The Majestic

What follows can be read as an extravagant thought experiment – a kind of poker gamble played in the realm of ideas. To take the wager, no belief is required. All I ask from readers is an open mind and a willingness to consider things in a different light. Can you do that?

The story begins one Memorial Day about ten years ago, on a journey down to California from Oregon. As a traveling researcher on a government project, I had been swamped with logical details and supervision of a multi state research team. I was worn out and needed rejuvenation before the next phase began.

Headed down Hwy 5, each kilometer takes you past another view of Mount Shasta. Shasta is a mountain of extravagant beauty and many moods. It dominates the landscape in Northern California and parts of Southern Oregon. You’re on the north side of the mountain, so there’s a lot of snow up there, but as you curve around toward the west, the ridges begin to peek out of the snow and subtle textures of rock appear.

Driving down into the valley, I saw a large alpine pastiche of pines, tilled fields and hillocks plopped down by one or more of Mount Shasta’s volcanic convulsions. I couldn’t help wondering what it was like when this mountain was emerging. It had such an imposing appearance, rising more than 10,000 feet above its base. It rose like a colossal cathedral spire at the head of the Central Valley, a dazzling devastating face whose after-image stayed burned on my consciousness like a dose of snow blindness. I noticed the little town of Weed and being dusk, decided to stop for the night and rest.

That night in my motel room, I dreamed of a great white pyramid of shimmering snow. In my dreams, I felt the tingling feeling of the wind on my cheeks even when there was no wind. Waking with the lingering memory, I decided to investigate the mountain’s allure.

Over coffee and a lumberjack breakfast in the two diner town, I read about the numerous mysterious legends that spoke of the significance of Mt. Shasta as a place of powerful earth energies. More than any other mountain in North America, Mt. Shasta is a focal point for contemporary spirituality, attracting individual seekers as well as a variety of religious groups.

The waitress had another take. “Everytime I turn around, I expect to find another ‘woo woo’ coming through here. Bunch of pod people.”

But she did rave about the other legendary place nearby, The Living Memorial Scultpure Garden and gave me a brochure. Set at the edge of the Valley northeast of Mt. Shasta, it was dedicated as a war memorial with larger than life metal sculptures depicting figures from a multitude of wars.

Too tired to climb a mountain that day, but intriqued by the idea of large sculptures in the desert below the mountain, I drove out there to see for myself. The father of my oldest daughter had been a L.E.R.P in Vietnam. Many of my lovers had been Vietnam vets. It was Memorial Day and I could pay homage with a little ritual to them if nothing else. Since I travel with a sage smudge (for cleansing hotel rooms) and candles among other assorted ritual tools in my suitcase, I brought those along too.

I drove out to the place marked on the map. The sculpture garden is high on the Modoc Plateau, twenty three miles from Weed. Somber, haunting and spiritual, the site had a surreal beauty. Fifty-eight thousand pines, a living memorial to the 58,000 American dead in Vietnam, also grace the site. Although it is dedicated to veterans of all conflicts, the site has been developed as a park for everyone.

There was only one other car there as I began to walk through the desert where the sculptures were placed. The only sound was two sets of wind chimes in the trees, softly ringing in the wind. Immediately, I felt a sense of timelessness.

Maybe it's because I'm Irish, and my Celtic heritage, with its belief in "thin places," has seeped into my imagination "Thin places" are those places where the everyday world and the realm of the divine meet, where the walls that we normally experience as solid, dividing one reality from the other, are permeable. They are places - or even the moments - where God leaks through, where the divine peeks in and waves at us. In these holy places, extraordinary things happen.It was hot and there was no wind, yet the chimes fluttered a sweet tune as I began to see the sculpture groupings.

Each of the ten larger-than-life-size metal sculptures depict the passions of war, portraying themes such as Those Left Behind, POW-MIA, The Nurses, The Refugees, and Coming Home.

They were arranged within walking distance of each other with the stark landscape and distant view of Mount Shasta as a backdrop. The series of huge metal sculptures, the beings, were beautiful, simple, arranged to memorialize the veterans in each war.

They evoked a powerful emotional sense of homage and peace and anguish of those for whom there was no homecoming.

I sat, with my ritual materials, beside The Nurses and cried - cried for the sheer horror of war and its violence against innocent persons and for those who try to muffle out faith and love.

The sun was blocked by clouds and the wind picked up. As the soft breeze dried my tears, I began a ritual of renewal. For me, for for the earth, for truth and beauty.

Just a simple ceremony, burning sage, calling in my guidance, the four directions, to heal the wages of war, to heal the destruction and the scorched-earth effects of globalization and to remember that another world is possible. I began to sing softly, my lone voice in homage to the beings and what they meant.

I felt at peace, and slowly rose up, standing below a grouping of three metal beings with their arms raised toward the mountain. Standing below them, I began to swing my arms too in a circle, from side to side in windmill fashion. My eyes swung with them, focusing on the mountain, then the beings, then the remote desert all around me.

Suddenly, a brilliant shaft of sun pierced the clouds. It illumined the statue and the bright beam traveled downwards into me. With it came a feeling of bliss, a sudden movement of energy up my spine, along the arms and shoulders, giving the sensation of lightning throughout my body. Wind blew across my face, just like the dream of the night before.

I stood paralyzed by such a feeling of love, an intensified understanding and sensitivity of love, and a deeper insight into direct knowing of so many dimensions. It was a transcendent state of joy. Indescribable really, it felt like liquid fire and liquid light. Far richer, deeper and body encompassing, and better than any orgasm I have ever had. I didn't want to come back and kept looking straight at the mountain in the distance, realizing its mystery had claimed me.

Every Memorial Day where ever I am, I remember the gift I received at the Memorial to those who never come home. It is my psyche that determines that this event revealed a deeper order of signficance, a resonant phenomena akin to turning a lock to a more conscious state. It was then and always will be, an event that was both numinous and inexplicable.