Ever since I acknowledged and later surrendered to the frequency of Future Pull, I’ve recognized its tugs almost immediately. At times I am surprised by the initial simplicity of the call, until I begin to live into the complexities. Other times, I sense the complexity of the call, and later, I marvel about who I am becoming as I live into the invitation. Always the Future Pull call feels like a wild card, because it interrupts my well-planned life and insists that I live a larger life that I imagined possible.
On the surface, this story begins the day that I invited my daughter and her new husband to choose a stone for me to sculpt as their wedding present. They chose a fifteen-pound chunk of light blue alabaster and I was delighted, because it looked like the color of the sky and I had never sculpted sky. Rather than ship the stone to my home in Virginia Beach, I had it shipped to Santa Fe, because I planned to sculpt with my friend Jonna Karsen for a few days over my Christmas vacation.
I busied myself filing away residue on the outside of the stone for the first couple of days. Then Jonna and I played guessing games about what we thought the stone would like to become. Since I did not have a ‘Bingo!’ response to any of our fantasies, I decided to dream and wait.
Three days before Christmas I headed to Taos with the blue alabaster stone, safely wrapped in bubble wrap, inside my orange backpack in the trunk of my lipstick red rental car. I had a plan, which meant I had expectations. When I lived outside of Taos, New Mexico almost twenty-five years ago, my favorite place to hike and meditate was on top of El Salto Mountain at the fourth waterfall. I was a quarter of a century younger then, and a lover of adventure. Even then the waterfalls were off-limits, and the rectangular tin sign was punctured with bullet holes, warning “No Trespassing On Risk of Your Life.” The land belonged to the Native Americans who lived at Taos Pueblo, and when I lived on El Salto Mountain, I had been granted permission to visit the waterfalls, but that is another story for another time.
When I drove up the one-lane dirt road to the smaller road that led to the path, I felt excited and anxious. I planned to hike about three quarters of a mile to the fourth waterfall because I intuited that I might receive some guidance about my emerging sculpture there. Knowing that Future Pull conceals more information that it reveals initially, I was content to let the mystery unfold.
Memories of channeling the Shaman of the Mountain flooded my mind and heart as I pulled off the road. Then I remembered how the ground felt beneath my feet. I reminded myself to be patient, because my lungs were no longer accustomed to being 9,000 feet above sea level, and I had also gained weight in the 25 years that had passed.
Before I turned the engine off, two young Native American men approached my car. Instinctively, I knew they were guarding the entrance to the path. I smiled and waved my hand. Their steady expressions did not change.
I opened my window and the older man challenged, “What are you doing here?”
Before I had a chance to answer, the other man yelled, “This is private property, off limits to you. Can’t you read the sign?”
“Yes,” I said. “I was hoping to visit the fourth waterfall and do some sculpting there.”
“Not going to happen. See the sign. No trespassing on risk of your life, and that includes you.”
“But I know the way. I used to meditate and pray at the fourth waterfall a long time ago when I lived down the road.”
For an instant I considered telling them that I had consulted with the spiritual elders at the Pueblo before they were born. But then I thought that I might come off as bragging or pulling rank, and I decided to remain silent.
“No trespassing. That is our law.”
I took a breath and reminded myself that the two young men were doing their job. I was a stranger to them: an older, white woman with flyaway hair, and they were protecting their land. With a deep sigh, I surrendered my expectation of sitting on familiar, sacred ground, listening to the waterfall, and maybe receiving guidance as I sculpted on the blue alabaster stone. As I closed my window, they both turned their backs and walked away.
“Maybe I will try again tomorrow,” I muttered to myself as I drove down the mountain road. On the way down, I decided to drive to the Pueblo. I reminded myself in advance that many of the elders who I had known a quarter of a century ago had died. Then I wondered how I would feel about returning to the Pueblo. When I parked my car, I tried to center myself with my breath to gain clarity and sense of direction about where to go and what to do.
I was not prepared for how many names had changed on the adobe studios that were open to the public. I felt sad and nostalgic, and missed friends and the past that we had shared. On an impulse, I decided to give my heart a vote about where I would go. The Pueblo was deserted on this day before Christmas Eve. The wind blew, and I pulled out gloves and a hat. As I looked around, one dwelling stood out for me. As I opened the creaky, wooden door, I was surrounded by boldly painted canvases of women and landscapes. As I explored the kerosene-lit studio, my eyes spotted a three-foot high pink alabaster sculpture of a Native American woman weaving on a circular loom. The smooth stone was all curves and rounded edges and all things feminine.
“Is that exquisite sculpture yours?” I asked in awe.
“No, my uncle’s. He is not from here, but he moved here a few years ago,” she explained.
“His work is awesome,” I replied.
“Yes, he has a deep understanding of women,” she said, smiling softly as if responding to a secret.
