Part 1
Our seeker began in the desert village where she had grown up. It was a dry and barren land where people drank whiskey while dancing in the light of campfires to the music of stringed instruments and goatskin drums. Smoke could often be seen rising up along with a word or two of spoken wisdom.
She heard a legend of a utopian place hidden far inland. This place was often talked about among her older friends, and exists in the cloud covered climax of an unknown mountain. There, legend tells, a waterfall pours into a pristine lake guarded by two trees and is surrounded by a grassy field.
“The map is written on the body,” her friend alluded as she gave the map which had passed this way by friend to friend as long as anyone could remember.
She brought a book for reading and the map to be her guide. It would be too hot to start in the middle of the day. She began at dusk. Just as she came to the fence, the meeting place, she looked out across the desert in the direction her map would take her. Past the prickly pairs and the saguaro cacti, she saw a starling image on the horizon. A black stallion. Its galloping silhouette dark against the expanse of the setting sun.
In front of her, there at the fence, stood a young donkey tied with a rope. She introduced herself by showing her hands. Its nose was soft. It was alert to her every move, but seemed trusting. From her hyper-religious background, she remembered a biblical moment when He came into Jerusalem on a young donkey and all the people shouted “Hosanna.” What a different story she had to tell.
She secured her burden on it’s back. They began their journey.
They moved through the desert under the stars for a long time that first night. She eventually found a place to sleep. She had always day-dreamed of riding a horse through the open desert, wind in her hair, barebacked, and galloping at full speed. She thought it would feel like flying. That night, she dreamt fitfully.
The first day, the map brought her to the long flowing grasses of the nearest plains. The grass moved in the wind looking like waves in the ocean.
Eventually, she came to the place of two crystal clear ponds, side by side. They reflected a dark gray sky above surrounded by brighter, white clouds. She rested there for a while. She prayed. It was as if she could dive into the very soul of humanity as she gazed into these strange ponds. They mirrored back a certain truth from her downcast eyes. She felt strangely alive in them.
They continued on their journey over a small hill where the wind blew like the breath of God and smelled of recent rain and creosote bush.
The ground lifted and gave way into a canyon surrounded by rocky terrain. The white rocks bleached from the sun were piled almost on top of each other. There was a reddish brown swamp at the bottom of the canyon. It was hard to see how deep it went. The wind seemed to sing or whistle as it rushed through the depths of the hollows.
On they journeyed, down a long, narrow ravine and the vastness of the landscape began to change and shift.
In the distance, two sloping mountains, smooth and round, rose up. From the peak, she could see a herd of horses galloping through the grassy flatlands. She searched them hopefully as the herd flowed and danced together in a seemingly choreographed chase.
The smooth stretch of land ahead had been grazed over, perhaps by the horses, or sheep that had also come this way. She and the donkey travelled along. During the day she used her map and looked for landmarks. They walked through the night with the stars to guide them. She often found herself scanning the horizon for another glimpse of that compelling creature, ready at a moment’s notice to throw the map aside and run with the mares.
Eventually, she came to a small signpost in the middle of the flat plains. It was a human touch in the untouched wilderness. The post looked like a cross stuck into the ground, but there was a flat wooden circle nailed to the top of the criss-crossed wood. It made her think of the circle of life, or the cycles of life, or the cyclical nature of time. She realized this was the trailhead marker. She could see it on her map, and here it was in person. When she came close to it, she wiped away the dust on the circular sign and realized it was covered with aluminum. She could see her reflection, and in that reflection, she could see her mother, her grandmother, and on and on into the ancient past of all the mothers who lived in her, before her, and of all the generations yet to come through her.
She heard a legend of a utopian place hidden far inland. This place was often talked about among her older friends, and exists in the cloud covered climax of an unknown mountain. There, legend tells, a waterfall pours into a pristine lake guarded by two trees and is surrounded by a grassy field.
“The map is written on the body,” her friend alluded as she gave the map which had passed this way by friend to friend as long as anyone could remember.
She brought a book for reading and the map to be her guide. It would be too hot to start in the middle of the day. She began at dusk. Just as she came to the fence, the meeting place, she looked out across the desert in the direction her map would take her. Past the prickly pairs and the saguaro cacti, she saw a starling image on the horizon. A black stallion. Its galloping silhouette dark against the expanse of the setting sun.
In front of her, there at the fence, stood a young donkey tied with a rope. She introduced herself by showing her hands. Its nose was soft. It was alert to her every move, but seemed trusting. From her hyper-religious background, she remembered a biblical moment when He came into Jerusalem on a young donkey and all the people shouted “Hosanna.” What a different story she had to tell.
She secured her burden on it’s back. They began their journey.
They moved through the desert under the stars for a long time that first night. She eventually found a place to sleep. She had always day-dreamed of riding a horse through the open desert, wind in her hair, barebacked, and galloping at full speed. She thought it would feel like flying. That night, she dreamt fitfully.
The first day, the map brought her to the long flowing grasses of the nearest plains. The grass moved in the wind looking like waves in the ocean.
