Road Trips and Ancestry

On a recent road trip to visit family in Virginia, traveling from St. Louis, Missouri, and heading east on I-64, I decided to research the counties we would be driving through to identify which of our ancestors might have lived in those locations. We had fun reading about our ancestors and the locales. I'm sharing the following because I thought it might give others some inspiration as well -- why not invite your ancestors along on your travels?

In Washington County, Illinois, our 2nd great-grandfather John William Frederick was listed with his parents and siblings in the 1860 census for Richview. John was age 11 at the time and had been born in Pennsylvania. His father Valentine Frederick had emigrated from Germany and was working as a saloonkeeper in Richview.

Perry County, Indiana, was the home of our 5th great-grandfather Henry Rhodes (who had been born in Kentucky, just across the Ohio River), his wife Elizabeth Barnes, and their seven children. Their son Thomas married Monica Alvey before moving to Missouri. Both Henry and Elizabeth died in 1863.

As we drove through Shelby County, Kentucky, we read about our 4th great-grandparents Mary Guthrie and Jacob Bilderback. Mary had been born about 1760 in County Cork, Ireland, immigrating with her parents, and married Jacob about 1786 in Kentucky. They had at least five children and it was their granddaughter Rebecca who, in 1854 in Indiana, married our 2nd great-grandfather Robert Tribble.

It was in Cabell County, West Virginia, that our 4th great-grandparents James Lemay and Nancy Hughart were married. Nancy's great-grandfather had emigrated from Ulster, Ireland (he was Scots-Irish) and one of Lemay's ancestors had emigrated from France early in the 18th Century (Pierre was likely a French Huguenot). In Greenbrier County, West Virginia, family tradition provides a wonderful tale about our 6th great-grandmother Ann Morris Maddy Parsons (our ancestors are from her first marriage to James Maddy). Seems she was a tough and independent woman, and, during one trip across the mountains and the Shenandoah Valley, Ann was accosted by a man intent upon stealing her money. However, she turned the tables on him and sent him over a cliff ... the same one he was going to toss her over after stealing her money. It is also said that, "in later years she went by the name of Granny Parsons. She was a midwife and a practical nurse, and was always perfectly fearless, riding a big black stallion, going on her errands of helpfulness at all hours. People in the scattered settlements of those days, hearing the thunder of flying hoofs in the dark hours of the night would say, 'there goes Granny Parsons to help someone in trouble.'" She is said to have lived to the age of 104.

Then, of course, there's Virginia. Like many Americans, we have a lot of ancestors who arrived first in Virginia before eventually migrating across the continent. For instance, in Augusta County, our 5th great-grandfather Captain Gilbert Christian (of Scots-Irish descent) had three sons who were prominent in the early community and the family received a 1,600 acre grand in 1739. In Albemarle County, we have our 6th great-grandfather John Small who emigrated from Scotland in 1724. Then, in Goochland County, we find our 6th great-grandparents John Salmons and Naomi DePriest, the descendants of early 17th Century immigrants (from England, Ireland, and France).

Our family imagined and talked about what the journeys for our various ancestors might have been like, too; after all, they were venturing into wilderness whereas we had a paved highway. We traveled in two days the distance that would have taken them weeks if not months. Can you imagine?!

Fragments

A train — each car a fragment, a piece of the whole — took me away and brought me home, with fresh

insight and renewed love. A peculiar sort of journey that allowed extended periods of focus upon thought and idea, upon reality and our place within those spaces.

I’d never ridden the train before, and Amtrak was the perfect option for this particular trip because I didn’t want to drive up north during January. As the train pulled out of the Tucson station, I was pleasantly shocked at how smooth and quiet it was. While the side-to-side rocking motion was an adjustment, after a few hours I barely noticed it except for the occasional rough bit of track. Although, sleeping on the top bunk took a little more time to get used to. The 48 hours of travel between Tucson and St. Louis was peaceful and mostly solitary; I had reserved what is called a roomette in the sleeping car, and ended up spending most of my time in that little room reading, relaxing, reflecting, and writing. 

