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My father was a dowser, a water witch. He was sensitive, kind and loved to fish in the small streams of upstate New York for trout. Water drew him , spoke to him. Using nothing but a forked branch from a fruit tree, he could walk over the land where he suspected a hidden vein to dwell. The stick would begin to vibrate in his hands until he could no longer prevent the end from pointing toward the ground.The bark would come flying off from the force of of his grip on the shaking stick. He was never wrong, and people from surrounding counties would consult him regularly before digging a well. He never took a penny for his services, it would have been a violation of his gift. He planted seeds, they grew into mighty fortresses. He trusted the earth.
I, however, harbor a dogged distrust of the fertility of Terra Firma. I don't know what spawned my inability to trust such a ubiquitous act as planting a seed. Whenever something does sprout and grow on soil that I deem mine, I am amazed. My distrust extends beyond the sprouting of seedlings. The garden centers ,which are more and more abundant on Long Island, fill me with concern for their resident plantings. I can waste hours trying to decide what may grow on my 1/3rd of an acre. Even after I have adopted some brave, well nourished plant it may linger all summer in the black plastic container where it was born because I fear placing it in the soil. My friend's compost heap , a veritable dumping ground, generates tomatoes, squash and vegetation to drool over without the lifting of a finger. She gave me some tall, pink flowering plants several summers ago and swore that they would, like squatters, take over any garden I planted them in. They are growing, but remain captive in the planter I brought them home in.
I have decided to blame my property . Before the house was built it was a nursery, filled with young trees. Hawthorns, spruce and Cedars, for which the street is named ,grew abundantly. Leveling them and building a house which needed "fill" in order to secure its existence was an ill conceived plan at best. The builders thought that two young academics wouldn't notice that their house was being built on sand and gravel instead of rich black soil. This subliminal metaphor may have forecast the future. It was not fertile ground. Marriages withered, children left home, the neighbors too, fell into chaotic spirals of decay.
I did not inherit my Dad's gift for dowsing. My gift seems to present as an unexplained ability to sense power places, vortexes if you will, sacred spaces. Places where the veil has weakened or been torn enough to allow something nubious to peek through. I suspect that I always had this ability but only recently have I come to trust in it. There is a spot between two large trees on the property where I work. The veil there is thin..When it is open I can sense it and, I pay attention. My Uncle Loren, only 2 hours from the moment of his death, spoke to me on that path and told me to call my Mother, his sister, as she would be sad. One of my little students had tragically lost his Dad in an accident which never should have happened. I was friendly with them and often thought I sensed Frank, the Dad's presence asking me to watch out for little Frankie. One day when this happened Frankie was walking beside me and said" Who touched me? Someone touched me on the shoulder." I smiled and said nothing but knew his Dad had managed to slip a loving arm through the veil to touch his beloved, only son. On the day that my young friend passed on a tiny drop of water hanging from a piece of play equipment caught the sunlight and expanded into a big, glowing red ball of light. It remained for 10 minuets until I, needing my own confirmation of its existence asked my 5th graders to turn around and look. They all saw it. I, of course, said nothing but my cell phone immediately rang displaying a number I know would bring me news of Lisa's death.
I think the property is an old Native American sacred space.
Does the presence of a unique, human love oil the hinges of these power spots? I think it may. Several times in the past few weeks I have been invited to the homes of friends, once for dinner, once for a shared meditation on the beach. One couple is composed of two young men, the other, a man and woman in their late 50's. The unifying factor, a palpable sense of true love and respect for each other. A powerful joining of matched souls. These homes are power places where rich vegetation , little frogs, fish and beautiful loving dogs thrived. Both evenings I found it hard to leave. The peace, the ease of breath, the magical sense of being cradled by something larger than myself was nourishing and fresh. These homes are alive, open, inviting havens where human love thrives.
It is the last Saturday evening of summer. The cricket chorus has been diminished by an autumnal chill in the air. Summer's antiphons have already morphed into one great unison. I miss the strident staccato of the Baroque echoes. In the southwestern sky hangs a pregnant moon, nearly full term she casts a maternal light across the darkened woods. My small gray cat softly purrs in the Terra Firma of my lap. He has found love. He is home.
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