2 Years 1 Paycheck 0 Plans: Burnout to Bliss, #3

By Pam Young

What would it be like if you believed that the universe was for you?

Burned-out and struggling with beliefs, she had to choose between what was "safe" and "the unknown." She had only what was left of her last teacher's paycheck. And now, she didn't even have a home for at least another year because she had sublet her apartment. In an uncharacteristic leap of faith, she plunged into the unknown and let the divine mystery guide her.

If you like reading stories about personal, life-changing experience, then you'll love reading 2 Years 1 Paycheck 0 Plans.

To share this journey through three countries and the mystery of a supportive universe, buy your copy of 2 Years 1 Paycheck 0 Plans now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heartworks
• Release date: Mar 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386178781

Pam Young

Pam Young played many roles: teacher, masseuse, Alchemical Hypnotherapist, psychotherapist, empowerment workshop leader, and yoga teacher. Now she writes with the same intentions. You can follow her here: Twitter @DrPamYoung Facebook      https://www.facebook.com/drpamyoung

Book preview

Part 1:

orna

Camping Again with 

Mexican Indian Shamans  

Somewhere in Mexico

November 1989

1

The Invitation

October 1989

orna

Igot the call in October: an invitation to go camping with shamans again in November. I was certain that I wanted to go again. The first trip (in May) had marked the beginning of my wandering with the wuu-wuu’s – those folk involved in alternative goings-on who, like me, seemed to be consumed by the development of their mind, body, and spirit. Because I was into spiritual growth, it was a good fit. I was oblivious to the damage I’d experienced from juggling burnout with spiritual seeking. I wanted more of what I’d experienced in May; I wanted another experience with Source.

In May I had intended to do battle with fear. I did – inside a tent whipped by the wind and listening to unknown sounds that made me think about aliens. But when the trip was over, I had defeated my fear – with the help of a little desert lizard. I had even expressed at that moment my desire to come back with the intention to surrender. What I meant by that intention was having some relevant experience so that setting my ego aside to align with Source wouldn’t feel so much like giving in to a man’s control. I was a professional woman who had worked her way through many years of college, a woman who had supported three men in marriage. I had been abused and used and hadn’t yet met a man I was ready to put on a pedestal. And so the concept of surrender was tainted by my life experience. Even so, I fully intended to experience surrender because of my previous experience when I faced my fear. I knew this trip mattered; I just didn’t know why. What could happen that would convince me to let go of control, to trust that my life would be better if I surrendered? Can we talk emotional baggage?

The leader told me that a larger group would be going this time – the original five Americans and Mexican Indian shamans plus four more. The original group was Jack, the man who knew the shamans; a plumber from Denver; a model from Connecticut; a telephone executive from Mississippi; and me, a burned-out professor. Joining us would be two single men: a pharmacist and a carpenter, and two more women: another single woman, and John-the-plumber’s wife. Was I interested?

Of course! But how would I pay for it? I told him I’d call back to confirm. I needed to consult with Catherine, level-headed, smart-with-money-gal, about my interest.

Catherine was the former student and friend who had invited me to take a year off and share the house I had helped her find for her new job in California. I don’t think she had a clue what was going on with me – that after psychotic breaks and other madness, my psychologist had advised me to leave Purgatory for at least a year. Her offer was unexpected but timely. As scary as it felt to risk losing my job, the alternative – continuing at the college in Purgatory – was so much worse. And so that’s what I did. I left my job with one paycheck and no plans. But I wasn’t worried about money then because I didn’t plan to spend mine on anything but vegetarian food and gas. It was for such a short time, until the next autumn semester in September, I just assumed that if I needed more money, I’d get a temporary job. I certainly had had lots of experience getting jobs like that when I worked my way through college.

Catherine listened to me talk about Mexico and all the reasons I shouldn’t even consider it. I fully expected her to nix the Mexico idea altogether. After all, how smart could that be, to go play in Mexico again, especially when, this time, I had no income? What could I possibly be expecting? That another camping trip would heal this broken psyche? I was unemployed. I had left Purgatory with only the cash from my last paycheck ($1,500) for a whole year in California.

Catherine asked about other funds. Other funds? Well, I did have this retirement fund... Holy cow! What kind of fool would borrow from their retirement fund just to take another wild-hair trip to Mexico for nearly three weeks? And something in me wondered, Whose voice is resisting this trip?

