Chaco Canyon New Mexico to Canyon de Chelly Arizona

Holy Week 2003 . . .

April 20, 2003

When I began my Journey way back in the summer of last year, I wondered where I might be for significant dates in the upcoming year. One of the dates I was curious about was my 50th birthday. When I consulted a 2003 calendar, I was rather surprised to learn that my birthday would fall on Good Friday, of all days. It seemed auspicious to me, and for some time I have wondered why a milestone birthday like my 50th would land on a such a significant day in the Christian calendar. To tell you the truth, I would have been elated if it fell on Easter–how could I not be excited about turning 50 and celebrating resurrection! Peggy, my journalist friend in Carefree, Arizona, pointed out the bald truth of the matter. “Without Good Friday, there can’t be an Easter Sunday, can there?” Thank you Peggy.

Those who have been following these travelogues, especially the ones detailing my profound sense of loss in the late fall, will know that a major theme of my Journey has to do with death of the old and rebirth of the new. As I entered Holy Week and the countdown to my 50th birthday, I decided to take the symbolism to heart. First, I planned to visit two very sacred and spiritual sites–Chaco Canyon and Canyon de Chelly. Second, I decided to undertake a week-long fast beginning at sundown on Saturday April 12, and ending after the Easter Vigil service on Saturday April 19. Not only would I fast, I was going to do a “cleansing fast” in order to clear my body of built up toxins and other deadly things that it might be storing.

I have fasted on many occasions in the past, ranging from 3 days to 10. For me, fasting is a very powerful spiritual discipline. It’s not one that I enjoy, but I have found the experience profoundly powerful on many levels. First, it’s a very interesting way to learn just how focused our culture is on food. Fasting brings with it a heightened awareness of food–billboards dripping with greasy Big Macs, the smell of KFC as we drive down the street, grocery stores, convenience stores, vending machines, TV, radio–at just about every turn, food is in our face. When I fast, I have a sense of solidarity with those who are hungry–many who are genuinely starving, and others who just can’t afford a meal. Fasting also gives my digestive system a break from the constant barrage of food, both healthy and not-so-healthy. During a fast, I do take certain fluids (juice I make from lemons, limes, and/or grapefruit, sweetened with pure maple syrup, herbal teas, and water). Fasting is a common practice as part of vision questing in Native American spirituality, but from what I have learned, their fast is more strict, not even allowing water in most cases. For me, the practice of fasting also involves a large measure of disicpline–I have to say no even when tempted by pangs of hunger. In some ways, it reminds me of the tenacious “no” of the two-year old. How important it is to our sense of identity to be able to say “no”! And finally, it is clear from Scripture that Jesus engaged in fasting from time to time.

The cleansing fast is intended to clear the body of built up toxins, and from my experience, I’d say it works. There are many different ways to cleanse the body, and I am most familiar with the salt-water wash. This involves mixing 2 teaspoons of sea salt in 1 quart of water and drinking it. On a good day, it takes me about 10 minutes (and a lot of snarly looks) to drink it. After that, I spend the next 2 hours near the washroom! During the 7 day fast, I decided to do two salt water washes–one at the beginning and one at the end. For this particular fast, I also decided to do a liver cleanse on day 3. This was a new experience for me, but one I had been curious about for some time. Two solutions are required–300 ml of extra virgin olive oil, and 300 ml of grapefruit juice mixed with 200 ml of water, 2 cloves of crushed garlic, and ½ teaspoon of cayenne. Some people refer to this as the salad dressing cleanser. The procedure involves alternating 3 tablespoons of each solution every 15 minutes. It takes about 5 hours (and a lot of snarly expressions) to complete the process. For some reason I will never know, I began at about 10 p.m. and completed the process at 3 a.m.! Then all hell broke loose!

From my past experience with fasting, day 3 is always the most difficult. As a result of my decision to do the liver cleanse on day 3, I experienced the powerful conjuction of two particularly nasty hells. In the past, I have felt as though I had been hit by a Mack truck on Day 3 of a fast. This time, I felt like a Boeing 747 had crash landed on me! Many of you are probably shaking your heads thinking I’ve completely lost it. Others, who have perhaps tried such a grueling process, may be nodding in sympathy. That I am writing this travelogue attests to the fact that I did indeed survive. I hope my liver is overjoyed. Actually, just before I began the cleanse, I was in a Love’s Truck Stop, and I saw a bumper sticker that said: “The liver is evil. It must be punished by drinking beer.” I chuckled. This much I do know–the liver is a very hard-working organ, and it routinely deals with the toxins we absorb in our bodies. I figured that my liver had worked overtime for me, and if this cleanse would help it regain its health and dignity, then so be it.

