FATHER
of the
AGE of REALITY
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FATHER |
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CHAPTER TWELVE San Damiano Chronicles |
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SAN DAMIANO |
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SAN DAMIANO It was sometime around the end of 1983, and while I was still working at UNM, that I had a phone call from a friend of mine living on the east side of the Sandia Mountains. Ken Stegemiller was looking at some vacant land in a subdivision just south of where he was presently living. He wanted me to take a look at this prospective piece of property and give him my professional opinion as a licensed contractor as to whether I thought it might be a desirable location for the construction of a new subdivision. On the very next Monday I went to the real estate office of Dick Holben, the realtor who was overseeing the development and sales of this new subdivision known as Sierra Vista South. I guess my voice must have carried a bit when I was talking with Dick, because there came the voice of a woman inquiring, “Is that the voice of Joe Walker I hear? This is Liz McGuire, do you remember me?” Liz had dated and married one of my ATΩ fraternity brothers, Don McGuire, from the University of New Mexico. It never ceases to amaze me just how small this world is. Even more interesting is the fact that Don and Liz McGuire eventually bought one of the lots in this same subdivision and became one of my neighbors just across Sierra Vista at the top of Boulder Lane. While inquiring of Dick Holben as to the availability of a plat, I specifically asked whether there were any lots available in the range of five acres, and he said that there was one that was 4.6 acres. I decided that 4.6 was close enough to five acres and I had Dick point it our on the subdivision plat. I left his office on Route 14, better know as the Turquoise Trail, located not too far from the targeted subdivision. I was able to reach the subdivision by driving eastwardly up a rather steep and winding road named Sangre de Cristo, where I first proceeded to survey the lot that Ken had inquired about. It only required the most minimal amount of time before I quickly decided that it was quite acceptable for meeting his personal requirements. I was sure that at the top of his list of principal concerns was the existing rough terrain, as this geography can be rather severe in places, being in the immediate foothills of the Sandia Mountains. The vegetation was principally that of alligator juniper, piñon, and scrub oak, along with a good variety of rather exciting wildflowers, cactus and indigenous herbs. With some excited anticipation and enthusiasm I immediately visited that larger lot suggested to me by Dick. As soon as I walked on the property, I experienced the most unexpected and spine-chilling feeling that I was walking on spiritually consecrated ground, and I almost immediately and intuitively proclaimed that this bit of rough and rocky terrain as “a place of healing.” I was drawn to and proceeded to the very rear of the property, and there discovered a majestic view that rather took me by surprise, since this lot was notably situated not only at the end of the subdivision, but most conspicuously at its lowest elevation. I suspect that this most exceptional and totally unexpectedly views of the Sandia Mountain and good location had been unintentionally overlooked simply because it wasn’t amongst those “top-of-the-pile” lots that usually occupied the higher elevations in most any mountainous subdivision--lined along a dramatic ridge of brightly-colored and lichen-incrusted boulders and rocks with a spectacular view of the most southern portion of the Sandia Mountains. Also visible from many of these lots is Tijeras Canyon at a noticeably lower elevation, wherein Interstate 40 runs east and west. This beautiful and rather dramatic canyon serves to divide the Sandia Mountains from the Manzano Mountains that lie just to the south and could also be seen from the rear of the property I was surveying. As I continued exploring to the very end of this unusual piece of property as I could best estimate it from viewing the plat, I came upon a most intriguing rock formation. It was essentially flat on top and with a partially exposed underbelly on its westerly side. It was situated just about 10 feet back from the edge of that dramatic rocky-cliff formations, and it had an old piñon tree growing out of the rocks between it and the edge of the cliff. The positioning of the old piñon tree would have easily shaded this interesting rock from the hot, western setting sun. This rock formation was larger than a standard-sized card table and had a distinctive indentation close to its upper center, where I could easily ascertain that rainwater had obviously been collected and remained for probably no more than a day or two during infrequent periods of precipitation. The instantaneous feeling that came over me upon discovering this rather awe-inspiring site was that this rock had probably been sat upon, most imaginably by a Native American, as a place where they might have sat in deep contemplation and had most likely done so repeatedly. I readily and without any cognitive thought or hesitation designated this rather unique site as “Meditation Rock.” The initial discovery of this rock was one of those unique experiences that began to signal my inner psyche that this particular piece of property was indeed destined to become an integral part of my already intriguing and then questionable future. Returning from this lower psychically powerful and spiritual portion of the land, I had the strangest thought come to mind: “even though I may never own this place, I will certainly become its consummate and faithful caretaker.” The word “caretaker” had a certain ominous feeling of burden and in some small respect diminished some of those initial feeling of such psychic elation. But the whole experience was definitely mystical, and I pretty much decided right then and there that I was going to be living on this sacred ground, probably for the rest of my natural life. Just to confirm the unusual and unexpected veracity of these totally unanticipated yet very certainly inspirational feelings, I immediately called my niece, Julie Good, who had moved to Albuquerque to attend the University of New Mexico. The very next day I brought Julie out to Cedar Crest to inspect the property and, as was probably and hopefully expected, she had warmly confirmed my unusual feelings about this most spiritual as well as the healing nature of this most wonderful piece of land that was serendipitously discovered. That Tuesday evening I called Dick Holben to inquire the price of the land, and upon hearing its already estimated modest cost of some $45,000, I further inquired as to whether the developers would possibly entertain an offer. Dick was professionally adamant in his opinion