"I will say yes on one condition. You can't have a relationship with Pachamama without getting dirty, so promise me you will get your hands in the dirt."
I've moved on from this man who introduced me to creating a relationship with the Earth, realizing at a certain point I am not Native American. As it turns out my ancestry is almost entirely from the United Kingdom. And so in recent years I have explored my heritage--90% Scottish, Irish and English. So, I have Wiccan roots--pre-Christian nature worshippers. No wonder I've always felt most at home on an island. No wonder I am attracted to healing properties of plants.
In my pursuit I have created family trees, and am planning a trip to my homeland for the purpose of learning the rituals, medicines and song. There's not much difference between what Native Americans and my Wiccan ancestors believed--Earth wisdom, honorable harvest, and reciprocal relationships with the natural world.
So going out to get dirty has become part of life. While I like to walk, period, I prefer the natural areas in my neighborhood. My new favorite hiking spot close to home is a forested area maintained by the city called Wilderness Park.
So here we are this morning, walking along listening and singing to the morning birdsong. We arrive to a chorus under the canopy.
"Cheweeee, meewww," praises the spotted towhee.
"I listen to the birds, I hear them sing, I hear them sing," I sing back.
Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up," belts the robin.
"The birds are my sisters, the birds are my brothers," I continue.
"Chickadee-dee-dee," supposes the chickadee.
I'm really "in" this morning, smelling, hearing, seeing deeply. I can imagine my Wiccan grandmothers scouring the woods for plant medicine, looking to the spirit world for direction. So I'm walking along wondering with all the time I've been spending in the woods whether or not spirits I can't see are warming up to my presence. When out of the corner of my eye I see something on the path up ahead and around the wild brush to the left--a flash of rust color. I figure it is a runner with a dog.
"Runner up!" I call to my sweetie who is ahead of me on the trail.
"I don't see anyone, where?" He stops and turns back to face me.
"Up head, there, I point," as I round the corner.
The path is empty.
He shrugs and takes a route off to the right and I find myself next to a tree in the middle of the path. It is not totally round, but a bit u-shaped, with a indentation about the size of my bottom. Something tells me to sit down there. I'm learning to heed my intuition so I call to my sweetie.
"I'm gong to sit down here." I sit and take in the forest from the dirt.
"Are you ok?" he asks as he rounds the tree and looks down at me.
"I'm fine. I just feel called to sit here." He sits alongside and takes in the landscape with me.
I feel compelled to tell him why I'm sitting. "With all the time we've been spending in the woods lately I was walking along wondering if maybe the woodland spirits are getting used to me, and maybe getting bold enough to show themselves. And then I see something ahead that isn't there, and I can't help but wonder what I saw." He listens but says nothing.
"I understand my great grandmothers likely brought cake or made art out of twigs and lichen, or maybe sang like we've been doing. I'm not quite comfortable talking to them yet, but I can sit and take time to inhale in the beauty and exhale my gratitude and appreciation." So we both just sit there, looking for we don't know what, for signs I guess I really did see something that was trying to get my attention.
We sit there for several minutes just listening to the birds and appreciating. The flicker adds a "wick-a, wick-a."
"Part of exploring one's intuition is being okay just following it, without expectation of what one will get. I am ready to go if you are ready."
We help each other to standing and continue on the path, this time in the direction of home.
We walk on in silence, avoiding for as long as we can the paths that lead back to the neighborhood noise. The lesser path we choose is thick with squishy mud and we slog through, trying to avoid the deepest goo by walking along the edges. On the next path we choose a well-traveled option that heads down the hill. In the distance ascending so that we first see a pointed black hat, then a figure dressed in a black shawl and black dress with handkerchief hem flowing with each step, black tights and boots. We look at each other agape, trying not to let the figure see our faces. We all meet up at a criss-cross of two paths where we head in different directions, but not until I say good morning, hoping against hope she has a message for me. She says good morning and hastily and walks on.
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