Between Will and Surrender

by Margaret Duarte

  I ran my hand along the mare’s golden neck and scratched beneath her white mane. “I’ve admired palominos since watching Roy Rogers and Trigger,” I said.

  The horse snorted and shook her head, then stretched her neck around and nuzzled my shoulder. “What’s her name?”

  “Blondie.”

  Of course.

  I grabbed the saddle horn, put my foot into the stirrup, and pulled myself onboard, feeling the years slip away and my old confidence in the saddle return.

  Ben’s mount was more spirited. He tossed his head, signaling his eagerness to be off. His coat was predominantly white with a variety of chestnut colored patterns, his legs dark, and his head—also dark—splashed with bold, white markings. “What kind of horse is he?”

  “An American Paint,” Ben said, “descended from the horses brought here by the Spanish conquistadors. Native Americans revere this breed.”

  We rode from the yard in silence; and soon the silence turned into peace, as if we were on the edge of a new world, a world of ancient lands and untamed wilderness. As I took in the unfolding meadows and valleys of pine, I experienced a renewed appreciation for the sun, the wind, and the texture of the earth. Questions that had seemed so important to me only moments before dissolved like unremembered dreams.

  To the right of the trail, I spotted a red-tailed hawk perched on a tree stump. Instead of taking off in flight as we drew nearer, the stocky bird remained still and perfect as a decoy.

  “Why doesn’t it fly off?” I asked.

  “It knows we mean it no harm.”

  The hawk opened its hooked beak but made no sound. I reined in my horse and stared, never having been this close to a bird the size of a small dog.

  Ben rode on, and I urged my mount forward but not before taking a quick backwards glance. The hawk flew up and kited into the wind, wings spanning at least two feet on either side. Within seconds, it was flying overhead and circling back.

  “I think the hawk’s following us,” I said.

  “Possibly, but it’s not the wildlife that should concern you as much as the smallest change in the landscape and weather, which can turn ugly in the blink of an eye.”

  The hawk flew in close with a raspy, steam-whistle scream, Kree-eee-ar. The rush of air created by its massive wings caused goose bumps to rise over my skin. I ducked out of instinct rather than fear, though a scene of attacking birds from a Hitchcock film did flash through my mind.

  “When a hawk appears in your life and communicates with you, it may signify a warning,” Ben said.

  “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “The hawk’s warning shouldn’t be taken as a negative sign, but as an opportunity to keep your eyes open and be aware.”

  “Be aware rather than beware. Okay, I get it.”

  In time, Ben halted, and when I reined my horse at his side, I saw something I’d never expected to see on this earth. Towering rocks plunged into a crater-like valley, and far below ran a river, only to end in a waterfall that, even at this distance, conveyed nature’s power when allowed to follow its own true course. To further spotlight an already over-the-top display of nature’s ability to impress, rays of light shimmered through blinding white clouds. And we were all alone to capture this miracle, two travelers on the planet peace.

  “This is where the story begins,” Ben said. Then he proceeded to tell me about the Esselen, the first inhabitants of the Santa Lucia Mountains, of their close ties to nature and their reverence for the spirit of this land. “They thrived in this rugged environment and were content.”

  Ben squinted at the sky. “I brought bottled water. Want some?”

  “Yes, please.” I tried to imagine my ancestors clustered near the doors of dome-shaped, thatched houses, arranged in wagon train fashion, around plaza-like clearings.

  We dismounted, leaving the horses to feast on the grasses growing lush at our feet. Ben chose a smooth boulder as seating and continued his lesson. “The Esselen were healthy and free, rich in all that mattered. They didn’t need to farm or labor ten hours a day. The women gathered food, cooked, and wove baskets, which sometimes took a year to create. The men hunted with bows and arrows they’d made themselves. All in all, they lived off the land and their simple system worked.”

  Until the missionaries came along, I said to myself, not wanting to destroy the moment or interrupt Ben’s story. I took in my surroundings and realized that what I was seeing and touching had been seen and touched by the Esselen. Some may have sat on this very rock, which felt warm, as if alive. I imagined men talking and laughing while repairing their fishing nets, women grinding acorns, children playing hide-and-seek, and elders napping in the sun.

