Not far out of Kenmare on the way to Glengariff is an amazing archeological site. Bonane heritage park is a veritable trove of historical significance. Within its small boundary lies one of the largest stone circles in Western Ireland as well as a fulacht fiadhl, or “burnt mound,” a horseshoe shaped outdoor cooking area. There is also a bullaun stone, or a stone with a natural occuring hollow. The ballaun stones have been linked to the worship of water and the reigning goddess Brigid. A standing stone and fairy ring complete this mystical site. It is a cold morning with ice glazed roads and frosted ground. I take the bends with caution. I unroll my window to inhale the silence of early morning, even the birds are slow to rise in this damp cold. Hills readying for spring, bear newborn lambs that suckle their mothers, heavy with wool, and ready for the sheer. I close my eyes and listen, breathing in the earthiness of this place that has played host to our human transiency. How gracious to allow us to feed ourselves, to bath, build our fires, perform our rituals, breed, and die. It has always seemed so strange to me that anyone could ever believe themselves to own the land, for the land is its own sovereign, we are but guests, guardians of the kingdom. I walk slowly up the steepness of a hill that humbles, leaving fresh tracks in the newly laid snow. The stones of the circle are wise old beings watching the tide of the world in its endless ebb and flow. I feel like a young girl in their presence, inexperienced and newly born. I am aware of becoming still. The sound of melting ice, of water trickling through reeds and broken limbs, blackened leaves and soil. There is no music like that of nature undisturbed. Further up lies the fairy ring, truly steeped in mythical lore, it’s true purposes shrouded in mystery to this day. Surrounded by a dry moat, green abounds, in its center lies a hawthorn tree, or boundary bush. The hawthorn was sacred to Brigid and was used for protection as well as to enhance fertility, heal the sick and bless the newly wed. I am aware of the holiness of the site and sit in quiet. I bow to the goddess who has so faithfully fostered me in her mysteries throughout my lifetime. She is my Beloved, the one I am betrothed to. This pilgrimage is an act of honoring my bond, of showing my gratitude and devotion to her. Afterwards I go into the small village of Bonane where a famed french chocolatier is preparing for the easter holiday in a kitchen that is clothed in stainless. The shop has neat little rows of petite chocolates and truffles, a true Parisian experience! A nine year old little boy visiting on holiday, and a relation of the owner makes me a beautiful white origami butterfly. He spontaneously and patiently shows me how to flatten the paper, making each fold with focus and intent. It is one of those moments of communion, where time becomes fluid. When complete, he demonstrates how to make it fly, then gifts it to me. There is nothing more precious to me than the anything made from the hands of a child. The chocolates are wrapped in cellophane nakedness, tied neatly with a yellow bow. Road trip delicacy.
I am on my way to Kinsale, a small shipping port not far from Cork. I say goodbye to Kenmare and the beautiful Brook Lane Hotel, but not before stopping once more for fish and chips at Wharton’s. Best Fish & Chips on the planet! This simple, take-away shop, is hands down the best, made to order fish and chips anywhere! The clouds make a hasty retreat as the midday sun claims ownership of the day. I take one last look at this picturesque little oasis and bid a fond farewell… My lady clad in blue and white, the mother of the holy bright. I find you in a circle of stone, a silent place, you call your own. In the water that flows on high, in woods, and valleys, in starlit skies. I lie upon your earthly swell, in the beat of your heart, I will dwell. I bow to you my beloved one, bearer of the moon, and lover of the sun. My womb, full of your grace, the seeds of your love, the souls embrace. santidevi Written: February 24, 2019
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The Gleninchaquin Park is a short drive from Kenmare. It is a privately owned and working ranch that has been opened to the public, the Inchaqin waterfall is the most striking feature that can be seen for miles. The neolithic Uragh stone circle is nearby. I take a walking trail that begins in a sheeps pasture and continues on over barbed wire fences, stone foot bridges and rocky cliffs. It eventually leads me past an early 19th century stone cottage with thatched roof, that is in the process of being restored. This area has several standing stones, an earthen fairy-fort and nearly countless burial sites. It is particularly fertile, with ancient streams, lakes and exceptional hunting and fishing, At one time it was home to a few hundred people. I wish I were camping, building a fire, sleeping under the stars… One of the things I miss about being at home is doing my laundry. So I head to the local coin-op, where I meet Michael a local actor who instructs me on how to use the machines. He invites me for a beer while our clothes are washing. We cross the street, to PF McCarthy’s pub but not before stopping to scratch a black and white cat that stretches its back in anticipation. One is never short on friends immediately made in Ireland. We chat about this and that as if strangers we’re not. It such a relief to just communicate as one human being to another with absolutely no agenda or pretense. He came to Kenmare over ten years ago from Dublin and never left. County Kerry has a powerful allure. I feel so completely alive and at peace. Kenmare in gaelic is Neidin, which means, “little nest.” It is nestled in a valley surrounded by mountains and natural beauty that leaves