I was wandering around in a metaphysical shop back in the mid-90s.  I wanted to browse, but my Marxist boyfriend was with me and I felt obliged to sort of explain myself and translate in the hope that maybe my secret passion for the esoteric wouldn’t seem like deluded idealism.  Suddenly there was a small figure blocking our path and looking at us rather severely.  She reminded me of Wednesday Adams, but in her early twenties, clad in jeans and a drab t-shirt.

 “What are you looking for?”

 It was not so much an offer of help.  More like a curt request: Tell me what you want.

I didn’t know what to say.  Honestly, I was there to browse.  I was a seeker just starting to seek – and I was embarrassed about it, especially with my Marxist boyfriend standing there.  But I had been experimenting with the Tarot for around two years by then.  I had a Rider-Waite deck, a pop interpretation book, a feminist explication book and a desire to learn more.  So I told her I was looking for a book on the Tarot.  She disappeared without a word.  Relieved that she was gone, I went back to browsing while trying to explain myself (quietly) to my inner materialist critic, whom I was projecting outward on my Marxist boyfriend.  I was ambivalence in action.

Suddenly she appeared again looking severe as before.  She didn’t say anything – she just held out a little book.  I took it from her and she hurried off.  I was at a loss.  I wanted to explore and pick out something on my own.  I didn’t want her help to begin with.  And looking over the little book, I could see right away that it was something I would not have selected.  It was strange.  It seemed she had brought it out of the back room where it had been absorbing incense smoke for years, judging from its heavy scent.  I thought about ditching it on the shelves I was browsing – I had my eye on another book – something bigger and glossy, but then I saw the glossy book from her perspective and knew it was cheesy.  I suspected that Wednesday Adams was issuing me a challenge to move beyond fluff in my seeking.

So I bought the strange little Tarot book.  I took it home with me and tried to find my way in.  The heavy scent intrigued me.  But no, it just wasn’t what I wanted.  There wasn’t any direct instruction.  It consisted mainly of short poems and illustrations of cards that were slightly different from the ones I was used to.   There was Biblical-sounding verse and “O Israel” exhortations.  It seemed way too much like prayer and religion for me, half-Marxist that I was. 

I stopped experimenting with the cards and put the strange little book aside.  But I did not get rid of it.  It survived numerous painful book purges when I moved from apartment to apartment and eventually to my own house. 

The book was The Book of Tokens, by Paul Foster Case.  In more recent years, it came in handy when I was reading essays that referred Major Arcana images as they appear in the BOTA deck.  It wasn’t until last year that I read Paul Foster Case’s more directly instructional The Tarot: A Key to the Wisdom of the Ages and finally understood the point of the strange little book I’ve had sitting on my shelf for the last fifteen years.

Of course, the Tarot cannot be explicated in mere prose.  The cards are to be meditated upon for their symbolism speaks fluently to the subconscious mind.  And through the subconscious they can help bring us into conscious communication with superconsciousness. 

So after all those years of sitting mostly unused on my shelf, the strange little book is now picked up and pored over every day.  I was taking it for granted that it was always there waiting for me until I was ready.  Lately, though, I’ve been musing on the odd way it ‘fell into my hands.’  Why did Wednesday Adams thrust this particular book on me?  If she was bent on directing me to something by Paul Foster Case, why not hand me the more accessible A Key to the Wisdom of the Ages? 

Whatever her reason, I appreciate the result.  So thank you, dear Wednesday.  The metaphysical shop in Belleville is long gone, but its incense-laden scent lingers in the pages of my strange little Tarot book.

I’ve been haunted by 4:44 and 44 synchronicity since last spring.  In the fall, I wrote about how 44th birthdays approach for the people born during the rare era-defining Sixties Grand Opposition between Saturn/Chiron in Pisces and Uranus/Pluto in Virgo.  That alignment peaked in 1965 and 1966, so those birthdays are happening now.  This year marks the start of them, not to mention the start of the 44th presidency and 111th congress in the U.S.  All while slow-moving Uranus and Saturn have reversed their 1960’s positions and are now opposing each other again from opposite signs.  They came into perfect opposition on Election Day – a coincidence to say the least.   This fall, Pluto will join the dance to form a potent T-Square.  Turbulence now, much more ahead.

