Dreams and Reality

Siberian Summer with Shamans and the Mountain Spirits

I was born and raised in a modern industrial Siberian city. The world around me

was simple and familiar, like a blanket on a grandmother’s bed. Never had I thought that

in my early thirties I would find myself on the opposite side of Mother Earth, in America

– and then that I would return to Siberia many years later to restore a spiritual connection

with my homeland.

The country of my childhood dreams, the great American land, freed my spirit. I

listened to the voices of the land, and they greatly inspired me. They guided me to the

place where beauty and the spirit were One. They guided me to my true path. The right

teachers came into my life. They passed on to me their wisdom and knowledge, and the

light of awareness opened my vision. I found my true Self - I remembered who I was. I

had the heart of a Siberian woman, compassionate and brave, and I had the blood and the

energy of my Mongolian and Russian ancestors-healers. I was becoming a healer.

My Qi-Gong meditations, intertwined with shamanic practices, filled my life with

visions, messages, and synchronistic events. During one of my meditations, an image of

three burning circles came into my vision. I was high above the land, and the Great Eagle

carried me toward the burning circles. It wasn’t long, before a profound clairvoyant

experience with a 160 year-old shamanic staff granted to me strength and a clear vision

of the Great Eagle. The time had come to enter the first burning circle.

The land of Siberia came into my vision, and I knew that I was supposed to go

back to my homeland with a mission. I saw myself with my friends, Native American

shamans and healers, and we were joining hands with Siberian shamans. We were uniting

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our energies to heal the Earth, giving humanity one more chance to open and heal their

hearts.

ONGON ceremony – journey to the Upper World

In May 2001, I contacted a small group of young people in the Chita region of

Siberia who organize trips into the Siberian wilderness and to shamanic sites. After some

communication via Internet, I received an email with exciting news: I was invited to a

private shamanic ONGON ceremony. It was the kind of ceremony that people are seldom

invited to attend, and there was no question in my mind as to whether I should go.

The journey to Siberia wasn’t easy - it took two days to get to the place of my

destination. But overall, it was a beautiful, heart warming experience! Everyone I met on

the way put all their hearts and effort to help me in all ways possible. I was back home,

back to the land where people treat each other as though all of them are the members of

one big family.

I was expected by Mongolian and Buryat* shamans, and when I arrived, I was

greeted and welcomed with an incredible hospitality and warmth. The local Buryat

women invited me to a fully prepared dinner with rich Siberian food. First they fed me,

then we exchanged our presents – the ceremony was already in progress.

The ONGON ceremony is a traditional way for Mongolian and Siberian shamans

to go on a journey and meet with the spirits of the Upper World. It is a private ceremony

for a shaman, and the right energies around the ceremony are a crucial requirement for

the success of the shaman’s journey.

I stayed with the Buryat shamans for four days and on the last day of the

ceremony, the spirit of my Mongolian ancestor, Zarin, came into the body of a woman

shaman and talked through her. Zarin told me that I was chosen by the spirits to become a

shaman-healer.

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The ONGON ceremony was over, but I didn’t feel that my journey was complete.

There was one more place I had to go. I listened, and the answer came through a local

woman. “You can’t leave without visiting Alhanai,” she told me after the ceremony.

The destination of my journey had narrowed to a unique and mysterious land in

the mountains of the southern part of Siberian wilderness. Three years ago, Alhanai was

declared a National Park. This land was recognized as one of the few places in the world

that had been chosen by our gods to become a site of hope for the human race. It carried a

hidden magical power, and some of Alhanai sites were famous for their healing waters

and healing stones. The Alhanai Mountains were covered by endless forest where unique

springs produced a rejuvenating force, arshaan. This water could heal muscles and bones

and return strength and beauty lost with age. From Russian fairy tales this water was

known as “water, which brings life back”.

*Buryats are belong to Mongolian nationality

A ceremony to meet spirits of Alhanai Mountain

Once I arrived in the land of Alhanai Mountain, a local forest worker showed me

a trail to the mountain. “It is not a difficult trail,” he said, then paused and with a strange

look in his eyes, added: “But anything can happen on your way.” And indeed, not long

after I had stepped on the mountain trail, strange things began to happen. The trail

suddenly disappeared: there was nothing in front of me, nor was there a trace of the trail

behind me. I found myself in the middle of a dense forest, puzzled and lost, and hesitant

to move at all. A strange sensation was growing inside of me as if the spirits were

watching my every step and my every thought. I kept walking, but I wasn’t certain where

I was or where I was going. From then on I had to follow my intuition.

