Wild Willful Heart

By W. Boone Hedgepeth

Take a wild megalomaniacal trip into the American spiritual and Cultural Revolution of the 1960s-1990s, as a young southern man gives fresh perspective to the propaganda, bad marriages, a collection of strange gurus and some bizarre mystical places. For many years, author W. Boone Hedgepeth was a magnet for unusual occurrences of an ethereal nature which vigorously affected the world around him.

Suffering a life threatening illness and after a near death experience, Boone goes on an adrenalized journey from the American south and across the country seeking answers. Here, force of will and prayer are the proven best weapons against very unusual circumstances. Literally seeking the face of God, the author plunges into the magical medicine of his native ancestors, the new age metaphysical movement, Christian fundamentalism, and other wild and life-changing experiences before coming out of the fires to the other side.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Dec 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483462974

Book preview

them.

Part 1

Wild with Heart

Chapter 1

The Quest of the Eagle

I t was June of 1993 when I arrived in the tiny quaint village of Black Mountain, North Carolina, after a long drive from Florida. This would be my last stop in the contemporary world for several days, and I would not miss its complex state, even as it would not miss me. I headed north on remote Highway 28, and the scenic vista was lusciously green with burgeoning summer foliage. The crisp air was filled with overpoweringly euphoric woodland scents of laurel and rhododendron. After several panoramic miles through the fragrant rolling highway of the Blue Ridge Mountains, I pulled off onto a gravel road into an ancient forest where a crudely painted wooden sign read Cedar Ridge Acres. I spotted a tall, thin, older man standing beside a stout, sun-worn, middle-aged woman, both of them leaning on a late-model red Range Rover parked along the muddy road. I pulled my Dodge van in closer to greet them. He was an English fellow with long white hair in braids and looked as if he could be an Indian chief; she was of obvious Cherokee origin. They graciously introduced themselves as James and Felicia Brackett, the medicine helpers, with whom I had been corresponding for months concerning the enigmatic American Indian ritual of the vision quest or hanblenchia as the helpers call it. With an enthusiastic Hey, y’all! greeting, they responded in kind. With beaming exuberance, they informed me that they had just bought acreage in the untamed area of the vision quest. Truly this locale was premium, having never been developed. What did I know about these two affable strangers? Not much information did I have on record. Some nine months ago, out of sheer desperation, I had bravely written them a letter to request the appropriate preparations for a vision quest. In return, I received a bizarre and mysterious letter written in a rather laconic style.

Hanblenchia (Vision Quest)

Allowed to take 1/2 pint of water, tobacco, sleeping bag, small tarp, drum, paper for journal, smudge, blanket, and Apache tears. Will be making 100 prayer ties for each direction, should be rolled on a stick for ease. There will be no food allowed. There will be a sweat before you go on the mountain. After sweat, you are on your quest, you are sacred, and you will not speak to anyone nor look them in the eyes. Someone will put your prayer ties down in a circle around you. Once the prayer ties are down, you do not leave the circle until someone comes to get you. If you need to come down off the mountain, tie your white flag in a tree near your circle, someone will be by in the morning and evening to check on you. Before you go on quest, pray and prepare your body, start fasting beforehand. There will be an individual sweat for each person after they are taken off the mountain. Take food for medicine person, fire keepers, and support group as well as for feast after the quest is finished. The support groups will also be praying for the people on the mountain (and eating for them) and for the medicine person.

Upon receipt of this information, I quickly researched prayer ties and was stunned by their significance. Prayer ties are four hundred tobacco plugs in colored cotton fabric tied on a single twine up to 140 feet long. In American Indian lore, they are spiritual proxy representations of the following: eagle, depicted with yellow ties and the compass direction east, which symbolizes illumination; mouse depicted with red ties and the direction south, symbolizing innocence; bear depicted with black ties and west, symbolizing introspection; and white buffalo, represented with white ties and north, symbolizing purity. There are one hundred prayer ties of each color. As the quest initiate, on behalf of my relations and myself, I was to pronounce a special, personally chosen prayer and breathe it into a tobacco plug. I would gently place this plug into each of the four hundred individual colored fabric squares and twist them closed. I would then tie this cotton plug to the long twine, with each segment placed up to five inches apart. I could only shake my head with wonder, learning to trust ritual technology that was thousands of years old.

