My Rainforest Monastery

This December marks the six-year anniversary of my moving to the small piece of land in the Hawaiian rainforest I call home. As I am drafting this newsletter, it is sunny and warm, and I’m sitting in a simple eight-by-twelve structure with pink walls, mosquito screens, and a sturdy metal roof; a painting by one of the Hierophant authors I’m working with sits on a shelf made out of a rough, old board, and a motley assortment of new and salvaged solar equipment hums in one corner. A few minutes ago, one of my neighbors stopped by with some ‘awa to share, a traditional Polynesian beverage brewed from the roots of a knobby-limbed plant with heart-shaped leaves, and we drank it together on my front porch. Living here has brought me a sense of peace, contentment, and belonging unlike any I have known in my life. 

Today, I would describe the simple homestead I’ve built as a kind of monastery: a place characterized by natural beauty, solitude, quiet, and humble manual labor. The challenges of living in such a remote location have profoundly altered my body and mind, such that no aspect of who I am has remained untouched by this wild and willful place. I’ve learned to value the simple things: shelter, water to drink, fruit to eat, the presence of kindly neighbors, the opportunity to be of service, and accepting help from others in return. Perhaps most astonishing have been the lessons this place has taught me about surrender. On stormy days, it isn’t possible to leave this land bounded by rivers and streams and a crashing ocean; you quickly learn that your own will comes second to that of nature, and that existing happily here means embracing that reality. 

With all this being said, you may be surprised to learn that when I first moved to this land, I experienced it not as a temple, but as a prison. Six Decembers ago, my then-partner was in the throes of a manic episode; he had decided that uprooting our lives in California and going to live in the jungle was the only cure for what ailed him. At his insistence, and in great haste, we bought the land sight unseen. The first time I laid eyes on the muddy, lightless thicket that was to be our new “home,” I cried. 

My objections to this move were numerous. I didn’t want to live in a tent, with mosquitoes, geckos, and spiders, when I was used to living indoors; I hated the way the thick mud and relentless rain saturated my clothing, which were then impossible to dry; I was conscious of being an intruder in a place and culture to which I had no ties. With no cell service, internet, or electricity, I couldn’t even phone my friends on the mainland. Meanwhile, I was so desperate to go “home” that I resisted making new friends, as that would only make this nightmarish situation seem more permanent. 

While my partner reveled in our new and exciting surroundings, I boiled with anger and sadness, refusing to take joy in anything. I hated the valley, with its dangerous roads and rivers; I hated the roosters which woke me up at 4 AM, and the tiny frogs whose chorus screamed into the night; I hated the tent, whose walls flapped in the wind, and which offered no protection from falling branches and no privacy from the strangers strolling past on the trail nearby.  

Deep in depression, I decided my life was over. I had always wanted to be a writer, and had even published four books in happier years. Now, on a trip back to California to collect the last of our belongings, I took every journal I had ever written, starting from age eight, and dumped them all into a trash can, along with the half-filled bags of expired rice and car repair records I’d cleaned out of our old place that morning. As I pushed the thirty-odd journals and notebooks to the bottom of the can, I told myself that I would never write again. 

 

 

Several months ago, I had the pleasure of editing My Good Friend the Rattlesnake: Lessons of Loss, Truth, and Transformation by don Jose Ruiz. Part memoir, part collection of teaching stories, My Good Friend the Rattlesnake is organized around a central question: how can we learn to control our own poison—the negativity, anger, and false beliefs which can be so damaging to ourselves and others? 

In Chapter One, Ruiz writes: One of the most important things you learn when you live in rattlesnake country is that baby rattlesnakes are far more dangerous than adult ones. This is because when a rattlesnake is young, it hasn’t yet developed the ability to control its poison. If a baby rattlesnake were to bite you, it would inject all its poison in one go, and you would be far more likely to die. Once a rattlesnake grows and becomes an adult, however, it learns to control its poison. If an adult were to bite you, it may only release a small amount. This makes your chances of survival much greater. 

He goes on to recount his long and twisting journey from a baby rattlesnake to an adult one, including some never-before-told stories of the years he was addicted to crystal meth, and during which the stakes for learning to control his poison were literally life and death. Like many of us, he clung to his own pain, holding tightly to the identity of “victim” and “junkie,” while keeping the friends and relatives who were desperate to help him at arms’ length. During one of the most emotional moments in the book, Ruiz’s best friend Emilio confronts him at his home in Tijuana after a particularly destructive binge, saying, “You know, gallo, if you stay here, you’re gonna die.” Lucky for all of us, Ruiz listened and left. 

Looking back on my early days in Hawaii, I can see that like Ruiz, I had a lot in common with a baby rattlesnake. When faced with a set of circumstances I didn’t like and hadn’t chosen, I made a pact with despair. When I put a lifetime’s worth of journals into the trash can, I told myself that I was reclaiming some small bit of agency: by destroying something I cherished, at least I was taking back a little control. Sure, the poison I’d unleashed was hurting me, but that felt better than facing a complete unknown. 

Luckily for me, I, too, had a friend like Emilio. Later that morning, my old music teacher stopped by. When I told him what I had done with my notebooks, he insisted I take them out of the garbage and bring them back to Hawaii with me. “Why bother?” I said. “They’re just going to get ruined in the tent.” At that moment, I couldn’t imagine a future in which I was living happily on the land, any more than don Jose could imagine the life he presently leads, complete with puppies, hard rock music, vegan treats, and a role as a beloved author, teacher, and speaker. 

 

 

Today, the journals I once attempted to destroy live on a shelf in the small cabin I built with the help of a neighbor. Over six years of living here, this place has taught me much about controlling my poison. When the river is high, when the mosquitoes are biting, when the hurricane winds blow, and when one more thing needs repair just when I finished fixing something else, I know there is no sense in giving into despair, frustration, or self-pity. Instead, I do what I can to make myself comfortable, whether that’s brewing a cup of tea, listening to music, or just sitting still. 

Although I’m not sure I qualify as an adult rattlesnake quite yet, I think that after living on my homestead for so long I might finally be growing into a teenage one. I’ve learned that the darkest of times can give way to the brightest of days, and that first impressions of a place or situation can be deceptive. I’ve also learned that when a negative or despairing voice feels like “myself,” I should treat it with a whole lot of skepticism, and refrain from giving it control over my supply of poison. As don Jose writes: No matter what kind of self-destructive path you have been on, there is always a part of you that wants to live—a tiny seed that wants to grow and thrive. And no matter how many negative thoughts you have in your mind, this tiny seed knows its own worth.  

This December, as we pass through the darkest time of the year, I hope you all feel the presence of this tiny seed in your own hearts. A rattlesnake can be a fearsome foe, or it can be a good friend—and the difference is the skillfulness with which we approach it, the respect with which we treat it, and the reverence with which we hold it every day. 

 

Sincerely,

Hilary T. Smith

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing

 

 

 

Few understand the difficult work of overcoming trauma, abuse, and addiction better than don Jose Ruiz. 

In My Good Friend the Rattlesnake, Ruiz, now a bestselling author and spiritual teacher, reveals the dramatic twists and turns he experienced on his own path to personal freedom and inner transformation. 

Through this series of deeply intimate stories, Ruiz explains how he overcame his addiction to suffering and embraced a life of love, clarity, and self-awareness. In one example, he recounts his unexpected journey with temporary blindness, which paradoxically allowed him to see what truly mattered. In another, he celebrates individuality in spiritual practice, challenging the idea that it must look or sound a particular way to be authentic. 

Throughout, Ruiz incorporates the teachings of his father, don Miguel Ruiz (author of The Four Agreements). The lessons he shares are practical, profound, and accessible, making this book an essential companion for anyone seeking spiritual growth and emotional healing. 

Honest, vulnerable, and rich with exercises and meditations, My Good Friend the Rattlesnake redefines what it means to heal, grow, and live authentically. 

Just who do you think you are?

One of my favorite fall activities is mushroom hunting. I first got into this pursuit when I was living on the coast of Washington, many years ago. When the dark, rainy winter descended, I knew I needed an activity to get me out of the house, keep me connected with nature, and ward off seasonal depression. Mushroom hunting provided exactly that. 

My first foray was thrilling. I’ll never forget the smell of the cold, damp forest floor with its thick blanket of leaf litter, and the amazement I felt when my eyes began to pick out shapes and colors and textures I’d never noticed before. What was that slimy, orange thing that looked like jelly, or those round white spheres that let out a cloud of dark green spores when you poked them? Why did the purple, gilled mushrooms grow under deciduous trees, while the spongey, red-capped mushrooms grew under evergreens? 