Eventually, she came to the place of two crystal clear ponds, side by side. They reflected a dark gray sky above surrounded by brighter, white clouds. She rested there for a while. She prayed. It was as if she could dive into the very soul of humanity as she gazed into these strange ponds. They mirrored back a certain truth from her downcast eyes. She felt strangely alive in them.
They continued on their journey over a small hill where the wind blew like the breath of God and smelled of recent rain and creosote bush.
The ground lifted and gave way into a canyon surrounded by rocky terrain. The white rocks bleached from the sun were piled almost on top of each other. There was a reddish brown swamp at the bottom of the canyon. It was hard to see how deep it went. The wind seemed to sing or whistle as it rushed through the depths of the hollows.
On they journeyed, down a long, narrow ravine and the vastness of the landscape began to change and shift.
In the distance, two sloping mountains, smooth and round, rose up. From the peak, she could see a herd of horses galloping through the grassy flatlands. She searched them hopefully as the herd flowed and danced together in a seemingly choreographed chase.
The smooth stretch of land ahead had been grazed over, perhaps by the horses, or sheep that had also come this way. She and the donkey travelled along. During the day she used her map and looked for landmarks. They walked through the night with the stars to guide them. She often found herself scanning the horizon for another glimpse of that compelling creature, ready at a moment’s notice to throw the map aside and run with the mares.
Eventually, she came to a small signpost in the middle of the flat plains. It was a human touch in the untouched wilderness. The post looked like a cross stuck into the ground, but there was a flat wooden circle nailed to the top of the criss-crossed wood. It made her think of the circle of life, or the cycles of life, or the cyclical nature of time. She realized this was the trailhead marker. She could see it on her map, and here it was in person. When she came close to it, she wiped away the dust on the circular sign and realized it was covered with aluminum. She could see her reflection, and in that reflection, she could see her mother, her grandmother, and on and on into the ancient past of all the mothers who lived in her, before her, and of all the generations yet to come through her.
Just beyond the sign, in the low grasses, she could make out the trail—and it was a straight and narrow path.
She followed the trail in the darkest part of the night, which is just before dawn. She came up over a slope and looking down she could see two tall trees as looming shadows in the distance. The trail disappeared between them.
Part 2
Just before she entered the woods, she glanced back along the horizon. Bright orange and red hues were growing increasingly vibrant in the night sky. With great surprise, she saw the stallion again galloping in the distance. Other horses, mares perhaps, could be made out chasing him as he flew past. She thought she saw a glint of light reflected near his forehead before he disappeared again. In her mind’s eye, she could still see the stallion’s graceful movements.
The ball of a fiery sun came up slowly like a chariot with red and orange splashes of color racing out in front of it. The purple, gray and midnight blues of the dome above her were being transformed into morning. She looked at the map to orient herself. The map, like the donkey, was reliable and steady. Her heart beat wild and reckless, like the stomping thunder of racing horses.
The donkey continued confidently on its feet marching through the morning dew. Surefooted. Humble. Trustworthy. It carried all that was ever needed--the tent, a sleeping bag, and clothes for modesty and warmth. It also carried water, bread and fruit, bittersweet chocolate, lilac wine and stringed instruments to make a mournful song when she felt lonely or sad. She decided not to look back. Carrying her burden, the donkey moved with her into the woods and she used her hand to guide it along the trail. She glanced at the length of the wood as she passed by the two cedars standing tall like two long legs of a sentinel.
The sun continued to rise, but she could not see what was ahead through the thickness of the trees. Her heart began to beat faster as she moved through the thicket. The trail seemed to be rising up, growing steeper as she climbed. She climbed. And climbed. Suddenly, the thick trees and overgrown bushes gave way to a vast open area. The sun shone brightly and the birds were singing like a chorus of angels.
The colors were vibrant. Birds of Paradise and other enormous flowers surrounded the lake. Within the flowers, she could see the yellow pollen dusting the tips of the stamens which gracefully arched down into the center of the flower where all parts connected together as one. And from the center of the flowers, she could see the stems and the stigma surrounded by colorful petals and all of it reaching toward the sky. Water poured out of a crevice in the rock high above, crashing down in a crescendo as she moved in closer. The waterfall poured into the lake creating foamy white bubbles in the deep and still waters. Ripples formed along the water’s surface spreading out in concentric circles. She waded in. There was a remarkable peacefulness in this place. Hope. Completeness. Love.
The donkey’s eyes were round dark pools, and surrounded by thick lashes. It’s nose was soft and reassuring. She took her burden off it’s back. She laid the items on the grass next to the gentle waters.
“We’ll stay,” she said decisively.
Then, and she thought it was only in her imagination, beyond the soothing sounds of the falling water, the chirping crickets and songbirds, beyond the wind moving through the trees, she thought she heard a faint and distant neigh of the stallion. For some reason, in this mystical place, she felt convinced she had seen a unicorn. She shook her head. Unicorns are mythical creatures. But, remarkably, the map proved true and this place was real.
Overcome with gratitude, she put the map in her book for safe keeping. When she returned at last, she would discover it’s metaphor. She kept it hidden within the pages, with the hope that one day a friend might learn of this utopian place. They’d need a map to get there.
