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Cont. from part 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~ The Owl’s Blessing

A few months after my first trip to Blue Lake, I noticed that I was having trouble sleeping. I had started to hear a kind of a hum between my ears. I tried to ignore it at first, thinking that it might be some early sign of mental illness—the failure of my businesses was causing me no small amount of stress at the time. I tried playing music when I went to bed, a solution that my wife didn’t appreciate and when that didn’t work I tried unplugging my clock radio instead. When I suggested that we try turning off the power at the meter my wife looked at me as if to say that clearly I was on the brink of insanity. Perhaps I was. “You’re right,” I averred. “Let me just go look in there one more time.” She rolled her eyes. I’d already treated her to the spectacle of me crawling around on all fours in my underwear pressing my ear to the walls and the furniture like a restless dog. I sat on the bed like I’d seen TM people do and cleared my head of extraneous thoughts. Instantly the humming became louder. Clearly, if I was hearing the sound, I was also perceiving it on other levels. The more I focused on it, the louder it became. I opened my eyes after a few minutes, and walked straight to the glass display cabinet that held the crystal I’d nearly died for. The crystal itself was creating a kind of a low, pulsating hum. I reached for it, and then yanked my hand away in shock. The crystal was hot. I sat down on the bed to think about this for a moment. Unable to reach any firm conclusions, I retrieved a pair of gloves and a shovel from the garage, dug a shallow hole under a tree in my backyard, and buried the crystal, point downward. That took care of the infernal hum, but the crystal itself remained stubbornly lodged in my consciousness. I thought about it often, and at inappropriate times, like an old flame or a forbidden love. I wanted to get my mission over with so that I could think of something else, but there were still more obstacles to overcome. In the first place, Blue Lake was still snowed in. The river route was nearly impassable at the best of times, and the only alternative was a 14,000 foot pass between two mountains. You couldn’t get up there with a dog team. Then there was the fact that the War Council plainly didn’t want me to go there. It was nothing personal: They didn’t want anyone to go there who wasn’t a member of the tribe. The Spirit of the North watched over the lake all winter but when the snows melted, armed guards took over. They stood watch all summer long, until the snows returned to relieve them, and they would shoot intruders on sight. The lake was guarded on other levels as well. I had talked to Jimmy a few times over the winter, and he assured me that he was as gung-ho as ever to help me bring the crystal home to Blue Lake. So was Perona, but he was still mending from his experience as the Taos Pueblo’s only human cannonball. We both believed that what we were doing was in accordance with the divine order and flow of things, and that a gateway would thus be opened for us, but that the timing could be crucial. Late in the Summer of 1987, Jimmy finally called me. It was time. The entire Pueblo trekked to Blue Lake once every year for one of their most important ceremonies. We would have a small window of opportunity just after they left. Jimmy had checked and the way was clear. The flight to Albuquerque wouldn’t have been fast enough for me if it was on the Concorde. I wanted to speed all of the way to Taos too, but I remembered the fireside discussion I’d had with Jimmy and Perona about resistance and listened to loud music instead. Soon the highway rose out of the desert like the back of a great stretching cat and I could feel the vibration change as I moved into the mountains. Santa Fe came and went and then I was in Taos, and thirty minutes after that I was seeing Jimmy’s weathered mobile home growing large in my windshield. Jimmy shouldered the warped door open from inside like a police raid in reverse and we were two old friends again, trading war stories and our dreams of the future. Jimmy told me about a friend of his, Fred Hopper, who in turn had told him about three shamans who’d come all the way from Mexico. The shamans, Jimmy said, had built a medicine wheel on the side of a hill overlooking the pueblo. Fred had been there, and had told Jimmy that it was a beautiful ceremony, that they’d all heard sounds and seen dancing lights over the crystals that the shamans had used. The purpose of the medicine wheel, the shamans had said, was to prepare for the arrival of a crystal. Jimmy lowered his head slightly to fix me with a significant look. I nodded. He hadn’t told anyone about what we were doing but it seemed that somehow these old men who barely spoke English knew. They all came around to the trailer that night. The shamans were delightful human beings, ageless and yet very old. They wore elaborately beaded buckskin robes, smiled often, and listened very carefully. I unwrapped the crystal and held it up to show them. The sunset spilling in through the windows made it look like I was holding a flame between my hands. The old shamans’ eyes were as wide as saucers. This was the crystal, they explained to me in broken English. This was the reason that they’d traveled to the