I began to realize that there were mushrooms everywhere. They were all around me, their variety astounding. How had I ignored them for so long? Filled with a beginner’s exuberance, I picked one of each, then hauled home the heavy, soggy bags of fungi and arranged them on the kitchen table. Tired and wet, I took out the mushroom identification book I’d bought—and quickly realized I didn’t have the energy to carefully key out forty different mushrooms from six different families.  

Over the next few days, I managed to identify perhaps nine or ten of the mushrooms I had gathered. Although one or two were edible, there seemed to be little point in cooking a single mushroom—and they were decomposing quickly. Sheepishly, I carried the whole lot of them to the backyard and flung them under the trees. 

 

 

On my next foray, I was determined to do better. I didn’t want to pick any random mushroom that caught my eye, only to toss it out when I got home. Instead, I followed the advice in my mushroom-hunting book to focus on a single, easily recognizable family, foraging with purpose and intention instead of merely hoping that whatever I picked turned out to be edible. This time, the forest spoke to me in a new way. Instead of an indecipherable cacophony of shapes and colors, my eye began to pick out the patterns I’d read about in my field guide. I looked for white, shelf-like fungi growing on the sides of trees and fallen logs—and was ecstatic when I spotted my very first harvest of oyster mushrooms. 

That evening, instead of dumping out a slimy mishmash of edible, inedible, and unknown mushrooms onto my kitchen table, I cleaned a few oyster mushrooms, dry-sauteed them in a pan, and tested a bite to see if it would make me ill. When it didn’t, I joyfully cooked the rest—and my career as a mushroom hunter had begun. 

When I moved to Hawaii, it meant saying goodbye to many of the mushrooms I’d come to know on the mainland and getting acquainted with a whole new set of fungal friends. However, by then I was familiar with the process of identifying new mushrooms, slowly building out my repertoire from a few safe and easy mushrooms to more “advanced” ones. Before long, I was finding monkey ears, witches’ butter, and jelly fungus on my daily walks, and I learned to recognize the marzipan scent of the almond agarics that grace the forest floor a couple of times each year. I also made friends with experienced foragers who taught me things about the tropical ecosystem that would have taken me years to learn on my own. 

 

 

Every now and then, a skeptical friend or relative will ask me if I’m really “qualified” to forage for mushrooms. How can you be sure you don’t pick something poisonous? they say. This question always makes me laugh. Sometimes, I’ll ask them a cheeky question in return: How can you be sure you don’t accidentally pick an orange instead of an apple when you go to the grocery store? Most people have no problem distinguishing between an orange and an apple, even though they are both round, medium-sized fruits; to an experienced mushroom hunter, distinguishing between an agaricus and a bolete is just as simple and obvious. We learn the necessary discernment through focused effort and practice; and although it’s certainly possible to get advanced degrees in mycology, this isn’t a prerequisite to safely foraging and cooking a great meal, any more than getting a degree in food science is necessary to safely shop for fruit at the store. 

At the same time, I’ve come to understand that often when people ask what makes me qualified to hunt for mushrooms, they’re not really worried about me confusing a Destroying Angel for a chanterelle; instead, they’re expressing their own anxieties and yearnings about their relationship with nature. What gives you the right to tromp around in the forest, filled with joy on a rainy day? Who gave you permission to be part of it, instead of looking in from the outside? And I can only answer: I did. And so can you. 

 

 

Last month, I had the pleasure of teaching a workshop about self-help and spirituality writing—my second time teaching this class. For four Tuesdays in a row, I met on Zoom with a group of writers who all came bearing the bright and precious seed of an idea for a book. In many cases, they’d been carrying this seed for many years, tending it and keeping it safe until conditions were right for it to sprout. They had gathered stories, done research, and thought deeply about what they wanted to share, and why. In many cases, they also had professional and educational credentials—they were therapists, nurses, teachers, and healers with years of experience to draw on. 

Towards the end of the last class, one participant asked a very good question: “How will I know when I’m qualified to write my book?” 

There was a noticeable shift in energy in the classroom. I realized that, although only one person had voiced the question, everyone had been thinking about it—and in some cases, worrying about it. 

I hesitated, as a number of competing answers piled up in my mind. On the one hand, there is a baseline of knowledge, experience, and technical skill that needs to be reached before one is well-positioned to write a successful book, go on a successful foraging mission, knit a sweater, or undertake just about any other complex task. On that very practical level, the more training and experience you have, the more qualified you will be.  

But I also sensed that the student’s question extended beyond practical considerations. What she was really asking—and what made the other students listen with such alertness when she asked it—was how to quiet the voices in her head that whispered, Who do you think you are?  Who do you think you are to try to help people with their problems or guide them towards a better life? Who do you think you are to talk about God or Source or the Divine? Who do you think you are to share the life stories that were supposed to stay hidden, in the hopes that they will ease another person’s pain? Who do you think you are to call yourself a writer, a teacher, a healer—or for that matter, an artist, a musician, a dancer, or a creative? 

We struggle with these questions no matter how many advanced degrees we've obtained, classes we’ve taught, or years of experience we’ve had with our subject matter. Any time we embark on a creative project, whether it’s writing a self-help book or planning a party, these questions and doubts are bound to show up, whether they are voiced by other people or come from deep within ourselves. 

 

 

Now that I’ve had a few days to mull it over, I’ve realized that to me, the answers to these questions are felt, rather than thought. When I go into the forest to forage, I feel a sense of pleasure, ease, and competence. My body and mind relax; I trust that my years of experience, and the knowledge I’ve gained through research and training, will guide me in the right direction. I instinctively move towards certain trees, knowing that certain mushrooms are likely to be there; I kneel and smell the ground, and a telltale red color catches my eye. The joy I feel springs from my competence, and I love sharing that joy with friends when I bring them foraging with me. 

 Is joy a qualification? I believe it is. To be sure, we need the appropriate skills and knowledge to do the task at hand, especially if there are risks involved. But once that baseline has been established, I’ve often found that joy is a sign of increasing mastery. Do you relish your creative task, or do you feel stuck, stymied, and uninspired? Does your mind feel fertile and alive when you contemplate the possibilities, or do you struggle to come up with ideas for where to go next? Although I couldn’t quite articulate it on a moment’s notice, what I wanted to tell the students in my class is this: Beyond possessing the necessary knowledge, you’re qualified to write your book, record your podcast, or embark on any other creative pursuit when you enjoy it.  

This autumn, I hope you all have the chance to go out in the woods and delight in the abundance of fungi, whether you have any interest in cooking them or not. And if you find yourself lost in a thicket of Who do you think you are? questions, let your joy be the answer. 

 

Sincerely,

Hilary T. Smith

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing

Stars, Souls, and Stillness

The off-grid homestead where I live in the Hawaiian rainforest is many miles from the nearest town. In the evenings, there are no downtown streets to stroll in, performances and lectures to attend, or restaurants to sample. Without the unlimited electricity and internet access that city dwellers take for granted, people here go to bed by eight or nine PM, shortly after the mynah birds who make their home in the bamboo grove have finished their nightly racket, and the frogs have begun a chorus which will continue until dawn. 

After a long day of editing books and working on the land, I’m often tired by eight PM myself—but I’m rarely able to fall asleep until after ten. Having had my fill of reading during the daytime, and being naturally averse to screens, I often find myself sitting on the tiny front porch of my hut, gazing at the stars. With no artificial lights or cities nearby, the sky is a wonderland of constellations. Shooting stars abound. I find myself filled with wonder as I contemplate the many generations of human beings who lived in this place and gazed at this night sky long before I arrived.  

Hawaii is a special place for stars. The ancient Polynesians used their extensive knowledge of celestial navigation to make their way across vast ocean to this remote island chain, using no charts or instruments whatsoever. They also used their observations of the stars to determine the best times to plant crops and harvest fish, practices which continue to this day. And although their knowledge of the stars emphasized scientific astronomy, they sometimes ventured into astrology, using the position of the stars to predict important events or to ascertain the significance of the birth and death days of chiefs. 

The Polynesians aren’t alone in looking to the skies for both practical and spiritual information. For thousands of years, humans have looked to the stars for evidence that there is order and predictability in the universe. In some cases, this order and predictability was a matter of life or death: plant the crops too early and they’d freeze, overharvest the fish and you’d risk going hungry the following season. Yet human beings have also long looked to the stars for the answers to more personal questions: Who am I, really? Why are some people watery, while others are fiery? Why does a child born in winter act differently than one born in summer? 

To many ancient peoples, it only seemed logical that if the position of the stars could predict the behavior of plants and animals, it would also exert a meaningful effect on human lives and personalities. In Mesopotamia (the part of the Fertile Crescent now known as Iraq) there are records showing that astrology was practiced as far back as 1950 BC; the Chinese zodiac system consisting of a twelve-year cycle represented by different animals dates to the 5th century BC. 