Previously, I wrote that the 44 and the 111 mark the doorway to a period of great change.  I definitely don’t mean that President Obama and the 111th Congress are agents of the change.  Instead, I think that the 44 and the 111 may be coordinates in time and space. 

I recently came across a suggestive item to add to the 44/111 synchronicity collection.  I’ve been watching seismic activity around volcanoes since the Tonga 7.9 earthquake and volcanic eruption.  I was looking into a minor earthquake around Yellowstone when I realized – the Yellowstone caldera is located roughly at 44°N 111°W.  

To have one of the world’s largest supervolcanoes sitting so close to those precise coordinates seems a bit portentous right about now.  But the last thing we need is to get sucked into fearful doomsday thinking.  We are living in a hot spot in history.  Bubbling under the surface is the potential for profound transformation, as well as profound destruction.  What we do matters.  Change does not have to be catastrophe.

Speaking of avoiding catastrophe, a prominent 44 turns up in the new Lexus RX commercial “Intersection.”  A car and an 18-wheeler come to the point of head on collision at a dark intersection, but time screeches to a halt just before impact.  Four guardian figures emerge from the darkness and pull the car and the truck backward through time.   One of the guardians turns the car driver’s head just enough so that he’ll see what’s approaching at the intersection.  A 44 appears on his windshield while the narrator speaks of “illuminat[ing] places you couldn’t see before.”  Time resumes forward motion and the driver swerves in time to avoid the truck and proceed safely on his way.

Unlike the Lexus driver, we will NOT be able to proceed on course after a brush with calamity.  Collectively, our present course IS disastrous — not just right now but going back several hundred years leading up to this point.  It will only get worse.  No swerving will get it safely back on track.  No illuminations or shining saviors will redeem it.  Our salvation will come from letting it go and making a new way founded on honest right relations — with ourselves, with each other, with other species, with the planet. 

Namaste

We had yet another small earthquake here in Morris County New Jersey, in the wee hours this morning.  That’s three in the last couple weeks.  To be fair, a seismologist predicted that another one within the week was likely; nevertheless, earthquakes are unusual in this neck of the woods so they have us speculating. 

Christopher Knowles connects these earthquakes with the equally unusual rash of UFO sightings in Morris County last month.  Indeed, there were more sightings around here last night, on the eve of the latest earthquake.  Very interesting.  I need to start braving the cold to keep an eye on the night skies.  

Meanwhile, I’ve been looking at the earthquakes from a more geomantic standpoint.  What is the earth saying, I ask myself.  I saw meaning in the timing of the first two earthquakes (explored here and in connection with the 2006 Mount Desert Island earthquakes here), but this latest quake didn’t suggest anything to me at first.  Then I remembered the conversation I had with my husband before going to bed last night.

Since late last summer, we’ve been talking on and off about digging up the whole lawn and growing vegetables.  We’ve been talking about it in a noncommittal way, as in it would be a good idea but it would sure bother our neighbors.  Last night, however, we talked about it very seriously.   Of course, during World War II these things were called “victory gardens.”  People were encouraged to do it to reduce the stress on the war-time food supply.

Now take a look at where the USGS positions the latest earthquake, and while you’re at it, the first earthquake, too.   In case you don’t feel like clicking, I will tell you: VICTORY GARDENS.

Could the earth be giving us a hint?

Maybe I’m reaching, but a planting a victory garden does seem like a good, constructive thing to do.

Namaste

We had another small earthquake here in Morris County, New Jersey — the second this month.  First a 3.0 earthquake on Imbolc, centered within a mile of my home.  Then a 2.4 earthquake on Valentine’s Day a few miles away.  Of course, these are no great shakes as far as earthquakes around the globe go, but they are unusual here.  I’ve lived in New Jersey all my life and never experienced one before.