As I began the fast, I found myself in Chaco Canyon. A thousand years ago, this place was the centre of what is known now as the Anasazi culture. The Pueblo, Navajo, and Hopi claim descendancy from this ancient culture. As I learned more about Chaco, it became clear to me that it was a powerful spiritual centre in its time. The site consists of a number of pueblo-style ruins scattered throughout some of the most desolate land imaginable. I was fascinated to learn about a study called the “Solstice Project.” Several years ago, Anna Sofaer,an archaeo-astronomer, discovered that a particular pictograph on Fajada Butte had an interesting connection with the sun during the summer solstice–at noon, the spiral pictograph was pierced by a sun dagger. Her explorations over the next twenty or so years led to the discovery that all of the buildings and many of the pictographs in Chaco have a connection with the movement of the sun and the moon. In spite of the numerous rooms among the ruins, which would have been capable of accommodating thousands of people, there is little evidence of human habitation in Chaco. It is believed that people would have migrated here to partake in special spiritual activities related to the high points in the solar/lunar calendar–summer and winter solstices, vernal and autumnal equinoxes. This theory is supported by the vast number of kivas–underground ceremonial chambers–that are part of the site. As I wandered about the place, I began to get a feeling for the grander scheme surrounding me. Above is Father Sky, and below is Mother Earth. Where the two meet, is the place where humankind was created (literally emerging from the earth according to legends held sacred by descendants from the Anasazi culture). The kiva is underground, and I imagined that those who would have been involved in the ceremonies in these dark places within the earth, might have felt reborn or recreated when they climbed back out via the ladder through the rooftop. As I sat near the huge kiva at Casa Rinconada, I felt a quiet peacefulness. After three days, I moved on.

Way back in January, I received the National Vacancy List for the United Church. Out of all the jobs listed, only one tweaked my interest. A year-long contract job was advertised by Simcoe Presbytery near Barrie in Ontario. They were looking for someone to work with 7 congregations in the south of Barrie to determine the possibilities of future outreach ministries in the area. They wanted someone with experience in new church development and research. The job sounded perfect to me for a variety of reasons. First, Eastside United in Regina, where I had worked for six years, was a new church development. Second, just having completed my Doctor of Ministry degree, I had taken courses and had experience in many different kinds of research. Third, I was interested in returning to work, but didn’t feel I had the energy for regular congregational ministry, and didn’t want to commit for more than a year. And finally, Barrie would place me midway between my father and brother in Sturgeon Falls, and my son in Kingston. During my military career, I had been posted to Borden, which is very near Barrie, so I knew the area fairly well. And, when I began my training for ministry in 1989, I was a candidate from Simcoe Presbytery, so it felt a bit like coming home. Having thought long and hard about the position, I decided to apply, and I sent my application by mail from Terlingua, Texas in mid-March. The application deadline was March 31, and I expected to hear more after that date. As it turned out, the committee involved wanted to interview me, and so we made arrangements to do so by telephone during the early afternoon of April 15. As I left Chaco, I headed for Gallup, New Mexico, where I hoped to find a pay telephone that offered a bit of quiet and privacy.

I don’t know what possessed me to begin a liver cleanse at 10 p.m. on Monday April 14. It was a serious misjudgement based on past experience of the salt water wash. Two hours after completing a salt water wash, I always felt fine, and on many occasions in the past, had gone on to complete a full day’s work. Two days following the liver cleanse, I still felt weak and queasy. Live and learn, I guess, but the long and short of the story is that I did a telephone interview for a job while feeling like death warmed over. Actually, I’m glad it was a telephone interview as I must have looked like something the cat dragged in. I found a pay telephone in the local Holiday Inn. It was indoors (a good thing considering it was snowing a blizzard outside), and located in a quiet hallway near the conference centre. There were no chairs nearby, and I would have lain on floor except the phone cord didn’t reach that far. Propping my body into the corner, and summoning every molecule of stored strength, I made the call. I thought the interview went well, considering my circumstances. I was informed that the committee would be meeting later that evening to make their decision, and I should hear within a day. I crawled back to Buckskin, and decided to head to Canyon de Chelly, where I could find a campsite and rest for a few days.

