Burma N=230 Percentage of Cases of "Sex-Change" Type

33

Igbo U.S. (Nigeria) non- tribal) Thailand N=56 N=60 N=32 18

15

13

Beaver N=23

Sri Lanka N=114

India N=261

13

12

3

Gitksan N=67 1

Alvi Druse (Turkey) (Lebanon) N=133 N=77 0

0

Tlingit N=65

Haida N=24

Wet'suwet'en N=46

0

0

0

The data are taken from Stevenson (1986) with additional data from Stevenson's unpublished Girksan cases and from the author's data on Beaver, Wet'suwet'en and Gitksan cases.

Table 4 Median Interval in Months between the Death of Previous Personality & Birth of Subject

Median Interval in Months

Wet'suwet'en N=16

U.S. non-tribal) N=25

Igbo Nigeria N=35

Tlingit Ml41

Burma N=125

Thailand N=33

Sri Lanka N=35

Gitksan N=22

India N=170

Beaver N=16

Alvi Turkey N=64

Druse Lebanon N=79

Haida N=17

180

141

34

24

21

18

16

16

12

12

8.5

8

4

The data are taken from Stevenson (1986) with additional data from Stevenson's unpublished Gitksan coses and from the author's data on Beaver. Wet'suwet'en and Gitksan cases.

Table 5 Median Age at Death of the Previous Personality

Median Age at Death in Years

Gitksan N=26

Tlingit N=26

Igbo Nigeria N=35

Druse Lebanon N=77

Burma N=151

India N=059

Beaver N=17

Alevi Turkey N=66

Wefsuwet'en N=15

Thailand N=32

Sri Lanka N=33

U.S. (non-tribal) N=14

73

60

55

35

35

32

30

26

22

18

18

17

The data are token from Stevenson (1986) with additional data from Stevenson's unpublished Gitksan cases and from the author's data on Beaver, Wet'suwet'en and Gitksan cases.

Common Features of Cases of Children Said to Remember Previous Lives Analysis of this large sample reveals that despite the differences in the cultural belief in reincarnation, cases of children who are said to remember a previous life follow a common pattern. Among the societies investigated to date, a fairly small percentage of otherwise normal children are said to have clear memories of a past life. Typically, the child will speak about these apparent memories from the time he or she first becomes verbal, around the age of two-and-a-half, and cease speaking of them when he or she reaches the age of seven or eight. During this period the child often speaks (or is said to speak) from the point of view of the person they claim to be. Sometimes such children make startling statements, which may include vivid descriptions of the cause of death of the previous personality. The behavior of such children sometimes strongly resembles that of the previous personality. In some cases, the child is reported to have special skills which he or she has not learned in the current life, such as the ability to play a musical instrument, or occasionally, to speak a language which he or she has not learned in the current life (Stevenson 1974a, 1984b). Such children typically have strong philias or phobias related to the previous life. For example, the child may show great fear of water if the previous personality (Stevenson's term for the person the child claims to be) died by drowning. Stevenson calls this "behavioral memory," and notes that behavioral memories remain long after the imaged memories that prompt the child to identify itself as the previous personality and to speak from that point of view have faded. Like Dupire, Stevenson has found that such children are also sometimes born with birthmarks or birth defects which may strongly resemble scars, injuries, or lesions which marked the previous personality. These birthmarks and birth defects are often, but not invariably, related to the cause of death.

Features that Vary in Different Cultures The large number of cases Stevenson has studied in a number of different cultures allow us to note not only the common features, but the variations in the patterns of cases among cultures (cf. Stevenson 1986). Some of the variables which differ are: 1) whether the child and the previous personality are related to each other, and the manner in which they are related; 2) the MAKING A SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATION

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incidence of male vs. female subjects; 3) the incidence of sex change; 4) the interval between the death of the previous personality and the birth of the subject; 5) the age of death of the previous personality; 6) the occurrence of announcing dreams; and 7) the occurrence of two or more people all said to be the reincarnation of one person. Announcing dreams is Stevenson's term for the dreams which indicate that a particular person is coming back. Such dreams occur in Burma and Thailand before the mother becomes pregnant. Among the North American Indian tribal peoples such dreams often occur shortly before the baby is born (Goulet 1988; Mills 1988a, 1988b; Stevenson 1966, 1975a, 1975b). The Gitksan, Haida, Tsimshian, Inuit, Igbo, and Tibetans report multiple simultaneous reincarnations of the same person while most other cultures do not (Mills 1988a, Stevenson 1987). In general, the children in the kin-based tribal societies make fewer statements than the children in the Hindu and Buddhist societies in which the child is much less likely to be related to the previous personality. Tables 1 through 5 above portray some of the variations in different features of the cases cross-culturally. The data are taken from Stevenson (1986) to which I have added the data from the Gitksan, Beaver and Wet'suwet'en cases I have studied to date. Most of the features of cases can be explained in terms of cultural expectation. Stevenson's approach differs in that he emphasizes aspects that address the philosophical question of survival: do some children know things that they could not be expected to know normally; are some birthmarks and birth defects too similar to wounds on the previous personality to be the result of chance? I was aware of these questions when I first went to investigate cases among the Beaver.

My Study of the Cultural Construction vs. the Reincarnation Hypothesis: Implementation of Stevenson's Studies After becoming familiar with Stevenson's methods of investigation and findings, in the summer of 1984 I began studying the cases of reincarnation cited by the Beaver and Gitksan Indians (Mills 1988a). I was surprised at the volume of cases that were reported once I specifically asked about them. I then continued to study cases among the Wet'suwet'en or Carrier Indians, as well as with the Gitksan, from 1985 to 1988 (Mills 1987, 1988b). These three peoples (the Beaver, Gitksan, and Wet'suwet'en) offer examples of tribal belief in rebirth, in which the ancestors 248

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are expected to return to the same community and family. The information they present is important and interesting, but because the child and the person of whom the child is said to be a reincarnation are from the same community, it is typically difficult to eliminate the possibility that the child has acquired information about the previous personality through normal means. However, the data from these Amerindian cases were sufficiently suggestive that I was pleased to accept Stevenson's invitation to conduct a replication study of his investigation of cases in northern India, where the subjects and his or her family are much less likely to have had any prior knowledge of the person eventually identified as the previous personality (Cook, et al. 1983b). The Gitksan case of Sandra is a same family tribal case, while in the case of Ashok Kumar from India, the child and his parents did not know the previous personality. Both are examples of relatively convincing cases.

THE CASE OF SANDRA THOMAS Sandra Thomas, born June 10, 1979, is said to be her mother's father's mother, Gertrude Thomas, reborn. Gertrude Thomas died in Hazelton, British Columbia, Canada, on March 7, 1976. This equation was made on the basis of a pre-mortem prediction by Gertrude, three people's announcing dreams, Sandra's statements, her behavior, and her predilections, which are described below.

Pre-Mortem Prediction Ann, Sandra's mother, said that Gertrude told her daughter Rachel "all the order of who was going to have babies in the family. She told Rachel that she was going to come back to me." In other words, this was a pre-death prediction. Ann explained Gertrude's desire to return as her daughter by saying, "Gertrude raised me when I was small. I always used to call her 'Mama.' I was the only one of my brothers and sisters that was close to her."

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Announcing Dreams Ann had several announcing dreams. Of the first, she said, "When I was pregnant with Sandra, I had a dream that I was carrying the baby in my arms and I looked at the face and it was my Grandma." The second announcing dream occurred repeatedly. Ann said, "When I was pregnant I always dreamed of the real wolves — they were standing all around me protecting me." It should be noted that Gertrude is of the Wolf clan. Eleanor, Ann, and therefore her daughter Sandra, are of the Frog clan. This is one of the rare Gitksan cross-clan cases of reincarnation. 69 Ann also dreamed that Gertrude advised her what to eat when pregnant (Stevenson has found that the mother's food preferences when pregnant sometimes relate to the tastes of the previous personality). Ann noted that she wanted burnt fish and beaver tail, foods that she had eaten with Gertrude and hadn't cared for since her childhood. These were Gertrude's favorites. Ann's mother and her grandmother, Catherine Parks, also dreamed Gertrude was coming back. Catherine dreamed she saw Ann holding a young girl's hand, and she looked again and it was Gertrude. Eleanor dreamed, the night Ann went into the hospital to give birth to Sandra, that she heard a knock at the door and it was Gertrude, who said she was coming back.

Statements and Recognitions Sandra has made more statements and recognitions than is typical for the Gitksan and most other tribal cases. The first statement Sandra made which was attributed to her being Gertrude reborn occurred when she was with her family when they were hunting. "Moose!" she said, in English. It was the first word she said. She was one year old at the time. She was the first to sight the moose. Soon after this, Sandra recognized a place where Gertrude and her husband used to camp. She said, "Camp." Eleanor said, "There were lots of places we used to take her to see if she could recognize them and she did most of them. At the canyon, that's where we got our surprise. The first time she went there, she was two or two-and-a-half. She went to the smoke house. She was rummaging around canisters and she found a bone knife she [Gertrude] used to use for [cutting] fish."

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From the time Sandra could walk until she was eight years old, she would frequently disappear. Her mother Ann would search for her and find that she had walked to the house of one of Gertrude's children who live in the same community. Gertrude's daughter Rachel corroborated that it was a frequent occurrence to find that Sandra, from the time she was a little toddler, would be at her door, having come totally on her own. Sandra also sought out Gertrude's children Moe, Rachel, Carl, Barbara and Ralph. She appeared to recognize Carl's vacant home as his. Sandra was also very close to Gertrude's son Jack, her maternal grandfather, in whose house she lived. Eleanor, Sandra's maternal grandmother commented, "If I have an argument with Jack [Eleanor's husband and Gertrude's eldest son], Sandra lights into me and bawls me out. She combs Jack's hair. She acts like all my children are hers." Sandra's parents and grandparents rather expected Sandra to show a predilection for Gertrude's family. They were less amused by Sandra's seeking out Gertrude's drinking buddies. Sandra's mother Ann reported, "One time she took off and I looked for her and she had gone and joined the people who drink downtown in Old Hazelton and she was laughing away and slapping her knee, which Granny used to do when she was drinking. Granny would join the same crowd of drinkers. I asked her, 'What are you doing?' She said, 'These are my friends.'She was oneand-a-half or two years old." Sandra's family was more surprised by her greeting people from a region from which Gertrude had come, who were unknown to Sandra's mother and grandmother. Eleanor said that when shopping in Smithers, Sandra would walk up to people from the Bear Lake area "like she knows them. She doesn't know their names but when she sees those people in Smithers when we're shopping, she goes up to them." Sandra had never been to Bear Lake, but she has recognized places closer to Hazelton. Ann reported that when Sandra was three or four she started talking about the cabin across the river by the Inglis' farm. Sandra said there wasn't a farm there before. Gertrude always called her husband "Dad." Sandra said, "Dad and I used to stay out back and we would hunt for beaver and hunt rabbits." Once when she was with her family while they were road hunting, Sandra said, "Stop. Stop here. We used to hunt over there." She said this was where she used to do their fishing and smoke their fish. This was correct for Gertrude. MAKING A SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATION

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Chart 1. Geneology of Sandra and other people mentioned in related cases (Note: only people mentioned in the text are shown). Key = X is male, 0isfemale.

0

X

=

0

Catherine Parks

Gertrude {wOLF}

[Frog]

0 Eleanor [Frog] X

=

0

=

Anne [Frog]

0

X

Sandra

Stanley

X Jack

0 Rachel

X Elwin

0 Tanya {wOLF}

X

=

=

0 Margie

X

X

=

Patrick Thomas {wOLF} [Wolf]

X Charles

0

X Moe

=

X Gabriel

0 Judith

X

=

X

0 Barb

X Richard

X Carl

X Ralph

Another of Sandra's recognitions was of an alteration in a place. Gertrude died in the old hospital which was later torn down. When Sandra and her mother were walking around the new hospital (which was built near the site of the old one), Sandra said, "Remember the hospital that used to be here?" Once Sandra felt lost in a place that was unfamiliar to Gertrude. Ann reported, "My father took her — and me — hunting in the bush when she was five. She started gathering wood together. She started whistling. She said, 'I know we're lost. We will camp under that tree.' She started whistling. When asked why she was whistling she said, 'You have to let the animals know you are there. Otherwise they will attack you.' We were coming back that same night but somehow she got it in her head that we were going to spend the night there." During the period when Sandra was from two years to eight, she said many times that she recalled being adult and looking after her mother, Ann. Sandra would repeatedly say to her mother some variant of, "When I was bigger and you were smaller I used to look after you. . . . I got big. I died. I came in really small and I came back in your tummy. . . . Now you are looking after me." Once Sandra said, "I was big and then I died and I was small inside your tummy and I tried and tried to push out of there. I got stuck. I couldn't get out." Ann had never told Sandra that she was born by cesarean section, but felt that Sandra was alluding to the fact that Ann was in labor for five days before Sandra was born by cesarean. In addition to the special relationships Sandra has with people who were close to the previous personality, Gertrude, Sandra is said to have close relationships to the reincarnations "from" people who were close to Gertrude. In this case, four people are said to be reincarnated from Gertrude's late husband, who died after Gertrude.7

Persisting Behavior Sandra is, like Gertrude, more pious than the rest of her family. Ann reported that "Sandra gets upset if Dad [Gertrude's eldest son] doesn't go to church. 'Everyone is supposed to go to church,' she says. She talks about God. My Dad is the only one who goes to church so she always goes to church with him." Sandra is interested in cutting fish. Ann said, "I don't even know how to do it, but she always wanted to do that. My mum

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gave her a little fish [about a foot long, she indicated with her hands] and now she always does the little fish." Ann noted that Sandra has a great fondness for moose meat, and the marrow of moose bones and always takes the store bought meat out of her soup or food. Ann listed a number of Sandra's predilections which she sees as coming from Gertrude: "She really likes to eat fish. She really likes fishing. She could spend hours fishing with a line and hook. . . . When Sandra was two years old she really liked moose nose and moose tongue. We were in her dad's house and that was what they were eating and she pigged out. I can't eat certain parts of the moose, like nose and tongue." Sandra's fondness for Noxema is also seen as coming from Gertrude. Sandra's taste in clothes is also thought to be reminiscent of Gertrude. Ann said, "We always let her dress herself. She wouldn't let us pick her outfits. She always picked her own clothes out — too big, over-sized, old fashioned, and moccasins. My grandmother always wore moccasins. Sandra still does, or wants to. 'I know you know how to make them,' she tells me when I say they cost too much to buy. I watched my granny Gertrude work hides and sew moccasins." Ann noted, "She doesn't like to be told what to do. This comes up in school too. She wants things her own way. Granny got so involved in people's lives. She worried about everybody else. Sandra is sensitive. Sandra has dreams which foretell the future. Granny was that way. So is my mother. They are halait [shamans]."

Birthmarks Sandra does not have a dramatic birthmark (I neglected to ask if the previous personality had any mark on the forehead where Sandra had a small birthmark). However, since she was very small she has had a patch of gray hairs at the place where Gertrude was beginning to turn gray. Premature gray hair is generally considered a sign of being reincarnated by the Gitksan, Wet'suwet'en and Beaver, as among other Amerindians (cf. Hilger 1951).

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Comment on the Case of Sandra Thomas In cases such as Sandra's, in which the relatives of the child expect it to be a particular well-beloved person reborn on the basis of announcing dreams when the child is still in utero, it is difficult to eliminate the possibility that the relatives unconsciously (or even consciously) supply the child with information about the previous personality and subtly try to mold the child to become like that person. Eleanor said of Sandra, "Mother told me to watch her" and "There were lots of places we used to take her to see if she could recognize them and she did most of them." In turn, when a child is told that he or she is a particular person reborn and becomes the center of attention when they act like that person, it is possible that they might consciously or unconsciously seek to promote that identity by assuming behavior which the child thinks is characteristic of the previous personality. In this regard such cases are similar to cases of Tibetan lamas said to be lamas reborn (MacKenzie 1988). Such cases, therefore, need to be analyzed with care and caution. For example, the first evidence Sandra's relatives found that Sandra was Gertrude reborn, other than the announcing dreams, was her precocity in noting a moose before anyone else had, and calling it by name. In fact, interest and attention to game animals was not specific to Gertrude. Any elder, male or female, would be equally interested in noting game. The interpretation that this precocious statement meant that Sandra was Gertrude reborn is indicative of the fact that Sandra's relatives already expected her to be reincarnated "from," as the Gitksan say, Gertrude. The next act which was interpreted as an expression of the equation of Sandra with Gertrude was when Sandra found the bone knife. Without having witnessed the event it is difficult to interpret whether it was a chance occurrence of a young child rummaging around a new area, or a purposeful search on the part of Sandra for an object that Gertrude can be presumed to have known was there. It is also difficult to assess whether Sandra's early interest and skill in cutting salmon was exceptional and indicative of skill beyond what a young child can be expected to learn through observing others expertly executing this task, and having her grandmother help her do it. It must be understood that the Gitksan often expect children to pick up skills on

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the basis of previous-life knowledge, and instruct children from this vantage point. The same caution is necessary in interpreting Sandra's recognition of particular localities. It is quite possible that she had heard or was told that her grandfather and his wife Gertrude (herself) camped in a particular location and had a cabin in another location. She could conceivably have heard people deploring that their site had been taken over by the Inglis' farm. It is less likely that this could cause the child when four to cry, "Stop," when they got to the particular location, or to feel lost in another location unfamiliar to Gertrude and to assume that they would have to spend the night in the bush. Yet this is not out of the realm of possibility. It is less likely that Sandra was given the cues to join the "people who drink in downtown Old Hazel ton" when she was a toddler, and she was not rewarded for doing so. The very early age at which Sandra went by herself to the homes of Gertrude's children, an act which she consistently repeated, does, however, suggest that this young child had a particular agenda in mind. The consistency of Sandra's interests with those of Gertrude is certainly remarkable. Because of the numerous possibilities of social construction of identity in tribal cases, I suspect that most anthropologists familiar only with tribal cases would not tend to consider that the evidence from such cases deserves thorough scrutiny. At the time I was studying Gitksan, Beaver, and Wet'suwet'en cases, I was already aware of the numerous cases in which a child reported being someone who was unknown to his family — a phenomenon which tends to occur, among the cultures Stevenson has studied, in India, Burma, Thailand, and Sri Lanka (Stevenson 1974b [1966], 1975b, 1977a, 1983a). To give readers a similar perspective, I will describe a case I have studied in northern India in which a young child indicated he had memories of the life of a man unknown to his family and village. I have published a more detailed account of this case elsewhere (Mills 1989). Among the cases I have studied in northern India, this case is definitely one of a number that offer the strongest challenge to the cultural construction hypothesis. After presenting a brief account of this case, I will return to the question of the limitations of the social construction hypothesis as applied to tribal or same family cases such as Sandra's.

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THE CASE OF ASHOK KUMAR Ashok Kumar was born August 16, 1982, the third and youngest son of Mr. and Mrs. S.B. Shakya of the village of Ritaur, District Etawah, India. Etawah (population approximately 5000) is the district capital. Ashok Kumar was five years old when I first investigated the case, and was still talking from the point of view of the life he claims to remember. The Shakyas are of a "backward" caste traditionally associated with vegetable cultivation. S.B. Shakya farms his own land. When Ashok Kumar was less than a year old, he would sometimes mime limping. As he grew more verbal, which he did quickly, he said, "I came limping, limping to your house," that he was from Bandha, and that he had a wife and five children. He was most concerned about whether his family had enough to eat. He continually asked his parents to take him to see them and often said of things he saw at his parent's house, "My wife doesn't have this. Go and give it to her." When the police were mentioned, Ashok Kumar said he was afraid of the police and repeatedly said the chief of police had beat him with a stick after he had been in a fight near the fields. Ashok Kumar's parents tried to make him forget what they diagnosed as a past-life memory by, as his father said, "beating him and scolding him very badly." However, he continued to ask to go to "his" family and would refuse to eat for as much as two days. On January 2, 1987, Ashok Kumar had not eaten for the whole day and convinced his eldest brother to take him to Bandha. His parents thought he was referring to a village named Bandha to the west of Ritaur. They were unaware that there was a village by that name in their vicinity. Ashok Kumar led his brother across the fields in an entirely different direction from the town of Bandha. After about four kilometers, they arrived at a village of 250 people. Outside the village, Ashok Kumar told his brother that a woman they saw taking goats to the field was his mother. In the village (indeed called Bandha), Ashok Kumar went straight to the house of the late Kishen Behari Jatev and said it was his. The village headman suggested that other houses, some much more substantial, had belonged to Ashok Kumar in his previous life. However, Ashok Kumar returned to the humble mud house of Kishen Behari, and said that he, as Kishen Behari in his previous life, had made the house and it was his home. He recognized Kishen Behari's widow as his wife and called for his eldest son whom he recognized although he MAKING A SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATION

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called him Rakesh (Kishen Behari's eldest son is in fact named Laxmi Narain). Ashok Kumar recognized Kishen Behari's chacha (father's younger brother) and his younger brother, Bhateshwar Dayal, whom he called by name. He recognized a classificatory or village mother's brother, Mathura Prasad; another "village brother"; and his Fufa,or sister's husband. Ashok Kumar suggested to Kishen Behari's widow that they slip out to the canal as "we had done earlier in the night," and wanted to take her home with him. Until Ashok Kumar arrived in Bandha, none of the people we interviewed there had heard anything about him. While the villagers of Bandha were aware of the larger village of Ritaur, the people we interviewed had no links with it. The total distance to Bandha by road is 18 kilometers. Bandha and Ritaur are associated with different trading centers (Etawah and Ekdil respectively). Bandha is not on a road (it can be approached by foot only). The road closest to Bandha leads to Etawah while the road that passes Ritaur goes to Ekdil. Therefore the residents of Ritaur have little opportunity to be in contact with the residents of the tiny village of Bandha. Westerners have difficulty in imagining the density of the population of Uttar Pradesh and the fact that some people might not be aware of all the settlements within a four-kilometer radius. Kishen Behari Jatev had in fact died in about 1981 when about 50 years old. He had been a laborer without land who had worked for other farmers and was a member of the lowest or chamar caste formerly considered outside the caste system or "untouchable." Kishen Behari had become involved in a fight over who owned some land he had been hired to work and was subsequently caught by the chief of police who beat him. He died after being ill with diarrhea for a fortnight. Ashok Kumar made nine verified statements or acts before going to Bandha and five afterwards. He recognized eight people and correctly identified four locations. However, as I mentioned, he gave the wrong name for Kishen Behari's eldest son. His statement that all his previous children were sons is also incorrect. In fact the youngest child was a girl who had died, as did her next older brother, after Kishen Behari's death. When I last interviewed Ashok Kumar in December, 1988, he had been to Bandha a total of four times. On his last trip he had insisted on spending the night at Bandha. His father noted that Ashok Kumar had begun to identify himself less with Kishen Behari after that, and surmised that was because he had begun to be teased as being an untouchable by his playmates. His par258

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ents are also concerned that he not eat the food prepared by these untouchables.

Comment On The Case Of Ashok Kumar This case, like all cases I have studied, is certainly not free of cultural construction. I have commented elsewhere (Mills 1989) on how the conviction of Ashok's family impacts on the way they address Ashok as Kishen Behari, a man with a wife and a family. I was startled to learn later that Ashok Kumar has twice effectively blocked the wedding of Kishen Behari's eldest son by disapproving of the choice of spouse when invited to the wedding. Where else would a young child be given this authority? One must ask to what extent Ashok Kumar maintains the identity because he enjoys having the power of an adult while still a child. However, in this case, Ashok Kumar's conviction that he is Kishen Behari reborn and that he should be helping his family cannot be attributed to the desire to associate himself with someone of a higher caste or greater prestige. Ashok Kumar's family, due to being landed and educated, score as middle class on the Indian Rural Socio-Economic Scale, while Kishen Behari's family is not only untouchable, but landless and uneducated. Kishen Behari's family scores in the lowest category, "Lower Class," in the five-tiered Indian Rural Socio-Economic Scale.

