It had been such a hard week...for well over a month. There just seemed to be no let up with all the pressure I'd been under lately. It wasn't only the job, but even relatives, the car, the neighborhood, so many aspects of my life were weighing heavily on me. I was concerned about too much going on at once and felt like I just needed a break from ev-er-y-thinnnggg.
A friend told me about the Datura plant several years ago. Shaman's of southwestern North America used the plant in preparation for, and during, their "trips" when they sought spiritual guidance for the tribe. It was the job of a Shaman to be the spiritual leader and so, multiple use episodes of Datura were a part of Native American culture. The dangerous difficulty with the Datura, despite its beauty, is when inhaled too deeply or too often, dementia can result; the little fume can rewire the human brain in short order; a person can experience irreversible damage and not come back. Ah, the travails of the life of a tribe's Shaman.
I knew the Datura was currently in bloom up in the hills behind the house. I got home about thirty minutes before the sun touched the horizon and decided to get out on a walk to try and clear my head.
The long, bell shaped bloom was easy to spot. The plant's white flower stands out against the dark floor of the forest. I passed several fine specimens, but I decided that I'd go top the hill while there was still just enough daylight available before I'd head back down to the house. The hike to the top had me notice an unusually cool breeze, sometimes gusting much stronger than is normal for this time of year. I hurried my gait to reach the top and there, right on the peak, growing out of a fractured limestone outcrop was a beautifully formed Datura bush supporting a single bloom. It was perfect and larger than any I'd seen. I approached to see it up close and before I stepped up on the rock, I noticed what looked like three long strands of white hair at the base of the bush. I looked closer and was amazed at what I saw. Well, I'm no historian, but it looked like the Comanche life knot; three strands, one straight with the other two crossed over and under it, intertwined forming a three dimensional "X". Comanche? The most fierce tribe of all? Here? A cold, uncomfortable shiver ran up my spine.
The Life Knot is a symbol of the Comanche; it has deep meaning to the tribe based on the context in which it is used. It can refer to the strength of life, in the right setting say, a birth in the Chief's family. It can refer to the weakness of death when an important member of the tribe is dying. It can be a source of encouragement to the tribe's warriors to fight fiercely in battle. The Comanche Life Knot is ubiquitous to the tribe; it's members knowing its meaning and application.
The wind became silent as I marveled for a moment, then carefully reached and picked the bloom. I examined its beauty; soft, elegant, sturdy though with overlapping petals. Then in preparation, I exhaled as I brought the open bell of this fine specimen toward my nose. Recalling cautions about the Datura, I slowly inhaled it's sweet fragrance. Such a rich scent; mmm, it was so good, it was difficult to stop. In fact, I'm sure my inhale was a much longer draw than I should have taken, and after a few long seconds of its aroma deep in my lungs, the alarm in the back of my head sounded loud, like a thunder clap. It shocked my eyes open, startling the bloom out of my hand. And it fell. I watched the flower as if it were in a slow motion freefall to the ground, a freefall that looked like it took "forever" to finally rest upon the ground. That should have been my first clue. Why did that flower take so long to hit the ground. Why would it's fall seem to take so long? Ha, why was I even asking myself the question? And the moment the bloom settled softly on a bed of spruce needles, an unannounced blast of cold air stung my face and unbalanced my stance upon the rock. The wind began to whip as it crazily disheveled my hair and pulled the open shirttails around my back almost in mock straightjacket style. And I heard, this was crazy, what I thought was a war cry deep in the valley below. It had to be the sound of wind; just had to be.
The bright part of the sky during this sunset took on a queer purplish-green tone that was fading fast. That wind again, slapped my cheeks in a one-two punch that seemed too strong, too focused, to be wind. So with purpose, I started back down the hill, my eyes constantly adjusting, but I was less and less able to keep pace with the swiftly fading light. I kept looking about around me as an unfounded bit of paranoia set in. I made it back to the house and quickly closed the open windows from the gusty wind.