In ancient times, astrologers may have had important positions at court, tasked with advising emperors on affairs of state and identifying auspicious dates on which to hold important events such as weddings or coronations. Everyday people also consulted astrologers for advice on family, marriage, and important milestones and decisions. For many people, both then and now, the stars are just too important not to take into account, and the effect they exert on us is too powerful to deny. 

 

 

Hierophant author and intuitive astrologer Molly McCord is one of those people. She was only ten years old when she stumbled across her first astrology book at the public library, having exhausted all the Nancy Drew books on the shelves. Before she knew it, she had become fascinated by the zodiac. As a child growing up in a modern, technological society, astrology felt like a portal into a richer and more meaningful world. At age sixteen, she had her first professional astrology reading, and by the time she went to college, she was helping friends understand their charts and planets, while lecturing them on the importance of getting birth details when you first meet a guy at a party. 

Although she explored other careers, astrology kept tugging her back. She began to study with notable astrologists every chance she could get, gradually increasing her understanding of the language of the stars. Over time, Molly realized that, far from determining our fates, our astrological signs offer a jumping-off point for healing and personal growth. In her new book, Soul Growth Astrology: A Workbook for Realizing Your Heart’s True Desires, coming out from Hierophant Publishing in December, she writes, “We choose an astrology chart based on the things our souls most crave to learn, heal, and experience in this particular lifetime.” 

The idea that our souls choose a particular incarnation has a long history. Spiritual seekers and thinkers from Eckhart Tolle to Louise Hay have promoted the idea that the Earth is a kind of classroom where souls may sojourn as part of a bigger journey, and that we may in fact choose details such as our place of birth and our parents to maximize our learning. In Soul Growth Astrology, McCord takes this one step further, suggesting that we also choose the unique constellation of traits associated with our astrological sign, knowing that we will be tasked with evolving them to their highest form during this lifetime. 

When I tell people I’m the senior editor at a self-help and spirituality publisher, people often imagine that my desk is bedecked with crystals and shamanic drums. They are often surprised when I reveal that I’m a scientific materialist who is far more conversant with tide charts and span tables than astrology readings. Yet as I read Molly’s book, I realized that you don’t need to be a die-hard astrology fan to benefit from the ideas she proposes. We all come to this life with certain strongly-ingrained personality traits, and we all find ourselves in the same types of situations again and again—that is, until we have the insights and make the behavioral changes that allow us to “graduate” from those particular modules in our education.  

We also have the opportunity to transform the trickier aspects of our personalities into gifts that will benefit others. Although we can’t reach up and change the position of the stars, we can nourish our souls on their journey of learning, knowing that there is always the best possible version of ourselves to reach towards. 

 

 

Is life a giant classroom for our souls? After editing Soul Growth Astrology, I’m more inclined than ever to think so. Whether or not it’s scientifically true that we choose the lives into which we are born, and the astrological signs under which we fall, treating these things as true can pave the way to compassion, hope, and other positive states of mind that can light our way in difficult moments. Telling myself that my soul chose my unique mind, body, and personality because it was an interesting and productive vehicle from which to explore life on Earth elevates the challenges and gives them meaning.  

Looking at life through this framework, the insomnia that keeps me sitting up late gazing at the stars isn’t a random curse, but a consciously chosen opportunity. Perhaps my soul wanted to learn about the humility of not always getting what you want (sleep!) when you want it (now!), or it craved the deep solitude and stillness that can only be found when the rest of the world is fast asleep. Or, as Molly puts it in Soul Growth Astrology, “Capricorn souls arrive on Earth with a long to-do list, and their strong need to ‘get things done’ keeps them going long after the other star signs have knocked off for the day.” Maybe my soul’s task on Earth is more being and less doing—a shift it will easily take me a lifetime to master. 

It makes me smile to think that, on its transit through space and time, a soul thought that my rickety body, curmudgeonly mind, and Capricorn sun sign were just the thing for getting to the next phase of its evolution. Seen from this point of view, maybe editing Molly’s book was a key part of that evolution—another idea that makes me smile, and I have a hunch that, from wherever she is sitting this evening, watching her own starry sky, it would make her smile too. 

This October, I hope you all find whatever it is that helps you bring your own unique collection of personality traits to their highest possible expression. Whether you find meaning in astrological charts or scientific papers, may your search guide you to a life filled with wonder, reverence, and opportunities for growth. 

 

Sincerely, 

Hilary T. Smith 

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing 

Love, Service, and Wisdom

One of my favorite things about my job at Hierophant Publishing is that when friends ask me what I do at work, I can say things like, “Well, this morning I had a Zoom meeting with a shaman in Peru…” Over the course of helping them develop their books, I interact one-on-one with healers, teachers, and wisdom keepers from around the world, whose unique stories and personalities stay with me long after the book is published. 

A few months ago, I had the pleasure of chatting with Jorge Luis Delgado, an Inca chakaruna or “bridge person” who will be writing a book with Hierophant sometime next year. As a child growing up in Peru, Delgado carried tourists’ suitcases and guided them to their hotels in exchange for tips to help support his family. Eventually, he found his way to law school and trained to become an attorney before having a spiritual awakening that led him to study spiritual and cosmic laws instead. He decided to follow in his mother’s footsteps and become a teacher and healer. 

Meeting with Delgado was a bit like having a Zoom call with the sun. His warmth and radiance filled up my screen and spilled out of my computer’s speakers. Like the sun, he seemed to possess boundless energy, and a boundless generosity to go with it. Sure enough, one of the first things Delgado said to me was, “We are all children of the sun”—a theme that would weave its way throughout our entire conversation. 

 

 

A few minutes into our call, Delgado explained to me the three principles underlying Inca spirituality: munay, llankay, and yachay. The first of these principles, munay, roughly translates to “love.” In Delgado’s words, munay means an attitude of respect, acceptance, and reverence for everything in life. When your consciousness is saturated in the energy of munay, you exude warmth and affection for all beings and all situations, just as the sun shines on all beings regardless of whether they are “good” or “bad.” Our ability to feel this unconditional love for life grows as we nurture our inner sun. 

The second principle, llankay, roughly translates to “service” or “work.” The Inca people took joy in their work of tending the earth so that it could remain fertile and beautiful. Far from tedious or soul-compromising labor conducted in exchange for money and status, this type of work is humble, life-affirming, and healthy for both planet and person. When your consciousness is saturated in the energy of llankay, you naturally come into the service of all beings. 

The third principle, yachay, means “wisdom.” This refers to the wisdom that arises from cultivating your inner sun, and is characterized by clarity, intuition, and discernment. Long before human beings developed books and universities, we nevertheless recognized the qualities of thought that made a person wise. When your consciousness is saturated in the energy of yachay, you instinctively know the appropriate way to speak and act in any given situation. 

As our call went on, I sensed that Delgado was a person who had cultivated munay, llankay, and yachay in his own life. Warm-hearted and exuberant, he seemed committed to sharing the very best of his culture with outsiders. Indeed, in addition to being a chakaruna, he is the owner of a tour company specializing in spiritual journeys. At the end of our call, he invited me to Peru as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come stay in Cusco and we’ll discuss the book some more! You can join any of my trips to sacred sites, and then you’ll understand.” 

When the call was over, I walked into my garden and spread my arms out wide, just as Delgado had shown me. Tipping my face upwards, I greeted the sun, feeling its bright rays saturate my being with warmth and light. How had I forgotten that I, too, was a child of this endlessly giving celestial body? 

 

 

In November 2025, Hierophant Publishing and Insight Events USA will be offering a special Journey with the Shamans to the Sacred Valley of Peru. Jorge Luis Delgado will be leading the trip, along with Warrior Goddess Training author HeatherAsh Amara and the Queros, or shamans, of the Sacred Valley. This trip will take participants on a deep dive into Inca culture and spirituality, helping you establish the qualities of munay, llankay, and yachay in your own life. 

To some of you, November 2025 may feel like a long way off. Indeed, when I sat down to write this newsletter, I thought, I don’t even know what I’m doing tomorrow, let alone next November! Yet one thing I’ve learned about these power journeys is that they really begin the moment you make the inner commitment to go. Your journey with the shamans doesn’t start when you get on the plane, but when you open yourself to being transformed by ancient wisdom and awakening your inner sun. 