The train took me to visit my mom. Originally planned so that I could be with her during and after kidney surgery, which was cancelled a few days prior to my scheduled departure, I decided to go up to northeastern Missouri anyway. Mom, my brother, and my nieces were expecting me so we simply turned it into a social visit. I carefully selected two books for the trip; one for going and the other for returning home. I had my Kindle with me as well, but far prefer reading paper books.

Because of the initial circumstances behind the trip, my book selection for the journey up was A Bittersweet Season: Caring for Our Aging Parents—and Ourselves by Jane Gross. The time had not yet arrived for my brothers and me to step into a position of elder-care, but, since my dad died a few years ago and my mom was turning 77 this month, I felt compelled to do a little research on the subject. The author’s book is well-written, part memoir and part expose, but provides a bitter pill to swallow: the plight of the elderly in our medicalized, fragmented, and what I consider inhumane, approach to “sick care.” Much of what I thought I knew was wrong, and I was nearly overwhelmed by what I didn’t know.

One benefit, though, was that while I was visiting my mom and staying in her house with her, I was much more aware of the varied aspects of her current lifestyle and how quickly it could potentially change. Too many of us live in denial and I would advocate waking up sooner rather than later when it comes to this topic.

The book I chose for the return trip was Finding Beauty in a Broken World by Terry Tempest Williams, another

profoundly moving and deeply disturbing book. I confess that I almost turned to my Kindle for refuge in some lighthearted fiction, but the unique quality of traveling by train with its gift of relative isolation kept me glued to these subjects of depth. There are often so many distractions at home that making steady and rapid progress through difficult subject matter can be challenging.

At first glance, the blend of topics chosen by Williams — the art of mosaic, vanishing prairie dog towns, and African genocide — seemed bizarre. But since I’m a fan of this author’s work, I was determined to read the book. I found myself quickly falling under her spell, though my heart ached throughout the process of reading; I often needed to close the book and take some deep relaxing breaths before continuing. Even the style of writing is fragmented, a fitting example of how the author is trying to make sense of the world we have developed -- and damaged.

As I rode the train home to Tucson, I could feel myself to be fragmented — an angry witness to a broken medical system, a shard of pottery in rubble, a bleached bone. And yet, I choose to allow the anger to melt, I choose to soften into love. I choose to continue finding my own way to create a beautiful, healing mosaic out of my own life and the world around me, knowing that I am also a fragment in someone else's mosaic. 

My Nieces

P.S. There's something funky going on with the text in this post -- my apologies! 

Hitchhikers

Writing has been a mega-rambling flow of words these past few days as my scattered energy catches up to my body here at home. I’m landing, pausing, holding the space of after-journey so that the nuances of it are unafraid to show themselves. Those nuances are like fairy hitchhikers I didn’t know I’d picked up on the way, hiding in the cracks and crevices of skin and cell and senses that perceived more than I consciously recall. These are the hitchhikers that create the Essence of Experience, the ones that tag along just out of visual range peripherally like our shadow or the dust motes always present but unseen except through direct light when they become magical beings from galaxies far away … or from that hidden table in the corner of the room.

Warning: A couple weeks of driving over 3,000 miles round-trip can have this effect! 

