Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

  “He called me ‘Sunwalker,’” I said.

  Anne glanced at Adam and gave him a thumbs-up. “He probably won’t remember.”

  Though my head ached and I felt nauseous, I had an irrepressible urge to confront this man. He hadn’t just happened to sculpt a replica of me, days, maybe weeks, before my arrival. And he hadn’t just happened to know my Indian name.

  “There’s a spiritual dimension to AD that we don’t yet understand,” Anne said, “which seems to grow in magnitude as the physical mind and body wither. Adam sees things, Marjorie. He claims that he encounters the spirits of the deceased.”

  His clothes weren’t torn or dirty, just bulky—army surplus stuff—quite practical for camping, and his long white hair was pulled back from his face and secured into a ponytail with an elastic band. What stood out, though, was his posture—a bit slumped, but relaxed and graceful.

  “At first, he may look pale and insignificant,” Anne said. “Like a nonentity. But on closer inspection, you’ll notice his quiet dignity, gentleness, and strength. Then, of course, there’s his art. It’s what keeps him going.”

  She motioned for Adam to sit with us and, to my surprise, he did.

  Not a word passed between us, and in time his calm presence communicated with something inside of me. And just as I was beginning to feel the boundaries between us dissolve, he stood.

  I heard a jingle. He paused at the sound, then put his hand into his coat pocket, pulled out a ring of keys, and fingered them one at a time.

  I turned to Anne. “What are the keys for?”

  “They’re his totems.”

  A gold-plated BMW emblem dangled from the key ring with small studs of what appeared to be sapphires and diamonds. “Keys as totems?”

  “Yep,” she said.

  Adam shuffled over to a work in progress and knelt in front of it.

  “But the keys themselves are of no use to him now, right?”

  “Yes and no,” Anne said. “There’s a mini computer attached to the key ring that has Adam’s daily routine programmed and offers advice and directions if he gets lost or confused. It’s sort of like a Palm Pilot, GPS receiver, and wireless modem all in one. It also alerts me if he’s in trouble.”

  “Which makes you what? Some kind of cyber nurse?”

  She ran her fingers through her hair, causing the curls to stretch and spring back like the swell and contraction of ocean waves. “It’s a new project, still primitive in execution. He’s lucky to be involved, but a lot can go wrong.”

  “What if he loses them?”

  “He cherishes those keys, so I doubt it. But just in case, we also put wireless sensors in his clothing.” Anne chuckled at the look on my face. “Kind of high tech, don’t you think? It’s like he’s a member of some exclusive club.”

  “The society of the senile and helpless,” I said.

  Anne considered me in her calm, thoughtful way, taking no offense at my sarcasm. “More like the society of souls with one foot in heaven.” She patted my knee. “Watch and learn.”

  “Does that make him the patient or the doctor?” I asked, still unconvinced that she was doing the right thing.

  Anne called me what sounded like “smart ass” under her breath. “Actually, Adam’s an extraordinary human being, advanced for his time. When he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, he immediately began to study the disease and came up with a remarkable theory. He considers AD as a ‘remembering,’ a going back to a collective mind shared with nature and with God, a mind that connects everything. Not empty space, but spirit.”

  “He believes AD breaks down the barrier between our mind and the Almighty’s?” I asked, liking the sound of it.

  “That about sums it up.” Anne got up and stretched her legs. “He felt the need to immerse himself in nature and give his body the opportunity to acclimatize itself, so eventually, when further dementia set in, it would know what to do. As do animals, plants, and insects. He believed that the bright, natural light of outdoors and the aroma of God’s clean earth would relieve his agitation, depression, and sleep disorders.”

  “You mean, in place of drugs and sedatives, which have side effects,” I said, realizing how close I’d come to relying on prescriptive medications myself instead of seeking out the root cause of my problems. I would’ve done just about anything to stop the voices. Thank goodness, Dr. Mendez had set me straight.