If you’ve been reading this newsletter for a long time, you know that I’m a homebody who prefers puttering in my garden to exploring distant lands—at least, that’s the story I tell myself. The truth is, my early experiences with international travel left me feeling lost and hungry. I knew I was seeing beautiful things, but I didn’t understand what they meant, or how they could change me. As a teenager and twenty-something backpacking through Samoa, India, and Morocco, I felt like a seedpod blown by the wind, never engaging deeply with the people and places I encountered. In some cases, I lacked the language and know-how to make those connections, and in other cases I was simply too shy.  

In India, I remember visiting temples and sacred sites and being impressed by them on an intellectual and aesthetic level, but being too overwhelmed by the practical details to let them into my heart. Was I supposed to take my shoes off? Stand on this side of the room or that side? Join the chanting or stay silent? All of these questions distracted me from the experience, and I played it safe by hiding behind my sketchpad or reading my guidebook, while worrying that I was missing out on the very things I had gone in search of. 

Then one day, I met an Indian woman my age named Radhika, whom I’d stopped on the street in Calcutta to ask for directions. She befriended me—or took pity on me, depending on how you look at it—and for the rest of the day, she appointed herself as my guide. With Radhika by my side, the world opened up, and everything I’d been missing revealed itself in exuberant color. Not only did she explain things, but she created a space in which I could truly be present, instead of having all my mental energy go into decoding rules and protocols or navigating the language barrier. All these years later, I have more memories from my afternoon with Radhika than from the weeks and months of traveling that came before. 

My experience in India taught me the importance of having a “bridge person” when visiting a foreign land. Whether it’s a kindly stranger or a professional guide like Delgado, traveling with a person “in the know” can help you shift out of your head and into your heart, receiving the deep gifts of travel instead of staying stuck on the surface world of logistics. On next November’s journey to Peru, Delgado’s deep connection to the Queros of the Sacred Valley will provide you with experiences that would be nearly impossible to come by on your own—at least, not without years of time in which to slowly learn the language and build those relationships. 

 

 

In the Quechua language, the word chakaruna refers to a person who forms a bridge between the human world and the divine. Although this might sound like a rare and distinguished title, the truth is we all become chakarunas when we cultivate the virtues of love, service, and wisdom in our lives. Whenever we pay close attention or approach life with an attitude of reverence, we are making ourselves a bridge, and inviting heaven to join us here on earth. 

Whether you journey to distant lands or remain safely between the beds of flowers and beans in your garden, you can choose to serve life in this way. Indeed, just as flowers and plants synthesize light from the sun, we synthesize the divine, bringing it into the earthly realm through our speech, actions, and the artwork we create. Just as our beautiful planet could not exist without the hard work of plants, it also requires our love and our wise perception to bring it into being; it requires the shining of our inner sun. 

As we move into the last weeks of summer, may your inner sun shine brightly—and may you always find the guides you need to take you where you need to go, and help you see clearly once you’re there. 

 

Sincerely, 

Hilary T. Smith 

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing 

Extraordinary Powers and Practices

Many years ago, and long before I moved to the off-grid homestead in the Hawaiian rainforest that I now call home, I met a shaman. He was a college sophomore named Sean, and we were both exchange students at the University of Otago in New Zealand. We quickly became friends thanks to a shared sense of humor and interests that lead us both out of the mainstream. I was into Jack Kerouac and the Beats and stayed up late writing stories and poetry; Sean was into meditation, precognition, and this mysterious thing called “energy” which he claimed to feel and perceive, the same way ordinary people used their senses of hearing, sight, and touch. We had long conversations about science and mysticism, often over the greasy pizza he liked, trading notes on the deep truths we’d learned during our short lives. 

When our next school break came around, I convinced Sean to join me on a hitchhiking trip to the south of the island. I’d recently read On the Road for the third time, and even though I was a shy eighteen-year-old who’d spent most of her life reading books and practicing piano, I yearned to experience a wilder side of life. On a sunny day, we packed trail mix, warm sweaters, and our favorite books, walked to the edge of the road leading out of Dunedin, and stuck out our thumbs. 

 

 

For the next week, we traveled wherever the wind blew us, exploring hiking trails, rivers, and forgotten towns, living on dried fruit and gas station pies. Wherever we went, Sean would spend at least a few minutes engaged in a variety of shamanic practices. One day we hiked to a waterfall, and he told me he wanted to sit still for several minutes and connect to the spirit of the place. I was bewildered. Why would anyone want to sit still? What was “spirit”? How long was he going to just sit there, doing nothing? 

He invited me to join him in the practice, and I reluctantly sat down a few paces away. Over the course of many long conversations, Sean had told me that he sometimes conversed with ancestors or had waves of intuition that guided his actions; indeed, it was one such wave of intuition that had led him to make friends with me, even though we had no mutual friends and had no classes together. As I sat by the waterfall, I felt awkward and uncertain. What was Sean doing while he sat there? Was he seeing or hearing things? Was I supposed to see or hear things? How did this shamanism thing work, anyway? 

When we left the waterfall, I felt embarrassed to admit that I hadn’t been visited by an animal spirit or heard the whispers of an ancestor. Yet my friend reassured me that these colorful experiences weren’t the point; the heart of the practice was to honor the natural world with gratitude and awareness, and to make space for more-than-human communication to take place in any form. He explained that shamanism was once practiced by human beings around the world, most likely including my own ancestors. 

For Sean, everything we encountered was a message from the divine. The takahe bird we heard in the forest was speaking to us; the old sheep farmer who gave us a ride down the road was a teacher in disguise. As we journeyed together, I came to understand that for him, shamanism wasn’t about seeing auras or witnessing miracles, but cultivating a mode of perception in which everyday life was animated with beauty, wonder, and meaning. 

For the remainder of my career as a hitchhiker, I cultivated this mode of perception everywhere I went. Standing in the rain or snow by the side of the highway, I’d tell myself that whoever pulled over to pick me up would be my next teacher; this prediction was never wrong. I felt protected and cared for by the universe itself, which was always giving me gifts in the form of the food, shelter, or clothing I needed. Far from worrying, I would bless each passing car, confident that whatever happened that day was going to be right. Although I wouldn’t have used the word practice at the time, I now realize that during those precious years, I was practicing all the time. 

 

 

Imagine my pleasure, then, when José Luis Stevens’s beautiful book The Shaman’s Book of Extraordinary Practices: 58 Power Tools for Personal Transformation came across my desk. Paging through this collection of simple practices for awakening spirit and cultivating awareness, my years as a teenage mystic came flooding back to me. I remembered that spiritual practice doesn’t have to be rigid and formal, but can be creative, flexible, and fun. As Stevens says, you don’t have to sit in meditation for many hours a day to experience rapid personal growth—simply working with a powerful shamanic practice for a few minutes can be enough to open your eyes and reorient your heart to a higher truth. 

One of my favorite practices in The Shaman’s Book of Extraordinary Practices is called The Extraordinary Practice of Blessing Everyone. Stevens reminds us that “Blessing is not an act reserved for ordained priests or respected gurus; it is an act of love available to all of us, all the time.” Reading this passage, I remembered how it felt to beam love at every passing car as I waited for someone to pull over and give me a ride; how, even though I possessed little more than a bag of trail mix and a copy of Coleman Barks’ The Soul of Rumi, my obsession with Kerouac having subsided, I nevertheless felt rich. Blessing others is something we can do anytime and anywhere, no matter how materially impoverished we may be, and it never fails to elevate the soul. 

In another practice, The Extraordinary Practice of Seeing the Divine in Everything, Stevens reminds us of a quote from Christian mystic Meister Eckhart: “The eye through which I see the God is the eye through which God sees me.” Reading this, I remembered the way my old friend Sean would choose to see the divine everywhere he looked, and how he shared this life-changing habit with me. As Stevens writes, we have a choice to see everything as God or not-God—so why not embrace this remarkable power to transform our daily lives? 

Practices like these remind us that our true wealth lies in our perception. A hitchhiker standing in the rain can feel richer than the millionaire speeding past her in a new car; a person dying of cancer can feel more alive than the healthy doctor who cares for him. By returning to practices like the ones in Stevens’s book, we can hone our ability to make this inner shift, unlocking untold magic in our lives. 

 

 

In the years since I gave up hitchhiking, I admit that it’s been harder to hold onto a mystical frame of mind. As a landowner and homesteader, my mind is often crammed with plans and to-do lists, rather than being open to whatever appears. I have to consciously remind myself that the universe is still protecting and caring for me, just as it did when I was living on the road. I need to sit beside the waterfall, listen, and watch for signs; I need to bow to each teacher as they appear. It feels meaningful to me that Stevens’s book came into my life at exactly the time that I needed to remember these things—and I think that he would agree! 