LIMITATIONS OF THE SOCIAL CONSTRUCTION HYPOTHESIS The occurrence of numerous cases in which the child identifies him or herself with someone unknown to the family suggests that other cases in which the child is said to be someone well known to the parents, such as in the case of Sandra, may also contain elements of valid memory of a previous life and may be more than cases of self-delusion or social construction. The social construction hypothesis may explain some, but not necessarily all, of the phenomena associated with the cases. This applies to both the Gitksan, Wet'suwet'en, Beaver and other tribal or same-family cases of the reincarnation type as well as to cases such as Ashok Kumar's in which there was no apparent prior knowledge of the previous personality's family. First, it cannot explain why apparent past life memories tend to stop when the child reaches six or seven. One would expect M A K I N G A S C I E N T I F I C I N V E S T I G A T I O N2 5 9

that as the child matures he or she could even more adroitly pick up, or seek out, information about the presumed previous personality and impersonate the person even more effectively than when a toddler, and later as a very young child. The very early age at which cases of the reincarnation type begin acting like, or speaking from the point of view of someone else and the relatively early age at which they cease speaking from this point of view contradicts the expectation of the social construction hypothesis. Secondly, the social construction theory does not explain why more children do not impersonate a particular person. In Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en culture, a child may be named after a dearly beloved family member who has died, in memory of that person, and yet in several instances I know of, the namesake has shown no indication of being that person reborn, a role the social construction hypothesis would predict they would assume. In one case, the younger of two brothers had vivid memories of the burning of the house and the death of himself and two other siblings. However, it was his elder brother who had been named after the boy who died in the fire. Even so, that boy had no memories of a previous life.8 Thirdly, the social construction theory cannot explain the birthmarks and birth defects which in some cases bear very strong resemblance to the wounds, scars or lesions on the previous personality. The Gitksan, Beaver and Wet'suwet'en cases I have studied include numerous instances where the correspondence is very strong. Apparently the previous personality has retained the impression of these deformities and manifested them in a future life. Stevenson's (n.d.) forthcoming volumes on the etiology of birthmarks and birth defects related to cases suggestive of reincarnation present the data on this subject, including photographs of birthmarks and defects, as well as information about corresponding injuries or lesions on the previous personality recorded in photographs and/or autopsies. I have presented an unpublished paper (Mills, 1988c, 1993) on some of the Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en cases of reincarnation with birthmarks that have been photographed. There are, in my opinion, further limitations to the social construction hypothesis. If the announcing dreams were only wish fulfillment, or the fulfillment of oedipal tensions, as Spiro (1970:540-551) suggests, their prediction of who was returning would not be corroborated by birthmarks and birth defects corresponding to the previous personality in the announcing dream. As stated above, not all cases have either announcing dreams or 260

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birthmarks. However, the number that do give evidence that the dreams were correct in their prediction. I have reported elsewhere (Mills 1988c, 1993) a case in which two elderly sisters both dreamed the same night that their brother was coming back. The next day they learned from their cousin that her granddaughter had given birth to a baby boy in greater Vancouver. Neither of the two sisters had known that their cousin's granddaughter was expecting a child. The baby boy, nonetheless, was born with multiple pierced earmarks in the helix of the left and right ears. The previous personality, the brother in the announcing dream, had apparently had his ears pierced in these same spots to mark him as an heir to the highest hereditary titles in his matriline. In 7 out of 38 Gitksan cases, 5 out of 14 Wet'suwet'en cases and 3 out of 12 Beaver cases, announcing dreams were confirmed by such specific birthmarks. This indicates that the Gitksan, Wet'suwet'en and Beaver announcing dreams were accurate in predicting who was returning in these cases. The accuracy of the announcing dreams in such cases suggests that announcing dreams in cases where there are no distinctive birthmarks or birth defects may be equally accurate. Therefore, cases in which the child's previous life identity is largely determined before the birth through announcing dreams should not be lightly dismissed. If we are to learn about people, as Bourguignon says, we need also to evaluate the evidence for belief, in this case, in reincarnation. We do not, by doing so, become the Other, or lose reflexivity (cf. D. Tedlock 1991). Instead we take advantage of a paradigm shift to assess the supportive evidence.

CRITERIA FOR EVALUATING REPORTED CASES OF REINCARNATION The following criteria can provide guidelines in evaluating whether reported cases of reincarnation present data indicative of more than cultural construction and wishful thinking (see Stevenson 1987 for further discussion of this topic). 1. Statements made by the child based on knowledge which the child cannot have learned through normal means

Such statements may range widely from stating the name of the previous personality, to describing the mode of death of the MAKING A SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATION

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previous personality, to speaking from the point of view of the previous personality, and includes recognition of people, objects and places. The accuracy of the statements and recognitions the child makes and the facts regarding that person can be verified. It is typically easier to eliminate the possibility of the child having learned such information in cases in which the previous personality is not related to the child. However, even in tribal same family cases, children sometimes state knowledge appropriate to the previous personality which the relatives did not know. In both same family and unrelated/unknown contexts, the recognitions attributed to the child need to be carefully assessed to determine to what extent they are spontaneous or to what extent clues and prompting were unwittingly provided by associates. However, even in tribal cases, the spontaneity of some recognitions and the very young age at which they begin deserve careful assessment. 2. The presence of skills and interests in the child which it cannot be expected to have formed or acquired during his or her current life

Even in cases (tribal or non-tribal) in which the previous personality was well known and/or related to the child, when the child exhibits skills which require learning without having been taught them, the evidence must be considered carefully. Speaking a language unknown by the child's family and associates, or the ability to play a musical instrument with some skill are examples of behavior which cannot be explained on the basis of cultural construction of identity, and which occur in some cases of the reincarnation type. Stevenson (1974a, 1974b [1966], 1984b) has reported four cases of xenoglossy, or the ability to speak a language unlearned in the present life, in detail, and cites others in cases of the reincarnation type. Precocity in ability to use a sewing machine has also been cited (Stevenson 1975b, Cook et al. 1983a, Mills 1990) as a skill retained from a previous life. I have heard of, but not yet studied in detail, a Gitksan case in which a young child (whose parents were not musical and who had no musical instruments in their home), played the piano with competence the first time he saw one when he was about three years old. Stevenson (1987) cites further cases of related skills. Philias and phobias can also be included in this category of behavioral traits. The correspondence of the child's philias and phobias to those of the previous personality, or which could be explained on the basis of the previous personality's mode of 262

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death, can be assessed. The early age and spontaneous demonstration of strong phobias in some cases suggest that the socializers are unlikely to have instilled phobias, even in cases in which they were related or acquainted with the previous personality. In some cases the phobias are manifest before the child is verbal and are unexplained until the child becomes verbal and expresses a previous-life etiology of the phobia. 3. Specific birthmarks and/or birth defects which correspond to wounds or marks on the previous personality

Photographs, medical records, or autopsies of the previous personality often offer concrete evidence of the nature, size, and position of wounds or lesions (Mills, n.d.). The correspondence of birthmarks or birth defects on the child with wounds or marks on the previous personality can therefore often be determined. It is important to ascertain that the birthmark or birth defect was present on the child at birth, rather than acquired subsequent to birth. In cases in which the mother witnessed the marks or wounds on the previous personality, however, one cannot eliminate the possibility that the mother's awareness of the wound or injury on the previous personality had an impact on the creation of the mark on the child. Both tribal peoples and early European medical tradition regarded maternal impressions as a possible source of marks on a subsequently born child. Again, care must be taken to eliminate birthmarks which can be genetically transmitted as evidence for the reincarnation or rebirth hypothesis.

CONCLUSIONS AND IMPLICATIONS In this section I want to explore what the implications would be for anthropology, should further research confirm that cultural constructionism does not adequately explain all of the evidence for reincarnation. Note that neither Stevenson (1987) nor I (Mills 1989) believe that the reported cases of reincarnation prove that something like reincarnation has taken place, but I, like Stevenson, have come to the conclusion that the numerous examples require an explanation for which reincarnation appears to be the most compelling.9 My own investigation of Native American (Mills 1988a, 1988b), Hindu (Mills 1989), and Moslem/Hindu (Mills 1990) cases confirms Stevenson's findings that there are numerous MAKING A SCIENTIFIC INVESTIGATION

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cases in which a child speaks from the point of view of someone unknown to the child's family which do not appear to be adequately explained on the basis of cultural construction alone. This does indeed represent a paradigm shift for me. Although I have noted that prior familiarity with the concept of reincarnation influences the parents' interpretation of what their child was saying and suggested a previous-life explanation, among the twenty cases I have investigated in India I have encountered only one spurious case (Mills 1990). Stevenson, Pasricha, and Samararatne (1988) have reported seven other cases (in Asia) which upon investigation seem to be the result of deception or self-deception. The evidence indicates that in many cases the child made numerous accurate statements describing the circumstances of the previous life which were unknown to the child and his or her parents. Stevenson and Samararatne (1988) have described cases in which a written record was made before the child and his or her family had any contact with the family of the person the child claimed to be. Even in cases in which the previous personality was known to the child's family, there are many features which suggest that the child is affected by the thoughts of the previous personality in a manner not usually entertained in modern Western psychology. These include the early age at which the child showed traits which were unlikely to be the result of cues consciously or unconsciously supplied by the socializers, the consistency of the child's philias and phobias to those of the previous personality, as well as the correspondence of birthmarks on the child relating to trauma on the previous personality which occur in some cases. Contrary to what one might expect, in those cases in which there was no normal means for the child to know anything about the previous personality, the child typically gave more information about the previous personality than did those subjects who grew up with the previous personality's relatives. The case of Sandra given above is an exception to this rule; that is, Sandra gave more detailed information than is typical for the tribal same family cases. This indicates that cultural construction does not account for the totality of the phenomena. To date, I have found no indication that the cases are motivated by non-acceptance or abuse of the child on the part of parents or other socializers, as is apparently the case in some instances of multiple personality disorder (Coons, Bowman, Milstein 1988). The data from cases of reported reincarnation deserve and require continued careful study. 264

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An implication of the apparent validity of cases in which the child did not have any normal means of access to information about the previous personality is that the same or similar mechanisms may be operative in reported cases in which the child did have access to knowledge about the previous personality, such as the case of Sandra. A further possible implication is that human beings without apparent memories of a previous personality may also be reborn, but experience complete or nearly total amnesia for prior lives. If further evidence confirms that reincarnation does take place, we will need to integrate the concept into our theories about culture and personality. Stevenson (1977b, 1987) has outlined some of the phenomena that are explained more satisfactorily with the concept than without. An important criterion for accepting or rejecting a theory is its explanatory value. Because culture has an impact on the patterns of reincarnation, and because cultural construction cannot help but take place in every single case, we should not necessarily conclude that the cases themselves are nothing but cultural projection. By taking the cases seriously, we have an opportunity not only to learn what the people with whom we work think about these cases, about their ideas of what constitutes evidence, but to learn how cultural construction operates, what the work of cultures does, what thinking through one's culture means. We also have the opportunity to consider in what ways these concepts may be valid, how they may apply to humans in general. To a limited degree this stance allows us to see through the others' eyes. The Gitksan would interpret the variation in patterns of cases as evidence that the previous personality and his relatives chose how and where the previous personality will come back. In cultures which expect a person to be able to come back as either sex, the reincarnated personality may take the option of changing sex. But if they are expected to remain the same sex, they will.10 More research on the interaction of cultural expectation with the parameters of the cases is in order. If further research indicates that reincarnation does take place, then personality may be more than the product of socialization of an individual with a particular genetic makeup. The evidence of Stevenson's (n.d, in press) birthmark and birth defect research suggests that the thoughts of an individual do in some cases survive bodily death and have an impact on a subsequently born individual. The small number of cases suggestive of reincarnation which Stevenson has documented in which the previous personality describes having chosen the mother or father M A K I N G A S C I E N T I F I C I N V E S T I G A T I O N2 6 5

on the basis of personal affinity suggests that humans may have an element of choice in the determination of both their heredity and their environment. One implication of the reincarnation hypothesis is that the diversity of human temperament within and between different cultures may in part result from the interplay between socialization in past and present lives in which the previous lives remain largely inaccessible to conscious memory. The individual subconscious might then contain not only the parts of the current life that the individual has consciously or subconsciously suppressed but memories both good and bad from previous lives which manifest for most people only occasionally in dejd vu experiences, or when seeming to recognize people or places seen for the first time, or in inexplicable philias, phobias and interests. The Western scientific tradition has generally considered questions of spirit outside of the province of what can be known. That I am willing to ask such questions makes me suspect in the eyes of some anthropologists and psychologists. Have I gone native? I don't think so. Have I become bi-cultural? Perhaps. In some ways the paradigm shift puts me in a position analogous to anthropologists from third and fourth worlds, who embody both traditional beliefs and the tradition of anthropology. I think it is an exciting position to be in because it has the potential for integrating Western and non-Western perspectives and psychologies, for reaching greater understanding of the forces affecting human beings. However, I do not think we should embrace a concept of reincarnation without investigation of the evidence. I am committed to making sure that I do not delude myself or others in any direction. We can use the scientific method to evaluate the evidence about whether reincarnation takes place, if we but choose to do so. At the very least, we will learn more about indigenous concepts of selfhood and personality. It is also possible that by looking carefully and with an open mind at the exceptional cases in which children appear to have clear memories of a previous life that seem to exist in many cultures, we will be able to discern if the human species is characterized by an element which survives bodily death, and at least in some instances, has an impact on a subsequently born individual. The dialogue between Self and Other can, and in my opinion should, ask the Big Questions. I did not expect to come to this position when I first began fieldwork with the Beaver Indians. In retrospect, my very reluctance to pursue what the Beaver thought about reincarnation reveals much about how we give or 266

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deny ourselves permission to learn. I have become convinced that we can learn more than we ever expected through a commitment to the anthropological dialogue.

NOTES 1. Fieldwork among the Beaver Indians was done the summer of 1964; from the summer of 1965 to the summer of 1966; the summer of 1967; the summer of 1969, a month's trip in the winter of 1971-72; in the summer of 1976; and in the summer of 1984. I gratefully acknowledge the support of the N.I.M.H. Doctoral Fellowship which funded the first three trips, a National Museums of Canada field Research Grant for the summer of 1984, and additional field expenses from the Division of Personality Studies of the Department of Behavioral Medicine and Psychiatry of the University of Virginia for research with the Beaver and Gitksan in the summer of 1984. I am grateful to the Gitksan-Wet'suwet'en Tribal Council for permission to conduct research on reincarnation cases while employed by the Council from July 1985 to July 1987 in conjunction with their land claims court case, and to the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada for awarding me a two-year Postdoctoral Fellowship for 1985-1986 and 19861987 to study belief in, and reported cases of reincarnation among the Beaver, Gitksan, and Wet'suwet'en. I would like to thank all the Beaver, Wet'suwet'en and Gitksan who generously assisted me in this research. 2. I originally found belief in reincarnation of humans reported for only five of the ten North American Indian societies in the sample I used for my doctoral dissertation (Mills 1982) and have described elsewhere (Mills 1986). Mills (1988a and 1988b) report later additions to this list. However, see Matlock & Mills (1993) for the most complete index to reincarnation belief among North American Indians. As Slobodin (1970:68) notes, there is considerable variation in the forms reported. 3. Spencer (1966 [1914]) and Spencer and Gillen (1904) report the belief in reincarnation among the Australian aborigines. Munro (1963) records the Ainu belief in Japan. Schebesta (1936) records the belief in reincarnation among the pygmies of Africa, while Besterman (1968), Parrinder (1956), and Stevenson (1985, 1986, 1987)report belief among tribal peoples in Africa. Among the agricultural peoples for whom belief in reincarnation is reported are

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the Trobriand Islanders (Malinowski 1916), the Manus (Mead 1956) and the Berawan of Borneo (Metcalf 1982). Matlock (n.d.) has compiled indexes of reincarnation references for Africa and other areas. 4. I have elsewhere speculated that the belief in reincarnation in Hindu and Buddhist philosophy had its origins in simpler tribal societies (Mills 1988b). Stevenson (1987) suggests that belief in human reincarnation arose and was maintained in numerous human societies by the existence of instances in which a child had clear memories of being someone in a past life (Stevenson 1987). There is some evidence that some early Christian sects believed in reincarnation. The doctrine was officially banned in the Council of Constantinople in 553 A.D. The Druse of Lebanon and the Alevi of Turkey, both Ismaili sects, believe in reincarnation, while most Ismaili and Sunni Moslems do not (see Stevenson 1987 for a useful summary of the prevalence of the belief in reincarnation). 5. In a survey conducted in one area of Uttar Pradesh, India (an area in which cases occur relatively frequently), Barker and Pasricha (1979) found that 2.2 people in every thousand were said to remember a previous life. 6. Gertrude and her husband were both of the same (Wolf) clan. While this is considered incorrect, the marriage was allowed because Gertrude was from Bear Lake, an area that belongs to a Gitksan house but which is inhabited by a mixed Sekani, Carrier and Gitksan population, and Gertrude was not closely related to her husband. Three of the four children said to be Gertrude's husband Patrick reborn are in the Wolf clan, while Sandra's younger brother, like Sandra, is a member of the Frog clan. This is an atypical case in the sense that husbands and wives usually are said to reincarnate in their own clans so they can marry again (I have heard two couples state their desire to remarry in their future lives). In this case, not only are Sandra and her younger brother in the same House and clan, but the sibling incest taboo obviously applies as well. 7. In this case, four people are said to be reincarnated from Gertrude's late husband, who died after Gertrude. Margie, Stanley, Richard, and Gabriel are all said to be Gertrude's late husband Patrick Thomas reborn. Margie is the one example of cross-sex reincarnation among the Gitksan sample. Stanley is Sandra's own younger brother. The two other boys said to be Patrick Thomas re-

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born are Ann's father's sisters' sons (see genealogy). When I asked if Sandra seems to be close to these people Ann answered, "Yes. Margie's in Terrace now [her mother is going to college there]. Whenever she's back, Sandra's always with her. She's closer to Margie. Richard stays at Two Mile [some distance away]. Gabriel is still tiny." Sandra is close to Stanley, but to my knowledge, she relates to him with the affection appropriate to his being her younger brother, rather than relating to him as her husband. I have not heard that Sandra has ever made any explicit statements indicative of recognizing these four children as reincarnations of Gertrude's husband, Patrick Thomas. 8. Stevenson (1974b) reports a Tlingit case in which the subject was identified as being a particular personality reborn, but the child declared himself to be another relative reborn. 9. One of the reasons for caution is that even when there is no apparent way that the child or his or her family could have learned about the previous personality, it is impossible to eliminate the possibility that information about that person was transmitted to the child or his or her relatives, who have simply and legitimately forgotten the source of the information. Cryptomnesia (Stevenson 1983b), or amnesia for the source of the information may be present in some cases, although it is unlikely to account for most of them. Other paranormal means of communication such as extrasensory perception may account for some elements of some cases, but the evidence for telepathic and other types of extra sensory perception indicates that they alone would be unlikely to produce the range of knowledge and the depth of personation that characterize cases of the reincarnation type. lO.Pasricha and Stevenson (1986) discuss cogently the issue of the relation between culture-bound phenomenon and process in comparing near-death experiences in India and in the West, particularly the United States. Obviously, experience is expressed in different ways in different cultures.

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PART IV: CONCLUSION

M A K I N G A S C I E N T I F I C I N V E S T I G A T I O N2 7 1

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YVES MARION

The Experiential Approach to Anthropology & Castaneda's Ambiguous Legacy

INTRODUCTION The collective subconscious of anthropology is burdened in a variety of ways by the controversy surrounding Castaneda's accounts of his spiritual apprenticeship to a Yaqui Indian named Don Juan. The purpose of this paper is to attempt to shed some light on the persistence of Castaneda's presence, the problems inherent in his position and self-definition, and the ambiguity caused by the association of the experiential approach with his fame. 1 Castaneda is controversial because his is the first extensive account by a social scientist of spiritual or paranormal experiences,2 and because the authenticity of his work has been seriously questioned. Subsequent to the publication of The Teachings of Don Juan in 1968, Castaneda has not addressed these questions within the formal anthropological framework.3 FurT H E E X P E R I E N T I A L A P P R O A C H T O A N T H R O P O L O G Y2 7 3

thermore, aspects of his persona appear to compromise his integrity, especially in terms of the self-mystification and the romanticization accompanying the commercial exploitation of nonWestern spiritual traditions in the New Age movement with which he is now associated. Whether he is credited in a positive or a negative way, it is clear that Castaneda's work, aside from the question of the extent of distortion in his account, was innovative within anthropology, both in its format (the self-exploring, intensely introspective/first person narrative) and in the abundance and type of experiences that it reported from the field.4 His presence also represented for a long time a definition of the upper limits of what is involved in associating one's self with the spiritual world view of informants. His work thus affected everyone who wanted to conduct research on the actual "mechanics" of non-Western religious paths of initiation. Castaneda's general approach has re-surfaced in modern ethnographic writing involving personal narratives of spiritual experiences, especially those of Peters (1981), Grindal (1983) and Stoller (1987). They are among several anthropologists who wrote ethnographies after Castaneda's first book was published in 1968. They were influenced positively or negatively by his work and/or reputation and they followed an approach resembling the one described in his books — including personal involvement in a spiritual tradition and/or paranormal experiences recounted in a reflective and narrative, semi-novelistic fashion. Indeed until these authors' work was published, Castaneda stood largely alone in representing this type of approach.5 Grindal is the only one of the three anthropologists who directly mentioned Castaneda as having set an example. He does so in reference to his own 1983 article describing the extraordinary experience of seeing a corpse animate itself and dance at a Sisala funeral in Ghana. Grindal states that reading Castaneda made it "easier to write [his] report in that Castaneda's experiences 'awaken[ed]' . . . memories of [certain experiences] and the possibility of writing about them" (1986:42).6 The event itself, however, predated the publishing of Castaneda's first book, being taken from his field notes from 23 of October 1967. There was therefore a space of sixteen years between the event in the field and its actual reporting. Grindal's experience of seeing a corpse dancing and radiating light strains our commonsense definition of reality. Yet were it not for Castaneda's work, he might never have set to paper what he reported to have seen in the field. 274

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There are also many ways in which the questions surrounding Castaneda's personal reputation and the reaction to his type of report have negatively affected anthropologists researching the realm of religious, or subjective experience. Specifically these anthropologists have become — by contagion — the objects of a suspicion primarily oriented at Castaneda. For example, statements from my informant which were included in my M.A. thesis were criticized as "sound[ing] like Castaneda." Fellow students also were aware that certain topics were taboo because studying them might lead one to end up being associated with Castaneda and his marginalized position within the discipline. Nor were established anthropologists immune. At an American Anthropological Association meeting, Edith Turner stated that she had been informed that she was not to mention Castaneda if she wanted a book accepted by certain publishers.7 Another anthropologist interested in narrating religious experiences told me that in the 1970s "Castaneda had ruined it [participatory anthropology] for us." Grindal received a series of letters from de Mille — Castaneda's self-appointed debunker — chal lenging the nature of Grindal's account of the above-mentioned experience. In the process, de Mille also questioned Grindal's personal history and the motivation behind the account, "cautioned [him] about the hazards of departing from 'respectable anthropology,' " and told Grindal that his interest in interpreting "anomalous experiences" boiled down to a "quest [which is] hopeless" (Grindal 1986:42-43).8 Castaneda's image internalized by anthropologists has also functioned as a sort of internal censor. Stoller thought of Castaneda at the critical point where he was about to go from outsider status to insider status along a spiritual path in Niger: I had to make a decision. . . . Should I risk becoming an apprentice [to a sorcerer]? I thought of Castaneda, with whom I did not want to be compared. In general anthropologists frown upon subjective accounts of anthropological fieldwork. And the questionable authenticity of Castaneda's work made subjective accounts of supernatural acts even more risky in the profession. If Castaneda's work proved to be [a] hoax, . . . what would my colleagues think of [my] account? (1987:24-25)9 Castaneda's teacher, Don Juan, unnamed, is also present in the introduction to Larry Peters' description (1981) of his apprenticeship in Nepali Tamang shamanism which includes sevT H E E X P E R I E N T I A L A P P R O A C H T O A N T H R O P O L O G Y2 7 5

eral accounts of spiritual experiences, some of them reminiscent of Castaneda.10 Castaneda appears here as the bad example, mentioned for the purpose of demonstrating what not to do. Dr. Maquet of UCLA stated in the introduction: The repeatability of observations is the ultimate test of their scholarly value . . . It [would] be possible to replicate Peter's experiential study of Tamang shamanism . . . because . . . following the scholarly tradition of openness, [he] has not surrounded his research with secrecy. . . . There is no mysterious and inaccessible shaman-informant (I met Bhirendra! [Peters' teacher]). (1981:5) This is a clear reference to Castaneda and to Castaneda's elusive don Juan.11