  “Exactly. The intellectual stimulation of being outdoors helps exercise his mental muscles. I also provide him with folic acid and Vitamins B6 and B12 in hopes that they’ll slow the progression of the disease.”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” I said. “Everything being natural and all. Sort of like treating the patient, instead of the disease.”

  Anne smiled, apparently pleased with my guarded acceptance of her holistic approach to AD. “Adam and I made a pact. We would progress with his experiment as long as he could prove that his body knew what to do, unless, of course, he became a danger to himself or to others. He signed an advanced directive putting all in writing, and so far, so good.”

  With Anne’s help, I rose to a stand. No longer nauseous. Headache gone. “Hope it works. That would mean—”

  “That until now, we’ve been going about the treatment of Alzheimer’s all wrong,” Anne finished for me in a voice that shook.

  “What a breakthrough that would be,” I said.

  “I’m a licensed vocational nurse as well as a geriatric care manager and have been trying for years to prove that nursing programs need to integrate the spiritual into their course work. Adam is experiencing a crisis of spirit, as well as an illness of body. His sense of identity and purpose is shaken, so he needs help spiritually as well as physically.”

  Anne searched my face and seemed satisfied with what she saw there. “He had to abandon habits and rituals of a lifetime, and for a while this caused him to become listless, bored, and pessimistic. But then he discovered mud.”

  “He sure did,” I said.

  Adam was working his clay, and we watched him for a while before I said, “So many sculptures of the same woman and child.”

  Anne’s eyes puddled with tears. “They’re all of his wife and son. His wife died thirteen years ago, and his son is now grown. Adam is working feverishly to memorialize them as he knew them, before his memory fails.”

  “They look so happy.”

  “That’s how he remembers them.”

  “So, why isn’t he with his son?” I thought of how I’d left my mother for reasons hard to explain to those accustomed to judging by outside appearances.

  “There’s little honor in growing old these days.” Anne said. “Adam is selfish, yet selfless, weak, yet strong. He’s trying to do what’s best for his son, and for himself as well. Sometimes one can’t do both and must choose.”

  I knew the feeling, trying to do what was best for Truus, but also what was best for me. Sometimes one can’t do both and must choose. Maybe Adam and I had something in common.

  “He’s trying to figure out what it means to be alive,” Anne said. “And what it means to die.”

  I swallowed with difficulty. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

  Anne shrugged. “Actually, Adam wanted to meet you. He was the one you sensed yesterday when you came across the sculpture he was working on. He says your mother’s here and has a message for you.”

  Something cracked inside of me. I felt like crying, but held on. “Anne, he called me ‘Sunwalker,’ which is the name my birth mother gave me before she died. He must know her.”