When our year abroad ended, my shaman friend and I parted ways; after corresponding for a while and visiting him once when I hitchhiked through Boulder, we lost touch. I like to think that he is still seeing the world through shamanic eyes; still feeling glimmers of intuition and allowing them to guide him; still tuning into the natural world, instead of blocking it out. I imagine him going to a bookstore in Boulder or Denver and finding The Shaman’s Book of Extraordinary Practices; I’m sure that he would love it. It pleases me to think that, after influencing my life so much, an author whose book I edited might reach through time and space to influence him. 

It seems to me that extraordinary practices like the ones Stevens shares in his book could just as easily be called extraordinary powers: the power to love, to bless, to see, to hear, to trust, to know. We all have these powers within us, just waiting to be developed. They are there to be discovered and rediscovered countless times throughout our lives, leading us a little deeper into our own souls every time. 

As we move into high summer, I hope that each of you has a chance to wash off whatever dust has settled over your own shamanic eyes and see the world anew. You are connected to everything in the universe, just as everything in the universe is connected to you, and through the power of your perception, you can transform your life. 

 

Sincerely, 

Hilary T. Smith 

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing 

Solitude and Sangha

When I tell new friends and acquaintances about my life on a ramshackle off-grid homestead in a remote part of Hawaii, one question that often comes up is “Don’t you get lonely?” People imagine a solitary life in which my only companions are the birds, and where interactions with other human beings are few and far between; a monastic existence characterized by noble silence and quiet contemplation. 

I’m quick to reassure them that, far from going days or weeks with no human contact, I live just a few steps from neighbors whose lives interweave with my own. On a typical day one or more of my neighbors will stop by to share a piece of fruit, ask for a hand moving a heavy object or nailing up a board, use my satellite internet to make a phone call, or sit on the edge of my porch and chat. Although I do travel long distances to visit friends who live outside the valley, on a day-to-day level my social life feels richer and more replete than many of the city dwellers I know.  

But I have to admit that every now and then, a week will go by when this comforting daily rhythm of visits is disrupted—a neighbor is sick or out of town, or heavy wind and rain make it too difficult or dangerous to tromp across the stream or brave an obstacle course of falling tree branches for a visit. During such times, I taste an enormity of solitude. I wake up knowing that I may not see or speak with another person all day, or that a five-minute exchange in the morning or evening will be all the social contact I have. 

Sometimes, these experiences of solitude are intensely creative. I’ll write, draw, and play guitar, astonished at how quickly time passes—even wishing the storm or flood would last longer so I can delay my re-entry into the social world. Far from craving social contact, I’ll feel mildly averse to having my daydreams interrupted by the thoughts and queries of others. I’ll think of the shamans and monks who practice solitude as part of their spiritual paths and feel grateful that I’ve been given the opportunity to do the same. 

During such times, solitude feels like a cocoon in which my soul is being formed. I can stare into space for hours, watching the mist moving over the dark green valley walls and letting my mind roam in wordless contemplation. I feel a sense of deep intimacy with myself, and a fierce sense of loyalty to my own process of discovery. Gazing at clouds, sweeping the floor, and listening to music, I feel completely content. 

 

 

Other times, however, the solitude feels challenging. Every morning, I’ll wake up to a mountain of hours I must somehow climb, only to find myself at the bottom of that mountain again the following morning. Like Sisyphus with his boulder, I can sometimes despair at the futility of the task. Far from finding stillness, my thoughts proliferate to fill the silence until my mind feels like a firehose I can’t shut off. The precious intimacy turns into an overwhelm of mental activity, and the deep insights of quiet contemplation are replaced by neurotic overthinking. I’ll walk out to the swollen river and gaze at the impassable water, wishing I could just drive to a friend’s house in town; I’ll eat the last of my bananas and avocados, wishing I’d gathered more before the rain. 

I tell myself that this, too, is part of the cocoon. The ability to confront the contents of your own mind comes in handy when you live in a remote place, and is a prerequisite for spiritual practice in many traditions. The same self that gives me the songs and drawings that emerge during my periods of creative solitude is also responsible for that firehose of thoughts I find so hard to deal with. If solitude has shown me anything, it’s that my mind is an endlessly creative force whose powers I am only beginning to understand. 

 

 

Spiritual traditions from around the world emphasize the importance of solitude as a vehicle for awakening. People who practice meditation may log weeks, months, or even years in silent retreat, intentionally limiting their interactions with others in order to explore the depths of the mind. Shamans and medicine people seek out time in the wilderness, where their only companions are the mountains, the desert, or the deep forest. Religious texts from Buddhism to Christianity tell stories of seekers going into the wilderness to better hear the voice of God.  

In India, students of classical instruments such as the tabla and sitar will sometimes undertake a forty-day chilla during which they lock themselves in a room and do nothing but practice, while subsisting on a meagre diet; there are tales of musicians developing extraordinary powers as a result of their chilla (not to mention a few stories of musicians going insane!)  

When treated as an extreme sport, solitude has the power to dissolve the ego and profoundly alter our consciousness, but even in gentler doses, it can bring about meaningful transformation and bring us to a deeper understanding of who and what we really are. In some moments solitude can still the mind, opening new dimensions of focus, contentment, and inner peace. In others, solitude reveals our inner maniac, whose fantasies and projections gleefully crowd out reality. The opportunity to watch this pendulum swing back and forth is a great gift, if we are prepared to receive it. 

 

 

A few weeks ago, the biggest storm I’ve ever experienced moved over the valley in the middle of the night. I woke up to a solid wall of rain pounding on the metal roof of my hut. Deafening crashes of thunder echoed off the valley walls, and flashes of lightning bathed the room in otherworldly white. There was no possibility of going back to sleep. I lay, and watched, and listened, wondering how long this could possibly last. I felt profoundly grateful that I was no longer sleeping in a tent, which would surely not have survived the onslaught. I also felt a pinch of sorrow: a dear friend of mine was supposed to come visit for the weekend, and with the river flooded there was no way she’d be able to make it. 

I wondered how long the storm would last—days? weeks?—and how I would hold up. Would this be one of those deeply peaceful and creative spells of solitude, or would I be phoning my friends in town to say, “Help, I’m trapped on my homestead with a crazy person and she won’t stop talking to me?” Would I glide around my land with the serenity of a Zen monk, or wander in circles looking for something to do?  

The rain ended an hour before dawn, and to my surprise, the day was sunny. My neighbors all wandered out of their homesteads to share reports on the water that had licked their front steps and drowned their gardens, and lawnmowers pulled up onto the porch just in time. We all walked out to the river together and stood around marveling at the way it had escaped its banks, completely obliterating what had once been our dirt road. I knew it would be days before anyone could get in or out.  

But with the sun shining, the sky blue, and my neighbors at my side, I felt the same sense of joy and excitement upon seeing the ruined road as I used to feel for snow days when I was a child growing up in the northeast. I realized that this time, the storm hadn’t ushered in a period of solitude at all. On the contrary, I knew that for the next few days, all of my neighbors would be out and about, repairing fences, clearing debris, and trading speculations about when a bulldozer would come to dig us out, and who would be driving it. There would be plenty of opportunities for shared labor, laughter, and commiseration. We would drag muddy branches out of the walking trail in the daytime, and gather for board games at night. 

I remembered that in Buddhism, sangha, or community, is one of the Three Jewels, equal to Buddha and Dharma in the process of awakening. A supportive community anchors our physical and mental health, so that we can take the great leaps that are sometimes required of us. The benevolent presence of others can act like the ballast in a boat, giving us stability when we need it most—and if we’re lucky, we can play that role for others in return. Living off-grid, I am grateful to have both solitude and sangha, like two trellises on which beautiful flowers can grow. 

As we approach the summer solstice, I wish you all the support of a loving community, and the deep and mysterious solitude in which your soul can thrive. 

 

Sincerely 

Hilary T. Smith 

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing 

I like you. You're OK.

A few days ago, I returned to my off-grid homestead in Hawaii after spending several weeks with friends and family on the mainland. Leaving my homestead is hard. Not only do I miss the soothing presence of trees, waterfalls, and neighbors when I’m away, but I also contend with anxiety about what, exactly, will be left of the place when I get back. As I sit on the plane, gazing down at the wide blue ocean, I wonder if my truck will still start, or if my propane water heater will consent to turning on after being in the off position for weeks. I tell myself that there’s no disaster I can’t handle with a few days of hard work, while secretly worrying that there is. 

Indeed, when I got home on Sunday, I found that the wild potatoes I’d left in my kitchen had sprouted eight-foot vines curling high into the rafters. A feral cat had laid claim to my toolshed, hunching possessively on a box of solar equipment. The invasive grass I’d worked hard to uproot had taken advantage of my absence to make a comeback. The path to my front gate had been entirely swallowed by lilikoi vines. Worst of all, an intrepid pair of rats had decided that the glovebox of my truck was the perfect home, and had torn up the seat cushions to furnish it. 

