Swimming with Elephants: My Unexpected Pilgrimage from Physician to Healer

by Sarah Bamford Seidelmann

  “This is our cabin. You need to get out immediately, or we'll call the ranger.”

  We quickly packed up our suitcases and left, trying to be charming and apologetic as we did so. Suzi's cousin Brian was gone for the day to spend time with Amanda's family, so we were completely alone without a way to contact him or a mode of transportation. Not knowing what else to do, we headed down the dusty Kruger Park road, suitcases rolling behind us, laughing out loud and relieved to be quit of the cabin's testy rightful occupants.

  “And you know,” I said, “it's weird, but I feel strangely calm right now.” Suzi agreed. Even though we'd just been kicked out of our shelter, I didn't feel threatened. In fact, the whole experience felt more like an adventure—almost as if all the work I'd been doing over the last few years had made me spiritually “bulletproof.” I knew things would be okay. I was simply amazed at how much inner calm I was feeling.

  Not five minutes later, one of Brian's friends came down the road toward us. We waved down his car and told him about our eviction. He quickly made a few cell phone calls, and we were whisked into yet another empty cabin that (fingers crossed) was supposed to stay vacant for our last night here. Even better, we decided to call Londolozi and see if they had space for us. I nervously dialed the lodge from a pay phone at the park ranger's station and found there was room at the inn.

  After days of coaching from Brian's best friend, a handsome and upbeat Zulu man with a brilliant smile, on how we should proceed during the lobola, we arrived at Amanda's mother's home and were ushered into her spare but comfy living room. We were dressed to the nines, me in a Camaroonian dress I had borrowed from my mom, Brian and his brother Matt in suits, and Suzi in a colorful “lobola” dress a dear friend had sewn for her.

  We had brought special gifts—clothing, a blanket, and a particular type of liquor Brian had bought. The gifts were given at designated intervals, and Matt was in charge of “record keeping,” taking meticulous notes in a leather-bound journal with a feverish intensity. Our “negotiations” seemed very serious. But Amanda's uncle, who at first seemed humorless, lightened things up after about an hour, and a deal was eventually struck. A little cash and a few small gifts were given in “exchange” for the brilliant and gorgeous Amanda in a symbolic honoring of a long-standing family tradition.

  A group of women from the village filled the living room and began dancing and singing with great force and joy, blowing whistles all the while. Then we feasted together, drank a yogurt-based beer out of a gourd, and celebrated the successful agreement. Afterward, we spilled outside to find that the whole courtyard was filled with dancing revelers from the neighborhood. Interconnected, we followed Brian and the women around the packed earth courtyard in a sort of sacred South African bunny hop. The universal language of dance and song made translation completely unnecessary.

  Later, we said our goodbyes, and Brian and Amanda drove us down the long dirt road and dropped us off inside Londolozi's gates. We were told to change clothes immediately so that we could join other guests for the evening game safari. We were so moved by our first sight: eight to ten female lions sleeping deeply, post-feast, in a huge somnolent heap, a tail flicking and a nose twitching periodically. In the pride, lady lions do most of the hard work of hunting, and they require deep rest. Suzi and I silently looked at each other with huge eyes, and I mouthed to her: I can't believe this! Suddenly, I realized that, like the lady lions, I'd been working really hard and resting far too little.

  During the summer, when I had fallen in love with animal totems, I had shared the Andrews book with Suzi and a group of friends, and we had discussed the idea of animal totems—or Core Beasties, as I'd affectionately dubbed them. I had told her that your own personal animal totem is an animal that has been guiding you and watching over you all your life—probably since childhood. Your totem has the ability to infuse you with power—the peaceful kind of power you need to be effective on your own Hero's journey. It also acts as a kind of “spiritual bouncer” for you, blocking unwanted influences of all kinds. When you listen to your Core Beastie's messages for you, and live your life (metaphorically and sometimes literally) in a way that honors it, your whole life benefits. The spirit of the animal empowers and protects you on your path. So we all decided to reach out to our Beasties.