that the prices set on the various lots were considered rather firm. The very next day I presented Dick with an offer, despite his cautions, that was some $5,000 less than that “firm” original asking price, and got his added firm reassurance that the developers would not be likely to accept any offers below those already established. I instructed Dick to make the offer in any case. I was intuitively confidant that if this land was truly to be part of my future, that they wouldn’t hesitate to accept the offer. The very next morning Dick gave me a call and, with a surprisingly astonished tone, informed me that the developers had indeed accepted my initial offer and did so without any counter-offer or the usual wavering for some reasonable compromise. Just ask me if I was at all surprised at this speedy acceptance? We closed on the property that very Friday, and the die was then duly cast as to the yet unforeseen future of this enchanting place that was to become my most beloved and cherished San Damiano. For just short of two years following the most inspired and a impromptu purchase of the sacred ground, I regularly meditated on what I had come to call Meditation Rock, planted some fruit trees and a rather large number of tulip bulbs, and waited patiently for this magical land to speak to my inner consciousness and instruct me as to its particular needs. I knew that when the time was right I would be inspired as to what kind of structure this land would dictate and support. During the end of my short tenure with the University of New Mexico I had a week’s vacation, which I had planned on using to visit with a good friend of mine that had recently moved to Colorado Springs. His name was Farron Hurst, and we had first met at the University of Oklahoma when we were both enrolled as doctoral students. I had taken a pad of paper with me to scratch on, should I have any ideas pop into my head about the future of San Damiano. It was upon retiring the second night of my visit that I instantaneously set up in bed and within seconds roughed out a sketch of the basic structural design for the residence that now exists on this sacred land. I got up the very next morning and cheerfully announced to Farron and his partner that I was immediately returning home to Albuquerque to ascertain if this bit of inspirational and instantaneous design for a structure was going to actually fit, and just where it would be aptly situated on the bit of land that I had been patiently meditating on for so many months. I left Colorado Springs first thing that morning, drove straight to Cedar Crest, and enthusiastically walked off my initially proposed measurements. It was almost as I had initially envisioned it with only one minor exception; the proposed side entrance to the garages was an obvious structural impossibility since there was an estimated 23-foot drop from one corner of the house to the opposite. But the remainder of the projected structure and basic internal designed remained entirely intact, just as it had been so instantaneously designed in those few brief seconds of what could be considered pure inspiration. Within just a few months I had managed to locate a qualified draftsperson, Laura Sanchez of Las Lunas, New Mexico, to actually draw the working plans. Had I not been so preoccupied with my psychopathology position at UNM, I would have drawn the working plans myself. This kind and appropriately sensitive lady was very excited about the unusual nature of this project, and within just a few weeks I had the working drawings completed and was beginning to get rather excited about initiating the actual construction. At just about this time I voluntarily but unwontedly departed my psychotherapy position with the University, mostly due to some of those usual political matters that seemed far less important at that particular time than the exhilarating prospect of actually creating my beloved San Damiano. With my time-consuming job clearly out of the picture, I focused my full attentions on the exciting future of San Damiano. The permit for the construction of the residence was for a total of some 7,200 square feet of roofed construction. This sounded like an enormously extensive project that was probably far beyond my then financial ability at that time, but I was quite confident that there was some good reason that the universe had handed me this large and unforeseen project. It was on February 20, 1985 that I finally obtained the County of Bernalillo building permit for this truly monumental project that I was about to undertake. If someone had taken the time to seriously question me on just how I thought that I was going to be able to afford such an undertaking, I’m confident I would have simply said something to the effect of, “This project is simply meant to be!” I have always maintained this rather adamant sentiment that if plans are thoughtfully laid out with the specific input and intentions of that invisible universe, the execution to fruition is an immutable given. My mother always proclaimed in the context of her own brand of fundamental Christian upbringing, “The Lord will provide.” I would possibly add to my mother’s often-stated contention that “the Lord will more likely help those who display the ability to help themselves.” I had usually achieved anything that I had set my mind to, and even though I didn’t have all of the apparent financial means readily available for such an overwhelming and extensive undertaking, nor the desire or justification to possibly acquire the necessary financing, I was still confident that I could easily employ my own labor and skills to make up any of those unforeseen minor deficits. Of course, there was nothing “minor” about any portion of this undertaking, especially since my name wasn’t likened to that of a Vanderbilt or Rockefeller. There was hardly any stage of this building project that wasn’t accompanied by some significant degree of totally unsolicited abatements, and this often repeated as well as indispensable phenomena manifested itself from the very beginning, starting with that considerably lower than original asking price for the land itself. In contrast to its frugal beginnings, San Damiano today enjoys that grand opulent appearance along with all those necessarily interior amenities that would aptly qualify it as one of those featured homes in a design magazine like that of Architectural Digest, except that the home wasn’t actually designed by an excessively expensive AIA-registered architect. The design is entirely unique unto itself. Even the physical placement of the residence on the property reflects a recognized Frank Lloyd Wright credo of creating a pleasing and complimentary interplay between the home’s natural environment and the actual structure itself. For a lack of any specifically recognized scheme to the overall architectural design, I usually retort with the word “eclectic” when friends query as to its overall rather unique architectural