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I was by myself in the deep forest, the taiga, where you can go for days without

meeting a soul. However, the spirits of the land were all around me, watching and

patiently waiting for me to clear up my destructive thoughts and to start listening. And I

began to listen. “Look to the direction of this fallen tree. It is your direction. The bird that

flew above. Follow the bird.” With no doubts, I was guided to the place where I was

supposed to perform my ceremony.

After wandering in the forest without any sensation of time, I entered an open

space with a rocky pedestal that had naturally formed in the middle. I climbed to the top,

and to my astonishment, found an absolutely flat surface. It was as if someone had

flattened and cleaned it specifically for my ceremony. I gave thanks to the spirits for their

guidance, and after a short preparation began my ceremony.

My regular Qi-Gong practice and some knowledge of shamanic rituals allowed

me to go into a deep trance without the aid of hallucinogens or drumming. I started my

shamanic journey. Drifting upwards effortlessly, I found myself above the forest-covered

mountain ranges of Siberia; above the blue ribbons of rivers and the splashes of crystal

pure lakes. I felt the wind rushing into my face as I was climbing higher and higher into

the sky. At the same time I was growing bigger and bigger compared to the size of the

mountains, experiencing their strength and power. I entered a beam of golden light that

was streaming from above, from the cosmic space. It was creating a channel of

communication between the two worlds.

The Spirit of Alhanai appeared in my vision in four different forms: as a bear, a

deer, a young beautiful woman, and an old Mongol. Later, I interpreted the four different

forms as a representation of the mountain’s strength, vulnerability, beauty and wisdom.

The spirit of the Alhanai made three requests. First, he asked for a shaman to

come back to the mountains. A shaman as a mediator between the physical world and the

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world of spirits historically was a protector and a healer for people and the land. Without

a shaman the land and the people could be easily mistreated. The healing energy of the

land would disappear, as well as the culture of an indigenous people – their wisdom,

knowledge, and unique healing practices. The spirit of Alhanai requested a shaman with

the name Bator. In Buryat’s language “Bator” means “a powerful man”.

The second request of the Alhanai was to establish a ceremony for those who

enter the sacred space of the mountains. The ceremony had to open people’s hearts, clean

destructive energies, and awaken people’s spirits. The Native American purification

ceremony could serve this purpose.

The third request of Alhanai was to control the number of people who entered the

area. A system of regulation hadn’t been established in the park yet, and the widespread

news about the unique healing power of the land attracted more and more people.

However, in case we were unable to protect the land ourselves, Alhanai would wake up

the protective power of his spirits.

When I was leaving the place of my ceremony, I was drawn to look back. Above

the rocky pedestal the clouds have formed a face with a striking resemblance to the face

of the old Mongol. I stood there for a while looking at the smiling face, absorbing

mysterious energy of Alhanai and smiling back.

I asked myself why I had been guided to this sacred place. Why had I been chosen

to receive the messages of the Alhanai Mountain? Then the answer came: I was myself a

bear, a deer, a young beautiful woman and a wise man with Mongolian blood. I was

chosen to receive the messages and to pass them on to other people who had big and

compassionate hearts, who cared about the land and its people, and who could make a

difference in this world.

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The gate to the parallel world

As my Alhanai journey continued, I needed a place to stay for one more night.

The forest worker, who I met before, introduced me to a healer: “Slava will host you for

tonight. He is a good man and a very interesting person to talk to.” The young man was

as big and as strong as a bear, but his whole presence emanated kindness and hospitality.

Slava shook my hand with a kind and shy expression. “I live 1.5 kilometres from here, in

izbushka*,” he told me. “We can either walk there or we’ll have to look around for a

ride.”

Slava lived in a log cabin made out of whole trunks of pine trees. His companions

were a cat, a dog and a rooster. Everything inside was made out of wood except for a

huge Russian pechka** that was sitting in the middle of the room, occupying most of the

cabin’s space. My bed was a simple bench covered with a thick wool blanket.