Eureka Springs, AR

I felt a kinship in Eureka Springs, in the center of town, the valley filling my senses and grasping for my feet to extract root-like tethers so that I would remain longer. The lush greens and black bark from excessive rains held me in thrall while the exquisite winding roads and steep stairways kept me curious of what might be around the next corner even while I yearned to sink into the space of the momentary pause A walking town of inclines and buried history in the tunnels and mountains cradling the lives of community built around healing and healers. Springs are abundant (at least 62), the gifts of Gaia’s womb bubbling up and rushing down to greet the seekers with mystery and gentle wisdom where cure is not synonymous with healing, and faith is the earthen pores beneath bare feet. I was born about 60 miles north as the crow flies and Eureka Springs feels as close to birth as any town I’ve walked; is it possible for roots to stretch so far? The hills of natural healing methods passed along for generations of mingling blood and culture. My toes tingled and I raised my arms overhead in praise of photosynthesis-generated emeralds, pouring rain, trees dripping, autumn leaves of past and present underfoot for miles it seemed, a place out of time where caves remember tunnels — or the other way around — and the dank earth is the chalice of all life. If I lived and died there, could I become the sapling growing out of the hillside that is feeing the wandering deer skipping silent among the trunks, nearly hidden? Tiny homes of rock sit like the fairytale cottages of the Grimm’s from long ago and far away, yet right next door in psyche. Many could be replicas of that which enticed Hansel and Gretel to enter. If I entered, would I ever leave? Or would I become absorbed into the mineralized space of springs and hills and fall into the great crevasse that will open one day and swallow the town whole? Taking it to an inner land to be discovered in 100,000 years by another incarnation of civilization? Earth and Water create an oasis that I am craving, and a friend from far back days of transitional innocence was on the journey with me as memories played hopscotch with present lives so different. I can dimly sense a character emerging who was born and raised in Eureka Springs … does she move to the town in my novel? And is she past or present, ghost or substance? The mudslides meant that the streets are slowly buried and levels of ground rise up until the second story becomes the first story, until doorways and windows are portals to mystical tunnels where water floods, gushing inside the walls and creating dreams and demons for those who cannot help but listen, each generation touched by the rivers within the walls. These are tunnels of dead-ends and prohibition, of ghosts and gambling, of hidden passages and buried treasures from sinkholes filled with past life treasures and decluttering debris.

Red Desert

As I continue seeking a deeper understanding of not only the Sonoran Desert, but of myself in relation to the element of fire and of desert in its larger meaning and presentation, the book Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert by Terry Tempest Williams, though grounded in her multi-generational heritage among the rocky canyons of southwest Utah, provides perspective and inspires me to greater courage.

Different parts of our vast United States evoke varied considerations, and Williams' book brings forth an honoring of and reflection upon Mother Earth's diversity. One that stimulates us not to see our planet just for what we can get from it physically -- food and water -- but how our soul is nourished in unexpected ways through its fierce wildness as well.

"As the world becomes more crowded and corroded by consumption and capitalism, this landscape of minimalism will take on greater significance, reminding us through its blood red grandeur just how essential wild country is to our psychology, how precious the desert is to the soul of America."

I remember driving through Zion National Park on vacation with my parents forty years ago, and I can still recall the awe with which we viewed the red rocks. I will visit this place again.

"There is a resonance of humility that has evolved with the earth. It is best retrieved in solitude amidst the stillness of days in the desert."

I am looking forward to winter so that I can gather my courage and walk alone into the desert of West Saguaro National Park. I want to be within the desert, in solitude and silence, and hear a different voice, feel a rhythm unfamiliar.

"I believe we need wilderness in order to be more complete human beings, to not be fearful of the animals that we are … "

Tucson

Fasting: What is Missing?

Fasting. Inadvertently. As a friend travels overseas, one of her posted comments about feeling hungry while waiting in line, and then the response of another friend, creates a resonance within me that opens a reflective portal: when fasting happens upon us due to a situation, do we resist? Do we cling to our mental notion of thirst and hunger? Do we attach to the lack instead of the opening it provides? How do we move past the discomfort we feel of fasting?

My friend is in an airport, those modern spaces that have become physically and demandingly liminal, the bridges between home and other. It is a challenge to remain present to what is rather than what we desire it to be and what we might be or are missing. Fasting brings this out very clearly. 

During traveling both directions on my pilgrimage, I was put in positions of fasting, part by my own thoughts and part by circumstances unavoidable. Traveling distances alone puts additional pressure upon relying on one’s own resources and resilience. For instance, traveling solo, there is no option for someone to hold one’s space in line and, for everyone, anxieties about missing a flight create the “perfect storm” within mind and body where the occurrence of fasting accelerates our fear or discomfort. Does it have to? What are resources we can use to accept the bridge space with equanimity? 

On the practical side, we could be prepared in a different way … instead of packing our travel times so tightly — because we don’t want to “waste” time in the “between” and on the Bridge of Journey — we can leave a broader passage so that we feel comfortable stepping away from a line or seating if we need to in order to attend to body or emotional needs.

Alternatively, we could lean in closer to our lack in those moments of abstinence and/or restriction and open to the lessons if possible, and know that our energy field can nourish, can provide us with sustenance. One’s body has the ability to recycle moisture, from cell to cell — hey, allow those fat cells to release the excess they hold and get it circulating for nourishment; see it happen through visualization, assist with the wisdom and healing of flower essences and remedies, whatever is available. 

