The White Deer: Wayfinding in the Creative Wilderness

Our inner worlds are connected deep in the creative wilderness. When we share from that space, a healing connection is formed.

The White Deer in Winter, Stephanie Thomas Berry, pastel on board, 7 x 10”,

I’m in the forest behind my home. It’s wet and drippy, but occasional bursts of late afternoon sun throw gold against the shadows. Squirrels chit-chat; titmice and chickadees squabble and fuss. Perhaps everyone is scolding me—an unusual visitor in their realm. Behind me, deeper in the brush, large sounds make me curious. I’m too close to my house for any substantial forest animals to come browsing by.

I hope. 

It’s true that all spring and summer, a particular doe terrorized us all—humans and dogs alike. She made easy meals of my carefully tended raspberry plants, which means next year’s crop will be slim. This annoyed me, but was nothing to what came next.

One afternoon in late June I was picking blueberries, joined by my sweet husky Willow. She’s a pacifist to the core, so when she charged down the driveway in a fury of hackles and howls, I was concerned. A quick glance revealed who else but the doe, slow-stomping up the lane. I instantly recognized her Mother Warrior March, and saw why: behind her wavered the tiniest slip of a spotted fawn. 

In quick succession: the doe stepped with her fawn into the tangle of underbrush; Willow asserted her territorial rights with long, lunging barks; the doe charged from her cover in a fury; Willow turned and ran for cover. 

I guess the doe decided her point was made because she did not pound my (formerly) pacifist dog into smithereens with her sharp cloven hooves. Still, for the rest of the summer, Willow’s first response to my question “Outside?” was a polite “No thanks.” 

This happened again with my son’s dog Appa—they both live next door. I was on my front porch when I heard him bark and bark, then a burst of yipes accompanied by scuffles. He came tearing through the brush towards me, the enraged doe hot on his heels. I stood in my path, arms outstretched, yelling HEY! She came barreling up within six feet of me before thankfully, mercifully, veering left through my coneflowers. 

After that we saw her daily. She ate the plants in my garden right up to my front door—hostas, blanket flower, and the trodden coneflowers. She ate more raspberries. And she would stand right on the other side of the fence, where my two Anatolian Shepherds live (BIG dogs, and yes, I have a lot of dogs). This drove them (and us) batshit crazy. They would vibrate with Shepherd Passion and bark their one thousand decibel barks incessantly. Not really to scare her off, but to express the emotional pain that they could not fulfill their purpose as both guardians and predators. 

My son decided he would solve this situation with his sharpshooting skills. One afternoon, as she munched on my raspberry plants, he pulled out his little .22 rifle and pierced her ear, Trump-style. (When he told me this I was horrified, but he’s an incredibly good shot, so we can all take a deep breath). He was sure this would persuade her to move on. 

It did not. 

So you see, as I write this, she could be around me right now, making large sounds in the brush, deeply offended by my presence. Which could prove to be tricky.

Aside from my own personal well-being, these interactions matter to me for another reason. My current studio project is Dreaming Animals. One of the largest pieces for this show—still unfinished, and for a reason I’ll soon explain—explores the dreams of deer. It’s called Dream Council of the Deer. It depicts three realms of the deer: in the middle, nestled in the grass and guarded by a large buck, is a harem of sleeping does; in an upper realm, little spirit-fawns frolic through the trees, and below them, in the Underworld of Dreams, the Great Mother Deer browses in a verdant forest. 

All spring and summer I’d felt that my relationship with the deer has been very activated, charged up in that creative-spiritual sense, and I was puzzled by these deer encounters which, in my twenty-two years of living here, had never happened before. The piece is very nearly done—the last unfinished bit is the Great Mother Deer. She’s just an outline in an otherwise finished piece. 

I felt, intuitively, that I needed to hold off on depicting her image. Creative works carry a type of spiritual energy, and I felt I was attempting to enter into the sacred realm of the deer without their permission.

So I drank a hefty cup of mugwort tea, and asked for a dream about the deer, because this project is, after all, Dreaming Animals. I didn’t dream of the deer, and figured my request had not been answered. But time and again I’ve learned, when you ask for a dream, you get an answer. The trick is untangling the threads so that the dream makes some kind of sense. 

Here’s my dream, as recorded in my dream journal:

I’m walking on the path [in the forest behind my home, where I am now] when I come upon a shed talon on the ground [because in my dream, apparently, talons can be shed, like feathers]. It’s very long, maybe 6 to 8 inches, and bulky, more straight, with a small hook at the end. When I pick it up I realize it’s a Griffin talon.