In the undertaking of this unique task, in a basic sense, I comprehended that all these tedious hours of creating prayer ties were symbolic of the seasonal timetable of the American Indian medicine wheel of life, also known as the four spiritual directions. As I engaged in this repetitious project, I was naturally a bit bewildered as to its real intention. I was told the medicine wheel represented the sanctified space of earth and all life upon it. The ceremonial space of land or vision spot (where the questor abides during hanblenchia) with the prayer ties set out in a circle around the initiate’s space resembles a sundial or clock face, representing the four winds, the four directions of the compass, and all the beings of earth, both physical and spiritual. As well, this personal medicine wheel is an icon of all the relations in our universe and their interconnectedness. Supposedly, sacred spiritual power awaits the initiate who enters the center of the prayer ties for a vision quest in search of peace, harmony, and direction. The vision quest is referred to as crying for a vision before the Creator. Even though I was a big, strong, fairly traditional Southern guy, I could certainly relate to tears, for I had shed too damned many in a mere thirty-three short years of living.

Aside from the Bracketts’ ambiguous one-page letter of instruction about the vision quest, I was supplied with a hastily written map to the isolated mountain location. I was intrigued by the apparent lack of words and abundance of mystery in the letter, yet for a number of reasons, I was devoid of all fear. No fear meant young, dumb, and uninformed. Obviously, the correspondence had not told me much else about this ritual of questing. The assumption was made that I already knew what I needed to for that moment and that I would learn more in due time. I was rolling with it. I laughed as I could hear George Carlin telling me to take a fucking chance!

Yes, I did my research, for in the months preceding the actual ritual, I read of the nineteenth-century Lakota Sioux prophet Black Elk and many other native prophets for all the information I could acquire. The facts I discovered from native leaders made it clear that I would symbolically die and be reborn through fasting, prayer, and an altered state of awareness that would mystically restructure my life. You see, for some years on and off, I was intermittently ailing with a type of psychological oppression that was a threat to my overall physical and spiritual well-being. Many of my intimate friends and family felt this vision quest business was a drastic measure, engaging myself in this peculiar ritual with a bunch of strangers, but they did not try to prevent it. In some way, they trusted my judgment. Nevertheless, I could not be stopped once I made up my mind.

Since childhood, I inherently believed in the biblical promises of humanity’s ability to exercise free will in doing the right thing for the right reason. Unfortunately, though I had read the Bible many times, I only understood the manuscript from a figurative viewpoint. I also assumed that the old wives’ tale, God protects fools and drunks, had more accuracy to it than most folks realized. I trusted God and hoped that so-called vision questors could also join in that cultural fable of promised security. I had bravely come to these mountains for a clandestine ceremony with strangers of seemingly good intent, and with the Creator’s help, I would soon uncover for myself just what I had gotten myself into. I was a savvy guy with good communication skills and was unafraid of most people because of my large stature, and this quest ritual was a kind of last-ditch effort for personal peace. I needed something to work.

With my van wheels grinding and growling on fresh gravel, I climbed high up the mountain as I followed the red Rover into the base camp parking area. I had all my windows rolled down in the summer’s heat, as I politely nodded to the other new arrivals who were unpacking camping gear. Present were ten other quest initiates—a mixed bag of Americans, hippy-dippy herbalists, ministers, ex-ministers, acupuncturists, massage therapists, homemakers, ex-police officers, and so on. It was especially refreshing to meet them since we all shared a great commonality of unconventional spiritual attitudes. They were all like me, seriously seeking answers about assorted life situations, answers we never seemed to find in any mainstream religion.

