Allowing for the Possibility
Nonfiction by Donna Cameron
More quickly than I anticipated, the sun dropped below the jagged cliff edges of the canyon that had become my temporary home. As dusk gave way to darkness, I knelt beside a flat-topped boulder and prepared to light the candle I had placed on it. Feeling both foolish and expectant, I wondered what the impending darkness held for me.
Mysticism and spiritual phenomena have never interested me. They are completely outside my belief system. These are shadowy things that can’t be seen, touched, or tested. I didn’t think less of those who believed in such specters—call them God, Spirit, or supernatural interventions—I simply wasn’t one of them.
I was raised by atheists. My education—elementary school through college—was firmly grounded in logic and rationalism. I sought ideas based on reason, and knowledge that could be verified. Nothing “woo-woo” for me.
Thus, when I chose to go on a week-long wilderness quest for my fiftieth birthday, my husband and friends greeted my decision with incredulity. I was probably the very last person they would ever envision spending seven days of quiet reflection in the desert—not just any desert, but Death Valley.
It was a rite of passage that I thought would challenge me physically and perhaps show me that fifty was only a number, and not one to concern me. I prepared by reading about desert weather and terrain, about plants, animals, and insects I might encounter. My studies assured me that I was unlikely to encounter mountain lions or coyotes, and with caution and “harmonious intent,” I would likely not be bothered by the more prevalent rattlesnakes and scorpions. Undaunted, I bought sturdy hiking boots and a sleeping bag that would keep me warm in near-freezing night-time temperatures, plus a wide-brimmed hat to protect me from the scorching daytime sun. At my husband’s insistence, I equipped myself with a Swiss Army knife, though I wasn’t sure why and suspected that he would happily take it off my hands after my return. I eliminated sugar, coffee, and meat from my diet for a month to ease the impending transition to fasting.
Coincidentally—or perhaps not—all of the women who signed up for this adventure were my same approximate age, and each was marking a major life passage: death of a parent, kids out of the nest, or a landmark birthday. We, along with our two guides, would be spending three days together, then three days alone and fasting in the desert, and one final day together before returning to civilization.
Around the campfire that first evening, we bonded easily as we shared our reasons for being there, and laughed together at the surprising and twisted paths that had brought each of us to a circle of light deep in the Mojave Desert. Most told of a spiritual calling—a desire to commune with God or get in touch with something sacred. When it was my turn, I admitted that I was about to turn fifty and wanted to challenge myself physically. I’d never camped before, nor even backpacked; I wanted to prove to myself that I could do something strenuous and untried, and also overcome my fears of snakes and spiders. I told them I sought no spiritual or mystical experiences—that just wasn’t my nature.
Our guides were experienced outdoorswomen and also well-versed in indigenous cultures and sacred traditions. They shared their love and respect for the terrain and the inner work we would be doing, and they expressed a confidence in us we might not yet have discovered. While others asked our guides about spirit animals and totems, and how to summon the wisdom of their ancestors, my question—one fairly urgent by this time—was exactly how does one pee in the great outdoors?
Over the next two days, we spent time together learning to tie knots, to watch the sky for weather changes, and to recognize our own bodies’ rhythms. We also spent time alone, accustoming ourselves to solitude and marveling at the multitude of stars in the night sky. I thought about what I hoped to bring back from my sojourn, and perhaps what I hoped to leave behind when I returned from the desert. I was both with and without expectations and never so aware of paradox.
By the time we headed out for our solitary days in the desert, we were fully prepared. We knew how to erect a makeshift shelter with rope and a light tarp. We had been advised how to ration our water to last for three days. We were trained in the use of a snake-bite kit. On departure day, we left at dawn—a sleeping bag and pack on our backs, a gallon of water in each hand.
Mindful of warnings about the unlikely—but deadly—danger of flash floods, I hiked a mile or so into the desert and then climbed into a canyon where I found a sheltered spot that felt hospitable. High rock walls were my sentries, and boulders, scrubby bushes, and cacti were my furnishings. I found a relatively flat spot and stooped to brush the larger rocks from it before spreading my sleeping bag. This was to be my home for three days. Already, I felt held here. In the profound silence, I listened to the beating of my heart.
Our guides had recommended that we perform a ritual that first evening, after we made camp on the open ground. They suggested that as the sun goes down, we light a candle and take a moment to thank friends, family, and others who had supported us throughout our lives.
So it was that I lit a candle as darkness fell in my rocky canyon. Cold was also descending, and I welcomed the heat on my face as I bent toward the flame. I thought about my patient and understanding husband, my friends and work colleagues. I recalled my parents—my father dead for nearly forty years, my mother gone for a dozen. Their boundless love had been a model for my own marriage. I thanked them for the life they had given me and whispered that I hoped they would be proud of the woman I had become. I told them they hadn’t had nearly enough time together and that I wished somehow they could have found one another again after death.
