End of the Road

As a longtime 13 Moon calendar advocate formerly obsessed with the Maya(n) calendar, as well as the accompanying lore, allow me to clarify: The end of the Maya(n) calendar (Dec. 21, 2012) is not the end of the world; it is merely the end of three-dimensional existence as we know it. With this in mind, my last day of linear Gregorian cluster-fuckiness here in Santa Fe would look a little something like this:

First stop: op.cit. books, to peruse the well-curated shelves of previously loved books. As is my ritual, I beeline to the occult section, conveniently located next to humor. I dally there between David Sedaris and Barbara Hand Clow before deciding I'd really rather ride my way out of three-dimensional reality on a swath of fiction. Torn (again) between Haruki Murakami and Tom Robbins, I dart next door to Natural Stones for some mineral-based decision-making support, as well as something to hold onto as we hurl into that three-day void all the prophecies mention.

Back at op.cit., Lemurian quartz crystal in hand, I splurge and buy both books because who needs money in the fifth dimension anyway? I detour to Body of Santa Fe en route to the ski mountain to nab a hemp cookie—not one of the day-olds, but a fresh one—warm, soft and slightly crispy around the edges—because who knows if the flipside of this paradigm shift will allow rice flour, cacao powder and agave to bind as wonderfully as they do here in the Kali Yuga? Plus, I might work up a hunger during those three days of total darkness wherein fear and freak-out are to be avoided at all costs, and what better way to maintain equanimity then with vegan baked goods?

Giddy with cosmic downloads and DNA upgrades, I hightail it to the Borrego Trail, where a fleece-lined hat dangles off a post at the trailhead, making eyes at my exposed crown chakra and begging to tag along on this last leg of humanity's evolutionary adventure. Head covered, backpack loaded, I zip down the trail, singing as I skip, loving up the trees and the rocks and the pinecones, delighting in the cold, the crisp, the snow and the silence.

I scamper off the path toward my favorite fallen aspen, the one that lies outstretched over the river, herself frozen and still, holding an otherwise rich and vibrant water world in suspended animation for what used to be a season, but may be just one more minute, or an hour, or a day, or perhaps a few dozen eternities; who knows?

I set up camp on my favorite sideways tree with my crystal, my books and my cookie, alternately reading, munching, meditating and praying, pondering the undulating clouds, whispering to the soaring ravens and sucking the marrow out of every ounce of off-the-charts majesty that is this land and this sky, while counting my otherwise countless blessings and oozing infinite gratitude for this blink of a gift that has been my moment on this planet at this extraordinary time, and wondering what's waiting for me and us on the other side of it.

Santa Fe Reporter