I nodded and smiled, unsure of what to say.
Just then, the door opened and the woman artist said, “Uncle, what timing! You have an admirer here.”
He took a few long steps over to me and extended his large, warm hands.
He glanced from me to his sculpture and said, “She speaks to you, huh?”
“Yes, she is beautiful.”
“Are you an artist, too?”
“I sculpt, and alabaster is my favorite stone. In fact, I have a chunk of blue alabaster in my car,” I said with excitement.
“Impossible. Alabaster does not come in blue.”
“Yes, I was surprised, too, and it handles just like pink and white alabaster.
“You are mistaken. No such stone,” he said dismissively.
“Then I have a fifteen-pound chunk of nothing in my backpack in my car,” I said defiantly.
“Bring it here,” he demanded.
I walked to my car, shaking my head and continuing our conversation in my head. When I returned and unwrapped the blue stone from its protective bubble wrap, he gasped. I swallowed my ‘I told you so’ response.
He walked toward me and lifted the stone from my hands. I watched as he turned it over and over in his strong hands. Then he stepped outside and I watched him lift the stone up to the sun and caress the edges. He was silent.
When he re-entered the adobe studio, he locked eyes with me and said, “This stone is genuine. No imposter.”
I nodded in agreement. Then he brushed it with his hands over and over again.
“You have done a good job cleaning it up. Now what?” he asked with a mixture of challenge and curiosity.
“I am not sure of what the stone wants to become. I often see shapes and visions in my head, and I’ve looked for a teacher for two years to help me gain the skills and techniques to be able to translate what I see in my mind’s eye to the stone, but I have not found a teacher.”
“That’s good,” he said emphatically. “Great Spirit does not want you to find a teacher. Besides, a white-skinned artist will not help you to remember your heritage, and Great Spirit is praying through you to remember.”
I took a deep breath and let his words dance in my body.
He smiled for the first time. I wondered if he was tracking my energy and my thoughts.
“Did you bring tools?” he asked as if we were having an everyday, normal three-dimensional conversation.
“Yes, I have files, chisels and hammers in my car.”
“Get them,” he ordered.
I felt like I was five years old and standing on a precipice, like on top of El Salto Mountain where, legend has it, that two young Native women fell to their deaths fighting over a young man. Yet I also felt like I was in the midst of a destiny date and Future Pull was pulling me forward. Without knowing how or why, I knew that if I accepted this man’s invitation, I would no longer belong to myself in the same way. As an artist, I would be new. I left and walked to my car.
When I returned, he was still holding the blue rock. I unwrapped my tools, and he pulled a chair out from under his sculpting table and ordered me to sculpt while he watched. I was surprised, shy, and curious. Yet I did not resist or ask him why he wanted to watch me sculpt. Instinctively, I accepted that we were both in the presence of something bigger than either one of us and we each were playing our assigned parts.
I meditated a few minutes before I filed. Then I took a breath, and I concentrated on the blueness of the alabaster stone and filed deeper. Then I reached for the hammer and chisel and took off more pieces of stone. I was surprised how fast my hands moved and I forgot that he was watching.
Eventually he said, “Enough. I see now what is missing. You only half remember the whorls. When you let yourself remember your native way, you will remember whole whorls.”
I felt confused. I did not know if he said “worlds” or “whorls.” And I did not want to get lost in semantics. Then I started to cry. I felt like I had to apologize for my tears and I had no words to explain. Somewhere lost in my cosmic memory was whorls. I could almost imagine the aftertaste of whorls, yet the experience remained out of my conscious reach, and I felt frustrated and bereft.
Then Manuel stepped closer to me and whispered, “Put your hand on my hand and close your eyes and watch.”
I heard him pick up a file and tried to figure out how to watch with my eyes closed. Then he began to move his right hand in slow, small spirals. I sensed he had tipped the file so it was not flat. I reminded myself to breath and opened my heart and my cellular memory to the experience of remembering.
Manuel stopped, exchanged the large file for a smaller one, and resumed making whorls. My eyes remained closed, and all my senses felt like they were on high alert. Then he whispered, “Do not open your eyes until you remember. I will stay with you until you move beyond your white woman’s chatter in your head.”
I laughed for the first time since entering this adventure, because he was right. True to his word, he patiently created whorls in the blue stone.
Slowly, I began remembering. Actually the remembering began in my feet. I asked him to stop so I could make whorls with my legs. The dirt floor of his studio looked like crossing jet trails as I danced in whorls across the floor. He looked a bit surprised but did not say a word.
When I returned to his art table he said, “Ready. Again.”
I nodded. This time as I placed my hand on top of his and closed my eyes, I was aware that I was moving his hand. I was whorling and he supported me. Although I was curious what this looked like, I kept my eyes shut, not wanting to risk interrupting the flow of the moment.