Our conversation circled around a subject that we were both fascinated about –

Tibetan medicine. The time was streaming in a relaxed flow and a semi-dark room

magically transformed and stretched into the endless space of Siberian taiga. At one

point, we shifted our conversation in the direction of shamanism. “I want to give you a

present,” Slava suddenly said. He took something from a shelf and handed it to me. On

his big palm lay an ancient toli, a shamanic disk which shamans use for healing and wear

for protection. It was something I could not have even dreamed of having.

Slava was happy to see my delight. “You are a very special person, Galina.

Tomorrow morning I am going to bring you to a place that only a few people know

about. It is called Podkova (Horseshoe).” Slava told me a story about the place. At the

end of the 19th century, 33 black shamans gathered at Podkova to perform a ceremony.

Among them was a llama. There was nothing unusual about the event, but the next day

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all 33 shamans were found dead, and the llama was missing. I asked Slava for more

information. He gave me a strange look. “Tomorrow, wait for tomorrow.”

The next morning we ate a simple breakfast of pancakes with pickled cucumbers

and left the cabin. There was no trail to Podkova. I followed Slava, brushing against high

grasses, bushes and prickly tree branches. An open space suddenly appeared. We were

standing at the top of high cliffs which had formed a canyon with the shape of a

horseshoe. Looking straight out below us, as far as we could see, stretched green waves

of the Siberian forest. “Here it is,” Slava said in a soft voice. “This is the place.” He

paused, listening to the surrounding sounds, then turned to me. “I am going to leave you

now, but I’ll be close by. I just want you to feel the place.”

As I closed my eyes, I experienced a beam of cosmic light streaming from above.

It was the same light I have seen on my shamanic journey. The beam was penetrating

Podkova and, thanks to the canyon’s shape, was spreading to the whole area of Alhanai.

“Podkova works as a transmitter,” came into my mind. I opened my eyes and looked

around. Slava was waiting for me nearby. “I want to show you a cave,” he said and

offered his hand for support. We moved around Podkova descending to the lower level.

The cave was small and so narrow that only one person could fit comfortably

inside. Closing my eyes, I had no clue as to what was going to happen next. I was

immediately taken high above the area, and found myself approaching a big shiny

opening. “It is a gate to the parallel reality,” it suddenly flushed through my mind. I was

drawn to enter the opening, but there was something frightening about it. Feeling

cautious, I pulled myself back and opened my eyes.

As I came out of the cave, and looked at Slava, I saw a silent question in his eyes.

“Podkova is the gate to the parallel reality,” I said. Slava nodded in agreement: “That’s

right. This gate had been used by the local shamans for centuries. A hundred years ago 33

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black shamans*** lived on this land, and there also were some llamas, who came from

Mongolia. When llamas first arrived, they were fascinated with beauty and power of

Alhanai Mountains. They wanted to stay on this land, but 33 shamans were on their way.

A tension of competition began to grow between llamas and the shamans. They were

competing over their influence on the local population.”

Trying not to miss a word, I quietly lowered myself on a rock next to Slava.

“During ceremonies shamans were communicating with the other dimensions,” Slava

continued, his eyes looking deep into the mysterious past. “They were bringing back

wisdom and the mystical power of the Higher Consciousness. But since the departure of

33 shamans, the gate to the parallel reality remained closed for a century. The angry

spirits of 33 shamans blocked the gate.”

Slava paused and then looked at me: “The legend says the spell will be broken

when 33 white shamans**** come to this place. As they join their hands and create a

circle with Podkova, the love of their hearts will reach the spirits. The gate to the parallel

reality will be open again and the white shamans will be given wisdom, strength, and an

answer on how to protect our world and how to help humanity.”

I listened to Slava, goose bumps all over my body. It took me a few moments

before I spoke. “Slava,” I said quietly, “I had a vision of such a ceremony. A chain of

synchronistic events brought me here.”

“The time has come to reopen the gate, Galina.” Slava was looking straight into

my eyes. Then he repeated again: “The time has come. We can't wait any longer.” He

stood up and offered his hand: “We have to go now. Otherwise, you'll be late for your

bus.”

