Inside out... or outside in?

Seven years ago I embarked upon a journey, as vibrant, alive, and real to me now as it was then. An adventure of infinite proportion spanning multiple timelines, realities and identities, the North American Southwest journey, under the guidance of Ronald Holt, was one of the most profound and life-enhancing 'holidays' of my lifetime. As to why the time of the telling is now will become apparent later but, for the curious, a clue may be found in the title. Our story unfolds in three parts expressed through the essence of two spirals: one left, the other right. The first, set out in the form of a letter to our tour guide in his capacity as friend to the Soul, exposes the unravelling of the 'false self’ or, as Jeremy Crank, Navajo medicine man, puts it, the spiral of chaos. It exposes the dismembering of this illusory persona under the guidance of the ‘quantum navigator’ and uses surrender as its method. The second spiral runs concurrently but, for ease of relating, will be shared in part three, the Redman. It’s important to know neither is complete in itself each being an integral part of the other; one a breaking down of that which is false the other introducing that which is unfettered and whole. 

Our journey, lasting nine days, began in Phoenix, Arizona, and took us through four states including New Mexico, Colorado and Utah to reach its crowning glory in Monument Valley, land of the Navajo (Dine). Our trusty steed was a well-equipped mini-bus with capacity to seat 12 – we were only six; overnight stops, different every night bar one, were spent in well-appointed hotels or motels and the hikes to each power spot were relatively easy (says she with tongue in cheek). The landscape through which we travelled, even without the added benefits mentioned above, were stunning. As one who lives on a relatively small, over-populated island, the expansive quality and clarity of air, was positively breath-taking – in itself sufficient to bring light to a clouded mind. Add to the mix, indigenous culture, powerful meditations, petroglyphs, night skies devoid of light pollution, magnificent sunrises and sunsets and you have a recipe for profound inner transformation with life-changing potential. 

And then came the fall...

It was a something and nothing event. I lost my footing in the pitch black, slid and rolled towards the edge of a precipice, and ground to a halt moments before falling over the edge. Battered, bruised and shocked I sought sanctuary in tried and tested programs; deeply entrenched insecurities rose to the surface leaving me shaken and vulnerable at a core level. The physical shock and injury was addressed using homeopathy and the skills of a very competent massage therapist, who nursed my battered and bruised body back into alignment, that I may continue the journey relatively unscathed. This left the insecurities – not so easily dispensed with! Echoes of my early life returned. Someone I relied upon had failed to live up to the implicit trust I had placed upon them. Now I was confused, and wary. Enter one who was familiar with the terrain, one who knew the subtleties within every verbal utterance, who could read every expression, assess clearly where preferences and loyalties lay in the one it deemed to be the leader of the pack and who, for aeons, had ensured the one under its care would survive at all costs. The inner watcher was awake and it stepped up to fulfil its purpose in looking after the one who was exposed and vulnerable - me. 

The Redman

He entered in the wake of the fall. As my battered body tried in vain to rest, as mind spiralled untamed within the wheel of regret, and heart wrestled with the demons of blame and shame, under cover of darkness, he was there. Chiselled features, strong countenance, coloured with unquestionable authority, he placed his unequivocal mastery upon the moment. Yet his, all too palpable, presence belied the gentleness of intent shining through his softened gaze. He was a warrior, a figurehead within his tribe, one to be respected and revered, even to be feared, yet this persona was not quite as it seemed. I could feel it. His heart had tasted the pain of loss, knew separation from those he considered to be his own, and how it felt to be banished from the land he loved. He had ridden the spiral of despair until nothing that could be identified as him was left and now he stood before me naked, vulnerable, alone; demanding nothing, baring all. He was a warrior but his greatest strength lay in his approach before me on bended knee. Even now, more than three weeks after the event, I see his face, feel his presence, his mystery running through my veins and the love that flows, so effortlessly, from his heart to mine.

Mind travelled backwards through time. I recalled the day before when I sat alone on the overlook to Canyon de Chelly, how the vortex of its womb-like space kept drawing me in, and in likewise fashion at Spiderwoman Rock in the pouring rain. In each instance I had a sense of falling but without fear, more a longing to give of myself completely to the presence that was calling me. I recalled with ease the appearance of crow and how insistent it was in setting the direction for us to meditate close to the edge of a precipice. Perhaps all were harbingers of events yet to unfold? Our return journey from the base of the canyon seemed to add credence to this possibility. Walking uphill not being my favourite pastime, I had set off before the others so as not to play catch up. I walked slowly, deliberately, each step a surrendering to the presence of the moment and every placement of foot an honouring of the land upon which I walked. I had a sense of pilgrimage, of re-membering, and an instinctive knowing that it was one other than I who walked the land… through me.

And so the tour continued. From kiva to cliff dwelling, ancient civilisation to wi-fi enabled hotel, our trusty steed  and guide led us into ever more expansive experiences within magnificent panoramas. Through four states I absorbed the sacred heart of the land through which we travelled, listened inwardly to the song of its people and heard the heart-wrenching cry of the earth as she exposed those who had murdered, raped and pillaged her revered protectors in the name of civilisation. My heart bled. My eyes struggled to cry.

And then he was there. Entrenched in despair by atrocities committed in the past, as we crossed the border from Colorado into Utah, the Redman made an appearance again. Only this time it was far more than his face that called me to his side. His presence enveloped, descended around, through and within me, until ‘I’ was but a viewer through the mirror of his mind. I witnessed him drinking in the land through my eyes; my body, tired from long hours spent on the road, felt renewed by his strength and my heart... my heart was overwhelmed by gratitude... his gratitude. At last the tears flowed. Soft, gentle tears birthed through recognition of service. Tears that made no sound, carried no emotion, which left no scars upon the heart of the one who wept; tears released only when the one who weeps is not the one who has reason to cry. Pieces of a jigsaw spanning many aeons of time were falling into place and my part within a far bigger picture was becoming clear with each passing moment.

