I wait for a few minutes. My hands are freezing. I shove them into the pockets of my leather jacket, but the pockets are cold. I look at the saddle that bridges between the two mountain peaks. The rich blue of the vast father sky is cradled by the saddle’s open arms. Deep corridors carve down the rocky face of the mountain. Rich veins of mother earth are exposed in crevices scored down the mountainside. A whip of wind brings me to attention.
In acupuncture, the traditional Chinese medical doctor seeks discovery of the varied aspects hidden in a single pulse. Is the pulse level strong and steady? Does the rhythm show decay? Is the pulse influenced by other factors in the body?
The Navajo medicine man knows of this rhythm and pulse. It is shared by the subtle song of red-tipped grey northern cardinal, the warble of the thick-billed kingbird or in the other tunes, sounds and stories that many creatures of Northern Arizona tell. It is also in the whisper of the wind coursing through pine needles of the Ponderosa and the slant of the morning sun that the story of interplay between mother earth and father sky is told.
If you listen deeply, time passes in subtle waves. The undulation is barely noticeable to my undeveloped ear. Yet, in each quiet moment in time, a certain shape and definition is given to the pulse of the day. It is the breath that rushes through our lungs. It is in the glow of the sun over the horizon. It is in the chatter of the Albert squirrel scampering up the orange bark. These are the simple signs of the cadence of mother earth’s heart. It’s the rhythm seen by father sky. The tempo is palpable to an open heart.
(c) 2017, Ron McFarland, All Rights Reserved