In Santa Fe, my daughter and I walk the stone labyrinth in the plaza of Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi. Not quite around we go, for there are always redirections, and sometimes completely different vectors as if they were pointing to some other time and place. Maybe back to the bookstore, Collected Works, where we first stopped when we came downtown.
I bought a book of essays on New Mexico, one of which, by D H Lawrence, is called Indians and Entertainment. It may be one of the finest insights into the prehistoric Native American mind I've ever read, as well as a sparkling understanding of non-dual consciousness before the sin of original ego.
Meanwhile, Emmy and I finish the labyrinth inwards, immense fun, but we opt out of tracing it back. Although I will return to New Mexico a few weeks later, and buy Lawrence’s book, Mornings in Mexico, from which that essay had been excerpted.
As well as this snippet:
The Indian is completely embedded in the wonder of his own drama. It is a drama that has no beginning and no end, it is all-inclusive. It can't be judged, because there is nothing outside it, to judge it.
The mind is there merely as servant, to keep a man pure and true to the mystery, which is always present.
By then Emmy was in LA, City of the Angels, her new residence after Japan, and I was somewhere north of Taos, grateful for the time we had. Following roads that would take me back to Massachusetts. But, of course, you can never go home again.
Since you’re always already there.
~Son Rivers 2008
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