Sixty, Sexy, Sacred

I sit under heaven at dawn. The sky is indigo blue. All that remains of a vast carpet of nocturnal dazzle is Venus and the waning crescent moon. Nighthawk's raspy call serrates the air amidst an avian opera of cactus wrens mockingbirds curve-billed thrashers Inca white-winged rock collared turtle doves. Oh, and the screechy peacocks down the street. I enjoy a fire before the wind kicks up - which will be around 10:00 if I'm lucky and it waits that long - when the sky will fill with dust and smoke and an Armageddon touch.

We create our own sublime.

I am only too aware of the fragile tether that binds me to this earth as the personal soul seeks convergence with the planetary soul. This is an excruciatingly intense time. The prophecies of 2012 speak of a grand energetic transition under a cosmic conjunction of planetary line-ups and Milky Way events. I prefer to think of it as soul integration. With evolutionary transitions come chaos. A culling is underway. The past few months have exploded in revolutionary fervor on behalf of human freedom; we have witnessed mass destruction and weather events that the darkest of imaginations could not have dreamed up. Tsunamis, earthquakes, nuclear meltdowns, super tornadoes, floods, blizzards. The earth shakes and quakes. Yet, the hare saunters down the stony railroad bed. The roadrunner comes to the bowl of water I have placed for the birds; part of the little outdoor sanctuary I have created in my tiny corner of the world.

It is important that we clear our lives of dead zones. Rid our lives of those things (and people) of low vibration. Pare away stale energy and build a core of fresh. I start with my body, because it's the one thing that I have control over. Taking care of her prepares me for the spiritual tasks at hand; and so I give priority to healthy foods that maximize the body's energy, exercise, laughter, a sexual sacred existence. A bond with the planet that embodies life and death in the same breath.

For the goal is not personal longevity, is it? The goal is to live a good death. I have only to glance the morning sky to get it. The sliver moon disappears ever so slowly, peacefully giving way to sun's grand entry. It is the art of holy surrender. Like Venus, I slowly, eventually dissolve into nothingness. I will die and become invisible to the earth-bound eye. Until then, I will ignite the flame within and work like there's no tomorrow on behalf of this planet and the beings who call her home.

________________________

My latest offering:

Sixty, Sexy, Sacred

Flourishing forties, feisty fifties? You don’t have to be sixty to be a part of this extraordinary day for women. All you have to be is curious, willing to identify the dead zones in your life & explore the realms of your personal spiritual vibrator. Join me for a day of physical and spiritual fitness and teachings as we integrate body and spirit to access a vigor-inspired power of oneness. We will raise vibrational levels through the drum and crystal tuning; talk diet wisdom. We will speak of the soul, intent on her karmic completion before she departs our physical body.

We stand at the spiritual confluence of personal soul and the soul of the planet. It is time to unearth the s/healer within. This, our special time together, to practice the art of obedience, from the Latin word oboedire, meaning ‘to listen, to hear’ and by implication, acting on what is heard.

Bisbee, Arizona, May 14th

Peace be with you,

Christina

Vermilion Flycatcher

The desert has swallowed me whole. I am in the belly of blooms and birds, awash in chirps and the calls of spring. A few days ago I ventured to the San Pedro River riparian area, a vital western migratory route, and happened into a flycatcher exodus. Hammond's, Duskies and Grays dripped from large-canopied cottonwood trees and riverside willows. A newly-arrived Gray Hawk split the air with calls of mate near his established nest. A family of five javelina haughtily trotted across the tawny grass plain to a near-by watering hole.

Grasslands to Bosque

Migration hasn't been confined to the winged ones. I hadn't realized how many of the people I'd met last winter in Kino Bay, Mexico, lived in Southern Arizona; probably because I met them in snatches. It turns out Marcela lives outside of Nogales. She works on a 30,000 acre ranch with an adobe hacienda that is chock full of stunning 18th and 19th century antiques from around the world; George and Wendy are tucked away by their pool and gorgeous screen house near Hereford; Ken and Russ enjoy killer mountain views north of Douglas. We meet and greet again north of the border; play and share. New Kino-friend Dan even detoured from Yuma to spend four days on the Chihuahua desert before continuing home to Creston, BC. We spent one day washing the Bahia salt water off LaPerla; cleaning her to make way, it turned out, for desert dust. Hey, wash my rig and I'll follow you anywhere! A summer excursion to British Columbia  is in the cards to visit Dan and friends Carole and Chris, up the road in Kaslo. I'm putting the finishing touches on my 'low gas price' boogie.