READING CASTANEDA FROM AN EXPERIENTIAL PERSPECTIVE In spite of the mystification that surrounds the work and person of Castaneda, there is, especially in his earlier books, a core description of a path of apprenticeship involving spiritual and/or paranormal experiences and the outline of a non-Western approach to teaching and learning which is rendered in a vivid and detailed fashion unlike anything in anthropology preceding it. The verisimilitude of many of the masterfully written descriptions are not lost on anyone who has gone through any similar process or experience. So it is that Grindal could feel encouraged to express his unique experiences after reading Castaneda. In my case, four years after I had been involved in a psycho-cultural apprenticeship with an Afro-Brazilian teacher named Mayuto Correa, well-versed in the ways of Brazilian spirit-mediumship — which includes Candomble, Umbanda, and Kardecisism — I opened the early Castaneda books and was struck by the similarity with my own experiences. In many instances the details of the interactions described, the very words uttered, and the concepts being taught were almost identical to my own situation.12 My analysis of Castaneda's work is therefore partly informed by having been exposed, through a process of "experiential ethnography," — as well as through an exclusively personal search for answers and elucidation — to "nonordinary reality." This process,

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I am certain, results in a significantly different perspective for examining his books. Specifically in terms of my individual process, I have participated in Afro-Cuban Santeria in Los Angeles, and in primarily Afro-Brazilian Spiritism in Los Angeles and in Rio de Janeiro. That is, I have been involved in these fields of knowledge and understanding in the sense that I have learned from their participants, from personal involvement in their path, from the attempt of living out certain of their principles, as well as from going through some of their initiations. In the approach presented to me by Mayuto Correa, the need to periodically resolve inner personal conflicts of a psychological nature before interacting with the spiritual realm was central. I found his concepts describing and explaining the relation between spiritual, psychological, and socio-cultural levels of reality very helpful in my interaction with Santeria and Umbanda in Los Angeles and in my present research.13 What follows is one of my experiences which illustrates the general, and I must stress the general similarity, which one can sense between this type of experience and Castaneda's accounts after having such an experience oneself. In the fall of 1987, I underwent one of numerous ritual initiations in Los Angeles that Afro-Cuban Santeros conduct for their "godchildren." It was a ceremony like others in Santeria, being specifically oriented towards rapprochement with one of the Orishas or deities. I remember feeling, as often happened, more centered and peaceful after the ceremony was over. There were no hallucinogens, stimulants, or special stress or excitement-inducing procedures involved. I attended the ceremony Friday night and again Sunday from morning to late evening, after which I went home. The next day I also slept at home and something peculiar took place during the night.14 After having been asleep for what seemed like several hours, I was awakened in the middle of the night by a light hovering over me directly in front of my field of vision. It was round and it glowed brightly (about the size of a tennis ball, I think). It was stationary, but somehow pulsing with the emission of the light and it contained what felt like an intelligent energy. I felt a pure and gentle sensation of joy, love, and light flowing from it to me. It had a distinct presence and a distinct message — in the same way that the silent love of a mother for her child can be tangibly felt by the child (or someone watching). My room was very quiet and next to me my friend was sleeping peacefully — unaware of what was happening. After registerTHE E X P E R I E N T I A L A P P R O A C H TO A N T H R O P O L O G Y

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ing all of the sensations and emotions in that moment, and feeling immobilized and in awe at the presence of this light, I fell back asleep.15 A few days later, I talked to the Cuban Ifa priest (babalawo), who had conducted the initiatory work leading up to my experience. He reminded me that he had told me — in a divinatory reading — about a positive spiritual prospect. Two years later, when discussing my experience for a second time with my Brazilian teacher, Mayuto Correa, the dialogue went thus: M.C. Did I interpret anything for you in that light thing [the first time I discussed the experience with him]? Y.M. Hum No . . . No you just said something like "I knew you were . . . connected" or something. . . . So I didn't know what that meant . . . exactly . . . like that [light] was my spirit or something? M.C. So if you see . . . our sights, our physical sensitivity see things like this: [He puts one hand with the fingers spread apart and pointing up, superimposed exactly over the other hand, palm to palm, right in front of him, the back of the hand facing him being perpendicular to his line of sight, so that all the fingers of that hand hide the fingers of the hand with its back facing away from him, so that he cannot see that there are two hands by looking straight ahead.] O.K. . . . If we have like a little angle . . . off, a little angle off. [He moves both hands — still together, mirroring each other — to a slight angle so that they are not perfectly perpendicular to his line of sight anymore and thus he can see the sides of the fingers of the hand with its back facing away from him.] Y.M.

Humhum

M.C. [and then M.C. quickly moves his hands back to the original position so that he cannot see the hand facing away from him.] See. . . The dimension, we see this dimension, [he shows me the hand which had its back facing him]. Humhum this is the dimension that we live, that we know through our senses, our physical senses. O.K. . . . Our SPIRITUAL senses are in disharmony, are in disharmony with that . . . that dimension. 278

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[He shows me the hand which had its back away from him and which had been hidden.] But when we have some kind of tuning [referring to the initiation]. Automatically, one LITTLE, little just a LITTLE tuning [he quickly turns the hands a little bit sideways, just enough so that they are at an angle and he can see the sides of both hands at the same time]. . . gives a SIGHT. . . it's just like a ... is a quick sight of the other dimension. It's just like a fragment of it. That's what you got, what you saw. That fragment [unclear] of what would have been an explosion of light . . . the . . . the other dimension is an explosion of light . . . but the fragment is just a ... And all the time that . . . See. They . . . the. . . the. . . the entities that are connection . . . that we are in connection. . . they can make us see that anytime. . . . Y.M.

Humhum.

As an ethnographer who has worked with the Orisha path since 1981, I have observed that this type of critical "validating" experience began to occur only after I had taken definite steps into the inner world of this form of spirit-mediumship. By the same token, as is shown in the above dialogue, having the experience does not guarantee the expertise necessary for understanding it. It is interesting to note that Evans-Pritchard (1957) had an apparently similar experience which he recounted in a section entitled "The Light in the Garden. . . ,"16 I have only once seen witchcraft on its path. . . . About midnight . . . . I was walking in the garden at the back of my hut . . . when I noticed a bright light passing at the back of my servant's hut toward the homestead of a man called Tupoi. As this seemed worth investigation I followed its passage until a grass screen obscured the view. I ran quickly through my hut to the other side in order to see where the light was going to, but did not regain sight of it. I knew that only one man, a member of my household, had a lamp that might have given off so bright a light, but next morning he told me that he had neither been out late at night nor had he used his lamp. Shortly afterwards, on the same morning an old relative of Tupoi and an inmate of his homestead died. This event fully explained the light I had seen. I never discovered its real origin, which was possibly a handful of grass lit by someone on his way to T H E E X P E R I E N T I A L A P P R O A C H T O A N T H R O P O L O G Y2 7 9

defecate, but the coincidence of the direction along which the light moved and the subsequent death accorded well with Zande ideas about the "soul of witchcraft" leaving the witch to travel to its victim all the while emitting a bright light. (1957:13)17 To find this account by Evans-Pritchard, I had to look through a 1957 edition of an obscure journal called Tomorrow (A Quarterly Review of Psychical Research). Undoubtedly the myriad of experiences which Castaneda reported were much more accessible. In addition, Evans-Pritchard projected in his writings the persona of a distanced observer largely unconcerned with such experiences, especially at a personal level. Within the work of a well-known anthropologist then, such an experience was marginal and surrounded by doubt, while within Castaneda's work it was central and inescapable. In my case, reading EvansPritchard's account occurred afterI had a similar experience, thus allowing me to realize that certain previous — and quite established — anthropologists had been exposed to comparable phenomena even though their reporting of personal experiences had an ambiguous tone. Regarding the contemporary anthropologists mentioned above and others involved in experiential anthropology, I feel that my approach, so far, converges in one way with their writings. Like Stoller and Grindal, I came to experiential anthropology because of my interest in certain esthetic and affective elements in African-derived spirit-mediumship. Specifically I came to my initial interest in Candomble and anthropology through my interest in dance and the transformation experience it affords. Like them, or so I deduce from their writings, I was driven to getting closer to living the reality described in non-Western spiritual paths, to see if the phenomena and experiences attributed to them truly occurred or were simply the product of suggestion and myth-making. Nevertheless, the way in which each individual becomes involved in a spiritual path, including through anthropology, is complex and personal, thus making it difficult for me to generalize at this point in time about exponents of the recently growing school of experiential or participatory anthropology.

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CASTANEDA: DELIBERATE SELF-MYSTIFICATION Part of the controversy surrounding Castaneda results from a strong bias on the part of anthropologists and academics in general against "going native" and seriously reporting personal spiritual and/or "supernatural" experiences. But part of the opacity seems to be traceable to Castaneda himself. Castaneda is ambiguous because he is associated with a process of deliberate self-mystification19 — specifically in regards to his biographical statements — and because of the New Age following that formed around him. I will touch this topic briefly to reveal its complexity, for it relates to the broader topic of whether or not Castaneda based everything entirely on a lively imagination, and plagiarism from other ethnographers, occultists and mystical writers, as de Mille (1990a:392) has suggested. In terms of the New Age cult developed around him, it is clear that there is a tendency within the New Age movement to expropriation of nonWestern spiritual traditions to make them fit modern Western secular concerns. This often involves extreme gullibility on the part of the followers and manipulation on the part of a guru-like figure.22 Indeed the back jacket of Castaneda's sixth book (1981) proclaims in a sensationalist style: "Against a mysterious landscape, into the heart of magic we join the master — Castaneda! . . . he brings a world full of terrors, mysterious forces, dazzling insights" [italics, mine]. On the cover of his last book, he is referred to as "One of the godfathers of the New Age" (1987). Although the romanticism surrounding non-Western peoples in the New Age and the Western tradition in general may appear to have a positive and complimentary direction, it ultimately is problematic because it distorts and mystifies the facts, no matter how extraordinary they may indeed be to Western eyes. Castaneda has publicly stated that he was born into a well known family in Brazil,23 his father having a high government post (Bebb 1984), and that later, among other things, he went to study art in Milano in the 1950s. But several sources including Time Magazine24 and then a Peruvian publication25 stated that he was born Carlos Cesar Salvador Arana Castaneda in the city of Cajamarca in the Peruvian Andes,26 that his father was a goldsmith and an intellectual, and that he studied psychology and creative writing at Los Angeles City College in the 1950s (Time 1973; Levano 1973; Bebb 1984). Castaneda responded to Time's questions about the inconsistencies in his biography and selfpresentation in the following manner: "One's feelings about one's mother . . . are not dependent on biology or on time. . . T H E E X P E R I E N T I A L A P P R O A C H T O A N T H R O P O L O G Y2 8 1

. To ask me to verify my life by giving you my statistics . . . is like using science to validate sorcery. It robs the world of its magic" (Time 1973:44). From this evasive answer we see that in Castaneda's view, as in certain aspects of the New Age movement which followed, "magic" is somehow inimical to truthfulness, discretion is confused with distortion, and freedom is identified with arbitrariness.27 In the light of his own self-concept as presented in Time, and of the inconsistencies presented by the press, it appears very likely that Castaneda's account of his early background is intentionally distorted.28 If so, it is reasonable to expect skepticism concerning other aspects of Castaneda's life. The manipulation of personal identity by Castaneda is not haphazard. He comes from Sao Paulo, a gigantic and very "European" city and not a small, moderate size Andean town in Peru. He is not from a middle-class background, but comes from an upper-class, well-known family. He did not study at a small American city college, but studied art at an Italian university. Now that Castaneda is a millionaire, he openly mentions taking on very different types of identities, calling himself either "Joe Cordoba," a sometime short order cook, butler, and gardener (in interview in Corvalan 1983, 1984) or "Joe Cortez," a T.V. repairman (reported by acquaintances in Fields 1985). He adds that this assumption of different names and identities is meant to annihilate the monster of pride, for when he is "Joe Cordoba" working all day in a truck stop it "is quite wonderful because [he] can't fall any lower" (Corvalan 1983:10). This aspect of his life does not enhance the image of Castaneda as an "impeccable" (see title of Corvalan's 1984 article) and self-confident master. Part of the intended and unintended opacity in Castaneda's persona might also be traceable to the gap between Castaneda, the Latin American graduate student who identified largely with the excessively rationalistic and European part of his Latin American background,9and don Juan the Yaqui sorcerer who is fully immersed in a separate reality. In an interview (Castaneda 1970) broadcast in Los Angeles, Castaneda, discussing his first book, states on several occasions that "I was not culturally prepared." He also states: I'm very systematic, that's the way I grew up. They reared me like that. I can't break it anymore. . . . I am deprived of the magical things that don Juan imparts to life. . . . As a shaman he (don Juan) lives in magic time permanently. . . . I'm very dry. . . . I like to impart this idea of systema-

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tization. It makes me comfortable. But it's not magical time at all.30 In the same interview Castaneda is asked what he thinks of God and don Juan. He answers: "God, for what?! . . . He [don Juan] manipulates, he commands" (Castaneda 1970). This conflicts with don Juan's own words: "For me there is only the traveling on paths that have heart . . . And there I travel looking, looking breathlessly" (Castaneda 1977:11). Don Juan presents himself in his words as a man who encounters and is awed by a world where his control is far from total. Castaneda adds on the other hand that the "intellectual man is a puny little thing in comparison to this [a man of knowledge] . . ." (Castaneda 1970). Castaneda has been reported to have learned about ways to tap into alternate channels of information and communication. Thus in an experiment conducted with Dr. Price-Williams, Castaneda is said to have been able to project the image of some of his "allies" or spirit familiars into the dreams of several subjects31 (Krippner and Villoldo 1976). Whether this was a genuine effect or not, is it possible that such power, or impression of power, might have provided Castaneda with a sense of mastery and of the ability to manipulate reality beyond human reach? Finally, the issue of the nature of the "path" that Castaneda is involved with is also ambiguous. Don Juan's teacher was a "diablero": "an evil person who practices black sorcery" (Castaneda 1968:14-15), yet we are told that don Juan "had ceased to be concerned with certain aspects of [black] sorcery" (1968:191). One might ask: "Which aspects?" Castaneda's image here is also conveniently undefined. He presents his "path" as rooted in love or rooted in war depending on the occasion. To a group of New Age followers gathered for a rare lecture: "He went on to outline ways in which we might free up ... energy, such as altering the way we habitually view love and courtship" (Fremon 1988:59). To a writer interviewing him he states: "Romantic love is another of man's illusions. Life is war" (Corvalan 1983:12). These contradictory aspects of Castaneda's persona complement rather well Castaneda's profile in his books as completely powerless and hyperrational while representing don Juan as stressing manipulation. It conforms with the descriptions by others of Castaneda's constant focus on gaining power, and with the secretive group of followers which he leads in Los Angeles.32

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DON JUAN: IMAGINED FIELD WORK WITH AN IMAGINARY BRUJO? While Castaneda's biography and public persona are largely selfcreated, in and of themselves, this does not mean that the profile of his teacher, don Juan, is not based on some field experience. In fact, I have come across a number of statements by individuals which suggest first that a figure such as don Juan might have existed and second, that it is very likely that Castaneda did some sort of field work. One woman wrote de Mille in 1977 to say that she had met don Juan in 1969 in the Southwest and was writing because she was "tired of opinions that D. Juan 'doesn't exist'" (in de Mille 198la: 174-6). By coincidence, Meighan recalled Castaneda mentioning that don Juan was being pestered by a group of hippies who had found him (Meighan 1989). An astrologer for Vogue magazine stated that she had studied in California around 1980 with a "Mexican shaman called don Jose, who was the basis for the character of don Juan" (Vogue 1990). Among those academics who had first-hand contact with Castaneda while he was still a doctoral student, Meyerhoff referred to the existence of don Juan: "There may well have been, in the beginning, an experience with a concrete person . . . . I'm still not convinced he was completely lying to me, all of the time" (interviewed by de Mille in de Mille 1981b:346). Reals, an expert on the Yaquis, stated that, based on his "early contacts with Castaneda . . . [he] believe[d] that someone called don Juan by Castaneda exist[ed]" (Beals 1978:35).33 Professor Meighan, who knew Castaneda from the time that the latter took a course as an undergraduate with him, mentioned to me that he was absolutely certain that Castaneda had actually done field work as an undergraduate among California Indians and shamans rather than working only in the library as some authors had suggested.34 Dr. John Kennedy of U.C.L.A. who had done fieldwork in Mexico was certain that Castaneda had "spent time" in Mexico, and probably in Arizona, having often discussed with him many ethnographic details of Mexican areas, specifically Tarahumara territory, Oaxaca, and Zacatecas. He also mentioned receiving as a gift a Yaqui mask executed by a Yaqui carver friend of Castaneda.36 Another social scientist, who wished to remain anonymous, and who had done extensive research among the Yaquis, had heard from the study's key informant that her "recently deceased father had said that he thought he knew who he [don Juan] was."This same researcher mentioned being told independently 284

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by several Yaquis about Castaneda and his various visits to do fieldwork among them in Arizona. This scholar mentioned in the most emphatic manner of being sure that, although it was well-known that Castaneda had lied about his personal identity, he had indeed done fieldwork among the Yaqui.36 This potential validation of the existence of don Juan, of field work in general, or of research among the Yaqui specifically does not contradict the self-mystification practiced by Castaneda, but instead presents us with the complexities of the issue, namely with the possibility that there was a don Juan or at least some fieldwork and there was, and is, a self-mystifying Castaneda gifted with a novelistic and evocative aptitude who in his own tangled manner brought us a glimpse of much of the reality within the inner world of a non-Western spiritual path. The irony, for me and for some of the other ethnographers who have been exposed to the "separate reality," is that aside from his mystification, Castaneda evoked through his narrative and creative ability the world of these initiatory paths better than any other ethnographer before him. He did this in relation to the clash between the Western and non-Western ways of thinking, in terms of relationship between teacher and student, and in terms of providing many details of spiritual experiences hitherto not found in the majority of ethnographies. Furthermore, he represented better than any other ethnographer the refusal by a non-Western "man of knowledge" to have a Western-trained social scientist reduce his knowledge to a "cultural" abstraction or artifact, rather than a method for perceiving deeper layers of the complexity of the world within ourselves and around us. Thus Castaneda appears to have written realistic evocative ethnographic novels, introducing an innovative portrayal of participatory fieldwork, based in part on field research. The exact manner in which he obtained the data, the degree to which he accurately presented himself as he is both in and outside of his books, the precise amount of material he lived, borrowed, or invented, the actions he chose to take with his fame, and the mystique surrounding him are issues which still have not been fully resolved.

CONCLUSION In conclusion, the influence, both positive and negative, Castaneda has had on contemporary experiential anthropology is noticeable. Castaneda has shown that he is openly in favor of T H E E X P E R I E N T I A L A P P R O A C H T O A N T H R O P O L O G Y2 8 5

self-mystification and that he has profited from becoming mystified by others. Although he stated that "If I invented don Juan . . . then people can say, 'well, we're safe, we don't have to examine anything'" (in Allen 1973:121), this can explain a large part of the negative response to Castaneda. Having significantly misrepresented himself, doubts about the remainder of his work are reasonable. In addition, even if Castaneda had some of the experiences he writes about, this does not automatically mean that he has the wisdom and expertise to understand or explain them as he seems to be saying in his role as "Master" and "godfather of the New Age." The outline of the approach presented in Castaneda's books has surfaced among several contemporary anthropologists, with considerable more accountability. The result is that experiences which strain our commonsense definition of reality are with increasing frequency openly discussed by contemporary anthropologists. My experiential fieldwork has clearly indicated to me that many of the "extraordinary" experiences described by Castaneda — whether he experienced them directly or recounted them second-hand — do occur once we take an open-minded, lucid, and non-wavering step into a spiritual apprenticeship, and that mystification is not necessary for initiation into a spiritual path.37 The ambiguity of Castaneda's work, the responses to it within anthropology, and its impact on experiential anthropology, call for a reassessment. Examining Castaneda's work should not be taboo. Many of the apparently extraordinary phenomena described in his books are reported by other competent anthropologists. In this light, Castaneda can be seen as a pioneer, if a flawed one, in synthesizing and evoking the participatory approach to encounters with a "separate reality" in anthropology.38

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I would like to thank Mayuto Correa for his evaluation of Castaneda's books based on his vast experience in the Afro-Brazilian spiritual path and for his encouragement in continuing to pursue this topic. I am also grateful to Clement Meighan and to John Kennedy for recounting their first-hand impressions and recollections of Carlos Castaneda; Carlos Hagen-Lautrup for recalling his encounters with Castaneda and providing useful bibliographic material; Edith Turner and Bruce Grindal for sharing some of their experiences with me; David Young, Jean-Guy Goulet, Lydia Degar-

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rod and Kevin Barrett for their editorial assistance; Phyllis Galde of Fate Magazine for providing me with articles on Castaneda; and Jean-Guy Goulet for referring me to Hallpike. I would also like to thank everyone who gave me information including those who chose not to be cited because of the controversy which surrounds Castaneda.

