Driving in, I passed markers with dates on them, marking years of fires, and looked out to see charred trees, brush, and signs of underbrush that was budding underneath. Truly, these areas are where the dying and living co-exist. Wood that was charred black made way for new growth. Charred wood fed the earth, preparing it for new growth. Seedlings and yellow flowers were budding in these same spaces as charred trees.
The theme of “What’s Dying to Be Born” was ever so present in this space.
Nature has a cycle of clearing away and making space for new growth.
I set on a morning hike, Petroglyph Trail, that ended with a series of petroglyphs, drawn by the ancient ones, on a rock’s surface.
The hike down to the bottom of the rocks was steep and narrow.
Under the first cave overhang, families ventured down as well. Some children were making statues with the rocks, recently popular in its form. Rock statues are everywhere, in rivers, at national parks, everywhere.
I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.
“These rocks are sacred. We should leave them were they are. This is a very sacred place, and we should take care of it.”
Of course, the father was quick to retort that the children could make statues. I immediately regretted my words. After all, what did I know? Children’s play is also sacred learning. But am also saddened and dismayed at this new way of desecrating sacred land.
I savored the hike that navigated down little paths, narrow passageways through boulders, around the bottom of the canyon. It was sunny and cool in the dry CO heat, and I stopped frequently to take pictures, a sip of water, or just to marvel at the sheer power and beauty of this space.
A whole people lived in these rocks, people of the ancients. They lived on the land, with the land, held sacred ceremonies, found food and water, migrated to other lands and returned, became one with the rocky earth, and transcended the human experience.
I looked inside a crevice to see what I believed was a fossil. Yes, this is truly land of the ancients. I looked at the rocks, put my hand on them, and could feel how old they were.
After winding through this tiny trail, I did arrive at the rock with petroglyphs. Drawings, shapes, and lines that were carved by the ancient ones. What did these stories mean?
Storyteller and reader thousands of years apart.
These were the stories of the people, survival, and spiritual connection.
This is where my words, language, stories evolved from.
When I was complete in breathing in the language of the ancients, there was a hike up the canyon, and I was staring at a view that truly took my breath away. The land shaped by the elements to the horizon.
I climbed out onto a rock, stretched my arms out wide, feeling free!
Ending the hike, I was wiped out, at the walk on the rim was in the noonday sun. I savored a burger and cold water at the café long the parking lot.
I decided to drive around to the places on the top on the canyon rim, which was something I had not done before. These were spaces where kivas, huts, and sacred spaces were outlined. There were views of other structures hidden amongst the rocks. And there was the spiritual epicenter. Where the people and sun connected.
On the second stop along this drive, I pulled off to the side, I caught a glimpse of two deer meander across the road. I watched as a fawn disappeared into the desert brush.
Truly this was a sacred place.
Driving away from Mesa Verde, I decided to make one last stop. This was Park Point, the highest point in the national park, though away from the Mesa Verde trails. It was windy and freezing, but I stopped anyway and walked the path to the lookout. So glad I did!
The elation and freedom of space leapt out of my skin and into the late afternoon air. My body had no outer skin.
Completely free!
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