MOHALU: VILLAGE

Mohalu Village is a talk story circle that echoes the village of old: where no part of you is turned away, where you are safe to feel all that you feel, and where you can make the descent into the depths of your being to find wisdom and wholeness.

A 2 hour session typically looks like a Check-In, Doing Work, and Check-Out (and often weaves in poetry, music, breathwork, somatic meditations, laughter, and good ole talking-story). 

  • Check-In: One-by-one, people name an emotion they’re feeling and describe a part of themselves they are drawn to “do work” on. 

  • Doing Work: In the company of elders and the group, one person is given the space to feel the totality of their feelings, welcome any and all parts of themselves, and uncover their innate wisdom and wholeness. 

  • Check-Out: One-by-one, people share how “the work” they witnessed impacted them (what revelations, feelings, and questions it brought up for their own life).

Sit in a circle. Tell the truth. Find wholeness in feeling.

THE INVITATION

When is the last time you found yourself

Feeling with complete abandon -- no coping mechanisms, no armor? 

On the ground crying?

Roaring into the void?

Face-to-face with that feral creature called grief?


The system is designed to run away from feeling,

Addiction runs from emptiness and heartache,

Violence runs from sadness and shame,

Depression runs from self-suppression,

Towers of oppression fall when you stop running.


The Village's Eternal Chant:

There is no place I won’t go with you,

Into the dark: rage, grief, self-suppression,

Into the heavens: bliss, laughter, love,

I will not leave you. I am here with you.


Make your encounter in the village.

The village is so foreign to dominator societies that it cannot be understood by its armor-wearing minds. Allow this poem, with its metaphor and imagery, to take you beyond the mind’s walls, to the village: a place many have never been, but know deep down as home.

A POEM

I cross the threshold onto sacred ground, 

Into the village who has long called out to every shape of me, calling me home,

At its heart is the old white tree, a being beyond age, 

Among his roots, a hole in his trunk,

Where we make the descent, 

Carried by the blessings of our people, 

Going down into places too scary when entered from portals elsewhere,

Here I descend, 

Not to conquer, but to be conquered,

Remade in the dark.