Situated not far from the rimrock’s edge was a tiny town where I found a store that had large colorful baskets hanging in the few dry trees in the yard.  Desperate to divert my over-charged body, I got out and went inside.  There I found one of the oddest places I’ve ever encountered.  The baskets in the yard were from Africa.  Inside in one corner were bits of broken jewelry – single earrings – that sort of thing.  On one shelf was a dusty scarf from China; on another a few tins of tuna and old crackers; on a rickety board were cups commemorating distant and long ago world events.  I found a welded candle stick with an unstable base. 

From a dim corner a dark-skinned, silent woman watched.  There was no greeting when I entered.  In fact, she was perfectly still except for her eyes, which followed my every move, as if I might be a thief or a ghost.  We were each a bit wary of the other, or tentative – me wondering into what reality I had stumbled, wondering if I’d in fact gone over the edge on that road up the canyon wall.  

Today I look around and find this woman has moved inside my house.  She brought shells from Fiji, a necklace from Yakama, a felt purse from Peru, bark-paintings from Australia, two versions of a design on a clay vase – one made by a skilled Acoma artisan, the other by a mentally ill and very kind woman I met in the almost empty southern desert of Arizona.  And, yes, one item from the store on the mesa, an item handed to me by the dark woman.

But what the woman gave was herself, wasn’t it - the witness in the dim corner at the end of a traumatic journey become internal.  Yes, I have what I've gathered - the feathered shields, the carved mask, the drums – the bits and pieces - but the central message was always about the watching woman.  

The role of the witness has traditional meanings that are complex and deep, but we know her best as she-who-watches.  She resides in an inner world waiting for recognition, for us to remember who we are.  She spreads out her strange wares inviting a closer look.  

As always - when you meet her only tell those who have also met her.  Only speak from that place where she lives.  Let her decide what she says, to whom she talks.  

Mama was beautiful – tall, graceful, black hair, eyes almost black as well, and the whitest skin you can imagine.  Drunk men drove back and forth on the lane, leaning out the windows, peering at the cabin.  We lay low so as to make no silhouette, hoping the men thought no one was at home.  Mama was scared.  When I realized she was frightened, I became frightened, too.  

Still as we could be, we watched the men.  Finally I asked if she was still scared.  She said, “No, I saw the angels; nothing can happen to us.”  Mama thought it was the kindness of angels that allowed her to see them, to reassure her and let her know she was loved. 

Love that she reciprocated – when hobos came to our door, as they did from time to time, she fed them everyone.  “We don’t know which ones might be angels,” she said.

Mama saw other spirits as well, though she spoke little of them.  Instead she only hinted, and I’d hear her earnest prayers.   The night before 9/11 she saw a huge dark spirit bloom across the whole horizon.  

I am thinking about people like mama, people whose faith was absolute.  They had their gifts, were content with what Creator gave.  I think those old people averted many tragedies and disasters about which they’d received warning.  

But these gifts seem to require a certain way of living – living in the absolute closeness and sweetness of the spirit.  Don’t get me wrong, they could be fierce – in prayer as well as life.  Unlike my volatile father, mama only lost her temper every decade or so but when she was angry we counted ourselves lucky not to be the object of her wrath.  

No, the sweetness I speak of is a spiritual way of being – living continuously in connection with the Other – always listening, always willing.  Always believing.  Comparatively, nothing else mattered but this alignment.  

We study mysticism, philosophy, extrapolate from science, but it is sometimes in the backwaters that we find the rare souls who know.  If they speak, they tell us simple things that are only difficult because they turn everything upside down.  

As an old man said, “All spirit asks is everything.”