NOTES 1. I use the term "experiential approach" from Peters (1981:37-40), where he traces the concept specifically in regards to the direct participatory study of "religious systems and altered states of consciousness" to Jules-Rosette (1975), Maquet (1975), Staal (1975), and Tart (1972) and to a less participatory, more limited experiential approach present in the "introspective ethnography" used by Riesman (1977 [1974]) and the limited "symbolic transformation" discussed by Ridington (1969). Interestingly, Peters explicitly describes the experiential approach as "the investigator's awareness of his own inner reactions when going through a patterned behavioral process in another culture or subculture. This makes possible direct observation of some mental states, and helps to constitute a body of references for communication with other persons undergoing a similar experience" (Peters 1981:37). In this quotation, he is taking from an article by Maquet (1978:362-363) criticizing the lack of scholarly responsibility in the experiential work of Castaneda. 2. Such experiences have occurred to anthropologists, starting with Tylor — who never publicly reported it (Stocking 1971, from a Tylor manuscript written in 1872) — and continuing with R. Linton (1927) [and as related in A. Linton and Wagley, 1971], Hallowell (1934, 1942), Gorer (1949, 1938), Evans-Pritchard (1962), Lewis (1974), Angoff (1974), Long (1977), and Winkleman (1982). 3. It is difficult to presently assess the impact, across more than twenty years, that the publication of his first book and the three books that followed had at the time on anthropology and other disciplines. Making the cover of Time Magazine, and the numerous reviews and discussions of Castaneda's work contained in Allen (1973), Noel (1976) and de Mille (1978, 1980a), totaling over 60 items — not to mention the articles cited — give an indication of the wide range of his influence. In addition at least 5 books have been written concerned exclusively with discussing the rele-

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vance of Castaneda's account of don Juan's philosophy to the social sciences (Silverman 1975), Jungian analysis (Williams 1981), Indian philosophy (MacDowell 1986), "Western shamanism" (Drury 1978), and Western philosophy and ethnology (Timm 1978). 4. Littleton made the point (1976:151) that the content of Castaneda's works heralded a "whole new spirit of inquiry . . . a 'new anthropology' [which] . . . starts from the assumption that [magico-religious] phenomena . . . are in fact 'problematical' and not inherently nonsensical" [italics in original]. Later Littleton (1985:xlvii) stressed the enduring importance of the description of a "separate reality." 5. Most of the response which greeted Castaneda's work is still relevant to the present wave of experiential ethnographies. Of special interest are those authors including Douglas (1981 [1980] [1973] ), Riesman (1976 [1972], 1981 [1980]), Wilk (1977), Littleton (1976, 1985), and Timm (1978), who initially cited the innovative aspect within anthropology of Castaneda's description of a participatory approach and his accounts of extraordinary experiences. 6. This was in response to the critical questions in de Mille's first letter (see below). Earlier on, many anthropologists viewed Castaneda as having set an example for this kind of research. Joan Koss stated at a 1978 AAA symposium that "[Castaneda's] books had made it easier for anthropologists to report their own altered states of consciousness, which they may have kept secret to avoid embarrassment and loss of status in the profession" (paraphrased in de Mille 1990a:132). 7. Personal Communications, AAA meeting, 1988, Phoenix, Arizona. 8. In the last letter of their "duel," Grindal (1986:43) reports that de Mille finally conceded that the former's "wonder at witnessing the [animated corpse] . . . is valid, whether [he] was fooled or not." 9. Stoller's account resembles Castaneda primarily in its format as a narrative ethnography depicting the process of being an apprenticeship to a sorcerer. It also includes several reported experiences of extraordinary sensations (the perception of a magically-derived smell, temporary paralysis during an attack of witchcraft on the ethnographer) and the recounting of the result of the casting of a defensive spell (causing temporary facial deformity in a relative of the bewitched individual).

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10. In particular there are accounts of visions of flying above the landscape — like Castaneda as a crow — and of seeing a being enveloped in light. I am not here suggesting, however, that similarity in a privately perceived experience implies plagiarism or borrowing on the part of Peters. ll.Staal (1975) and Jules-Rosette (1975), two authors cited abundantly by Peters in his description of the experiential approach, refer in turn in numerous instances to Castaneda in their books and to his participation-oriented approach to the study of religious and mystical experience. 12. Such an apprenticeship is primarily experience-centered and it gives one a specific sense — distinct from that obtained through books or interviews — to decipher the verisimilitude of accounts of a "separate reality" and of the description of the behavior of shamans and/or mediums. It appears to me that the more wellversed in interacting with "non-ordinary" reality one is, the more perceptive is one's evaluation of such accounts. Nonetheless, this is not to say that having had a few such experiences one can readily tell, from reading someone else's account, if that ethnographer is saying what really occurred to him/her or if he/she is repeating what another person, an informant for example, told him/her. 13.1 am presently (1990-1991) completing my doctoral dissertation research for the Department of Anthropology at the University of California at Los Angeles, through fieldwork in Brazil, working with spirit-mediumship mainly in Rio de Janeiro and its outlying areas, with the support of a grant from the U.C.L.A. Department of Anthropology as well as a grant from the U.C.L.A. Center for Afro-American Studies. Previously, I did research in Los Angeles with Afro-Cuban Santeros and Afro-Brazilian followers of Candomble and Umbanda, part of which was the basis for my M.A. thesis, and I conducted pilot studies in Salvador, Brazil, and Ife, Nigeria. 14. The ensuing experiential account or portions thereof should not be reproduced without the explicit authorization of the author of the article. 15. The next morning when I awoke, I remembered the light I had seen and the sensation I had experienced. Three days later, I told my madrina (spiritual "parental" kin in Santeria) and the babalawo about it. One week later, I described it to Mayuto Correa. This ex-

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perience stayed firmly in my mind as I did not comment on it to anyone else. Two years later, after debating the idea, I decided to write about it, and I sat down to relive the experience — still as vivid in my mind as the day it had occurred. 16. It can also be found in one section in Evans-Pritchard's voluminous Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic Among the Azande (1937:34), as was pointed out by a participant at the AAA symposium on "Representation, Experience, and Discourse." 17. An early reviewer of the present article pointed out that EvansPritchard "specifically (and quite effectively) abjures belief" when he states: "I never discovered its real origin, which was possibly a handful of grass lit by someone on his way to defecate. . . . " This must be understood within the pattern of contradictory messages conveyed by many anthropologists and academics when relating to such personal experiences in the past. Evans-Pritchard, by writing a short summary of his experience and research on "mystical notions and ritual practices" (EvansPritchard 1957:11) in this journal of psychical research and by including his seeing of a light in it, is at some level giving supporting evidence for the journal's explicit "task of throwing a spotlight on supposedly paranormal elements in all societies" (Garrett 1957: inside front cover). C.R. Hallpike included Evans-Pritchard's account in his book Foundations of Primitive Thought (1979), in a section entitled "The Paranormal and Primitive Notions of Causality," introducing it as an example of phenomena encountered by anthropologists "which are extremely difficult to explain in terms of conventional material science" (Hallpike 1979:477). He addressed the ambiguity in EvansPritchard's post-factum interpretation of the light being possibly produced by a handful of burning grass carried by someone on their way to defecate: if this had been the case there would surely have been so many such occasions when moving lights were seen at night that the Azande would not have been as ready as they were to identify moving lights at night as witchcraft. In addition, Evans-Pritchard compares the light to a lamp, presumably a pressure-lantern, which has little resemblance to burning grass. (Hallpike 1979:478) Evans-Pritchard engages the reader by saying he has seen something paranormal, recounts what he saw, what happened to his senses, the series of events, then retreats quickly with his disclaimer, and offers the diversion of the possibility of learning to

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see as the African sees to the standard anthropological distance: "the coincidence accorded well with Azande ideas." IS.See Lowie (1955), Evans-Pritchard (1962), Hufford (1982b). 19. See Time (1973), Levano (1973), Bebb (1984), Myerhoff (in de Mille 1981a), de Mille (1978 [1976], 1981a), Needham (1985). De Mille's 1990a bibliography — close to 600 items — is a good starting point for researching the mystification surrounding Castaneda. 20.1 should add that the point of view that Castaneda did some field work with Indians and Indian shamans has not been expressed much in the recent literature. This tendency was reinforced by the fact that most of the literature appearing after the late 1970s refers to de Mille as the final authority on Castaneda. De Mille had stated: "Likely sources of [Castaneda's] lore await detection in obscure corners of the U.C.L.A. library" (1978 [1976]:viii) and "every element of don Juan's teaching could be traced — by an obsessed graduate student with a ten-year grant — to some earlier publication [by other authors]" [italics in original] (1981a:392). And de Mille, although he is quite thorough in his pursuit of sources which discredit Castaneda, especially in his chapter "A Portrait of the Allegorist" (de Mille 198la), has shown a lack of evenhandedness in his inexperienced attempt — without the benefit of similar field work or experiences — to discourage Grindal from pursuing his ethnographic research and writing on his own spiritual experiences (see above and Grindal 1986). 21.Deloria (1989) states that "The American Indian is often a convenient symbol, used to portray certain underlying problems and solutions for each generation of non-Indian Americans . . . In the 1980s Lynn Andrews and Michael Harner [whose book The Way of the Shaman (1980) contains a recommendation by Castaneda] have used the Indian spiritual motif to promulgate New Age techniques, fantasies, and feelings." A New Age magazine "Shaman's Drum" contains an editorial discussing the "controversial — and, to many traditional Native Americans, the most offensive" aspect of their issue, the advertisements for shamanistic workshops, often very expensive and involving very large groups of people for "shamanistic initiations" (White 1989:4, inside cover). That same issue of "Shaman's Drum" contains an advertisement for a "Castaneda seminar" (p. 66).

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22. Although such gullibility is not unique to the West, its extreme nature functions here specifically as reaction to the extreme skepticism regarding religious experiences present in our society. 23. In the vita of Castaneda's (1973) Ph.D. dissertation it is stated that he was born in Sao Paulo, Brazil, in 1935. 24. Sandra Burton, the reporter sent to U.C.L.A. to speak to Castaneda, stated that "Certain details of his personal history were not checking out as factually correct. . . . He had succeeded in cutting himself off from his past and had admittedly fudged on his vital statistics. My job was to recover them." Time Magazine continued the investigation: "Digging through old records, Burton finally found immigration papers indicating that Castaneda's origins were really Peruvian. With that clue, our reporter in Peru, Thomas A. Loayza, discovered the first solid biographical facts about Castaneda by locating members of his family, their jewelry shop and former friends in Lima" (in Davidson 1973:4). 25. "After reviewing family records and after talking to relatives and school colleagues of the now very well known author . . . we are able to state with full confidence that Carlos Castaneda . . . is Peruvian; that he studied in the Educational Center number 91 of Cajamarca, his native city . . . that he was a student of [the National School of] Fine Arts [in Lima], and that he used to then . . . hide behind his great joy of life the inner landscape of his family, as he now hides his paternal last name [Arana]" (Levano 1973:16, translated by Yves Marton). 26.Ramona Du Vent, Wright Dennison, and Eleanor Witt mentioned meeting the daughter of Castaneda from his earlier marriage to a Peruvian-Chinese woman in Lima, Peru. Eleanor Witt stated specifically having known the mother [wife of Castaneda] and daughter in Lima (in de Mille 1981a:383-4; 368). Another indication of the ambiguity surrounding Castaneda's identity came from Hagen-Lautrup, born and raised in Chile and presently director of the U.C.L.A. Map Library: I have been director since 1963 of the map library. I used to often see Castaneda walk in and look at topographic maps and sometimes check them out. The library was then in the basement of Haines Hall [the same building as Anthropology]. He used to come in often, and look at maps

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of California, Arizona. . . . I don't remember. I noticed him for he looked South American, with Indian blood in him, either from Peru or Bolivia . . . and the look of middle to lower class. When you live in Latin America for a long time you can tell these things. . . . I can even tell if someone is from the North or South of Chile. He looked always humble, keeping his head down. Then for two or three years I did not see him anymore. Meanwhile I had begun to do a radio program and the University of California Press saw that they could use my show for publicity for their new books. So every time they published a new book they would send me the author for an interview. And they would give me a copy of the book and a little 'bio' before hand. And that's what they did with Castaneda. I read the 'bio' and it stated that he had been born in Brazil related to some very high politician, vice-president or something to that effect, and had been raised in Argentina at a very high-class private school and then had gone to study art in Florence or Milan. So when I saw him at the scheduled interview, after reading that, the image . . . I thought it cannot be, there must be a mistake. It did not jibe. And he recognized me as well and felt embarrassed. He sensed that he could not fool me, it was very clear and so he left, (paraphrased from HagenLautrup 1991) Hagen had proceeded to warm up to Castaneda by striking up a conversation in Portuguese, because of the biography, but Castaneda became even more flustered and did not say one work in Portuguese. Instead he suddenly got up and mentioned that he had an appointment with a dentist and left. Hagen attempted to set up another interview, but Castaneda never followed through. An interview finally took place when it was made clear to Castaneda that Hagen-Lautrup would not be the interviewer (HagenLautrup 1989). Hagan-Lautrup added as an explanation, "But you know this is a very common thing in Latin America. When I was in the University in Chile, I knew four or five colleagues who all claimed to be related to very prominent people . . . nobility. I remember one stated that he was tied to British aristocracy as well as to the Czar!" (paraphrased from Hagen-Lautrup 1991). 27. Along this vein a follower of Castaneda interprets the "separate reality" present in Castaneda's books in the following manner: "Life

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is a game. . . . Nothing is real, so you can do whatever you want" (in Fields 1985:51). 28. Several people who knew Castaneda before he became famous are reported to have commented on his facility in embellishing reality. According to Bruce Bebb, a boarder in the same house as Castaneda in Los Angeles in the late 1950s who had heard many stories from the latter about his exploits as a soldier, spy, jazz trumpet player etc., Castaneda's then best-friend, Byron, one day exclaimed to Bebb: "Carlos lies too much" (quoted in Bebb 1984). Victor Delfin who knew him in the 1940s in Lima reminisces admiringly to a Peruvian journalist: "He was the greatest liar" (quoted in Spanish in Levano's 1973 article, my translation, or more literally: "he was the most fabulous chap in his capacity for lying"). Jose Bracamonte, who was a fellow student at the National Fine Arts School of Peru in the late 1940s, recounted that: "We all liked Carlos. . . . He was witty, imaginative, cheerful — a big liar and a real friend" (quoted in Time Magazine 1973). Banks Leonard, an archaeologist who has done research in Peru, mentioned to me in a conversation (May 22, 1990) that Ramiro Matos, a Peruvian archaeologist who had been a student with Castaneda told him that he remembered Castaneda for his gambling and lying. These second-hand accounts indicate the reputation of being a spinner of tales, and of being from Peru. These sources cannot indicate however what he did, later, at U.C.L.A. 29. In addition, he refers to himself several times by the phrase: "Like a good European I . . . " (Castaneda 1970) and elsewhere: "I bore myself as a European" (Allen 1973:121). This is peculiar because he is a Latin American and one who also habitually referred to himself as a "small brown man" (Meighan 1989), or a "plain brown man" (Fremon 1988). Certainly he may be of European culture in contrast with don Juan, but he is in fact of Latin American cultural background, and it is peculiar that as an anthropologist he would speak in a way that diminishes or ignores this fact. Possibly this follows the manner in which Castaneda recreated his biography (see above). 30. Castaneda was discussing the contrast between the first descriptive and experiential part of his first book and the second analytical and very dry part, in the process describing his personality. 31. In another instance, Wanda Sue Parrot, a cousin of the North American woman who married Castaneda, mentioned a frighten-

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vb,.mxfdgmnfgm,;fgm,fgm,cmf,mcfgb,.cfgblk;dfgkdfg,mjgk,fgmk;d tributed to Castaneda's practice of controlled dream exercises (Parrot 1991:97). 32. Many of the people who have been recently in contact with Castaneda with whom I have spoken, mention him with a secretive and mystifying aura. Others who have met followers of Castaneda's very selective workshops have mentioned the same mental state on the part of his followers. Fields was told by a woman who had known Castaneda for nearly ten years that Castaneda has an inner circle of five or six women living in one large house, like in "a nunnery of some kind". In their "apprenticeship" to becoming a "warrior," they study anthropology, karate, and practice celibacy. They also study writing, the most famous having been Florinda Donner who wrote "Shabono," largely discredited in the American Anthropologist as a plagiarized ethnography (Fields 1985:51). See De Holmes 1983 for a specific analysis of "Shabono." In addition, de Mille mentioned hearing from Ramona DuVent that she and Marjory Dill, students of Castaneda's at Irvine in 1972, were offered to be initiated to the advanced status of being one of Castaneda's four "winds" of female helpers by having sex with him. To prepare themselves for initiation they had to cut themselves off from their friends and abstain from sex with nonsorcerers (de Mille 1981a:369-372). Several people who knew Castaneda have mentioned his very conventional appearance and outward behavior, and his original distaste for the followers, groupies and hippies who searched him out to be their guru (Meighan 1989; Hagen-Lautrupl989). He recently denied being a guru (Corvalan 1983:9), yet the above accounts indicate allowing himself to be treated as one. 33.Beals mentioned that Castaneda had approached him "early in his career . . . [and] asked me whether . . . further useful study among [the Yaqui] was possible. He was interested in them partly because he could visit them on his own limited resources. Later he spoke enthusiastically about his visit to the Yaqui River and soon came to tell me about his contact with a Yaqui shaman. He asked if I thought it justifiable to concentrate on him as an informant rather than to develop some more conventional ethnographic problem. As neither Spicer nor I had encountered anything resembling true shamanism [among the Yaqui], I approved the idea . . . . Castaneda later spoke vaguely but enthusiastically about his contacts" (Beals 1978:357).

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34. This is Meighan's statement: "In those days [teaching an undergraduate course on California Indians] I had a deal going with the students [unclear] We had to do term papers, and [I said?] anybody who does a term paper that involves interviewing an Indian [unclear] a direct anthropological contact, rather than some rehash of something from the library I will guarantee an "A" to. . . . So I had a big class then, maybe 80 to 90 people, and two or three of them did that. One of them was Carlos. And that was the first time that I ran into him at all, or noticed him at all. But he went over and did fieldwork with some Yuma Indians, or somebody on the Colorado river, and wrote a little paper on what he found out and who he was talking to and so on. And it was pretty good. And I felt and still feel that I know that material well enough that it isn't likely that an undergraduate student could fake it on me. . . . I've been teaching that class for years and years and years, I know the literature [on Southern California Indians] very thoroughly, far better than any other undergraduate could know it. "So I had absolutely no reason to think, and I still don't think that he was faking it. And later on as he continued with his field work, he'd periodically come in and give me some ethnographic thing that he'd collected from miscellaneous Indians in California, and I know this stuff is authentic, I know he got it from an Indian. There is NO WAY, so somewhere in there he was out there talking to, interacting with, and dealing with informants. . . . Now when it comes to writing books, who knows?" (Meighan 1989). Regarding Meighan's mention of Castaneda's early fieldwork "with Yuma Indians or somebody on the Colorado River" it is interesting to note, in typical Castaneda indirect fashion, a confirmation of his presence later in the general area: "Carlos will call you from a phone booth," says Michael Korda, his editor " . . . and say he is in Los Angeles. Then the operator will cut in for more change, and it turns out to be Yuma [located on the Colorado river]" (in Time Magazine 1973:45). 35. From a personal conversation with Dr. John Kennedy at U.C.L.A., May 30, 1990. Kennedy also mentioned that there were Yaqui in several parts of Mexico, including Oaxaca, because of their dispersion early in this century at the hands of the Mexican army. 36. From two personal conversations with this scholar, in 1988 and in 1990.

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,37.1 am not advocating in this paper the irreflexive participation of anthropologists in a spiritual path. Such a decision is entirely personal, and many factors (values, integrity, affinity, need, etc.) beyond the scope of this paper go into taking such a step. 38. As this paper goes to press, I feel that most of the negative reception to Castaneda's early books was more a reaction to the subject matter, including the controversy raised by his personal accounts of paranormal experiences, rather than to the questions surrounding his ethics and/or self-presentation which came up later in the course of his being subjected to intense scrutiny by the media.

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Theoretical and Methodological Issues

INTRODUCTION In their search for knowledge, anthropologists who used to wonder about how their presence might affect the societies and cultures they sought to record tried to devise techniques to control for "experimenter effects," as they were sometimes referred to. In recent years, anthropologists have come to realize that they are as much responsible for "inventing" or "writing" the cultures they study as their informants, and so have come to cast their reports in the form of dialogues and even multivocal conversations that more accurately reflect the dynamics and pragmatics of the fieldwork process. The essays in this collection go one step further: they provide records of how anthropologists themselves have been "changed" by cross-cultural encounters. The encounters in question are typically those with the "extraordinary" phenomena one experiences in dreams and visions. These encounters are reported by anthropologists who take seriously the views held in the various nonWestern societies they studied. They do so primarily by recording what occurred when they met their informants' expectation that investigators' knowledge of local realities be based on firsthand experience. Although anthropologists report these experiences 298

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as unusual or extraordinary for them, these same experiences are perfectly ordinary for the people with whom they lived. It is for the sake of convenience that accounts of phenomena outside the usual range of experience for an anthropologist are referred to as "extraordinary." E. Turner, et al. (1992:4), who observe that anthropologists are generally embarrassed to use such experiences in their ethnographic accounts, note that anthropologists are therefore prone to refer to such experiences with a number of euphemisms, such as their own term "strange event." We refer to "extraordinary experiences." These terms are preferable to paranormal and extrasensory which "exclude scientific research rather than invite it" (Mead 1979:47). The kind of dream and vision experiences reported in this book are referred to as waking dreams by Price-Williams rather than as visions, apparitions, or hallucinations, the terms that would immediately come to the mind of the religionist, the student of the paranormal, and the psychiatrist. In extraordinary experiences or waking dreams, "the imaginative world is experienced as autonomous," that is to say "the imager does not have the sense that he is making up these productions, but feels that he is getting involved in an already created process" (Price-Williams 1987:248). While this article focuses on methodological and theoretical issues associated with anthropological investigations of accounts of dreams and visions, it does not attempt to review the anthropological literature on dreaming and altered states of consciousness. Extensive bibliographies, some annotated, and excellent summaries of this field of inquiry are provided by D'Andrade (1961); Grunebaum and Caillois (1966); Bourguignon (1972); O'Nell (1976); Dentan (1986); Hunt (1989:81-87, 146-156) and B. Tedlock (1987c, 1991b). Following Dentan (1986) and B. Tedlock (1987b), we distinguish four major phases in the anthropological study of dreams. While these phases succeed each other, they still have their proponents among contemporary anthropologists. Each phase established as it were a perspective or an approach to a wide range of phenomena — dreams, visions, religious rituals and beliefs. A brief review of these approaches will provide the intellectual context for our contribution to this field of study.

