Are You the Driver or the Hitchhiker?

The tiny off-grid community where I live in Hawaii is accessible only by steep, bumpy, unmarked dirt roads which require four-wheel drive and courage to navigate.

The valley walls feel like the moat around a castle, protecting us from an outside world that can feel noisy, harsh, and unforgiving. One of the things I love best about my hut in the rainforest is that I rarely hear a car, and even then, it’s usually far in the distance.

I’m much more likely to see neighbors walking past on foot or hear the clopping of horse hooves on the trail.

Of course, all this peace and quiet comes at a cost.

Going to town means a long, slow, dangerous drive. And if your car breaks down or gets stuck, you can’t just call a tow truck or summon a mobile mechanic. Hiking through the forest, you often stumble across the rusting remains of abandoned trucks dating back to the 1980s, with vines growing through their windows and fallen guavas rotting on their hoods.

It’s all too easy to imagine that yours will be next.

 

 

As long as I’ve lived in the valley, car trouble has been my number one source of anxiety, a recurring stressor in an otherwise delightful life.

Once, my car died on the steepest, narrowest section of the hill, and had to be backed all the way down. Another time, a rat got in through the glove box and chewed up the seat cushions and wiring. I’ve lost track of the number of hours I’ve spent messing with socket wrenches, jumper cables, and duct tape to frustratingly little avail.

Sometimes, I envy my neighbors who have eschewed car ownership altogether and simply hitchhike to town with a big backpack of laundry and an empty propane tank in tow.

They have it so easy—no repair bills, no headaches! —but of course, it takes them all day to get anywhere, and walking for miles with a propane tank takes time and effort that could be spent reading, writing, and working in the garden.

Although I’ve considered giving up my truck and joining them, it seems like there’s always one more load of lumber to pick up before I do.

A few weeks ago, some friends of mine came to visit for the weekend. I picked them up where the paved road ends and brought them down to my homestead, and we had a wonderful time collecting fruit and visiting on the lanai, but when the time came to drive them out again, my car wouldn’t start. After tinkering with it for a couple of hours, I went back to the hut and told my friends they would have to hitchhike back.

“Don’t worry,” I told them. “There’s a big rock at the bottom of the hill where everyone waits for rides. It’s a sunny weekend; you probably won’t have to wait long.”

Once I’d walked them to the gate and sent them on their way, I went back to my car, determined to try one more trick for starting it before declaring defeat. I scrounged around in the forest and found a long stick. I was poking at the starter when all of a sudden, a bright red Toyota truck came roaring up the stream.

The woman driving leaned over her passenger and waved at me.

“Do you know where Kulia’s place is?” she asked.

“Oh man,” I said. “That’s on the other side of the valley. You have to cross the river, then two or three more streams, then a sharp right by the breadfruit tree by the broken-down pickup truck…”

“Can you jump in and take us?” the woman asked. “We’re already late, and we’ll never find it without help.”

I glanced at the stick in my hand. Who was I kidding?

I wasn’t going to get my truck running like this. Might as well let the day take an unexpected direction. I squeezed into the truck and got acquainted with my new companions, native Hawaiians who had come down to the valley for a ceremony at an ancient village site.

We crossed the river, wound our way up the dirt roads, found the hairpin turn, and parked behind several other vehicles that had also made the journey down. Up ahead, in a clearing in the monkeypod trees, I could see people gathered solemnly in a circle, many of them wearing leis, and I heard oli, or sacred chanting.

“I should get home,” I said. Clearly, this gathering was not intended for outsiders.

“Oh no, you have to come with us,” said Auntie Ola, the woman who had first called to me from the truck. “You’re our guest now.” I wavered for a moment, not wanting to intrude on a sacred occasion, but then I realized that she was now offering me a gift.

“Well, that’s very kind of you, I’ll be happy to join” I said.

Although my day had started out with the stress and responsibility of a driver, I felt the joyful serendipity of a hitchhiker blossoming inside me as I followed them up the path.

 

 

Is it better to be a driver or a hitchhiker?

To me, this is one of the central questions of life. A driver can provide for others—coming through in an emergency, giving rides, moving heavy objects that a person on foot cannot.

A hitchhiker can receive what others have to give, while bringing a little novelty and magic into the driver’s day.

A driver is lucky to have security, comfort, and predictability; a hitchhiker is lucky to have freedom, even if it means getting rained on now and then. A driver can feel weighed down by responsibilities; a hitchhiker, stymied by dependence on others or worn out from the demands of the road.

Throughout my life, I’ve been both: a giver and a receiver, a guest and a host, a person catching a ride and a person offering one.

I’ve found meaning in both modes. And I’ve realized that both parties can fall prey to the same delusion. Drivers forget that they, too, can leave their cars at home and set off on an adventure, open to receiving whatever the world gives. Hitchhikers forget they can trade in their rootlessness for something that endures.

