between worlds

in the Santa Gloria, we are meant to celebrate

Finally, at midnight, our small sage stick fire, perched upon a growing mound of coals and ash, surrounded by a humble circle of oddly placed stones and forest duff, was completed. 

Ancient crystal beads, thin white cotton thread, various seeds and stones lay planted beneath the old rock, infused with riches and foods for the spiritual nourishment of Place, and in the deep moonless night, Scott and I had, somewhat haphazardly, fulfilled our promise to the Wiwa Elder.

“In four days,” he told us, “light a fire at sundown and keep it going until midnight. Have people around talking, sharing, playing music.” The Mamo told us this as he finished the small and oddly subtle ritual of offering a pagamento on our land, to feed the life of Mt. Lamborn, the last of three that day.

The Zaga left us long and fragrant dried leaves from their home in the Sierra Nevada, Columbia. This herb is to be used as a purifying incense, clearing the land, ourselves, our families and homes, everything. When I lit the herbs at sundown beside the fire, I immediately felt her presence, the soft spoken Zaga, so gently moving in the slow likeness of Nature.

I have been swimming between worlds lately, as is maybe seasonally appropriate. I’ve been wondering about world views and perceptual limitations, about the greater possibilities of human consciousness expanding beyond the constraints of our societal “norms”; I’ve been wondering about what we take for granted, what we assume to be true and what we assume to be possible; how the subtle and pervasive dogmas of our childhood live on in us today, in each moment, coloring our perceptions of the world, maybe holding us back from expanding and acknowledging the Truth of who we are and what we are actually capable of accomplishing.

“Living in nature will open many doors for you,” the Mamo told me.

I feel between worlds: between the West and the Great Mysteries, between Matter and Spirit, between Dreaming and Awakening. I feel oddly wedged between story lines and infinity, between the internet and this Presence, between one dying world and the next.

(I am remembering the words of the cowrie shell diviner: “You are getting cooked in the most beautiful way.”)

I am examining the curious unfoldings of my life, how I felt almost abandoned by winds of magic, and then suddenly, like a soft nudge, an understanding fell into place and I could see how the Divine had been orchestrating all along. 

I am learning what it means to surrender and simultaneously focus. Letting go while also refining the radiance of my innermost guiding star. What am I habitually attending to internally?

Between the breath and the mind, the conditioned and the eternal, I humbly acknowledge what I don’t know, and gently hold to what I do. And I allow the rest to reveal itself.

Life is a dance of holding and letting go, sprouting and dying. Inner, outer, secret. 

Our friend Horton joined us at the fire. A real life saver. He read us a letter from the Mother to Sri Aurobindo about Divine Love. He brought mugwort and brimstone (I didn’t even know that was a real thing) and dragon’s blood tree resin. He brought much appreciated company, as we, who usually sleep with the setting sun, needed to accomplish a somewhat jovial late night fire ceremony. 

(I am seeing the weaving of teachings from so many different lineages, arising to seed the knowledge of my life.)

By the end of the fire ceremony, it was just Scotty and me, he wrapped up in numerous blankets, leaning against a big pillow, trying to keep his eyes open, and me, hoping to keep us awake by playing surprisingly brilliant guitar, progressions in A minor. 

Then, when I went to gather the last bundle of sticks for the fire, I turned around and looked at Scotty sitting next to the fire, tucked in among the trees and boulders, surrounded by darkness. The circle of stones, the light of the fire, the midnight hour. There was a particular shade of “other-wordly” glowing in and around us and at the very end there it felt like we were in another dimension all together. 

After we put the fire to sleep and tucked into our beds, I had a dream of diving deep into a very clear pool of water. I opened my eyes and a woman was in there. She brought me all the way to the bottom, to touch my feet at the very bottom, the floor of this watery place. I was scared until I realized I could breathe. She then showed me various artifacts tucked into the big stone column in which we were swimming. Between worlds of earth and water, I saw oddly familiar symbols which had apparently been created by my own hand. 

Today feels like a dream. Last night’s dream felt more vibrant than life. How do we know what we know?

The Sun is shifting. I’ve sent my prayers off with the Wind. The shadows are getting longer and the trees are golden yellow in their transformation. Between summer and winter, everything turns golden. Between Self and not-Self, between human love and divine love, between the knowing and the not knowing, somehow, something here blooms golden.