But Catherine not only agreed, she encouraged me to go, pointing out that life is short and this opportunity was here, now. She also reminded me how valuable the first trip had been for me. For example, if I hadn’t gone to Mexico in May, I probably never would have asked for the unpaid leave of absence to join her in California (to have my total melt-down in private, instead of publically, in a medical community). Invest in you, she said. You’ve worked hard all your life. Now it’s time for you. It’s time to do something fun for yourself. 

Because I was still at an all-time low, in a near wrist-slitting depression, and didn’t give a fig for my future life anyway, I embraced her confirmation (but not her, even though in my excitement I did nearly forget her position on hugs). And she told me what to do.

It took only one phone call to my retirement annuity to figure out how to pay for the trip: a loan against money I had stashed for old age. Being ignorant about such things I would never have thought to make that call if it hadn’t been for Catherine. But Otis, the man who convinced me years ago to set up that fund (by reducing my take-home pay by about $100 each month) assured me that my request was not unusual. Even so, I hesitated because that was the only money I had saved, and I was worried about being poor in my old age. Visions of me – pushing a grocery cart and living in a shelter made of cardboard boxes – swirled in my mind.

But Catherine, refusing to be sucked into my pity party, simply countered with an acknowledgement of my current state of being and said, If you kill yourself before you get to be old, what’s the point of saving that cash? And that was the first time I realized that she actually had known what was going on with me. Suddenly I realized that she had been offering me sanctuary when she had invited me to share her house. I hadn’t known that at the time. Huh.

But she was right about the importance of the first trip. And I believed it was the beginning of my new life; it would stand out forever in my mind because of my experiences there, what I fondly called walking with God. I had searched all my life for that kind of experience – connecting with all things, not to mention dancing in the stars. And I wanted more. No, I needed more!

Therefore, despite my limited financial resources – being on leave without pay, having no income or liquid savings account except what remained of my last paycheck ($1,000 after travel expenses and two months in California) – I was compelled to travel once again to Mexico. I would join the guys on another vision quest. Like Scarlett, I would worry tomorrow about how to pay the money back.

In the time it took to process the loan and receive the money, about a week, I discovered in one of my magazines (perhaps the New Age journal) Brandt Secunda’s ad describing his version of the shamanic experience. In an unprecedented move, I decided to go all-out and coordinate the two trips – In for a penny, in for a pound. They would dove-tail nicely, at least regarding timing. After camping with the Indian shamans (November 3-16), I would stay in Mexico for Secunda’s Dance of the Deer Foundation Earth and Sky pilgrimage to the Pacific (November 17-27). 

But my registration for Secunda’s program had gotten lost in the mail around the time of the huge 7-point earthquake, terremoto, from San Francisco down to San Jose. (We had even felt those tremors in Carmichael.) And the night before I flew to Mexico, on November 3, I got a call in San Francisco, saying my name was not on the list for the 20-person trip for the pilgrimage.

Slightly disappointed, I nevertheless focused on everything is perfect; there are no accidents, and changed my return flight arrangements. It was for the best, considering the cost of that trip. I would merely be taking another camping trip with shamans in Mexico – or so I thought.

2 

Camping with Shamans 

November 1989

orna

Right off the bat, I could tell this was not going to be just another vision quest. We were the only ones sitting on the bus, so far, and my first impression was, Look at all these people! We were more than twice as many! The first trip was a total group of seven, including the shaman’s family – Silve and her American husband, Prenda, who was also a shaman. He would take the lead on this journey, as he had on the first one, because Silve did not speak English confidently, and we didn’t speak her language at all.

For me, the socially-challenged one, essentially such a deep introvert that my score didn’t even appear on the Myers-Briggs psychological profile, this amping-up of people-intensity told me that Stuff is going to move! And I had no doubts that a goodly portion of this moving stuff would be mine. 

The addition of two single males made it even scarier because I had such baggage around partner relationships. This time, the shamans brought three young children. Four additional Americans came, and they all knew each other from back home on the eastern slope of Colorado’s Continental Divide. Naturally, I was a west slope girl, and the unfriendliness between sides of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado was fierce. Over politics, water rights, voting districts, funding for colleges, you name it.

And in my mind, I was talking to the Cosmic Cops, who evidently were enjoying this. Thanks. Thanks a lot! I am already the outsider even before the trip begins. Lots of old stuff about being the outsider was stirred up for me even before the driver arrived. I sometimes felt like everyone on the planet was already matched up – friends, lovers, whatever – before I was even born.

