Everyone says otherwise. They drive me
Past a hospital in downtown Hartford
And say, up there, fourth floor. I say,
No, in a small artist co-op overlooking
Boynton Canyon Rock. No doctor, no drugs.
Just us and a midwife who knew
The Celestine Prophecy by heart.
They show me a certificate that says, baby girl, 4:17 pm, Mt. Sinai Hospital
And all the rest of the clichés I could have lived by.
All that first night my mother was my cradle
as I looked out at the acres of red
Rock, absorbing the Arizona sun which
Turned liquid red then dark orange into blue, cacti in the
Distance slowly enveloped by a cloak of navy, laying quietly
In the arms of a woman who hitchhiked cross
country to give birth
Because she was answering the call.
All night they meditated and prayed
My mother telling me names of
Crystals that sounded as strong and fierce as the women
Who wore them; Amazonite, Citrine, Adventurine.
One began to paint my portrait
in oils, a painting I have never
Seen but love, the way you cannot see your
Organs but you know that they are there. All around
Pottery wheels hummed, feet kept the rhythm, and the air smelled of burning white
Sage and amber. That morning she faced us both east
toward a wall of windows, where the sun was
Rising steadily behind miles of deep red rock, gently shaking me
Until my eyes opened into the awakening landscape
of a new day.
You wonder why I am impossible
And talk about things like spirit guides
And insisted on driving to Sedona alone, from Phoenix
To hike four miles in the rapidly cooling dusk to sit
At a vortex site and meditate, holding a heart carved
Of snowflake obsidian.
Why I burn sage to clean the house
And refuse to shower every day,
No matter who complains. Look into my eyes!
They were born gazing into the endless expanse of the Arizona desert,
Red mountains full of vortices where concentrated eternal energy
The rising sun changing the sky over those mountains, while that shock
Was immortalized by an artist whose
Name I never learned.
I told you before. I was born in Sedona.