We chose the equinox for our outing. A seasonal energetic window, followed six hours later by the full moon, a harvest orb so strong that prognosticators predicted it's power would infect daily routine for another two weeks.
I drove. It was 40 miles up. And up. A narrow, ledge-hanging 4-wheel drive road. Carole had only been to Meadow Mountain once; we took our time, choosing forks in the road with care. "We're almost there," became her the mantra of the morn. I suggested it was more like the mantra for my life right now. You're almost there, Christina. You're almost there. But of course I'm not. I still have a long ways to go. We climbed to breathtaking views of lakes below; then into streams of clouds. We finally broke through to a glorious 360-degree view of mountain peaks reminiscent of the Alps. And the season's first snow.
We followed the two-track; made our way towards two groves of glowing larch that burned like golden torches amidst small lakes and clumps of tight and twisted pine. We parked by a lake, next to a lone picnic table covered with a layer of snow. The sun was hot. The table dried fast. We spread our fresh pears (picked from the tree earlier in the week), brie, crackers and crab I'd thawed from Alaska-days. The sweet, light Moscado wine was perfect.
Bliss. We hiked to the soft-needled larch and said hello; made our way across rock and grass-covered expanses to small saddles and views of deep chasms. Then we returned to the table, faced the warm sun and drummed.
It had been many years. Carole and I had drummed regularly for workshops we used to facilitate in Boulder, CO. Our women's group of days past could have easily been called a drumming group. And here we were, at the top of the world, setting a drumbeat to match the heartbeat of the universe. One of us held steady while the other riffed; and vice versa. Intensity and speed rose and fell. Ultimately we fell back into a shared beat; softened and stopped as if someone lifted our leather-covered beaters simultaneously. We set aside the drums; hugged tightly. There could not have been a better metaphor for friendship. For this woman I call "Sister."
The equinox is an edgy window between light and darkness. One would think on this day of equal day and night that balance would rein, but it ain't necessarily so. One must take effort to ground and yet ride the energetic channels that zip about. Especially with the moon at it's most powerful, a few hours before full. Thus it was that the Tarot cards were spread upon the table.
Tarot is Carole's forte'. I've never owned a deck but love the shuffle and spread as she interprets the details. Like drumming, we've been doing this for many years. I'm always a little nervous. And just as surprised that they catch my soul's drift with uncanny perfection. There was no need to fret. Ya, a mental block wall showed up that must be walked around (not climbed) in what I envision as a Tai Chi-like move; and big karmic knots with family that must be cut loose. But ultimately, keep with the wild that nurtures me and the universe will provide.
And fun. Follow fun, the cards advised. Last December Carole advised me to follow the light as I stood on the precipice of divorce. A few months later I found myself in Alaska where the sun never seemed to set. Fun, eh? Just what might THAT look like?