Seattle Moonrise 1996 P. Crockett
Let me tell you again and you’ll really get it eventually you were there for me You took my hand you led me with love and grace through my challenges and they were many and your path will not be the same I will be there for you I have taken your hand already my love in fact I have never let go and we are going right where we need to!
Scott, April 1996 Channeled Writing
As I stood by the baggage carousel in the Seattle airport that Friday morning, waiting for my luggage to appear, Jeff snuck up and hugged me from behind. As I laughed and turned around, a smile lit his face. He looked good, happy and energetic. He’d let his blond hair grow out a bit, and was wearing shorts, birkenstocks and a tie-dyed tee shirt. “It’s so good to see you,” I said, pulling him toward me. It had been a long flight, and a longer journey, and it felt good to be with my friend again. In the next few minutes, as we waited for the wooden easel I had lugged along, we chatted easily.
He was anxious to go, pointing by way of explanation toward his illegally parked, wildly hand-painted truck just outside the door. “The sixties are not dead,” I said laughing, noting that his car was a riot of color and motion even when standing still. A few minutes later, all my gear finally collected and thrown in the back of his truck, we drove off for parts unknown. Jeff was in an exciting phase of his life, preparing to embark on the great adventure of a private counseling practice after obtaining his masters degree. As the blocks passed, he brought me up to date on his home life with his other half, Dean, and pointed out some highlights of the city he’d come to love.
“So what’s the plan?,” I asked casually. “There’s this really cool place I want to take you,” he replied, ” called Queen Anne Hill. We’re almost there.” So we’d parked the car in a shady green cul de sac and walked up a series of steep, mossy steps, dappled in sunlight, that appeared to be cut directly into the hill. At the top of the stairs, emerging from the verdant canopy below, we stepped out into the bright sunshine and onto a path meandering its way through a neatly manicured swath of emerald lawn overlooking the city. I stopped for a moment to take in a deep breath of fresh air, quickly drinking in the beauty of our surroundings. The sky above that afternoon was crystal blue. To the right, a row of grand old houses quietly stood guard. To the left, beyond a short stone wall lining the green, the city view fairly sparkled below in the distance.
We ambled along as we chatted, enjoying the company and the scenery, and finally sat down to talk on the wall, our feet dangling over the edge. Jeff had always had a hungry mind and a heart thirsty for experience, leading him in new directions. Now, in that serene setting, he began speaking of his explorations in a strange and wonderful realm, one completely new to me. He had taken a couple of workshops on the subject of shamanic healing techniques, and begun experimenting with “healing journeys” into the spiritual realm on behalf of friends. He spoke as if in a new language, of a spiritual underworld, realms of overlapping reality, spirit animals, guides, and other entities, and journeys made into this world of living dream for the purpose of healing.
Since earliest childhood, I had for some reason been fascinated by the rich diversity of Native American cultures, and passionately pursued any available information about these strange and wonderful people. As a child of three, I remember being deeply stirred by the illustrations in a library book brought home by my brother Jeff, Oliver La Farge’s The American Indian. I had immediately started drawing images like those in the book on whatever paper I could find, eventually compiling thick notebooks and triggering a lifelong relationship with art. From my readings I knew that “shamans,” frequently referred to by outsiders as “medicine men,” played an integral role in tribal societies.
In cultures marked by a deep and abiding connection to the forces of nature, and a healthy respect for the spirits manifested in the Earth, the heavens, and all living things seen and unseen, these individuals were honored and respected for their special powers and vision. Viewed as a living bridge to the realm of spirit, that mystical realm closer than one’s heart and the sole source of all real power, they were consulted for their wisdom, advice, and powers of healing. In many ways, they carried within them the essential identity of the tribe, or perhaps its aspirations, and had thus been singled out as primary targets in the cultural genocide that followed.
As I listened to Jeff speak, I found his words fascinating. Never before had the ancient tribal traditions of which I’d read been so vividly brought to life, or seemed in any way directly relevant to my experience. That afternoon, I listened with an open mind as he shared with me his explorations of this new realm. Was I not on a spiritual journey myself, and had not Scott and Rob guided me here, toward this man and this experience at this moment? Were we not meant to be here together for a reason? In the months since Scott’s death I had tasted magic time and again, powerful and sweet, and knew for sure only how little I knew.
Suddenly shifting his gaze from the city below to turn and look me in the eye, Jeff proceeded to make a statement that took my breath away. He had briefly described one of his healing journeys, explained his ritualistic preparations and begun to describe the the path on which his spirit guides had led him. He now cut directly to the heart of his message. “Paul,” he said quietly after a brief pause, “I ran into Scott there. I really didn’t expect that to happen.”
Though somewhat stunned, I just smiled. By that point, I couldn’t really be surprised.
To: Chapter 31
Stumble It!