THE RATIONAL APPROACH In the wake of eightheenth-century enlightenment, and the rise of empiricism, Western intellectuals began to dismiss dreams as THEORETICAL AND METHODOLOGICAL ISSUES

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against Reason. For instance, John Locke (1632-1704), a major early promoter of empiricism, was so wary of the ill-effects of imagination on the scientific pursuit that "in his Thoughts Concerning Education, he actually counselled all parents who discovered a 'fanciful vein' in their children to 'stifle and suppress it as much as may be' " (Kearney 1988:164). Many authors were to devote themselves to this form of suppression, in one way or another (Castle 1988:52-56). For instance, beginning around 1800, numerous polemical treaties were published in England, France, and Germany, all dedicated to the eradication of the belief in ghosts. According to Castle (1988:54; note 51) the crucial watershed was 1799, the year in which Christoph Friedrich Nicolai presented to the Royal Society of Berlin his "Memoir on the Appearance of Spectres or Phantoms occasioned by Disease, with Psychological Remarks." In this essay, the author attributes his experiences of hundreds of daily apparitions over a period of nearly one year to the fact that he had forgone his annual bloodletting. Following C. F. Nicolai, numerous other authors embarked on the search for biological and/or psychological bases for the delusions of the mind. In this context the verb hallucinate and the noun hallucination, from the latin alucinari, "to wander in mind," became widely used (Castle 1988:55; note 52). In his review of anthropological approaches to religion, EvansPritchard (1965:15) notes that early anthropologists were atheists or agnostics in their adult years, despite their having been raised in strongly religious homes (Tylor's family was Quaker; Frazer's family, Presbyterian; and Durkheim's family, rabbinical). According to Evans-Pritchard, they nevertheless persisted in the study of religion because "they sought, and found, in primitive religions a weapon which could, they thought, be used with deadly effect against Christianity. If primitive religion could be explained away as an intellectual aberration, as a mirage induced by emotional stress, or by its social function, it was implied that the higher religions could be discredited and disposed of in the same way." Saler (in press: 2-4) writes that in his experience most anthropologists are not personally religious in any conventional sense, while some are admittedly hostile to religion as they conceive it. We concur. Saler (in press: 4) suggests there are two reasons why anthropologists nevertheless remain fascinated by religion: "Having no consciousness of any strong conventional religious commitment on their own part, they are intrigued by persons who appear to make such commitments." The question of religious 300

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motivation thus becomes an issue. "And, though they do not usually phrase it as an explicit question reflexive to themselves, some anthropologists may also occasionally wonder if they are missing something of value because of their irreligiosity, something that they might perhaps come to understand vicariously through scholarship." Saler, who goes on to compare and contrast anthropologists to fellow academics in Departments of Religious Studies in North America, notes that the formetf tend to belong to the American Anthropological Association, while the latter belong to the American Academy of Religion. Academics in Departments of Religious Studies postulate that religion constitutes fields of autonomous or sui generis phenomena which cannot be reduced to socio-cultural or psychological ones (Dawson 1990; Pals 1986, 1990; Wiebe 1981, 1990). According to Pals (1990:6), scholars who hold this view "are themselves either religiously committed (mainly to Christianity) or they have had significant educational and other experiences in contexts marked by such commitment." In contrast, anthropologists who either lack such experiences or commitment, or are hostile to religion as they know it, are prone to analyze religions as parts of other, larger, socio-cultural and/or psychological systems. Rationalists who deny the spirit-world of their ancestors, contemporaries, and primitive others, have no choice but to relocate the "spirit world" in the imagination. Writers thus develop and sustain "one of the central myths of the modern period in the West," namely "the idea that the opposition between religion-superstition-revelation and logic-science-rationality divides the world into then and now, them and us" (Shweder 1991:2).3 Accordingly, early anthropological views easily portrayed belief in dreams and visions as characteristic of societies, or social classes, devoid of scientific modes of thought, and prone to let themselves become victims of the power of the imagination. To this anthropological tradition belongs Tylor's (1970) minimal definition of religion as "the belief in spiritual beings" — dream images erroneously given the status of ontological reality independent of the dreamer — and Frazer's view of magic and religion as "a standing menace to civilisation," "a solid layer of savagery beneath the surface of society" (1971 [1963]:73). Characteristically, Western anthropologists who "saw no need to explain their own people's anomalous official dismissal of dreams, sought reasons why other peoples did not so dismiss them" (Dentan 1986:322).4

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THE PSYCHOANALYTIC APPROACH With the publication of The Interpretation of Dreams in 1900, Freud opened the road to a renewed and serious intellectual consideration of dreams. Freud recognized the difficulties involved in the process of post-facto reporting verbally to others a non-verbal and private experience. He drew an important, and enduring, analytical distinction between the dream experienced and the account of the dream. The account of the dream is always the result of "secondary revisions," as the narrator forgets, omits, emphasizes, and distorts parts of his or her recollection of a particular dream experience. The dream in its actuality, as unfolding in the dreaming state, is inaccessible to empirical investigation. The account of a dream is always a reconstruction, the outcome of conscious and unconscious selective processes. Eventually many anthropologists were to cast their anthropological analysis of accounts of dreams and visions in other cultures in the Freudian idiom of projection and psychological defense mechanisms (Seligman 1921, 1923; Lincoln 1936; Lee 1958; Hall and Gardner 1954; Spiro 1982; Devereux 1957; Obeyesekere 1990). Together these studies constituted an important subfield of inquiry within North American anthropological studies of Culture and Personality (Leighton and Murphy 1965; Price-Williams 1975).

THE CONTENT ANALYSIS APPROACH A new phase in the anthropological investigation of dreams followed when more positivistically minded anthropologists abandoned Freudian inspired interpretations of dreams and their "latent symbolism" in favor of content analysis. Manifest "dream elements" became the basis for the construction of dream types and their comparison over and across broad cultural areas (Eggan 1952; Berelson 1954; Paolino 1964; Hall and Van de Castle 1966; Grey and Kalsched 1971). Critics of this analytical approach to accounts of dreams were soon to argue that "dream element" analysis failed to recognize the social context of narration of dreams and visions as constitutive of their meaning. For instance, when Eggan analyzed the content of her corpus of dreams obtained from a Zuni she noted a high ratio of "bad" to "good" dreams. Eggan (1952:482) took this as an expression of an imbalance in this dreamer's personality. This inference, notes B. Tedlock (1987a:130-131), fails to take into account that 302

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among the Zuni, as among their neighbors the Hopi, only "bad" dreams are reported on while "good" ones that concern imminent luck, or a long and healthy life, "are withheld until the dream comes true." It follows that "any Hopi or Zuni sample of the manifest content in reported dreams will always be nonrepresentative of the entire dream corpus" (B.Tedlock 1987a:31). "Zunis who withhold a good dream nevertheless act upon it — for example, by placing a bet during kick-stick races on the basis of favorable dream imagery. Zunis who report a bad dream may also act upon it and ask to receive a ceremonial whipping for the report. In both cases, they might be said to be 'performing' the dream. The performance itself takes a form other than that of a narrative of the dream: on the one hand the dream is transformed into the action of testing one's good luck, and on the other into that of being whipped and thus seeking to transform bad luck into good. Either way, Zunis are performing their dreaming, carrying dream actions forward into the waking world" (B. Tedlock 1987:119). These are socio-cultural processes that a content analysis of dreams simply fails to take into consideration.

THE EXPERIENTIAL APPROACH Two books — Altered States of Consciousness (1972), edited by C. T. Tart, and The Spectrum of Ritual (1979) edited by d'Aquili, et al. — heralded the experiential approach to investigations of altered states of consciousness (dreams, visions, and trance), a development that went hand in hand with a renewed interest in the work of Jung and in interpretive anthropology. Anthropologists participated more willingly in rituals designed to induce extraordinary experiences and/or ingest native hallucinogens known to open the mind to "extraordinary" visions (Myerhoff 1972; Bourguignon and Evascu 1979; Harner 1973b, 1980; Kensinger 1973; Peters and Price-Williams 1980; Peters 1981). Anthropologists did so to gain firsthand experiences of the range of phenomena reported by their informants. Anthropologists who were changed by their involvement with indigenous populations, argued that indigenous worldviews and practices should be taken more seriously than had been the case usually in anthropology. In their preface to Teachings from the American Earth, B. Tedlock and D. Tedlock (1987:ix) write that what unites all the contributors in the book is that "they are either Indians who have tried to make themselves heard, or

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whites who have tried to hear Indians and were changed by this experience." In his introduction to Hallucinogens and Shamanism, Harner (1973b:vi) argues that one of the main reasons why anthropologists underestimated the ethnological importance of natural hallucinogens is that none "had partaken themselves of the native psychotropic materials (other than peyote) or had undergone the resulting subjective experiences so critical, perhaps paradoxically, to an empirical understanding of their meaning to the peoples they studied." Most contributors to Hallucinogens and Shamanism are an exception to this rule. Their results are therefore presented as "first-hand field research." More recently, Philip M. Peek (1991:9) presents African Divination Systems: Ways of Knowing as a concerted attempt by a dozen anthropologists "to understand their [the African peoples] sources of knowledge, their ways of knowing," thus breaking with the attitude of a significant number of earlier "British anthropologists who treated divination with great derision." An experiential approach to an investigation of indigenous experiences and ways of knowing led some anthropologists to propose a theory based on biogenetic structuralism that would account for the world of experience as it arises in the human sensorium, that is "the 'whole sensory of apparatus of the body' (Borland's Illustrated Medical Dictionary, 23rd edition)" (Laughlin, et al. 1986:108).5 Interdisciplinary in nature, biogenetic structuralism combines the more traditional elements of interpretive anthropology with the contributions of the neurosciences, the cognitive sciences, and transpersonalism (Tart 1975; Zinberg 1977; and Grof 1976). Other anthropologists shifted their attention from the dream as object to the social context of accounts of dreams and visions seen as particular instances of social performances and of social construction of reality, paying particular attention to the social and cultural patterning of the process of listening to and/or offering accounts of dreams and visions (Fabian 1974; D. Tedlock 1979;Dentan 1986:318-319; Homiak 1987; Watson and Goulet 1992). They came to the realization that in conversations about dreams and visions individuals engage in the creation of social realities — including worldviews in which the world of ghosts is as real as the world of markets. Tedlock (1991b:163) notes three recent Ph.D. theses that clearly display this shift (Degarrod 1989; Desjarlais 1990; and Roseman 1991). The present collection of essays clearly falls within this latest phase of anthropological approaches to dreams.6

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THE EXPERIENTIAL APPROACH: A RADICALLY EMPIRICAL METHOD In an experiential approach to an investigation of accounts of dreams and visions, investigators involve themselves as much as possible in the lives and rituals of the people they live with while in the field. Often the people among whom they live as ethnographers insist that an experiential approach is essential to an understanding of local accounts of dreams and visions. Thus the Beaver Indians of northwestern British Columbia told Ridington "that knowledge would reveal itself . . . from within personal experience. It might even come . . . through myths and dreams" (1988:xi). Similarly, the Malaysians told Lederman "that the only way I could know [about the Inner Winds during a shamanic trance] would be to experience it myself" (1988:805). Like other anthropologists before them, the contributors to this book also report their findings following a process of experiential knowledge, a process that has changed them. The inclusion of the experience of the professional anthropologist in his or her ethnography is part of what Jackson (1989:4) calls "a radically empirical method," whereby anthropologists make themselves "experimental subjects" and treat their experiences as primary data. In this sense, personal experience "becomes a mode of experimentation, of testing and exploring the ways in which our experiences conjoin or connect us with others, rather than the ways they set us apart" (Jackson 1989:4). According to Jackson, his most valuable insights into the social life of the Kuranko followed from "cultivation and imitation of practical skills: hoeing on a farm, dancing (as one body), lighting a kerosene lantern properly, weaving a mat, consulting a diviner" (1989:135). Wikkan (1992:471) similarly emphasizes the importance of "communication within social relationships" and urges anthropologists "to put what is unspoken and self-evident to speakers into place before focusing on concepts and discourse." Taking seriously the viewpoint expressed by native informants, anthropologists find that their investigation becomes "a path to self-knowledge as well as a way of understanding what is strange and foreign" (Bateson and Bateson 1987:186). All the experiences reported in this book occurred in the context of sustained interaction with influential persons in the group with which the contributors were working at the time. In some cases, the experiences occurred in the context of participation in rituals. In all cases, anthropologists progressively learned the verbal and non-verbal codes of communication constitutive of a distinctive social world, and found that they also THEORETICAL

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experienced dreams, visions, and/or insights that immediately made sense to the people with whom they were working in the field: e.g. Young's visions of a Buddhist saint and of a Cree "grandfather" (Chapter 6); Wilkie's vision of a gnome (Chapter 5); Swartz' associations with the eagle and dolphin (Chapter 8); Turner's sighting of ihamba, a visible spirit form, while performing as a "doctor" in a Ndembu ritual (Chapter 3); Marton's sighting of the light after his initiation in Orisha and Afro-Cuban cult (Chapter 10); Laughlin's visions while practicing the yoga of psychic heat (Chapter 4); and so on. In all cases the extraordinary experiences reported by the anthropologist were received as "normal" when told to others in the "host culture," e.g., Buddhist, Cree, or Ndembu. We can tell the narrations were seen as normal by the lack of astonishment they occasioned, and by the spontaneous associations informants made with similar experiences of their own. The same experiences related in the context of an academic work, such as this book, will however undoubtedly astonish many members of the contributors' societies and profession.7 The nature of the experiences will also bring to mind Castaneda whose work many anthropologists see as "parables posing as ethnography" (Geertz 1983:20) or as "an elaborate hoax, a brilliant effort to make a lot of money as a best-selling author" (Stoller and Olkes 1987: 25). Anthropologists are all too aware that in reporting extraordinary experiences as the outcome of an apprenticeship to a traditional shaman or of participation in rituals, they are likely to become the object of suspicion by association. "If Castaneda's work proved to be [a] hoax, . . . what would my colleagues think of [my] account?" ask Stoller and Olkes (1987:25). All contributors to this book have asked themselves this question. They have chosen to record and publish their accounts of extraordinary experiences with a view to adding to the anthropological record. This record shows more and more clearly that reports of extraordinary experiences can go hand in hand with a presentation of qualitative data that effectively captures important dimensions of a people's cultural life. One may think of Kimball's experience of a ghost while working among the Irish (1972:189); of Goodman's experience of a dissociative state while studying dissociation in Mexico City and Yucatan (1972); of Myerhoff's vision of the Mayan tree of life after having ingested peyote among the Huichol (1972); of Favret-Saada's experience of witching and un-witching among the Bocage (1980); of Griridal's vision of a dancing corpse in the midst of a funeral among 306

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the Sisala (1983); of Lederman's experience of the "Inner Wind" when in trance as an apprentice to a Malay shaman (1988, 1991); of Fernandez's consultation with a Zulu diviner and drinking a potion of herbs, sheep's blood and gall administered to induce dreaming, and the ensuing dream which predicted his father's death (1991:213-214); and of B. and D. Tedlock's experiences of dreams in the context of apprenticeship to a Quiche Elder (B. Tedlock 1991b:l70-l74; D. Tedlock 1990). More and more often contemporary anthropologists are likely to make their extraordinary experiences an intrinsic part of their narrative ethnography. At first glance, the nature of extraordinary experiences such as visions and dreams may suggest to some that they are psychological data in need of psychological interpretation, namely that under particularly stressful situations these fieldworkers hallucinated. To follow this line of thought is to abdicate the examination of much larger issues such as the social construction of experience by actors in a shared cultural setting. Anthropologists who have extraordinary experiences describe those experiences using images and information which make sense to their informants. Myerhoff (1972) sees the Maya tree of life while in trance among the Huichol, in New Mexico, an image she had never seen before. In the context of a Sisala funeral in Western Africa, Grindal (1983) sees the corpse of the deceased get up and dance, a "fact" also seen by other — but not all — participants. Goulet sees himself fanning the fire in the context of a ritual in northern Alberta, an aspect of correct ritual performance he was not acquainted with beforehand. Such reports confirm the expectation that the deeper the penetration by a new culture, the more likely are ethnographers to report changes "at the psychic level in the patterns of cognitive and emotional response and in the unconscious manifestations through dreams and visions" (Kimball 1972:191). How are such phenomena to be accounted for? In the Jungian tradition, the fact that the accounts of visions and dreams reported by anthropologists sometimes closely match the contents of accounts of dreams and visions typical in the host culture may be seen as a result of the anthropologist sharing unconsciously in the subjective life of some significant other in the host culture, such as a shaman. This notion is entertained by Jungian analyst Claremont de Castillejo, who reports the case of a wife of a modern scientist of high rank, newly appointed to an old university, where adaptation proved difficult. The wife told the analyst one day that a male figure in black medieval garb appeared every night in her dreams, haunting her: "He THEORETICAL AND M E T H O D O L O G I C A L ISSUES 307

wore a high pointed hat from the apex of which poured a cascade of fine black lace falling to the ground. Black lace covered his face and it was her business to encircle with small white feathers the point of his hat from where the black lace fell. He held in one hand a money box raised to the level of his head" (1973: 68). Not only did the wife of the scientist dream of this figure, she would clearly see the figure standing by the bed when she woke each morning. The analyst suggested she draw the figure, and encouraged her to show the drawing to the husband, on the assumption that "she was picking up some unknown figure in the unconscious of her husband of which he was unaware" (1973:68). When the husband saw the drawing he looked at it carefully he said "Yes, that belongs to me." From that point o the woman's "dreams and the hallucination ceased." De Castillejo writes that the wife "had been the means of giving her husband an image from the collective psyche which concerned him and which he had needed to contact before he could feel at home in the medieval setting in which he actually found himself" (1973:68). Assuming for the time being that the unconscious produces images and figures that can be seen in dreams or visions, and that individuals can "pick up" images from the unconscious of others, it could be argued that Young's vision of the Indian figure in his home, later readily recognized by the Cree shaman as one of his helpers, is an expression of such unconscious processes. Similarly, Goulet's vision of himself by a fire fanning the flames in the culturally appropriate way, or Turner's vision of ihamba, a spirit form, or Marton's vision of a light radiating in his room, may all be interpreted as instances of the anthropologist's unconscious level of the mind mediating to his/her consciousness what is "known" to the individuals he/she has been intimately associated with in the context of ritual performance. As noted by Meier (1987:120), the mechanisms involved in such a mediation (if such mediation does, in fact, exist) are unknown.8 Such a mediation could account for Felicitas Goodman's observation (1990:228) that students learning the Way of the Shaman with Michael Harner typically experience a journey in the underworld where "their task is to fight with these beings [spirit guides] to gain power," a type of experience which participants in Goodman's workshops on the Spirit Journey rarely report. Why the dramatic differences in these reported journeys? Students may be unconsciously picking up unconscious themes and emotional states of the instructor with whom they learn the Shamanic or Spirit journey. Or they may be following subtle ver308

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bal and non-verbal cues from Goodman or Harner as to what kind of dream/vision to report. Whatever the case may be from a psychological viewpoint, the entry and the participation in the world of another people is not the end of the anthropologist's journey, for he or she must come back home, and there, in the light of his/her individual and professional views, reconsider past experiences, fieldnotes, and observations. A special difficulty arises for anthropologists who come back to their professional selves with the recollections and observations related to extraordinary experiences. As noted earlier, the general tendency is for anthropologists to distance themselves from the extraordinary experiences lived in the field. Indeed, the unspoken rule amongst professional anthropologists, a rule they share with most individuals in Western societies, is to discuss such experiences "almost exclusively in informal settings — over lunch, dinner, or a drink" (Stoller and Olkes 1997:ix). E. Turner, et al. (1992:5) observe how earlier anthropologists, such as Evans-Pritchard among the Azande (1937), Peter Huber in New Guinea, Romanucci-Ross in Mexico (1979:5758, 60) brushed aside, by choice or peer pressure, their extraordinary experiences while in the field. The reports of extraordinary experiences by the authors mentioned above are, in a sense, exceptional. The suppression of accounts of extraordinary experiences from one's professional writing is partly due to the fact that the discipline has yet to develop an internally consistent body of concepts in terms of which to approach such experiences without dismissing them as unverifiable products of the imagination. The preliminary fashion in which we must proceed in this book is due, in part, to this state of affairs. Indeed the novelty of the experiences for the anthropologists involved, and the perceived inadequacy of standard professional interpretations of them, are recurrent features of the papers included in this book, as well as of other similar publications. The cumulative accounts of extraordinary experiences on the part of anthropologists, female and male, of diverse backgrounds, raise a number of important theoretical and methodological issues which we want to address. First, in what sense can reports of extraordinary experiences on the part of anthropologists be considered as "data" in the light of which insights may be gained into local ethnographic realities and into the sociopsychological processes whereby these are constituted? Second, if other societies do not take for granted our Western notions of reality, is it analytically useful to draw a distinction between THEORETICAL AND METHODOLOGICAL ISSUES

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the real and the imaginary? Third, is it the case that rituals induce in participants — including a participating anthropologist — dreams or visions whose content is typical of the local culture in which they are enacted? If this is so, can we speak of nonverbal communication at an unconscious level? And last, is it possible for an anthropologist to validate aspects of a native worldview and experience through scientific experiments?

CAN ACCOUNTS OF EXTRAORDINARY EXPERIENCES BE VIEWED AS DATA? When we speak of data and observations reported by trained professionals, we ought to keep in mind that in all fields of inquiry the data are generally presented as the result of interaction between an investigator and what is assumed to be an aspect of reality conceptually distinct from the investigator. In the natural sciences, observations are seen as the product of the interaction that takes place between an investigator and physical elements, and in the social sciences, between an investigator and other human beings. In both instances, the data are affected to varying degrees not only by external events and surroundings, but also by the investigator's past history and psycho-cultural dispositions — what psychologists refer to as schemata (ways of perceiving, classifying and interpreting information). In principle, a professionally trained individual is one who develops ways of perceiving, classifying and interpreting stimuli in ways typical of one's professional group. Professional schemata are distinct from the "spontaneous," non-critical ones with which one entered a profession. The layperson's schemata must give way to the professional's schemata, with its associated body of implicit and explicit theoretical and methodological assumptions taken for granted in a discipline at a given point in time. In the natural sciences, the influence of external events and surroundings on the object of study is diminished through controlled experiments in laboratories. As Murphy (1971:40-41) remarks, scientists achieve their greatest successes "not by studying the state of nature," but rather by "falsifying nature through studying it under the high controls of the experimental situation." The results of such experiments lead to the formulation of general laws or principles that are then generalized to nature, outside the laboratory conditions. The investigator's individuality, personal beliefs, and values are, ideally at least, totally subsumed under the professional identity, with its prescribed ways of perceiving, classifying and interpreting observed data. The principle 310

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of replicability of a study reflects these highly controlled conditions under which scientific knowledge is produced. Even under such conditions, supposedly objective facts are at first far from obvious to fellow-investigators. In their laudable field study of a neuro-endocrinology laboratory, Latour and Woolgar (1979:32) focus on "the process by which scientists make sense of their observations." They note that debate amongst fellow scientists inevitably follows initial claims by an investigator concerning the factual status of a phenomenon. Others ask whether these claims are valid or not. Most often the original claim is qualified and then an agreed upon interpretation of the observations is reached. A claim is then accorded the status of "fact," a taken-for-granted reality on the basis of which to proceed with further investigations and discoveries. Latour and Woolgar (1979:76) conclude that "a [scientific] statement can thus be read as 'containing' or 'being about a fact' when readers are sufficiently convinced that there is no debate about it and the process of literary inscription [the processes of writing and reading involved in the production of a scientific paper] are forgotten." Within scientific disciplines, facts thus accumulate without explicit references to the many processes involved in their scientific "discovery" or "construction." The processes leading to established scientific facts are nonetheless amenable to sociological analysis and the construction of scientific knowledge or reality is a field of inquiry in and of itself.9 In the social sciences, investigators who model their activity after that of natural scientists also seek for general principles and laws that may account for order in social life. The assumption is that independent investigators, studying similar populations under similar circumstances and using the same research instruments, will arrive at similar, if not identical, conclusions. In principle, studies ought to be replicable. Under such conditions, the similarity in conclusions is largely derived from established, conventional, means of generating, perceiving, classifying and interpreting data. Survey questionnaires, structured interviews, controlled observations, and numerous other techniques of investigation, are all attempts by social scientists to create a context of interaction with their object of study which is liable to generate objective data — that is, data in which the influence of the investigator is minimal. Ideally, as was the case with the natural scientist, the personal schemata of the social scientist should be totally subsumed by the professional one. In this process, the social sciences engage in their own "falsification of objective reality" as individuals involved in the flux and complexity THEORETICAL AND METHODOLOGICAL ISSUES

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of life are transformed into "actors," and their behavior is abstracted into "conduct" (Murphy 1971:41). The "rationality" and "motivation" of the actor constructed by social scientists are later applied to social life in order to understand and predict social behavior. In this search for "scientific objectivity", investigators who typically stand back from the social world to observe it, conceive of it "as a totality intended for cognition alone, in which all interactions are reduced to symbolic exchanges" (Bourdieu 1977:96). Social scientists thus eliminate from their objectivist view of the social world and their scientific model of the actor all the factors encumbering the real individual in decision making in the everyday world. The emulation of natural sciences is however not the only avenue open to anthropologists. Indeed, as Collins (1983) observed, participation-observation, the trademark of anthropological investigation, has two faces: one, rooted in the positivist tradition in the sciences, is directed to "unobtrusive observation"; the other, grounded in the phenomenological interpretive tradition in the philosophy of the social sciences, is directed towards "comprehension." Accordingly, more empirically oriented techniques of investigation (direct, non-obtrusive observation; structured interviews, surveys) are designed to generate quantitative data. Other, more hermeneutically oriented techniques of investigation (unstructured interviews, participation in rituals in coactivity with the local population producing them) are capable of generating insights and qualitative data. Most anthropologists are trained in both sets of techniques of investigation. In our view the issue is not whether to be scientific or not, but rather of knowing what approach, with its inherent assumptions and limitations, is appropriate to a given task at hand. Experimental methods require that the investigator be positioned "objectively," aloof from the ones he/she is to observe. In contrast, an experiential approach requires that the investigator takes an active role in the social lives of the ones to be observed. In Blumer's terms (1962:188), the investigator has to become an "acting unit" similar to other "acting units" within an existing social system: to refuse "to take the role of the acting unit is to risk the worst kind of subjectivitism — the objective observer is likely to fill in the process of interpretation with his own surmises in place of catching the process as it occurs in the experience of the acting unit which uses it." Other authors have stated this position otherwise. For Devereux (1967:xvi-xvii), informed subjectivity is the "royal road to an authentic, rather than fictitious, objectivity." In "The Veil 312