I felt a wave of despair. How could I possibly dig out of this mess? I had books to edit and articles to write. Even if I cloned myself, it would still take days to get everything in shape. 

At the same time, a chorus of judgment came into my head. A truly responsible person would have known to mouse-proof the car, cat-proof the toolshed, and toss the wild potatoes outside before going away. After six years in the valley, I was still a bumbling beginner, making the most elementary mistakes.  Maybe I didn’t belong here, after all. 

The next day, I packed a wheelbarrow full of cleaning supplies and headed out to my truck to clean up the rats’ nest. Dry grass clung to my overalls, remnants of the three hours of mowing I’d done that morning; my feet, as usual, were brown with dirt. At the wide, flat area where everyone parks, I ran into two of my neighbors. Although they don’t live in the valley, they come often to clean their ancestors’ graves, and to document the location of gravesites for other families. The bones of their grandparents and great-grandparents lie in the cliffside a short walk from where I sleep. I’ve often thought that if this faraway corner of Hawaii means the world to me, it must mean the universe to them. 

We stood and chatted for twenty minutes or so. They told me about their work on the gravesites, and I told them about some of the lessons I was still learning after six years of working on the land. Before they left, one of my neighbors gave me a big hug. Looking straight into my eyes, she said, “Not many people can live here; the land spits them out. If you’re still here after all this time, you must be pono.” 

“I hope so,” I stammered, surprised and embarrassed by the compliment.  

The Hawaiian word pono roughly translates to “virtuous.” It’s a central concept in Hawaiian culture, applying to both relationships with people and with the ‘aina, or land. It’s sometimes trotted out in public awareness campaigns to encourage tourists not to litter, but its true meaning is much more profound, embodying an entire way of life. Some people compare it to the Buddhist concept of “right relationship”: a continuous process of reducing the harm one does in all areas of life, while cultivating what is harmonious and beneficial.  

As a person with no familial ties to Hawaii, I’m more used to considering the ways my presence in this sacred place is problematic; could my neighbor really be suggesting that she saw some good in me? 

“I don’t hope so, I know so,” she said, giving me a warm smile. 

As they drove away, my embarrassment lingered. It felt undeserved. I even wondered if she was pulling my leg. My mind began to suggest all the reasons I shouldn't take her words at face value. At the same time, I noticed myself resisting the incredible love she’d just poured out for me. What was I so afraid of? Why couldn’t I accept this kindness? It felt so bright it was almost painful, like a sun my eyes weren’t strong enough to see. 

 

 

It’s one thing to recognize when you’ve been blessed, and another thing to let yourself receive it. In Western cultures, we can be caught off guard by spontaneous displays of kindness, or even suspicious of them: surely, the other person is just being polite, or doesn’t know us well enough to realize that we really don’t deserve it. We feel an urge to correct or apologize, rushing to put the candle out instead of appreciating its glow.  

Walking back home after cleaning out the truck, I remembered all the other times my neighbors had blessed me over the years, each of them using different words that boiled down to: I like you. You’re OK. Those interactions lifted me up when I needed it most and filled me with the yearning to live in a way that was worthy of their friendship. These blessings don’t erase the fact that I’m still a newcomer, or that my own ancestors are buried thousands of miles away.  They don't authorize my presence here in some final way—but they do serve as an invitation to keep showing up and doing the best I can.  

I like you. You’re OK. What a powerful blessing that is, and how rarely we remember to give it. Whether you’re a shy child at a new school or a well-meaning adult showing up in an established community, receiving this blessing can mean the difference between sinking or swimming, blossoming or withering away. When kind words are paired with meaningful eye contact, they can effect a mysterious transformation, healing the heart and renewing one’s inner reserves of inspiration, aspiration, and commitment to a common purpose. And when someone smiles at us with sincere kindness and warmth, our mirror neurons light up, flooding us with a sense of well-being. 

As humans living in a highly technological society, we sometimes decry the disappearance of magic from the world—while forgetting that all the magic we need is in our eyes and hearts, the sincerity of our words and the selflessness of our actions. With these magic powers, we can lift up the people around us, inspiring each other to live in a truly virtuous way. 

 

 

It has now been one week since I returned home. I’ve tugged the potato vines down from the rafters, and gathered some old tent poles to build a trellis for them in the garden. I’ve mowed, trimmed, swept and scrubbed, turned upright what was knocked over, and greased what was rusty. I’ve sat under the monkeypod tree with my neighbors, catching up on all that I missed while I was gone. With each of these small actions and interactions, I reconnect with this place, and remind myself that while my homestead may be more haphazard than most, I’m not completely incompetent.  

The Hawaiian saying “Ua mau ke ea o ka ‘aina i ka pono” is often translated as “The life of the land is perpetuated in righteousness.” In other words, the land thrives not only through the skillful tending of its inhabitants, but by the virtue with which they conduct their lives. The land knows if the people are good-hearted, compassionate, and charitable, or if they are greedy, deceitful, and mean, and the plants and animals flourish or wither accordingly.  

When I reflect on these words, I see the ecological wisdom they contain. Forests, oceans, and other ecosystems thrive when people are compassionate and wise; when we do not hoard, waste, or discount the needs of future generations. I also realize that this wisdom is not confined to people who live on farms or in rural areas; city dwellers, too, perpetuate the health of the land when they orient themselves towards virtue in all its forms. Whether you live in a tropical rainforest or a city skyscraper, you can bless the land with your kindness, forethought, and restraint—and the people around you with the sincerity of your words. 

As summer approaches, I wish you all thriving gardens and sunny days. And just in case nobody else has said it to you lately: I like you. You’re OK. 

 

Sincerely, 

Hilary T. Smith 

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing 

Finding Your Happy Place

Although it’s hard for me to leave the lush Hawaiian valley I call home, I travel to the mainland about twice a year to visit the friends and family who would otherwise spend a disproportionate amount of time and effort visiting me. Two weeks ago, I got up early, drank one last cup of tea on the porch of the tiny hut which holds my kitchen, turned off the water lines and solar system, loaded my suitcase into a red and grey wheelbarrow shiny with rain, and pushed it through the tall grass. By the time I got to the riverbank where my neighbor was waiting with his truck, my feet were slimy with mud, and the “nice” pants I’d selected for the plane were speckled with the dirt and grit flung up by my sandals with every step.  

I used to despair at the impossibility of making it off my remote homestead in a presentable state. I would get to the airport and feel self-conscious about the burrs on my sweater and the soggy black footprints my boots left on the floor, or the hair I’d forgotten to brush for several days. Now I find comfort in the mud that clings to my ankles and the dirt that hitches a ride under my fingernails. I feel claimed by the valley, as if its steep green walls are saying, Sure, take a trip, but don’t forget where you belong. 

 

 

My first few days in the city are always bewildering. I feel shocked by the presence of so many cars, on so many streets and overwhelmed by the social events that involve not only my close friends, but friends of friends, acquaintances, and strangers. I marvel at the assortment of tasty foods I rarely eat back home: vegan ice cream made from cashews, cups of coffee which are so much stronger than the green tea I normally drink, and mainland fruits like apples and blueberries. 

I can tell that these trips to the “real” world are good for me. I learn a lot from my city friends, who are involved in art, politics, and activism in a way I cannot be, living in as secluded a location as I do. They expose me to new ideas and new experiences I would never encounter in the cozy confines of the valley walls, and I drink these things up thirstily, newly conscious of the limits of my knowledge and perspective. The conversations I have outside the valley serve as a bulwark against the complacency that can settle in when I speak only to the same small group of neighbors day after day, mulling over the same set of hyper-local concerns. I remember (with some shock) that the tiny rural community where I live is not, in fact, the center of the universe, and that there’s more to life than broken chainsaws, lost dogs, and rivers that flood just when you were hoping to go to town. 

But no matter how much I appreciate these aspects of my visits to the city, it’s only a matter of days before a sense of despair comes over me. How can my friends live with so much noise, all day every day? How can they live without trees to prune or gardens to tend? How can they accept an orange sky at night, the stars nowhere to be seen? How can they live so much in their minds, without tools to tinker with or structures to build?  

I open up a map on my internet browser, and gaze morosely at the grid of streets, calculating how far I would have to walk to reach a forest. The thought of driving in a car just to go for a walk in the woods is shocking to me. Instead, I take long walks around the neighborhood, my mind filled with complaints at the absence of tall trees. I spend more time reading and writing, taking advantage of the relative absence of physical labor, and do my best not to seem too affronted by city life—after all, this is my friends’ home. 

