The Future Remembers Us
A Journey Through Aniwa
I arrived two days late. I had to get an early morning Harbin soak in before the Aniwa Gathering. Guided by intuition, with a tiny bit of skepticism in my back pocket, my heart wide open.
There were feathers everywhere. Expensive alpaca cloaks. Sage smoke touching the sky like spiritual hashtags. Equal parts medicine wheel and renaissance fair. I wasn't sure if I'd stumbled into sacred ground or spiritual Disneyland.
I laughed quietly to myself then stopped for a deep breath of the crisp Northern California forest air. Beneath it all, a quiet tremor of something true resonated through my bones.
There's a razor's edge between reverence and performance, and Aniwa straddled it perfectly, absurdly. Instagrammable moments everywhere, the wide-brimmed hats and flowing robes. Feathers in the hair and face paint. All currency in a market of souls seeking something more authentic than another ayahuasca weekend.
Cynicism began to bubble up like memories of Catholic collection baskets and forced tithes. I breathed deeply and let it go. Felt deeper. Beneath the aesthetic, something lingered. Raw, unpolished, real. A longing older than memory.
Elders gathered from corners of the world I never knew existed. Some spoke softly while others thundered. Some spoke in the language of my own dreams and others prodded into the collective shadow with humor, reverence, and delight.
A large chalkboard asked, “Regeneration is…?” Words spilled out: understanding, repair, alliance, giving more than you take, and leaving places and people better than you found them! I thought how I might embody that during my short stay in the forest among my tribe. How would I leave Aniwa better?
I decided to car camp since pitching a tent for one night didn’t seem very regenerative to me. Big trucks, Rivians humming softly, converted school buses weary from lifetimes of travel. Vehicles carrying seekers, pilgrims, tourists and wanderers disguised by their wealth. BMWs and beat-up Toyotas parked under redwoods; each traveler stripped down by the forest.
The real vehicle isn’t made of steel or rubber. It’s made of bone, muscle, blood, the body itself, the oldest vehicle of spirit.
An elder spoke softly, but it echoed louder than the drums:
“How am I contributing to the ripples in the pond by putting my hand in the water, trying to stop them so I can help you see clearly?”
A paradox. A teaching. A field of energy. Wisdom.
A reminder that sometimes the best way to move forward is to pause. To still the surface so that the depth becomes visible.
We live in an age of constant motion, chasing the next medicine fix, each with our own tastes, preferences, but seeking the medicine just the same.
But clarity is a still pond.
Midnight medicine found me unexpectedly, guided by a woman with shakers on her ankles, each step a tiny prayer whispered in a poly rhythm. We wandered into what would become an impromptu community jam. No headliner, no admission fee, just seekers and sages remembering what they'd forgotten.
Lakota drums beat fiercely, hypnotically. Voices cracked open by stories that belonged to Star people who lived in balance with the Earth.
Past midnight, rhythm carried us all home.
I skipped the closing ceremony. Because not every ceremony needs applause. While some people walked right past me as if I were a ghost, others caught my gentle gaze with a silent knowing. I had my fill. I connected with 8 souls in a way that felt more than real. Like roots being nurtured for the future. Sacred connections that felt serendipitous, hinting at the possibility of our collective dreams manifesting through our very alignment.
Sometimes the ritual is the empty highway home, windows down, hearing only your heartbeat and the wind whispering, "What now?"
I came skeptical, left awakened. I saw spiritual materialism everywhere I looked. I'm not above it, but behind all of the costumes stood quiet elders who needed no stage to shine. Truth rarely needs spotlight.
The elders said:
“We forgot how to dance and started fighting.” Healing is how we move and groove together daily.
“Spirit has no color, manifesting in red rocks, green grass.” Reminding me how this work transcends boundaries we've drawn.
“Fixing bad doesn’t create good. Bring quality ingredients.” A knife through my intentions. What was I bringing to the table?
Regeneration isn't trendy even though it’s a buzzword. It’s remembering, a reckoning with what we’ve stolen or abandoned. Everything downstream, the ICE raids, strongman leadership, ecological ruin, is spiritual rot at the roots.
The father archetype twisted into dominance. The mother silenced, poisoned. Told she’s dangerous, unclean.
We forgot her rhythm. Forgot our dance. Forgot how to clean our messes without shame.
Aniwa’s imperfect beauty wasn't trying to hide its messiness. It was human, warm, holy, raw. A prayer interrupted by generators, a ceremony smudged at the edges, a vision still unfolding, supported by those who know that purpose matters.
They need to raise $100,000 to cover costs. Not for profit, but pagamento, spiritual balancing. A way to say thank you with more than just sentiment. This money keeps the fire burning so the stories can still be told.
Not all of us are called to be on the frontlines of this remembering. But some of us are called to support it.
To listen.
To give.
To pay forward what we’ve already received.
I leave Aniwa un-enlightened but fully engaged.
Full. Blessed. Hungry.
Hungry for integrity, for real relationship, to clean the water upstream. Starting with myself.
Aniwa. Much more than a retreat. A return to where we still remember how to dance.
Support the continuation of Aniwa:
https://donorbox.org/aniwagathering
Let’s remember forward. Together.
-Michael Lopez
InnerCartography