When one mode wears us down, we can and should switch places, even if it’s just for an afternoon.

Of course, the very best days are the ones when we somehow manage to embody both positions: giving and receiving, carrying and being carried, providing for others and finding ourselves unexpectedly provided for.

I wasn’t expecting my truck to break down, but I also wasn’t expecting to be gifted with the experience that was now unfolding as a result of that seeming misfortune.

A light rain began to fall as I stood on the edge of the circle. As I listened to the chanting, and watched the tall, thin waterfall tumbling down the cliff beyond where the singers stood, the beauty of it all gave me chills.

Afterward, there was a feast of taro, haupia, and other delights, and a slack key guitarist took the stage. I realized I recognized a few people from a land restoration event I’d volunteered at months before; as I chatted with them in the shelter of a monkeypod tree, my sense of being an intruder quickly waned.

Sensing that the rain was about to fall in earnest, I said goodbye to Auntie Ola and the others and started the long walk home.

It was a pleasure to stroll down the dirt roads that I normally only saw from my car.

On foot, I could see the avocados ripening in the treetops, and stop to pick hibiscus flowers for tea. When I crossed the streams, the cool water felt delicious on my bare feet. I was reminded of how much beauty I used to see as a hitchhiker, before car ownership boxed me up in a cage of metal and glass.

When I got back to the clearing where my neighbors and I park our cars, nothing had changed. I would still need to research my truck’s symptoms, order parts, and wrangle a mechanically knowledgeable neighbor to install them.

Doing all those things would take time and money. All the responsibilities of a driver were still on my shoulders; and yet I felt a new lightness around them.

Being whisked away by Auntie Ola had reminded me that there was a world out there that was bigger than my problems—beauty, grace, and joy unfolding all around me, even as the vexing tasks of life still needed to be solved.

Perhaps more importantly, it reminded me that the drivers of this world are carried along by the same breeze as the hitchhikers, even if it’s harder to see.

As we move into the height of spring, may you all enjoy the gifts of giving and receiving, and may adventure find you when you most need it.

 

Sincerely,

Hilary T. Smith

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing

A Strong Community Can Accommodate a Thief

The tiny off-grid community where I live has a lot in common with a fairy tale. Tucked away in the rainforest, connected by walking paths bordered with rambunctious fruit trees and flowers, you might stumble across the hand-made house where the weaver lives, cross paths with the carpenter on your way to gather water from the spring, or listen to the old fisherman tell tales of catching ono in the bay. In such an enchanting setting, it’s easy to feel that time has stopped: the ordinary rules of the world don’t apply here, and things will go on as they are forever. 

In the six years I’ve called this Hawaiian valley home, I’ve become attached to the way things are: the sunset gatherings under the monkeypod tree, the evenings playing card games at my neighbor’s house, the familiar people who can almost always be found at one of a handful of familiar places. I’ve found deep comfort in the predictable rhythms of the day: the roosters crowing before sunrise, the sound of my neighbor cracking a coconut with a machete and pouring dry food into the dogs’ bowls, looking out my kitchen window to see another neighbor pushing her wheelbarrow across a big, open field, cutting through yet another neighbor’s yard to reach the place where we all park our cars. 

Like an unsuspecting character in a children’s story who stumbles into a dream world, I’ve been lulled into the sense that this is just the way things are. I will always wake up to these sounds, and always see these sights. One neighbor will always be sitting on his porch doing the crossword puzzle in the daily paper while his little black and white dog comes out to bark at me; another will always be making his way down the trail with a pair of five-gallon buckets, harvesting windfall fruit to feed his pigs. In this version of reality, nobody ages, nobody argues, and nobody leaves; the roosters keep crowing and the flowers keep blooming until the end of time. 

 

 

A few months ago, one of my favorite neighbors left the valley after making the painful decision to part ways with his longtime partner. Just like that, the Monday night badminton games which had been the social highlight of the week disappeared. We tried to carry on without him, but we barely had enough players to begin with, and the games just weren’t the same without his entertaining commentary and trick shots. To cement the tradition’s demise, the more elderly neighbors who used to come over simply to watch the game decided they no longer wanted to walk home after dark. With no spectators, and only two or three players, there wasn’t enough glue to hold things together. Just like that, a beloved tradition came to an end. 

Well, I told myself, it wasn’t that bad. At least we still got together to play cards in the evenings once or twice a week. People were getting old; it was only a matter of time until more neighbors moved away from this extremely remote and demanding life. At least we could enjoy each other’s company for now. 

