I tried to make room in my mind and heart for the mysterious energies he spoke of, and maybe in part, I succeeded, if the peace and contentment building inside were anything to go by.
“I jotted down what you need to do next,” Ben said, “so I can get out of the way. You’ve got to be alone for your discoveries.” He handed me a scrap of paper with some hand-written notes. “Follow these steps, then write whatever comes to you in your journal and move to the center of the wheel to rebalance yourself.”
After Ben had disappeared into the scrub and trees, I read his notes. They directed me to take off my shoes and socks. I re-read the instructions, hoping I’d misunderstood. It was early yet—and cold. I shivered at the very thought of baring my feet.
However, I hadn’t misread a word. Within minutes, the toes of my right foot were testing the ground. The sensation was pleasant, the earth warm and inviting.
With Ben’s notes as my guide, I stood, faced east, and stretched out my arms. “Grandfather Sun, please guide me in my quest.” I wondered if I should be sensing something besides an empty ache, then referred back to Ben’s instructions. Sit, facing west. I forced out all thoughts of failure. A link would be made.
Eventually, I fell into a meditative state.
My hometown of Menlo Park came to mind, the epicenter of the information age, a part of Silicon Valley, the brave new world in technological advances. Atomic scientists at Menlo Park’s Stanford Linear Accelerator were able to dissect the tiniest particles of physical matter, yet they had no answers to the questions that were dearest to my heart and necessary for my sanity. Instead, here I sat, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees, weeds, ticks, and poison oak—searching. Why couldn’t I find wholeness in my hometown? Why didn’t I have power over my life?
My thoughts leaped to my computer and the energy and travel that took place when I connected to the Internet. A path would lead from my computer to a machine maintained by my Internet service provider, then leap to a computer connected to a regional network, then to a major backbone network. From there the path would step down until it reached the computer that hosted the information for which I was searching. And all this traveling would occur invisibly, and within seconds.
In my Medicine Wheel, I, too, was surrounded by invisible energy, with my brain serving as the computer terminal, my feet the ground, and my arms the antenna. My entire body was equipped with receptors to sense the ever-changing environment around me: the warmth of the sun, the texture of the earth, and the shifting hue of the sky. If this was possible, why wasn’t it also possible for me to hear voices, or, for that matter, see spirits from another dimension?
Maybe, my recent experiences weren’t abnormal after all. Maybe Dr. Mendez’s concept of the universe as a hologram meant that we might be living in something like a computer program, where the stuff we touched and felt was mostly empty space and that reality as we consciously experienced it was not real.
Maybe I was just breaking through.
From close behind me, I heard a song that battered me with raw emotion. The song broke into a long, painful wail, followed by silence—a silence that seemed appropriate somehow, as if all God’s creatures felt and shared the pain. I made no effort to think. I was here to see, accept, and heal. Not to understand.
I visualized a gate leaning in desolation and partially covered by the twists and tangles of vegetation. It stood ajar—an open invitation to my seeking mind. I drew nearer. Scrolls of intertwined ironwork, depicting vines with clusters of grapes, adorned this once proud-standing gate. Two angels, supporting a wreath, knelt in the gate’s center. Inside the wreath lay a lamb on an altar, above which hung a chipped and mildewed cross on a background of faded blue.
The gate beckoned, Enter, and in my dream state, I did just that. A faint difference in the height of vegetation indicated where a path had once led. A path meant a destination, possibly a new discovery. My usual blinders dissolved and my mind experienced a new sense of freedom. If this spelled danger, so be it. Fear could no longer restrain me.
A statue blocked my path—one I’d seen before. The one in the architectural antique store that had reminded me of St. Peter, with his cloak wrapped furtively around him. Before I could explore further, the vision disappeared. I opened my eyes, grabbed my journal and pen, and began to write.
Words flow like blood from a fresh wound, but instead of resulting in weakness, new strength grows inside of me, making room for hope. I try to go forward without fear, but my head is full of shadows. Only when doubt strikes, when the soul is exposed and laid bare, do the shadows make themselves known. Only then do I shiver and peer into the darkness and sense their eyes upon me.
I crawled to the center of the Medicine Wheel, stretched out on the earth, and rested my head on my arms.
Chapter Twenty-seven
SOMEONE SAID MY NAME. I opened my eyes. It was Ben. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes, just a little disoriented.”
“Do you need to sit for a while?”
“No, I’m fine.”
But I did sit, with my head down and my eyes closed. I massaged my neck, took a deep breath. “Where’d you go?”
“Just beyond the trees. Didn’t want to leave you alone.”
When I indicated I was ready, he guided me up and supported me until I’d regained my balance, then gathered the stones and picked up my journal, notes, and pen. “Looks like you did some writing.”
“Can’t remember.”
Ben slipped the notes into the journal and handed it to me.
I unzipped the pouch, dropped the stones inside. “What about the smudging tools?”
“I’ll carry the rest,” he said. “Let’s go, I’m hungry.”
“Ben . . .”
“First we eat. Then we talk.”
By the time we reached our parked vehicles, I felt stronger. Ben grabbed a cooler from the back of his truck, and we sat on the tailgate. He pulled out sandwiches, chips, and bottled water. Then he offered me a pocket-sized antibacterial wipe to clean my hands.
I stared at him, drop-jawed. “Wow, Ben, you’re amazing.”
“Just a quick stop at our local bakery café for chicken sandwiches on broche buns with avocado and bacon,” he said.
Silence took over as we dug into our meal.
“The journey never goes according to one’s expectations,” Ben said after I’d downed my sandwich like a starved teen. “Your path reveals itself slowly, so you need to explore it slowly.”
“Out here each time?”
“You can set up your Medicine Wheel anywhere, but before you move on to the southern direction, I want you to explore the East some more. The East is where you put out your questions and wait for answers.” Ben reached into his pocket and handed me a folded scrap of paper. “Writing is a manifestation of the East. Through writing, messages hidden deep inside come to the surface.”
“I heard a woman crying,” I said, “and I don’t think it was Margarita. Any idea what that might mean?”
“It could mean that you unconsciously invited someone else’s spirit into your sacred space, someone who may have died before she had a chance to go through the process of seeking, learning, and experiencing. You may be reaching for enlightenment together.”
This all sounded as improbable as Dr. Mendez’s talk about the holographic universe and collective consciousness, but the idea of linking to someone in need and helping out in some way brought a pleasant, warm sensation to my stomach and chest.
“Remember, this is only a guess and, even if correct, just part of the answer. Only time will tell.”
“Or, I’ll never know.”
“A risk we all take.” Ben dropped our empty water bottles and discarded lunch wrappings into the cooler. “We better head back. It looks like rain.”
“I’ll do my best to honor what you’re teaching me,” I said, after a quick glance at the notes Ben had given me.
&n
bsp; “Couldn’t ask for more,” he said.
Between Will and Surrender Page 17