"Your Walk Was a Journey"

Said my friend

Most mornings, when I wake up and get out of bed, the first sight that greets me is a mist over the mountains. Sometimes it’s dense enough to cover them completely, and other times it moves in waves around the Pine trees, rising up from the boggy nature preserve across the road.

I am forever grateful to the cheery mover who, equally gobsmacked by my new view from upstairs in the bedroom loft, said, “Oh, you should definitely put the bed here, so the first thing you see is these mountains.”

Little did he know (or perhaps he did) that that view would become like an antidepressant for me. I have always had anxiety-filled dreams, which I would later learn are typical for Vata-type people.

But, especially in the past few years, I found myself waking up exhausted from the night and often feeling an uncomfortable sense of gloom.

I discovered that all it took to banish the gloom was looking at the misty mountains and starting my day outside, doing a little yoga or qigong, or just quietly sitting there, watching the mist as it lifts.

In the Celtic tradition, the mist has been talked about and revered since Druidic times and probably beyond.

When I studied Celtic Shamanism with Jane Burns, I learned how to journey to the Otherworld through the mist, using nothing but my imagination and a drumbeat.

Now, every morning when I look out at the mist - if I’m not in a hurry - it puts me into the reverie of a journey.

Mist is a beautiful natural power. This old spirit is an ambassador of the in-between. Not entirely water, not entirely air, the mist is a unique dancing marriage of these two elements. In effect, it is a shape-shifting element.

—Frank MacEowen, from “The Mist-Filled Path”

It’s no coincidence that I yearned to live near mountains, or at least rolling hills, since my first trip to Scotland. I’d grown up in Michigan, which is beautiful and laden with lakes, but flat.

Trips to Western North Carolina, upstate New York, and the Berkshires of Western Massachusetts only solidified my desire to be with the mountains.

And so it became part of my moving mantra “I want to be somewhere where I can walk out my door into the woods, and I want to see mountains.”

That is exactly where I landed. Not only a mountain view but cradled in other mountain ranges on all three sides.

Yeah, I know. I still pinch myself with gratitude daily.

I probably lived here for at least a year before I took a walk down the road at the bottom of my hill. Why would I want to walk down a paved road when I could meander through the woods?

But a couple of weeks ago, when I realized that, amen, the bugs were gone, I decided to start taking more walks down the road.

On a Monday morning, I encountered a beautiful Dragonfly lying motionless on the pavement. I couldn’t tell if he or she (let’s say she) was dead or alive, so I carried her home and placed her in one of my potted plants. I watered it thoroughly and waited.

I guess this sounds kind of dumb - maybe I should have placed her on one of the birdbaths since I just learned Dragonflies are the only insects that can fly and swim.

Or maybe I should have caught some bugs for her since I also learned that they are strictly carnivorous.

But my memory had kicked in, and I flashed back to a hot summer day when I was living in NYC and rescued another Dragonfly.

It was a Saturday morning, already over 100 degrees, and I was headed down the block to the farmer’s market. I almost stepped on the Dragonfly lying in the middle of the sidewalk on (let’s say his) back. I gently picked him up and observed. I saw just the tiniest twitch.

Right next to the sidewalk on the stoop was a big potted plant. So, I gently laid him on the soil next to a leaf, having zero ideas what Dragonflies need to revive. I continued on to the market, and on my way back, I checked on my friend.

He was attached to a leaf and appeared to be nibbling on it. Maybe it was the moisture because now I know that they don’t eat plants, but nevertheless, he was alive!

I decided to leave him there, and later, when I came back to check, he was gone!

Here’s the magical end to the story.

About a week later, I was walking home down my street after watching the sunset over the Hudson River. All of a sudden, a HUGE Dragonfly flew right up to my face, circled around, came back within inches of my face, and circled back a few more times.

I stood there motionless. In utter magical amazement. It was as if a fairy had come to pay me a visit.

A man walking by stopped and said, “What’s happening? Is that a bird???”

The Dragonfly flew off, end of story, but I will never forget that encounter.

A few days after I found the New Hampshire Dragonfly (unlike my NY friend, this one didn’t survive and is now lying in state on my windowsill), I decided to take another walk down the road.