Pueblo. I could feel the crystal throbbing as I held it. It had brought all of us together. All of us had traveled thousands of miles thinking we were traveling alone, but we had been together the whole time. My spirits fell a little bit when I checked my watch. I had planned to go into Taos that night to provision myself for the trip to Blue Lake. I’d heard stories about Jimmy’s cooking and I didn’t want to take any chances, but by the time that all of our guests left it was too late. Jimmy pushed his chair back and stretched. “Better check the grub,” he said grinning. I made a show of stretching and yawning, and then I slowly made my way into the kitchen. I found Jimmy staring into a steaming pot of what looked like swamp water. He stuck a big fork into the water, and then pulled out something like an enormous gray eel for my approval. I stared at it, trying not to look horrified. Jimmy dropped it back into the pot with a splash. He shook his head slowly, audibly sniffing the steam to show me how good it was. All he said was: “Beef tongue. Good.” My stomach drew itself up into a tight fist like a cornered porcupine. I thought about the bread and cheese I had planned to get in Taos, where it would have fit my knapsack, and what it would have been like to tear warm french bread apart at 14,000 feet. Obviously, I rationalized, the seriousness of my mission demanded that I fast. We were up before dawn the next morning. Perona would only be with us in spirit this year, as would my Uncle Drunvalo. This time we began by following the river route, and then departed from it to climb to a steep pass at close to the 14,000 foot level. Even though it was a beautiful day, and the only snow we saw was at the very highest levels, I tried to stay as aware of my surroundings as possible, in case we encountered any more “resistance.” Soon the juniper and pinyon pine gave way to quaking aspens which gave way to nothing at all as we climbed above the treeline and finally gained the saddle between mountains that divided up from down. Below us was Blue Lake, so far below that it appeared no bigger than a coffee cup, shining a beautiful iridescent blue as though it had been poured full of liquid turquoise. The path down was so steep that we had to dismount and lead the horses. The lake slowly enlarged ahead of us and with it my anticipation grew. I was on the verge of completing something that all of us had risked our lives for, and it didn’t appear that anything short of an earthquake could stop us now. When we reached the lake, I was immediately struck by a massive flat-topped rock, which jutted out into the lake like a small island. It was the perfect place for us to perform a ceremony, and once we secured the horses I immediately started setting up on its broad surface. First I pulled out the crystal itself and carefully unwrapped it. Perona had made us a gift of feathers from all types of different birds, wrapped in corn husks, and Jimmy had wrapped all of the feathers and corn husks around the crystal. Over this he had tied a piece of leather with leather laces. I placed this beside the white buckskin pouch that my good friend Mary Schlosser, whose pueblo name is Cradle Flower, had given me. The pouch was filled with sacred corn meal, sacred because it was ground by virgins. I made a circle with various fetishes, Perona’s feathers, other crystals, with the smoky mountain quartz from Clear Lake in the center. Then I sprinkled a pinch of the corn meal in each of the four directions in the way that Mary had taught me. After I had finished my ceremony, Jimmy sang traditional Pueblo songs and danced. We followed that with about an hour of prayer. After the prayer we looked at each other. It was time. Jimmy stood out on the tip of the rock and I stood behind him with my hand on his left shoulder. The lake, which had been as smooth as glass when we started our ceremony, was now rippling. The ripples spread in broad circles from a central vortex. The hum that I’d heard back in my bedroom in Clear Lake, was audible again now, and growing steadily louder. Jimmy cocked his arm and threw the crystal. It arced over the water, catching the sun for a fleeting instant before falling directly into the center of the vortex. Instantly, Jimmy and I were hit by a blast of energy that felt like a hurricane force wind. At the same time, I could feel a change in energy within me. It felt like I was being tuned up an octave, like a piano. I could feel the energy in my heart chakra move up to my throat chakra. I heard coughing behind me and spun around. Jimmy had fallen to the ground and was rolling and holding onto his throat. I made to move toward him but he waved me off. Whatever energy shift that I had felt, had triggered his asthma. I turned back to the lake. The ripples that we’d seen when we started were now small waves and the hum that I had heard was much louder. I decided, foolishly, to try and move the energy up even higher, to the level of the third eye. I knelt down and hummed a tone equal in frequency to the sound coming from the lake. Then I slowly raised the frequency upward. The next think I knew I was lying on the ground next to Jimmy. As soon as I had tried to raise the pitch of the sound, I felt a sudden intense pain in my third eye. It felt just like someone had thrown a knife at me. I raised my head enough to look over to Jimmy. He looked at me from the corner of