theme. San Damiano also reflects my own spiritual and personal nature of trust and openness to all peoples and ideas. Most noticeable of the residence’s inner design features is that there are intentionally no doors that would in any way interfere with the free flow of human activity except where absolutely necessary, for example the dark-room and the sauna. Most storage areas likewise have the necessary closures simply to hide the usual clutter, as these rooms are not designed for any human habitation! I had intentionally added a door to the one toilet-enclosure in the guest powder room for those rightfully sensitive day-guests, mostly women that just aren’t disposed to sharing my own liberal degree of openness. And when asked about privacy, I consistently suggest and kindly offer to my various visitors the repartee that, “privacy, after all is said and done, is really just a matter of respect.” On the more personal/romantic level, I further suggest that, “I will never lock you out nor ever hope to lock you in. You are entirely free to come and go as you will.” I point out to visitors that the intentional architectural design of entries and hallways to those traditionally private areas more than adequately provide sufficient privacy without traditional placements of those more securable physical barriers—doors being perhaps the most noticeable implement of choice. It was just about midsummer, when the footings and foundations of the San Damiano residence were nearing their completion, that I was enthusiastically introduced to a gentleman, Terry Brown. It was a very close and loving life-long friends of mine, Richard and Anne Whiteside, made the initial introduction. Richard was another New Mexico ATΩ fraternity brother and Anne had been one of those more caring female friends who had always wanted to be the one to introduce me to that special woman before I had eventually come out of that notorious gay closet. Terry Brown had previously served in the U.S. Navy with Richard and had only recently moved to the Albuquerque area from Washington, D.C., where he had been serving as a drug related detective with the Washington D.C. Police Department. One of Terry’s foremost attractions to this Land of Enchantment was his total intrigue with and popular romantic ideation of the Native Americans in this particular region of the United States, and that intriguing spiritual milieu for which New Mexico is so well known. We became romantically involved almost immediately after being introduced by the Whitesides, and Terry actually pitched in and helped with the construction of the house with the exception of a few short trips back to the D.C. area. Terry was also most helpful in a financial sense, in that he had arrived in New Mexico with a bit of a financial estate derived from the sale of his residence in Washington. He was more than generous with his loaned monies, for which I maintained good records with the full intention of eventually repaying any and all of his generous investments. Almost as soon as the residence was finished it became a popular meeting place for all sorts of activities, principally those activities that were aimed at the new disease that first most affected the gay men community. This was a natural thing to occur, since I had considered this piece of sacred land as “a place of healing.” Besides providing all sorts of physical support for the gay community, I naturally saw it as a center for spiritual healing and enhancement. It was this spiritual perception of San Damiano that gave rise to one of the more persistent and annoying conflicts that Terry and I had experienced. Terry had desperately wanted to employ the residence for some of his own personal interpretation of Native Indian ceremonies. Terry had gotten himself involved with the local and popular Native culture and had even gone so far as to purchase his own medicine bag from a local crystal shop. He tried to get me involved with this Native American passion of his, and my response was consistently, “this is not your thing. You should practice your own white man's medicine. You’re just not one of these American natives!” I had felt as though Terry was very possibly intruding on sacred practices of these Native Indians that a “white man” had no intrinsic right to trespass. There is nothing particularly significant to the order of certain events that took place while I was serving as a psychotherapist at UNM, first as a volunteer and then as a half-time paid staff member (even though I was continually carrying the largest caseload and putting in more than the usual 40 hours). It was during this period of professional employment that I connected with one of the medical staff members, Dr. Ellen Raimer. We both shared a very altruistic and humanistic approach to our respective professions. She had even served for a brief period in the Peace Corps in Africa as a medical doctor. Ellen dragged me off to the Sandia Mountains one weekend and insisted that I hike with her up to a “very special spot.” I’ve never been all that excited about hiking, but because she had become such a special and loyal friend, I went along with her request. The spot that she wanted to show me was just short of the top of a particular portion of the southern end of the Sandia Mountains, and it turned out to be an actively flowing spring that fed a small creek and finally ran east all the way to the bottom of the mountain. This small creek was passed several times on our hike to the spring that had fed it. It was particularly peaceful and serene, and after getting there I was grateful for having taken Ellen’s rather strong recommendation. I usually avoided any form of exercise that taxed my feet due to the fact that I suffer from gout. At that time, I had no idea that this adventurous outing in the wilderness of the Sandia Mountains would later be such an integral and mystical part of this San Damiano tale. Early on during my UNM tenure, I met another gentleman working for UNM in the student personnel area, John Crampton. One evening he gave me a call at my Chelwood Park apartment and suggested that we watch a video that he thought I would particularly enjoy. It was a film directed by Franco Zeffirelli that was entitled, Brother Sun, Sister Moon. The film focused on the early years of Saint Francis of Assisi, who had sought a truly unique communion with the natural world by renouncing his family’s riches in order to seek his own destiny unencumbered by all those material possessions. Francesco (French for Francis) was, in a sense, history’s first Christian “drop-out”; he left a life of opulent comfort to seek a spiritual union with the world at large. Many Catholics very sincerely claim that Saint Francis probably came the closest to living the actual life of Jesus. It was somewhere in the middle of this film that some of Francis’ friends inquired as to where ‘Francesco’ had disappeared to following his untimely return from the Crusades, and the resounding