one speechless. My body feels so different, so easily lived in. I have taken to driving on the left, being opposite from what’s “right,” it suits me perfectly! I listen to the Chieftains and wish I were driving in my Mazdaspeed with its Bose system. I take the Ring of Beara road, I decide to take a short cut over Priest’s Leap. I see not a single car, it’s just me and the height fearless sheep who are undaunted by my four-wheel maneuvering. It is really more of a trail than a road, and I know Beau would be loving it. This desolate land has a wild, rugged, and untouched beauty. Whatever lives here does so purposefully. Castletownbere is a working port town with brightly colored store fronts and homes. It has become a mecca for spiritual healers, body workers and alternative healthcare practitioners. There is an eco-health store that carries much of what we have in the States. I source a small hardware store for a traditional fisherman’s cap for Beau. The keeper is just closing up to go to a funeral, in fact the entire town seems to be going. A processional is walking up the hill, followed by a snaking of cars the length of the main street. It is a sunny day, warm and windless. I wonder who has died, and how they lived. Death is still visible here where cemeteries over look villages, and the dead share space with the living. It tends to keep one mindful of the transiency of life and our own relative importance. I buy grapes and fresh dates from the farmers market. They have exceptionally good produce and my road trip wouldn’t be one without it. Walking the dock I am transfixed by the color of the water, my personal favorite, fittingly enough, sea blue-green. The town is unspoiled by tourism, it is refreshingly authentic. People in County Kerry and County Cork always raise a finger or two when driving past, a custom I grew up with in rural Nebraska. The gesture touches my heart. The Dzogchen Beara Retreat Center in Allihies was founded by Sogyal Rinpoche he is the author of the highly acclaimed book, “The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. One of the reasons I have come this way is to visit their Spiritual Care Centre. “A place of respite in an environment of peace and outstanding natural beauty where people of all belief’s can come to rest, reflect and find meaning in life and hope in death.” I worked years ago at the Temenos House, a buddhist inspired private care facility for the frail, elderly and dying. It had a very profound effect upon my life. Witnessing someone’s death is a hallowed initiation into the mysteries. Places of meditation, of devoted spiritual practice, lend themselves to those who are in need of inner quietude and contemplation. I have always felt the importance for such places, so that we can consciously make our transition, and reflect upon and integrate our life’s experiences. Looking out upon the sea, its nearly immeasurable vastness is the perfect visual metaphor for our immortal soul. I cannot imagine a better place to feel the expansiveness of one’s own true nature than in this sacred haven. I drive over the famed Healy’s Pass. It is an eight mile switchback that takes you between the two counties. The mountains are dusted in snow and I feel the temperature rapidly drop. In the distance a heavy rain falls on umber hills. The natural world has always been my refuge. I feel whole when I am in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the elements. I am a nomad, and it gives me great joy to wander. I thought about that today while driving, and I realized there is nothing more deadly to my spirit than routine. I revel in the unexpected, in those things I have never encountered, it calls upon my creative ingenuity, resourcefulness and imagination. Since arriving in Ireland, I can actually feel the synchronicity unfolding, the coinciding of events, of immaculate timing. There is magic afoot and I am observing with a heightened sense of awareness. The effortlessness of being here has given credence to any skepticism I may have had in regard to Julian Lee’s prediction. He was absolutely right! It has in every respect, been like coming home…
Written: February 19, 2010 The Dingle Peninsula is breathtaking, and the day is brilliant! I sleep soundly at the Castlewood, an immaculately kept guesthouse. The Irish are consummate and instinctual host’s. Your pleasure and comfort take precedence over all else. While attentive, they are sensitive to your privacy appearing only when you require something. I feel entirely nurtured. The only plan for the day is to take the Slea Head Drive road around the coast, eventually making my way to Killarney and then to Kenmare for the night. Within minutes of the drive I see a sign that says simply, “stone art”. As I whiz past in my left hand fast lane, I am commandeered by my inner voice and I promptly turn around. An old forge, with a hand painted sign hanging on weathered wood beckons. A man emerges with a blue and green knitted hat, and warmly greets me. One glance around the small half room gallery and I realize I have fell upon a master of the old arts. Antonio Fazio is an Italian stone cutter/sculptor. He came to the Dingle Peninsula by way of omen. At 40 he was in Sicily and working as a photographer. He was done with the narrow mentality of his environment, which had grown increasingly stagnant as his spiritual awareness grew. A woman, a stranger, suggested that he move to Ireland. He took that as the sign he was waiting for. Antonio was initially offered a job by a local man but he told him his spirit would find his work, and it did. One day he picked up a rock and a small hand pick and began to draw… that was in 1995 he has since done a thousand or more pieces that are now being purchased by collectors worldwide. He is deeply awake, aware and spiritually guided. We