If I had been more settled, I could have taken a specific cell salt during thirst, one tablet every few minutes until feeling better, secure in the knowledge of its ability to assist in water management. With that thought, what is a remedy to help with toxin buildup in kidneys when unable to pee? Further, listen to inner wisdom and sip water, a little bit a time, no need to drink huge amounts during a section of time (on the plane, in between) when you might not have access to toilets. Include remedies (cell salts) to assist with hunger, either to settle stomach acid or for growling and rumbling, and … reduce our intake consciously during travel, allow the stomach to shrink, especially during airline travel due to the unpredictability and nature of this type of transition. 

These experiences and processes are all part of the journey.

I’m grateful my friend, via her comments of her own experience, reminded me of this aspect that was so very stressful for me during my Crete pilgrimage two years ago, and which I wrote about in my memoir. With some additional planning and mental preparation, I now feel more confident about the air travel to/from Scotland next year. The extra time spent in an airport can be viewed as true liminal space — a between existence that is neither the past (home) or the future (destination) and vice versa, and, as I found with my hotel on the return, can be a very healing and helpful pause for reflection prior to reintegration into normal life. We can sink into those spaces for their own unique gifts and also recognize their potential for the joy of anticipation — a very real, powerful, healing energy for its own sake. Release the fear and anxiety — if a flight or other transport is missed, another can be arranged. Once the journey has begun, what are the lessons and wisdom it holds? The bridge is also part of the journey! That is the paradox to be accepted. 

Yesterday, I also coincidentally read a blog where a 3-hour transition (Scotland to London) became 35 hours, and the gifts of the extension were shared beautifully by the traveler. And why not view our bodily challenges this way, also? Can we? What will fasting offer to fulfill something else in our journey? Can that emptiness be filled with something else like the sheer adventure, or the beauty we see, the miracles around us that make the travel possible … the people, the place, our own recognition of body temple’s remarkable ability and resilience? Be Present.

We can plan differently based upon what we have learned … but we can also learn from wisely knowing that plans go awry and thus allow ourselves to be flexible and participate in the space of unexpected between space. The pilgrimage or vacation is a microcosm of our extended life that is filled with minutes or even years of feeling like we are “between” pivotal experiences … or the “between” is in fact the pivotal experience that has a greater impact upon us than what we thought was to be the change. Such is life!

During what periods in life have felt like you were “fasting”? How did you handle it? Where was your soul during that time? Did you allow yourself to see, grow, and feel fully into the experience, or did you block it all with distraction, resentment, fear, anger, or self-pity?

When traveling -- whether via psyche or substance or both -- how can we accept what is missing and be more present to the gifts that absence may bring?

In Memory of Amber & Kiki

Travels and Tales

Travels

I've made a recent decision to travel to Scotland next year. Yes, the Highlands are calling! Scotland has been beckoning me for decades, and, well, I'm not getting any younger. So, I'm done with waiting!

At this point, I don't plan on going with a tour group, but on my own, to make it both a Writing Retreat (several of the characters in my novel are of Scottish descent) and a tour of sacred sites, historic castles, and rugged landscape that my feet are already itching to walk. The timing may change, but I'd like to schedule it for a few weeks in either May or June, both of which will be lush with green and beautifully wet -- to follow and counteract what is usually a long dry winter and spring here in the Sonoran Desert. A curious side effect of living in the desert is that, while I've never been much of a "water person" before, I seem pulled toward oceans -- going to the Island of Crete in 2012, and I've already decided to explore in Scotland the Isles of Skye and Lewis, and then head north to venture onto the Orkney Islands. As I've discovered, my body will be begging for what Scotland has to offer elementally, and with the delicious benefit of a different culture, fabulous accents, and walking the land of some of my ancestors.

I'm only at the beginning stages of planning, but did find this fantastic blog by an American for discovering Scotland: Traveling Savage. Periodically, I'll mention itinerary ideas or tidbits of interesting information as I come across it, and, please, if you've been there -- do share comments!

I thought after my pilgrimage to Crete that I was finished with airplane travel and was going to stick with road-trips only, stay with traveling this exquisite, diverse North American continent. But I imagine there will come a time when I won't feel physically capable of overseas travel, so I best do it now… !