According to the USGS, this latest quake occurred at 22:22:22 UTC.   There they are again – those numbers with repeating digits.  They speak a language to those who will listen.  Granted, the actual words are muffled by the veil.  All I can make out is a murmur.  Nevertheless, they say pay attention. 

Indeed, the timing of both earthquakes is suggestive.  Imbolc comes from the old Irish i mbolg  meaning ‘in the belly.’  Now overrun by groundhogs, the day still represents the hopeful quickening of spring within the womb of winter.   

Obviously Valentine’s Day is associated with the heart, but long before the holiday was named for a Christian saint (any one of three), it was the ancient Roman purification/fertility festival Lupercalia.  After sacrificing a goat and a dog, being smeared with blood and then wiped clean with milk, two young men ran around Rome playfully lashing people along the way with strips of hide from the sacrificed goat.  Women came forward and lined up hoping to be struck, for the light lashing was supposed to impart fertility and an easy delivery.

And I think that’s what we should hope for now – an easy delivery.  The old order is crumbling and a new world needs to be born.  Will we come forward and be constructive midwives to this birth, or will we cling to structures that are on a downward spiral?  We can still choose now, but at some point down the road, there may be no choice.

Last night I was getting ready for bed when I heard a loud boom and then the whole house shook.  My first thought was that there had been an explosion out on the street so I rushed to look out the front door.  There was nothing but snow falling quietly in the dark outside.  My next thought was that a tree had fallen on my house from behind, but no, the backyard was quiet as well.  I didn’t find out until this morning that it was a 3.0 earthquake and we were basically in the epicenter.

 Now, a 3.0 earthquake is nothing in the scheme of things, and indeed there were no damages.  But this is Morris County NJ and a significant earthquake here is sort of like a snowfall in Florida.  It does happen but it’s not common and people tend to make a big deal about it.  I personally have never experienced it before.

I’ve been keeping an eye on earthquake activity in the world, especially since my trip to Bar Harbor this past September when I was surprised to learn that there had been an earthquake there in 2006.  We have taken several vacations in Bar Harbor during the Autumnal Equinox.  On such a trip in 2004, at the top of Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park, I had what I believe was a spontaneous heart chakra opening.  Our trip this Equinox was our first time back since then.  This time we found the East Face Champlain trail closed and a notice saying it was damaged in an earthquake in 2006.

Significant earthquakes in Maine are about like earthquakes in New Jersey.  They do happen but they’re not common.

As I wrote in Right Place Revisited, the land at Acadia National Park felt different to me this September, even before I knew about the earthquake.  The energy was still there, but something seemed off and metaphors for upheaval abounded.  I did a little googling upon my return and learned that it wasn’t just one earthquake but a series of earthquakes that shook the park in 2006.  The first occurred on the Autumnal Equinox.  If we had taken a vacation that year, chances are we would have been there for it.

All of the quakes were minor.  The first was 3.4 and over the next 11 days there were some aftershocks, a 2.5 and a 3.9 (summarized by USGS here).  There was a pause and then one more on December 20th.  Apparently, the damages occurred in the 3.9 quake.  (A NPS slideshow showing some damages to the trails and Park Loop Road can be found here.)

Anyway, Acadia was as beautiful as ever this September, and we had a great time.  Still I came back with a nagging feeling.  It was like the 2004 experience had been the grand banquet at the Grail Castle, and this fall was waking up the morning after and finding the guests gone and the Castle empty.  I felt like Parzival — had I failed to ask the question?

Vague ideas about this have been itching at the back of my mind.  Last night’s earthquake, centered practically on my front lawn, prodded me into writing about it.  To what end, I don’t know, but somehow these events seem meaningful to me.  And as Acadia’s earthquakes opened on the Autumnal Equinox, last night’s earthquake here at home coincided with Imbolc.  This, too, seems meaningful and appropriate.  Something is ‘in the belly.’  

It’s been a while since I’ve posted. I was sick. As if by sympathetic connection, my PC went down with me. Actually, it’s more like I went down by sympathetic connection with my PC. It was going down in a slow cascade of failures and errors since the summer. I only went down the day after Christmas, but I stayed down for a few weeks.