As the muggy summer afternoon quickly waned into shadows, the scarlet-gold sun descended into the western tree line. In a friendly effort to be better acquainted, the quest group brought out their hand-painted drums for a jam session by the new community campfire. I had a beautiful elk-hide custom (symbolic of endurance). Soon the melodic drumming filled the primordial woods, blending perfectly with the sounds of whippoorwills and croaking toads. There were moments when I clearly felt the unity, not only through the obvious rhythmic patterns of drumming, but in the unfolding patchwork of our lives, each complementing one another until we made one sacred human timpani. It was apparent by the way we came together in these woodlands that we were supposed to meet, and the beauty of it was that we hardly knew one another. We rapidly overcame being strangers, and I had never seen such a swift and comforting acclimation of humanity. Those first evening hours passed quickly.

With the mutual good nights settled between us, I carefully walked the dark, narrow, weedy trail back to the mud-bogged parking area. I was extremely aware of the nighttime woodland sounds and their steady presence all around. Since my many childhood vacations to this area, I had always adored the North Carolina mountains, and it was a gorgeous, starry night, cool with no mosquitoes. For quite some time, I had longed to return to this heart of the oldest mountains in the world, said to be 400 million years old by geologists. Since I did not bring a tent with me, I slept away from base camp in my van. Satisfied with the entire situation, I stretched out in the back of the Dodge and slept with trusting abandon, doors locked and not a fool.

The next morning, I awoke early and rejoined the captivating group of questors and medicine helpers back at the encampment. In observance of our mutually resolute prayer fasts, some people were sipping orange juice in tiny Dixie cups to stay hydrated. I was too wound up to be hungry, and many others seemed to have the same attitude. After cordial small talk around the morning fire, as instructed, we all climbed the adjacent hill and began digging the consecrated earth for our sweat lodge.

Traditionally, the sweat lodge or inipi, as the natives say, is made from sixteen willow saplings post-holed in a ten-foot circle, bent inward, and tied together in the top center to denote the four corners of the universe. The natural structure is then covered with heavy tarps. (It is somewhat hard to find traditional and affordable buffalo hides these days.) The sweat lodge also represents all the powers of the four elements: earth, fire, water, and air. In the center of the lodge, a pit is dug to symbolize the heart of the universe. It is here that Wakan-Tanka (the so-called Lakota Sioux version of the Christian God) will speak from the fire of sizzling rocks placed in the interior pit. These rocks are sanctified in a huge fire some ten paces out, east from the lodge door, and brought in through the door flap one by one with a pitchfork by a medicine helper. They are dropped in the sweat lodge central fire pit as the medicine man directs. The door then closes back to darkness; the holy man prays and pours water from a cistern over the scalding rocks, and the steam rises off them. The water and steam within the lodge are symbolic of the legendary Thunder-Beings (giant bird/dinosaur spirits) who visit questors with fear on the mountain to purify their souls. Fear and terror are sacred teachers to the Indians (like just about everything else from Spam to ’71 Buick hubcaps). Supposedly, even in the sweat lodge before one’s vision quest, Wakan-Tanka may bless the appropriately prepared questor with great visions of past, present, and future.

Our combined group cut sixteen poplar saplings for the sweat lodge dome and dug the holes for their placement. Building the lodge took us half of the day because the earth was hard and compact. With the rigorous task complete, I could feel my body slipping into a curious state of awareness since I had not eaten in a day and a half and I sensed my body using its own fat and carbohydrates as sustenance. Wisely, after hours of hard labor building this structure, our group mutually resolved to get some rest.

Later, after the siesta, the Bracketts instructed all the initiates to hike up the mountain and prayerfully select spots of earth for our individual vision quests. After a personal prayer to Jesus Christ, I led the group up the steep mountainside. We then split up and went in different directions. The idea was to select an area as flat as possible, avoiding flood zones, with ample tree cover and some sky viewing. I climbed up to a rocky area about three-quarters of the way up the mountain. I was about to claim a flat-topped boulder when a lone hornet savagely attacked and stung me on my right ankle. It appeared from nowhere and stung without provocation. I instinctively took this as a warning to vacate this area and continued to climb higher all the way to the top of the mountain to a high, narrow ridge.

In the center of this elevated range, I spotted a cleared space, maybe four feet by four feet, where thickly swirled leaves were oddly lying in a counterclockwise circle. I remembered that I was told there were black bears on the mountain. The local town newspaper had even talked of a possible Sasquatch sighting in the area. Yes, it seems they were serious about it. I had a reticent feeling about this particular spot, but, against my intuition, I began to clear the area as my chosen vision spot. What the hell was I thinking? Perhaps the summer’s heat and the fasting were the cause of the marginal judgment.