But then one night, while we were playing a rollicking game of cards, two of my favorite neighbors each drank one more beer than they were accustomed to having. One of them made an ambiguous comment, the other one interpreted it in the worst possible way, and before you know it, they had escalated into a full-blown shouting match—an unprecedented event in the time I’ve known them. After gently attempting to help them de-escalate, the rest of us sat there in stunned silence as a thirty-year friendship imploded before our eyes. 

 Just like that, the card games which had formed the other social backbone of life in our community ceased to be, as both parties concluded that they were better off without the other’s friendship. I continued to visit both neighbors separately, but it wasn’t the same as the group dynamic we used to enjoy. When I realized that things might never go back to the way they were in what had been for me some truly golden years, I felt a quiet sense of grief. I had long accepted that the neighbors I love and depend upon would someday get old and die—I just didn’t expect that the community would die before them. 

 

 

What do we do when things happen that are out of our control? How do we deal with change, especially when we experience that change as negative? As the senior editor at a self-help and spirituality publisher, I spend all day pondering these questions alongside the authors I work with—and yet, when it comes to living the answers in my own life, I struggle just as much as anyone else. I ask myself what advice the authors I’ve worked with would give, and the answers float into my head: words like acceptance, compassion, ritual, and imagination. 

I tell myself that this time of seeming destruction is an essential part of my journey with this place, just as much as those precious evenings under the monkeypod tree. If we only lived through the easy moments, we would never learn wisdom. If we only saw people at their best moments, we would never learn true compassion. If we didn’t trust that things will unfold in the fullness of time, we would never receive the gift of perspective. 

Years ago, when I was studying North Indian classical music, my teacher explained why a certain raga contained a bitter-sounding note. “That note is the thief,” he explained. “But this raga teaches that a strong queen can accommodate a thief in her queendom.” I’ve pondered that story ever since. A strong community can accommodate some discord; a strong heart can accommodate disappointment and grief; a strong life can flow with change. Without its bitter note, the raga would have less depth. Indeed, it is the presence of the thief which allows the monarch to practice true nobility. 

 

 

While I don’t think it’s necessarily true that all negative events are blessings in disguise, it has been my experience that great upheavals often do give rise to unexpected possibilities—new chapters revealing themselves that never would have been written if the old fairy tale hadn’t fallen away. I remember other moments in my life when things felt uncertain, or when the structures and rhythms I’d depended on suddenly changed. Usually, it meant learning new skills or otherwise expanding; rarely are we called to contract in response to change. 

Even when my neighbors inevitably make amends, it won’t alter the fact that our small community is dwindling, with fewer people moving to this remote area, and more and more residents growing old, dying, or moving away. As much as I exult in the life of this place—the green leaves, singing birds, and abundant fruit—it stubbornly, insistently teaches me about death. From the rotting tangerines on the forest floor, to the tumbledown shacks whose owners have gone away, to the old stone graves just steps from the walking path, this place has never pretended that nothing ends. It was only me who imagined otherwise. 

To be noble in the face of change is to remain in harmony with your innermost values. What remains constant in your heart even as external circumstances change? What do you continue to do, say, and believe even when things aren’t going your way? I ask myself these questions as I gaze at the grassy spot where we used to play badminton, or sit on my neighbor’s porch in the evening, just the two of us, with the card games and dominoes gathering dust on the shelf. 

In North Indian classical music, ragas are sung over the constant droning of a perfectly tuned tanpura, which provides the fundamental notes against which all other notes are measured. It is by listening to the tanpura that raga singers remain perfectly in tune, even as they travel far from the fundamental, moving from note to note at incredible speed. In this manner, the change inherent in melodic improvisation is anchored to something dependable and eternal. 

In life, that dependable, eternal thing can only be love. The truth is, as much as I’ve felt challenged by the upheavals in my community, I also feel that in giving up my fantasies and projections of an idyllic world, I’m learning to love that world more deeply—indeed, to truly love it for the first time. Without stubbornness and contradictions, life would lose its poignancy. And without the knowledge that things can suddenly change, we might never learn to appreciate the fleeting nature of what we are given to experience while we are on this earth. 

This spring, I hope you all find that dependable, eternal thing in your own lives—and when a bitter note appears in your raga, may you sing it with grace. 

 

 

Sincerely,

Hilary T. Smith

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing

Treasures Past and Present

I've never been a particularly sentimental person when it comes to material things. Living in a small cabin in a warm and rainy tropical climate means being ruthlessly practical about possessions, as anything that doesn’t get used on a regular basis will quickly succumb to mold, rust, or other forces of decay. Yet among the utilitarian tools that furnish my home, one object stands out: a tarnished silver candlestick that belonged to my great-great-grandmother in Saskatchewan. I remember rolling my eyes when my mother gave it to me to me shortly after I graduated from college. What was I supposed to do with a candlestick? Who even used candles anymore? 