Long before the outset of this journey, when it was but a possibility in my mind, I had a feeling it was never about me. An exciting and once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, that should have left me fired with enthusiasm for weeks, failed to ignite familiar feelings of anticipation and expectation. Now I knew why. It was the Redman that called this body to his lands, the Redman who miraculously, from out of nowhere, manifested funds for the trip, and it was the Redman who, as gently as he could, generated the impetus for the fall that our spirits may merge. With humble heart my tears merged with his….. my heart pulsed to a new rhythm, beat to a hitherto unknown drum… and little me, the one who had set out on this journey, gave in… Before I knew it our trusty steed had entered Monument Valley, sacred land of the Navajo. There are many tales and insights I could share concerning the unforgettable two days we spent with Navajo Medicine man, Jeremy Crank and his family. I could speak of animated creation stories, sleeping in a Hogan under the stars 'dormitory style', of weavers and grandmothers, dancers and sacred rites, of sunrises and sunsets, buttes and mesas, and so, so much more. A lengthy script could be written on each one, but for now I confine the telling of my experience to those events having direct bearing on the unfolding of the spiral within this song of creation; the sweat, a tale of children and a water blessing.

It is only at the time of writing that I recognise the pivotal role the sweat lodge played in reversing the flow of the spiral. Far more than sitting in the dark, getting hot and sweating buckets the experience is steeped in ancient ritual. Jeremy and his family prepared the ground, built the sweat and offered sacred chants for two weeks prior to our arrival; a momentous addition, and unprecedented honour, to these preparations being the unexpected appearance of Grandfather, who bestowed his blessings upon our forthcoming gathering. The sweat, as I understand it, is an honouring of all that is sacred in our relationship to each other, to the land upon which we are blessed to call home, and to the celestial lights that grace the heavens above. Instructions, simple but clear, were delivered by Jeremy towards that end before the start. Always enter and leave in a clockwise direction, set the intention to purge, through bodily sweat, all that is ‘unclean’, take the dirt upon which you rest to ‘wash’ the body and drink freshly prepared sage tea before you enter. The time had come. Not without a hint of trepidation I took my place inside the sweat.

As my body transformed through the four elements I surrendered to the presence of Great Spirit. Songs of creation, chanted by medicine man Jeremy, stirred my soul. The Redman came alive. His voice echoed words, long since forgotten, using chords within a body that moved in synchronous rhythm to the beat of a sacred song. The air was pregnant with joy at his return to the land he loved, whilst the white woman housing his spirit smiled quietly inside. There are no words that can convey the depth of knowing that was awakened through that simple ceremony. So deep, it has taken nigh on a month, in virtual silence, to express these few words. 

The water blessing, on the shores of Saint Juan, was the sealing of our time with the Navajo. It was simply that, a blessing, but it held particular significance to the Redman and my continuing relationship with him. As the sacred songs graced my ears once more, as my spirit soared and heart rejoiced, I ‘saw’ a vortex of liquid light, spiralling anti-clockwise, arising from the surface of the river. It opened, as would a flower in response to the warm rays of a radiant sun, to become, what I can only describe as, a ‘deity.’ Features unclear, it nevertheless had vast, outspread, expansive wings, coloured white, and ‘arms’ that were proffered towards us in a gesture of offering; the energy it imparted was one of gratitude. Then it was gone, in its place a small Puebloan boy playing by the edge of the water. He had miraculously appeared from what seemed to be an umbilicus reaching deep into the core of the earth, as if the Blessed Mother herself had breathed his form into physical life.

The significance of this vision is still finding its way into waking awareness but one of Jeremy’s stories offers a possible explanation. When a child is born to the Navajo the medicine man takes the umbilical cord far into the land where it is buried according to ancient rites. This sacred act ensures its children, no matter how far away they may travel, will always return to the land of their birth. It seems to me the Redman, through the body of a white woman, had at last returned home. All was now as it should be, a wrong had been set right and balance was restored. 

As the two spirals entrain, mystery within the matrix of creation stands revealed. I see that unconscious projections, seeds of rejection that clouded my perception of our guide, had their origin, not within a damaged childhood, as I had always believed, but in the fate of the Redman cast so many, many lifetimes ago. Now I ask myself, how can I possibly continue to live, and relive, a story of falsehood when it is so obviously a mere blink of an eye against a broader expanse of time? And having experienced, so intimately, the combined energies of each spiral how can I fail to see that the leading players, guide and Redman, are but two expressions of the same archetypal presence?

As all comes full circle, the fall reveals its most treasured gift. Subtle behavioural patterns, learnt through a dysfunctional relationship with my inner father in this life, are contrasted by a new, wholesome, and life-affirming way of relating, through the Redman. He has shown me, through his presence alone, how masculine authority may be expressed through feminine qualities – gentleness, acceptance, wisdom and loving-kindness. What began as an act of selfless service has returned to me a thousand fold; the server has become the served, the great spiral has showered its blessings upon one who surrendered all to its passage, and the white woman has the song of a Redman running through her veins. It brings with it an ease of being, an acceptance of self, and nutrient rich soil wherein a young Puebloan boy may play in the dirt, sing songs of gratitude to his ancestors, and learn how it is to walk in beauty… the Dine Way.