We both sighed together, as if we were one unit. I opened my eyes. Our hands stopped moving. I turned toward him and placed my hands over my heart and bowed. He placed his hands over his heart and looked skyward. Then we both looked deeply at one another without a word.
Then he spoke. “Now you see why Great Spirit was happy that you did not find an artist to teach you technique. You had to remember your past in order to live into your future. Your chatty white woman’s mind thought you needed skills and all the time Great Spirit knew you needed to remember your past and how you made whorls in stone.”
Then he pointed to the round spiral ring made of seven different stones that I’ve worn on my left hand for about six months and laughed. “You wore whorls on the finger of marriage and still your white woman’s chatter got in your way of remembering your native ways. Welcome home.”
At that moment, the door to his studio opened and in walked the two young men who had blocked my way to the fourth waterfall earlier.
“Hi, Uncle,” they both said.
I did not know which reality I inhabited. I looked from the stone to Manuel and then to his nephews and I was speechless.
The older of the two young men pointed at me and asked, “What is she doing here?” and I realized that we all occupied the same reality, even if I did not know which one.
“It’s okay. No problem. She is one of us,” he said evenly.
“But she tried to trespass on our land and climb to the fourth waterfall a few hours ago and we pushed her off our land,” the young man announced passionately.
“She needed to remember her ancient way of honoring the earth,” Manuel said gently. “Look at the blue stone that she brought with her.” Then he pointed to the stone that looked very different than the one I had brought in. “Perhaps she thought that the land would remind her of her Native roots and ways.”
Without another word, he ordered them to take me back to the top of El Salto and accompany me to the fourth waterfall. “Sit with her and guard her while she sculpts. Carry her tools and stone. She will need her strength to sculpt.” Then he waved his arms and dismissed the three of us.
My mind was filled with thoughts during the twenty-minute ride to the top of El Salto Mountain. I wanted to be calm and empty of thoughts. I wanted to be prepared to feel reverence but my mind felt full. Manuel was right: my incessant white woman’s chatter had prevented me from being present.
I sensed the presence of ancestors as my feet touched the earth when I got out of my car. All I knew for sure was that I wanted to connect more deeply with their energies. The trail to the fourth waterfall was overgrown with shrubs and small trees but my feet remembered the way. I had to stop a few times to catch my breath, and I was thankful that I was not carrying the fifteen-pound chunk of stone and my tools.
Tears streamed down my face moments before I stepped into the cave that housed the waterfall. I remembered winters when the waterfall had frozen and how it reminded me of magic. I also remembered times when I had channeled the Shaman of the mountain by this waterfall and I felt the energies of gratitude and reverence.
The two young men sat at the entrance of the cave in silence. I unwrapped the blue stone, said a silent prayer, and waited. I was surprised that my hands felt hot, even though the temperature was about 40 degrees. I felt the welcoming earth under my bottom and my feet. I knew that I had returned to this place to reinforce remembering whorls or worlds because everything felt like one.
I sculpted until my fingers got cold. Time ceased to have meaning. Moments before I put my file down, I looked at the older young man and sensed that something had happened to him while I was filing. His eyes had a faraway look, and I wondered to myself if he had popped a peyote button while I sculpted.
Then he addressed me for the first time. “I heard a song while you worked. I have never heard this song before and it came to me like I was guiding a canoe down a river. This has never happened to me before. I am not a singer or a musician, and I know the song is for you. May I sing it for you now?”
“Yes, please, but would you sing it in your native language?”
“Do you know Tewa?” he questioned.
“No, but I respond to energy,” I said, “and then, if you would kindly sing it in English, I would be very happy.”
He nodded and sang the first few words in Tewa and I sensed the presence of Mother Mary beside me. When he finished, he said that it was a song about Mary, whom Native Americans considered the Mother of the Earth, and how the colors of her costume changed according to the seasons.
Then he surprised himself as he channeled, “She is with you. She sits beside you. She is with you when you sculpt and when you pray and when you heal.” Then he was silent and he shrugged his shoulders. His friend shook his hand. I walked over and shook his hand, too.
As we walked silently down the mountain, I sensed that his channeled song was another way of prompting me to remember my creative, Native roots. Mother Mary has been a companion to me three different times in this lifetime. Her Presence and message resounded with love, compassion and forgiveness. Although I was raised Protestant, my relationship with Mary felt like Mother Mary of the Catholic faith. To expand my relationship with Mary and connect with her as Earth Mother felt like a precious gift and I giggled as I imagined “whorls” and “worlds” were the same.
I knew from experience that I would no longer belong to myself in the same way if I surrendered to the call of Future Pull. Each time I stepped into the unknown future, more was revealed. Looking back, I could not have predicted the synchronicities that happened or how I would be invited to step into my Future Self.
I am eager to discover how my Native Self will collaborate with my white-skinned self and become One as I sculpt.