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of Objectivity: Prophecy, Divination, and Social Inquiry/' published in the American Anthropologist, Jules-Rosette (1978:550) writes that in the "journey toward becoming the phenomenon (see Mehan and Wood 1975), 'the social scientist' attempts to assume the competence of the subject studied." Although this process is never complete, it is necessary to gain access to data and insights that would otherwise not be available to the investigator. In this same vein, in her ethnography, Deadly Words: Witchcraft in the Bocage, Favret-Saada (1980:22) writes that "to understand the meaning of this discourse [the 'gift' of unwitching, 'seeing everything'] there is no other solution but to practice it oneself, to become one's own informant. . . . " Following intense and prolonged immersion in the California subculture of poker players, David Hayano (1982:149) writes that "after several years I had virtually become one of the people I wanted to study!" Similarly, during her fieldwork in Japan, Liza C. Dalby (1983) assumed the status and role of a geisha, a charming erotic entertainer, effectively learning to think and behave as one.10 In the same vein, Jackson (1989:135) argues for "a methodological strategy of joining in [the everyday practical tasks of others] without ulterior motive and literally putting oneself in the place of other persons: inhabiting their world." In doing so fieldworkers can and do gain the competence necessary to act intelligibly with others in their socially constituted world. To pursue this methodology is to be "passionately interested in the coproduction of ethnographic knowledge, created and represented in the only way it can be, within an interactive Self/Other dialogue" (Tedlock 1991a:82). In the process, ethnographers do not go native for they know that although they can strive to "bridge the perspectival gaps between natives and anthropologists" they can never expect "to close them" (Saler in press:245). In the view of the native informants who guided the ethnographer into their social world (the Tibetan tantric Buddhists for Laughlin, the Cree shaman for Swartz, the Afro-Cuban Santeros ritual specialist for Marton, etc.), the issue of interpretation and understanding goes hand in hand with that of "experience." In their view, to refuse to take an acting role in the social world and ritual performances of their hosts is to forego the kinds of experiences that inform their informants' lives and help make the world of ghosts and spirits as real as that of the market place. The ethnographic record shows that when participation in the society of others is maximized, fieldworkers have experiences in dreams and visions that reflect their absorption of the THEORETICAL AND METHODOLOGICAL ISSUES

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local realities. What they report is then "a result of their having actually penetrated (or, if you prefer, been penetrated by) another form of life, of having, one way or another truly 'been there' " (Geertz 1988:4-5). Thus, the results of an experiential approach to the study of rituals, dreams and visions, are consistent with Levi-Strauss's position (1963:103) that "every human mind is a locus of virtual experience where what goes on in the minds of men, however remote they may be, can be investigated." An analogy with the acquisition of language may help to convey the sense of the experiential perspective advocated here. Learning a people's language, developing the ability to listen and emulate sounds in the native language, is considered good practice in ethnographic work. Once new acoustic and semantic schemata are acquired, the investigator attends to sounds and meanings that would otherwise simply remain beyond his or her auditory ability to perceive. In the context of repeated and prolonged exposure to members of a linguistic community, a process of assimilation occurs, involving a level of schemata formation of which even the individual who is assimilating the language is unaware. The anthropologist comes to live, as it were, in an acoustic world distinct from that which prevails in his or her own culture. Similarly the anthropologist may come to inhabit other domains of the native speaker's society, be it kinship, economic, or ritual, attending to socially constituted realities that would otherwise remain beyond his or her reach.11 According to Collins (1983:70-71), the method by which this is achieved "is the same method as is used by members absorbing a new system of categories, or language, or way of seeing. This method consists of interacting with the native members as much as possible, until their way of life has been absorbed." Is this absorption of another way of life through interaction with native members of a society really possible for an ethnographer? Our answer is a qualified yes. While the ethnographer rarely, if ever, achieves the competence of a native auditor and speaker, the ethnographer becomes a relatively competent speaker and listener when he or she can communicate in new situations with confidence and without making mistakes of pronunciation and interpretation that would actually defeat the intended communication. Tim Ingold (in press: 18; quoted in Wikan 1992:471) expresses a similar point of view in his discussion of how he "learned (up to a point) to see the world in the way a reindeer herdsman does." He did so "through involvement with others in everyday contexts of practical action." He thus learned to attend to components of their environment as reindeer herdsman do, 314

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establishing "a foundational level of sociality that exists — in Bourdieu's (1977:2) phrase— 'on the hither side of words and concepts.' " This level of sociality achieved through immersion "in joint action . . . in a shared environment" is the basis "on which all attempts at verbal communication must subsequently build" (Ingold in press: 18-19; quoted in Wikan 1992:471). Participant-observation may lead anthropologists to begin to inhabit, to some degree, their informants' domestic, kinship, economic, political and religious worlds. Thus the two visitors that Young experienced in the night may be seen as the outcome of his becoming an inhabitant of both the Cree world and the Buddhist world. The Indian figure dressed in light brown buckskin pants, tunic, and moccasins, and the tall Caucasian dressed in a long brown robe were readily recognized by two of Young's close associates from the Cree and Buddhist cultures. Russell, the Cree shaman, immediately identified the first figure as a grandfather who frequently helps him in sweatlodge ceremonies, while a Zen monk readily commented that the second figure appeared to be Jizo, the Buddhist patron saint of travelers and the guardian of children. Through intense and prolonged participation in two host cultures, Young came to see figures that are commonly regarded as manifestations of spiritual entities in the cultures he exposed himself to. According to Rosalind Cartwright and her dream lab researchers (Cartwright 1977:131-133; Palombo 1978), such dreams are a normal feature of an individual's subjective reality as he or she masters new affective experiences and assimilates them into his or her own schemata. In brief, if reports of extraordinary experiences are nothing more than psychological projections of the anthropologist's personality, they do not constitute useful ethnographic data. If, however, these extraordinary experiences are the result of in-depth participation in those aspects of the local culture considered most meaningful by the members of that culture, extraordinary experiences provide data that could not be obtained in any other way. The data offered by such experiences are the product of an informed subjectivity. Nevertheless, it is becoming obvious, as reports of extraordinary experiences accumulate, that anthropologists from diverse backgrounds, working in a variety of cultures on different continents, are able to transcend their own subjective limitations and cultural prejudices and share a level of reality with their informants not normally available to outsiders. This argument is best understood in the context of a welldeveloped theory of multiple realities, to which we now turn.

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MULTIPLE REALITIES Interpretations of accounts of extraordinary experiences in other lifeworlds question our notions of boundary between the real and the imaginary, a topic of considerable discussion within the Western intellectual tradition (Castle 1988; Kearney 1988; Parman 1991). In Principles of Psychology (Vol. II, Chapter 21:283325), William James (1890) explored at length our sense of reality, and argued that what is real is whatever excites and stimulates our interest. What excites our interest, James argued, belongs to one of many sub-universes, e.g., the world of physical things, the world of science, the worlds of madness and imagery, etc: "Each world whilst it is attended to is real after its own fashion, only the reality lapses with the attention" (James 1890:293). From this point of view, the will to believe or the will to attend to what is real within a sub-universe, is constitutive of all realms of experience, the scientific and the religious, the world of daily life and the dream world. James therefore investigated our sense of reality in terms of a psychology of belief and disbelief. To free this important insight from its psychological setting, Alfred Schutz borrowed from Max Weber's theory of meaningful action and from Edmund Husserl's theory of consciousness and intentionality, to formulate a phenomenological theory of multiple realities (Schutz 1967:207-259; Bellah 1970:242; Tambiah 1990:101-103; Vaitkus 1991:75-136). Thus where James wrote of sub-universes, Schutz writes of finite provinces of meaning, "because it is the meaning of our experiences and not the ontological structure of the objects which constitutes reality" (1967:230). Experiences lived within a finite province of meaning exhibit a specific cognitive style whereby they are consistent in themselves and compatible with one another. Schutz (1967:229-234) defines the cognitive style of a finite province of meaning in terms of six key characteristics: (a) a "specific tension of consciousness"; (b) a "specific epoche"; (c) a "prevalent form of spontaneity"; (d) a "specific form of experiencing oneself"; (e) a "specific form of sociality"; and (f) a "specific time perspective." All knowledge, the common-sense knowledge used in our day to day life, as well as the scientific knowledge used in investigations of various kinds, involves abstractions and generalizations. In Schutz' view, the world of daily life with its pragmatic motive is the paramount reality. This is the world in which "the human being is considered as a psycho-somatic unity existing in, living in, and connected with the world whose existence he im316

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plicitly takes for granted along with that of his self" (Vaitkus 1991:77). This is the world in which we engage with others while wide-awake to meet the basic requirements of life. While engaging thus in our daily lives, notes Schutz, we do "not suspend belief in the outer world and its object, but on the contrary," we suspend "doubt in its existence" (1967:229). This state of mind, characteristic of our pragmatic lives in the world of everyday life, Schutz proposes to call "the epoche of the natural attitude" (1967:229).12 Our experience in the world of everyday life is however not our only experience. Indeed, when we suspend our participation in the paramount reality of the world of daily life, we experience other realities. The investigator who suspends the schemata he or she lives by in daily life to engage in scientific activity shifts his or her attention from the world of daily life to the world of science. Thus to the physical scientist a table is not the solid mass it "appears to be" when we sit at it to eat or work; it is rather a dynamic field of atoms moving in space. To be a physicist is to become a kind of social actor trained to perceive and behave in certain professional ways, in terms of which certain objects become real, while other objects that belong to the world of everyday life momentarily become unreal. Similarly, for the surgeon, the patient on whom one operates is not this or that individual; rather the patient is a biological organism whose organs and functions will be removed or repaired. To be a surgeon is to be a certain kind of social actor, one that ought to be unencumbered by the flux and complexities of the patients' individual and social lives. A surgeon does not operate on a spouse, close kin, or an intimate friend because he/she is not expected to bring himself/herself to see the body of a loved one as a surgeon needs to see it. Under such circumstances an individual cannot leap from the world of everyday life to the world of medicine and surgery. The transition from one province of meaning to another, for instance from the day-to-day world to the world of science, is subjectively experienced as a modification of attitude and a resulting change of reality. While it is commonly recognized that participation in rituals alters the perceptions of non-natives as well as those of natives, we should not lose sight of Schutz' demonstration that participation in any reality — that of everyday life, of science, of play, etc. — always entails a specific cognitive style, or what we could also refer to as an altered perception. Instances of transitions from one province of meaning to another are many. They include (to paraphrase Schutz 1967) the THEORETICAL AND METHODOLOGICAL ISSUES

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shock of falling asleep as we leap into the world of dreams; the inner transformation we experience as the curtain in the theater rises; as well as our quandary if, in listening to a joke, we are for a short time ready to accept the fictitious world of the jest as a reality in relation to which the world of our daily life takes on the character of foolishness. One passes from a finite province of meaning to another by a leap, a shock, or a decision, because "there is no possibility of referring one of these provinces to the other by introducing a formula of transformation" (1967:232). In this sense, the "will to believe" is just as common in science as in religion (Spiro 1987). There is another important corollary to the thesis of multiple provinces of meaning within which we experience different realities, namely that whatever is real is so momentarily. Once we have leaped into a finite province of meaning we give it an accent of reality it loses as soon as we step into another finite province of reality. The dream world is the dreamer's reality as long as it is undisturbed.13 According to Peters and Price-Williams (1980:406) "the shaman approaches his inner image in a way not much different from what Jung (1953:185) considered the appropriate attitude towards inner processes in active imagination." That is to say, as von Franz (1976) illustrates, the inner images and events must be met with the attitude of "as-if-they-were-real." In active imagination "a threatening tiger image is responded to by real fright, not as if it were a projected image on a screen," much as "the shaman's trance experiences are seen as 'objective,' with values and ways of knowing different from, but no less valid than, waking experiences." Similarly, while the theatrical play unfolds, Hamlet is to us really Hamlet, and not this or that actor "playing the part of" Hamlet. The surgeon's world is real as long as the surgeon does not stray from his or her professional perspective. Similarly, the Ndembu world, the Dene Tha world, or our own North American world, are equally real as long as they are attended to and believed in by the people who constitute and inhabit them (Watson and Goulet 1992). One may, of course, be among others, whether members of one's own culture or of another culture, without attending to the world as they do. For instance, while the play unfolds, the drama critic in the audience focuses on this performer's "act" and later writes about the performer's professional abilities as an actor. To the drama critic, Hamlet is not "really" Hamlet in the way it is for others in the audience. When reading a critical review of a performance, members of the audience who were entranced by the play sometimes wonder whether the drama 318

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critic attended the same event. Most often fieldworkers in remote settings attend ceremonies and rituals, much as a drama critic attends a play, without sharing the intense involvement of native participants. It is to transcend the limitations of this approach to rituals and religion that V. Turner (1985:205-226) called for a new processual anthropology based not on structuralism but on experience. He argued that ethnography is founded on participation in shared common experiences.14 In his view, "meaning" is intertwined with intersubjectivity, and communication codes can best be understood in performances where the meaning is created (Bastien 1987). In 1985, when E. Turner returned to Zambia to reexamine Ndembu rituals, she reawakened personal ties she and her husband had established years earlier during her 1951-1954 field work. To her surprise when she engaged anew in the study of healing rituals, she was invited by Singleton, the Ndembu "doctor" or ritual specialist, to serve along with him as chiyanga ("doctor") in the ritual he was to perform on behalf of a patient (Turner in this volume; Turner, et al. 1992:28). Participating in the healing ritual in this capacity, she came to see what she and Victor Turner had not seen during their earlier field work: a spirit form, visible to the Ndembu doctors, but not to the other Ndembu participants in the ritual. She did not attend to the Ndembu healing ceremony as a spectator, or as a "drama critic," but as a "doctor," in co-activity with other Ndembu "doctors." Her experience confirms Jung's conviction (1960:303) that "if a European had to go through the same exercises and ceremonies which the medicine-man performs in order to make spirits visible, he [she] would have the same experiences." Contrary to Jung's expectation Turner does not "devalue" her experience, nor does she try to explain it away, in sociological or psychological terms. Seen from Schutz' phenomenological perspective, this anthropological report of an extraordinary experience, like many other similar reports, can be interpreted as the result of the suspension of the epoche of the natural attitude by the investigator, enabling her to effectively pass from one finite province of experiences and meanings to another.

EXPERIENCE AND MEANING We argued earlier that anthropologists immersed in a culture other than their own can reach a point where they attend to local realities, be they phonemes of the local linguistic system, T H E O R E T I C A L AND M E T H O D O L O G I C A L ISSUES 319

or other aspects of their natural and social environment. The anthropologist then lives in a world distinct from the one prevailing in his/her culture of origin. When this level of adaptation occurs, the anthropologist may be seen by the local population as having finally come to his or her senses, and as finally being able to hear and see what, in principle, is there to be heard and seen. Having made this point, we now want to emphasize that while the accounts of dreams and visions reported by anthropologists may be well received in the host culture, the manner in which the anthropologist and the local population interpret these experiences may differ significantly. Even though the anthropologist may be quite familiar with the local interpretations of these experiences, he or she rarely makes these interpretations his or her own in the effortless way in which the local population does. In his discussion of Tamang shamanism in Nepal, Jacques Maquet (1981) relates an incident which Peters, an outsider, experienced involuntary shaking and "bouncing all over the room" during a trance. Although the local people attributed his behavior to possession by ancestors or gods, Peters himself did not have a sense of being inhabited by alien entities. Maquet and Peters concur with Mead (1979:50), who reminded her audience that "the ability of a foreigner to go into trance in Haiti or Bali, and to experience what the Haitian trancer experiences" is not "proof of the supernatural origins of the behavior." Towards the end of his shamanic apprenticeship with a Tamang guru, Bhirendra, Peters nevertheless writes that while he does "believe in the guru and in the power of the shaman's techniques," he is still "skeptical that spirits exist, or that souls journey" as the Tamang take for granted" (1981:17). Peters experienced the power of the shaman most vividly in the interaction that followed a "big dream" on the third night of his admission to the hospital for hepatitis. In the dream, Peters is pursued by a bull. A stick he carries in his hands is transformed into a snake, bright yellow and black. He uses the snake as a whip, cracks it to chase the bull away, and then hears a mantra being recited. When he turns around to identify this voice, he sees his Tamang guru. Peter then begins to awaken, "still captivated by the dream images which carried over into ordinary reality" (1981:16). For a few moments, he could still see and hear his guru. A few days later, when Peters shared the dream with his guru, Bhirendra, the latter immediately grew excited and proceeded to interpret the dream. According to the guru, the bull repre320

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sented an evil spirit sent by a jealous shaman to afflict Peters. The voice was the guru's spirit, and the guru's mantra had saved Peters. As the interpretation proceeded the guru's "emotional energy was contagious," and the "dream came alive" again (1981:16): "For a moment," writes Peters, he experienced his guru "as if he were really the influence in my dream." Peters' sense of reality dramatically shifts as he enters another province of meaning. At the time of his guru's interpretation of the dream, Peters "felt an unmistakable, 'ah hah!' and thought: 'The dream and illness are related. By chasing the bull away, I have been cured.' The boundaries between dream and reality seemed to merge; what happened in the former had effects in the latter." His way of thinking completely turned around, he begins to tremble and weep as he embraces Bhirendra: "I felt he had healed me and this created a strong transference." Peters describes the dream and its communication to Bhirendra with the ensuing transference as coming "close to what Maslow (1971:278) described as a 'peak experience' in that it enabled me to transcend individual and cultural differences and attain a new viewpoint and a feeling of oneness with another human being." Peters (1981:16-17) effectively came to think that his recovery began that night when his unconscious mind used Bhirendra as a symbol. Noteworthy is the manner in which Peters and Bhirendra each understand the experience in terms of their respective cultural views: Peters thinks that his recovery began that night when he unconsciously used the figure of his guru as symbol; his guru thinks that his spirit and mantra had successfully thwarted the evil intention of a jealous shaman and restored Peters' health. Peters draws upon Maslow's notion of "peak experience" and of Jung's concepts of the big dream and of the unconscious to account for his exceptional experience. His guru draws upon his own stock of knowledge to account for Peters' experience. Each participant produces an account that is plausible within their respective cultures. The point we want to make here is that although Peters knows how to recognize a plausible Tamang account of his experience, and knows how to construct such an account if called upon to do so, he draws a different account of the experience for himself and his readers, precisely because, in the final analysis, he is not a Tamang, but a North American with his own stock of knowledge from which to draw to give meaning to his life and experiences. It is not the case that Peters and Bhirenda witness a phenomenon and then characterize it as "evidence" of a "peak experience" or of a "spirit attack"; rather T H E O R E T I C A L AND M E T H O D O L O G I C A L ISSUES

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the phenomenon is inevitably and self-evidently perceived to each of them as evidence of what they "know" has occurred. All contributors to this book elaborate on their extraordinary experiences in terms that are foreign to the culture in which they lived these experiences. This is necessarily so, first because they must integrate these experiences into their own life-histories, and second, because the anthropological journey leads back home where they must communicate anew with friends and colleagues in a shared language of understanding. Parman (1991:113) who admonishes students of dreams and culture to "observe as carefully as you can the phenomenon in which you are interested; and then observe, to the extent that this is possible, the cultural categories within which you make your observations," notes that whatever synthesis of phenomenon and cultural categories is made, "it will always be limited." In the end, in the production of his or her account of an extraordinary experience "what the fieldworker invents . . . is his own understanding; the analogies he creates are extensions of his own notions and those of his culture, transformed by his experiences in the field situation" (Wagner 1981:12). While it is possible for an ethnographer to think of his or her own extraordinary experiences within the cultural categories of informants, we nevertheless disagree with Stoller and Olkes' view (1987:229) that "respect for a culture means accepting fully beliefs and phenomena which our own system of knowledge often hold preposterous." If features of one's extraordinary experiences correspond with experiences of significant others in one's own culture, or in the culture of others, it is not necessary to accept the explanations of one's informants as to the source and meaning of these experiences. Goulet (1993) relates an incident in which a recently deceased Dene Tha girl appeared to him in a vision. Goulet's native informants, who reported similar visions of the deceased girl, took this as a sign that the girl was attempting to communicate with him, as she had with them. Although Goulet claims the experience was very "real," he does not share the Native interpretation to the effect that the girl was a spirit or that she was attempting to communicate to him. His own view is that the vision/image arose out of a particularly intense grieving process following the violent death of someone Goulet and other Dene Tha had all been close to. To reiterate, the form and the content of the experiences related by both Peters and Goulet fit the pattern normally encountered by the host cultures in which the anthropologists were working, but the

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way in which the anthropologists interpreted these experiences did not correspond to the native explanations. This is precisely the point of view advanced by Robert Lowie in an essay published posthumously by his wife in Current Anthropology (1966). In this essay Lowie, who describes himself as a "chronic and persistent dreamer" who often heard voices or had visions when resting, eyes half-closed, remarks that his experiences greatly helped him in his work with Native Americans. Lowie (1966:379) nevertheless explains that the difference between himself and "an Eskimo shaman who has heard a meaningless jumble of sounds or a Crow visionary who has seen a strange apparition is that I do not regard such experiences as mystic revelations, whereas they do." Lowie (1966:379) goes on to say that he can nevertheless "understand the underlying mental and emotional experiences a good deal better than most other ethnologists can, because I have identical episodes every night and almost every day of my life." Different interpretations are drawn on the basis of different schemata or sets of cultural assumptions regarding a wide range of phenomena.

ADOPTING A BELIEF IN SPIRITS? With this discussion we have stated our position on a fundamental issue regarding the adoption or rejection of the views and explanatory models of host cultures, which is of great consequence to the way one eventually thinks about spirits. While some anthropologists (Mills 1988a, 1988b; Goodman 1990; Shweder 1991) are disposed to take seriously a belief in spirits as a starting point for their discussion of social and psychological processes, most anthropologists argue that spirits do not exist. The pronouncements are many. Schneider (1965:86), who asserts that "there is no supernatural" and that ghosts and spirits do not exist, goes on to conclude that "whatever unity there is to man's beliefs about the supernatural derives, therefore, from the nature of man himself and not from the nature of the supernatural." Murdock (1980:54) writes that "neither ghosts nor gods exert the slightest influence on men and their behaviour." Adopting a similar line of thought, Spiro (1982:52) argues that the ideas of ghosts, spirits, gods, and witches are in the last analysis similar to dream images and hallucinations in which "stimuli originating in the inner world are taken as objects and events in the outer world."