* A Russian style log cabin

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** A traditional Russian wood stove with an oven made of bricks*** Black shamans mostly perform rituals and ceremonies and are not engaged in healing**** White shamans are mostly engaged in healing

The Higher Plan

I picked up my backpack from Slava’s cabin, and a few minutes later we were on

a dirt road, walking back to the campground. Completely immersed in his thoughts, Slava

hiked like a soldier, stepping firmly on a dusty surface, as if he was measuring a distance.

I tried to keep pace with him but it wasn’t easy. “A bus from Duldurga to Aginskoe

leaves at two o’clock,” he said finally breaking a long silence. “It would be pure luck if

you find a ride to Duldurga on time.”

I had to be back to Aginskoe by tonight. A shaman Luba who invited me initially

to the ONGON ceremony, later extended her invitation for another ceremony, which was

taking place the next day. A family of local Buryats asked Luba to establish

communication with the spirits of their ancestors. Some members of this big family,

mostly children, fell ill for no particular reason, and a young mother had repeated dreams

about her deceased grandfather who used to be a shaman. In the process of the ceremony

Luba had to play the role of a mediator, retrieving messages from the spirits and passing

them on to the family. I was thrilled to witness the fascinating process of this ceremony,

but at the same time I felt relaxed, accepting any outcome. I surrender to the Higher Plan.

There was no ride to Duldurga. Thirty minutes remained before a bus would leave

Duldurga to Aginskoe. “You are going to miss it,” Slava mentioned casually. “Looks

like,” I sighed and turned my eyes away from the road. A green jeep appeared from out

of nowhere. Brakes squealed, and a thick cloud of dust covered the car. In the next

moment I saw two friendly male faces looking at me from the front seat. The men waited

patiently as I approached them.

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“Zdravstvuite,” I greeted the men. “Where are you heading?”

“To Duldurga," the driver said. "Do you need a ride?”

“Yes, I do. I have to catch the two o’clock bus to Aginskoe. Can we make it?”

“Of course, we’ll make it,” the driver said, cleaning up the back seat.

The ride appeared as unexpectedly as if it was dropped from the sky. I ran back to

grab my backpack and stopped by Slava. Suddenly he looked lost. He was tormented

with something that was unspoken. With his head bent down he carefully explored the

road beneath his feet. “Slava, I have to go. I am sorry… I hope I'll see you again.” I

hugged my new friend and paused for a moment. Not receiving a sign from him, I sighed

and slowly walked to the car. One more time I looked back, silently asking Slava to raise

his head and to give me one of his gentle smiles, but he kept standing motionless with his

head down. I hopped into the car, and with a clicking sound of the shutting door, the

driver pushed the gas pedal.

It was a wild ride. A fast ride comes from our Russian and Mongolian blood. If

you, my American reader, think that you are a crazy driver, forget it. Go to Russia and

experience a ride with a local driver. If you think, that you know what a bad road is,

forget it as well. Go to Siberia to experience it in its fullest. Only then will you know the

true meaning of a wild ride! Russian drivers are used to the rough roads as much as to a

rough life. They don't slow down in sight of bumps and holes, instead, they keep a steady

speed and move to the opposite side of the road, because from their point of view that

side always looks better than the side they drive on.

We arrived in Duldurga right on time. When our jeep approached the bus station,

my bus showed up directly behind us. With a humming vibration in my tailbone, I

crawled out of the jeep graciously thanking the men. No doubt, they were employed by

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the Mountain Spirits to play their important role in a chain of synchronistic events of my

Siberian journey.

The two-hour drive in a hot and noisy bus full of dust, luggage and people, awoke

vivid memories about life in Russia. The whole way to Aginskoe I stood on my feet,

sometimes on one foot only, trying to keep balance in my body and mind. Later I told my

American friends: “If you want to survive in Russia, you have to accept the situation, and

you have to adapt to it as much as you can. Besides that, it is important not to lose your

sense of humor.”

Finally, the long-awaited village appeared in a far distance. Images of the first

houses were swaying in hot air as if I was seeing a mirage. I arrived in Aginskoe, the

capital of Buryatiya.

The summer is hot and dry in Buryatiya. In the afternoon you find yourself under

the attack of a direct sun glaring mercilessly from the above. At the same time, heavy

waves of heat rise from dry and dusty roads. It feels as if your brain is melting, and your

whole body is on fire.

