Blessings abound

Before I left Kansas, two of the most important women in my life said to me, "Fortune favors the brave." I repeated this phrase to myself as I drove through the canyons of Arizona well past sunset last night. I discovered the bravest thing I could do in the desert was to avoid turning on my brights as I cascaded through the night. There was something utterly terrifying about lighting up the black ravines. Suddenly it occurred to me just how small I was in comparison to the endless array of rock and cacti. I arrived in Glendale, Arizona after 12 hours of calculated driving, to be greeted with dinner and stories from my father's best friend. His Jersey accent, handsome son, kind girlfriend and exuberant dogs immeidately felt like home. His orange trees blossom and bloom effortlessly and I slept peacefully in on the couch of a man I haven't seen in 20 years.



But let me start at the beginning.

Sunday was the most collective revelationary experiences of my young life. After leaving the hostel I drove to the Taos Pueblo where the New Mexico Native Americans performed a New Years ritual in which dozens of the tribes men and boys entered the center square of the adobe sanctuary, shirtless, decorated in ritualistic attire: beaded sashes, feathered headresses, animal skins tucked into their belts, carrying fir branches and gourds painted white. They sang the most beautifully harmonious song to the Gods as a small crowd of tourists huddled together in awe. The priviledge of this experience brought me to tears. In this moment I knew that I was experiencing a ritual more sacred than anything my culture and race have ever created. To think that for a thousand years before Columbus the Puebloan people were flourishing in this land filled me with both gratitude and shame. How could anything this spiritual have ever been questioned much less desimated? I could not pick out Black Hill in the group of men, as the white chinstrap face paint blended the community of faces with such unity, but I knew that had it not been for his help, I would know so much less about the Universe, and my place in it, than I do now.



My city-street beating Converse were no match for the frozen mountain air, so I headed back to my car and set my GPS for Chimayo, NM. The trip lead me down the mountains and through the Rio Grande Gorge. Blinking through the tears at the utter beauty of it all I decided that if I ever had any doubt a Creator existed, those doubts were silenced in these valleys. If you do not drive along the Rio Grande before you die, your life was entirely wasted.


An hour later I turned left onto Sanctuario Drive, lined with Native American jewelry shops, art galleries and shanty local food joints. As I drove to the end of the lane, I arrived at Sanctuario de Chimayo, the sight of holy shrine associated with an ancient crucifix discovered here. The church has been built around a single hole in the ground which contains the holy dirt where the crucifix was discovered. My knees were weak as I stepped out of the car. At first I dismissed the queasiness as a side effect of high elevation, but as I ducked my head into the church I knew I was experiencing true holiness on Earth. I knelt and prayed at the feet of a Virgin Mary statue, asking for strength and prosperity, as to be able to serve whatever purpose I am called for, but especially to be a guiding light and source of inspiration for the people in my life. I have been blessed with the gift of communication and I know now more than ever its power. The air in the shrine room of el pocito (Holy Dirt) was light and renewing. A donation box stood to my right, requesting monetary assistance in order to keep the adobe sanctuary maintained. I reached into the silver giftcard tin that Sara Steele gave me before I left and pulled out a $5 my coworker Paige. I've been saving this $5 specifically because Paige wrote "For your first drink in Cali" on the bill. I felt if I spent it on anything other than the most purposeful expense on this trip I would be cursed with centuries of bad karma. But as I scooped a handful of holy dirt into a brown paper sack, I folded the bill and tucked it into the offering box. It was an enlightening moment, knowing I was blessed to have made it this far, considering the dangers I've willingly subjected my physical and mental self to through the years.


The next 8 hours were long and trying. Bursts of thought came like lightening and I found myself reaching for my small leather-bound journal often. I pressed the book against the steering wheel, scribbling meticulously along the bumpy roads until I'd catch site of a pack of elk or the smooth rainwashed moutainous red rock and I'd stop to absorb the sites with my eyes and mind. I wished that I could apply the same mentality to life that I have to this roadtrip: "Sit back, relax, enjo the scenary- you'll get there." Some of the crumbling bedrock was like the pores of human skin under a microscope, ragged and crumbling. Other times trees breached their typical shapes and took on the appearance of a thousand different nouns. I wondered how Kerouac made it across this land without a GPS but as 400 miles became 200 and then the sun set for hours and hours, I accepted that being lost in this land would be an honor at worst. Billboards advertising escapes and weekend getaways only magnified my appreciation of this life. This life is radiant and I feel possessed by an intimiately brilliant purpose- to know myself by knowing this world.