The morning mist that day had already put me into a reverie of sorts. I walked along, the nature preserve on my right, feeling like I was somehow jumping dimensions. Slipping into another state of consciousness, if you will. This is okay to do when you’re safe somewhere, but not so much while walking down a road where a car or truck might whiz by.

I made a mental note to stay firmly grounded in this 3rd dimension when I almost stepped on this little guy:

Oh my goodness! For the love of Turtles! I wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive, but when I picked him up, the baby Snapping Turtle with ancient eyes drew his head in! So, I moved him to safety, away from the road. Later in the day, I fretted when a friend reminded me that I should have carried him across the road in the direction he was facing.

Because Turtles have a built-in instinct, radar if you will, for where they need to go.

I walked back to the spot where I had found him, and thankfully, there was no carnage.

I did, however, see two little ones further down the road who had not been so lucky.

I made my way back home, saying hello to a late-blooming Yarrow and introducing myself to this Tree Spirit neighbor:

I walked up my long driveway and was about to make the turn towards the house when something pulled me back behind the barn and down a path into the woods.

I felt myself slipping into another dimension again, only this time, I let myself stay in the reverie. No cars to worry about.

I walked the path and knew immediately where I was meant to go. It was only about a year ago that my landlords mentioned there was a pond at the end of the path.

What?? A Pond??

I didn’t dare venture there all spring or summer because I knew I would just be eaten alive, but on this day, this glorious cool, breezy, sunny, bug-less day, my reverie led me straight to

The Pond

There was water gurgling, mesmerizing reflections, Dragonflies soaring, Trees just putting on their fall colors, a bright blue sky, and real clouds.

It was then that I felt myself fully jump dimensions.

Time stood still.

I felt my beating heart slow down and join in with all the Nature surrounding me.

I smiled. I cried.

I didn’t want to leave.

Nature Heals.

I don’t remember what brought me out of my trance or how long I’d been standing there. I said goodbye to The Pond (I need to find out if she has a name) and headed back toward home, fully alert and grounded because there were sinkholes along that part of the path.

A few days later, on the Autumn Equinox, a Bear crossed behind me on the road while I was out running errands, and a huge Moose, rack and all, came up my driveway as I was headed to the post office.

Seeing these wild animals (usually when I least expect them) is an honor that I will never take for granted as long as I live here.

We are all meant to experience the reverie that I speak of, as well as the joy of communing with and communicating with the plants and the animals, whether in this dimension or visiting their spirits in our dreams or in journeys.

Our ancestors did, that’s for sure. Our modern society has robbed us of this way of life.

Maybe because I’m a Crone now, blessed to live here on this hill, surrounded by forest, cradled in mountains, that I’m able to access these realms with more ease. I don’t know.

But I remember being a child, growing up in a modest Detroit neighborhood, and tucking myself and my bike into a tunnel of shrubs at the end of our block, bordering a park.

I slipped into reverie there. I remember. It only happened when I was alone, and I never shared my secret place with anyone else.

Children do this instinctively. Or at least they used to before cell phones and tablets were invented.

Anyone can slow down. Pay attention. Spend time in solitude. In Nature.

Do you know what else puts me in this reverie?

Writing.

I don’t believe there’s an easier way to unlock our creativity than spending time in Nature.

So, thank you for letting me write to you.

When I came home from the first walk, Dragonfly in hand, I saw that a big limb had come down in the yard.

It was a Quaking Poplar! I’ve not found any Quaking Poplar trees here. And yet, there she was.

Yesterday morning on my walk, I noticed some saplings on the side of the road that I didn’t recognize. Jumbled together with all sorts of other plants. I turned on my phone and my plant ID app, and guess what it said?

American Elm!

The special Tree of my childhood in Detroit. My first Tree love and loss, as Dutch Elm disease decimated thousands of these majestic standing ones, including the one in front of our house.

That day that I saw the Turtle and felt like I’d crossed dimensions, I couldn’t wait to tell my friend Christy all about it.

“Your walk was a journey,” she said, in her always-wise way.

I didn’t need a drum to walk through the mist.

I just needed to head on down the country road.

Much Love,
Barbara

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