A true story of synchronicity, alchemy, past lives, mysticism, wizards & witches, spirits, love & loss.
In 1675, John Darling of Salem Village where the witch trails begin (now Danvers, Massachusetts)
purchased the lease of Monhegan island, Maine. He operated the first tavern and inn. His boats sailed between Salem, MA, Pemaquid and Monhegan Island, Maine where my journey
will begin and end.
Excerpt from A Secret Gathering : Prologue
She knelt down and began to unfold the leather bundles containing his flutes and sacred pipes. Her melancholic eyes looked like they wanted me to take the burden of these objects away from her. I said I was not Native American and certainly not a pipe carrier. The intensity of the moment swelled and felt like I was letting Standing Owl down by refusing to take his sacred objects, but I knew I needed to overcome this wave of feelings, as their rightful place was in the Native American community. I agreed only to take back the pipes I gave him on our last visit. My amateur Jungian interpretation of the dream was that I was the little boy, and the pipes were the toys I had left behind. The word “toy” was not being used in a disrespectful way, but rather the subconscious used the word “toy” as the image of something especially important to a child. I knew I had unfinished business with the pipes, and for some reason they brought me back to his caretaker. I asked if Standing Owl had told her the story of how we knew each other. She said he often mentioned me and shared a few things, but he never told her the whole story. She reached down into another box, unfurled a large crow feathered headdress with buffalo horns and handed it to me.
“He never told me he had this,” I said, falling into the rocking chair as if the feathers had the weight of an anchor in my lap.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, standing up, seeing that I was a little overwhelmed.
I looked down at the crow headdress and thought back to the day I wore a crow on my head. It wasn’t like the one Johnny Depp wore in the Lone Ranger movie, instead my crow was perched on an antique beaver skin top hat so it could examine the crowd that gathered before me on that special day on Monhegan Island in Maine.
“There is no quick way to tell you the story,” I said, placing the headdress between us on the table. “Just know I’m skipping over many things because this part of the journey took many, many years.” She walked back from the kitchen handing me a cup of tea in an owl mug. I really didn’t want to tell anyone what happened to me. Once you put a story like this out into the world, there is no way to take it back. No one is going to look at you the same way again. Your old life is gone. I was afraid I might find people camping out on my lawn thinking I was some sort of psychic or my family and friends would think I had gone plain mad if they hadn’t already. There is no doubt I was afraid of the consequences. During my talks with Standing Owl about my experiences, it became obvious to both of us that I would have to find a way to share this story–but that was the core of the problem. How to tell a story about learning an unwritten language that words fail to express, a language the alchemists refer to as The Language of the Birds? I took a sip of tea from the owl mug and began.
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