answer was, “San Damiano.” San Damiano was the name of a church that had been abandoned and was in serious ruin. San Damiano is also the Italian name for Saint Damian, who, along with his twin brother, Saint Cosmos, were both canonized in the Eastern Church as patron saints of physicians. They were both crucified around the 3rd Century for having “given away” (in the spirit of Christian charity--agape) their medical services to anyone in need, which apparently had offended the officials of the eastern Roman Empire; (most likely other doctors like the doctors of today in the AMA that often put restrictions on medical practices that would interfere with their own unique brand of the greed for money). I was so taken with the spoken melodic sound of San Damiano that I instantly proclaimed at that very moment that if I were ever to have a home of my own, it would be called “San Damiano!” And speaking of this sacred place of healing, when you first cross the threshold of the San Damiano residence, there are three recessed glass-covered cases prominently placed in the brick wall. One of these embedded glass-covered cases, the largest one that is situated in the center of the brick-veneered wall surrounding the fireplace on the opposite side, contains a large Bear Kachina, carved and decorated in what is often considered the Navajo style. The oldest Kachinas are usually all wood, painted in pastel colors and carved in a style that was established by the Hopi Indians. The Navajo, on the other hand, often decorated their carved images with real feathers, leather, and sometimes silver and turquoise jewelry to further enhance the carved images. Kachinas are too often mistaken to represent gods; they are carved images representing participants in many of the ceremonial dances of the Pueblo Indians. Traditionally the dancers themselves most often carve these Kachinas in order to visually represent some vital lesson about life, not too unlike the Greek gods of old (i.e.: Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, Ect.). For example, one of the lessons accompanying the Bear Kachina is survival. A child is instructed that should they ever become lost in the wilderness and happen upon a bear; they should follow that bear, of course, at a safe distance. These wild bears must drink water every day, and man can also eat whatever the bear eats. In other words, if one follows and imitates a bear in the wild, they are far more apt to survive the wilderness nature. Shortly after I had moved into the nearly completed home in the late spring of 1986, I had paid a visit to The Turquoise Lady, a popular Southwestern specialty shop that occupied a space in what is so well-known as the Old Town Plaza of Albuquerque. This shop specialized in the sale of authentic, Native-crafts and mostly carved Kachinas. The proprietor of the shop was a very kind lady by the name of Cathren Harris. I asked Cathren which of the Kachinas most represented the art of healing, and she proceeded to instruct me that there were essentially three principal characters that were each considered the “healers:” the Badger the Owl and the Bear. I later learned that some Pueblo Indians also consider the Mountain Ram as having healing powers, but I have not confirmed that to be factual as of yet. I quickly decided from all that I was told by Cathren that the White Bear, known by its Indian name as the Hon, was my Kachina of choice for some intuitive reason, and Cathren Harris then suggested that I might seriously consider purchasing one that had been carved by a member of the Jemez Pueblo named Johnny Burgess. She said that she had some good examples of his craftsmanship upstairs, and proceeded to take me up these steep and old wooden stairs to a sort of a work area as well as a storage room. She actually had about six unusually large, beautifully carved cottonwood Kachinas, all appropriately decorated in the Navajo style with feathers and some silver and turquoise jewelry. They had all been previously commissioned by and were being held for a later delivery date for a northern New Mexico rancher, Albert Mitchell. Mr. Mitchell had special-ordered these Kachinas to be used as trophies at that year’s New Mexico State Fair rodeo. She cautiously added that it might be some time before Johnny Burgess would be making any additional Kachinas, as he had recently become quite preoccupied with the politics of the Jemez Pueblo. In any case, I had decided then and there that this healing Bear Kachina was just what this Medicine Man of San Damiano had intuitively ordered, and I prepared myself for that unspecified wait. Several months passed, and I eventually received a phone call from Cathren Harris asking whether I still had an interest in purchasing that Bear Kachina carved by Johnny Burgess. I didn’t hesitate to say, “You bet!” and immediately headed off for the Old Town Plaza to give her a modest deposit until I could come up with the full purchase price of $700. When I arrived, she proceeded to tell me the rest of the story. It seemed that shortly after she had initially shown me those Kachinas that had been sold to Albert Mitchell, there was a most tragic turn of events. Mr. Mitchell and one of his sons were flying down to Albuquerque specifically to retrieve the Kachinas. They were making this trip in their own private airplane when it crashed, killing both of them. Cathren waited for three or four months, what she had considered a respectable period of time, and when there was no apparent effort made by the surviving Mitchell family to retrieve the order, she decided to go ahead and let me have that original Bear Kachina, if I still wanted it. I thanked Cathren for having so graciously remembered that I specifically wanted to acquire that particular Bear, and I gave her my deposit with the stated assurance that I would have the remainder in very short order. It was within a week that I gathered the remainder due on the Bear Kachina and anxiously headed for Old Town. When I entered the shop, Cathren told me that Albert Mitchell’s wife had actually showed up in the meantime and picked up the initial order. Cathren explained that she had told Mitchell’s widow that she had no idea if the order was ever to be honored, and took it upon herself to sell one of the Kachinas to a gentleman that was particularly interested in having a Bear Kachina carved by Johnny Burgess. That most kind widow gave her after-the-fact approval and said that it presented absolutely no problem to her surviving family; she was only honoring her husband’s prior commitments, and the rodeo for which the Kachinas were initially intended had long since passed. I later learned that the widow died of cancer about six months after her husband. These very strange circumstances surrounding my ultimate acquisition of one of Johnny Burgess’ Bear Kachinas gave me serious pause, and it all mysteriously added to and reconfirmed for me that San Damiano was indeed “a mystical place of