  Anne crossed herself. “Then he may be the key.”

  ~~~

  When we got back to camp, three children occupied my tent. Again. The bravest, young Holly, jumped up, not appearing the least bit upset at being caught trespassing a second time. “Are you a pervert?” she asked, addressing me.

  Anne laughed.

  I ignored her and asked Holly, “What’s a per
vert, dear?”

  “I think it’s a—” Holly searched my face for clues.

  “It means you’re bad,” Nathan said. “Dad says people like you should be locked up.”

  Holly’s eyes widened and she backed up a step, before edging forward again. Brave girl.

  Anne chuckled. “This is getting interesting.”

  Christopher, who had been silent until now, spoke up. “I don’t think you’re bad just because Dad says so.”

  “Now that’s my kind of guy,” Anne said.

  “Are you gay?” Nathan asked, addressing Anne.

  This time I chuckled, suddenly able to see the humor in the situation.

  “Do you know what gay means?” Anne asked.

  Nathan shook his head.

  “It’s okay,” Holly said. “I like gay.”

  “Me, too,” Nathan said.

  Christopher looked uneasy. “Dad’ll kill us if he finds us here.”

  “Yeah,” Nathan and Holly chimed in.

  “Well, goodbye then,” I said.

  They took off like rabbits.

  “Parents like that really screw up their kids,” I said as I watched them race back to their camp. “They learn by what they see and hear.”

  “And by instinct,” Anne added.

  “They’re getting no guidance. Unless you consider punishment after the fact as guidance.”

  “They’re getting lots of freedom, that’s for sure.” Anne said. “Jealous?”

  I surprised myself by saying, “Yes. Children need restrictions for their security and well-being, but they should also have the right to an opinion and to make some of their own decisions. My mother’s lack of trust in me caused her to try to control my life and activities, not only as a child, but even now.”

  Anne was wise enough not to comment.

  “Look at Holly,” I said. “She stands up for what she believes in. She hasn’t been broken. At least, not yet.”

  “Broken by whom?” Anne asked.

  “Her parents, teachers, church, society, life.”

  “You think she’ll lose the power of her convictions?”

  “It depends,” I said. “She’s got spunk, that’s for sure.”

  Anne continued to stare at the Circus Camp, though the children had long disappeared into their tent. “They do think for themselves, judging us on what they observe, rather than what they’re being told.”

  “I wouldn’t have done so at their age,” I said. I had always been the perfect child, always following the rules, never questioning authority.

  “So, you’re just getting to that now?” Anne asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, “after twenty-eight years.”

  “So, who’s got the better parents?”

  “One of life’s contradictions, I guess.”

  We stood silent until Anne said, “I have some meditating to do. See you Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday?”

  Anne shook her head. “I knew you weren’t listening. That’s when I’ll be taking you to my workshop.”

  I looked at her blankly.

  “Oh dear, Adam really shook you up, didn’t he?”

  “You have no idea,” I said.

  Chapter Six

  EVEN COCOONED IN MY sleeping bag and zipped inside my waterproof tent, I sensed fog blanketing my world, and it gave me the feeling of being completely alone. Yet strangely, I didn’t mind. The fog served as a reminder that I had things to clear up, things to do. Anne would be busy today, which was good. Although I enjoyed her company, I needed time alone to set up my Medicine Wheel and sit in the place of the South, where the process of contacting Antonia and discovering my true self would begin.

  As I struggled out of my sleeping bag and into my clothes, I recalled what Ben Gentle Bear Mendoza had told me about the Southern direction of the Medicine Wheel. “It’s a place to identify and erase old beliefs, attitudes, and attachments that no longer serve you, the unhealthy habits, ideas, and emotions that you carry around for no purpose other than to perpetuate old hurts and behaviors and keep you from moving on.”

  After a lukewarm cup of coffee from my thermos and a granola bar, I belted the pouch containing my spiritual tools around my waist and stepped out of my tent. Sporadic shafts of sunlight penetrated the wet, drooping branches and needles of the surrounding redwoods. Not ideal hiking conditions, but the fog had lifted enough for my purpose.

  I followed a gated road into an old oak forest. The path was well marked and firmly packed due to many hikers on their connect-with-nature adventures. I passed a primitive cabin, and then, with Anne’s warning about not leaving the trail still ringing in my ears, I stepped off the marked path.

  Following what appeared to be a trail made by a series of four, rather than two, legged species, I felt like a researcher on an expedition to a remote corner of the world. Before regrets for an ill-advised detour could set in, I found the perfect spot for what I intended to do, a flattened circle of soft, spongy earth surrounded by a protective wall of trees and underbrush, which I wouldn’t be able to identify without a field guide. At least I knew not to sit on the reddish-green leaves of poison oak vines or the shamrock-like leaves of stinging hedge nettle, thanks to Christopher’s warning during our Snapshot game, and it didn’t look like I was invading the den of a raccoon, skunk, or fox. All I needed now was an hour of uninterrupted time.

  I set my stone markers on the smooth earth, thinking of how the Medicine Wheel represented the four directions, North, South, East, and West, and also symbolized an encircled cross. I lit my smudge stick, let it burn for thirty seconds, and extinguished the flame. When the stick began to smolder, I fanned the smoke toward me with the hawk tail feather I had found in Bayfront Park and inhaled its grounding, aroma. The burning sage, heather, and cedar had an herbal, woody scent, different from the lemony, black licorice scent of the frankincense and myrrh that I’d become accustomed to in church. Regardless, it reminded me of how, as a child, I’d watched the priest put incense into the thurible and swing it forward and back, forward and back—with the censer clicking against its chain on each back swing and smoke wafting out to cleanse and purify the altar.

  Using the smudge stick and feather, I cleansed the area above my head, toward my feet, and in the four directions. Then I sat, facing north, in my sealed and strengthened space. I placed a candle next to the smoldering smudge stick on the seashell in the center of my circle and lit it, symbolically opening myself to my own source and to the One Source. Finally, I rested my hands on my knees, palms up, and closed my eyes.

  Bird chatter, seet-seet-seet-seet-turrr; chick-dee-dee; weze-weze-weze-weze-weet; zir-zir-zir-zir-see-see, filled the space around me, signaling all was well. I breathed in and out, allowing my body to relax, then picked up the black notebook Dr. Mendez had given me at the end of our first therapy session. “I would like you to keep a journal, starting today,” he’d said after handing it to me. “Personal revelations can come as a whisper in the night, a fleeting thought, or, as in your case, a voice in your head. Record what you hear and see. Share what you have been taught to keep to yourself. Later, we will try to decipher and understand.”

  What negative behavioral patterns did I need to erase from my life before I could open to the questions that haunted me?

  The first thing that came to mind was the certainty that I could no longer be what others expected me to be, starting with the expectations of my adoptive mother. I loved her. I respected her. And I was grateful for all she’d done for me. But feeling obligated to justify my actions and behavior to her was no longer an option. It was time to let go of her life story and adopt my own.

  I drew a stick figure of Truus in my journal, and as I snuffed out the candle and smudge stick and dismantled my Medicine Wheel, I recalled childhood memories of her gentle touch, how she tested my forehead for fever, rubbed my back in concern, kissed my cheek. My throat clogged. I cleared it.

  No backing down no
w.

  I dug a hole through the mounds of fermenting duff, tore the page that contained the stick figure of my mother from my journal, and buried it. I love you, Mom, and I thank you.

  Eyes centered on the grave-like mound, I began to sing a song to celebrate the occasion of making peace with at least part of my personal history; a song Ben Gentle Bear Mendoza had taught me during our time together in the Tassajara wilderness. Nya Ho To Tya Ha. Oh Ho Mo Ne Me. I didn’t know the meaning of the words, but their effect on my spirit had all the meaning in the world. Dots of sunshine formed patterns on my eyelids as I continued to bellow out Ben’s spirit-song. Every inch of my body seemed to open up and absorb the pulsating energy that surrounded me, until finally, I’d had enough.

  I sagged backwards onto the soft, spongy earth. What now, God?

  A rustling from between bushes and underbrush.

  Jeez. Not again.

  The parting of strangling brambles and vines.

  I sat up, heart racing, my skin a mass of goosebumps.

  I should have listened to Anne.

  Too late now.

  Adam and his sidekick, Buster, stepped into the open.

  “Oh, my gosh,” I said between ragged breaths. “You scared me.”

  Adam edged forward, his eyes focused on my journal.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  He continued to stare at my journal.

  I wanted to pick it up and shove it into my backpack, but something—call it intuition, a sixth sense, empathy—cautioned me to hold back.

  Adam scratched his head, then he headed back through the curtain of underbrush, followed by the coyote.

  I sagged back onto the ground. I think I hear you laughing, God.

  The earth’s warmth worked its way through my jacket to my muscles and bones. Looking up, I followed the length of the elegantly fluted redwood trunks shooting straight into the great blue sky.

  Just as I was getting around to thanking God for the gift of my surroundings, Adam returned—holding a book.

  He settled next to me as though we were new best friends.

  I sat up with effort, my body heavy, uncooperative.