I arrived in Canyon de Chelly a few hours later, feeling just a tad stronger. The area is part of Navajo-land in the north-eastern corner of Arizona. I found a campsite, closed the privacy curtains, and was asleep in short order. I awoke feeling much better the next day. As there was no cellular service in the area, I drove over to the vistors’ centre to use a pay phone to check for messages. I GOT THE JOB!!! I immediately called to speak with the chair of the committee who had left the message. She informed me how excited they were by my interview (a major miracle in itself, if you ask me). They wanted me to begin work on June 1. That would give me approximately six weeks to get to Barrie–lots of time to visit the few sites that were left on my list of sacred places, and to visit family and friends along the way home.

I spent the next day exploring Canyon de Chelly, which is a very sacred and spiritual place for the Navajo. The landscape of the area is dramatic–sharp-edged canyons of red rock. I hiked down to the canyon floor to explore the pictographs located at a pueblo-style ruin called “The White House.” The hike was very steep, and the wind was raging, but the scenery was spectacular. In many places throughout the area, the geography is decidedly masculine–strong, angular rock formations that project almost phallically from earth to sky. But in the depth of the canyon, the feminine presented itself. I saw mounds of rock that had softened contours like breasts. There was a curved opening in the rock that reminded me of a womb, and just on the other side of that rock, a formation that I called Yoni. On the floor of the canyon, I walked through a beautiful grove of newly-leaved trees that gave a moment of respite from the blasting wind. On the other side of the grove, sheep were grazing beside a rounded hogan. A river flowed through the centre of the valley–a source of life-sustaining water. I felt surrounded and protected by Mother Earth, and at once, could understand why the place is so sacred for the Navajo. Later, I learned that a practicing Zen Buddhist lives in a hogan on the floor of the canyon. I was not surprised.

Climbing back up the canyon walls was not as easy, especially considering the fast. I took my time–many spiritual disciplines have the effect of slowing us down, I think–and revelled in the beauty. From there, I visited a rock formation called “Spider Rock.” According to Navajo legend, Spider Woman lives there, and she keeps watch over children to ensure they don’t misbehave. The white croppings on the top of the rock formation are the bones of bad children she has captured and left to die. As I walked back from the overlook, I found myself humming, “You better watch out . . . I’m telling you why . . . ”

When I returned to the campground, I was aghast to discover that someone had taken my campsite! I had left the picnic table cloth on to indicate the campsite was being used, but Mr. Steve just thought it was left behind in error. As it turned out, there was no problem as the site across the road was vacant. I just took my table cloth and backed Buckskin into the other site. Steve had already set up his tent, and it was already getting dark. It was much easier for me to just park elsewhere. Nonetheless, he felt terrible, and offered me a beer to atone for his oversight.

Throughout my Journey, I have encountered several “threshold guardians.” This is a term from mythology that I find helpful. The threshold guardian stands guard at a threshold to a new realm. Often, there is a test to pass before being allowed to cross the threshold to the new realm, and it is the task of the guardian to administer the test. If the one on the Journey passes the test, a gift is often given along with access to the new realm. This concept is found frequently in computer/video games. Steve was a threshold guardian!

“I’d love a beer, and normally I would accept. But I’m fasting for Holy Week,” I said confidently.

“Fasting!” he replied. “Wow! It must feel good to give your body a break from food.”

“Indeed!” I shivered as the temperature was dropping rapidly.

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you?”

Not in your life, I thought to myself.

“Absolutely not,” I replied, grasping my arms about me to keep warm. “But if you want to bring your beer along, the van is nice and warm, and I can brew myself some tea.”

It was such a delight to have company for the evening. Some days, I don’t even use my voice, although I find lately I spend a lot of time talking to myself. Loneliness has been one of the biggest challenges of this Journey, and for this evening, I appreciated the gift of companionship. Steve was a newspaper journalist who had left that line of work to begin writing fiction–action stories about journalists. As the evening wore on, I revealed that it was the eve of my 50th birthday. I mentioned that I had a bottle of champagne tucked away, but it would have to wait. Steve encouraged me to open the champagne at midnight. He’d love to help me celebrate. “Absolutely not,” I said. My liver applauded. So at midnight, we toasted my next half century–Steve with his beer, and I with my tea. And then, we went our separate ways.