healing” that had a mind and direction of its own, and that I was, after all was said and done, only that consummate “caretaker” that I had once imagined and very possibly recipient of the healing spirit of that Bear Kachina. Meanwhile, back at San Damiano, I had met a new potential romantic partner. He was a younger man that I had met through a personal ad that I had placed in what was then known as the “Pink Pages” of the Advocate, a gay rag sheet that was published in California and distributed to the gay community throughout the United States. Michael Castillion, who was residing in Key West, Florida at the time, responded to my ad. The geography of this response was rather convenient at that particular time, because my mother was visiting with my sister and wanted me to come to Fort Lauderdale to drive a car back to New Mexico for her. I made my courtesy visit to my sister’s, and upon departing drove down to Key West to pick up Michael and bring him back to New Mexico. It was pretty obvious from the beginning that Michael and I weren’t going to be a love-match. First off he smoked cigarettes, which he had not initially disclosed. I simply don’t like smoking, which was amongst a few other traits that Michael likewise failed to have disclosed! In any case, we did become exceptionally good friends, and he had, after all, really wanted to get away from that wilder gay lifestyle present in Key West and make a new start of things. It was one of those warm evenings in 1986 that I had, out of the blue, suggested to Michael that we might have a séance and make an earnest attempt to “contact” the strange entity that I felt was such an integral part of San Damiano from the very first time that I had set foot on its sacred ground. I suggested a séance for two specific reasons: First, my maternal grandmother, Jessie Eugenia Slaughter Little, had become involved in spiritualism when I was just a young child, and I had actually been to some of these Spiritualist séances quite early in my life. In fact, I had even attended a rather popular and well-known Spiritualist camp on Cassadaga Lake in Chautauqua County, New York known as Lily Dale when I was just 11 years old. So this idea of contacting departed spirits wasn’t at all foreign to me, even thought I am quite confident that the actual presence of a disembodied spirit is highly unlikely given the state of our current scientific knowledge. I do contend that there is some form of genetic memory that exists somewhere within those enormously elongated strands of the human DNA. When scientists finally unravel the full extent to which our DNA is a universal memory bank, they will likely discover a recorded history that extends far back into our mutually unique and shared existence and history, very possibly even before the introduction of the human being, as we all know it today. Secondly, Michael had been born and spent many of his early years in New Orleans, and we are all likely familiar with that most integral part of these Cajuns’ indigenous religious culture that certainly possesses a strong and intensely “departed spirits” ideology. Need I add anymore? It was early in the evening after the sun had fully set, leaving the house quite dark on s moonless night. San Damiano lies in an area where the lights of Albuquerque are blocked by the Sandia Mountains, and our particular subdivision has no annoying streetlights, permitting the night skies to be lit only by the moon and that marvelous multitude of stars. I placed one of my Navajo rugs in front of one of the three glass sliding doors in the large and then mostly empty grand room. The three adjacent doors were angled slightly from each other so that one looked out to the southeast (sort of in the direction of that discovered Meditation Rock), the central one faced directly south, and the remaining one looked in a southwestern direction. The Navajo rug was randomly placed in front of the glass sliding door that faced Meditation Rock. Just to add to the atmosphere and drama of the situation, I lit several wax candles and placed them on the rug, which was our only source of light. Michael and I sat at opposite ends of the Navajo rug and we simply remained quiet and waited for something to happen on its own. And after some period of time, something strange did eventually begin to transpire. Facing in a northeasterly direction, I began to experience the strangest intuitive feelings that something or someone was just outside and hovering towards the top of this door. There was this extraordinary sense of psychic heaviness in the atmosphere and I began to experience a feeling of unexplained dire sadness and loss that suspended itself over me and engulfed my whole upper body. I started crying with and in response to this “presence” that was just outside the door. I kept crying and crying and at the same time I mentally addressed this strange presence and asked why I was crying. I got no direct response to my psychic inquiry, but I had the distinct intuition that this spiritual presence was a Native American Shaman. What was confusing for me at that very instant was my definite impression that this was also the spirit of a woman. I had always pictured that men were the only ones to have ever practiced the craft of healing and spiritual counseling in that Native American tradition of Medicine practitioners, and this present experience clearly contradicted everything that I had previously known to be true. I continued crying profusely, and the atmosphere became so impelling that Michael left the house altogether, only to return some hours later when he felt assured that “the coast was clear.” This turned out to be only the first of several mystical and mental contacts with this initially very tearful and sad “Medicine Woman.” That most eventful and certainly unforgettable evening had made a most indelible impression on my psyche. It was definitely something that I had had no idea whatsoever was going to have occurred, and it was only later that I learned that there are no “Shamans” as such in the Western Hemisphere. Native Americans refer to their spiritual healers as Medicine Men; the word Shaman is European in origin and usage, and my being of that Anglo bent had translated this experience with this alternative word. It was at one of the Animas training sessions, held at the local Catholic campus of Pius X High School, where I first encountered Father Jerome Martinez y Alire. He was then assigned to the Chancery as one of the Bishop’s personal assistants, and Jerome also acted as the Catholic Church Diocese’s liaison to the ailing AIDS community. Father Jerome, since he wasn’t affiliated with any particular Catholic parish, resided at the rather large rectory of Albuquerque’s historical Old Town Plaza Catholic Church, first founded in the year 1706 under the direction of Fray Manuel Moreno, a Franciscan priest who came to the village of Albuquerque with some 30 families from Bernalillo in 1704 or 1705. The church was