“It’s 7:20am,” I said to my friend and walking buddy, Chris, as we both looked at the time on my cell phone. A quick hug and I was off to an 8:00am breakfast with another friend. It would take about 30 minutes to get to the restaurant from West Sedona, and I added 10 minutes in case of the not impossible prospect of a traffic backup in Sedona.
I hung back at a distance from the car ahead of me which was clearly driven by a awestruck tourist who meandered along Hwy 179 below the speed limit. It made me smile to see her gesture excitedly, pointing out the sites to her companion who dangled his hand out the window, visibly caressing the cool morning air.
During this gentle drive, I thought about the discussion that Chris and I had about how we humans tend to think for each other, and how this causes all sorts of problems for people. For example, we might want to share something about life, but we’ve already made up our mind about how our friend will respond (either negatively or positively) and because of that we don’t share anything at all. Or, we share it and discover that our friend responds the opposite of what we imagined. Thinking for each other doesn’t even give the other person the opportunity to participate and be heard.
(As I was about to discover, this same idea applied to the future, which I could have easily avoided. If I hadn’t taken the side trip, I would have missed the magic. But, more on that later.)
My thoughts trailed off to the trails of Sedona, many of which I’d hiked countless times over 32 years of living in this paradise. I sighed wistfully. Although I now lived only 20 minutes away, Sedona still had my heart, and I prayed to move back someday. So many great (and difficult) memories were created during my life in Arizona.
I smiled as I remembered a most recent one:
“Summer Bacon!” I heard my name shouted loudly as I entered Walmart in Cottonwood. Before I could even see the source of the voice, the owner of it slammed into me like a freight train and nearly lifted me off the ground with a powerful and loving embrace. As my eyes tried to focus, and the surrounding customers giggled at the spectacle, my friend Nellie (not her real name), came into focus, her long curly hair waving wildly in the breeze that blew each time the automatic doors opened. “Let’s have breakie soon!” she said with a giggle, then kissed me on the cheek, “Gotta run! Love ya!” and was off in a flash. I later told her husband, a local chiropractor, how she had greeted me, jolting my body as I re-enacted the scene of her crashing hug. He got an impish grin on his face and said, “That’s how I get more patients,” and winked. We both laughed.
Before I knew it, I was just two minutes from the restaurant. But, how was that possible? I had left West Sedona at 7:20am and now it was 7:30am! It took 10 minutes to make a 30 minute drive, while driving under the speed limit? Had I passed through a time portal? Oh! Dear!
Tossing the esoteric prospects aside, I had something more pressing to consider: what was I going to do for the next 30 minutes before meeting my friend at the restaurant? As if in trance, I decided to visit the first house that I rented in Sedona in 1992. It was where I raised my daughters. It was also where I had been severely abused on many occasions by my husband.
So many great memories of living in Sedona, but what was I about to get myself into by taking this side trip? I was driven by sheer morbid curiosity to find out.
I drove the familiar road towards the street where I had lived, which ironically bore the same name as my ex-husband.
Then, I looked towards the sky, and remembered something beautiful. This was also the house where I channeled Dr. Peebles for the first time. When I doubted myself (I was so young, only 34 years old at the time), my faith was restored when Dr. Peebles showed up as a huge intricate cloud over my house, as if the heavens had painted a detailed portrait that looked identical to the photo that I had of him when he was on earth.
I turned onto my old street which was a loop, and slowed down. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. Two fawns were on the side of the road. They were about to bolt, but when they saw me, they calmed down and looked right at me, and proceeded to munch the berries on a bush that was no more than 10 feet away from my car. “Hello beauties!” I said softly, “Thank you for being here.” I felt so safe and peaceful.
I slowly drove the loop until I got the bend where my house was. It was bustling with cars and people, which is not typically seen on the quiet streets of Sedona. Perhaps it was an Airbnb? But, no…the house had been emptied and gutted, and the surrounding brush had been cleared out and was in a trailer attached to a truck. They were just leaving, and I pulled to the side to make room for the caravan to go by. The house looked exactly the same as when I had lived there. And, all of the trash from the past was being taken out! I couldn’t ignore the symbology of that!
I smiled as memories flashed of my daughters giggling and playing on the property and in the street. Floods of memories—all good—came back to me. Parties, channeling sessions, feeding the javelina, the friendly King snake, watching monsoons roll by, walks around the block, and the time my youngest daughter thought the quail crossing the road were penguins, and that the deer that she saw were giraffes.
My ex was a very hurt and angry man because of his sordid childhood. But, when he was good (for days, weeks or months at a time), he was a wonderful teacher to our children, and fun to be around. I was astonished by how good memories were the only memories I was having, even of him, as I drove the loop of my old neighborhood.
I was overwhelmed with a sense of peace and closure to the past. I could have avoided this side trip by thinking too hard about it, making assumptions and drawing conclusions that could have triggered bad memories that would haunt me for weeks and years to come. Instead, just like not thinking for someone else, I let life unfold and show me its treasures.
As I rounded the corner to get back on the main road, the two fawns crossed in front of me and settled in a field and began munching on juniper berries on a tree. They stopped for a moment and watched me. “Thank you. I love you, beauties,” I whispered, my heart swelling with joy.
For those who study the spirits of animals, Deer is known as the peacemaker. Deer also sees with little light, and can easily guide others through the darkness. I felt such a deep sense of gratitude that I’d had those two beautiful tour guides to guide me through the darkness of my past, and shine a light on it. They showed me how important it is to stop and eat only the good berries from the tree of life.
“Oh! Deer!”
