Looking For Peace In A Mosque

by Cinelle Ariola Barnes

I had been struggling with my prayer life, figuring out where and how I could have some peace and quiet in the Big Apple. I tried to petition and call on God, but the words wouldn't come. I wondered, “If a city never sleeps, how does it ever dream? How do its people ever come to a solemn state of rest?” My father, a Christian of no particular denomination, suggested I visit a mosque and learn from the Muslims. 

“Watch them pray,” he said, “Their discipline and devotion is admirable. Watching them pray at the exact same time every day was one of my favorite things about living in the Middle East.”

I say I am a well-traveled Filipina, but that only means I have made countless layovers on flights to and from New York. The most traveling that I have ever done is through reading books, therefore I have great expectations of places I have yet to see. I hear “India” and I think saris in vibrant colors, citrus rinds covering a plate of curry, or yogis in lotus position. I hear “Rio de Janeiro” and I think futbol, futbol, futbol!

When I hear the word “mosque,” a flipbook of ideas, images, sounds, and even smells pop into my head. I let my mind cruise through this Rolodex as I sit in the Pelham-bound 6 train. Here I am, a young Protestant raised in a Catholic country, managing all the thoughts sweeping through my head as I near the New York Mosque. I straighten my spine and fix my hair as I get off the train, forcing myself to be, or seem to be, more reverent than I usually am. 

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My Spiritual Journey

by Margie Goldsmith                                                                       

A year ago, I met Belen Stoneman, a Native American from the Akimel O’otham of the Hohokum tribe. She was a spa therapist and resident “healer.” at the Sheraton Wild Horse Pass Resort & Spa in Chandler, Arizona, and happened to be at a spa event in New York. As I walked by, she stared at my beaded moccasin boots, which look as though they were made on a reservation, but are actually from New York. “I like your boots,” she smiled.

Belen at Aji Mountain“And I like your necklace,” I answered, admiring the chunky turquoise strands almost hidden by black hair cascading priestess-like down her shoulders. She was in her late forties, olive skin, dark eyes, about 5/4’, and wore a long flowered skirt. I’d been told she was a clairvoyant.  “Would you like a reading?” Belen asked

One of my college professors had told me I was psychic, a gift, he said, I should develop in a positive way. I hadn’t been aware of such a talent nor did I know to tap into it. Years later, a cigar-smoking Shaman on the Amazon River told me I had special powers. I almost believed him, until he told the next person in line exactly the same thing.

Belen indicated I should sit on a stool.  How would she do the reading? Animal cards?  Feathers?  She picked up a pen and sheet of paper, closed her eyes, and moved the pen around the paper as if in a trance, drawing squiggly circles, star shapes, and curlicues.  She opened her eyes, studied the design, and said, “I have a spiritual guide named White Cloud. He directs me and sends me messages. White Cloud says you can see things other people can’t. White Cloud says we played together as children.”

I felt a small tingle. Did that mean that in a former life – if there was such a thing – I was Native American?  Is that why I always rooted for the Indians and not the cowboys?

“White Cloud says you are very comfortable in the mountains,” she continued.

“I love mountains,” I said.

“My people lived in the mountains, and the spirits of my ancestors still live there.”

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New Life in the Yucatan

words + photos by Suzanne Marriott

When my husband, Michael, died on January 1^st, 2006, I felt as if I had died, too. The light went out of my life. It was as if I were a candle and he were the flame, and his last breath had blown out that flame and left me alone in the dark. 

Yet, for some reason unfathomable to me, my life went on, though I saw no reason why it should. No longer able to make sense of my world, I began to rely more and more on my intuition.

A little over a year after his death, in March of 2007, I was sitting on my living room couch, reading my copy of Spirituality&Health magazine. Suddenly, an announcement for a workshop on travel writing jumped off the page. I’d always loved to write and to travel, and here was a way I could do both. The workshop was to be held in the beautiful but “undiscovered” southern Yucatan peninsula in Mexico near Belize. There was no reason in the world why I shouldn’t go, I thought to myself. Did I dare? Did I have the energy? Probably not, I decided. This was crazy.

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The Black Virgin of Rocamadour

words + photos by Elyn Aviva

She called to me just as I was falling asleep, exhausted from too much travel. We had had a long, twisting drive to reach her sanctuary, perched on the side of a sheer bluff in the Lot region in southwestern France. My husband, Gary, and I had gone to bed early, around 9:30 p.m., too tired to enjoy a night stroll through the tiny medieval village of Rocamadour, which sheltered her chapel.

I was almost asleep when I heard her loud and clear, as if she were standing next to me. “Get up!” she commanded. “Come visit me in my sanctuary! That’s what you’re here for!”