Being sick was good in a way because it forced me to be still. I had to jettison my big list of things to do — I was taking my last 2008 vacation days so I was off and had overambitious ideas about how I’d use the time. As it turned out, I was couch-ridden and mostly I just read.

When I’m sick like that, the world becomes smaller and quieter. In a way, it’s easier to think.

As events and energies have ratcheted upward, I’ve become more self-conscious about writing here. I am conscious of how little I know, how I lack the language to express the wispy half-understandings that occupy my mind, how I may sound naïve to some, crazy to others and how some of my dreams and visions could conceivably contribute to the eschatological panic out there.

I am a Seeker, and while I am climbing toward the light, I spend a lot of time stumbling in the darkness. I share interior thoughts of my journey here, without the wisdom of hindsight, because I was instructed to “tell the tale and live it” in a dream. Somehow, I sense, that it is these awkward early steps on the Path that need sharing. And I shouldn’t go back and edit or delete as my understanding grows. I must let it stand in its own integrity.

In fact, maybe I should be more open than I’ve been.

My experience over the past several years has been a gradual honing in and sharpening of focus. I had something of a breakthrough over the summer, described in Unlocking the Gate. But then I lost some clarity and wandered a bit. Now I am back on the inner threshold of the gate, surveying the lands before me. Where there was a confounding maze, I am seeing a coherent set of paths.

I feel the need to commit to a formal path, in concert with others. I’ve moved in this direction before, and each time, foundational aspects of my life have seized up behind me, demanding my urgent attention, or so I thought. On past occasions, I have withdrawn to focus on them, and then it has taken a long while to wander back. That may be happening again now – I feel some tremors – but this time I will not relent. I will move forward on the Path, come what may.

So the earnest desire goes forth in search of the Master, as it has not far to seek. If the student is worthy he will presently be rewarded either by the inner knowledge that he has achieved this mental contact, or he will find that “chance” has placed him in touch with a source of occult information and training, and his conscious work has commenced. The gate is open, it is for him to tread the Path.

– Dion Fortune, The Training & Work of an Initiate

More to come.

Namaste.

I have to admit that I am fascinated by the fact that in January, the 111th Congress and the 44th President will take office in the U.S.  Numbers with repeating digits always grab my attention.  For me, 111 has the same kind of energy as 11:11.  As I wrote last time, eleven-elevens are the glow of lucidity poking through the dream fabric and therefore the number of awakening.  Forty-four is the number of a lamb, blood and “He Redeems.”  Thus I associate 44 and 4:44 with transfiguration.  I’ve been running into 44/4:44 a lot since the spring.  Together, these numbers seem to be pillars marking the entrance to a period of great change.  They seem to be vibrating with the call of destiny.

Meanwhile, 44th birthdays approach for the people who were born during the peak years of what astrologer Eric Francis described as the rare “Sixties grand opposition.”  This was the conjunction between Uranus and Pluto in Virgo, with Saturn and then undiscovered Chiron opposing from Pisces.  Peak years were 1965 and 1966, but Francis says the ripples of influence span from 1959 to 1973. 

In his three-part essay “Born in the Sixties,” Francis defines the powerful outer planet energies brought to a head in that grand opposition – they were the very energies firing the social and political movements of the time.  So the grand opposition had an obvious immediate effect in shaping that turbulent era, but it also shaped the natal charts of those born during it, mainly vanguard Gen-Xers.

So far, this latter effect has been mostly latent, I think, because many natives are having trouble with lower octave expressions of the potent energies involved.  Waylaid by FEAR (Saturn) and shadow projection (Pluto), distracted by our woundedness (Chiron) and technological toys (Uranus), this generation has yet to come into its own.  But maybe turning 44 in this period, with its new alignments, will be a turning point.