Tales

First, a query: if we're called story-tellers, how come we're taught in writing to show, not tell?

Second, a comment: I currently spend more time writing about my story than writing the story itself. I wonder why that is? Is it common to do so? Is it simply where I happen to be in the story's creation?

Third, another thought: I wonder if I should stop reading everything for a while because it seems like every non-fiction book I read gives me more and more ideas! LOL

Oh, the joy of writing, and I truly do mean JOY. For even though I come across confusion and quandary, insecurity and frustration, they are always riding the waves of creative flow that are absolutely sublime.

Get High

Get high...Rocky Mountain High, that is...!

I picked Mom up at the Phoenix airport, and our road trip began.

Painted Desert

Mesa Verde

Blue Mesa Reservoir

the Rocky Mountains

Cripple Creek

Pikes Peak Summit

 Written details to follow... maybe!

And a big beautiful nocturnal visitor showed herself in our yard
a couple nights after I returned home...

Tarantula...about the size of my hand

Blessings of Mother Earth

Chiricahua National Monument

EARTH DAY! I love that my birthday is the same week as Earth Day. And this past extended weekend was marvelous because I was able to hike so many fabulous landscapes over the course of four days. What better way to celebrate Earth Day?!

Chiricahua National Monument

A vibration pulsed through my body when I walked upon ancient rock and gazed at boulders of beings who simply smiled during my passage among them. I walked through a corridor of stone and felt the call of shallow grottoes where millions of creatures great and small have crawled, flown or walked and slept protected across the expanse of time. I was invited to participate in their legacy of rest and pause but I didn't climb into the beckoning spaces. That would have to be another day when a schedule didn’t remind me--by pecking at the pencil marking boxes in my mental checklist--to continue moving into the next step of journey.

White Sand Dunes National Monument

One could easily see a photo of the White Sands and mistake them for a vast snowy tundra in Alaska. I quickly decided to remove my sandals and squish toes and soles into the velvety gypsum that was still cool from low morning temperatures. An exquisite sensation of immersion occurred as my feet would sink up to my ankles climbing a dune, contrasting with the firm slap of my bare feet upon the flat packed-sand surface--like a sandy beach after the tide has receded--of a stretch between dunes. 

White Sands National Monument

Already traveling in a landscape of nearly blinding brightness from clear skies, strong sun, and desert expanse, the additional reflection from the white sand caused my eyes to squint almost shut until I saw through a narrow slit that echoed the horizon. I gazed around me in awe at the waves of sand, and was touched by the realization of how time is incomprehensible without Gaia showing off Her masterpieces as She paints and weaves and breaks apart only to create anew in an entirely fresh and remarkable collage of beauty. 

Valley of Fires New Mexico

Imagine my delight to see an oddly familiar black expanse to my left as I drove upon the semi-deserted road between White Sands and Albuquerque. Could it be? Is it possible that the shortcut I took brought me into communion with the Valley of Fires? Yes! My heartbeat increased and a broad smile took over my face. There was such intense lightness of being at White Sands, and I was thrilled to feel the volcanic remnants ground me, earth me, no...wrap me from below within the comforting darkness of Her exposed blood long dried and cooled.

If the White Sands were Gaia’s flakes of skin being shed from the dryness and heat, the ancient lava flow, now brittle yet still echoing Her extrusions of transformative desire, was the blood once hidden. 

Valley of Fires

I hesitated only a moment. I knew that this unexpected stop might cause me to arrive too late for the original destination on my itinerary, but I was compelled. I remembered the Valley of Fires from a childhood vacation; it was firmly embedded in memory along with other nature exposures, and I simply had to take the walk through the black cremains of Gaia’s blood that flowed from deep within Her core. 

400-year-old Juniper at Valley of Fires

All moisture long gone, She was gorgeous as She fed the plants ... from a 400 year old juniper to the scarlet blossoms of a hedgehog cactus to the teensy purple feather dalea flowers scattered like fuzz upon their scraggly stems and other plants that clung to the bits of settled dust in crevices of the lava. The juxtaposition of white and black experienced within this same day left me giddy, as if I received a gift of harmonic convergence experienced among the sacred earth plane.

