I arrive just as Kevin is wrapping up his How-We-Behave-on-the-Wheel talk.
“No more pictures; turn off your cell phones until the ceremony ends… etc.”
I walk around the circle searching for a space and take a moment to look over the side of the mountain. I’m accustomed to the Wright land’s magnificent view of Malibu and the Pacific, the sparkle of sunshine on tiny waves, the microscopic ferris wheel in the distance. But I see none of this today. A thick layer of soft white cotton puff covers everything but the mountainside below, like the view from the window seat of a plane. We are soaring above the clouds.
The wheel was built in 1984 by Vijali Hamilton and members of a women’s council attached to Seneca elder Twylah Hurd Nitsch. The outer circle, about ten yards in diameter, is connected to an inner circle by four pathways of natural, colored stones corresponding to each of the cardinal directions: yellow, red, black, and white for the East, South, West, and North respectively. The center is empty, except for prayer.
Approximately 100 people have gathered around the wheel today, keeping a decades-old promise to the ancestors to come together four times a year and, as Miguel says, “make some noise.” I want everyone to unplug, to record the beauty in our hearts. I want Kevin’s guidelines to be obvious, unnecessary to voice, but my desire is unrealistic. Over the next few hours I will meet several folks who are newcomers not only to the Wright land, but to ceremony itself. Can I serve as an example?
At the wheel we receive medicine teachings from three elders: Miguel, Glenn and Amanda. Miguel leads us in a Lakota song which translates to, “We pray, so that the people may live.” This means all people, not just the ones we like: winged creatures, creepy crawlies, stones, trees. We live in a web of life. We exhale carbon dioxide, which trees need; they in turn exhale oxygen. We are designed to give back. I remember the first time Miguel told us that we are the only species who does not give our body back to the earth, to the food chain. I made a promise and a prayer: I will be buried in a pine box under a tree, that I may be eaten by the soil and once again reach for the sky. In this way, I stay in life’s circle.
Amanda comes forward and speaks with reverence about the sun, a power greater than ourselves holding us in orbit, keeping us alive. She leads us in a simple act of giving, asks that we look within for something we can offer as a gift, something we no longer need, like hate, resentment, worry. The earth thrives on our discards.
We turn to face the ocean. I take a moment to ask myself what it is that I want to offer. Familiar items spring to mind: fear, my children’s safety, financial worries, relationship issues. Then I hear it. One word: judgment.
Standing near the southern door, I break ranks, walk to the edge of the world, and fling my gift into the glorious blanket of white. I feel it leave my body and dissolve into the airborne water molecules of clouds. Someday my judgment will make rainbows.
After the ceremony, I go down to the deck, listen to Glenn tell the story of the wheel, and spend a few moments singing with the drum circle. As I walk away, a woman stops me.
“Were you the one singing?” she says. “I was next to you trying to capture your voice on my phone.”
I smile and tell her I left because no one joined in, and she tries to convince me she cannot sing.
“Sure you can. Would you like to sing with me?”
We walk back up the small hill and find a place to sit between the medicine wheel and the edge of the world.
“Let’s make an agreement,” I begin. “Whatever sounds want to come out, we let out. No judgment.”
“But where do your sounds come from?” she asks. “You have training.”
“I don’t think my voice comes from training. It comes from pain, from desire, from giving birth. Your voice will come from your womb, your bones, your blood.”
We close our eyes and begin to make noise. Little sounds at first then building. On top of the mountain, overlooking a blanket of clouds, Sage and Mitra, two women who’ve just met create a five-minute soundscape. The resonance of our shared notes fills my being.
Afterward, we high five and enter through the west gate to the center of the wheel. I lay down on the dirt and look up at the stars. Mitra follows suit.
“I want to tell you a story,” she says. “When my daughter was born, we already had a name for her, but when she came out, I said, ‘Sage.’ I called your name! I had never said that name before. Then when you sang, you reminded me of my daughter.” We both laugh. Then she remembers the date she left below and leaves to find him. I stay on the ground looking up at the stars and give thanks for the day’s medicine. I hope the earth enjoys my judgment as much as I enjoyed giving it away.
Sage Knight is a local ghostwriter and Literary Midwife. She and her Golden Retriever, Shiloh, live at Top O’ Topanga and welcome your visits to www.SageKnight.com.