Meanwhile, what goes around comes around in the grand dance.  Uranus (freedom, revolution, sudden change) and Saturn (limits, structure, inertia) are opposing each other again, but this time their locations are reversed on the Virgo-Pisces axis.  And now Pluto (transformation) enters Capricorn (social structures) for a new era-defining transit.  

I am no expert, but these patterns are coming together in a way that seems portentous.  The stage is set.  The players are taking their positions.  Our social, political and economic structures are poised for a period of profound transformation.  Some will say hold onto your hats and fasten your seatbelts.  I am in the other camp – the one that is trying to let go of the shore.

Namaste

P.S. – Too bad USA cancelled The 4,400.

P.P.S. - Still one off.

Strange things, these breadcrumbs in the path. To me, eleven-eleven experiences are a fat yellow highlighter marking the corresponding thought/person/place/thing with the glow of synchronicity. They are little winks that can communicate an infinite variety of things – or nothing – depending on context. I don’t try to pin down meaning. I pay attention and let it flow. Where it marks a clear doorway, I go in.

If reality is a waking dream, eleven-elevens are the neon glow of lucidity poking through the dream fabric.

A quick bit of googling reveals that many of us experience this phenomenon.  We are legion.  Sometimes I wonder if we are like the Final Five on Battlestar Galactica, who were “switched on” with a common code upon entering a certain zone in the galaxy.  For them it was a nebula.  For us it could be the point we are reaching in the Earth’s 26,000-year precessional cycle – a point in which the cross of the solstices and equinoxes is lining up with the plane of the galaxy.  These cyclic alignments in the Earth’s celestial dance were deemed so important by ancients the world over that they were marked with myth, monument, calendar and zodiac. 

We are approaching a galactic dawn of sorts and 11:11 is the time blinking at us on our internal alarm clocks.

But of course 11:11 is much more than a display on a digital clock.  Synchronous elevens manifest in myriad ways.  They are sometimes clever.  Sometimes sneaky.  Sometimes they hit you over the head.  If you follow them, they expand into a wide river of synchronicity.  I told the story of how it started for me here.

Perfect 11:11 Day reading is Paul Levy’s “Catching the Bug of Synchronicity” on Reality Sandwich. He writes:

Just like Jung, we can help each other catch the “bug” of synchronicity. We can co-operatively cultivate a net-work of allies who creatively collaborate in bringing forth the precious jewel of synchronicity. The archetypal field becomes greatly potentiated for synchronicities when we get “in sync” with other people who are also waking up to the synchronistic universe.

And let it be so.

Namaste

The American people chose an integrated world view over a racist, jingoist “Country First” world view.  The world feels lighter.

I am way left of Obama and the Democrats. In my view, the change he represents is more symbolic than actual. To be precise, I think we need bigger, more fundamental change than he can or will bring. He is beholden to Wall Street and the corporate elite like any other bourgeois politician. Nevertheless, right now I am elated that Americans who participate in electoral politics chose this man to be their president — a man who in his person represents the integration of several cultural oppositions.

I think many of us are feeling better about each other this week.

Over the weekend, I dreamt that my husband and I were walking to a grocery store near our house.  Suddenly there was roaring in the sky above us.  I looked to see two old-fashioned red fighter biplanes overhead.  They were chugging along in the sky looking slow and clumsy.  Then I blinked and several more fighter planes appeared, joining the first two.  These were of more recent make but still old-fashioned.  I blinked again and there were more fighter planes, more recent yet.  Then there were still more fighter planes, more recent in design.

Every couple seconds the number of fighter planes in the sky increased exponentially, and each time the new planes looked more recent in design.  Soon the sky was crowded with hundreds of fighter planes.

“What is going on?” I cried.  In an instant hundreds more fighter planes appeared, filling in all the remaining space in the sky.  These were sleek and ultra modern in design.  The roaring was overwhelming – it was like a storm bearing down on us – but the planes were basically stationary at this point.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said to my husband.  And just then two GIGANTIC spaceships appeared overhead – one black, one white. 

The dream dissolved.