I was looking for the house of Zeremzhit, a Buryat woman who I have met at the

ONGON ceremony. Zeremzhit willingly agreed to host me after the ceremony. She was a

school teacher, and there was no problem in finding her house. Local kids, at first

interrupting each other and then in unison, gave me a clear direction to the house of their

teacher. As soon as I saw and greeted Zeremzhit, I expressed to her my desperate need

for banya. Streams of sticky sweat mixed with a day-thick dust made my body cry for a

good scrub. “Do you know anyone who has banya?” I asked my hostess with hope. “Let

me call some of my neighbors,” Zeremzhit said with a joyful expression on her face. She

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was happy to have me back.

A few minutes later she called for me: “Galina, get ready. My neighbors are

preparing banya for you.” On our way to the neighbors' house, I learned from my hostess

that we were invited to the house of Bator, a newly initiated shaman. Everything was

unfolding according to the Higher Plan.

Bator

After exchanging greetings, Bator’s wife, a petite smiling woman asked me to

follow her. She walked toward a squat log cabin, which was sitting behind the main

house. When she opened a low and heavy door, a familiar aroma of herbs and birch

leaves mixed with dry heat, reached my senses, and my whole body relaxed in

anticipation of a heavenly experience.

Banya is an inalienable attribute of Russia. It is unlikely that the Russian nation

would survive debilitating wars, hardship of life and rough climate without the healing

and rejuvenating power of banya. Banya restores our health by cleansing our body,

relaxing our mind, strengthening and lifting up our spirit.

A wood stove with a pile of river rocks on the top

was red from the heat. I scooped up a full dipper of hot water and poured it on the rocks.

The water hissed wildly through the rocks’ surface and a dense hot wave enveloped my

body. I reached for venik* which soaked in a bucket filled with hot water, and after

shacking excess water off, pressed hot branches against my chest. Leaves were soft and

emitting a healing aroma. I stroked and whipped my body with hot branches, adding

more and more steam to the room, until all pores of my body opened up to the healing

heat. I scrubbed and washed myself completely immersed in a pleasure of a well prepared

banya. At the end, I poured a full bucket of cold water over my head – the washing

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ceremony was completed. I felt light and pure from inside out like a newborn baby.

Bator and his family waited for me. As I walked into the house, a happy smile on

my face red from the healing heat, Zeremzhit and I were invited to join the family for a

dinner. We sat around a fully served table, and Bator started his story: “This afternoon I

was supposed to be at the ceremony, but my car broke down and nobody could give me a

ride. I didn't know what to think. I just knew that it happened for a reason.”

I listened to Bator with a smile and, when he finished, I replied: “The spirits were

holding you because I was on my way to bring you a message.” I told Bator about my

shamanic journey of meeting the Mountain Spirits. At the end, I passed along the

message, “Alchanai asked for you, Bator.”

The whole family went quiet. Even a 9-month old baby, Bator's grandchild, froze

up in the middle of his play with his mouth wide open. Bator broke the silence: “It is an

honor and a big responsibility to be the chosen one, and I want to tell you my story how I

became a shaman.” He poured some tea in a tea cup and began his story.

“I just started my path as a shaman. In other words, I accepted it. I had no choice.

I used to be..,” he paused and looked at his family for support and then continued. “I used

to be a KGB officer. Besides other things, we were obligated to persecute any forms of

religion including shamanism. I was a good officer and had a high rank, but something

strange happened to me two years ago. I had a dream. That dream was as vivid as the

reality itself. My grandfather, who used to be a shaman, came to me in my dream. He

said that a spell was put on our family, so no one would practice shamanism for 100

years. Then he said that 100 years had passed, the spell is broken and the spirits are free

again. “Your time has come,” the grandfather told me. I woke up in the morning

remembering every detail of that dream. Back then I had no idea what that dream was

about.

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I fell ill not long after that night. I lost sleep. Every night voices were talking to

me. Every morning I had to bring myself together so I could function at work. At lunch I

would lock the door in my office and sleep for a couple hours. I started to lose weight,

and I felt completely exhausted. However, I was tough. For almost two years I had been

pretending that nothing has happened. My family found out first, and then my co-

workers. After 20 years of working for the KGB, I was fired on the spot.”

