NOTE: I have begun the series of posts THE ROOTS OF WAR, THE HOPE OF PEACE, with the first post two days ago. Today was to be the 2nd in that series. But life happened and here I am, late Sunday night, April the 15th, and too tired to complete what I consider to be one of the most important essays I've ever written. So I will wait until tomorrow to complete it. In the meantime, I hope the post below will be enjoyable.
I HAVE TRIED to categorize myself but cannot. I don't quite fit into any niche specifically, but am comfortable in several: shaman, mystic, poet, astrologer, medium, explorer, ancient warrior, and empath. This brief post will take you into my world. Hope you enjoy.
The photo above is of the canyonlands in southern Utah in the southwest of the United States. For thousands of years native Americans lived in these deep canyons, but are now gone. However, their spirits still reside here and strange and wonderful things occur for those who are open to the energies of other realms when they descend into their ancient world.
One such as I must be open to spirit, to impressions, to promptings, and so it was a few years ago when I was "called" to go to this canyon and be open to whatever might occur. I've learned over the years to honor these "calls" and follow their promptings. So I packed my camping gear, traveled 600 miles from western Nevada, where I live, to get to the trailhead leading into a labyrinth of rock and wilderness. I was the first one to venture into this canyon in the early spring. It was the second week of March, ice still clung to the edges of the small creek at the bottom of the canyon. There had been no other travelers in the canyon that year. I was the first. My two faithful dogs traveled with me.
One might ask, "Who called you?" The Man in the Mountain. He called. I came. The Man in the Mountain is an odd geological formation that looks more like Jabba the Hutt of Star Wars fame than anything else, but he indeed has a presence, one that was last respected by the Anasazi hundreds of years ago. Their camp fires are on a ridge across from his presence. You can still see the fire pits and find obsidian chipings where they made arrowheads. It is a sacred place. Quiet. Isolated. Imbued with an ancient energy. Crows, my sacred animal totem, led me there a few years prior to this visit.
My dogs and I hiked down the twisting canyon, sometimes wading thigh deep in freezing water, as we pushed our way through dense willows, and climbed over tumbled-down rocks to get to the base of the sandstone mountain that was our destination. At times the going was so rough I had to carry the dogs one by one as we went deeper and deeper into another world. The canyon walls at first were perhaps 50 feet tall above us and the bottom of the canyon was on average about 30 to 50 feet wide, but the further we went the narrower the canyon became and the higher the walls lofted above us. There were places I could stand in the middle of the creek, and stretching my arms out, touch both canyon walls that shot up hundreds of feet above me.
To tell you the truth, this solo venturing, especially in early spring when no other hikers are likely to be around is really discouraged, and frankly not a good idea. But... ah yes, the big "but", I was called and had to go. I've been backpacking since I was 9 years old and am at home in the wilderness, but still, I was a bit concerned, which is a good thing. I was extra careful and aware.
I set up camp across from the Old Man and made a camp fire. After dinner and after the hungry dogs were fed I danced. Yes I danced around the campfire while chanting, calling the ancient spirits to me. None came that I was aware of. A disappointment but thats the way of things sometimes. So I picked up a nice slab of sandstone and while sitting in the silence with the fires light flickering on my face I carved my One True Name into its surface.
In the morning I dropped down into the depths of the canyon, where just a bit of early morning sun was shining, and waded into the stream, thigh deep, my sandstone slab in hand. I leaned against the sheer cliff soaring above perhaps a thousand feet and sang to the Mountain. Odd the things shamans do, but it is the way of things. After singing I reverently placed the stone in the water beneath the Old Man, with my name facing up. Here's the thing, the water in the stream rushed over my name and in so doing made a spiritual vibration that lifted into an endless Cosmos. Over and over and over my name is being sung beneath the Man in the Mountain, beneath a living canopy of stars.
The dogs and I lingered for the day and then began making our way back up to the trail head some miles distant. We camped out one night on the way. The next day we found ourselves back at my truck parked beneath some ancient cottonwoods. But our journey was not finished.
My experience has been that it usually takes a day or two to let the energy of modern life fall away, to once again be tuned to Earth Mother. And now, finally, I was tuned. I could feel it. A very grounded, whole, centered, peaceful, quiet, authentic energy vibrated within me. My energy was the same as natures. Now I was ready to experience what I had been called to receive.
There were no other humans for miles around. I was alone. I could feel it. It's an energy all by itself, this purity, this clearness. As I stood by the stream all the boundaries of "self" were dissolved. My spirit literally melded with, and became one with the earth around me. I was the earth, and the trees, and the fish, and birds and deer. There was no separation. This stunning, awe inspiring experience is a treasure, a gift, a vision of what is. It has been a fleeting experience for me, never lasting more than a minute or so, but one that has made an indelible imprint on my soul.
This is our home. This is who we are. This is who I AM.
May you be blessed. May we be at peace.
Christopher