Funny thing is that I have zero interest in war planes, but this dream began with a friend visiting me at my home to drop something off.  In “waking life,” this friend is into historic war planes as well as UFOs.  When I described the dream to him today, he immediately placed the red biplanes as Red Barons.  I joked that he visited me in the astral and dropped off his dream.

I returned to the heart-shaped island in the western North Atlantic.  I climbed a mountain and listened.  In the golden light of the Equinox sun, with a chorus of crickets and chickadees around me, I called out to my higher self.  I affirmed my intention – to evolve and, in so doing, do whatever I can to help carry the evolutionary tide forward.  My will is thy will, I said.

I then descended steeply into the underworld between two mountains where I passed through a tunnel formed by twin slabs of giant stone.  There an orb of light greeted me, though I didn’t know it until afterward when I saw the picture I had taken. 

Having passed through the tunnel, I climbed steeply back up the mountain – a different mountain in 3D but it doesn’t really matter.  At its summit, once again on the bare pink and green granite, bathed in the golden light with brilliant blue for miles around, I affirmed my intention and listened. 

Nothing specific.  Nothing immediate.  Just a subtle release of fear and a resulting clarity inside.  One step after another.  Mindful.  Unhurried.  The path stretches long ahead. 

The trails were mostly empty.  I had the thought that another 911 could have happened hours ago and all hell could be breaking loose in the world.  But on the mountain that world was far away.  Our world was the perfect serenity of granite, pitch pines, wild blueberry bushes and cricket song awash in the golden angles of the September sun, with ocean and sky spread endlessly on all sides.

Et in A(r)cadia ego

Back at sea level, I traveled through the woods to the sacred boulder.  Fallen trees lay everywhere. I passed through the grassy channel where I saw the bear crossing our path four years ago.  A few steps later there was fresh bear scat.  Very fresh. 

Bear is my guide.  He sits on my right shoulder.  Nevertheless, I could not overcome the fear of meeting him in the flesh.  I took out my keys and jangled them.

We pressed forward and his scat was everywhere.  So distracted by fear this time, I missed the boulder on the first pass and we had to double back.  When we found the boulder, I was dismayed to find more bear scat its base.  My husband climbed on top of the boulder to meditate, but I could not relax enough to trust myself to attempt the climb.  Still jangling the keys, I meditated on a ledge at the bottom.  I found a chrysalis there which I refrained from touching out of respect.

Despite my fear, I managed to enter that rich dark matrix where Wolfie, the spirit of the boulder, resides.  Just for a few moments, though.  For four years now, I have been eager to return to sit with him again.  Thinking that I’ve grown since the last time, I loaded the moment up with hope and expectation.  Unfortunately my fear of the bear muffled all of that.  I was still jangling my keys after all.  But I did sense him – Wolfie, that is.  I also asked him to help me heal my relationship with work so that I can earn my Right Livelihood and work in alignment with my higher self and the evolution of the planet.   This request might seem silly, especially now, but what can I say?  We each bear a cross — my woundedness in relation to work has been mine.

That night I had a mundane dream that was interesting for being a new spin on an old recurring theme.  Usually I find myself in class on the last day and there is a final exam being handed out or a seminar paper due and I’ve done nothing – I haven’t even been attending class because I didn’t know I was enrolled.  My usual response is a frantic scramble to pull out a good grade at the last minute.  This time I decided not to bother taking the final.  I knew the class wasn’t meaningful to me and I shouldn’t waste any time on it.  I also knew that people would say that I “failed out” but that didn’t matter because I had to stay true to what I felt was important. 

The next night I dreamt that I was at a conference in a building that was a cross between a school and a workplace (the two are often conflated in my dreams).  Outside on the road there were fanatical nationalists waving the American flag and throwing firecrackers at passing cars.  Someone threw a lit firecracker at me as I walked by.  I threw it back and they called me a terrorist.  I tried to argue – next thing I knew I was inside the conference and embroiled in some drama I don’t remember.

In the hall on my way to the next conference event, I saw a dark-haired guy with an infinity symbol on his t-shirt.  I told him I liked it.  Then I saw “2012” spray painted in silver on a whiteboard nearby.  I commented on it to those around me, but no one knew what it was. 

