This is the story of an experience I had several years before I met Grant McFetridge. The vision I was given that night put me on the path that prepared me to work with him.

I emerged from the darkness and heat of the sweatlodge, “the womb of our mother, the Earth,” into a moonlit night in July. For a moment, my mind engaged in considering whether to go and bathe in the nearby river as we had been invited to do, or find a place that would allow me to be in reflective solitude. But before I could move, I was pulled as though by an invisible rope to a chicory plant at the edge of the clearing. (It was the same chicory plant I had used for target practice with a primitive weapon two days ago.)

I found myself on my knees in front of the chicory. My hands went effortlessly into the soil around its roots and awareness of my physical surroundings disappeared. The spirit of chicory, the one who had called me to herself, commanded my full attention. She directed my awareness to other plants in the wild hedge beside the corn field, then to the hardwood forest on the hill on the other side of the field.

She said, “I speak for us all. Know us. Know that we are one with you. You need us, and we need you.”

There was much more than these words can convey: a loving connection accompanied by an invitation, an opportunity, an imperative. The communication felt like a summons to a commitment.

I had no idea how long I was on my knees, unaware of my surroundings or the movement of other people. When I came back to physical awareness, I was alone. During the time that I had been with the chicory, forty more people had emerged from the sweatlodge and disappeared into the night. How long was that? I did not know. It felt like seconds, but it must have been many minutes.

Hearing voices and laughter from the river, I walked toward the sound. But before I arrived at the river, I found myself turning left, down a dead end trail. A burdock plant taller than me said, “Do not go to the river. Pay attention to what the chicory told you.”

There was nothing more to do. I went to bed.

I had never entered sleep so quickly or slept so deeply. When I came awake, I was in the same position as when I lay down: on my belly, face to the right, arms limp at my sides.

I knew that I must go outside.

There was enough light to see, but the sun was not yet up. How long had I slept? One hour? Four hours? It was well after dark when I went to bed, and dawn came early at that time of year.

I walked out into the cornfield that surrounded the teaching area. There was a small clearing where the corn was stunted. I had been called here for a reason, to be given the next step after my encounter with the chicory. Overwhelmed with emotion, tears flowing on my face, I lifted my face up and asked what I was to learn.

My eyes were closed. I was surrounded by a dark sky, feeling as though I had been transported somewhere far from the cornfield. Across the darkness, in bright silver script, I saw the word “patience.” With that word came a message of affirmation and reassurance.

There was more. I was told that I would need to be patient. I understood also that I was to learn and hold a vision of spiritual connection with the natural world. This connection would require me to know all beings in the world around us both spiritually and physically. I was to work with those other beings and with my human relatives in service of the beauty, mutual commitment and possibility for wholeness that we share.

I was to bring this vision to the people I was teaching and to many others, in ways I could not yet conceive of. I would need to do this with the patience that deep learning and a deep transformation require, both for me and for those whose lives I would touch.

This would be the work of a lifetime, perhaps many lifetimes.

I returned to my bed and slept soundly until the call came to rise for breakfast.