his eye and grinned as he gasped for air. We both looked as though we had just fallen off a train. I just lay there listening to the lake hum, feeling the good hot sun on my face, and listening to Jimmy trying to suck in enough of that rarefied mountain air to get his voice back. Finally we both recovered to the point that we could pack up everything and head back. Jimmy said something about stopping to eat but to be honest I was kind of hoping that he’d forget—I could live without seeing him slice into a big cold gray beef tongue. Once we had gotten back over the pass, we turned off of the trail that we had taken coming in and followed a shallow creek to a clearing where the people from the pueblo camped on their visits to Blue Lake. Like a magician, Jimmy gestured to a big green garbage bag, hanging from ropes between two trees. It was the pantry that the native people used to keep their food safe from animals. Jimmy unknotted the rope and lowered the garbage bag to the ground. Reaching inside it, he handed me a foil-wrapped package. Inside, I found a loaf of bread that his mother had baked the day before and a block of fresh cheese. I was ecstatic. It was exactly what I had wanted. As I tore into the bread I knew that despite all of the millions that I had lost I would never lack for anything again. The bread and cheese, forty miles from anywhere, was to me absolute proof of my powers of manifestation. Jimmy and I wolfed down our lunch, giggling like two children drunk on mayhem. Something very big had just happened at Blue Lake. Unfortunately, neither of us had any idea what it was. We followed the river back to Jimmy’s ranch, instead of the steep trail that we had come in on. If anything, it seemed ever more overgrown after a season of winter storms than it had been when we tried to make our way up it the previous year. Nobody had been down it with a chainsaw in a long time. Blown-down trees were everywhere, necessitating constant detours. After about three hours of bushwhacking our way back down the mountain, we came to the spot where the accident had taken place the previous year. There, almost exactly over the rock where I had nearly been killed, I saw a big cow skull in the branch of a tree. Whether it had been there on our previous trip I couldn’t say, but it looked like it had been there forever. I stood up in the stirrups and tried to wrench it loose from the tree as I rode underneath but it wouldn’t budge. The more I pulled, the more nervous my horse got. I looked down at the rock below us, let go of the skull, and rode on. Another lesson about letting go, I decided. By about seven o'clock we had made our way back to the picnic ground where the trail widened out to a jeep trail about a mile away from the trailhead. It was at that point that I saw something that nearly made me fall off of my horse. The trail was lined on both sides with the ghosts of hundreds of Native Americans. They stared up at Jimmy and me, their faces shining with joy and gratitude. I felt my own heart singing, in resonance with them. I knew what we had done was big, but now I knew that it was really big, big enough for a parade even. My eyes brimmed with tears as we rode slowly past them. Both men and women were there and all of them were wearing ceremonial costumes. They looked up at me like I was somebody, like I had purpose in the world, like I wasn’t the chalk outline of man that I thought I had become. In the ensuing years I would be given more and more information about what really happened at Blue Lake that day. The last piece of information came on my last visit to Taos. For the last several years residents of Taos have complained about a mysterious hum. A congressional inquiry, and a number of scientific investigations later, the “Taos Hum,” as the newspapers have dubbed it, continues to frustrate residents. I looked Jimmy up in August of 1995 and our conversation turned to the subject of the noise that everyone seems to be able to hear but that no one has ever been able to record. “You know what it is, don’t you Ken?” Jimmy said significantly. I thought about it for a moment. Then I looked at him. Hard. “It’s the same noise, right?” he said. I nodded slowly. He was right. It was. Exactly. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - These men and women gave everything to follow their paths. They never asked: What's in it for me? Mary Schlosser, some eighty year ago, was the first woman to marry outside her tribe. She was asked to leave; for 15 years she was not allowed to go to her home. Following one's heart seems to be one of life's greatest challenges. If you find resistance, look inside yourself to see what it is. And remember: there are many different paths that come back to the same place — our own inner truth. LOVE AND BLESSINGS FOR THE NEW YEAR! In honor of the new Millennium, Ken will be posting his entire book, The End of Time, on his web site. Look for it in the new year! - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - My good friend, Aluna Joy, has a monthly newsletter. If you would like to receive it, you can contact her at : alunajoy@1spirit.com Visit Aluna's web site at http://www.1spirit.com/alunajoy Thank you for forwarding this letter to your friends! - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - If you would like to know more about Ken Page and his work, please look up his web site http://www.kenpage-mch.com