originally named San Francisco Xavier by Don Francisco Cuervo y Valdez, who had founded the small village of Albuquerque. Just for your information, Albuquerque was named after the Viceroy of New Spain. The Duke of Albuquerque ordered that the titular saint of this new Catholic of a church be changed to San Felipe Neri in honor of King Philip of Spain. At the time that Jerome was residing in the rectory, the pastor of the Albuquerque’s Old Town Plaza church was a Father Lambert Luna. One evening following one of our Animas training sessions, Father Jerome invited me back to the rectory to introduce me to his housemates and show me his modest living quarters. There were several other priests living there, and for whatever reason I was encouraged to share with them this mystifying story, as it stood at that point, of the then singularly known Shaman of San Damiano. Many of the priests of this southwestern part of the country are still part of the Order of Saint Frances. The foremost Catholic Church in New Mexico, and the original seat of this diocese, is situated in our capitol city of Santa Fe and is designated as the Cathedral of Saint Francis. An interesting fact is the full name of Santa Fe: La Ciudad de Santa Fe de San Francisco. So the fact that this particular story has as an integral part stemming from oral tradition, the name of the Mother Church of the Franciscans, San Damiano, was of some certainly special fascination to the priests of the historic Franciscan church now known as the Church of San Felipe de Neri. As part of my story, I indicated that I wanted to hang a replica of the original cross that had miraculously remained in the inner nave of the ruined church of San Damiano, that Francesco had lovingly restored at the onset of establishing his religious order. After I had related my mystical experience, in which I specifically titled myself only as “the caretaker” of this home and the land on which it sat, they informed me that Saint Frances of Assisi was affectionately known as “The Caretaker” to many of his faithful followers. Father Lambert Luna was particularly taken with my unprompted accounts, and when I had finished my tale, he proceeded in a most sincere and reverent manner to offer a relic from his Old Town Plans church to be hung at San Damiano until I could eventually procure the San Damiano cross. The priests also informed me that there were Catholics clerics in Italy somewhere near Assisi who were part of the Franciscan Order that had dedicated themselves to the replication of the “Cross of San Damiano” to the identical specifications of the original, which was more of a Renaissance style inspired painting of a living Jesus on the cross with his eyes opened rather than that of some typical crucifix usually bearing the dead body of Jesus with his head hanging downward and eyes closed. One of the more dramatically illustrated and pivotal revelations dramatized in Zeffirelli’s historically based movie about the early life of Saint Francis, Brother Sun, Sister Moon, was the focalized depiction of the opening eyes (originally closed for all others in this Catholic church) of the crucified Jesus on the cross that was at the front in his original Church in Assisi. Francis, seeing these eyes opening apparently meant to him that spirit of Christ was not at all dead; that Jesus was truly alive to the true and faithful believer. As modest as I am known to be, I just couldn’t see fit to accept some sacred relic from the Old Town Plaza Church. First of all, I wasn’t Catholic, and I had never had any significant affiliation with the Church except my friendly and close association with Father Jerome. I was seriously taken with and certainly flattered by this spontaneous and generous offer, though, and to sort of bow out gracefully, I offered to cook a Cuban dinner for Father Luna and the others and share my San Damiano sanctuary, if for no other reason than to see if they still had the same impression after actually visiting the site. I inquired with one last curious point of concern as to whether it might have seemed a bit offensive for someone outside the Church to have assigned the name of “San Damiano” to a “non-Catholic, non-religious and most essentially a secular home?” The priests unanimously assured me that I had done no wrong and that taking the name of San Damiano should offend no one. Having been reassured of having not violated any spiritual protocol of the Catholic Church, I rather tentatively suggested that I would possibly accept their kind offer of that religious relic at the Cuban dinner, but that proposed dinner never manifested itself—I just didn’t follow up on either of our generous offers. Coincidentally, this very special and old historic Catholic Church just happens to be situated across the Old Town Plaza from the Turquoise Lady, where I had acquired that very unique and most certainly special Bear Kachina created by the Jemez Indian named Johnny Burgess. Another bit of pertinent trivia: the name of my mystical setting in the foothills of the Sandia Mountains. You may remember that I had become involved with Terry Brown at the beginning of the construction of San Damiano. Well, on one of those trips back to the D.C. area, Terry had shared with a long-time friend of his the essence of my story of San Damiano and just how I had come by this melodic name by having watched the movie, Brother Sun, Sister Moon. His friend, as it turned out, had been an English actor who had retired to the D.C. area to live with a sister that had previously migrated to the United States some years earlier. This actor friend of Terry’s had grown up in the theater with Alec Guinness and had even roomed with him early on in their acting careers while living in London. It was Alec Guinness who had so dramatically portrayed the role of Pope Innocent III, the Catholic Pope that had blessed Saint Francis and thus empowered him to establish his religious order. It wasn't too long after the construction of San Damiano was completed that Terry contacted me and said that his friend had died and that he bequeathed $50 in his will to cover the cost of planting a tree at San Damiano in memory of his life-long actor friend, Alec Guinness. An oak tree was purchased to fulfill this thoughtful request and planted at San Damiano—apparently in a rather rocky and inhabitable location as was later evidenced because it eventually died for lack of establishing a sufficient root system. It was later replaced as well as intentionally relocated to another more prominent location where a more generous supply of rich topsoil was added to improve the tree’s chances for survival. An oak was specifically chosen for its character of strength and endurance as well as the fact that several varieties of oak are indigenous to the Sandia Mountains. My mother once told me that if I ever felt depressed and sensed a lack of energy, “Find an old oak tree and lean up against it. They’re just full of energy and you’ll