Later I saw the dark-haired guy in a silver leotard outfit with the infinity symbol on the chest.  He was with a crew of people dressed just like him.  They were all gathering underneath a strange room.  The room was actually on the floor above us but it had no floor so we could look up into it.  All four walls were spray painted silver in countless rows of alternating infinity symbols and 2012s.

Suddenly the silver leotard group was gone. 

“Aren’t you going, too?” someone asked me.  I responded that I would like to but I didn’t have a silver leotard outfit like theirs.  A voice told me that didn’t matter.  It was my choice and here was the moment I’ve been waiting for.

And so I went to the silver room, which was some kind of gateway.  The dream dissolved as I was transported.

Both of these dreams were about freeing myself from the bonds of external expectations (good grades) and prerequisites (silver leotard) and choosing my next step based solely on my own internal compass. 

The next night I arose from a deep sleep in the wee hours and looked out the east-facing balcony of our motel room.  The night sky was bright and overwhelming.  It confused me at first, then I realized that it was the Big Dipper emblazoned over the ocean looking giant and surreal.  I went to the room’s lone window, which looked southward, and saw Orion framed perfectly over the mountains and lit up the same way.  Don’t know what it means if anything other than the fact that I am so accustomed to light pollution that I am stunned when I see the constellations unobstructed by haze.  Somehow, though, it felt meaningful.

*   *   *

Bear made his presence known — so did Falcon.  Falcon was everywhere in the flesh.  Once I saw him catching prey in midair.  Sad for the prey, but it did communicate that now is time for seizing the moment.

Earth Activation

Every time I visit Acadia, the trails present me with a coherent theme in imagery.  Last time it was splits.  Split trees, split rocks — all kinds of splits were underscored with a synchronistic glow.  The lesson I took away was that there was a split within me and I needed to align my will with my heart.

This time the imagery was about upheaval.  Uprooted trees were a frequent sight – much more so than in the past – some were bearing the bright blue paint of a trail marker.  The path itself was eroded in spots, certainly not everywhere but again more so than in the past.  The East Face Champlain Trail was completely closed due to damage and subsequent rock falls stemming from an earthquake that occurred in October of 2006.

Please don’t misunderstand.  Acadia National Park is a treasure.  It has not fallen into disrepair.  It is amazing in its natural beauty, and its many trails are lovingly kept by brigades of people who are passionate about the place.  I would gladly live there if I could.  What I mean to say is simply that the trails presented metaphors for upheaval to my eye this September.

As I’ve written before, I feel I was activated by this place and have or had some kind of connection to it.  In past years, I’ve seen familiar faces on the trails – others who kept returning and had a glow about them when they were here.  This time I saw no faces familiar from previous years.  It seemed like the activation party was over, the guests were gone and now the host was alone and possibly in need of assistance.  For all my meditations on the mountaintops and at the base of the sacred boulder, maybe I really should have done only one thing and that is ask the question: Dear friend, what ails you?

Toward sunset on the last day, we drove up Cadillac Mountain to say goodbye to the island, just as we did four years ago.  We haven’t hiked up Cadillac in a long time – mainly because it can be a let down to spend hours climbing up a mountain and then be greeted at the top by tour buses and a gift shop.  (Cadillac is the only drive-up mountain on Mount Desert Island.)  Nevertheless, this was where I experienced what I believe was a heart chakra opening last time.  It seemed that Cadillac Mountain was a powerfully active volcano, but instead of lava, it was spewing energy of a high vibration.  For those keyed to it, being in range of its energetic broadcast was a blast to the chakras.  That was my theory, anyway.

This time I got out of the car with some concern that the mountain would be quiet – that it was stressed and wouldn’t have the same power.  But ultimately, at the top of Cadillac, the energy was there.  It was somewhat subdued from last time, but it was still pulsing bigger than all of us.  Bigger than the upheaval at hand.  Bigger than the mountain, the sky and the surrounding ocean.  Maybe bigger than the Earth itself.