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Consider for instance Leach's account of Katchin gods and spirits in highland Burma. In typical Durkheimian structuralfunctionalist fashion, Leach (1965: 182) writes that the various nats [spirits] of Katchin religion "are, in the last analysis, nothing more than ways of describing the formal relationships that exist between real persons and real groups in ordinary human Katchin society." In his view "the gods denote the good relationships which carry honour and respect, the spooks and witches denote the bad relationships of jealousy, malice and suspicion." In opposition to what he sees as this atheistic assumption of dominant anthropological theory, Shweder (1991: 347) proposes that we "start with the assumption that malevolent ancestral spirits do exist and can get into one's body, that they are experienced, and that the cultural representation of their existence and person's experience of their existence lights up an aspect of reality that has import for the management of the self."15 Goodman goes a step further when she maintains that in the last analysis spirits are real beings who seek communication with human beings: "Ritual is the rainbow bridge over which we can call on the Spirits and the Spirits cross over from their world into ours." Why do spirits cross over from their world into ours? "Because they [the spirits] are much wiser than we. They know something that we in the West all too often forget, namely that the ordinary and the other reality belong together" (Goodman 1990:55). In her work, Goodman explores the relationship between bodily postures and exposure to similar stimuli (e.g., drum beat) on the one hand, and agreement in reported visionary experiences on the other hand. Her evidence suggests there is a high degree of agreement in visionary content, cross-culturally and trans-historically, among individuals adopting similar bodily postures to induce altered states of consciousness. Commenting on this evidence, Goodman dismisses the view of those who would argue that the source of visions is the body itself. It seems to Goodman "that those holding this view contend, taking a simile from technology, that the source of the radio program is the set." She takes a contrary position: "The body is tuned by the posture in the trance in such a manner that we are enabled to experience, to perceive a certain part or aspect of the other dimensions" (Goodman 1990:218). The editors of this book reject both of these extremes. We take the view that the proposition that Kutchin nat spirits are nothing more than an idiom denoting qualities of social relationships is scientifically unverified. Similarly, the proposition 324

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that in the experience of dreams and visions, the body (or mind) is nothing more than a receptor of information channeled from the spirit world, is equally unverified scientifically. Both require an act of faith. The editors of this book do not know of any scientific experiment that would decide on the issue of whether spirits — ancestral and otherwise — do in fact exist, or whether they do not exist are in the final analysis nothing more than an idiom expressing aspects of sociological and/or psychological processes. We argue that neither such conclusive evidence for or against the existence of spirits, nor a belief in spirits, is required to attend to and make sense of a wide range of extraordinary experiences. The content of the visions and dreams experienced in various localities, by natives and anthropologists, are always interpreted. True, such experiences are often thought of as the outcome of activities on the part of spirits, but this need not be the case. To simply accept others as experts in the realm of communication with spirits is to take their statements about the world literally.16 This acceptance is tantamount to going native. Similarly, to simply accept the pronouncements of structuralist-functionalists as to what spirits ultimately are is to take their view of the world literally. This acceptance is tantamount to agnosticism and/or methodological atheism, to say the least. The anthropologist who goes native is unable to fulfill the hermeneutic challenge of interpreting one culture to another (one of the central tasks of anthropology) because the hermeneutic task requires the anthropologist to play the role of cultural broker. He/she must stand with one foot in each culture. On the other hand, the anthropologist who treats the explanatory models of his/her informants solely as one more type of data to be made sense of by formal anthropological analysis, fails to take his/her informants seriously. In essence, he/she is saying implicitly that although the informant's explanation may be very interesting, it is never to be taken as an object of serious intellectual or scientific consideration. Between these two extremes the challenge is to "produce an interpretation of the way a people lives which is neither imprisoned within their mental horizons, an ethnography of witchcraft as written by a witch, nor systematically deaf to the distinctive tonalities of their existence, an ethnography of witchcraft as written by a geometer" (Geertz 1983:57), or we may add, by a structural functionalist. Hence the effort in this article, as well as in other articles in this book, especially those by Laughlin, Wilkie, and Young, to develop models and to sugT H E O R E T I C A L AND M E T H O D O L O G I C A L ISSUES 325

gest approaches that can make sense of the accounts of extraordinary experiences that are part of the anthropological record.

SCIENTIFIC VERIFICATION? So far we have discussed anthropological accounts of extraordinary experiences from the perspective of the phenomenological/interpretive tradition. Most anthropologists would agree with the view that when it comes to religious beliefs "the central issue for the anthropologist is not to determine which religion is better or more correct, but rather to identify the various religious beliefs in the world as well as how they function, to what extent they are held, and the degree to which they affect human behavior" (Ferraro 1992:262). Some anthropologists however share a concern with the possible truth or falsehood of particular beliefs. Thus when reading about Jackson's report that the Kuranko of Sierra Leone believe that some people can change themselves into animals, a process they refer to as "shape-shifting," Lett (1991:313) states that scientific investigation should put the matter to rest: either the Kuranko belief is false, or it can be scientifically validated, in which case scientists would have to profoundly reassess their views of human abilities. In this case, as in other case of indigenous beliefs, "the real anthropological problem" confronting us, writes Lett (1991:313), is "to describe and explain this rare human ability — and of course to obtain a clear videotape of the transformation." To suggest such a course of action is to take the Kurando statements literally. Lett must then ask that the anthropologist move beyond ethnographic description, emic analysis, or phenomenological interpretation of data, to an assessment of the scientific validity of an informant's claim. In this book, Young emphasizes that the anthropologist should act "as if" the informant's explanations are true and proceed to look for scientific evidence which might support the native explanation. This is consistent with the earlier work of Young and his colleagues who conducted what has come to be known as "The Psoriasis Research Project" in which a northern Cree healer treated ten non-native patients afflicted with psoriasis, a scaly, itchy skin disease. The experiment, which was conducted in an inner-city health clinic in Edmonton, involved before-and-after examinations by physicians, still photographs, videotapes, and other ways of measuring the "progress" of patients over a sixmonth period. The results of this experiment have been reported 326

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in Morse, McConnell and Young (1988); Young, Morse, Swartz, and Ingram (1988); Young, Ingram and Swartz (1989). To summarize the results: although only one patient appears to have been "cured" of his psoriasis or "gone into long-term remission," depending upon one's point of view, six of the ten patients experienced significant improvement in their condition. These patients, some of whom had never experienced relief at the hands of dermatologists, were pleased with the results. The Native healer was somewhat disappointed that the results were not as dramatic as he had expected, based upon his prior experience with treating Native patients in a more traditional setting. Nevertheless, he felt that his claims concerning the efficacy of Native medicine had been vindicated. Interpreting these results is very difficult due to the fact that psoriasis is a multi-factorial disease which is influenced not only by genetic inheritance, but by less tangible factors such as season of the year and emotional condition. The point of introducing "The Psoriasis Research Project" into this article is not to evaluate Native medicine, but to demonstrate that one way to take one's informants seriously is to carry out systematic, "controlled" experiments — providing, of course, that the phenomena being investigated are susceptible to such an approach. That Native medicine has not been taken very seriously in the past is indicated by the near-absence of published accounts of systematic, long-term investigations concerning the effects of treatment by indigenous healers. This is due partly to the fact that researchers tend to believe that "shamanic treatment" is little more than "indigenous psychotherapy." It is also due partly to the resistance on the part of many indigenous healers to being studied scientifically. The paucity of such studies is reflected in a statement in the American Anthropological Association's Anthropology Newsletter (April 1991:27) which promotes Singer's 1988 film, "Psychic Surgery, A Case History of Shamanic Sleight-of-Hand," as "the only effort by an anthropologist not only to describe cultural behavior, but to 'confront' it as well." In 1986, Singer arranged for a demonstration of "noninvasive psychic surgery" which was designed, in cooperation with the Department of Physics at Oakland University, to focus on the "act of opening the body barehandedly and removing organic material, including blood and tissue, which can be analyzed for pathology" (Singer 1990:444). This study followed an earlier investigation of the claims advanced by another Filipino psychic surgeon, Mr. Blance (Singer and Ankenbrandt 1980). In that earlier experiment, up to 65 THEORETICAL AND METHODOLOGICAL ISSUES

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individuals, including hospital staff observed the filmed experiments designed to validate Mr. Blance's claim to enter the patient's body psychically and perform internal surgery. The experimental subjects were examined by a physician before and after Mr. Blance performed his psychic surgery on them. In Singer's and Ankenbrandt's view, the results proved inconclusive. In the second (1986) experiment, the psychic surgeon was the Reverend Philip S. Malicdan. The demonstration was attended by three specialist-observers: a magician, an audiovisual expert, and a pathologist. Aided by an improved research design, the experts came to the unanimous conclusion that Rev. Malicdan was "a fraud." Singer concluded, more diplomatically, that "the alleged phenomenon of psychic surgery points clearly to the conclusion that it is cultural behavior learned by its practitioners, just as it represents cultural behavior by those patients, Philippine and Western, who accept it as a gift of the spirit." In Singer's view, the history of psychic surgery in the Philippines over the past 20 years is a clear case of acculturation legitimated by the country's ruling oligarchy: "Far from being reluctant shamans 'deculturated' by Western contact, psychic surgeons have made a vital transition from traditional shamanism ('extraction' from the body of leaves, seeds, worms, hair, etc.) to a simulacrum of Western scientific medicine ('extraction' of blood, tissue, tumors, organs)" (1990:448-449). Singer began with the intention to scientifically investigate the claims of Filipino psychic surgeons. If the experiments had supported the claims of psychic surgeons to be able to dematerialize and rematerialize body substances, the experiments would have raised questions "about the real world underlying etic and emic systems" (Singer and Ankenbrandt 1980:19). When he depicts them not as frauds, but as modern-day shamans who have successfully adapted their practice to contemporary conditions, he reverts to a more traditional anthropological analysis. Whether this was done to minimize the damage to his informants or whether it indicates a retreat to a safer mode of analysis is difficult to say. In either case, the story exemplifies both the risks and the challenges of taking one's informants seriously. The point of this case study is that Singer, rather than being content with a traditional anthropological analysis (functional, structural, or symbolic) which would not address the scientific validity of the claims of Filipino psychic surgeons, opted to take his informant seriously and to set up controlled conditions designed to either support or refute the reality of psychic surgery. In other

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words, he subjected an emic (insider) claim to etic (outsider, scientific) investigation. In contrast to the experiment described by Singer (in which it was possible to set up conditions which allowed the "truth value" of the Filipino psychic surgeon to be tested), the attempt to study phenomena like reincarnation is much more problematic. No matter how scholarly the research conducted, or how suggestive the "evidence" for their beliefs that people may present the investigator with, we believe that there are too many uncontrolled factors involved for the "truth value" of a belief in reincarnation to be determined (Goulet in Press). In other words, "taking our informants seriously" requires recognizing the limits of scientific investigation.

CONCLUSION To return to the theme developed in the introduction to this book, it is our point of view that anthropologists should, at a minimum, temporarily suspend disbelief, and attempt to take the accounts of experiences and explanations of our informants as seriously as possible. Such an attitude expresses respect for our informants and their cultures. Moreover, taking our informants seriously when they call upon us to "experience" in rituals, visions, or dreams, the realities that inform their lives, allows us to go beyond describing the "obvious" aspects of a culture, to a deeper and more sophisticated understanding of those beliefs and practices that are central to the meaning system of a group. It may not be possible to either prove or disprove many aspects of a native model of "extraordinary" experiences. Both editors agree that if a particular belief is, in principle, beyond the scope of scientific investigation, there is little to be gained by debating its "truth value." If, on the basis of existing scientific evidence, however, a native belief is testable in some ways (or at least capable of suggesting testable hypotheses), the anthropologist may have some obligation to point this out. He/she may even wish to follow through on the issue and, as Young and Singer did, engage in collaborative research with other scientists with a view to collecting evidence concerning the truth value of the belief in question. Taking our informants as seriously as possible has personal benefits as well — for ourselves and, hopefully, for our informants. As we participate with an open mind in the ritual life of the host culture, we frequently have experiences that "open up" T H E O R E T I C A L AND M E T H O D O L O G I C A L ISSUES 329

and help us enter into aspects of human experience which were blocked by the basic assumptions and taboos of our own cultures. In other words, anthropologists are frequently changed by crosscultural encounters. Experiential journeys in the ritual life of the host culture, and discussions of the extraordinary experiences that often ensue, also "open up" new understandings for our hosts because we cannot help but introduce our own interpretive schemes. We feel that the anthropologist is not required to give up his or her ability to develop explanatory or heuristic models in attempting to understand extraordinary experiences. From this standpoint it is possible to propose, as do various contributors to this book, meta-models of the experiences that are meaningful and plausible to both the anthropologist and others from the host culture. Thus, how these extraordinary experiences should be interpreted to our informants and to our "audience back home" is partly a matter of individual choice. There is considerable variation in the ways the anthropologists represented in this book approach this issue. But whatever the approach, a challenge of modern anthropology is to build the kind of hermeneutic bridges which will revitalize the experiential approach. What is needed are intellectual perspectives that will allow anthropologists, as well as other interested parties, to be more open to experiencing and modeling the "multiple realities" offered in our culture or that of others, with whom, in the end, we share a common humanity.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Stan Gibson, Christine Hanssens, and Graham Watson provided constructive criticism and editorial remarks on earlier drafts of this chapter. We are grateful to them and to the anonymous reviewers of an earlier version of this chapter for their responses, which forced us to rethink critically what we wanted to say.

NOTES 1. Kearney (1988: 164) goes on to note that "the romantic poets who came after Locke were, not surprisingly, quite enraged by his attitude. Blake accused him of 'petrifying all the Human Imagination into Rock and Sand'; Coleridge of reducing the mind to a

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cold mechanism; and Yeats, that 'Locke took away the world and gave us its excrement instead.' " 2. Robertson Davies (1989:203) mentions that contemporary directors of plays, many of them hostile to the "religious, mysterious, and numinous area of life," speak about "the 'nuisance' of the ghost in Hamlet, the witches in Macbeth" which they see as aspects of the play they would rather not have to deal with on stage. "Time and time again," writes Davies (1989:220-221), "you see plays of Shakespeare produced — Hamlet, Macbeth, Julius Caesar, etc. — where a ghost is very important, and the director tries somehow or other to get round the ghost." In a production he saw of Hamlet in London, Hamlet was his own ghost; he spoke the ghost's lines. In a Toronto production of Hamlet, "the ghost was never seen; he was just a voice from off-stage." Shakespeare and contemporary directors of his plays are worlds apart: "Shakespeare quite obviously believed in them [ghosts, witches] deeply and put them in his plays for the very best of reasons: he felt that they affected his audience powerfully, and that they were part of the common experience of mankind. It's only intensely intellectual people who are antighost. As Dr. Johnson said, very wisely, 'All reason is against it, but all belief is for it.'" 3. The opposition between reason and belief in God and other supernatural agencies was by no means universal. In his study of the formation, around 1645, of the Royal Society in London, Robert Merton showed how its leading figures were eminently religious men, most of them Puritans for whom the scientific study of nature was a most desirable and effective means of bringing people to venerate God. See Tambiah (1990:12-15) for a discussion of Merton's thesis and Shweder's chapter titled "Post-Nietzschean Anthropology: The Idea of Multiple Objective Worlds" (1991:27-61) for a criticism of "the radical and flawed attempt by positivists to proselytize a scientific atheism, in which everything unseen, hidden, or beneath the surface is eliminated from scientific discourse" (1991:62). In Hallpike's view (1979:475) Lang's "openminded attitude has, unfortunately, remained almost unique in the subsequent history of the discipline." 4. The studies of Kohlberg (1966, 1973), Laurendeau and Pinard (1972), Shweder and Le Vine (1975), suggest "that even in cultures in which adults believe in the reality of dream events, children become disillusioned with their dreams and, by age ten or so, come on their own to view them as fantasies" (Shweder

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1991:62). According to Shweder (1991:62) the subjectivism of late childhood does not endure, as the reality of dream events is "revived for the disillusioned child through exposure by adults to various theories of soul wandering during sleep (Gregor 1981), communications from guardian spirits (Wallace 1972), visions from the netherworld, or recollections of past lives." 5. Laughlin, et al. (1986:128, note 2) remark that "biogenetic structuralism is a perspective developed by a group of interdisciplinary scholars to advance our understanding in the social sciences of various problems involving the relationship between brain, cognition, experience, and behavior (see Laughlin and d'Aquili, 1974; d'Aquili, et al. 1979; Laughlin and Brady, 1978; Rubinstein, 1979, 1981; Rubinstein, et al. 1984)." This approach is rooted in evolutionary biology, particularly in neurobiology and ethology, in contrast to the semiotic structuralism of Levi-Strauss (1976), Lacan (1966), or Althusser (1969). 6. The work of Leiris (1934), Burridge (1960), Artaud (1971; 1976), among others, represent other accounts of earlier anthropologists who have been changed by their taking seriously dream experiences, theirs or those of their informants. Rosaldo (1984), Jackson (1989), and Wikan (1992) discuss the critical experiences that led them to reposition themselves as anthropologists in a manner that allowed them to perceive basic connections between their experiences and those of the people they interacted with in the field. 7. In African Divination Systems. Ways of Knowing, Peek (1991:14, note 6) remarks that "even today, accounts such as Grindal's (1983) and Stoller and Olkes's (1987) are exceptional, as most anthropologists do not publish their paranormal experiences (see Lewis 1974 and Long 1977:371-396)." As noted earlier we avoid the use of the term "paranormal," thinking with Mead (1977:47) that such terms "exclude scientific research rather than invite it." Recent, first-person accounts of extraordinary experiences are part of a more general change of attitude of anthropologists, more and more of them, since 1980, publishing first-person accounts of experiential fieldwork. Barbara Tedlock (1991a:85, note 17) lists the names of 42 anthropologists who have published such accounts in the last twelve years. B. Tedlock (1991a:7l) signals the work of Chernoff 1980; Cooper 1980; B. Tedlock 1982; Johnson 1984; Coy 1989, as examples of "detailed ethnographic reports of intensive enculturation, including successful formal and informal apprenticeships."

3 3 2J E A N - G U Y G O U L E T A N D D A V I D Y O U N G

8. See Meier (1987:119-120) for a Jungian discussion of similar contents appearing in the dreams of both analyst and analysand. 9. See Kuhn (1970) for a discussion of "revolutions" in scientific thinking over time; Brannigan (1981) for a discussion of the social basis of scientific discoveries; and, Latour and Woolgar (1979), Latour (1987, 1988), Gilbert and Mulkay (1984), for an examination of the social construction of "facts" and "knowledge" in modern and contemporary science. 10. In his review of Dalby's book, Geisha (1983), Cornell (1986) takes exception to Dolby's claim of having become a geisha, questioning her reliability as a witness. B. Tedlock writes that Cornell's "effort at discrediting a fieldworker who claims to have undergone a successful intercultural apprenticeship demonstrates the persistence of the Western intellectual construction of Self and Other as two entirely incommensurable categories" (199la:83, note 8). 11.Janet Werker (1989) introduces a "maintenance-loss" model of the capacity for cross-language speech perception to discuss the evidence that four month-old infants of English-speaking parents listening to Hindu as well as to Nthlakapmx, an American Indian language, are capable of discriminating in each instance the language-specific phonemic contrasts, a capacity that adult English speakers no longer possess. Even a small amount of initial secondlanguage learning during the first two years of life is sufficient to maintain into adulthood the infant's early capacity to detect a sound contrast in foreign tongues. According to Werker, in the absence of this initial second-language learning in early childhood this capacity disappears by the end of the first year of life, although it can be recovered later in life, albeit with difficulty. 12. To suspend belief in the outer world, to attend to objects as they "appear" in our streams of consciousness, is the cornerstone of the phenomenological approach advocated by Husserl, who coined the word epoche to precisely refer to this attitude of suspended belief. Schutz extends the meaning of this term to apply it to the cognitive style appropriate to a given finite province of meaning. Tambiah (1990:103-104), who finds "problematic Schutz' postulation of the 'paramount reality of everyday life,' " turns to Nelson Goodman's notion of "ways of worldmaking" as an alternative frame of reference within which to consider "many different world-versions," while rejecting the existence of a multiplicity of

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worlds or "worlds in themselves." Schutz' emphasis on the world of everyday life as the paramount reality is characteristic of Western thought. Obeyesekere (1990:65) points out in Hindu thought "the true reality is not the phenomenal world of economic want and scarcity or the political and social realm." In support of this view Obeyesekere quotes Kakar (1980:20) who writes that "the maintenance of ego boundaries—between 'inside' and 'outside' and between T and 'others'—and the sensory experiences and social relations based on these separations, is the stuff of reality in Western thought and yet maya to the Hindus." In the Buddhist tradition also "the everyday world of reality is maya, 'illusion', whose true nature must be seen and overcome" (Obeyesekere 1990:65). 13. In the following account of a dream he had, Carl J. Jung appears to have confronted the nature of his ego-consciousness, seen from the perspective of the "dream world." In his dream, Jung is hiking through hills, on a sunny day, up to small wayside chapel whose door was ajar. As he enters the chapel, there are no Christian symbols around the altar for Jung to see. What he sees facing him is a meditating yogi sitting in a lotus posture. Jung looks at him more closely and realizes that the yogi has his face. At this point in the dream Jung "started in profound fright, and awoke with the thought: 'Aha, so he is the one who is meditating me. He has a dream, and I am it.' I knew that when he awakened, I would no longer be" (Jung 1965:323). Jung invites the reader to consider that the Yogi may awake from his meditation and Jung no longer be. We take our day- to-day life as the one led in the real world, and believe we draw from this world to form the images we dream in our dreams while asleep. Jung's dream suggests that the contrary applies, and that the yogi, the dream figure, is actually projecting Jung's empirical reality. "This reversal," writes Jung, "suggests that in the opinion of the 'other side,' our unconscious existence is the real one and our conscious world a kind of illusion, an apparent reality constructed for a specific purpose, like a dream which seems a reality as long as we are in it" (1965: 324). 14. Victor Turner (1985:226) discusses at length the etymology of the polysemous term experience. 15. This position is not quite "an admission that there are gods as well as witches," as Holland (1992:747) claims in his review of Shweder's Thinking Through Culture. Expeditions in Cultural Psychology (1991). True, Shweder argues against "what he claims to be the built-in atheism of anthropology" (Holland 1992:747), but he

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does so from the perspective articulated by Nelson Goodman (1968, 1972, 1978) according to which "there are as many realities as there are ways 'it' can be constituted or described" (Shweder 1991:156). Goodman's model of multiple realities approximates Schutz' phenomenological discussion of multiple realities mentioned above in note 12. 16. This view is also expressed by Catherine and Gregory Bateson (1989:53-54). Giving in to the insistence of friends that he subject himself to different experiences, Gregory Bateson attended a seance at which a psychic painted nearly twenty pictures in a sitting of less than two hours. The psychic signed each picture with the name of a famed deceased artist: Picasso, Monet, Matisse, etc. Bateson and Bateson (1989:541) note that "indeed each painting was recognizably in the style of the artist whose name was 'signed' on it." The psychic claimed that it was not he, but the spirit of the deceased artists who controlled him in the act of painting. Many observers accepted his claim at face value, and expected Gregory Bateson to do likewise. A few days later, to the horror of many, a four-year-girl defaced a painting signed "Monet." Bateson (1989:54) suggested to his friends that they see this event as proof that ghosts exist: "Clearly Monet, somewhere in the land of the dead, had become aware, by ESP, of the monstrous impersonation which had been perpetrated upon him, and had come back to earth in a rage, where he had possessed the girl, guiding her hand as she defaced the picture." Bateson went on to argue "that the defacing marks were surely 'genuine Monet' and should fetch several thousand dollars at auction." The point of Bateson's discussion with his friends is that both propositions — the whole picture was a genuine Monet, or the defaced picture is the genuine one — are "as credible (or incredible) as the other" (1989:54).