be able to draw upon it and very aptly restore your well-being.” There were several other significant events in those times just before the initial recording of this book that further confirmed some of the story’s unusual mythology that if shared with you at this point would likely distract you. I have simply and consciously chosen to place them more appropriately at the end of the Shamans of San Damiano book as the chapter entitled, “The Rest of the Story.” Don’t peek! (Read: Shamans of San Damiano for the full story!) The actual storyline of those wonderful Shamans (actually, Medicine Man and Woman) that reportedly lived during the 18th and 19th Centuries came to me in little imaginative vignettes between 1984 and the end the 20th Century. I have chosen to share them with you in their continuous entirety as a complete narrative in and of itself. What I have shared with you so far is autobiographical, in every case factual, and shared with you as only an integral backdrop for the more fascinating tale of these spiritual Zuni Medicine Men of the 19th Century. I feel that it has had a most definite relevance to the chronicle of these earlier Medicine Men (and Woman) and particularly to the central figures: The Zuni Medicine Man, Kiasiwa (José); and the Medicine Woman known by her Christian name of Raquel. Just a trivial and personal note: Raquel is the Spanish translation of “Rachel” and I have, before the initiation of this writing, usually related this story in an oral fashion using the English version of Rachel. (Being of the movie generation that I am, the name “Raquel,” unfortunately for me, only conjures the image of a rather well-know bosomy Hollywood actress, Raquel Welsh). Even though I have remained technically and historically correct with the use of “Raquel,” this most fascinating woman will always remain in my own loving memory by the name, Rachel. And now for the rest of this story of life, love, hope, and the never-ending search for the truth: I awoke with the rising of the sun on the first day of February in the new millennium. I remember having been intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually excited because I had just experienced a rather stirring dream in which it finally became clear to me the parallels between the perceived reality of this intriguing story and my own particular and hopefully enlightened view of the world. I have never placed myself in the ideological position that would allow for what I consider to being a naïve acceptance of the intentionally contrived and certainly unsubstantiated fantasies of so many who all too enthusiastically delve into the world of metaphysics and believe in some ridiculous form of an afterlife for which there is no realistic evidence. I was repeatedly relating in a traditional oral fashion this strange story of my pseudo communications with some semi-ghostly figure of a Medicine Woman that had apparently bound herself to the very land where my most beloved San Damiano was so prophetically situated. This intellectually perceived and certainly realistic incoherence, and my stubborn refusal to compromise, were responsible in large part for my not having commenced writing this tale any sooner. But now the floodgates had opened wide, not that there was some sort of potential torrential flood as the rather succinct length of this book so testifies. My sister says that we share the same modus operandi, in that neither of us go out of our way to employ more words than are actually necessary to relate any given anecdote. So I might just inform you that there is probably far more that could have been said/added just to enlarge this story that I will simply leave to your own imagination and creation. In the dramatically revealing dream that I refer to above, I had imagined myself positioned on the front end and center of a balcony in a theater setting; theaters just don’t have these balconies today, so apparently this was an older theater setting, probably from my own childhood. In fact, I have even been in that famous theater, The Roxy in Atlanta, where Gone With the Wind was premiered in 1947. In this dream, there was initially an indistinguishable speaker on the stage, standing behind a dark-colored podium designed for one speaker, and this rather imposing figure had the crowded audience entirely mesmerized and fixated. Upon closer examination, I discovered to my astonishment that this compelling speaker was none other than that of Raquel, my imaginary spiritual Medicine Woman of San Damiano. In this emotionally wrenching early morning dream, I had become most intellectually as well as emotionally agitated at her apparently realistic as well as certainly commanding charismatic presence, and mentally challenged on just how it was possible for a woman who possibly never existed, or at the very least, had been dead for over 140 years, to suddenly appear in person in such a convincing and realistic form. In this dream state the answer came to me almost immediately, and was accompanied with the most profound feeling of authority, “Why? Don’t you understand? You are the anointed and consummate projector.” I had the feeling that this God, which I also don’t believe in, had spoken to me and explained the deeper meaning of reality, a reality that I had not previously considered. Much of this story about the Zuni Medicine Man and Woman José, Rachel and Father Ortiz that I have share with you came to me in bits and pieces, usually while I was sitting in my hot tub off of my bedroom at San Damiano. My creative imagination would all too often wonder off to the subject matter of Raquel and this rather mystifying tale, and I would always seem to have some pertinent question of fact or need for further clarification on some previously revealed bit of information. It seemed that every time I had proposed a question in my mind, I would intuitively get the answer. Nothing that I learned from these impromptus exchanges ever seemed unrealistic to me; in fact, everything that was so mysteriously revealed to me over time was later confirmed by various authoritative sources. There were images in my mind of an interesting range of characters and sometimes I avoided asking for their actual names, knowing full well that I probably wouldn’t even understand their strange language. One case in particular was the name of the Medicine Man that had shared so much of his life and healing skills with Raquel, whom I had initially thought would be the central figure of this story. As it turned out, he had also been given a Christian name and when I learned that it was José (Spanish for Joseph—my name), this only gave greater rise to my already mounting anxiety about writing this story. I suppose that I had always known this bit of fact, but avoided inquiring and so confirming it most likely because I didn’t want this story to have the appearance of some sort of unconscious projection of my own ego. But of course, the reality is that Joseph is a very common