My Welcoming Gift, Excerpt from Chapter 4 of Turquoise Interlude 1968

… He cajoled me with local restaurants and scenic drives, even flying me over Taos in his tiny plane. Green and brown surrounded miniature mud houses, the scene a painting out the clouded oval window, from high in the air. We swooped down low over the Valdez valley and rose up again as we turned away from the high mountains. The Rio Grande river wound like a thread of green through red and yellow. Lines of black pavement cut through fields and trees. I was entranced.

The festival of San Geronimo took place at the Taos Pueblo, one of the oldest original reservations –thick yellow adobe, scrawny dogs with tongues waving in the still heat, blue doors and wooden ladders. A pair of handmade Zuni earrings dangling silver and turquoise called to me from a booth. Typical narrow oval pieces of desert blue, were unique in the tiers, set in silver, turquoise strands dripping daintily from halfmoons.  As I placed them on my ears, I felt a magical power of New Mexico fuse into me. My first southwestern jewelry purchase became my welcoming gift from this land of enchantment. I felt I belonged. My mouth widened to a smile and my eyes, shining, became a little more green in the turquoise reflections.

Later, chatting through cigarette smoke, alcohol and laughter at the dark and narrow La Cantina bar on one side the Taos Plaza square, I met newcomers and seasoned residents in this gathering place for Bohemians, artists and the young hippies just starting to discover Taos. My new earrings reflected the desert sky almost to my shoulders, my fingers reaching up to caress them as I looked into the eyes of strangers soon to become friends.  …

©2020

Without Agenda, Excerpt from Chapter 2 – Turquoise Interlude 1968

… Following my heart without agenda, after saying goodbye to Yvonne, I climbed into Bob’s colorful bus and we headed north along the Rio Grande. “I asked the creator last night to bring me my soulmate,” he told me again later that day, as we drove past Arroyo Seco, a tiny town above Taos. That was when Taos only had one stoplight. Arroyo Seco, of course, didn’t have any and most of its roads were unpaved.

At 7,500 feet in the lower mountains, near the end of the bumpy dirt road, we arrived at a sunny meadow filled with sunflowers and corn, where Bob had pitched his tipi.  His buffalo rug still covered the floor. His two homemade wooden bowls were simple and organized. His fire pit was small. He lived in the now.

We slept on the buffalo hide rug, cooked over a fire, and washed his two bowls in the shallow stream, which ran through the meadow.

The days were filled with outdoor adventure. I remember hiking through a high desert sagebrush-filled plain and then descending a tiny, winding trail through more pungent sagebrush, and climbing down large rocks to an abandoned hot-springs on the Rio Grande River. In the crumbling ruins of a former healing retreat, on the sand by the water, naked in the sun, Bob and I tanned deer hides, smoothing and preparing them with rocks and softening them with cow brains until they became smooth and pliable in the heat. We washed ourselves in the springs and made love on the steaming stones. Later we hauled the tanned hides back up to the rocks and across the sagebrush to the blue bus.

Bob’s long hair and beard softened his face. Brown red hair shone in the sun, hanging down as he worked on his engine, contented and methodical, as if he had all the time he wanted, as if his way of life followed this path of the present.

At a friend’s meadowland in the foothills above the tipi, I took acid and wandered around the low mountains without my clothes, admiring tall shady pot plants, feeling the grasses and the close, clean sun on my skin, breathing the thin air. The bordering piñon forest was soothing and inviting, the ground soft and giving.

Bob and I walked with friends up the mountains above Arroyo Seco in Indian land to a secret waterfall and we picked wild mushrooms in the dawn, in this land of enchantment, the motto written in red on the yellow car license plates.

Through Bob, I met the current young locals, many of whom lived in abandoned adobe houses whose owners wanted them occupied. It was cheap and easy to live in Arroyo Seco and Taos in 1968.

I stayed there, enjoying life without electricity or running water, seduced by the New Mexico slowness of life, for two weeks instead of one. The high desert enfolded me, opening me to the new possibilities.  …

©2020

New Mexico Opens to Me, Excerpt from Chapter 2 – Turquoise Interlude 1968

Through the dirty bus window, lush green eventually turned to sand with cactus standing guard. We bumped along, passing rounded buildings and Indian Pueblos, until the bus finally stopped in a little town of adobe houses and quiet streets. As the doors rumbled open, exhaust fumes and heat greeted me. Grabbing my bag, I stepped out of the station, and after stretching my legs, started walking, following the directions handwritten in neat black ink on a crumpled piece of paper.

Yvonne’s house was in a complex of adobe apartments, with blue painted door trims, its landscape dirt and sagebrush, separated from the unpaved road by an adobe wall with a peeling green door. The high desert air was dry and still. Yvonne greeted me with a smile and a hug, the Zuni turquoise bracelet on her wrist matched the morning sky, its silver reflecting the clear, hot sun. The last time we had seen each other was when we had taken acid and camped at Pyramid Lake, Nevada, where I had walked inside of Bob’s tipi. Yvonne’s green eyes were calm and knowing. I wanted to learn what she knew. I felt grateful to sleep on the cold tile of her living room floor. The piñon tree scented air with the clearing smell of sage entered my body through my breath. A smile spread throughout me. An air of excitement streamed through my being. …

 ©2020

A Dream Enters –1968     Excerpt from Chapter I – Turquoise Interlude

Slithering through the smooth walls of the ancient, ceremonial lava caves, I emerged from the dark to dazzling light sparkling beyond the dirt-sand leading to the waters of Pyramid Lake. A tipi now stood on the shore, where none had been when we swallowed our Owsley acid and entered the caves. Near a vibrantly decorated blue VW van, a woman wearing a flowery summer dress stood next to a lean man whose red beard and hair gave him a sage-like look. “Would you like to see the inside?” he asked seeing my wide eyes and longing smile.

Still high on LSD, my senses pulsating and open, I stepped through the oval door into Bob Lane’s tipi and fell in love with the most magical living space I had ever seen. The light of the day filtered past the canvas walls, which slanted inward as they rose, supported by skinned poles tied with a smooth rope. The smoke hole, where the poles joined at the top, let in air and more light, and also released smoke from the central firepit. Long knotty poles attached to the upper flaps, controlled the airflow. The scene, cozy and exquisite, imprinted itself in my memory.

The tipi’s canvas floor was covered with a red and blue oriental rug placed next to a soft furry buffalo skin, laid around the firepit. To my bare feet on the velvety carpet, the earth beneath me felt close. Strong, electrifying golden energy flowed up through my soles and filled my body, expanding light through my head. Patchouli oil and incense wafted heavily in the air, caressing my senses.

It seemed familiar, ethereal and right.

A dream had entered my being. …

©2020

Reflections at 75

Who am I now at 75, my long white hair with still hints of brown, my body still dancing, my fingers typing. My heart finds compassion connecting to the ones who seek help in my psychotherapy office, and in the yurt where we gather for the shamanic journey circles I lead, and to the students I dance with, teaching them Flamenco and what I learned on that path. Wisdom grows.

I am blessed to still have a passion and work to do before I die, before I pass from this mortal life and this body I still love. The passion becomes an urgency as I know mortality in new ways, the gift of elder-hood, the pain of losing a father. 

My tangible legacy will be the books I write –may they guide those who seek, and entertain the curious. 

 

©2020