“You are a warrior,” someone said to me some time ago. In the weeks and months that followed, this sentence became something of a crystallization point or connecting point for all kinds of fragments, like pieces of a puzzle suddenly falling into place.

There is a staff. Originally, years ago, back in Pfaffing, it was a gift, put into my hand with the words: “With this, you can get anywhere.” It stood on my altar for years without it becoming clear what exactly its role was – until it appeared in my journeys and became more and more connected to my own inner strength, deeply rooted on both sides of the fence and connected to the network of life. And even though this staff looks much less impressive than Gandalf's, in this context I often think of the scene on the bridge of Moria: “You shall not pass!” Gandalf does what is necessary at that moment – to avert disaster – what is right, fully aware that he himself may have to pay a price for it.

There are other scenes from books or films that revolve around the same theme and also appear during this period, such as “3:10 to Yuma”; in a way, “I Shot the Sheriff” too, a song that has always been very close to my heart in Eric Clapton's version.

"Coincidentally", there is a women's circle meeting during these very days that revolves around the archetype of the warrior. We are asked to imagine our inner warrior, and once again my staff and Gandalf come to mind. One participant says that she has always been forced to live as a warrior in order to survive; “I know how to use a knife.”

It's not about violence for violence's sake, certainly not, and violence is also something that is fundamentally very foreign to me. But in the case of the warrior, there is a level where it's about survival. More broadly, it's about choosing life, consciously, over and over again, even and especially in light of the stories I've encountered over the past two or three years. Choosing life again and again, despite all this. When I come to this realization, inner peace returns: “Yes, that's how it is, and I agree with it.” Almost as if in a feedback loop, it then becomes easier for me to accept the stories themselves. Somehow, that's how it has to be. I am alive. I can counter all of this with the fact that I have survived, that I am still alive.

And at least at times, there is also a deep, heartfelt gratitude, the kind my former teacher once described as “the gratitude that comes from God.” I serve life. That is the core, and I am so grateful to have finally arrived there. Ich diene dem Leben. Das ist der Kern, und ich bin so dankbar, dort endlich angekommen zu sein.

The decision for life and for being a warrior: both are relevant, both belong together. Both also mean accepting the stories. Regardless of whether these stories are “mine” from a biographical point of view or not, I have experienced them in my shamanic work and have gone through the emotions associated with them. This makes them my experiences – and the stories are therefore mine after all.

Im Kern geht es jedes Mal darum, das Richtige zu tunEssentially, it is always about doing the right thing, regardless of the price that has to be paid for this. This applies both to dealing with these stories and, in a broader sense, to shamanic work and working as a facilitator, as well as to how this work is done. It seems that sometimes I am indeed perceived as a warrior in this context.

Then, during a ceremony, there is a situation in which I have to retrieve parts of myself, of my soul. It feels as if I am trying to squeeze myself into my own body, and it takes an immense amount of energy, more than I have available at that moment. Very spontaneously, I say to Odin, who has appeared repeatedly in these ceremonies over the past few years and has also supported me on several occasions: “If you want me to fight for you, then I need your help to get these parts back.” Somehow that helps, and at that moment I realize that I have just made a decision: yes, I am a warrior. I do what is necessary, what is right, I fight for life, no matter what it costs me.

A little later in the same ceremony, something happens that I can only describe as a vision, especially because it was so completely unexpected and only indirectly related to the question I was asking at that moment. There is a small circle of people standing with their faces turned outward. The rest of the image remains unclear, but the feeling associated with it is absolutely unambiguous and does not change, even though I check the whole thing several times. It feels as if this circle is something like the last bastion, the last outpost of civilization or humanity, while literally everything around it is collapsing. These people stand there, doing their best, both as a community and as individuals, fighting for life, protecting it, regardless of the cost to themselves. They are deeply aware that there is no hope – and yet they fight, “they are going down fighting,” because it is the right thing to do and ultimately the only option. In the ceremony, I ask for “De Guello” to be played because this song expresses exactly this feeling, as well as the pain and longing associated with the story of the Alamo. At some point, I look up and am surprised to see that it is still light outside through the skylight, and it is both infinitely sad and somehow comforting at the same time. Another song that comes to mind, again by Clapton, is “Knockin' on Heaven's Door”: “It's getting dark, too dark to see.” I cry so much, wave after wave after wave, mourning all that we will inevitably lose, and at the same time I know that when the time comes, I will not cry, but do what is necessary. And that, too, is part of choosing life.

Another ceremony, a few weeks later. The music takes me back to a scene I had encountered six months earlier and had not understood at the time. During the siege of Acre in 1291, when the last Christian outpost in the Holy Land fell, I stood on the fortress wall as one of the defenders and threw myself to my death from there, my arms spread wide, sacrificing myself for Christianity because the situation was completely hopeless and desperate. A small group fought a losing battle for civilization (or, more precisely, for what this group considered to be civilization) because, in their view, it was the right thing to do, regardless of the personal price to be paid. And, paradoxically, this was also accompanied by a decision for life.

Somehow, it's as if I decided long, long ago to live this life as a warrior, and as if I have fought for civilization and for life over and over again ever since, fully aware of the complete hopelessness and the price to be paid. Again and again I had this task, again and again I chose it. (Oh, I know. In this life, I am not a Christian and I am well aware of the problems inherent in the Crusades. That too is a lesson: civilization is something very relative.)

There is another aspect that had already foreshadowed earlier and is clearly expressed in the image of the circle of people. I cannot do this alone; it is not possible alone. I need—and this ties in with my previous text, “Light”—a circle, a tribe of people, people who are witnesses and help me to hold on to the stories I mentioned. Sometimes this goes so far that these stories spill over, so to speak, to the others in this circle, and I am infinitely grateful for their support in this. As a warrior, I need a tribe. Even if everything is lost, I need to know that I am not alone when I fight for life. And I need a home to return to and from which I can set out again, also for shamanic and related work. That's how I felt when I came home from the “you are a warrior” weekend and indeed felt like a tired warrior. One last song, this time from “Supernatural,” a series that ultimately also deals with exactly such a circle and the fight for life: “Carry on Wayward Son” with the line “Lay your weary head to rest.” Exactly. And I am deeply grateful for all these kinds of homes.

(Spring 2023)