The moment I spoke those words, my darkened canyon filled up with a burst of brilliant orange light. It illuminated the stone walls and the rocky ground. For an instant, night became day, bathed in a warm orange glow. I gasped at the sight and braced myself for the gigantic boom that must surely follow such an explosion of light. No sound came. Had it been lightening, a meteor? What would explain that orange light?
Once again in darkness, I pondered the light, seeking the rational explanation that undoubtedly awaited. I recalled sitting with friends at a bar in Jamaica, where people gathered each evening to watch a green flash on the horizon just as the sun sets. How interesting, I thought, here in the desert, the flash at sunset is orange, not green. I had my explanation—a perfectly plausible one—and thought no more about it.
Three days later, after returning from our sojourns and breaking our fasts with a hearty vegetable soup, the reunited group sat around a campfire and shared stories of our solitary time in the desert. The other women told of numinous dreams, revelatory insights, and otherworldly experiences. I described the strength I felt throughout the warm days and cold nights, the magnificent silence, the uninterrupted blue of the sky, the star-studded nights, and the peace that permeated me still. I mentioned the coincidence of the orange flash just as I had expressed a wish for my parents. I started to talk about the surprising ease of fasting for three days.
“Stop,” they said in near unison. Stop.
There’s no orange flash in the desert at sundown, they told me. Did I really think it was just a coincidence? No one else saw a great orange flash that first evening. Is it possible, they asked, that this was something more?
I sat there in the firelight. I sat with the idea that there might be something unexplainable, something beyond my understanding, perhaps beyond science. I entertained the possibility that I, too, may have had a mystical experience. And I found room for the idea. I even welcomed it. Why not? Why shouldn’t there be realms beyond my perception? My parents’ abiding love for each other had been a certainty I never doubted. And their too-short time together an injustice that suggested an indifferent universe. Could there be something more? I found comfort and invitation in the notion that some spirit or spark was with me in that canyon, and that perhaps love could endure beyond death and take form.
I was and am too much of a rationalist to have changed my core beliefs, or even my default settings, as a result of one unexplained flash in the desert. But, at some level, I was changed. I didn’t need a logical explanation for my experience. I saw that there is power in mystery, and had no need or desire to solve this one. I could allow for the possibility.
Logic and reason still prevail. I remain mostly skeptical of otherworldly claims. But I am willing to admit that there may be things beyond my ken, and that a world this beautiful and complex may have secrets it keeps for just those moments when we need them most.
Mysticism and spiritual phenomena have never interested me. They are completely outside my belief system. These are shadowy things that can’t be seen, touched, or tested. I didn’t think less of those who believed in such specters—call them God, Spirit, or supernatural interventions—I simply wasn’t one of them.
I was raised by atheists. My education—elementary school through college—was firmly grounded in logic and rationalism. I sought ideas based on reason, and knowledge that could be verified. Nothing “woo-woo” for me.
Thus, when I chose to go on a week-long wilderness quest for my fiftieth birthday, my husband and friends greeted my decision with incredulity. I was probably the very last person they would ever envision spending seven days of quiet reflection in the desert—not just any desert, but Death Valley.
It was a rite of passage that I thought would challenge me physically and perhaps show me that fifty was only a number, and not one to concern me. I prepared by reading about desert weather and terrain, about plants, animals, and insects I might encounter. My studies assured me that I was unlikely to encounter mountain lions or coyotes, and with caution and “harmonious intent,” I would likely not be bothered by the more prevalent rattlesnakes and scorpions. Undaunted, I bought sturdy hiking boots and a sleeping bag that would keep me warm in near-freezing night-time temperatures, plus a wide-brimmed hat to protect me from the scorching daytime sun. At my husband’s insistence, I equipped myself with a Swiss Army knife, though I wasn’t sure why and suspected that he would happily take it off my hands after my return. I eliminated sugar, coffee, and meat from my diet for a month to ease the impending transition to fasting.
Coincidentally—or perhaps not—all of the women who signed up for this adventure were my same approximate age, and each was marking a major life passage: death of a parent, kids out of the nest, or a landmark birthday. We, along with our two guides, would be spending three days together, then three days alone and fasting in the desert, and one final day together before returning to civilization.
Around the campfire that first evening, we bonded easily as we shared our reasons for being there, and laughed together at the surprising and twisted paths that had brought each of us to a circle of light deep in the Mojave Desert. Most told of a spiritual calling—a desire to commune with God or get in touch with something sacred. When it was my turn, I admitted that I was about to turn fifty and wanted to challenge myself physically. I’d never camped before, nor even backpacked; I wanted to prove to myself that I could do something strenuous and untried, and also overcome my fears of snakes and spiders. I told them I sought no spiritual or mystical experiences—that just wasn’t my nature.