  Suzi realized hers was an eagle, and I shared with her what I'd learned about eagles—that they spend a lot of time conserving energy because they are such effective hunters, and that they need to rest in the nest between hunting flights. “That's exactly what I need,” said Suzi. “Time to rest in the nest.” After that, Suzi changed her work schedule to include more rest time, as eagles do. When she turned down projects that felt draining and took days off just to care for herself, she sometimes laughed and said: “Eagle's gotta rest in the nest.”

  That weekend, my friends each seemed to discover their own fitting Beastie, or at least a viable candidate to consider. I was so grateful to them for talking about such bizarre topics and embracing these ideas. It made me feel less alone. Yet I was unable to find a special Beastie for myself. You see, there's a hitch; you don't just choose your animal totem; it chooses you.

  Here in South Africa, I found myself longing for the kind of personal insight a lifelong bond with an animal spirit can bring. How could I find more calm and peace in my life? I was gaining insights daily by noticing the animals passing in and out of my experience, but which was the one? The harder I worked to figure this out, the more elusive the answer seemed. With lions roaring ferociously within earshot, it seemed right to reach out to this other world that was calling me. So I asked for a helpful Beastie to show itself to me in my dreams.

  That night, I dreamed of a black mamba, which appeared carved and lifeless on a wooden sign. Mambas are the most feared snakes in South Africa; untreated, their bite is almost always fatal. I woke up startled and sketched out the dream image. To my amazement, the mamba was wrapped around a stick like the rod of Asclepius, a symbol associated with medicine and healing. The Beasties were indeed speaking to me, but I wasn't feeling up to exploring a black mamba. Unlike my earlier journey with the bear, that felt terrifying.

  Clearly, the prescribed and logical ways of navigating the world weren't working for me anymore. I couldn't simply consult a book or a website, or ask a professional. Moreover, I had the sense that I wouldn't be able to carry on without this information. I needed to know—now. I knew it was for me to intuit or discover, but I couldn't figure it out in my head. And then I realized that I needed to use my heart. After reading Michael Harner's The Way of the Shaman, the idea of taking a hallucinogen-induced journey scared the bejesus out of me. But shamanic drumming—that appealed to me.

  The particular rhythm of shamanic drumming induces a kind of dream state—a theta-wave state between being awake and asleep, not unlike a REM dream state. This is the state in which some people with autism, and some with inattentive-type ADD, spend more time while awake. Shamans, autistic-spectrum people, and daydreamers are all connected in this way. I figured this kind of journey couldn't be that uncomfortable or risky if I had been unknowingly spending time there already.

  Weeks ago, I'd downloaded a drumming recording onto my phone that included guidance from Sandra Ingerman, a shamanic teacher and healer. I hadn't listened to it yet, because I was just a wee bit terrified. I wasn't entirely sure if I'd have a peaceful experience. And yet, I needed to find a way to go forward. I longed for the clarity and contentment I'd seen others discover.

  While talking with our safari ranger in Londolozi, Suzi and I discovered that, for about three hundred dollars, we could request a meeting with a sangoma—South Africa's term for a shaman, one who calls the spirits to help others heal and get helpful information. It sounded thrilling to see others practice this ancient art that I'd only read about.

  Divination comes in many forms—tea-leaf reading, turtle-shell reading, bibliomancy—but the common denominator in all of these methods is that the interpreter int
ends to access extraordinary (and otherwise hidden) information to help clients with their quests. Diviners cultivate a sacred relationship with objects and spirits who can reveal these insights.

  Suzi and I were both somewhat nervous about what information might be given to us during the session. Our ranger had told us that there were many people in South Africa using shamanic tools as sorcerers rather than healers. On our way to the village to meet with the sangoma, we told Lena, our translator, that we wanted to see how the process worked, but we didn't want to receive a negative prophecy. She smiled and reassured us that they wouldn't tell us anything to hurt us and that she'd be sure to communicate our desires.