  Ben went on to talk about the tribe’s customs, their play, and their way of life. Occasionally, I’d ask a question, but mostly I listened, enjoying the sound of his voice and the stories he told. He talked about the Esselen ceremonies and about their creation story. He talked about the coyote, the hummingbird, the hawk, and the mouse. He talked about the earth, the sacred path, and the four directions, and how the Esselen had a profound understanding of the mysteries of life, the purpose of existence, and the forces of nature.

  “If you want to visit some of their ancient ceremonial sites or check out their pictographs on boulders and in caves, there are tours available,” he said. “Guides share tribal tales and songs and play drums around the campfire while you camp beneath the moon and the stars.”

  “That sounded like poetry, Ben.”

  “I’ve heard the tour promotions so many times, I’ve got them memorized. Let me know if you’re interested and, even though it’s the off season, I can arrange one for you.”

  I thought of Joshua. Camping beneath the moon and the stars would probably be right up his alley. “Could I bring a young friend?”

  “Depends on your friend’s age.”

  “Seven.”

  “Tour rule is seven or older. Is your friend from around here?”

  “Yes, his name is Joshua Alameda.”

  “Alameda?” A smile crossed Ben’s face. “Last I saw Joshua he was five years old and a regular chatterbox. It was tough him losing his parents the way he did. How’s he doing?”

  Just thinking about Joshua alone in his silent world curtailed my pleasure in our surroundings as effectively a velvet curtain drawn between my overly stimulated senses and an earth-shattering Broadway show. “He’s under a doctor’s care, but his progress has been slow.”

  “Poor kid,” Ben said. “He’s more than welcome to join the tour, but you might want to clear it with his doctor first. He was found wandering alone not far from here after the death of his parents, and he’s bound to experience some traumatic memories.”

  “It’s a miracle he survived,” I said. “He experienced something beyond terrible.”

  Ben’s eyes appeared suddenly moist. “Let’s head back,” he said. “I’m hungry.”

  “Me, too.”

  I was hungry, all right, but for something food wasn’t about to satisfy.

  Chapter Eighteen

  TALKING BECAME DIFFICULT as the trail narrowed and Ben and I rode single-file instead of side-by-side. But the ensuing silence gave me time to appreciate—if not understand—the calming effect this complete immersion in nature was having on me both physically and spiritually.

  When the trail widened again, Ben reined his horse to a halt and crossed his hands on the horn of the saddle, signaling, to me at least, that he was open to a few questions from an inquiring mind. I touched my heels to Blondie’s flank and urged her forward until I reached his side. “Ben, what can you tell me about the Native American Medicine Wheel?”

  His lips twitched. “Now what brought that on?”

  Encouraged by what appeared to be amusement in his eyes, I said, “I’m seeing a psychologist . . . the same one who cares for Joshua. Actually, that’s where Joshua and I met. In the waiting room of all things. Anyway, the docto
r’s name is Tony Mendez, and when I asked him about the framed illustration of the Medicine Wheel on his office wall, he told me very little.”

  Ben chuckled. “Tony’s a friend of mine. He follows the four directions teachings and integrates them into his practice of transpersonal psychology. He probably figured you weren’t ready.”

  “So, are you going to hold out on me, too?”

  I kept my tone light not wanting to reveal how eager I was for knowledge outside of the belief system that currently defined my spirituality. It felt like part of my mind was cracking open, maybe even my world.

  “The indigenous people on the west coast didn’t follow Medicine Wheel teachings,” Ben said. “The sacred teachings of the Medicine Wheel originated with the plains native people.”

  “But the Plains and Esselen tribes must’ve shared some common spiritual principles and themes,” I said in a voice that sounded like a plea. I longed for the type of spiritual healing and reaching of one’s potential Dr. Mendez had hinted at in his office.

  Ben’s nod was barely perceptible. “Earth Medicine may not be the right path for you.”

  My mount sidestepped, tossed her head, and snorted. “Calm down, girl,” I said, stroking the mare’s neck, though I was referring to myself.

  “I don’t have the permission or training to be a spiritual leader,” Ben said, “plus you won’t know how to interpret the wheel teachings or apply them to your daily life.”