I remind myself that many visitors to my homestead feel an equal and opposite sense of discomfort about my living situation. They put on a brave face, while privately asking themselves: How can she live without art galleries, restaurants, people? How can she live in such tiny, ramshackle structures, without a washing machine, a toaster, or a fridge? How can she talk to the same handful of people day after day, hardly ever meeting anyone new? They gaze at the thick forest and feel just as lost as I do when I contemplate the endless grid of city streets. They try their best not to seem too affronted by the mosquitos or the perpetual damp in their clothes, but when I drive them back to town on their last day, their spirits visibly brighten—just as mine does when I get ready to leave the city and go back to the forest again. 

 

 

The late Thich Nhat Hahn wrote, “There is no path to happiness; happiness is the path.” In other words, happiness is a practice that we can work with daily, no matter where we are in the world. True happiness isn’t a thing we find when we’re finally in the ideal environment or with the ideal group of people, but can instead be the magic sauce that transforms anywhere we go into the ideal place, and anybody we’re with into the ideal person or group of people.  

That being said, it can feel so much harder to practice happiness when you’ve formed a strong opinion about something. The mind says, “How could anyone be happy here, under these circumstances?” In its ever-so-helpful way, the mind builds a case for unhappiness, and argues that case unrelentingly. When my mind does this, I can very quickly convince myself that the only place I can be happy in the entire world is the six-by-twelve porch where I drink my tea in the mornings when I’m at home in Hawaii—thirty-six square feet, on a 5,610,000,000,000,000 square foot planet! I start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, my mind is exaggerating. 

 

* 

 

When I’m feeling those waves of stress and anguish in the city, it can be easy to tell myself that any time I spend outside the valley is time I am squandering. Having been given the precious opportunity to live in such a special place, why am I wasting a single moment outside of it? By maintaining friendships and connections in the outside world, aren’t I diluting the intensity of my experience as a solitary homesteader in a wild and remote part of the earth? Maybe I should rush home, close the gate behind me, and devote myself to the worship of those misty green cliffs, letting the noisy and confusing outside world carry on without me. 

At the same time, I know from experience the importance of practicing when it isn’t easy. Whether you’re training for a marathon, learning an instrument, or trying to master the unruliness of your own mind, some of the most important learning happens when conditions aren’t ideal. In the city, happiness can be an uphill jog; it makes me sweat, and I’m not used to sweating quite so much. But just like a challenging run, I suspect that it also strengthens my heart, increases my lung capacity, and helps me correct the weaknesses that I would otherwise overlook for years at a time. 

 

 

After my predictable meltdown around the halfway point of a visit to the city, I usually find my footing again. I wean myself off the brain-frying cups of black coffee that I can’t seem to keep myself from drinking when I’m there and return to my little thermos of green tea. I find a quiet place to meditate, even if it means perching on a pile of suitcases in my friends’ cluttered basement. I go to the forest, even if it means a long bus ride or a nerve-wracking drive on the freeway. Most importantly, I remind myself to practice happiness, the same way I would practice good posture or any other skill. 

As the overwhelm subsides, I begin to appreciate the gifts of the city once more—the wide-ranging conversations, the encounters with strangers, the convenience of doing laundry in a machine, and the opportunity to fly home with a renewed appreciation for the quiet and predictability of life in a small, rural community. I’m grateful for my life in the rainforest, and for the city friends who gently insist on expanding my world, feeding my mind, and reminding me that we are all on this journey together, whether our vantage point is a misty valley or a busy street. 

As spring arrives, I wish you all a beautiful season of flowering and growth. May you all have the opportunity to practice happiness—and to find it wherever you go. 

 

Sincerely, 

Hilary T. Smith 

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing 

Acts of Love and Service

Dear readers,

Here in Hawaii, each island has a “wet” or windward side, and a “dry” or leeward side. The valley where I live is on the “wet” side. The forest here is graced with frequent rains and warm, damp winds. Mushrooms spring from rotting logs; ferns and flowers thrive; streams meander down the cliffside on their way to join the river that leads to the sea. I love the lush and misty mornings, and the rain that fills my catchment barrels and waters my garden. As for my possessions, and especially my books, they don’t fare as well in the relentless damp, which is forever making objects rust, mildew, or otherwise deteriorate in a variety of ways. 

As an author and editor, I’ve spent most of my adult life lugging around a large collection of books: Chinese poetry, novels I keep meaning to reread, hefty tomes on technology, nature, and language. Since moving to the valley, however, I’ve realized that books aren’t meant to be collected—at least, not by me. They’re meant to be read before the warm, wet air speckles their pages with mildew or furs their jackets with a fine white coating of mold. My book collection, once substantial, now occupies one trim shelf—a strange state of affairs for a writer. The upside, however, is that when somebody gives me a book, I read it right away, before the local microorganisms have their way with it. A book feels like a flower, which will wilt, then rot—so I appreciate its fleeting presence all the more. 

 

 

The last book I read was Loaves and Fishes: The Inspiring Story of the Catholic Worker Movement, by Dorothy Day—a gift from an acquaintance of mine. As the Senior Editor at Hierophant, I read a great variety of self-help and spirituality books, from a wide range of traditions. Although I could easily list all the Buddhist, shamanic, and New Age books I’ve read in the past year, I have to admit that was the first time in many years I’d read a Catholic one. In fact, the book had sat on my shelf for several months, in violation of my “read it right away” rule. I was afraid I wouldn’t like it, or that it would feel like church—a type of resistance I don’t usually bring to, say, the Zen books that come my way. But as Hierophant author and Toltec Shaman don Jose Ruiz would say, “We’re all working for the same boss.” Once I recognized my resistance, I took the book down and began to read. 

Dorothy Day was a journalist who converted to Catholicism at the age of thirty, and co-founded a newspaper called The Catholic Worker, along with a social justice movement of the same name. With the help of a growing number of friends, she opened “houses of hospitality”—literal houses, apartments, and eventually, farms run by volunteers, where people impoverished by the Great Depression could get hot food, dry clothes, and a bed. In Loaves and Fishes, she talks in frank, no-nonsense language about the challenges of running these houses. She describes the difficult or unpleasant characters who moved in for months or years at a time—belligerent alcoholics, people suffering from severe mental illness, people who were selfish, grandiose, or downright mean. 

It was against Day’s principles to turn anyone away, no matter how disruptive or destructive they were. She believed that humans were called to love one another, and she was determined to put this belief into practice, no matter how much it cost her at a personal level.  

Far from making the path of radical love sound easy and attractive, she is unflinching in her account of how difficult it was. There were unpaid bills, evictions, theft and vandalism, and sleepless nights. Guests at the hospitality houses weren’t necessarily transformed by Day’s kindness; often, they wandered away just as cranky and irascible as they were when they showed up. 

The path of love, in Day’s telling, isn’t only about working on oneself—it’s active service to the people who need our kindness and care the most, who often happen to be the people we find difficult or overwhelming. It’s doing things we don’t like to do, or which we even find unpleasant, giving up time, sleep, privacy, wealth, or comfort so that others may suffer less. Put another way, it’s a radical realization that there is no separation—that there is only one body of humanity which needs to be clothed, sheltered, and fed. 

 

 

The day I finished reading Loaves and Fishes, I went to visit my neighbors, as I do several evenings a week. We sat around under the monkeypod trees, chatting about trucks and dogs and other features of rural life. Then one of my neighbors brought up the subject of the little old man who lives down the trail with a menagerie of dogs, cats, and pigs. As long as I’ve lived in the valley, he has been rickety, with a skinniness verging on the ethereal. We all have stories about finding him toppled over on the trail, pulled over by the weight of his enormous backpack, or sprawled in the river after his ankle turned on a rock. But in the past few months, he’s grown even more frail, and the question now arises of what to do about him. How can we help him? What do we owe him? Where do our responsibilities begin and end? 

Six months ago, after he had a bad fall, a few neighbors found him housing closer to town, where he would no longer have to walk for miles to get basic supplies. But after just a few nights away, he made his way back to his hut in the forest, unwilling to leave the life and the home to which he was accustomed. We all confessed to leaving groceries at his gate; some neighbors brought him propane, and others cooked him hot meals. One neighbor raised the idea of repairing the old man’s hut, or moving him into an empty building where we could keep a closer eye on him—and wasn’t there an empty cabin on another neighbor’s land? 

The neighbor in question protested. “You want him as your roommate, you take him!” 

I couldn’t blame him. The truth is, we all had space to take in the old man, if we really wanted to. But the thought of having him there every day, with his dogs and pigs, his messiness and his needs, was daunting. Besides, the old man had already made it clear that he didn’t want to leave his hut, refusing the housing that had already been found for him. 