  We crawled on our hands and knees through a low doorway to enter a round, thatched Shangaan dwelling. Inside, we sat on meticulously woven grass mats in a circle formed by the two women sangomas, Suzi, Lena, and myself. Adopting our host's posture, we got comfortable on the ground with our legs stretched out in front of us,

  The sangomas were soft-spoken yet strong women with shining eyes. The apparent leader of the two, a slender woman in her forties with broad smiling cheeks and a small furrow in her brow, greeted us with a nod. Both were dressed in colorful fabric wraps and had white beads in their braided hair. They also wore softly clattering, polished shell anklets and broad fabric straps criss-crossing their chests.

  The sangomas spoke with one another in Shangaan and our translator explained that they would begin with Suzi. One of them began to speak and then tossed the “bones”—a small collection of objects—onto the grass mat. Some of these were actual animal bones; others were more like stones. One in particular caught my eye—a small, pitch-black stone. The women conversed back and forth about the pattern and location of the bones as they had landed on the woven mat. Then finally, through the translator, they said to Suzi: “Are you here for a special occasion? It seems one of your ancestors is upset with you.”

  More discussion ensued, and it was determined that Suzi's deceased paternal grandmother was displeased. Suzi suddenly remembered that she had given a pair of amber earrings that had belonged to that grandmother as a gift to Amanda just a few days ago. When asked, Suzi confirmed that she hadn't asked her grandmother's permission to do this. I immediately flashed back to the lobola ceremony. Amanda had worn the earrings at the beginning of the ceremony, but then, halfway through it, she had reappeared without them. I wondered if she sensed that something was amiss.

  The sangomas prescribed a simple ceremony to help Suzi make things right with her grandmother's spirit again. This involved an intention, champagne, some white sugar, and a white towel, all of which we had back in our hotel room. Suzi was instructed to ask her grandmother's forgiveness for not asking her permisson to give the gift.

  Now it was my turn, and I asked specifically about a new career: “If I leave medicine to do something else, will it be a good thing?” Saying the words aloud, I recognized that it was an awfully important question to put into the sangomas’ hands. I didn't even know them. But Lena, our translator, put me at ease with her warm smile.

  The sangomas threw the bones again and studied the pattern of the fallen objects, speaking quietly with each other in Shangaan. There seemed to be some confusion about the results. One of them pointed to the small, ominous black stone.

  After much discussion, they decided to toss the bones again, after which there seemed to be even more confusion and disagreement. Again, the black stone was pointed out. Then they threw the bones a third time. Seriously? I threw a questioning look at Suzi and we both shrugged. Perhaps I did want to know if there was something bad in the answer. At least then I would be prepared.

  After the third toss, the sangoms looked at each other in a resigned way, as if things hadn't gotten any clearer, but they couldn't continue to toss the bones. The translator relayed the outcome: “Your new career choice will be a good thing. Financially and in other ways, you'll be blessed.” This gave me relief, because my biggest fears related to money and security. Nothing specific was prescribed or suggested for me, as it had been for Suzi. I was a little disappointed, as I'd also wanted an assignment.

  Next, we were instructed to leave the hut and wait outside. Our translator told us the sangomas were going to call their ancestral spirits. As we crawled out of the hut on our hands and knees and looked up, we were astonished to discover that we were not alone. A small crowd of forty to fifty people had gathered outside the hut, forming an informal circle on the dried-mud clearing. Drummers had also appeared. They began to drum—slowly and gently at first, and then more fiercely. Suzi and I sat in wonder on a low wall next to the hut.

  As the drumming got louder and faster, we heard powerful singing and shrieking from inside the hut. Then the sangomas came out, one by one, making sounds I had never heard and dancing as I'd never seen. They vibrated, stomped, shimmied, and leapt. They shouted and sang in a mix of tones that ranged from low and guttural to high-pitched, as if different voices were coming through them from another world. A man from the crowd joined them. The noise, the bright sun, the crowd, the drumming—the pure spectacle—was both overwhelming and deeply moving. Emotion welled up from deep within me—joy and gratitude. Tears rolled down my face, drying quickly in the bright sun.

  At one point, someone explained to Suzi that the reason they were dancing so hard was to plead with their ancestors’ spirits to come out of the trees. And it really felt as if they came. The atmosphere was one of pure power and love. The entire experience felt like an enormous gift to us—these strangers generously allowing themselves to be used in this way for our benefit. After about twenty minutes, the dancing began to wind down. Before the sangomas returned to the hut to disengage from their ancestral spirits, they came over to us, still in their trances and speaking with the voices of their ancestors. They seemed to be blessing us.

  When we returned to our room, Suzi honored her grandmother using sugar packets (she had a sweet tooth) and champagne as gifts offered up on a hotel hand towel. We fell into a deep conversation while standing in the mid-day sun on the deck. Several great memories of her grandmother came flooding back to Suzi, and she said it felt in some ways as if she were saying from another world: “You're not going on this trip without me!”

  That night, as I lay in bed replaying the events of the day in my mind, my logical self tried to rationalize the experience. I couldn't be certain about what had really happened with regard to spirits. But I knew that we had experienced a beautiful togetherness. The sangomas had listened to us with great intent and were willing to surrender their bodies on our behalf. And the singing, drumming, and dancing had felt overwhelmingly positive, as if the whole village had come out to help us. I knew that I'd experienced healing, and I felt an overwhelming curiosity to learn more about the shamanic path.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ecstatic Encounters

  Only he who attempts the absurd is capable of achieving the impossible.

  Miguel de Unamuno, Essays and Soliloquies

  Mother Bear took me to sit on top of a hill where we had a view of a vast body of water, perhaps an ocean. She told me that where I wanted to go wasn't too far away, and that all I needed to do was enjoy the journey. Then we rolled down the hill together like children, laughing till we cried, dizzy with ecstasy.

  Experiences like this helped me through the utter confusion and fear that gripped me as I considered a worrying thought: I can't go back to medicine. I wondered, periodically, if maybe it was all just wishful thinking. Perhaps I wanted Mother Bear to exist so badly that she seemed real to me. But each new shamanic experience showed me that I was not in charge. Every time I put in my earbuds, listened to the drumming, and returned to visit the spirit realms, strange things happened—things I couldn't predict. And there seemed to be no way I could be making up these experiences.

  When I anxiously asked Mother Bear how to communicate what I was learning most effectively—I was worried about how to build my coaching practice—an enormous tiger suddenly ap
peared in the already cramped cave to tell me that tigers can communicate with inaudible sounds through mountains and across long distances. I was extremely intimidated and could feel his enormous power. He said: “You can remain hidden and solitary, and there's no need for you to be available for now.” Then he took me on a ride. We bounded easily through the woods. He said: “You can make large leaps quickly if you follow this advice.”

  A few months after returning from South Africa, I sought out a class by a teacher from the Foundation for Shamanic Studies (FSS), which I discovered through Michael Harner's classic work on shamanism, The Way of the Shaman. Harner had found ways to synthesize the nearly universal practices of all shamanic cultures so that we Westerners could learn to transform our own lives. I was longing for community but was also respectful of not misappropriating others’ traditions. I was drawn to the Foundation because it also seemed to be most concerned with ethics. The last thing I wanted was to be a New Age totem imposter. To my delight, there was an FSS instructor in Minneapolis.

  I still wasn't entirely convinced that it was okay to be doing this work (or to be sharing it with others) without careful guidance and blessing from someone steeped in a tradition. Reading dozens of books, however, had helped me recognize that perhaps these shamanic practices were universal. Perhaps you didn't necessarily need to belong to a particular group or be born into a given culture in order to benefit from them. I also had questions. Was there a way to know if what I was experiencing was real? And what more did I need to know?

  In a small dance studio in Minneapolis, an FSS class met for a weekend and journeyed over and over, with live drumming, as we lay on yoga mats with our eyes covered. Timothy Cope, our lively and dramatic instructor, presented us with the content in the oral tradition. There were no handouts. He explained the key tenet of shamanism: Everything that is, is alive. To do shamanic work, he emphasized, you must have ego—you must know who you are and where you are going—and humility—the humility to recognize that it is not you doing the work. You are merely a conduit.