  “Maybe the parts I could interpret and apply to my life would help me broaden my world view.”

  Something flickered in Ben’s eyes, which gave me the courage to press on. “Please. I’d really like to know.”

  He repositioned himself in the saddle and patted his horse. “I’ll share with you the little that has been passed on to me. Stop me if I lose or bore you.”

  I nodded. No chance of that.

  Ben’s chest expanded and released, a sight I found comforting. Such a big man, so at ease with the world. “The Medicine Wheel symbolizes the great circle of life, with no beginning or end, always moving, always continuing, always teaching us new lessons and truths. Its teachings are about walking the earth peacefully, in harmony with nature, and seeking a healthy mind.”

  Ben glanced at me, apparently to see if I was following.

  I was. In fact, I was hanging onto his every word, with an eagerness that would have been embarrassing if I hadn’t been so focused on drawing out every bit of information he was willing to share before cutting me off.

  “Different cultures interpret this tool in different ways,” he said, “so the Medicine Wheel includes sacred symbols that cross many First Nation belief systems and are adapted to modern times. Because of this, the Medicine Wheel contains medicine more powerful than drugs.”

  Silence followed—a complete silence—no wind, no birds, nothing. Ben looked off into the distance, as if he’d forgotten my presence.

  “Don’t stop, please,” I said.

  He smiled, and I sensed his gentleness and felt a deep appreciation for what he was doing. Thank you, Gentle Bear.

  “For the wheel’s medicine to work,” he said, “you need the faith, openness, and curiosity of a child. You have to believe that everything and anything is possible.”

  “I think I understand,” I said. “So many things have happened to me lately that I can no longer dismiss as coincidence.”

  “Things will happen on your path to self-discovery that may seem coincidental but in fact happen for a reason.”

  “I’m not an atheist, Ben, I believe in God.”

  Ben shook his head. “We’re not talking about religion here. The Medicine Wheel and its teachings contain no dogma, only harmony and connection.”

  “A philosophy then?”

  “Or a unique life science,” he said.

  “So, Earth Medicine doesn’t necessarily conflict with my current beliefs?”

  “That depends on what you mean by beliefs. The Great One created all.”

  The horses paused to graze on the wild grasses, moving forward every now and then for better pickings, which only added to the serenity of the ride. My gaze swept over the invigorating and aromatic terrain of white sage, chaparral, and oaks. “I’m only part Native American.”

  “This isn’t about genetics but choices.”

  The talk of truth and faith combined with the sun seeping through my jacket caused my defenses to melt away, and I found myself saying, “I’ve been hearing voices, Ben, coming out of nowhere . . .”

  “Then your time has arrived,” he said.

  “So, you believe that I’m hearing something—someone?”

  “Possibly one or more Spirit Keepers are revealing themselves to you. They often appear in visions or dreams.”

  I thought of my vision of Joshua and the fire and wondered if I’d been led here for a reason. All seemed so unreal.

  “Today men and women alike want scientific proof of the spiritual,” Ben said. Which about summed up my attitude until lately. “The key to the spiritual is faith, common to all religions and philosophies”

  “Will you help me?” I asked.

  “Of course, but, more importantly, you need to help yourself.”

  “How?”

  “I can introduce you to the Medicine Wheel, but it’ll be up to you to discover something of value in its teachings, a clue, a direction, a path.”

  “When can we start?”

  Ben’s brows furrowed in a way that signaled for me to slow down as effectively as would a yellow light at an intersection. “This isn’t a quick fix, Marjorie. No two people walk the same path to spiritual truth.”

  I tapped my internal brakes like the rule-following citizen I’d been trained to be, though my gut impulse was to do just the opposite—run the light while there was still time. I’d been holding back and proceeding with caution for so many years that it felt like I was now only beginning to live. “Do you think I’m ready?”

  “Maybe your power has been transferred into the hands of others for too long. You might need to head out on your own for a while, and find your own power.”

  “Then we’re right back where we started,” I said.

  “Not quite. You’re making room for the spiritual.”

  “What if I don’t discover what I need to know before I leave?” I asked, thinking, time’s a wasting; I need to get on with it.

  “You have the rest of your life.”