At the time, I was living in San Francisco, and my life in the city felt lightyears away from my ancestors’ existence on the prairie. In my brightly lit apartment, there was no need for candles, and with all the taquerias nearby my roommates and I rarely ate at home. Indeed, we didn’t even have a dining table. Yet somehow, I held on to the candlestick through frequent moves, reluctantly packing it up even as I felt vaguely foolish for doing so. So what if it belonged to my great-great-grandmother? The candlestick was a nuisance, a random knick-knack I didn’t really need. Still, something in me couldn’t quite let it go. 

Somehow, the candlestick stayed with me for the next eighteen years, outlasting books, instruments, and items of clothing I would have told you I cherished far more. It survived friendships, relationships, and versions of myself that were all destined to fade. And when I made the biggest move of my life, leaving city streets behind to live off-grid in the forest, the candlestick came with me. It sat on a milkcrate during the years I lived in a tent, and eventually graduated to a simple shelf I built out of scrap wood. 

So many things in my life had not endured, and yet my great-great-grandmother’s candlestick had stayed with me all that time. After years of seeing it as “useless,” I now appreciated the unexpected dignity it lent to its humble surroundings. I realized that in my grandmother’s hut on the prairie, it had probably done the same thing. Like me, she lacked many of the luxuries and conveniences that people in the city take for granted; and yet she could still light a candle and eat a meal in its glow. 

After a lifetime of feeling little connection to or appreciation for my ancestors, I began to wonder what else I had in common with them—what other shared threads ran through our lives? Which of their skills and talents had I inherited, and which of their wounds did I still carry? In which ways were their choices still shaping my life, just as the candlestick exerted a subtle but powerful presence in my cabin? 

 

 

Last year, I had the opportunity to edit Dr. Steven Farmer's book, Healing Ancestral Family Patterns: A Practical Guide to Ending the Cycle of Intergenerational Trauma. Dr. Farmer writes that we inherit four types of traits from our ancestors: physical traits such as tallness or a proneness to insomnia, emotional traits such as a melancholy streak or a reputation for being irrepressibly cheerful, behavioral traits such a love of long-distance running or a tendency to flirt, and mental traits such as a facility with numbers or a way with words. 

He points out that when these traits repeat themselves over many generations, family patterns emerge. These can be positive patterns, like loving and enduring relationships, or more challenging patterns, like a tendency to burn bridges and sever ties. In some cases, children can seem to be reruns of a particular ancestor’s life: the older brother who amasses a fortune at a young age and squanders it all by the time he’s thirty, just like his grandfather, the younger brother who seems cursed with misfortunes, just like his great-uncle, the daughter who’s the spitting image of her great-grandmother and has the same sharp sense of humor. 

As I edited Dr. Farmer’s book, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own ancestry. Unlike my Hawaiian neighbors who can recite not only their own family lineage but the lineages of friends  in their community, I know relatively little about my parents’ families, having grown up far from their hometowns. Yet this in itself constituted the first of several family patterns I ultimately came to recognize: like me, many of my ancestors moved far away from the places where they were born, and expressed few regrets about doing so. 

Although my living relatives are scientists, teachers, and writers who live in cities, it warmed my heart to remember that most of my grandparents and great-grandparents had grown up in settings far more rural and isolated than my tropical homestead. They would surely relate to ordinary tasks such as carrying water from the spring, preserving a big harvest of fruit, and coming together with neighbors for seasonal celebrations. 

I realized that many of the values I thought I'd discovered independently, such as resourcefulness, thrift, and community building, were actually family traditions—I just hadn’t recognized them as such. At the same time, I realized that some of the things I struggle with mirror the struggles of the generations who came before me. My family tree contains several sets of siblings who are estranged from one another, just as my sister and I have been estranged throughout most of our lives. Maybe this wasn’t “my” problem, but just one manifestation of a bigger wound that had its origins deep in the past—and by studying the histories of my aunts’ and grandmothers’ relationships with their siblings, I could better understand my own. 

 

 

Throughout Dr. Farmer’s book, he emphasizes that you do not need to be a genealogy expert to heal ancestral family patterns. In some cases, it isn’t even necessary to know who your ancestors were at all. Simply opening yourself to the fact that you represent one link of a chain of being can be enough to change your mindset, empowering you to question which energies are really “yours” and which have simply been passed down, available for you to transform through your own wisdom and benevolence for the benefit of future generations.  

  When my solar batteries run low, I light a candle in my great-great-grandmother’s candlestick, and the flame illuminates my small space just as it once lit her prairie home. In those moments, the physical and temporal distance between us seems to collapse.  

In the soft light of that candle, I sometimes wonder what she would make of me—a woman living alone in a hut in the rainforest, typing on a laptop which is powered by a handful of solar panels. Would she recognize in me the same deeply practical nature that allowed her to survive in Saskatchewan? Would she understand my choice to live in this unusual and inconvenient way? I'll never know for certain, but I like to think there would be a spark of recognition between us that transcended our physical traits. 

As Dr. Farmer points out, our ancestors were far from perfect—they made mistakes, often held beliefs we would consider offensive today, and sometimes caused damage that reverberated through generations. Yet by engaging thoughtfully with our inheritance, neither rejecting it out of hand nor accepting it uncritically, we can weave something new and healing from these ancestral threads. 

Toward the end of Healing Ancestral Family Patterns, Dr. Farmer describes the thrill of diving into your ancestry, which can be akin to a treasure hunt or mystery novel: “Just when you think you understand your story, some new piece of information comes to light, revealing insights that may have eluded you before.”  

As I was drafting this essay, I picked up my great-grandmother’s candlestick and inspected it closely for the first time in years. I noticed nicks and scratches on its stem, and some kind of patch or repair just under the depression where the candle goes. Picking up a cloth to polish it, I was startled when the candlestick came apart into three pieces; I had never noticed they were held together by a long screw. For a moment, I had the wild thought that there might be a secret note hidden inside one of the sections. How incredible it would be to find an old love letter in faded, spidery handwriting, or a yellowed photograph slipped in there for safekeeping. 

Of course, the candlestick was empty—yet it still felt like some imaginary threshold between the deep past and present had been unexpectedly breached. In the instant it came apart, I saw it for the first time—not as “my” candlestick, but as its own being, a thing which might well outlive me, just as it had outlived my great-great-grandmother. For a moment, I felt my own mortality. Then I screwed it back together, and pushed a brand-new candle in. 

 

Sincerely, 

Hilary T. Smith 

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing 

 

 

 

The patterns of the past don’t have to define your future.

Drawing on decades of experience in psychology, family systems therapy, and shamanic practice, Dr. Steven Farmer reveals how the physical, emotional, behavioral, and mental traits passed down through your family tree influence your relationships, decisions, and overall well-being. This compassionate and practical guide will help you:

Identify the traits and patterns you’ve inherited from your ancestors.

Heal emotional wounds that have been carried across generations.

Break free from cycles of addiction, trauma, and dysfunction.

Enhance your connection with your ancestors to draw on their wisdom and strength.

Create a legacy of healing that benefits both you and your descendants.

With a blend of modern therapeutic techniques and ancient shamanic practices, Healing Ancestral Family Patterns offers a clear path to ancestral healing. Whether you’re seeking to address deep-seated trauma, understand your family’s history, or simply connect more deeply with your roots, the practices within will empower you to transform your ancestral patterns into sources of strength and resilience.

Was Shakespeare a Self-Help Master?

When I first moved onto the small piece of land in the Hawaiian rainforest I call home, my focus was on my own survival. For the first several years, I was completely preoccupied with clearing brush, planting a garden, and getting some kind of roof over my head. When friends came to visit, they had to sleep in the same big tent where I stored my garden tools; once, a friend of mine tried to chase an enormous cane spider out of her bed, only to have it drop its egg sack, releasing hundreds of baby spiders scurrying across the sheets. Another friend of mine was distressed to realize I had no electricity and therefore no refrigerator in which to store the fancy cheese and yogurt she’d brought down, and that taking a shower meant heating up a kettle of rainwater on the propane stove, then standing in the muddy yard and pouring it over your head. 

I’m proud of my friends for continuing to visit me during those rugged but memorable initial years. I remember the way they stepped up to the plate, gamely washing dishes in a five-gallon bucket, hauling drinking water from the spring, and helping me carry the lumber I would someday use to build the first real structures on the land. But while I knew that they loved swimming in the waterfall, hiking to the beach, and playing card games with my neighbors, they were always a tiny bit relieved to go home—after all, you can only put up with spiders in your bed for so many nights. 

Even though I enjoyed showing my friends around the valley, I was also a little relieved when they left: it was stressful to worry about their mosquito bites and muddy shoes, and to try to make them comfortable in a space and a life that had only really been designed to accommodate one person. The truth is, I wasn’t a great host. Carving out my homestead had toughened me, and I could feel impatient with people who wrung their hands over the discomforts I’d learned to take in stride. 

I realized that in my scramble to gain a toehold in a challenging new life, I had built a hermit’s hideout, not a community space. My kitchen was only big enough for one person to cook in; two people could squeeze onto the tiny wicker couch on the lanai if they were skinny, but a third person would have to stand awkwardly on the grass nearby. It was hard for guests to do anything for themselves, because everything was so rickety and patched together; I was the only person who knew where to find the scissors or hang a wet towel.  

It was clear that if I wanted other people to be truly comfortable at my place, I would have to make some changes—build a bigger kitchen, maybe, and replace the rotting pallets that always threatened to send a rusty nail through someone’s foot. It was also clear that I would have to make some changes on the inside, opening my heart to guests instead of feeling overwhelmed by their needs. But how could I do those things while preserving the simplicity I cherished? I didn’t want to turn my land into a five-star hotel; even getting solar power meant giving up candle-lit evenings and a deep silence I adored. How could I let others in to the life I had built without losing myself?  

 

 

Hierophant author Kim Bradley, whose book Shakespeare’s Guide to Living the Good Life: Life Lessons for Comedy, Tragedy, and Everything in Between arrives in bookstores soon, lives in a hand-built tiny house in northeastern Florida. When she and her partner moved in during a cold snap in January, they had no furniture, blankets, dishes, or cutlery, and the only source of heat was a wood-burning stove for which they had to beg wood from a neighbor. Still, their closest family members insisted on coming to see the new place. Bradley recounts that they showed up with sleeping bags, pizza, and a bottle of wine which they drank out of mugs, reminding her of Balthasar’s line from A Comedy of Errors: “Small cheer and great welcome make a merry feast.” 

In Shakespeare’s Guide to Living the Good Life, Bradley draws out ten timeless lessons from the Bard, on subjects ranging from persistence to friendship to thinking for yourself. Just like us, the people in Shakespeare’s time dealt with plagues and pandemics, political upheavals and family dramas, wealth inequality and conflicts over identity. Shakespeare’s take on all these subjects remains prescient today, and Bradley shows how we can use the playwright’s wisdom to find more happiness and meaning in our day-to-day lives. 

When I first read Bradley’s chapter on hospitality, in which she discusses Shakespeare’s beloved play The Comedy of Errors, I found myself feeling some wistfulness about my hermit lifestyle. In Balthasar’s quote, the word “cheer” refers to the material elements of a feast—the food, the candles, the decorations—while “welcome” refers to the warmth and generosity of the hosts. I realized that although I’d done my best to give my guests both cheer and welcome, my ability to be hospitable had long been hampered by excessively rough living conditions, as well as by my own curmudgeonliness as a host.  

It felt hopeless to make anything but the most intrepid guest feel comfortable in my space, so I’d discouraged all but my closest friends from visiting at all. Now, it occurred to me that maybe I ought to follow Bradley’s example and let more of my friends and family visit even though nothing was, or ever would be, completely clean and comfortable. Maybe I could meet friends halfway, sharing the joys of off-grid living without so many of the perils, and we’d all be richer for it. 

 

 

A few months after I read the first draft of Bradley’s book, my neighbor helped me build an eight-by-twelve shed for storing solar equipment and carpentry tools. However, as soon as the shed was built and painted, I realized the protected indoor space was much too valuable to waste on storage. Instead, I bought the smallest futon I could find and turned the shed into a guest room. I put out the call to friends far and wide, announcing that I could now host them in the luxury to which they were accustomed—by that point, I even had satellite internet and a hot shower. 

This winter, for the first time since I moved onto the land, I found myself hosting a steady stream of visitors. They came in groups of two and three, meaning that some people still had to sleep in tents. However, this time I made sure that even the people sleeping outdoors had lanterns, clean towels, and all the dark chocolate they could eat. When my usual water system ran dry, I guided nightly excursions to the waterfall to swim by starlight and rinse off the day’s sweat, turning a minor calamity into a beautiful adventure. I felt that I was getting the hang of this “welcome” thing, even if the “cheer” was improvised, ramshackle, and covered in muddy paw prints from the neighborhood cats. 

Intrigued by all the visitors, my neighbors often came over to join in the socializing. When it became apparent that we needed a central place for all these people to hang out, I dragged an old, defunct solar panel out of the bushes and propped it up on a pair of sawhorses to make a table. A friend of mine helped me gather flowers which we stuck in Mason jars, cut up papayas and other fruit to serve everyone, and brew big pots of tea from the herbs in my garden. In the evenings, we lit candles and sat around the table talking and gazing at the blanket of stars peeking out from between the branches of the monkeypod trees. 

Over the course of a few weeks, my hermitage was transformed into a gathering place. After the last of the off-island guests flew home, I kept the solar panel table in the middle of my yard. Almost every day now, one or more neighbors will drop by to sit at the table chat, and to check their e-mail and make phone calls on my internet connection. Often, I’ll come home to find a rack of bananas or a container of steamed kalo sitting on the table, a sign that one of several people I know and love has dropped by. 

Even though my homestead still consists of little more than a tiny outdoor kitchen, a guest shack, and the hut where I sleep, it is nevertheless starting to become a community resource—a place whose existence benefits people other than me. The self-centeredness that characterized my early days on the land is slowly transforming; more and more, my thoughts have turned towards how I can best shelter others, providing comfort to both neighbors and guests. I have to confess I feel richer for it; my heart filled with welcome, and my table laden with cheer. 

This spring, I hope you all find the wisdom you need to navigate your own comedies and tragedies—and that your table is always filled with friends. 

 

Sincerely, 

Hilary T. Smith 

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing 

 

 

 

 

“Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.” 

So says Shakespeare, whose plays and poems remain as beloved in the twenty-first century as they were in the sixteenth. For all the years between us, the world he inhabited was much like our own—afflicted by political turmoil, divisiveness, extreme weather, the fouling of natural resources upon which everyone relied, and discrimination against people who were different. The bard’s remedy for these troubles was to offer respite and inspiration to his audience through his writing.  

In this book, author Kim Bradley reveals the inspirational messages in Shakespeare’s works. Every chapter is a journey through one of his most notable plays, each with actionable life lessons to be learned from his writing.   

“Yes, there is sickness, death, conflict, and division in today’s world,” Bradley writes. “But there are also sunrises, starry skies, families, friendships, laughter, and love. Shakespeare invites us to enjoy the latter while acknowledging the former, and shows how balancing an appreciation for both is key to living the good life.” 

Click here to read two free chapters from the book!

The Wisdom of Plants

Living on an off-grid homestead in the Hawaiian rainforest, my days are defined by encounters with plants. I pick lemongrass and mamaki to boil for tea, dig up a long, thin ‘awa root to chew for its relaxing effects, pull back the sweet potato vines that are trying to claim my spinach patch, chop down racks of bananas to share with neighbors, and relax in the hammock strung in the shade of two big, sturdy monkeypod trees. As I work at my desk, I can hear the wind rustling in the bamboo grove and the birds cheerfully raiding the fruits on the guava trees. My after-work to-do list is always packed with plant-related activities like pruning, foraging, and deciding what new trees and herbs to grow. 

In the lush valley I call home, plants play the role of food, medicine, fuel, shelter, and unofficial currency. In the six years I’ve lived here, they’ve also become close friends. I look forward to seeing them when I wake up in the morning, and love to hear them whispering all around me as I fall asleep at night. When nobody’s looking, I’ll sometimes talk to them, bury offerings of coffee beans near their roots, or pour out a small cup of tea just outside their dripline. And when I go to visit a waterfall or sacred site in a distant part of the valley, I’ll try to bring some flowers or ‘awa with me in the manner of a respectful guest. 

One of my neighbors, a basket weaver who is forever harvesting thin, sturdy roots and palm fronds for her work, is fond of saying that the valley where we live has “plant-dominant consciousness.” In her view, there are so many more plants than people in this remote and rugged part of the island that we can’t help but tune in to their mode of existence and be influenced by their constant presence.  

I’m delighted by the idea that my neighbors and I are outnumbered by plants, and that our thoughts, worries, and opinions leave little trace on the vast green consciousness that surrounds us. I love knowing that I’m a minority in this plant-dominated world, and that even if I live among them for the rest of my life, there will always be new things to discover and understand. Most of all, I love the beauty and serenity of an environment in which sunlight filters through banana leaves, geckos chase each other up and down the sugar cane, and human-made structures are few and far between. 

Of all the authors I’ve worked with since joining Hierophant Publishing, I think Wendy Dooner would enjoy this lush and remote patch of rainforest most of all—and she would almost certainly resonate with my neighbor’s ideas about plant-dominant consciousness. In her new book, Plant Spirit Herbalism: Discover the Power of Medicinal Herbs for Inner Transformation, she writes, “Shamanism taught me that herbs are so much more than the compounds we can extract from them. They are wise teachers and loving friends, and when we take the time to connect with them—not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually—our lives become much richer for it.” 

In Dooner’s experience, plants have distinct personalities, much like people—and like people, they’ll open up to us when we introduce ourselves, pay attention, and offer to be friends. The technical descriptions of herbs in Plant Spirit Herbalism are interspersed with stories of the ways they can show up for us on an emotional or spiritual level, and techniques for deepening our awareness of the varied and subtle ways they communicate. It’s clear that for Dooner, a walk in the woods or a stroll through a garden is an experience imbued with magic and meaning, every plant a living spirit with important wisdom to convey. 

However, this holistic perspective didn’t come easily to her. The child of New Age parents who were more partial to meditation and crystals than chemistry, Dooner rebelled as a teenager by studying plant science, physiology, pathophysiology, and herbal constituents. As a student at a four-year herbal medicine program at a local university, she reveled in wearing a white lab coat and looking at plants through microscopes. She writes, “I certainly had no time for what I considered the ‘woo-woo’ nonsense that some of my older classmates were discussing about herbs—their ‘energy,’ their ‘wisdom,’ and the ‘healing’ they could offer human beings that had nothing to do with their physical medicinal properties.” 

It was only after running her own herbal medicine clinic for several years that Dooner began to feel a tug towards a richer, fuller understanding of plants—and began to move from a relationship based on extraction to one characterized by loving reciprocity. In other words, she stopped using plants as objects, and started interacting with them as living beings. 

The shift from extraction to reciprocity is perhaps the key marker of growing maturity in human beings. This is true at both the practical and spiritual levels. As babies, we’re extraction machines: our only job is to take as much food and attention from our parents as we can, no matter how much sleep or stress it causes them. As we grow older, we slowly learn to share, help out, return favors, and consider our impact on others. Ideally, this process would continue at a consistent rate throughout our lives, so that by the time we reach middle age we’d be deeply oriented towards reciprocity, having left our extractive instincts far behind. 

However, this ideal is rarely easy to achieve—especially in a culture that teaches us to grab all that we can before someone else takes it, or to dismiss or minimize the existence of any type of consciousness that differs from our own. All too often, we limit our circle of empathy to include only our immediate friends and family: the people most like us, who speak our language, share our customs, and towards whom we most readily extend our assistance and concern. The people, plants, and animals who fall outside of that circle become abstractions: resources we extract, rather than friends we know. 

For thousands of years, spiritual traditions from around the world have taught the value of expanding our circle of empathy, whether by loving our neighbors, practicing hospitality towards strangers, sending compassionate kindness to all beings, or bringing respect and restraint to our relationships with animals and plants. It’s clear that we are meant to grow beyond the extractive tendencies which can be so automatic, and bring our full selves to every relationship, no matter how unfamiliar it may be. 

In Plant Spirit Herbalism, Dooner gives us tools for expanding our circle of empathy to the trees, plants, and herbs that surround us, no matter where we may live in the world. Whether it’s through journeys, offerings, rituals, or everyday conversations, Dooner shows that plants are more than mere matter to be steeped in a tea or mashed into a poultice, but friends and allies who can console, uplift, and inspire us every day of our lives. Far from simply relieving a headache or clearing up a rash, herbal medicines can also affect our minds, moods, and level of consciousness when we relate to them with reverence, curiosity, and respect.  

Although bringing plants into your circle of empathy may feel unfamiliar at first, it soon becomes second nature. As Dooner writes, “We are always in dialogue with other forms of consciousness, whether we realize it or not.” Recognizing this dialogue is the key to expanding your circle, and inviting new kinds of friendship into your life. 

As I edited Plant Spirit Herbalism, I loved to imagine Dooner strolling around her land in rainy Scotland, checking in with stands of nettle and lemon balm the way I check in with clumps of ginger and pineapple on my land almost seven thousand miles away. I’d love to know what she’d make of the enormous monkeypods, or what messages she’d hear from the kukui trees whose pale green nuts litter the forest floor. I imagine sitting down to a Sensory Tea Ceremony with her, a core practice she teaches in her book, and discovering all of the aspects of soursop leaf or mamaki I’d never noticed before. I have a feeling she’d know exactly what my basket weaving neighbor means when she talks about plant-dominant consciousness, and that she’d enjoy tromping through the forest with another neighbor of mine, looking for herbal medicines. 

For now, I will have to content myself with leafing through Dooner’s beautiful book, recalling the friendships I’ve shared with plants like nettle, elderberry, and dandelion when I lived on the mainland, and whose spirits, according to Dooner, are still available to guide and delight me no matter where I live in the world.  

This winter, may you all be surrounded by the wisdom of plants—and engage in the dance of reciprocity wherever you go. 

 

Sincerely, 

Hilary T. Smith 

Senior Editor, Hierophant Publishing 

 

 

Plant Spirit Herbalism CoverHerbs are powerful medicine. Cultures around the world have cultivated relationships with healing plants for thousands of years, respecting them not just for their physical medicinal properties, but also for their spiritual power. 

In this book, you will enter the world of what author and licensed medical herbalist Wendy Dooner calls Plant Spirit Herbalism—a rich, colorful landscape populated by benevolent plant spirits. Each chapter focuses on a specific herb, exploring its history, healing properties, and role as a spiritual ally. Every herb discussed grows in the world around you, from the humble dandelion to the stately rose.   

Dooner’s unique combination of scientific rigor and intuitive insight provides a holistic approach to working with herbs that honors both their capacity for physical healing and their power for spiritual transformation. With her expert guidance, you will: 

  • Create herbal preparations, including tinctures and flower essences 
  • Develop a personal connection to plant spirits, accessing their unseen healing properties 
  • Deepen your relationship with specific herbs through rituals and practical medicine-making 
  • Undertake plant spirit journeys to deepen your relationship with specific herbs 

Let Dooner be your guide on this journey as Plant Spirit Herbalism provides a fresh perspective on the natural world, inviting you to form deep and lasting relationships with the nurturing plant spirits which already surround you. 

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