share our stories, our connection to the Oneness that pervades our experience. The joy we feel in fulfilling our lives by way of our Souls desire. As I look into his eyes and he into mine the timeless unfolds, there is a luminosity to those who are in communion with the Divine. Our conversation continues into ever deeper terrain, when two young foreign exchange students from Italy and Spain come into the drive on their bicycles. They graciously take our photo and ask us how we know one another. We smile. Antonio has brought back the sacred feminine image of the Sheela na gig. Academics cannot agree on the history and significance of her presence on churches, castles, and other sacred sites throughout Great Britain but particularly in Ireland. Her origins are shrouded in mystery, but one thing is certain she has survived for centuries despite her controversial form. She is naked, with exaggerated genitalia, she is most often seen spreading her vulva wide with her own out stretched hands, her legs brought up high, breasts swollen and or hanging. The Goddess as maiden, crone, hag and fertility icon all in one. She represents birth, death, and resurrection in her purest form, the creative power of the life giving feminine. I am reminded of the yoni and its significance in India, of Kali in her fierce and formidable nature. I see my Sheela in her sandstone perfection, carved by the heart of a man who has seen the truth. I give him a deposit of a 100 euro’s… The Dingle is steeped in the mystical, assembling artists writers, healers, and borderlanders. The land is green and fertile, small flowers begin to challenge winters rule. The sea water sprays on blackened rocks that reach jagged perfection, sand beaches, tourquoise water, and sheep that have no apparent fear of water. I stop at the beehive structures, or “ringforts,” that have stood as they are for over 4,000 years. Living in the round is much preferred to our rectangular existence. I imagine a skilled architect placing those stones in such a way as to survive the sea wind, driving rain and raiding invaders for centuries. What will I leave that will withstand the ravages of time? I continue to Brandon Creek, down a narrow road to a pier that warns against high tides and rogue waves. I heed the warning and keep a safe but curious distance. Dingle has ley lines, or straight lines that connect sites of sacred and ceremonial significance. It is said that they stretch dozens even hundreds of miles. It is unmistakably a powerful place, one I will come back to.
The way to Kenmare is harrowing to say the least, I am grateful for my years of Colorado driving. Mountains, snow covered and shrouded in clouds loom in the distance. I arrive at the Brook Lane, a modern boutique hotel, exquisitely designed. The interior is textured and has an eclectic sense of color and style. Let’s just say I could live here. I eat a bowl of unsurpassed seafood chowder at Casey’s, take a hot bath, light a candle, say my prayers… and dream of a life in Ireland. Written: February 17, 2010
I spend three days in Galway, home to traditional Irish music, a celebratory bohemian lifestyle, and an influx of immigrants. It is a walking city and I gladly explore it on foot. This is an ancient city with a rich and colorful history. Though I am interested in what has happened here I am more interested in what will. I love not having an agenda, an itinerary of points on a map to check off, after I have raced from one to the next. My wanderings are led by my inner compass, one that never fails me. Synchronicity and spontaneity are my foremost lovers, and can be counted on for uncommon timing and adventure. Quay Street is cobblestone, and lined with every sort of Pub, boutique, bakery, and restaurant. Virtually any cuisine you could imagine is offered in this hamlet. Swans float serenely on Galway Bay, which reaches to the Atlantic. The Aran Islands are just off the coast and can be spotted on a clear day. I was blessed with three blue sky milagros. Thomas Dillon, is the original producer of the Claddagh ring, I visit the quaint little red and yellow corner building and buy my Adrienne another. I also find a tarnished silver Mary Medal that they promptly glisten and which I place securely around my neck. There she will stay. Buskers play in the streets, and music can be heard from anywhere in the city. The Irish say “Cheers”, which in Gaelic is slainte, means, “health.” It is said as a toast, as a send off, and in good hearted expression. I love the relaxed intensity of the Irish I have met here. Intelligent, witty, and sharp, they embrace me. Their easy going nature and readiness to assist is as none other. I stay at the Skeff on Eyre Square, a recently renovated landmark that now has a very hip and modern interior. The adjacent pub lies in stark contrast, maintaining its Irish roots and integrity with a dark wood bar beautiful art and Guinness flowing. They didn’t have a room available, but then by some happenstance and a phone call later the man who had booked the room suddenly cancelled. Galway’s nightlife is a Monday-Sunday phenomenon. Even during the week people are out until all hours. I am on Irish time. I find my Pub of choice through a recommendation from a local. Chee Kolee. As I have no Gaelic characters I write it phonetically. I went every night, the last of which I got a photo of myself with the owner. Friday evening, I met an interesting man, a Mr. Devi, who had willingly surrendered his reservation at the Skeff so that I might lodge there. Coincidence? I thanked him for his generosity, which of course he humbly dismissed. A man of sharp intelligence, intensity and wit. I found him altogether compelling. The alchemy between two people is a mysterious thing, no constellations of events, nor stubborn will of refusal can stop its course. I