Petroglyphs National Monument

Meandering, striding, pausing along the shifting trail of rubble and sand, I witnessed the dark rock as the canvas for native images mystical and childlike. Etchings that are 400 to 700 years old seemed young compared to those I saw in Crete last year that were 5000 years old and yet were less visceral in spite of being older. A fascinating contrast involving location, culture, and expression that I had never really thought about until the pilgrimage. The petroglyphs seemed analogous to the pre-Minoan artifacts in their earth-centric and “primitive” art style. 

Petroglyphs National Monument

When I closed my eyes I could hear drumming and chanting, a rattle made from a snake’s tail, and a coyote howled in concert under the full moon’s illumination. The canyon still provides a fortress for coyotes as one watched me hike along the clearly defined path. The path really isn’t necessary as it simply follows the edge of the dark canyon hillsides that are forbidding in their sheer ruggedness rather than height, and yet a designated trail serves the purpose of preserving the rest of the desert floor. The coyote acknowledged my lack of threat by lying down upon an outcropping of flat rock, and we honored each other’s spirits ... until a noisy runner, panting and huffing, with a pack bumping upon his back sped past me on the trail, probably in training for some competitive event. The coyote leapt to his feet, turned his back on me and the oblivious runner, and loped up the hillside disappearing from my sight around a gigantic black boulder. 

Santa Fe, New Mexico

On Saturday, I drove to Santa Fe to meet a long time email friend; she invited me to her home and we hiked the trails behind her house, following an arroyo at first until it intersected with one of the trails on the nearby monastery’s 800 acres of wilderness. The way was steep and the sandy soil gave way often beneath my clumsy feet. The view from the peak was worth the effort! I had picked up a rock along the way -- black spots on smooth mahogany -- and meant to bring it home to Ron but left it instead as an offering of gratitude at the cross on the peak. Gratitude for this amazing land and to the Brothers for blazing the trail I had followed to receive the gift of the view from the top. 

Gila National Forest

The suggestion by Julia that I detour across to Silver City on my way home, thus passing through the Gila National Forest, was a great one. My reward was stunning vistas to feast my eyes upon and tall pine trees raining soothing ions. The road snaked around the peaks and across passes speckled with dark green and pale jade, multiple hues of browns and reds and golds. The bliss of presence as I drove subsumed all sense of time and I became one with Gaia, co-creating a state of immersion in movement across the land and within the planet’s energies. 

Four days of diversity, the blessings of Gaia’s many faces and bodies, bumps and folds, secrets and gifts, and always the whisper: “this is only the beginning.” 

Thank you, Mother Earth.

Heard In The Echo

Echo Canyon at Chiracahua National Monument, AZ

Bubble rocks bouncing echoes in the canyon, my heart so light that I could be the echo instead of the voice of origin. I could be the memory instead of the presence that feels the pressures of daily lifestyle; I might become the echo that is soft and faint and that everyone wants to hear. 

In fascination we call out to listen whether an echo will bounce back to us so we can know what we said, what our melody was. Do we not listen to ourselves the first time? Can we not hear our own voice truthfully? Is this why we want the echo to call back to us the wisdom that is held within it? 

Is it merely a copy or do the earth and rock and air and moisture imbue the echo with a resonance of wisdom our voice didn’t previously have? Is our pure self resonating back to us in return for the courage to speak? 

Is the air heard in the echo; does it feel the brush of feather and cloud whisking the sound into a blur of memory, painting it into a clear, light whisper?

Is the rock heard in the echo; does it fill the space with solid truth and allow the weight of our words to be heard and sent on their way as they can never be recalled?

Is the water heard in the echo; does it mirror from puddles in crevices and dew upon leaves, and hold safety within the sap of the juniper and the flesh of yucca, where the fluid moisture can caress and soften the echo to return to our ears as self-love?

Who goes there? Where are the unseen?

Dragons of the watchtowers, holding the elements and directions, their vibrations sing to creation of our universe as they flap their wings, and rain fire, and live in caves, and cry tears of grief and laughter into the rivers that flow to the oceans above and below. They are courage and inspiration, partners in journey and growth, knowing the piercing truth revealed in the fires of transformation that create and dissolve then manifest once more. 