After we had all marked our vision spots with red flags tied to woodland saplings (to recall their location), we returned to base camp and began to unpack the rest of the camping gear to make the densely wooded area more comfortable. I was impressed with this collection of bohemian strangers, who shared everything they had brought with them, as it engendered a peaceful air of trust that spread cooperation throughout camp. Though these fellow Americans were all well-mannered, my somewhat jaded but affable personality seemed to gravitate most to Felicia Brackett. From the very beginning, she and I conversed frankly about life and the concepts of being with a degree of humor that was consistently entertaining, though laced in sarcasm.

With the sweat lodge built, there was ample afternoon downtime as we waited for the medicine man to arrive. I threw out my sleeping bag next to her spot, and we relaxed in a shady grove of tall oak trees and began conversing. A native Floridian of Cherokee and French origins, Felicia was the mother of one adult son and she was presently in a second marriage. She was a weary-looking fifty-something, a semiretired successful interior designer who had met her husband, James, several years ago. He was a million-dollar club real estate broker and developer. Raised as a Catholic, Felicia remarked that throughout life she slowly felt herself being drawn into the American Indian philosophy of her ancestors. Meanwhile, in his own life, James had been spending much of his personal time over the many years reading American Indian history, so from the time of their first meeting, it was an inevitable match for this and other reasons.

I eventually grew out of the control of Catholicism and began searching out my native roots, she said.

I know exactly what you mean, I replied.

This so-called Christian nation seems to me to be dreadfully out of touch with the land, she said with disgust.

Well, that’s because the Puritans from Europe brought with them an honest ‘God is hard work and prosperity’ attitude, which eventually was borrowed or usurped into the blatant dishonesty of the Manifest Destiny policies of government and corporations. This was the sad fruit of the pilgrim’s progress. For instance, the interpretations of the Genesis account of where God supposedly told man to have dominion over everything in the earth has caused countless men in power to twist the scriptures to mean dominate, subjugate, or annihilate, for we have the God-given right! As well, mainstream organized Christianity was hijacked by such corrupt men long ago, I replied.

Ooh! Another ex-Catholic in our midst? She laughed aloud.

No, an ex-Mormon in your midst, I replied.

Whoa! Really? I have always been curious about them. Tell me, were you raised a Mormon? I have heard some very bizarre and mysterious stuff about them. So do tell, what was that like? she asked imploringly.

By this point, I was used to answering questions about the Latter-Day Saints church. Whenever you tell people you were a Mormon, they tend to react in one of only three ways: one of restrained disgust, two of intense curiosity, or three of near-total disinterested ignorance. After taking a deep breath and sighing, I leaned back against an oak tree and reluctantly began with the short version.

Chapter 2

The Mormon Advent

D uring my early collegiate period, which began when I was nineteen years old, I enrolled in a myriad of political science courses to discover the truth behind the ruling modus operandi of our governing system. There had always been a flood of injustice and poverty in America for so much prosperity, and I needed to know why the larger wealth was unfairly inaccessible to the larger masses. An understanding of our imperfect republic, I thought, would shed great light on my purpose as an American. I was full of idealistic young dreams, believing I could make a difference in my own circle of life, though I had no idea what that contribution could be. For thus far in my diminutive life, I had only shown some promise as an acting student, and after a brief episode in California, I had already given up on the stage. After realizing youthful charm and above-average looks were not enough to be discovered for some, I had moved on.

I subsequently became obsessed with politics during the 1980 presidential election year. My parents had campaigned for both Kennedy brothers in the sixties. In American government class, my liberal Cuban professor encouraged intermittent debates between a middle-aged, geeky, conservative Mormon classmate and me. Most of the class were liberals, and they loved it when I went in for the slaughter. Clarence Tuck, the nerdy Latter-Day Saints phone company technician, always remained cool and virtually unflappable, and for that maturity alone, I respected him. After another heated class performance where Clarence reluctantly conceded (out of politeness), he approached me in the parking lot. I was still steaming with hostility from our preceding classroom exchange, but he offered his hand. I was reluctant at first to hear what he had to say, but there was something heavy laden in his handshake. Why did his hand contact evoke such calm within me? Why was I feeling euphoria? As he began a dialogue, I eventually shifted my sour outlook to that of a polite listener, as I had no tendency toward rudeness to others unless unavoidably warranted.