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INDEX Abreaction, 123 Afro-Cuban santeria 276, 277, 289, 306. See also Vision. Orishas, 277, 306, 313 Anima, 109 Anthropologist, 160, 209, 275. See also Anthropology; Castaneda, Carlos; Dene; Ethnography; Experiences, extraordinary; Reflexivity; Worldview, changed by cross-cultural encounters, 43, 46, 62-63, 72, 163, 166, 19798, 207, 209, 236, 266, 298 as cultural broker, 325 cultural competency of, 20 and extraordinary experiences, 16, 33, 35, 71-72, 86-88, 140, 141, 145, 162, 166-167, 190-191, 206, 287, 298, 306, 309, 315, 322, 332 female, status among Dene, 41-43 interaction with informants, 16, 19, 41, 44, 52, 64, 167, 211, 305, 313, 314315 participating in rituals, 74-86, 101, 306, 310, 319 task of, 17 taking informants seriously, 62, 93, 174, 176, 191, 206, 208, 210, 231, 236, 298-299, 303, 305, 328, 329 Anthropology. See also Anthropologist; Ethnography; Fieldwork; Participant-observation. Culture and Personality studies, 238, 265, 302 experiential, 74, 273-286, 287, 304, 314 interpretive, 18, 33, 303, 304 normative, 19 and religion, 300-301 transpersonal, 101 methods in, 102, 103 Apparitions, 169-170, 180-181, 190, 299 explanation of, 183, 300 reports of, 170-171 Astral body, 193 Autobiography, 19. See also Ethnography; y Narrative; Reflexivity. Beaver (Indians), 65, 66, 237-238, 248, 266, 277, 305 See also Native Americans; Reincarnation; Shamanm ism medicine, 238 Bedawin, 214, 244 Bedouin. See Bedawin. Bhagavad-Gita, 239 Bhirenda (Tamang Shaman), 320-321

372

INDEX

Biogenetic structuralism, 99-100, 304, 332 Blance, Mr. (psychic surgeon), 327-328 Blodgett, William, 74, 81, 83, 84, 86, 87, 94, 95 Bodhisattva, 188, 189 Candomble, 276, 280, 289 Cardinal, Douglas, 205 Castaneda, Carlos. 273-276, 291-297. See also Anthropologists; Anthropology, experiential; don Juan; Religion, New Age; Yaqui. biographical information, 281-283, 292293 contribution of, 285 fieldwork, authenticity of, 20, 284- 285, 296 personal reputation, 275, 294-296 reaction of anthropology to, 36, 275, 281, 297, 306 self-mystification, 281, 285, 286 similarity of experience with others, 277, 286 Centeredness, 112-113, 129. See also Energy flow. Chakras, 107, 113. See also Energy flow; Psychic energy. Chateh (Alberta), 25, 35 Christianity, 68, 73, 202-204, 206-207, 300, 301 impact on Nabesna, 68. See also Nabesna. Color. See Waorani. Columbia, 22, 38 Conditioning, social, 160 Consciousness, 34, 112. See also Ground of Our Being; Jung, C. G. altered states of, 95, 99, 101, 114, 148, 171, 186, 303 expansion of, 110, 114 Contemplation, mature, 103, 104, 107, 111, 131 Contingency, 229 Couture, Joe, 205-206 Correa, Mayuto, 276, 277, 278, 286, 289 Cree, 306, 315. See also Dene Tha; Native American, elders, 141, 161 Grandfathers, 172, 187, 190, 306, 315 healer, 168, 172, 188, 190, 326. animal spirit helpers, 187 See also Native American; Night Visitors; Protector; Psoriasis Research Project; Shamanism; Spirits, guard-

ian;n Sweatlodge ceremony; Willier, Russell.

James Bay, 205 dreams, 21, 24 Cry of the Eagle (Young, et. al.), 192, 211. See also Psoriasis Research Project; Willier, Russell. Dearmoring, 113-114, 129-130 de Castillejo, Claremont, 307-308 de Mille, Richard, 36, 275, 284, 287, 288, 291, 295 Dene, 39-70. See also Anthropologist; Dene Tha; Dreams and Visions Nabesna; Native American; Shamanism, Worldview. and animals, 55, 57, 59, 67 communication, non-verbal, 54, 55- 56 culture, definition of, 40, 47, 60 versus academic, 40, 52 dreams, 53-54, 60 interpretation of, 54, 57-58 symbols, 58 wolf 53-54 elders, 51, 57, 63, 67 healing, 56 hunting, 45, 48-49, 67 individualism, 58, 61 knowledge, 49-51, 61 and the land, 46-47, 49, 65-66 land claims, 60 language, 26, 52 learning, 41, 44, 50-51, 66, 67 menstruation, 41-43 taboos, 41-42, 43 oral literature, 43-44, 65 animals in, 45, 46-65 purpose of, 44-45 potlatch, 40 process, perception of, 43 puberty rituals, 40, 41, 42 technology, 47-51 innovation, regard for, 48; traditional, 49; making moccasins, 49, 50; tanning skins, 49-50 Ways, 40, 42, 43, 46, 57, 58, 60-63, 65, 69 women,59 Dene Tha, 23-33, 35, 65, 318, 322. See also Cree; Dene; Ritual; Spirit, helpers. animal spirit helpers, 29 communication, 28 non-verbal, 30 dreams, 27. See also Dreams; Dreams and Visions. accounts of, 28 drums in, 29 drumming and singing,28, 29, 31 elders, 25, 26, 28, 29, 30, 31 gifts for, 29, 31

prophet dance, 25 prophets, 28, 31. See also Alexis Seniantha. ritual processes, 26, 30, 31 worldview, 32, 38 Disbelief: sense of, 20 suspension of, 32, 102, 191, 333 Dolphins, 216, 220, 225, 235-236, 306. See also Protector. Donner, Florinda, 36, 295 Dreambody, 114 Dreams, 16, 18. See also Dene Tha; Guajiro; Visions, announcing, 248, 249-250, 255, 260261. See also Reincarnation, anthropologists' accounts of, 18, 23- 24, 29-30, 34, 53-54, 56, 320-321 content analysis of, 302-303 cultural construction of, 307, 322 experiential approach to, 303, 305- 310 interpretation of, 16, 18, 24, 320- 321, 325 premonitions in, 144, 145 psychoanalytic approach to, 302 Jungian, 307-308 See also Jung, C.G.; Jungian, analysis, symbolism, 21, 24 and language categories, 34 waking, 17, 30, 31-32, 33, 299 Zuni, 302-303 Dreams and Visions, 17-18, 20, 25, 28, 33, 34, 35, 114, 159, 168, 186, 298, 301, 303, 305, 313, 314. See also Dene; Dene Tha; Guajiro; Nabesna; Night Visitors; Shamanism; Visions. cultural responses to, 186, 304 Drivers, 123, 126-127. See also ergotropictrophotropic system Dumo, 99, 107, 306. See also Energy, flow; Meditation; Psychic energy, expanding consciousness, 110 imagery, 108-109 sexual arousal and, 110 techniques, 108-109, 111 Eagle, 223, 306. See also Cree; Protector; Willier, Russell, as omen, 217, 219, 221-223 as spirit-helper, 187, 214, 218, 220 symbol, 213, 215, 216, 217, 221-222, 224, 226 Elders. See Cree; Dene; Dene Tha; Guajiro; Native American. Empiricism, 229-300 radical, 206, 305 Enlightenment (historical), 299

INDEX

373

Energy flow, 111-112, 114. See also Chakras, Dumo, Psychic Energy, experience of, 113, 127, 128 Ergotropic-trophotropic system, 118- 124, 125, 127, 128, 129-130. See also Drivers, Tuning, complementariness of, 121-122 simultaneous discharge of, 130 structural invariance, 129-130 Ethnocentrism, 160, 190, 201 Ethnographer. See Anthropologist. Ethnographic portrayal, indigenous peoples response to, 204, 205 Ethnography, 19, 20, 167. See also Anthropology; Autobiography, Narrative; Reflexivity. experiential, 276 narrative, 19, 274, 288 reflexive, 19, 210 transpersonal, 103 Ethnology, 176 Evans-Pritchard, E.E., 279-280, 290- 291, 300 Experiences: cognitive style, 316 extraordinary, 20, 71-72, 99, 197, 286, 299. See also Anthropologist, and extraordinary experiences, as data, 72, 167, 309, 310-315 interpretations of, 33, 87, 88-90, 93-94, 144-145, 146, 167, 206, 307, 316317, 329, 330 normalcy of, 93, 306 reports of, 20, 99, 168 scientific verification of, 326-329 mystical, 186 transpersonal, 101, 103, 107 interpretation of, 102-103, 107 Experiential approach. See Anthropology, experiential. Extrasensory perception (ESP), 197-198, 269. See also telepathy. Fasting, 127, 213, 225 Fideli (Benwa),74-77, 80, 82, 84-85, 92, 94 Fieldwork, 19, 25, 34, 62, 197, 207, 210, 211, 266, 267, 284-285. See also Anthropologist; Anthropology. Fieldworker. See Anthropologist. Freud, Sigmund, 38, 110, 302. See also Psychology. Fumoleau, Rene,27 Gaia hypothesis, 207-208 Geertz, Clifford, 17, 20, 24, 210, 314, 325 Gellhorn, E., 118, 122, 126, 134 Ghosts, 16, 18, 306, 313, 323. See also Ihamba; Spirits.

374

INDEX

Gitksan, 237, 238, 248. See also Native American; Reincarnation; Thomas, Sandra. Gnome, 135, 144, 145, 147, 148, 157, 158, 162, 163, 306 "Going Native", 16, 18, 36, 266, 281, 313, 325 Goodman, Felicita D., 306, 308, 324 Goulet, Jean-Guy, 65, 102, 286, 287, 307, 308, 322 Grindal, Bruce T., 101, 274, 275, 276, 280, 286, 288, 306, 307, 332 Ground of Our Being, 178, 186, 194. See also Consciousness. Guajiro, 21-25, 35, 37-38. See also Dreams; Dreams and Visions, dream: interpretation, 22, 23, 24, 25 symbolism, 23-24 beard in, 22-23 bull in, 23 elders, 22 "reasonable person", 23, 24 Hallucinations, 177, 178, 181-182, 183, 186, 187, 190, 220, 299, 307, 308, 322 group, 181-182 Hallucinogens, 303-304 Harner, Michael, 88-89, 90, 91, 213, 291, 304, 308-309 Healing, 202-204, 206. See also Shamanism. diagnosis, 117 faith, 207 Hermeneutics, 177, 178, 191, 312, 325, 330 Homeomorphogenesis, 115-118, 124, 125, 128, 130, 134 principle of recruitment, 128 and symbolism, 117-118 Hopi, 24, 36, 188 Huichol, 20, 28, 306, 307 Hysterical conversion, 229 Ihamba: See also Ghosts; Ndembu; Ritual, divination, 81 doctors, 74, 76, 80, 82, 85, 90, 306, 319 ritual, 73, 76, 77, 80-86, 88, 94 "words", in, 81, 82, 83, 85 shrine, 79 tooth, 75, 77-80, 82, 83, 89, 90, 91, 92, 94, 306 feeding the, 85-86 Imagination, 37, 136, 145, 157, 161, 164, 165. See also Spirit world. India, 189, 238, 256, 264, 269. See also Kumar, Ashok; Reincarnation. Inner Wind. See Shamanism, Malay. Intifada, 224

Invocation, 137-140, 161 Israel, 214, 215, 224 Jizo, 173, 188-190, 306, 315. See also Night Visitors. Juan, don, 272, 275, 276, 282, 283, 284285, 288. See also Castaneda, Carlos; Yaquis. existence of, 284-285 Jung, Carl Gustav, 32, 38, 72, 111, 169, 185, 232, 303, 318, 333. See also Jungian analysis, Dreams, psychoanalytic approach; Psychology; Unconscious; Visions. Jungian analysis, 109,149, 163, 288, 307, 333. See also Jung, C.G.; Psychology; Unconscious. Kahona (Zambia), 74, 75 Kardecisism, 276 Kannon, 188 Kumar, Ashok, 249, 257-259. See also India; Reincarnation. Land claims. See Dene. Lederman, Carol, 101-102, 305, 306 Levi-Strauss, Claude, 25, 87, 89, 91, 314, 332 Lifeworld, 18, 24, 316 immersion in, 18, 19, 20, 21, 27, 29, 31,33,34,35 Loewen, Jacob, 202-204, 208 Lovelock, James, 208 Magic: See also Malinowksi; Religion; Sailing; Superstition; Trobriand Islanders. interpretations of, 226, 228, 230-231 fear as a driving force for, 227 use of, 228 Malicdan, Rev. Philip S., 338 Malinowski, Bronislaw, 37, 227-228, 230 See also Magic; Sailing; Superstition; Trobriand Islanders. Manuel, Cip, 205 Maquet, Jacques, 276, 287 Maulave (Sufi dancing), 132 Mazeway resynthesis, 228-229 Mead, Margaret,37 Meditation, 127, 131, 133, 186. See also Dumo. Menstruation. See Dene, menstruation. Meru (in Ihamba ritual), 79-83, 85, 86, 87, 88, 91 Meta-models, 192, 330. See also Models, creative energy, development of, 176-178 reframing in, 177 Metaphysics, 162, 164 Model, creative energy, 166, 173-192. See also Meta-Models; Night Visitors; Qi; Spirits; Visions.

Morphogenesis, 116 Myerhoff, Barbara, 20, 28, 284, 303, 306 307. Myth, anthropological, 177 Nabesna, 39, 40, 41, 44, 45, 47, 48, 52, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61. See also Christianity; Dene; Dreams and Visions; Shamanism. morality, 60 Narratives, personal, 19, 274. See also Autobiography; Ethnography. Native American, See also Beaver; Cree; Dene; Dene Tha; Gitksan; Hopi; Protector; Religion; Shamanism; Wet'suwet'en; Worldview. elders, 142, 162 medicine, 168, 327. See also Cree, healer; Psoriasis Research Project; Sweat lodge ceremony; Talking circle; Willier, Russell, religion, 175, 190. See also Vision Quest. Ndembu, 72-74, 87, 89, 90, 306, 318. See also Ihamba; Rituals; Shamanism; Turner, Edith; Turner, Victor, Worldview. cosmology, 92-93 medicine, collecting for Ihamba ritual, 75, 76, 77-78, 79, 84 rituals, 73, 95 curing, 73 shamanism, 319 New Age. See Religion, New Age. Night visitors, 166-192, 315. See also Cree, healer; Dreams and Visions; Jizo; Model, creative energy; Spirits; Visions; Zen Buddhism. Orishas. See Afro-Cuban Santeria. Paranormal, 19, 146, 274, 276, 290, 297, 299, 332 Parapsychology, 37, 170-171, 232 Participant-comprehension, 102-103 Participant-observation, 43, 84, 102, 312, 315. See also Anthropology. People of Tetlin, Why are You Singing? (Guedon),39 Peters, Larry, 275-76, 287, 303, 318, 320321, 322 Phantasmagoria, 32 Prayer, 213, 215, 225 belief in, 202-204. See also Religious, beliefs. Prediction, pre-mortem. See Reincarnation. Prime potency, 105 Principle of causal indifference, 106- 107 Print, in Native American ceremonies, 214, 232

INDEX

375

Prophet Dance. See Dene Tha. Protector, 211, 214-216, 223, 224-226, 229230. See also Cree, healer; Dolphin; Eagle; Native American; Sailing; Spirits, guardian, effect of, 230 ritual offerings to, 214-215, 221, 224-225 sage in, 214-215, 225 sweetgrass in, 215 tobacco in, 214, 221, 225, 228 Psoriasis Research Project, 168, 211, 213, 232, 326-327. See also Cree, healer; Cry of the Eagle; Native American medicine; Sweat lodge ceremony; Willier, Russell. Psychic energy, 99, 106, 107, 111, 127. See also Chakras; Dumo; Energy Flow. circulation of, 113 cultural differences in, 100, 107, 111, 124, 128 higher experiences of, 115, 124, 129 sensation of, 106, 127, 129 theory of, 124-125 Psychic heat. See Dumo. Psychic surgery, 327-329 Psychokinesis, 232-233. See also Telepathy. Psychology, 146. See also Freud, Sigmund; Jung, Carl Gustav; Jungian analysis. transpersonal, 101. Puberty rituals. See Dene. Qi, 179-180, 233-235. See also Model, creative energy. Qi-Gong, 179-180, 233-235 Quantum theory, 184-185, 211, 232 Rationalism, 300-301 Rationality, 18 Reality: alternate, 90 Buddhist view of, 184 cognized, 103-104, 106 multiple, 316-318, 330 phenomenological theory of, 316318 separate, 285, 289, 293-294 Reflexivity, 194, 210. See also Anthropologist; Autobiography; Ethnography. Reincarnation, 237-269. See also Dreams, announcing; Gitksan; India; Kumar, Ashok; Stevenson, Ian; Thomas, Sandra, behavioral memory, 247 birth memories, 253 birthmarks and birth defects, 238, 241, 247, 248, 260-261, 263, 265, gray hair, 254

376

INDEX

children who remember past lives, 247259 behavior of, 250-251, 257-258 food preferences, 250, 254 influence of others on, 254-256, 259, 269 precocity, 250, 254, 255, 262 recognition of people and places, 251, 256, 257-258, 262 cross-cultural study of, 239, 267-268, 329 Beaver Indians, 237-239, 248- 249, 254, 256, 259, 261 Gitksan, 248-249, 254-256, 259, 260-262, 265-268 India, 257-259 Wet'suwet'en, 248-249, 254, 256, 259, 260-261 Yurok, 239-240 criteria for evaluating cases, 261-263 cultural construction hypothesis, 256, 259, 263-265 cultural expectations of, 248 deception in, 264 explanation of, 238 patterns in cases of, 247-248, 265 pre-mortem prediction, 249 previous personality, 247-249, 250251, 253-256, 258-259, 260, 261263, 264-265, 269 persisting behavior, 253-254 philias and phobias, 247, 262-263, 264, 266 scientific investigation of, 238-269 social construction in, 241, 259-260 Relativism, cultural, 191, 201 Religion, 210, 226. See also Anthropology; Magic; Native American; Prayer, Ritual; Shamanism. New Age, 274, 281, 282, 283, 286, 291. See also Casteneda Religious, beliefs, 17. See also Prayer. individual, 228. Ritual: See also Dene Tha; Iharnba; Ndembu; Religion; Talking Circle healing elements of, 87-88. processes, 26, 319 Rupa, 184. See also Tantric Buddhism. Sage (smudge). See Protector. Sailing, 211, 215-216. See also Magic; Malinowski, Bronislaw; Protector; Superstitions, descriptions of, 217-226 and superstitions, 227, 230 and uncertainty, 218 Secularization, 200. See also Worldview. Schutz, Alfred, 316-319, 333 Scientific: See also Worldview, Western scientific

discovery, prematurity of, 197 explanations, 266 of natural phenomenon, 199, 231 knowledge, 198 objectivity, 310-312 and social scientists, 311-313 Seniantha, Alexis, 28. See also Dene Tha, prophets. Serenity (boat), 216, 217-220, 221-222, 226, 228, 235 Sensorial dots, 104-106, 131-132 awareness of, 104-106 universality of, 106 Sensorial events, 107, 117, 128 and neural networks, 115 Sensorium, 103-106, 110, 111, 114, 124, 125, 132, 304, 318 Shamanism, 88-90, 102, 114, 155, 158, 160, 204-205, 207, 307. See also Dene; Dreams and Visions; Healing; Nabesna; Native American; Ndembu; Religion; Spirit world, healing, Cree, 201, 313 description of, 87-90 Japanese, 189 Malay, 20, 101-102, 305, 306 Nabesna, 52, 53, 56, 57, 58, 59, 64, 66, 68 animals in, 52-55 dream power in, 52 Ndembu, 94-95 Tamang, 275-276, 320-321 Singer, P. 327-329. Singleton (Kahona), 74-88, 91-92, 94, 319 Sisala. See Grindal, Bruce T. Sleep-doctor, 52, 53, 69. See also Shamanism, Nabesna. Songhay sorcerers. See Stoller, Paul. Spirits, 148, 157, 158, 164. See also Ghosts; Ihamba; Model, creative energy; Night Visitors; Spirit World. African, 71 explanation of, 178, 185 good and evil, 210 guardian, 211-213, 215, 220, 224, 225, 229, 230. See also Cree, healer; Eagle; Protector; Willier, Russell, helper, 213. See also Cree; Dene Tha. interpretation of, 162-164, 185. Spirit world, 146-147. See also Shamanism; Spirits, shaman's, 135 imagination and, 136, 160, 164, 301 non-Natives approach to, 156, 163 Stevenson, Ian, 237, 238, 239, 240, 241, 248, 256, 262, 263, 264, 265, 269.

See also Reincarnation. Stoller, Paul, 32, 34, 37, 72, 101, 275, 280, 288, 306, 332. Structural-Functionalism, 324, 325 Superstitions, 18. See also Magic; Malinowski, Bronislaw; Sailing. Sweat lodge ceremony, 142, 168, 172, 190, 213-214. See also Cree, healer; Native American medicine; Psoriasis Research Project; Vision Quest; Willier, Russell. Sweetgrass. See Protector. Symbols, 17, 73, 90 adaptation to other settings, 230 processing of, 115-116 Synchronicity, 231-232 Talking circle, 135-137, 138-162. See also Native American, medicine; Ritual, function of, 136 The Teachings of don Juan (Castaneda), 273 Technology. See Dene Telepathy, 183. See also Extrasensory Perception; Psychokinesis. Tetlin (Alaska), 39, 41, 51, 53, 60, 63, 64, 67, 69 Thomas, Sandra, 249256, 259, 265, 268, 269. See also Gitksan; Reincarnation. Tibetan Dumo Yoga. See Dumo Tibetan Tantric Buddhism, 99, 103, 107108, 111, 118, 132, 183-184, 239, 313. See also Rupa. concept of the psychophysical body, 107 Tobacco. See Protector, ritual offerings to. Trance, 111, 114, 186, 303 Transpersonalism, 100-101, 304. Trobriand Islanders, 227-228, 230. See also Magic; Malinowski. Truth value, 329 Tuning, 122, 129. See also Ergotropic- trophotropic system, hyper-ergotropic, 126, 127 hyper-trophotropic, 125, 126, 127 re-tuning, 122-123, 128 Turner, Edith, 34, 82, 167, 275, 286, 299, 306, 309 Turner, Victor, 25-26, 38, 72-73, 87, 9091,93,94,308,319,333 Umbanda, 93, 276, 277, 289 Unconscious: See also Jung, Carl Gustav; Jungian analysis, collective, 185 mind, 30 personal, 185 Vesa (Ndembu doctor), 74, 77, 78, 79, 80, 84

INDEX

377

Vision quest, 213, 214, 225. See also Native American religion; Sweatlodge ceremony; Willier, Russell. Visions, 18, 130, 299, 307. See also Dreams; Dreams and Visions; Jung, Carl Gustav; Models, Creative Energy; Night Visitors, cultural expectations of, 130, 145, 147, 175 descriptions of, 168-169, 192, 220, 277, 279-280, 289, 308, 322 explanations of, 171-172, 177-178, 190, 193, 278-280, 289-290, 322, 325. Cree, 172, 175-176, 187, 188 Zen, 173, 175-76, 187 spontaneous, 171 universality of, 190 Visualization, guided, 136, 148-156, 157, 158 reactions to, 152-156 Waorani, 198 color terms, 198-199 Wet'suwet'en, 40, 63, 237, 238, 248. See also Native American; Reincarnation. Willier, Russell, 214-215, 223, 230, 231232, 235, 315. See also Cree, healer; Cry,of the Eagle; Eagle

378

INDEX

Native American, medicine; Psoriasis Research Project; Spirits, guardian; Sweatlodge ceremony; Vision Quest; Worldview.. worldview, sacred, 213, 227, 236. Witchcraft, 72, 288. Women. See Anthropologist; Dene. Worldview: See also Anthropologist; Ndembu; Secularization; Willier,Russell. Native American, 138, 163 Dene Tha, 38 Sacred, 200, 210 anthropologists regard for, 160, 200-201, 205, 206, 207, 210 Western scientific, 174, 177, 191, 266. See also Scientific. Xenoglossy, 262 Yaquis, 273, 282, 284, 295, 296. See also Castaneda, Carlos; Juan, don. Yost, James, 198 Young, David, 30, 35, 102, 211, 214, 223, 286, 306, 315, 325, 326, 327 Zambia, 71, 72, 86, 319 Zen Buddhism, 111, 175, 190, 193, 194, 211, 315. See also Night Visitors.