Flint Mines

Interstate 40 caused the New Mexico landscape to escape too quickly.  I made the choice to avoid the low flying,  75 MPH  semi’s and turn onto a older highway, traveling northward to Oklahoma earlier than intended.  The familiar sign announcing a national land area came up on the southbound side of the road as I approached.  A National Monument was here - the Flint Mines.  I made a left hand turn to investigate.

A sign warned of a closed road, but the gate was open.  No paradox here.  An open gate - an open invitation. The road was well-maintained calling me further into the “monument.”  Road closed, indeed.  I came upon an empty parking lot and a office trailer.  “Tours of Area by Appointment Only.  Allow at least 48 hours for arrangements to be made.”  Pish-posh.  There was no one around to see me reading the sign and the road was still civilized.  And I had 8 hours of daylight left.  I drove on to see this ancient place where the First Peoples mined the stone for their daily needs from the time before history books..

I am in a land of no sound - only the noise of pen scratching paper and blood pulsing behind the ear.

A hawk sits by a pillow of season-dead sage brush. Then flies off with the blue, white and gray tail feathers in the sun.

A gentle breeze stirs my hair as it also bears the tumbleweed skipping across the dryness.

Nearby are the hillocks of Titian hands, palm down, fingers reaching, pointing to the flatterlands. Some long index fingers.  Others stubby thumbs. Some places a knuckle breaks through the skin of speckled  dark green.  The ancient skeleton is flecked with ashen gray rock and terra cotta  earth.  In other places, earth scars reveal darker, richer ochre blood.

The horizon is guarded by planed mesas.  Vee’s of ancient water streams texture their slopes.  These guardians  are a mural of dark desert scrub pine, white limestone strata on a rust canvas. Blue-green, winter green and adobe.  Deep rock-infested arroyos - there is water in this dry place.  One must only wait for the life-bringing Now to arrive.

This is my personal cathedral, given me for a heartbeat by the “one whose name cannot be spoken.” The ancient desert mothers and fathers come to my remembrance.  Standing in such a place, I feel their attraction to the barren places.  They were not compelled to flee to the desert land; they ran towards it with uplifted hands,  to offer back creation to the proper proprietor.  Neither was the departure a necessity to rejoining the brethren.  Too long in such a place of such awe, one could fall into a mystical union, the too sensuous dance with the Beloved and disturb the inner frail, human balance of mind and spirit. Ego could become the hovering flies, needing only to be ignored.  Body without ego is an awakening not tolerate by material star stuff.

The limestone rocks are breadlike.  There is no need for a miraculous transformation. The embedded quartz are the glowing wealth of kingdoms and nations.  But to step away from the a templed parapet, with the desired joining with Brother Hawk or mounded mother breast is a desire too great to remain in the wilderness and is deserving of the harshest curse..  One needs to come forth and take up again the scatter of the townscape.  Where no hand has crafted - there is tranquility and beauty. Where hand has touched, there is whirling chaos and artifact.

O Beloved, permit me the miracle of key and ignited engine fire.  I dare not linger longer in this cathedral nave. 

So traveling the closed road lead to a opened heart.  My tour was arranged by the Beloved.  My spirit danced with the Spirit.  The road back to the highway was much longer and more desolate.  At the sign, I turned north - my attention forced upon the vehicles of fellow travelers and to my gas gauge - with a overflowing cup