Clarence spoke of an unusual tale of man’s preexistent life with God. Normally this would be the point where I would bail on a fruitcake, but for some unknown reason, I let him run. He said this preexistent spirit life was a time when heavenly Father asked his sons (supposedly all of us lowly mortals who are here or have been on earth) to help devise a plan for a civil earthly society. This was a salvation plan where the endgame for humankind was physical death and a spiritual return to God. He continued, Two of these sons, the best in heaven, Jesus and Lucifer, came forward. Lucifer’s idea was for man to do whatever he pleased upon earth, and in his mortal end, man would be saved and return to the Father. No one would be lost; however, no one would be tested.

I recognized this Mormon rhetoric to be a dig at modern mainstream Christendom for its salvation no matter what values in the notion that a man once saved is always saved. However, since I loosely believed in the Bible but had little respect for organized Christianity, I was amused and listened.

Clarence carried on, Then Jesus proposed that man would come to earth to be tested, having the choice to do good or evil. It was decided that at the moment of the mortal birth of man that the veil of knowledge of their preexistent life in the glorious company of God would be automatically closed off from their conscious physical minds. Closed, except for an inkling of knowledge where at various times in their lives, through obedience to just and godly principles of living, this veil would lift. Until this veil lifted completely (at death), we would all live by faith, doing all we could do (a works-based salvation) to create holy lives for our circle of humanity. Through our enduring faithfulness to the end of our lives, we would be rewarded. We would ascend again to God in triumphant joy. Supposedly, we would be rewarded by becoming as ‘gods and goddesses.’

That sounded like blasphemy to me, having been raised in the Bible belt and aside from the sacrilege, it seemed really arrogant.

Needless to say, Lucifer’s plan was rejected, and Jesus, upon acceptance of His design by God, humbly stated, ‘This is my work and my glory, to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man’ (Moses 1:39, The Pearl of Great Price). This decision so angered Lucifer that he gathered his army and rebelled with one-third of the newly corrupted host of heaven. This resulted in a war in heaven. In the Grand Council of heaven, during the preexistence, all the spirits shouted for joy at Jesus’s plan. We (humanity in spirit form) immediately assisted Michael the Archangel in casting Lucifer and his legions out of heaven. He fell like lightning to earth with his followers. They are here now in the form of fallen angels (demons), all around us, to afflict us and to corrupt us and keep us from returning to Father in heaven. So the answer to surviving this life intact is a close personal relationship with Jesus Christ," Clarence stated.

In an unexpected reaction to Clarence’s words, I felt peculiarly peaceful. Rarely had I known such a feeling before, except during a weepy Hallmark TV program. You see, I was raised in a middle-class moderately liberal, secular household with enthusiasm for gourmet and Southern food tied to money worship. My family life was overflowing with open-ended dinner-table debate, sometimes leading to arguments. Historically, we made life decisions without consultation or consideration of any God, only loosely acknowledging His existence. Upon hearing Clarence’s words, I seemed to be burning inside and outside of my body with what I perceived to be a holy fire. I was sweating profusely, and it had nothing to do with the Florida sun on the parking lot. My collective physiology seemed to be experiencing a heightened sense of awareness. My usual cynicism yielded to be overcome with bliss. By their euphoria, you shall know them, I supposed. In my twenty-year-old naïveté, I assumed that the Holy Spirit I had always heard about had fallen upon me with truth. What else could it be that made me feel this way? At the time, I thought it was a profound day in my existence, and in many ways, it was.

Clarence recognized this reaction in me and asked if he could send the Mormon missionaries to see me, and I reluctantly agreed. Why did I agree? I would never do that unless I was bored and lonely. I was. Yes, I had only been back in Florida for a year after fifteen years away in