Naturally, I sat in the back with my little spiral notebook, making my endless notes. The wife of the plumber joined him this time, the happily married couple of twenty-five years coming to rejuvenate their marriage and pledge new vows for the next twenty-five. By contrast, I had been divorced three times already and had kept no intimate relationship lasting longer than two years – ever. Over the years, with lots of therapy, I had come to accept that my behavior was typical for a girl raped at an early age.

I saw that Precious had returned – gorgeous, twenty-six, and already messing with the minds of the single guys. I didn’t need a program to know her role in this party or how her character would take every conceivable opportunity to remind me of my passing youth, whether by her dress, her speech, or her behavior. It was already happening.

Two single but completely unavailable men had joined us to act out the roles I was so accustomed to experiencing in my relationship patterns. Without saying a word, I knew that one would pursue me with all his might, and then give up and disappear. The other would tease me with an intense love relationship and then vanish. My buddy from Mississippi who ended our first trip with I love you, would not spend any time with me for conversation or anything else, thereby completing the cast of male characters for my personal growth drama. I even had a title: Abandonment with a Capital A.

Am I psychic? No. Would I need to be to know how it was going to go? No.

In mere moments, I had sized up the players. Fortunately, this time, Spirit saw fit to give me some support: a woman older than me for a change. This sacred gift would provide companionship and a different perspective to help me process all my icky stuff. I already saw her as brassy, brave, independent, and loaded with piles of her own issues. I loved her for all of it. I imagined that we would be pals and that together we would level our mountains of psychological garbage.

We traveled mostly on buses again, the perfect vehicle for an observer like me. I tended to sit in the back by myself while the other Americans sat together and partied – just as they did on the first quest, just as they used to do in high school. They told stories, jokes, and abruptly squealed or laughed for no apparent reason. There was no way I could participate in that kind of light-hearted banter, even if I’d wanted to. I didn’t know how to do it when I was ten, and I still didn’t, which is not to say that I didn’t have a purpose in such groups.

From my studies of A Course in Miracles (ACiM) in Catherine’s cooler-than-the-house garage back in California, I learned that life purpose is giving love where there is fear. Here, on this journey with these people, I soon realized I was going to be put to the test on what I’d learned so far on my spiritual journey – to practice unconditional love, to give without any expectation whatsoever. And my mind screamed in the silence, But with this many, all at once?

The first test of giving without any expectation whatsoever happened when we stopped in a town to buy food for our camping trip. All the other travelers lounged on the grass in the charming little central park, sipping fresh-squeezed orange juice and enjoying the ambiance of the town. Not me. I paced the perimeter like a caged lion. I needed something to do. I needed someone to tell me that I was okay not hanging out with them in the grass because I had a different role to play, an important one.

Suddenly, Silve tapped me on the shoulder and gestured for me to accompany her and an older woman she had recruited in this town for the shopping trip. She had read my mind.

But my mind heard it differently: You are the chosen one! And my heart soared.

I assumed it was because Silve and I had bonded on the first trip as a result of our previous discussions, especially when I said, Yes, the animals speak to me, too. She told me that was one of the signs that someone in her tribe is chosen to follow the path of the shaman. I admired her jewelry-making, and she gave me a pair of earrings. We were girlfriends. So naturally, I jumped at the opportunity to leave the silliness of my fellows and follow these petite women, ecstatic about finally being recognized for who I was – a mystic in the making.

They chatted in their native language, as women do, about the street vendors and which merchant had the best deals until we stopped at a produce stand where the women meticulously picked out a crateful of fruits and vegetables. My mind loved every moment of the adventure. I kept thinking I am in heaven; I am one of them.

Then the eldest of the tiny women directed me to pick up the crate, and after a moment of confusion, I couldn’t stop myself from laughing out loud. I had not been chosen to join them because we were girlfriends or because I was so mystical. Instead, they picked me for the strength of my back and my proven willingness on the previous trip to be of service.

Not that I intended in any way to devalue their gifts. The women did rescue me from the always painful dynamics of the group. And they were kind to me. They treated me like one of their own: a daughter, a sister. They even rewarded my labor with a delicious burrito from a street vendor. I felt my face smiling.

We weren’t even there yet, and the drama had already begun.

3

There

November 1989

orna

T here, where we camped, was different this time, too. Last May, we went to the sacred cornfield near the Holy Mound. This time, in November, we would be camping by a lake in a high desert area, which someone said was about 7,000 feet above sea-level, more like my town in Colorado.