Gaia cradles the beasts who warm our imaginations and keep us safe. She gives birth to the discerning flames riding wings of sheer breathless joy and She lands upon a nest of infinite possibility as their voices rise into space and fall into canyons to be swept away by rivers to the ocean once more. 

Dragons live in Echo Canyon, see them swoop and soar among the magical spires where they epitomize grace and cast shadows we run from until we realize we can never hide---the dragons only want to carry us into awakening. Hear their ancient voices echo ...

Home from Crete

view of Kavousi, Crete

Crete, here I come

free image © Martina Misar-tummeltshammer | Dreamstime.com

Yes. It's really happening! I am registered, paid up, and will obtain airline tickets tomorrow. The journey does not begin until autumn, but I will, of course, take lots of pictures and share my experiences upon my return. The photo isn't where I will be staying but I'm sure I will see lots of similar buildings upon the hillsides.

Taking a Pilgrimage to Crete in honor of Goddess/Gaia/The Divine has been a dream of mine since 1996 so I am thrilled beyond words to finally be going. Everything is coming about as it was meant to, of that I am convinced. What had appeared to be road blocks to this journey in the past four years were simply detours until the circumstances were revealed that would be the most enlivening and healing. I am deeply grateful.

I love preparing for a trip, and revel in every moment of the journey. The destination is simply a point used to keep me moving along the path, but it is every footstep and pause that are the true gifts.

Many of my thoughts regarding this pilgrimage and what it means to me will be posted at my other blog - On the Gaia Path - but I just had to share the news here as well because my excitement is bubbling and flowing over the sides of my heart-well!

We celebrated by going to a Greek restaurant for dinner and, upon return home, I watched one of my favorite movies -- Shirley Valentine -- a British comedy about a middle-aged woman's sudden trip to the Greek island of Mykonos.

I discovered this movie about four years ago, and have watched it many times since then. How many of us have, at times, lost ourselves ... lost our sense of who we are?

There is a famous monologue/scene in the film HERE that is quite touching. Many of us are perfectly happy leading what Shirley calls a "little life" but it's clearly not been that way for her. I won't spoil the film for anyone who hasn't seen it, but I do recommend the movie.

Experiences

My 16-yr-old niece Kenzie and her new  boyfriend;
he's stable and reliable. She met him at
Colossal Cave, AZ.

Love the 'dreadlocks' on the Saguaro at
Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum.

Mount Lemmon, with Tucson to the left and way below.

Mom and Kenzie in Sedona, AZ.

Kenzie at Grand Canyon.

The road to Jerome, AZ.
We survived the 158 curves in 12 miles!

Tuzigoot National Monument, AZ, with the
Verde River valley.

Kenzie at Montezuma Castle, AZ

On our way home, between Phoenix and Tucson, got caught
in the first significant dust storm of the Monsoon season.

My family was visiting for two weeks so we had a full house! Air mattresses are a great invention. The first week, we hosted Mom, my brother David, and nieces McKenzie (16) and McKayla (12). Then, took David and Kayla to the airport as they had commitments back in Missouri, while, during the second week, Mom, Kenzie and I took off for sightseeing up north. We didn't get to Sunset Crater or Wupatki ruins; maybe next time. Dear hubby Ron stayed home and took care of the dogs and cats. :-)

Yucca and more

While exploring Arizona further south and east, I discovered more breathtakingly diverse scenery! The view in this photo is of Texas Canyon, so named because of all the Texans who settled this particular area.

A visit to the Amerind Foundation Museum yielded a wonderland of boulders, trees and the gorgeous Yucca elata. I have been enamored of this plant since my first trip to Bisbee, so imagine my delight in finding it so plentiful in another unique landscape. Unfortunately, I have yet to get a good photo of this yucca, but, trust me (or click HERE), they can grow big and bold--to a height of 10 to 18 feet, with a flower stalk growing 4 to 6 feet above its wild, palm-like head! Elegant flowers, wild wind-tossled 'hair', shaggy trunk ... fabulous.

Oh, anyway, back to the Amerind where I thoroughly enjoyed the professional exhibits. I particularly appreciated the main room where they clearly showed through artifacts, maps and notes the journey of the Apache/Navajo all the way from Alaska into the Southwest. Fascinating.

This trip also led us down the road to the nearly deserted town of Dragoon, named for its proximity to the Dragoon Mountains. So where did the name "Dragoon" come from? I had to google and found that before they were called the cavalry, they were called the dragoons following in the European tradition from before 1776. Interestingly, considering the persecution of the native people in the area by the United States military of the 1800s, wikipedia also says that dragoon means "to subjugate or persecute by the imposition of troops; and by extension to compel by any violent measures or threats." A sad but true history; recall yet move on with blessings upon those who suffered.

And yet, to end the day, a day of reflection and honor, joy in beauty, we stopped in at a cute little, brand new Mexican restaurant called Mi Casa in Benson. The food was fabulous and I highly recommend it; I will certainly be stopping there anytime I go that direction, whether for future trips to Bisbee, or on the upcoming trip down to the Chirachua National Monument.

It's one long journey of discovery here in Arizona!

Real or Illusion?

These past weeks, as I explore more of Arizona*, I fall into the impressions of those beings who have traveled before me; I sense the spirits of the native tribes, the pioneers, the average people, and the many wondrous creatures of the desert who experienced their passages.

Contrast the sensations of walking Tombstone  -- 

"A phantom bullet whizzed by my head and spectral puddles of blood blotched the desert skin like the pox as I trod the streets of Tombstone a century after its hey-day. Yet beneath the crass commercialism and tourist-trap stores, enhanced or at least invigorated somewhat by staged gunfights and corner pitchmen offering wagon rides with or without  spiels on the infamous of the town, I could sense the struggle, the haunting faces of the regular people who only desired to feed themselves or family and who tried to stay out of the way of the power struggles of wealthy, influential and often violent men of the times. This was a town once full of saloons, adventurers, and painted ladies, and their ghostly breaths scratch and drift like tumbleweeds across my aura, tingling." 

or strolling Old Tucson Studios

"Walk the sand that holds within its depths the footprints of entertainers, of actors who brought the stories to technicolor life. Walk down the streets, view the facades, touch the weathered wood and crumbling adobe that was once sensed by those familiar faces of old. Ghosts but not because they lived the stories--they didn’t bleed and love and suffer what I saw on the screen. Rather, they absorbed the essence of their characters, portrayed many lives, and now these buildings and creaking wooden sidewalks speak of how all life is tied together. How we connect through our stories and feel the vibrations that linger within the dirt beneath our feet and soar in the sky overhead. These elements hold the past, present and future. Not as archeological dig but of memory and story. The air seems to carry the echoes of all these voices who spoke their lines and told the stories." 

What is real and what is illusion?

Or go deep into the mountain that shelters the Queen Mine.

"Tunnels into a mountain, horizontal or digging down in vertical shafts.

Like leaning over and falling into Her depths.

Stretching our meager reserves to push further into Her core.

Backward-birthing to return to the dark and recover the pure shine of precious gems and metals that remind us of our own light within.

Does it feel like acupuncture to Her?

We think we go so deep and yet we barely graze the surface of Her skin.

Thank goodness our efforts are shallow."

Drive the wide-open desert-meadows (who knew?!) of Sonoita-Elgin.

"Pale brown stalks of prairie-like grass roll and sway gently all the way to the horizon where only moments before there was cactus--now gone. The pale green of yucca dot some of the blond fields ... acres and miles of unexpected softness. A pocket of pillows plopped into the desert just to be different yet again!" 

photo courtesy Sonoita, AZ You'll Like It Here

Soar within the world of the remarkable Harris' Hawks
at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum.

... we can only soar in our conscious awareness 

and imagination--that is where we humans are able to enjoy ‘free flight.’

I am finding Arizona to be an entire country in and of itself as there is so much to see and do; I can choose to explore physically or to be in stillness within each presentation of diversity. The above are linked to my usual lengthier 'stream-scapes' (stream of consciousness writing style) on my other web site; if you are so inclined--enjoy!

And I made a new friend, too! Isn't he adorable?

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* My mom is staying nearby for two months with a friend so, since they both enjoy exploring, we are doing far more in a shorter time than I would have done on my own!