by Lauren Raine and Duncan Eagleson
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From THE DIARY OF ANA D'METRIEV
There is plenty of evidence that this site has supported layer after layer of agrarian peoples, growing barley, garlic, collecting wild grapes, fishing in the generous rivers and streams, trading, warring, making their pots from red clay found along the river....like all such "unimpressive" archeological sites, it's really a marvelous mosaic, an overlay of lives, artifacts, growth, decay, arising and passing away; an overlay of stories being written upon the land, buried, one on top of another, until there is a spiral that just goes down and down and disappears into some infinite point in prehistory.
And then, of course, along come people like me, trying to decipher those stories. Well, I find that thought quite beautiful, when I'm not complaining about the food, or bored out of my mind with how tedious the process can be. I confess I've always had an awe of the unknown hands that once created the pot I so often find myself trying to put back together. Abstraction aside, it was a pair of living hands that pulled that pot, its shape and use, from the moist red Earth, and used it for a while. And then she or he eventually passed away, and the pot went back into the Earth again....until I come along to reclaim it, to try to pull it from the Earth again, to try to understand what it's about.
They're not just "artifacts". They're stories.
Vezhna 3 MS 2379
Translations, Linear B, Codex 4
They called me the Pythoness in later times, but before that I had no name. I was a Singer, and that was enough. I was but a girl, not yet in my bloods, when they came to me. Careless, I roamed the forests of my home, singing the songs of the river, and the deer, the blue crab, and the wild honeybee. When they asked if I desired to become a Singer, although I was young, I knew I followed a dappled path, in the play of light and shadow. And so I was willing and they took me into the caverns, into the darkness silent and rich with memory and becoming.
It was late September, a brilliant fall blessed by the right amount of rain and sun. The sugar maples were almost psychedelic in their glory of reds, yellows and oranges. The sun was bright, tender and poignant with a frailty felt only during Indian Summer; the last and perhaps sweetest days of summer. Such days were the grand finale to that great burst of creation that began in the Spring. To Susan, it seemed as if all the land, and all the devas of the plant kingdom, were giving their final concert, their master chorale for the season. Soon the first frost would come, and Susan would walk with her morning coffee into a garden fallen overnight, a precious world melting away like a dream, ready to sleep beneath the immanent blanket of snow.
" Breathe, just breathe". With each inhale, Susan let the sense of Gaia come into her. She never knew what else to call it; "earth energies", "Creator", "Source"; to her it was Gaia, and she visualized roots that grew from her feet, roots that went down deep into the Earth, connecting her with the web of all life. It wasn't even that abstract; that was simply what it felt like. As if she became bigger.
The top of Spirit Mountain was flat granite shelf. It was a splendid view; to the east the spire of an old church rose from an ocean of trees, and the Connecticut River was visible, winding like a snake through the landscape. Before her, ten boulders formed an imperfect circle. Perhaps they had once been more regular, but erosion or earthquake had, over time, worked them out of alignment. At the circle's center stood a huge boulder, shot with veins of quartz; crystalline intrusions flashed here and there on it's surface as it reflected the setting sun. Susan wondered, as always, how the long ago people who once came here had managed to move rocks weighing several tons into these placements. There were quite a few of them to be found in New England.
What all of these mysterious places did share in common was geomantic intensity. They were places of power. To a geologist, they were places of geomagnetic force. But it took no theory or scientific knowledge to experience the presence of this place.
At last, like the ancients who once came here, people were beginning to realize that these were places of communion.