had no desire to refuse him. Still waters run deep and wide, and to the sea they flow. Mr. Devi was a celestial phenomenon and in a genre of his own. Our paths will yet cross. People come from all over the world to play music here, traditional Irish folk music and on my last night three legends convened. I had by chance the best seat in the house to a standing room only bar. People here gladly mingle, personal space is absolutely irrelevant when you’re listening to the best of the best. I seem to always have a half pint of Guinness in hand for when the glass is empty someone has bought me another. In that single night my world was transformed, the maestros, masters of their craft played to my very soul. A complex multi layered tapestry of sound that inspired every cell in my body. I could not have had a better bittersweet send off. Galway I will miss. While there I took a one-day tour of Connemara. A beautifully rugged and picturesque landscape lost in time. Old famine cottages, rippled land where potato crops once grew, lakes, that stretch as far as the eye can see. Anglo-Norman towers stand alone on pasture land. We get a brief, well-rehearsed history lessen of the area from a tour driver who dreams of doing anything else. The highlight of the trip is an Abbey that now fades into the earth, a relic from the 1300’s. It was raided and burned seven times throughout its age, each time rebuilt. The resiliency of the faithful never ceases to deepen my own resolve. We walk aside a lake where the thin veneer of ice is buckling, an eerie sound of fire and water colliding. Moss grows in green thickness over bark and roots, earth and stone. In the side of a hill Mary looks down from her grotto, all blue and white, merciful and unmoving. I get down on my knees in the soil of this hallowed place and I pray for peace in this world. Mary, the embodiment of the Great Goddess is everywhere. I encounter her in Galway at Saint Mary’s cathedral in all her stain glass glory looking royal in red. Here I bend on Catholic kneeling wood and confess my deep love for her. Before saying goodbye to Mr. Devi, he well advised me to draw an arrow pointing left to keep me on the right side of the road. I admit it took a bit of adjusting but that was nothing compared to having to use the navigational system! Let’s just say that yesterday I enjoyed an hour or so off the beaten path on narrow Irish roads with my patient, clearly not Irish, woman saying “recalculating, recalculating.” I arrived in Dingle last night well past dark after taking the car ferry. Today I will drive the peninsula and then head for Kenmare. I love traveling alone as strange as that may sound. I can hear my own rhythm, be still as I choose, eat at my leisure or not. I have my own map that dissolves on a whim. I can wander freely… arrow left
I sit at the Heuston train station in Dublin. I wait for the 2:30 train to Galway. As it is with traveling, the unexpected is my most intimate and interesting companion. A blizzard in Chicago has delayed my departure in Denver by more than two hours, my connecting flight to Dublin will be air bound before I will land. My day is extended by hours, hours of waiting.Waiting has become something I am good at. Life, despite my willfulness has taught me patience. To be patient is to be free. Free I am. Landing in Chicago, the city is blanketed in white. We land on a runaway covered in snow and ice. A two hour layover that turns into four. I stare out my window seat and watch the world beneath me. Drifts accumulate on the wings, little tonka trucks shovel the impossible, while our luggage sits amidst the dropping temperatures and flurries. I see a whole line of emergency vehicles following a plane that has just landed. The wind is howling strong, and relentless. I call to it, will it listen? Just to be sure I knew I had been heard, it begins to form small dust devils, lifting the snow into circles of shimmering light. I have seen it do the same with sand in the high desert, in northern New Mexico where the wind never tires. A good omen. Everyone on board is anxious, it is a long flight and as I watch the sci-fi of the de-icing robotics I wonder if the alien green fluid will keep us from falling from the sky. It is midnight before we are in the air, and the cabin grows quiet. I arrive at Heathrow, a virtual maze of an airport, and a city unto itself. I have been through here several times but it doesn’t make it any easier to navigate. I have less than 45 minutes to get through U.K. customs and make my flight on Aer Lingus for Dublin. The interesting thing about time is the more you slow down, the greater its expansion. I refuse to be in a rush, adventure will be had one way or another! I consciously center my awareness on the fact that there is no where to be other than where I am. This is how I choose to live my life no matter what the circumstances. I arrive minutes before they begin boarding flight 165. I sit behind hollywood actor, Samuel Jackson who is easily recognizable and conspicuous in his ray ban black sunglasses. I am relieved to travel in this world anonymously. A short flight to the Dublin airport, exactly an hour. I pick up my one “no worse for the wear” suitcase at baggage, grateful to the Gods that it is here and not anywhere else. I exchange my nearly worthless American dollars for the upgraded euro. I am on the road again. I love nothing, nearly as much, as I love being anywhere I have not been before. All the comfort of the familiar is erased. I don’t know where I am going or how I will get there. My immediate dependency on the unseen and the unknown is so keenly felt when I am out of my element, it makes my surrender ever more sweet. As I listen to the symphony of languages being spoken, none of which I understand, I savor my new world. I have always felt as if I was a foreigner, looking in from the outside. I take the air coach to City Centre, the heart of Dublin. I have a room for the night at the Arlington Hotel, a three star landmark with nightly traditional Irish music and dancing. This I didn’t know prior to my arrival. My room is simple with the only amenities I need, a bed and a bathtub. It is now nearly 6:00 pm and I am starving. I cross the Liffey river by way of the temple bridge. No pub food, not tonight. The Gourmet Burger Kitchen. More vegetarian choices than I can decide upon. Falafel with homemade chili sauce, raita, fresh tomato, lettuce and red onion. Best burger I have ever had! I wander down cobblestone streets, a brightly painted pub on every corner. I venture into the Temple Bar and listen to soulful Irish ballads and pop hits from America. When I enter the Quay Bar the men are gathered around the T.V. watching a football game and drinking beer. I decide this is a good spot to have my first ever Guinness. I guess I needed to go to Dublin before I indulged. The bartender makes sure I understand that it has to sit before it gets its second pour and then once it has formed a perfect foamy head I am allowed ceremoniously to take my first sip. I love the ritual of course but the taste is even better! I end the evening at the Knightsbridge Pub adjacent to the Arlington. The music begs my body to move, but no one’s dancing. Hand clapping seems to be the preferred show of enjoyment. Two young, spirited and dark haired beauties join me at the bar. Anya and Barbara are longtime friends and spent a year living together in Melbourne. We have an interesting conversation about the existence of spirits and the gift of sight, the economy, immigration woes in Ireland, the beauty of travel etc. They give me kudo’s for traveling alone. This gypsy is at home where ever her feet land. Written: February 11, 2010
I bought a one-way ticket to Dublin last summer, consciously disempowering my penniless pocket. In the world of the sane, that was not. I do not excel at defining what is possible by rational. Limitations have always seemed illusory to me. I have been admonished my entire existence by people who self-righteously declare that I don’t live in the “real world.” Meaning theirs of course. I am, by design, a human being who wants to know what would happen if anything could. February 9th, I will be on that flight. I have found that in placing my heart in the locus of my desire the gods give it wings to fly.
I still have no return ticket. Through a constellation of uncertain events I will find my way. The only thing I do know is that I will board a train in Dublin bound for Galway. It is not a hospitable time to go, as it rains more in February than in any other month, and is miserably cold. Tourists are wise enough to wait until late spring and summer to make their way to this seaside destination. Gratefully I am a traveler, travelers don’t depend on ideal conditions, we tend to thrive in anything but. Galway is known as the “City of Tribes”, steeped in tradition, it is Ireland’s cultural heart. Gaeilge, the native mother tongue is still spoken here. The city is famed for having more images of mermaids than any other place in Ireland. Mermaids have always held a special place in my psyche, as I too have felt only partly human, living between two worlds. As some of you may have remembered from earlier writings, the western coast of Ireland is where the location astrologer was certain I would find my true home, and spiritual tribe. He wisely knew to pin me, to a place where gypsies roam, and fairies fly. His proclamation was not a surprise as it has been a dream of mine since I was a child to go to the land of mists, a haven for mystics and the spiritually inspired. Ireland is an in-between place, where the veil thins, where the seen and the unseen merge, and where people with “the sight”, are a natural resource. I will be amongst my kind. A geography historically occupied by spiritual adepts and those who possess high esoteric knowledge. The legendary druids, the Tuatha De Danann, as well as seers, musicians, poets and healers, lay claim to this lineage. It is a place steeped in mythical lore. Will my ancestral roots unearth, my clan claim me as their own? Will Brigit, “the exalted one” initiate me into the mysteries of my kin? The beauty of my soul, the grace by which I live fills me with a love so satisfying, so holy. I feel in this moment as if every breath of my existence has been a sacrament. My path is timeless, where all that is, has been, and will be, exists as seamlessly. I dwell silently within the sanctum of my body as Ireland floats, a cloud upon the sea… santidevi Written: January 23, 2010 I drive highway 285. I head west. A triple shot latte, perfectly poured fuels my drive. The sun reflects on the snow, a blanket of splintered diamonds. The road snakes through the canyon, inducing a meditative state of being. Follow the road, follow the breath. My mind begins to unwind, I feel my heart beating. I am Orvis bound. It was my original New Year plan but the week after Christmas I wavered. The practical, let’s be reasonable part of myself was pressuring me into staying home. You don’t have the money! But I longed for spaciousness, for the view of South Park and its wide embrace. I wanted to feel the solidity and comfort of the San Juan Mountains, the peace and stillness of winter on the western slope. So I left it up to synchronicity. I had waited until the last minute, I needed a room, I needed a milagro! Canyon Creek. A beautiful little B & B in Montrose, a short drive to Orvis Hot Springs in Ridgway. If they had the “Idarado” room with the claw foot bathtub available on New Years Eve and New Years Day then I would take it as a sign and pack my car. It was available! I felt the gypsy in me return, my love of pilgrimage and adventure. I wanted to be in the sanctuary of nature, to honor the sacred, to float on my back and stare at stars that float in an indigo sky. Monarch pass is icy and snow packed, the trees bow under the weight of newly fallen snow. The air is “see your breath” cold. Mountains tower, their summits shroud in fast moving clouds, the world has gone white, my mind blank. Impermanence. Nature is a perfect reflection of the temporal, the fleetingness of life. I feel small and feral, and strangely comforted by my own mortality. Space lends perspective, and in the vastness of this land the challenges of the past few months seem as transient as the thin ice on Blue Mesa. A sense of timelessness emerges. My body relaxes as my consciousness expands. The observer has returned. The boundary between myself, and what I see and experience disappears. Canyon Creek sits on Main St. in Montrose, Colorado. A beautiful, and lovingly restored historical home. Big windows, wood floors, leather chairs and sofa, bookshelves filled with books and mementos of an explored life. A colorful painting of “Bo” the endearing little Yorkie that greets me at the door hangs in the dining room against a bordeaux wall, a wedding gift from one of their guests. Warm and inviting, peaceful and relaxing I am immediately at home. My room is painted in a perfect shade of cappuccino. In the bathroom the original sink and tub, gleam claw foot heaven against cinnamon walls and refinished wood floors, a bathing oasis. Black framed photos, soft linens, down pillows, fluffy white towels, and robe. Heaven! I have never before gone on a holiday by myself and actually stayed in a room and not a tent. Pure luxury. I stay long enough to unpack my bag, and head for my primary destination, Orvis Hot Springs in Ridgway. It is New Years Eve, it is 5:30 pm and the temperature is dropping rapidly as the sun begins to set. I pay the woman behind the counter for time to soak, she informs me that my girlfriend Kimmie has paid for a massage with Jodi at 7:30 in the Aspen yurt, an early 50th birthday present! The night is clear, the snow capped mountains glow in an otherworldly violet hue. I shed my clothes in a heap and climb into the “lobster pot” a 110 to 112 degree rock pool. I submerge my body. I float weightlessly. My hair freezes within minutes of surfacing, icicle locks. I love this feeling, of fire and ice. Snow layers precariously on the wooden fence, in linear perfection. The sauna beckons. It is filled with refugees from winter, naked and sweating. We are strangers who have converged from various points on the map to experience the “blue moon” on New Years Eve, a once in every 19 years phenomenon. By the time I leave the sauna the moon is just beginning to appear in the east. My inner voice was insistent that I go to the main pool where I sit on a ledge of stone on the north end. I look to see the luminosity of the moon coming through the trees. The light is refracted as it merges into the mist rising from the water. It begins to form snowflake like patterns that are a metamorphic wonder. They hover in a three dimensional configuration . Then another cloud of mist appears and the pattern becomes layered. The aura of the moon colors the light golden and I am transfixed. The presence of the light transforms my very soul. I have never felt anything like it. It is absolutely the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced. It only appeared to be happening where I was sitting, so I told those nearest to me to come closer so that they too could see it. They were simply awe struck. We sat in silence, in holy communion. I cupped my hands with water and watched the moon float in my palm.
Thank you, thank you, thank you. I was filled with such joy and gratitude, so grateful. Then Jodi called my name and I walked the sandstone path covered in ice and snow, feet sticking to the ground, steam rising from my body. The yurt small and round, warmed by a stove working overtime. I climb onto a heated table under a layer of sheets. Jodi’s hands are skilled and nourishing, she works intuitively and in silence. I surrender. I surrender to the moment, to the softness of my breath, to the stillness. I arrive. This place over the years has become my refuge, a place to experience the natural world. I feel at home beneath the stars, where the full moon creates daylight out of darkness, where coyotes serenade the night. I am dependent on the benevolence of life to sustain me, to keep me woven into this great weave that is life. A single strand, a wave in the ocean, a star in the sky, a tree in the forest, a rock on the mountain. I am the whole and I am the part. Orvis closes at 10:00 pm. As I leave the driveway my headlights capture shimmering crystals, suspended in air, something else I have never seen. I love nothing more than feeling the presence of magic in my life. I suddenly feel as if the entire night has been a milagro. I had declared earlier in the week that 2010 was going to be the “year of the milagros.” The year of miracles, of fateful encounters, uncommon graces, the happenstance that makes life an adventure! Synchronicity and fortuitous experiences are going to be my fare. This is only the beginning… Written: January 6, 2010 The Latin word for the Roman goddess of liberty and freedom is Liberas. She is in fact the inspiration for the statue of liberty, an effigy of the goddess Isis. I remember the trembling I felt in my body when I first laid eyes on her this summer. I was floating down the Hudson, onboard a small cruise liner aptly named, “Celestial.” It was sunset and we came as close to her as law allows. The power of her presence was overwhelming. She was the embodiment of what I value most, freedom. The protector of liberty, asylum from oppression and tyranny, and a woman!
As a direct descendent of Patrick Henry, “the give me liberty or give me death Henry”, I have all of my life been wed to the highest ideal of liberation. It is in my blood. I have dedicated my life to liberating those who suffer, to illuminating the truth, to removing that which binds. I have found that it is the mind itself that either oppresses or liberates. Even those in the most heinous and dehumanizing situations can remain internally free. How we interpret our reality, our experience, determines the quality of our lives. A worthy example follows. I have been mired for the past several weeks in the interpretative aspect of my mind. I have been strategizing, analyzing, and in the end drawing erroneous conclusions about the state of my life. I have experienced intellectual mayhem, the result of trying to find a suitable answer to my livelihood dilemma. As if the process of mere “thinking” would be enough to resolve the issue. The more I think the less present I am. The more present I am the more relaxed I feel. In being relaxed I connect effortlessly to a timeless state of consciousness. This expansiveness lends itself to non-linear modes of cognition, to transcendental knowledge that is liberating. This is the realm where I know that I don’t need an answer. What a relief. I have struggled this last year to exclusively support myself doing what it is that I love, writing and teaching. I have known my whole life that it was my spiritual destiny, the work that I was intended to do! I had such clarity of purpose, such a heartfelt knowing that this was the fulfilling of my dharma. The fact that it failed to be a viable living was devastating. I felt disappointed, and discouraged. Wallowing in an apathetic demise, suffering overshadowing the joy my heart tried in vain to awaken. I felt abandoned. If not this then what? Was it possible, that it wasn’t possible? Self-doubt and anger plagued my heart. Only solitude could soothe the deep pain that I felt. I needed time to crater in the ruin of my attachments. To be in that lonely, “I don’t know what else to do place,” that is painful to the touch. There is nothing like retreating from the world, from the ravages of the mind, to restore one’s relative sanity. I became contemplative, self-reflective. Was I attached to how my work should look? Had “I” designated it as “spiritual work” to the exclusion of other forms of work I had done in my life? Did it truthfully have greater value, merit or importance? How could I ever determine that? Isn’t it about who I am, not what I do? What determined spiritual work? Did it really matter what I did? I began to see how far I had wandered from my own knowing. In the most compassionate way, I was shown that there is no greater or lesser thing that I can do in this world. It is simply a matter of awareness, of recognizing that whatever I do with love is my work! Something truly amazing happened through this process… I felt my own small contributions to humanity. They were not epic or grand. They were in fact, simple moments in time. Those moments happened in the world, within the context of people’s lives, not necessarily within a classroom, not on a blank page. I had in my own quiet way brought truth, love, compassion, peace, healing and freedom to those in need. I didn’t create those opportunities they were given to me. They will always be given to me. In the darkest times in my life I have discovered an inner strength and power, an ability to trust in the forces that were conspiring to make me real. At the height of fear I have felt the birth of courage. When I’ve been certain that I couldn’t endure, something within miraculously restores me to life, puts flesh on my bones, and air in my lungs. “Your not done yet, so rise.” This is how I have become authentic. I have learned how to surrender, to accept what I most ardently resist with faith. I don’t know where I will be led, how I will earn my living, where I will live or much of anything else. What I do know is that I can trust in life. I remember the truth, I hold the keys to my own freedom. Hail Libertas! Happy New Year, love, santidevi A student of mine yesterday told me that whenever she thinks of me, in her mind, my name is Faith. How perfect, that in someone else’s internal world I am synonymous with faith! This is exactly what has returned to my patient and awaiting heart, faith. It was as if the Gods were confirming that I had wandered home again, to the hallowed ground of my true Self, renamed. Thanks Kate!
I have always believed in signs, in synchronicity and otherwise magical happenstance. Whenever I have needed direction it has always appeared in an illuminating and spontaneous way. Lyrics to a song inspire me to take a risk, words on a billboard answer the question I have been pondering, someone gives me the very thing I have been needing most etc… I have learned through experience, that my life is being choreographed in concert with my purpose, despite my best effort at times, to derail myself. There is a constant resonance happening between my deepest longing, and life’s desire to fulfill it. It doesn’t require effort on my part, merely an unshakable trust, and a willingness to suspend my judgement and fear. This is what I love most about life, it is never certain. I know your wondering how I can possibly be sincere in this sentiment. Understandably confusing if you have read my past few posts. Let me clarify. Now that I have my bearings once more, I am remembering how valuable uncertainty really is. When I am uncertain, on some level I am aware of the immense possibilities pulsing just beneath the surface. I am no longer trapped by what I know, but freed by what I don’t. In the face of the unknown I am asked to surrender, to have faith in the beauty and benevolence of life, in the goodness of humanity. To let go of all preconceived notions about what is and isn’t possible in the world. To possess the qualities of a beginner’s mind. I have never been able to determine my course, which I am sure has been an act of grace! I am simply taken to where I am needed most. Whenever I have tried to manipulate or control the direction of my life, usually through stubborn willfulness, I am inevitably cast to and fro in a abyss of self-doubt and misery. Exhausting and overwhelming myself in the process. Yet when I surrender to the prevailing forces, those that are intuitively trying to lead me, a sense of calm and peace ensues. There is an immense joy that is arising as I relax more fully into this uncertain, but amazingly adventurous life of mine. This heroine’s journey is a mapless exploration, yet I am guided in a powerful and deeply gratifying way. I seem to know I am going in the right direction, even when I feel hopelessly lost. The trials and tribulations, the obstacles, and challenges continue to be the catalyst of my character development! In the ninth hour, when all seems insanely futile, and all for naught, the miraculous happens… I find my way. It doesn’t matter what I do to earn my living as long as I continue to be who I am, to live with a humble and grateful heart. I have awakened once more to what is of real importance to me. It has been my true souls desire not to be corrupted by the pain and suffering inherent in human life but to live as an embodiment of unconditional love, compassion, wisdom and truth, to remain authentic, simple and childlike in my nature. To live according to my highest understanding. So let the north wind blow… santidevi Seattle… the mist casts an otherworldly sheen over the city. The landscape takes on an impressionistic tone and I feel as if the world is being water colored. I walk Greenlake with my laotong who spots a bald eagle sitting atop a towering, flat needled pine. A small crow is fearlessly or perhaps recklessly trying to attack it, diving at every angle, the crow is relentless. The eagle on the other hand, is the embodiment of stillness. It appears completely undisturbed. We watch in amazement at the bold maneuvering of the crow and the absolute indifference of its regal target. Suddenly something in me awakens…
I immediately see the symbolism of the choreography that is unfolding before my eyes, and how it relates to my own life at this moment. The eagle is pure consciousness, the supreme sovereign, that which is eternal, and unbound. The crow is the ego aspect of the mind, that which is unconscious, transient and distinctly mortal. The ego is constantly trying to maintain control of the individual consciousness and will resort to nearly any means to assert its will and dominance. It’s uncanny in its ability to determine exactly when you are most vulnerable to its influence. I have worked for years at subduing the power the ego has upon my thoughts, words, behavior and character. I have become very astute at knowing when it is present, even in subtle form. Generally I am aware of when it surfaces, or is trying to seize control. But I am not beyond being humbled by its sudden resurrections! The recent financial stress, the fear and uncertainty of not being able to meet my obligations created the perfect climate for the ego to take prominence. I found my mind increasingly beleaguered by negative and self-limited thinking. Always an indication, that the ego has made an entrance. I began to interpret my current situation as a reflection of my personal value and worth, identifying myself with my corrosive thoughts and feelings. I was placing unreasonable demands upon myself, insisting that I DO something to alleviate my circumstances. Try harder! Take control! Use more effort! Side note: effort fueled by fear creates contraction, contraction creates disconnection, disconnection, creates isolation. I was spiraling into an ever widening and dark abyss. DANGER WILL ROBINSON! It has been along time since I have felt pulled into the current of unconsciousness. I no longer felt the ever present, peace and stillness of my being. I felt, as dramatically as it may sound, that I had been abducted and was being held hostage by a self proclaimed anarchist. Actually that is a fairly accurate assessment of what had happened. I was no longer awake, aware, or present… the ego was at the helm! Do you know what finally woke me up, several days later? Pain. Pain is the great Awakener. I was creating a reality that was UNREAL. None of what I was thinking was actually happening. I was creating an inferno of self-imposed suffering. “Suffering is an absence of presence.” I heard internally the illuminating truth, the power of my own words, of my most intimate understanding. I realized in that moment the fictional, and illusionary quality of my fear, how I had drawn apocalyptic conclusions about my situation, which I had ignorantly equated with my life! How I was judging my experience, instead of merely observing it. Do you see how swiftly the ego aspect of the mind can commandeer our lives and create havoc if we are not Mindful? You see, the mind both binds, and liberates. This is the paradox. My mind had put me into an airless box without windows, yet it also in the end, freed me. It’s not that I didn’t know all of what I just recited prior to the experience, I did. Thus is the power of fear to undermine our skills, and compromise our abilities. This is the interesting thing about life we are never done learning, growing, expanding and evolving, no matter whom we are. As a teacher I am first and foremost a student. We are all challenged to practice, to live according to our deepest truth and understanding. Becoming impartial to our experience is very important in spiritual life, being able to accept with equanimity whatever arises. This deep acceptance of what is, is the true home of faith, peace and happiness. I continue to learn this. As soon as I woke up, { began to consciously observe my mind } the serene and meditative quality that normally characterizes my state of being returned spontaneously. It was always there. I am the one who departed when I became possessed by the throes of a panicked ego. Nothing in my external world has changed and yet I am at peace. Was the whole process really necessary? Is there anything in life that does not serve our evolution? Experience, has wisely taught me, not to judge how I am transformed, or awakened. I have also learned the value of not destructively criticizing or blaming myself for my lapse of awareness. Each time, I know that a profound transformation has occurred, a shift that invariably brings greater clarity and understanding. I am brought to my knees and humbled, certain of only one thing… still breathing. I am so grateful for what I have, for the gift and grace that is my life. santidevi |
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