The contrast between the first and second location was profound. The cornfield, while considerably more mystical (I saw ancient spirits!), was also a harsher environment: parched earth, only two wispy trees, no water, and it was surrounded by dense, thorny plants that bit the flesh fiercely whenever one passed by too closely. Because those thorny bushes grew so close together, my walks last May were limited to the parameters of the cornfield, or up and down the dirt road that cut through the desert.

In this location, we would camp under a stand of trees separated from the lake by a large clearing that was slightly less than the size of a football field. We were surrounded by the same harsh desert, but there were also many areas with airy trees and velvet-soft grass. They were little pockets of Eden with a modicum of shade, providing some relief from the sun and something besides dirt to sit on, like a log or a rock.

I chose not to pitch my tent so far away from the others, as I had done in May, when my intention had been to do battle with Fear. This time I wanted to learn more about the concept of surrender and letting go completely of all attachments, whether they be to material things, my story, or to the preferences I had about the way people showed up, myself included. I figured that being near people was probably required because my intention for the trip included the need to interact with them. If you’re alone out in the tulles, how can you observe your interactions with people?

On the other hand, I could not resist spending a lot of time alone, not only because I’m a loner and a social moron, but also because I was already in it and grieving past decisions, like choosing career over relationship. Not only that, but I still was haunted – no, teased – by the possibility of having that loving relationship. I wasn’t quite dead yet at age 43. I even considered the possibility of having children. I was not in the least daunted by my early menopause because I believed I created it. If I could create one outcome, why couldn’t I create another? It happened like this according to the entry in my journal:

Walking home one day from the college, grimacing with lower back pain that always accompanied my menses, I was thinking and talking in my mind to my Higher Self or Spirit or whoever else might be listening. Why are we still doing this? Why don’t we just stop these periods forever? You know I don’t want to have children yet. You know I’d be a lousy mother because I work all the time.

With each heavy footstep on that forty-five-minute walk home, I declared my intention to end my menses. 

Voila! Stop they did. Just like that. I had infrequent and slight menstrual periods for the rest of that year, accompanied by great emotional upheaval and hot flashes. My gynecologist was amazed. Forty-three is early for menopause, and to stop so suddenly, he said, scratching his chin.

***

Did I stop my periods with my declaration of intention? If I truly believed that, then I must also believe that I can reverse it. Mind over matter: true? Or maybe it was going to be like some of the other choices I had made in my past that allowed no do-overs, choices that closed off those options for my future, forever. In other words, maybe I was just supposed to accept the fact that it simply ain’t gonna happen.

And that dilemma was part of the game called surrender that I came to Mexico to learn more about and to practice. With so many men around in this small group, the long-forgotten baby issue was destined to be part of my mind games.

***

Each night the shepherds on horseback brought their goats and sheep to the lake for a drink. That was an exceptional experience in itself – not only the sight of gypsy cowboys, but the good company of those desert people who joined us at the campfire for food and conversation. They were so polite, listening with equal attention to our music, whether it was cassettes of artists like Enya, Van Morrison, or Phil Collins on the boom box or us chanting with our assorted drums and rattles.

Despite my intentions, other than these evening visits by the shepherds and the delight of singing with Silve, I continued to spend my time alone. The pharmacist from Denver couldn’t seem to accept that I was not interested, and I couldn’t quite deal with my sweetie from the previous trip ignoring me. Then there was this other guy. He had the most amazing hair. It never moved. Can you say product?

But mostly I just wanted to be alone because I didn’t want to waste this wonderful opportunity to do some intense personal work now that my buttons were duly pushed.    

Seriously: me, lolling on a blanket telling campfire stories? Nah.

Mostly I just walked, putting distance between me and the campfire guys, until I found a little shady spot to sit for a while. Typically, I sat and breathed and wrote in my little journal about whatever happened to be in my mind, what I call brain dump. This felt peaceful to me. Not doing. Not expecting.

Even so, it was on one such walk that I experienced a different kind of seeing for the first time.

4

Seeing Differently

orna

Ispent an entire day alone in the desert, far away from anyone else. I shuffled along, listening and watching, just be-ing. I was watching the light change as the sun moved towards late afternoon when I noticed energy fields around every object – trees, rocks, cacti. When I have seen these before, I have only seen one at a time, the one I wanted to see, like someone’s aura kind of thing, or the energy line connecting the mountain with the sky. Now I saw vibrating energy fields on everything in my field of vision. 

Then I noticed how these energy fields, these auras, overlapped. My energy seemed to blend with that of the cacti, the trees, the animals. Our energy fields all blurred together