I groaned. I was tired. Besides, I’d already visited the Black Virgin of Rocamadour in her sanctuary just a few hours earlier, right after we had arrived, because we’d been told her chapel would close at 7:30 pm.

I turned to Gary, lying next to me in bed. “She’s calling me.”

“What?” He mumbled.

“The Lady is calling me to visit her. You want to come?”

He muttered something. Then, “You go ahead.”

Suddenly energized, I sprang out of bed and got dressed. After all, when the Goddess calls you, you have to go. I knocked at the room next door where our friend Anne was staying. I knocked again, louder. After a few minutes she opened the door, looking sleepy.

“The Black Virgin is calling me to go to her. Want to come?”

She nodded. “Give me a minute.”

Soon we were on a night-time pilgrimage to the Goddess, walking through the silent, deserted streets, climbing the 223 steps of the Grand Staircase that lead up to her cliff-side sanctuary. We followed the Rue de la Mercerie to a small square, the Parvis de St-Amadour, center of the holy precinct. Then we walked up to the upper landing and stood in front of the chapel doors. They were locked.

I shook my head, disappointed. “I know we were told the sanctuary would be closed, but I’m sure the Black Virgin told me to come and see her.” Maybe it had just been a daydream, I thought, or a moment of confusion as I drifted off to sleep….

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The Camino de Santiago: An Inner and Outer Journey

by Elyn Aviva

I first heard about the Camino de Santiago in 1981 from my friend Michael, when I was looking for a topic for my Ph.D. in cultural anthropology. Michael idly mentioned there had been an important medieval pilgrimage road in Spain and suggested I look for it—I might find its art and architecture of some interest.

In the summer of 1981 I arrived in Spain, still looking for a topic for anthropological fieldwork. I ended up in Sahagún, a small town in the north-central province of León, where I stayed at the Benedictine nuns’ guesthouse.

photo by victor_nuno via flickr (common license)

I didn’t have to look for the Camino de Santiago—it found me. Sahagún was on the pilgrimage road. Pilgrims came to the door of the guesthouse, passport-size pilgrimage credentials in their outstretched hands, seeking shelter for the night. The Benedictinas, observing millennium-old customs of hospitality, gave them a place to sleep and food to eat. I realized that the Camino wasn’t an historic artifact—pilgrims were still walking it.

I was fascinated by these pilgrims and soon captivated by the Camino. I learned that it stretched 500 miles across northern Spain, from the Pyrenees in the east to Santiago de Compostela in the west, the purported burial place of St. James the Greater, the first martyred apostle. The pilgrimage had begun after the rediscovery of the tomb in the 800s.

As in a vision, I saw before me a grand panorama of people in movement, spanning the centuries, traveling across the outer landscape of Europe, traveling through the inner landscape of the soul. I had found my research topic. I knew I had to walk the Camino.

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Embracing Mercury Retrograde

by Marlan Warren

I have decided to celebrate the end of every Mercury Retrograde. And might I suggest you do the same?

What is “Mercury retrograde”?

Astrologers say the planet Mercury rules communication and transportation. They call a planet “retrograde” when it gives the illusion that it’s moving backward through the zodiac. Mercury’s retrograde can negatively affect attempts to communicate or travel; appointments; contracts; mail; and Internet. It’s said to be the worst time to sign a contract, start a love affair or new job. It lasts three weeks. More or less.

Mercury Retrograde (MR) happens approximately every three months, three or four times a year. In 2009, we got hit four times. This year, we have only three to look forward to.

When I first left home, I moved into a Boston house with some astrologers. From time to time, they’d call out, “Mercury is retrograde! Nobody can communicate!” I saw them as Cosmic Chicken Littles.  I thought they were a scream.

I started paying attention after my father died at the end of ’84 during an MR. His heart acted up during a trip in an RV with his wife, and he passed away days later in a Florida hospital.  I woke up to a Voice Mail from my brother saying, “Dad’s brain waves have stopped.” Dad’s siblings noted it was “inconvenient” to have a funeral so close to Christmas, and put it off till January. I was in L.A., editing the last film project I had to do, getting ready for finals at USC.  I heard later that Dad’s sister attended a December memorial service that my stepmom hosted, and took the Rabbi aside, asking him not to “say anything Jewish” because the friends attending were Gentiles.

I have only two words for them: “Mercury Retrograde.”

To travel or not to travel?

My friends who travel refuse to put much stock into my Cosmic Chicken Little warnings. “Well, I have to go,” they say. “So I’m going.” Afterward, they laugh as they give details of what went wrong. Usually nothing major. Lost luggage. Delayed flights. A basic pain in the Cosmic-Keester. But do-able.

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