The next morning, I set out for Navajo National Monument. Here, I watched a fascinating video entitled, “Anasazi.” During the film, a Navajo elder tells the story of their emergence from the earth. I learned that the place of emergence is called the Sipapu, literally a hole in the ground. Kivas have such a hole–a sacred symbol, which stands as a reminder of emergence and the connection to Mother Earth.

From here, I journeyed to Page, Arizona, hoping to find a church offering an Easter Vigil. In Page, the churches are all lined up along the same street (not Church Street, by the way). The only Easter Vigil service was being offered by the Roman Catholic church. I parked in their parking lot, and then drew the curtains to Buckskin, and lavished myself in an elaborate bird bath–the final step in my ritual of cleansing. I even washed my hair (the old-fashioned way in a bucket), and lavished my tired feet in a long, hot soak (in the same bucket). From the deep, dark depths of my hanging closet, I rescued a skirt, and even found a pair of panty hose. Could I remember how to put them on?

One of the great unknowns on this trip has been attending church. I never know when I enter, what kind of service I’m about to participate in, what kind of welcome I might receive, and whether or not the experience will even remotely feed my hungry soul. I can tell a lot about a congregation from my privileged perspective as a stranger. As I walked toward the entrance of this church, I was followed by a young man carrying a djembe (an African drum just like the one that travels with me). I was thrilled. Music was obviously central to this congregation as the choir was rehearsing. There was an array of drums in the space, and a flutist was tuning her instrument. At least the music should be good, I thought to myself. As it was an Easter Vigil service, there were candles available for individual worshippers. It was also obvious that the sacrament of baptism would be celebrated.

Although I felt very much like an outsider and was not greeted by anyone, including the clergy who were roaming around the place, the service was beautiful. We began outdoors for the lighting of the paschal fire, and then we followed the Christ candle into the church. Then, the light was passed throughout the congregation, while the choir sang a responsive psalm. Just before the baptism, a troupe of liturgical dancers flowed through the sanctuary, gathering containers of water from various locations, blessing the water, and pouring it into the huge font at the entrance. Even before the service began, I wrestled with the dilemma of receiving communion, an action that was clearly against the policy of the Roman Catholic church. There was little doubt in my mind–I felt more called than ever by the Holy to receive communion that night. Although I was a stranger in their midst, and outside of their communion, I was no stranger to God, and God was inviting me to share in this most intimate moment. In fact, I knew the decision was between God and me. As I stood up to receive the sacrament, there was a niggling little voice in my head, “Do you think they can tell you’re not one of them?” “Absolutely not,” I replied. I had worked for the Roman Catholic church for 5 years as a musician. I had studied the “Mass” during my music degree. I knew the congregational responses in three languages–Latin, English, and Italian. I could even recite the priest’s words for the Eucharistic prayer as I had heard them every day when I played organ for daily Mass. To anyone who was watching, and I think I caught the priest eyeing me a few times, I probably looked like a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic. And so, for the first time in my life, I received the sacrament of communion in a Roman Catholic community. If a sin was committed, and I didn’t feel that one was, I was the guilty party. I had forced them, without their knowing it, into Eucharistic hospitality. But of course, that was not at all my intention. I was hungry for God, and I ate. I broke my Holy Week fast with God. I did not feel guilty. Given the complexity of their celebration, the service lasted almost three hours! By the time the service was over and I was driving away, the only restaurant available would be my own kitchen in Buckskin (Kraft dinner sounded splendid!) or Denny’s. I chose the latter. After all, they specialize in break-fast!

Finally, on Easter Sunday, I celebrated my birthday. I took a hotel room and luxuriated in the whirpool spa. Then, I treated myself to dinner at “The Dam Bar and Grille.” I liked the name. I have to report that the champagne is still in the fridge. Maybe it will have to wait until I reach Barrie, where I will celebrate the ending of this particular Journey.

And so, the Journey continues northward as I prepare to return to the life of a working girl again. There will be one final travelogue (I couldn’t end on 13, could I?) detailing my return, so to speak. Stay tuned . . .