A third migration is the Mexican one. I have parked in Naco with Em and Paul for seven years, two blocks from the infamous border wall. This year I notice fewer helicopters in the air and more horses and Border Patrol feet on the ground. Teak frequently barks in the night, alerting me to wall climbers who have dropped to the dirt and made it two blocks deeper into the US. I hear the short burst of sirens 24/7, about once an hour, signaling someone has been spotted. Meanwhile, the 4-gallon water jug outside of  La Perla needs a regular refill. The biggest change on the border, however, is travel into Mexico. The Mexican side is fervently checking vehicles for guns, resulting in huge delays. Em and I walk across to get our fresh tortillas and groceries. Easier, faster and no hassle from either border side. We've crossed this border on foot since the first time we met, over thirty years ago. We've gone in search of creamy Mexican ice cream, fresh fruit bars, pure vanilla, or more recently, to get a bug pulled out of Em's ear (2 Dr. visits: $26!).  I will make an appointment with a Mexican dentist before I depart next month and save a few hundred dollars.

San Pedro Riparian Area

This part of the world tantalizes and teases the senses. Cool, crystal crisp mornings give way to piercingly hot afternoons. Ocotillos cover dry, craggy mountainsides, their neon orange flowers exploding from the tips of dead-like, spindly arched sticks. Sonoita grasslands beckon visions of bison while the Huachuca mountain canyons shelter myriad songbirds, hummers and the rare ocelot. Perhaps the most poignant metaphor, however, is the diminutive, wildlife-rich San Pedro. It flows north from the Sierra Madre in Mexico, a mind-bending route that eventually joins the Gila River near Wickenburg and meets up with the Colorado near Yuma.

The smell of smoke fills the air today; a dry hot wind whips the contours of the earth. It is wise to be on edge. I re-work drafts of a workshop I plan to offer in Historic Bisbee and make mental notes for a freelance essay for "High Country News." I will hold off on my migratory schedule until Mercury passes out of retrograde on Saturday and the cosmic Mercury-murkiness clears. It's still snowing sporadically in Colorado and points north. I'll stay put and hang with the birds, who hang where there's water and the green buds of new life. I'll follow their lead of rest and replenish before continuing north. I'll make it a point to follow the signs -- 

I  wasn't quite done with Kino. Or perhaps Kino wasn't quite done with me.

I stayed one more day. Yes. After a fire, whereupon I'd invited my many new friends to say goodbye and treated them to a reading of the introduction to my new book; I awoke the next morn, rolled over and looked at the mystery I'd been reading. I wasn't leaving. I had to finish it in Kino; end of the discussion with the voice in my head.

I light-footed it down the beach, happy for my reprieve. First stop, the nest of osprey I'd viewed every day.  Two little heads popped up in the midst of the parent's daily tending. I had hoped they would fledge while I was there, under my excited eye. That didn't happen, but at least I was granted one more look as both parents watched and I sent them my goodbye across the ethers. I made my way another mile to the row of palapas where I had done morning stretches for three months. My eyes strayed to a row of condos on the beach, home of my buddy, Mike, who made it a habit to sit on his deck, ply me with ice water, fresh fruit and the occasional granola bar. We'd spent many hours staring out to sea as we shared our laments for the state of the world. We often jumped into his car for a birding beach romp and a chance for him to drop his line and hook a fish.

This morning I met him and his fluffy old dog on the beach. He was surprised to see me since I was supposed to be tooling up the road towards Nogales.  "I'm staying," I declared, "I've decided to look for a house in Kino." His jaw dropped. "April Fools!" It was March 31st, but I wasn't going to be there to catch him the next day. We went out to dinner that night with friends; a questionable (in my mind -  I had my heart set on the potato place next door) little dirt-floored place. We were sitting chewing away on overdone carne asada (that's redundant) when he grabbed my hand from across the table and whispered, "I can't breathe!" I kept hold of that hand and sprang to my feet as my CPR class flashed across my brain. Heimlich, yes. But before that, the hard palm slap between the shoulder blades. "Here it comes," I said, hoping I wouldn't topple him into the bushes. He bent over, threw up, coughed and stood up. Windpipe was cleared. It happened so fast. We were back at the table and the color returned to his face as I wrapped the rest of my shoe leather in a napkin for Teak. We shared a shot of Damiana back at La Perla, a hug and a kiss. "Keep smiling, Christina," he said, "something tells me I'll see you again." Right. I figure the man who called me a hopeless romantic owes me big time.

I awoke to the deep thump, thump of pangas on the waves. All breakables stowed and ready to depart, Teak and I walked to the old stone pier where I had tenderly watched countless, gentle lovers embrace at sunset. It was my turn to walk the wet rock. I made my way to the end as high tide surged and splashed; jostled shells enveloped me in jingles akin to an Australian water stick. The new sun glanced the water and all of a sudden  jumping sardines glimmered like so many silver fairy wands. Pelicans dove head first a few feet away as gulls and terns cried joy at the prospect of their breakfast.

I turned away from the sea with ecstatic sadness. I wondered how my body would do without the pulse of the tide through my bloodstream. Goodbye willets, herons and those eye-bending roseate spoonbills. Hello yellow-lined asphalt, toll booths and military checkpoints with shy smiling teenage soldiers toting machine guns.

Silly me...I thought I could finish the mystery in Kino.