“Do you guys even remember all the things he did?” my neighbor went on. “We’re not talking about some sweet old man, here.” 

Indeed, the old man has caused a lot of harm over his lifetime. Although his age and frailty give him an aura of innocence, the truth is that he ruined many lives during his healthier years. How should that factor into how we treat him now? Should we bend over backwards to help him, or should we let him lie in the bed he’s made? 

By the end of the evening, we hadn’t arrived at satisfying answers to these questions. But the next morning, and every morning after that, we all kept dropping groceries at his gate, just like before. 

* 

 

How can we practice love? Not just think about it, or write about it, but practice it in our everyday lives? How can we love others when it’s hard or inconvenient, or when they don’t deserve it as much as we think they should? How can we practice love when it’s unfair, outrageous, and uncomfortable? 

I feel lucky to live in a community which challenges me to face these questions head-on, and to have a job which invites me to explore them in every book I read or edit. Whether you’re a shaman, a Buddhist,  a Catholic like Dorothy Day, or something entirely different, the work of love is never-ending. Like a beautiful mountain we set out to climb, it has difficult terrain we couldn’t anticipate when we were only gazing at it from a distance: rocky slopes and perilous crossings that put our hearts and bodies to the test. We do the best we can with the knowledge and resources at our disposal, and seek support and inspiration from the fellow climbers we encounter along the way. Most of the time, the answers are simpler than we make them out to be. Put one foot in front of the other. Bring the groceries. Feed the dogs. The outcomes of these actions aren’t ours to decide.  

This spring, I hope you all find wildflowers on your mountain of love, even as you make your way through the tricky parts—and that the love you share comes back to you many times over, whenever you need it the most.  

 

Sincerely, 

Hilary T. Smith 

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing 

The Power of Place

Dear readers, 

 

Many years ago, long before I moved to Hawaii, I took a trip to the Big Island with my then-partner. Like many tourists, we started out by consulting a variety of guidebooks and websites, intent on hitting all the best spots and anxious not to “miss” anything. We packed snorkels, fins, and hiking boots, and made lists of beaches we wanted to see and forests we wanted to explore.  

On the third night of our trip, we drove out to the eastern side of the island, where it was still possible to watch molten lava flowing into the ocean. In the busy parking lot of the hiking trail leading out to the lava, we met an old man who had lived on the island for many decades. After chatting with him for a few minutes, he seemed to accept us as kindred spirits. With a twinkle in his eye, he told us about a second, lesser-known trail which would bring us even closer to the flowing lava. 

As a light rain began to fall, we thanked the man for his advice and set out in the direction he pointed. The hardened black lava felt strange beneath my feet—sometimes rounded and pillowy, sometimes jagged. I would later learn that the names for these two types of lava are pahoehoe and 'a'ā respectively. Here and there, wisps of steam rose up from narrow cracks in the rock. The wind picked up, and I could smell sulfur on the air. As we headed further and further away from the main trail, I felt a twinge of excitement, with a dose of guilt and worry mixed in. Was this okay? 

 

 

When the glowing orange lava came into view, my thoughts fell away, replaced by an overpowering sense of awe. Here was the planet, creating itself. The sight of it was so hypnotic I couldn’t look away, but gazed intently, worshipfully, as the radiant substance meandered slowly across the hardened lava beneath, its surface crackling as it cooled. The rain fell harder, sizzling audibly against the molten lava, and the wind picked up. I zipped up my rain jacket and pulled my hood over my ears. Although I knew this place would be special, I wasn’t prepared for the raw power I beheld. 

Then I heard a new sound: a woman chanting in Hawaiian. Looking over, I saw a small group of people standing near the other side of the flow, their bodies lit up only by the glow of the lava. Although I couldn’t understand the woman’s words, it was clear that her chant was a kind of invocation—a way of acknowledging Pele, the goddess of lava, and perhaps also of asking permission to be in her sacred home. I stood completely still, listening to the long and serious chant, and watching the lava’s slow unfurling.  

I knew, then, that even though I felt extraordinarily lucky to be there, it was also wrong. I hadn’t sought permission to be there, and hadn’t observed the protocols appropriate to that place. Like many tourists, I’d let my eagerness to have an experience outpace my understanding of the culture, the spiritual traditions, and the geography of the place I was visiting. The chanting woman had appeared as a kind of teacher, giving me a glimpse of the proper way to behave. It was now my responsibility to continue learning. 

 

 

Since then, I have learned that the singing I had heard was an oli: a Hawaiian chant usually performed by a single person, without the accompaniment of musical instruments or clapping. Although oli can serve many purposes, they are often used as a way of introducing yourself when you go to a new place—letting the land know who you are and what you intend, and perhaps asking for protection and guidance while you are there. 

Over the years I’ve lived in Hawaii, I’ve heard oli in many settings. Wandering through the valley where I live, I’ve come across people chanting oli at the spring, the beach, the taro lo’i, or beside an old grave. At the beach clean-up and habitat restoration events I attend, it’s customary for the group to pause and the leader to chant oli before the volunteers set forth with their shovels and buckets. The sound of oli is deeply moving and sometimes eerie, putting the listener in a state of deep reverence for the land on which they walk. Oli reminds me of the power of place, and the importance of bringing an attitude of respect and curiosity to the lands I visit. 

Once, a friend of mine invited me to snorkel with her in a part of the ocean I’d been too timid to visit before. Our journey would involve swimming through a narrow crack in the rocks, through a churning tunnel of white water, and out into the deep blue part of the bay. I was nervous. For one thing, I don’t like tight spaces—and I like them even less when I’m blinded by millions of tiny bubbles, wondering if I’m about to barrel straight into a rock. But even more importantly, I knew that the deeper part of the bay is where the sharks hang out, and at the time, I was very nervous about trespassing into the sharks’ home. 

But my friend was a woman in her sixties who hardly struck me as a daredevil. If she routinely took this journey, how treacherous could it really be? We got in the water, and I followed her to the edge of the coral, where a wall of lava rocks rose above the sea. My heart skipped a beat as we approached “the keyhole”—the narrow gap I’d always been too scared to swim through. She swam through first, and I followed, kicking my fins like crazy through the blinding surge. 

I swallowed a mouthful of saltwater and came up sputtering but otherwise unharmed. The ocean felt huge outside the safe confines of the inner bay. My mind began to flood with anxiety as I considered how far we were from land, and how hard we would have to swim if the currents picked up.   

“I like to sing an oli when I get here,” said my friend. “To let the sharks know I’m around.” 

She pushed her goggles onto her forehead and began to chant in a strong, confident voice. I treaded water, gazing out at the endless blue ocean. As I listened to her singing, my heart rate began to slow down. It seemed to me that her chant was truly protective—perhaps in a mystical sense, but also because it was calming, and there is nothing more important than staying calm when you’re in the ocean. I imagined the sharks could hear her respectful offering, and I felt better knowing that we weren’t rudely barging in on them, but announcing our presence at the door. I was used to feeling anxious in deep water, but for the first time, I was also overcome by a sense of peace. I felt connected to the place, as if the vibrations of my friend’s voice formed a kind of bridge or tether, uniting what was separate before. 

 

 

This May, Insight Events USA is holding the annual Gathering of the Shamans in Sedona, Arizona. Just like Hawaii, Arizona is filled with sacred sites, often referred to as vortexes. Simply being in the presence of these sites, with their red rock and deep quiet, is known to elevate the spirit and calm the mind. The Sedona Mago retreat center, where the Gathering of the Shamans is being held, is surrounded by the mountains and canyons of the Coconino National Forest, a 1.9-million-acre natural wonderland, where participants can experience starry skies and the peace that emanates from ancient land. 

I’ve never been to Arizona before, but with teachers like Rhonda McCrimmon, Jose Luis Stevens, and Linda Star Wolf in attendance, I’ve been staying up late looking at flights. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a new place—my off-grid homestead keeps me busy, and most weeks I hardly make it further than the post office, if I leave my land at all—but as I look at photos of Sedona’s red rocks, I have to admit I feel an inner stirring to go. With teachers coming from a variety of different lineages and backgrounds, the Gathering of the Shamans feels like a true meeting of minds and spiritual traditions, of the type that can be hard to find in the segmented modern world. 

I don’t know if the people indigenous to Arizona have a practice similar to Hawaii’s oli, but I do know this: the next time I visit a new place, I’ll go there as a student, not a tourist. There are lessons in the land, if we know how to listen, and skillful teachers to help us understand them, wherever we go. 

 

 

Sincerely, 

Hilary T. Smith 

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing