Sex and Swordplay

From Menletter August 2007

By Sparrow Hart

Chapter I

In 1999 my daughter, Prairie, graduated from college, and I turned 50. To celebrate, she suggested participating in a vision quest with me as her guide, followed by three weeks' traveling and hiking around the Southwest. During the last leg of that summer adventure, we backpacked close to a hundred miles through the Gila Wilderness in southwestern New Mexico. It was a sweet adventure that included river crossings, bear and rattlesnake encounters, and crashing thunderstorms that seemed to make the rocks themselves tremble.

One day, about sixty miles in, we descended a steep side canyon along a creek that flowed into the Gila River, and then proceeded to hike the trail upstream along the Gila. It was mid to late morning when we spied a couple hombres on horses approaching us. Slouched down in their saddles, rifles sticking out of slings, these two young men seemed to have ridden right out of the movie "Deliverance." They sported missing teeth, slurred words, and a drawl, and we could barely understand a word they said. After a few moments they moved on.

A half mile later, Prairie said, "Dad, those guys scared me," and we spoke about them as we walked and negotiated the river crossings. Later that day, hiking along the south side of the river, I found my mind wandering in fantasies of being stalked or attacked in the wilderness. I imagined moving through the darkness, scouting out the hostile cowboy encampment, and carrying a large sheath knife to defend myself. The knife was a Buck, broad and sturdy, with a thick, easy-to-grip handle, and a six-inch stainless steel blade.

My war-games reverie was interrupted when a red-tailed hawk swooped low over my head, screeching. It immediately climbed in altitude and appeared to perch in a tree high up the steep hillside to my right. I felt it as a sign of some sort. Maybe there was another trail, a nest, or something I was supposed to find up there - so I laid down my backpack and scrambled up the hillside toward the tree where I thought it had gone. I did cross another, older trail, and as I continued up toward my destination I spied something in front of me and off to the right. There, lying on the ground, was the knife - exact in every detail - that I had been fantasizing mere minutes before.

Chapter II

I have a dear friend, Larry, who is on staff with me at the Men's Wisdom Council, a week-long workshop at the Rowe Conference Center in Massachusetts each June. Each year we take a myth and use it to guide the deep soul encounters we create for the men in the program. This year Larry called me Odysseus, told me I challenged him to be more than he knew he could be, and said I was a mentor for him and the best man he knew. Heady praise, but I knew I wasn't Odysseus.

The Odyssey is one of the great myths of our history. On one level it is the tale of a man, Odysseus, wanting to return home to his land, wife, and son after ten years of war. But in another sense it is a tale about all men, the masculine encounter with the feminine, and the search to find that balance of strength, courage, and softness in order for those encounters with women to go well.

Odysseus has a problem. He's been away for ten years, camped out on a dusty plain with 50,000 Greek soldiers laying siege to Troy. This isn’t a pretty sight. This encampment - larger than any city in Vermont - reeks with the frustration of ten years' stalemate on the battlefield, the daily carnage and disposing of bodies, the smell of horses, oxen, and latrines . . . not a place devoted to the feminine virtues. Odysseus is a great warrior. He's wily, crafty, and courageous - it's he who devises the plan of the wooden horse - but the qualities needed to lay siege to Troy and brave the ordeals and dangers of a long sea voyage home are not those that will make him a good husband, father, and king. From war to peace, masculine to feminine. . . . How will they ever learn to dance together?

The Odyssey depicts the hero's journey home. This journey takes ten years, and the long voyage includes encounters with many different countenances of the feminine. Odysseus braves the temptations of the sirens, those fair faces whose haunting songs would lure him and his boat to sure destruction. (Many men - self included - have known women like that.) Odysseus plugs the ears of his crew and ties himself to the mast, ordering his men not to unshackle him even as he begs for release. Another scene finds him stranded for eight years on an island with lovely Calypso, a woman who keeps him in her abode, loves him dearly, and would give him anything but his freedom.

One encounter involves Circe, a beautiful and dangerous witch. Odysseus and his men come to shore to rest and renew themselves. Later, he sends out a search party to explore the island. Circe invites the men into her palace, wines and dines them, and slips them potions, which turn them into swine. She pens them in a sty, feeding them acorns while they suffer the disgrace of knowing, while being unable to change their vile state.

Odysseus hears of this and rushes out to save his men. On his way, he meets Hermes - god of the caduceus and guide of initiations - who gives him an herb to resist Circe's spells. Circe's attempts to bewitch Odysseus fail, whereupon he draws his sword and stands before her. In that magic moment - "the sunlight glinting on the blade," - Circe falls in love with this man who not only can resist her enchantments, but could destroy her and doesn't.

Odysseus represents the masculine standing its ground. He draws his sword - a sign he's to be reckoned with. He doesn't rush forward to slaughter, but he enacts an oath that Circe will cease her spells and return his men to their natural state. She invites him to her bed, the beginning of a lovely year together, and later on uses her magic to help him find his way to the underworld. The dark and demonic aspect of the goddess has been transformed to guide and helper.

Larry's words were kind, but he knew me mostly in my leadership role among men. But in other arenas I had yet to show my sword, and I'd been living for many years in Circe's pen.

Chapter III

This past week I had the good fortune to take a workshop called "Sexuality and Spirituality." I had my intentions and ideas about what I was hoping for, but I didn't know what to expect. Like any workshop, it was a mixed bag of planned and unplanned encounters with myself and other participants, thirteen men and thirteen women. What I want to report on is the ritual of Friday night.

In one part of the building the ladies were to create a "Woman's Temple" with candles, mattresses, sarongs, statues of gods and goddesses, while the men did the same at the other end of this rambling former inn. One by one, for fifteen minutes each, a man would be escorted to the Woman's Temple, while a woman was simultaneously brought to the Male Space. There, you would be encouraged to request anything - whatever you wanted the women (or men) to give to you for your fifteen minutes. You could propose something erotic, ask to confess and be forgiven, to be healed, affirmed, whatever . . . and all who were willing to respond to your request would step up to be part of it.

I found this challenging, and at first drew a blank. I neither wanted to compete with the other men for the "coolest" request, nor did I want to consider what the women might find pleasing or acceptable. I sat for a long time to find the thing that would both be challenging and meaningful to me. Finally it came.

When my time arrived, I was escorted through the building to the Woman's Temple. I stepped into a beautiful, carpeted room rife with incense, fabrics, and candles. In the center was a mattress surrounded by pillows and twelve women in sensuous and erotic dress. They asked me what I wanted.

I asked them to accompany me outside, where I had arranged wrestling mats in a large circle. Then I spoke. I spoke of the little boy whose mother had constantly repeated "Don’t talk back!" and "Children should be seen and not heard." I spoke of the bo'ys father who beat him whenever he "upset his mother." I spoke of college and feminist friends who railed against angry and aggressive men. I told them of the kind and thoughtful man, asking his partner for certain rules about creating safety and handling conflict. I spoke of how that man struggled to remain calm while his partner ignored his requests, hurling blame and shame at him; how he tried too listen past all that to determine what she really needed and wanted, and then would pull the daggers out of his heart for days.

I told the women I was going to take off my clothes and stand in the center of the circle. I asked that they join me on the mat and try to put me down - to physically put me down on the ground while putting me down verbally. I asked them to do their best to provoke my anger and that I wanted them to see it.

And the fun began. Six or seven women stripped off their jewelry and came at me. And I came back, hard. As they grabbed, grappled, and pushed I was in their faces. I swore at them, baited them to "do better than that." I threw, yanked, pushed, and hurled them left and right. After five minutes I still hadn't hit the ground, so I backed off a bit, let them get me there, and then I threw them off to stand again. Later, when they and I were both exhausted, I walked around the circle and looked each in the eye. I told them that this game I'd been playing with women was over. A new song was about to be sung.

I also asked for feedback, and within the time limits of that night and throughout the next day, women came up and spoke to me. A couple told me I'd scared them. Several said they'd loved it, loved meeting a man willing to really push back. Some said watching it turned them on. They all loved the risk in my request.

One woman confessed that she always chose nice men that she could dominate, and she would take advantage of any man who didn't stop her. Eventually she would leave them. "If they stand up to me and don't let me get away with my shit, I know I have to take them seriously," she said. Another told me, "All week I've thought you were a really yummy man - smart, in touch, articulate - but I felt there was something missing, something almost physical. I saw it tonight. Don’t lose it."

I was surprised, pleasantly surprised, raucously surprised. I showed my anger to women and didn't get exiled. I didn't get called the bad guy. In fact they mostly liked it. And what matters even more is that I liked it. I'm still swirling in the headiness of it.

Conclusion

So Larry, thank you. This week I unsheathed the sword and showed it. And remarkably, it was brilliant and reflected light. The sword is about truth, my truth. The sword is about consciousness that cuts through the bullshit.

I feel that Odysseus has finally landed. He's come home and is now ready to take up his throne. It feels good. And this morning I took that Buck knife - a magical gift from eight years ago, shiny silver in its stainless steel - and moved it to the center of my altar. I'm going to keep it there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sparrow Hart has been leading workshops, vision quests, and rites of passage across the US for the last 15 years, and has undertaken over 20 quests of his own. He is a creator of the Mythic Warrior training program, a writer and counselor, and teaches courses and workshops on shamanism, the hero's journey, and finding the path with heart. He co-founded and leads the annual Men's Wisdom Council in western Massachusetts. Sparrow is a father, lover of the spirit, and dedicated to the task of bringing the ancient teachings into the modern world. You can learn more about his work at http://www.questforvision.com/, or by writing him at sparrow@together.net.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~