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Vision Quest
By Nancy Blair Moon
In preparation for the transition marked by my 60th birthday, I Vision Quested near Death Valley. Virginia Satir, therapist and
teacher, said , "I never teach anyone anything they don't already know." Questing, I learned (again!) that what I already know is
true. (Do you spend your life re-learning that?)
So, I'm in the desert. We are on Bureau of Land Management land, an hour and a half from the last place to get drinking water.
There are no "Coke"cans here, or cigarette butts. Just miles and miles of sand and a full circle of mountains on the horizon.
And sky. Very blue sky.
Our guide, veteran of fifty such trips, says the desert always supports the inner work we come here to do. The animals
watch us carefully but do not interfere. Even the rattlesnake goes its own way and stays out of ours if we use common sense.
Still, she points out, "It costs the desert a lot" for us to be here. I can see that it does. Already my footprints are everywhere.
The first morning is cold, but by midday it will be 95 degrees, and without shelter the sun poses real danger. There are
only some rocks, a few creosote bushes—the biggest 3 or 4 feet tall, and brittle. I unpack the tarp from my backpack, dig
around for the nylon rope, and a knife to cut it. (Have another drink—three quarts a day, minimum) I look around.
I find a large rock. It could anchor the rope holding one edge of my tarp. So I talk to the rock. I say, gratefully, "Rock, I'm
glad to see you. Would you help me hold up my tarp? I'll have to move you, but if you are willing, I will appreciate it very much."
(At this point, truthfully, I'm better at talking to the rock than I am at understanding its response. But I trust myself. It makes a
difference that I have addressed the rock at all, and that I have asked permission. Sometimes I say to the Mystery, "If you don't
want me to do this, you'll have to let me know.") And I see a creosote bush a little larger and less brittle than some. "Bush, may
I tie my rope to one of your branches to hold my tarp? Thank you!"
In the desert it is (relatively) easy to talk to the rock and bush, to see that I am utterly dependent on them, that I need them,
that we share this place. It is easy to be grateful for water when the nearest source of it is miles away and I must have water.
Easy to see the perfection of time stretching through its cycles, slowing down.
Back home, I use the tap without thinking, find it impossible to make the connection between plastic and its source, and
awakened one morning to realize (for the first time, really) that trees gave their lives so that I might have shelter in my home.
(I doubt anyone asked them whethe rthey chose to help in that way.) It's so easy to forget!
Seeking vision on some grand spiritual scale, I returned with tender feelings for this bush and that rock.
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