Bator poured more hot tea in his cup, sipped it a few times and then continued:

“The spirits forced me to become a shaman. There was no escape, except to die. But I

loved my family so much, I couldn't hurt them. I had no other choice, so I accepted my

destiny. We found an old shaman who agreed to perform a ceremony. After that

ceremony I slept solidly through the whole night. It was the first time after two years.

Gradually my health and strength returned.”

“This is my story,” Bator said, smiling. He was looking at his grandchild who had

fallen asleep in his mother's arms. The shaman's eyes were full of love and warmth. “I am

much happier now. The spirits know better about what you need in your life. They still

talk to me but our communication is different now. They bring me messages and I pay

back with respect.”

At the end of our dinner, Bator stood up and walked toward a bookshelf. He took

something from the shelf and came back to the table. In his hands a small light-brown

horse was galloping across a grassy step. It was a captured moment of beauty and grace.

“This horse is made out of cedar,” Bator said stroking the smooth back of the horse with

his finger. “I like to work with cedar. A fresh smell of the cedar tree stays with the craft

work for a long time.” He brought the figure to his face and deeply inhaled the smell.

“I want to give this horse to you as a present,” Bator said. “You have a strong

connection with the horses. It came from your Mongolian life. There is something else…

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I saw konovyas** in connection with you. Men usually have this connection.”

“What does it mean?” I asked Bator.

“It means that very powerful spirits have been working with you,” Bator said and handed

me the horse.

*A bungle made of birch branches

** A hitching post

The spirits are knocking on your door

While carefully stepping around splashes of cow’s dung, I already pictured myself

in Zeremzhit’s house, stretching out on a comfortable bed that Zeremzhit has prepared for

me. I could feel the softness of the dawn pillow under my cheek. For eight nights straight

I haven't had a proper rest. The first night I sat for ten hours in the most uncomfortable

airplane seat, and the next night wasn’t any better. I had to take a train from Irkutsk to

Chita, and the whole night my body was jerked and pulled across a firm bench on the

Siberian Express. Then there were three nights at the site of the ONGON ceremony,

where we had just 3-4 hours of a night sleep. A few more nights I spent in the wilderness,

and the last night on a wooden bench in Slava's cabin. A thin wool blanket on top of the

bench didn’t make it any softer, and I was twisting and turning the whole night, regretting

that I didn’t have any extra padding on my hips.

When we approached Zeremzhit’s house, I saw a few local Buryat women lined

up by the front door. I looked at my hostess with a surprise and a silent question. She

seemed a little embarrassed. “Galina,” she said with a guilty smile, “I know you are tired,

but I hope you don't mind to work a little bit with my friends. I told them about you and

how you helped me with your healing. If I didn't tell them that you are staying with me,

they would call me selfish. They would say that I wasn’t a good friend, because I didn't

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want to share. Can you help them a little bit?” she asked with hope.

Zeremzhit was so honest and thoughtful in her attempt not to offend her women

friends that I forgave her. She cared about my needs as well, but at the same time, she

was eager to share my presence and my gifts with others with the pride of a hostess, who

was given a rare chance to be in the short time possession of a special guest. This 55-year

old woman reminded me of a child, who unexpectedly received a special present, and

because of that felt special as well. I couldn't say “No”.

I don't remember much of what happened next. I listened to the women, talked

and made movements with my hands… Faces and stories were changing without leaving

a trace. Just one story stayed.

One of Zeremzhit’s friends developed a number of strange physical and

mental symptoms over a period of two years. I remember that after listening to the

woman’s story, I told her: “The spirits are knocking on your door, but you don't hear

them.”

“I do,” the woman replied. “I hear a knock on my door every night. I open the door but

nobody is there.”

“I am sorry,” I said to her with compassion. “I can't help you. There is just one

way for you to get well. You have to drop your resistance to the spirits and accept a new

way of life.”

My work was completed. Extremely tired, but at the same time, feeling happy and

content, I finally closed my eyes - I didn’t have to make an agonizing attempt to open

them again. A soft pillow appeared from nowhere and reached my cheek. I was sinking

deeper and deeper into the valley of dreams, where dreams and reality finally merged

together.

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How many of us still keep our resistance to the changes which come our way?

Many of us say: “We are not happy where we are, but at least this place is familiar.”

Don't wait, my friends, when the spirits start knocking on your door. Don't be afraid of

the changes. Open your door and let the fresh wind of a new life inside.

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