Our guides were experienced outdoorswomen and also well-versed in indigenous cultures and sacred traditions. They shared their love and respect for the terrain and the inner work we would be doing, and they expressed a confidence in us we might not yet have discovered. While others asked our guides about spirit animals and totems, and how to summon the wisdom of their ancestors, my question—one fairly urgent by this time—was exactly how does one pee in the great outdoors?
Over the next two days, we spent time together learning to tie knots, to watch the sky for weather changes, and to recognize our own bodies’ rhythms. We also spent time alone, accustoming ourselves to solitude and marveling at the multitude of stars in the night sky. I thought about what I hoped to bring back from my sojourn, and perhaps what I hoped to leave behind when I returned from the desert. I was both with and without expectations and never so aware of paradox.
By the time we headed out for our solitary days in the desert, we were fully prepared. We knew how to erect a makeshift shelter with rope and a light tarp. We had been advised how to ration our water to last for three days. We were trained in the use of a snake-bite kit. On departure day, we left at dawn—a sleeping bag and pack on our backs, a gallon of water in each hand.
Mindful of warnings about the unlikely—but deadly—danger of flash floods, I hiked a mile or so into the desert and then climbed into a canyon where I found a sheltered spot that felt hospitable. High rock walls were my sentries, and boulders, scrubby bushes, and cacti were my furnishings. I found a relatively flat spot and stooped to brush the larger rocks from it before spreading my sleeping bag. This was to be my home for three days. Already, I felt held here. In the profound silence, I listened to the beating of my heart.
Our guides had recommended that we perform a ritual that first evening, after we made camp on the open ground. They suggested that as the sun goes down, we light a candle and take a moment to thank friends, family, and others who had supported us throughout our lives.
So it was that I lit a candle as darkness fell in my rocky canyon. Cold was also descending, and I welcomed the heat on my face as I bent toward the flame. I thought about my patient and understanding husband, my friends and work colleagues. I recalled my parents—my father dead for nearly forty years, my mother gone for a dozen. Their boundless love had been a model for my own marriage. I thanked them for the life they had given me and whispered that I hoped they would be proud of the woman I had become. I told them they hadn’t had nearly enough time together and that I wished somehow they could have found one another again after death.
The moment I spoke those words, my darkened canyon filled up with a burst of brilliant orange light. It illuminated the stone walls and the rocky ground. For an instant, night became day, bathed in a warm orange glow. I gasped at the sight and braced myself for the gigantic boom that must surely follow such an explosion of light. No sound came. Had it been lightening, a meteor? What would explain that orange light?
Once again in darkness, I pondered the light, seeking the rational explanation that undoubtedly awaited. I recalled sitting with friends at a bar in Jamaica, where people gathered each evening to watch a green flash on the horizon just as the sun sets. How interesting, I thought, here in the desert, the flash at sunset is orange, not green. I had my explanation—a perfectly plausible one—and thought no more about it.
Three days later, after returning from our sojourns and breaking our fasts with a hearty vegetable soup, the reunited group sat around a campfire and shared stories of our solitary time in the desert. The other women told of numinous dreams, revelatory insights, and otherworldly experiences. I described the strength I felt throughout the warm days and cold nights, the magnificent silence, the uninterrupted blue of the sky, the star-studded nights, and the peace that permeated me still. I mentioned the coincidence of the orange flash just as I had expressed a wish for my parents. I started to talk about the surprising ease of fasting for three days.
“Stop,” they said in near unison. Stop.
There’s no orange flash in the desert at sundown, they told me. Did I really think it was just a coincidence? No one else saw a great orange flash that first evening. Is it possible, they asked, that this was something more?
I sat there in the firelight. I sat with the idea that there might be something unexplainable, something beyond my understanding, perhaps beyond science. I entertained the possibility that I, too, may have had a mystical experience. And I found room for the idea. I even welcomed it. Why not? Why shouldn’t there be realms beyond my perception? My parents’ abiding love for each other had been a certainty I never doubted. And their too-short time together an injustice that suggested an indifferent universe. Could there be something more? I found comfort and invitation in the notion that some spirit or spark was with me in that canyon, and that perhaps love could endure beyond death and take form.
I was and am too much of a rationalist to have changed my core beliefs, or even my default settings, as a result of one unexplained flash in the desert. But, at some level, I was changed. I didn’t need a logical explanation for my experience. I saw that there is power in mystery, and had no need or desire to solve this one. I could allow for the possibility.
Logic and reason still prevail. I remain mostly skeptical of otherworldly claims. But I am willing to admit that there may be things beyond my ken, and that a world this beautiful and complex may have secrets it keeps for just those moments when we need them most.
About the Writer
Donna Cameron is the author of the award-winning book, A Year of Living Kindly. She considers herself an activist for kindness and civility, though admits to occasional lapses into bitchiness. Her articles and essays have been featured in The Washington Post, Seattle Times, and other publications. She lives in the Pacific Northwest.
Visit her website: ayearoflivingkindly.com Twitter: @DonnaJCameron Facebook author page: facebook.com/DonnaCameron.author/ |