Coming Home

Joseph Jastrab

Joseph Jastrab is a teacher, therapist, wilderness guide, and seasoned workshop leader who has been guiding vision quests since 1976 through his organization. Earth Rise Foundation. Joseph’s men’s vision quest work is featured in his book Sacred Manhood, Sacred Earth (HarperCollins, 1994). “Coming Home” is an edited excerpt from that book.

And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles, no matter how long, but only by a spiritual journey, a journey of one inch, very arduous and humbling and joyful, by which we arrive at the ground at our feet, and learn to be at borne.’

— Wendell Berry, "The Unforseen Wilderness’’

This summer morning awakens like most in these forested valleys. The ground mist slowly disappears into the sky, birds sing their new song, the river flows as ever to the sea. But to this eternal choreography, we humans add the steps of our own colorful dance with life —steps created from our awareness of beginnings and of endings. This is just like all other mornings. Yet, it is also our last morning together in this place.

The drum signal normally used to call us together finds the group gathered around the camp medicine wheel, ready to begin the closing circle that will turn us toward the world we left behind. There is eagerness here similar to that present the morning we descended from the sunrise knoll and first faced this way. For we are soon to be on the trail that leads past Guardian Rock, and that trail always leads to adventure.

Our final council begins. We pass the Talking Staff around with the question: "What lives in your heart now?” This time the Staff will move in the direction contrary to what we've been accustomed to. This practice reflects our intention to unravel this circle and release this sacred vessel of brotherhood that a larger one may be formed. What is of most value is that which remains after the vessel is broken.

We say good-bye to the land and spirit that has served us well. We bid farewell to the men we have come to know as true brothers. We acknowledge gifts given and gifts received, and yearnings left unfulfilled. We may not know fully what societies embrace us now as kin, or what mysteries we have embodied with such abandon as to escape our knowing. Nonetheless, we are here. The forest recognizes us. The trees bend to hear our quiet conversation. The rocks have matched our will and tested our patience beyond what we could bear. And they are with us still.

The youngest member of our clan takes up the Talking Staff and speak of the specific quality of manhood he admires in each of us present. He has stalked each man here closely and is grateful for the diverse modeling of manhood he has witnessed. Then the eldest man takes the Talking Staff and speaks of this journey as a ten-day contemplative prayer. He shares his delight in being able to celebrate his entry into elderhood, Another. man grieves his failure to allow anything of importance to touch him here The Talking Staff continues to move around the circle evoking poems, prayers, promises.

Suddenly the river’s song changes. A man across the circle whisper** “Look ... upstream! ” His glance shows us where. For a moment our eyes struggle to penetrate the camouflage of foliage and the sparkles of sunlight glinting on the water. But then we see it: some creature, making its way down the center of the stream toward us.

It appears to be a fawn, a young spotted one, searching for something! Yet the stream has served up many apparitions during our time here: faces of departed loved ones, sounds of distant drumming, whispered callings of our names. This fawn—a visitor from this world or a reflection of some other?

It keeps coming, close enough now for our sight to confirm the deer-child as one of this world. Its slender legs find their way among the rocks and eddies. Its eyes are wide open, its ears upright and alert. The sudden appearance of this trembling creature has swept our minds clear of thought and brought our senses to full attention.

The fawn comes closer still, until it stops in the river directly alongside our circle. It turns to face us. Any remaining armor falls from our hearts. Then, without hesitation, the fawn walks toward the riverbank, toward us. Its spindly legs grapple for purchase on the gravel slope until it gains a foothold. Bounding up onto solid ground, the fawn walks to the edge of our circle, pauses briefly, then nudges its way between two men to stand at the center of our Medicine Wheel.

And the world stops. The fawn stands dripping wet, impossibly unafraid, in the center of our collective heart.

What the fawn is looking for we will never know. What it finds is a refuge safe enough to trust its trembling heart to. A world of men. Imperfect and wholehearted men. In our midst, a part of each of us stands revealed: our homelessness, our vulnerability, our searching, our gentleness and strength, our willingness to step into the unknown.

My mind, in a desperate attempt to reassert itself, races between the two worlds looking for one to host this event confidently. No use. A crack has appeared between the worlds, and this gentle creature has led me through that crack. I suddenly find myself in a universe in which I truly belong. Tears stream from my soul, releasing the sorrow that accumulates in taking life for granted—those waters, mixed with the tender light of my return to presence. I hear the word “epiphany” but I do not reach for it, for even its respectful tone forces this moment apart from all others. I feel in the fawn’s vulnerable presence the invitation to hold to nothing, but to stand in the center of every moment with the open eyes and heart of this one. I let myself love outside of time for as long as I can bear before I reach out for that word once refused. In fear, I agree, this is an exceptional moment, apart from all others. In truth, the grace is unbearable.

And so I fall once again from the garden, from the moment that is all moments, from the immensity of the world—myself. But it lingers like a sweet fragrance. I can remember the full attention I gave to life and the full aliveness that life returned to me. I can remember the time I rested in the grace of the world and was free. I may not be able to live it fully, but I can remember it.

Call it vision, call it whatever you like—it is the experience of being fully alive. Not only as a receiver of life, but also as a giver of life. Somewhere within every man is a womb that bears life. Perhaps that womb is the heart. The world needs a man’s heart. Life-bearing hearts. Hearts that choose to remember what they cannot yet fully live.

The fawn turns to face the woods beyond our circle. This refuge of belonging is not its final destination. It knows that it cannot live within a moment frozen in time. Neither can our pilgrimage.

The fawn slowly turns its head to look into eyes that will no longer hold it to this place, and then disappears into the forest.

Its journey homeward continues ... as does ours.