Then I’m walking along the top of a forested hill. Below me a field slopes downward. It’s not in use, except a woman has planted it with wheat. I look at the wheat stalks, they are dense and packed with kernels. The woman is there—she’s very strong and resilient. She has short hair and she’s wearing a white tank and jeans. She has a big bag slung over her shoulder, and in it are bunches of wheat kernels. I realize that she’s planted this field—a small field, and other small spaces, with wheat, and what she’s harvested is enough kernels to meet our wheat (bread) needs for a year. Also she’s done the planting and harvesting with complete lack of care for who the “owner” of the land might be. 

Writing this I realize she’s some aspect of a Grain Goddess, a strong and wild woman who pays no heed to the concept of property because it has no relevance to her realm. 

Curiously it took me some time—while sharing my dream with a dear (deer?) friend—to realize that this dream did have relevance to my relationship with the deer, because to the Goddess, there is no such thing as “my” land (or raspberries, for that matter), and there is enough for all. Point taken. 

The dream carried a message, clearly enough—but still did not release me from the sense that I needed the permission of the deer to depict their Goddess.  So I started making small studies of deer, like the one above. 

Creative work is a wilderness of mysteries. That wilderness begins in our intimate, personal inner world, but stretches on into territory that is quite beyond us. When we can trek deep into that territory—and bring something back—our work has an undeniable potency. (Whether or not it makes a career for you is irrelevant. I think the Grain Goddess would make that point). 

This kind of creative work demands we move with respect. We cannot go tromping off into any wilderness—inner or outer—with an extractive, capitalist mindset. The deer owe me nothing. Just because I have an artistic vision doesn’t mean I have the right to bring it forth. There is a felt sense that the way is open. Likewise there is a keen sense when the way is closed. I know that to proceed without permission would be a great disrespect.

Twenty-six years ago I painted this scene:

The Deer Will Come to Me, Stephanie Thomas Berry, acrylic on canvas, 1998

It’s from a dream—the first dream I ever painted. It was a sort of waking dream, for I was sleeping in this very field, around this very fire, and in the middle of the night I dreamt that the deer were leaping over me. Or maybe they actually did? I was never quite sure. 

One thing I am sure of, sleeping on the ground under the stars primes the self for fantastic dreams.

So now we come to my recent little study of a deer— she’s aglow in winter’s forest, around her the trees and the moss bask in her golden light. And there’s a little miracle—vines of passionflower have spontaneously grown up the trunk and burst into bloom in an otherwise sleeping landscape. 

The White Deer in Winter, Stephanie Thomas Berry

I was just playing as I made this piece, trying to find my way forward, trying to feel the way is open. And I can only laugh at myself for taking so long—as in just now—to recognize that I have a thing for White Deer, and also see the message I made for myself. Because passionflower is a well-known sleep medicine. And I think what I need to do is to sleep on the ground, under the stars, and wait for a dream. 

It feels very risky to state this intention publicly. I will sleep here on the earth and the deer will come to me. What if the dream doesn’t come? What if stating this intention somehow breaks the magic? Inflates the ego? I’ve been working on Dream Council of the Deer for over a year, on and off. What if I can’t ever finish it?

But I came here to write, to go where it took me. I trust my creative instincts. So I’m just going to go with it. Perhaps I’m being pushed to open up my own creative process, mark a trailhead into my own creative wilderness. It feels incredibly vulnerable, but also necessary.

After all, my inner world and yours—they are connected, and this relationship is strengthened when we share our inner experiences. From mind-altering dreams to simple moments of awe washing over us—our inner world is imbued with a particular type of feminine spiritual energy that feeds the World Soul, the collective unconscious, the Otherworld. Like the water cycle of our shared outer world, this energy moves up through us, and outward, and back down again, into the Otherworld. This is how we strengthen the flow and intent of that energy. This is how we can heal our collective inner world.

I believe in the power of human creativity, in its expansiveness, in its healing capacity. It is at its most dynamic power when braided with our devotion and our love. Perhaps the White Deer has been waiting twenty-six years for me to offer my devotion. Perhaps she is waiting for all of us, in our creative wilderness, where we all, deep in the core of our being, belong. 

---

Dear Readers,

Thank you so much for all your support as I make my way on Substack. I’ve been really nourished by all your comments and all the evocative writing & art. Plus I’ve had the pure joy of sending cards to new subscribers as far away as Germany and Australia!

If you’ve subscribed but haven’t picked a card from my website, check your messages here on Substack. I’ve sent each and everyone of you a message with the link for you to pick your card.

Today is the Harvest Moon, and as promised I am posting with the lunar and seasonal cycles. My next post will be September 22nd—the Equinox. Until then, thank you for the gift of your attention.

Warmly,

Stephanie

---