name and not at all unusual as a given Christian name. It has always been my consummate resolve to demonstrate and deal with only the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and that resolve helped me get past this personal and ego-based blockage. There is no question that the progressive theology of these 19th Century characters is in total sync with my own take of the universe, and I was hesitant to tell a story about other characters that were too closely akin to my own personality. This additional concern was softened by my dream, as I understood that being the “projector” meant that what was to be shared had to come from my own understanding of our mysterious world. If there is some form of ultimate reality, then what is true for me should have been true for anybody, whether they lived sometime in the past, are present in this world today, or perhaps haven’t even been born as yet. These unusual characters courageously dared to explore beyond the socially, politically, and spiritually limiting confines of their own tight-knit worlds, and on some level, I have seen that at times as my own personal struggle or perhaps as my reaching for the stars; most particularly are my own trials and tribulations that have lead me so close to those very footsteps of the Father of the Age of Reality. The name of ”San Damiano” had most fortuitously and routinely been given as the “clonal” name of choice to the some 70 or so awarded plants that had received recognition from the AOS during my rather brief and tumultuous tenure. An individual “clonal” name is assigned to a specific singular plant, usually an awarded plant, in order to distinguish it from other siblings of the same hybrid. I had personally helped in the organization of a new group of orchid enthusiasts that was to be a viable alternative to the local AOS society. One of the first meetings of this new orchid group was held at John’s place of business, Uptown Framing and Fine Art Studio, in the summer of 1994. One time I was casually browsing through one of John’s art print catalogues when I had come across the very print that is now the source of this book’s cover. John had always made it a point to show me anything in his catalogues that had to do with orchids, but in this particular case he had assumed, in light of the fact that I am usually a purist in the matter of orchids, that I probably wouldn’t be at all interested in a print of a Native Indian pictured with an unconventional long-stemmed Cymbidium flower. First off, why select a “Chinese” orchid to have superimposed over an “American” Native Indian, and secondly, Cymbidiums just don’t grow that way naturally. I had not ever really told John the entire story of the Shamans of San Damiano and just how meaningful this story was to me, so there was no way that he would have appreciated the dramatic impact of the unusual imagery of this print by Lawrence W. Lee. After the excitement of my discovery, John ordered several copies of the print from the Joan Cawley Gallery and framed one of them that has, ever since that time, hung beneath the skylight at the end of the main hallway; its rightful place is central to the whole household. I am pleasantly reminded, on a daily basis, of this unique and inspiring story every time I’m on the way to the master bedroom. The Native Indian fortunately appears so androgynous that I have always imagined that the image is that of the Medicine Woman of San Damiano. This imagined Raquel with her singular long-stemmed Cymbidium orchid is a reassuring sight, even in the most troubled of times. From the time that this print was first hung, I had the greatest desire to meet with the artist and inquire as to where he had come up with his rather unconventional concept for this particular painting. A good friend of ours and another well-known southwest artist, Pat Dalton, had once shared with me that he had met Lawrence at a perennial artist event, Indian Market, which is held in Santa Fe each fall. I expressed my particular interest in meeting this man and even fantasized that perhaps one day I might acquire the original to hang in place of the print. Several years passed, and I never seemed to have been able to make it to another Indian Market ever since John’s tainted participation in a framing competition in August of ‘92. What ultimately triggered my writing this book--that awakening call from Ellen Raimer--also got me off my duff, and I went on the web that same day to try and finally connect with Lawrence W. Lee. It didn’t take me more than a few minuets to find what I thought might be a likely e-mail address, and I immediately sent off the following: (7/17/2001, 8:29 PM) To whom it man concern,
I got this e-mail address from a "google.com"
search. I live in Cedar Crest---about 40 miles south of Santa Fe and a good friend, Pat Dalton (Another fine artist) sez that he has met Lawrence at Indian Market on several occasions. I have intended to make market for the several past years and each year something has prevented me... I'm wondering if this "Lawrence" portion of the e-mail address means that this will reach Lawrence Lee???? The story that I am about to write is very interesting and the combination of an Asian orchid and an American Indian is particularly interesting........... If this reaches YOU, Lawrence, I really would be honored to talk to you........ My dime if you will provide me with a telephone number???? Joe WalkerI sent this email that very evening with the hopes that someone would receive it who would at least be able to put me in touch with Lawrence. Low and behold, the very next morning I was very pleasantly surprised to receive: (7/18/2001, 8:38 AM) Joseph, You
have indeed reached the correct Lawrence W. Lee. The poster you refer
to was published by Joan Cawley many years ago, but I remember it well.
Meanwhile, best of luck in your endeavor. Feel free to contact me by
phone when I return to the States.
Lawrence Lee’s unexpectedly prompt response was just the magical catalyst I needed to get my butt in gear; it was a sign that gave me the green light to finally start writing a book for which a cover had been so serendipitously designed many years before its ultimate purpose was actually realized. There appeared to be something magical about the name San Damiano and so the story goes that this magical name has guided me through all kinds of events and situations the very least of which, has been writing of the six books on the Age of Reality as well as that of my autobiography. I am very sincerely hoping that I'll be able to get all of these books published in a timely fashion, which if you're reading this from a book bought at your local bookstore, then my goal and wishes have indeed been accomplished. Now, you can do me another good favor by passing this on to some good friend or individual that you feel would benefit from reading all about this wonderful Age of Reality and.
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