Equinox on Spirit Mountain

September 21, 2027 

As the trail winding up Spirit Mountain grew steeper, Susan was a little out of breath. She could see the summit ahead, made of the quartz and granite common to this part of New England. Great rounded boulders loomed on either side of her, painted whimsically with colorful abstractions of lichen and moss.

Susan remembered when she lived in Colorado, the rock climbing she did when she was younger, and was amused at herself, the mountains of southern New. Hampshire were among the oldest ranges in the U.S., great-grandmother mountains rounded and soft, folded and smoothed by  a long, long life.  These were not the Rockies, and she knew she was out of shape.

It was late September, a brilliant fall blessed by the right amount of rain and sun. The sugar maples were almost psychedelic in their glory of reds, yellows, and oranges. The sun was bright, tender, and poignant with a frailty felt only during Indian Summer, the last and perhaps sweetest days of summer. Such days were the grand finale to that great burst of fertile creation that began in the Spring. To her, it seemed as if all the land was giving a final concert, the master chorale for the season. Soon the first frost would come, and Susan would walk with her morning coffee into a garden fallen overnight, a precious world melting away like a dream, ready to sleep beneath the immanent blanket of snow.

Below her came a procession of people making their way up the trail between rock outcroppings. Some carried baskets of food, homemade bread, torches, candles; all carried flashlights and blankets. Just behind her came Martin, lugging the doumbek drum they had purchased on their trip to Morocco. After him came his little tribe of drummers. They met without fail every Thursday night in their living room.

“You are amazing “, she thought, a momentary flash of sweet, familiar lust surging through her as she watched his long, denim clad legs stride up the mountain. Another good sign, that after all these years, and on this day especially, she could feel that so strongly.

It was the evening of the Fall Equinox, a very special Fall Equinox, because it was also to be a full moon. She felt the pulse of the land beneath her feet, a coursing of energies she envisioned as a slow beating heart, humming through her and around her. The drummers would drum that heartbeat into their circle after the sun went down; she knew they were already attuning themselves even as they walked.

Susan took a deep breath, and let sensation come into her. She took her shoes off. She knew she was moving into an increasingly ecstatic state of heightened perception. As she folded her hands before her chest Indian-style, she greeted the presence she felt lived here. And Spirit Mountain greeted her.

“Breathe, just breathe.”  With each inhale, the sense of Gaia came into her. Susan never knew what else to call it; “earth energies,” “Creator”, “spirits of place” – to her it was Gaia, the living planet. She visualized roots that grew from her feet, roots that went down deep into the Earth, connecting her with the web of life that coursed and sang below her. It wasn’t really that much of an abstraction: that was just what it felt like. As if she became bigger. 

Her breathing released the small concerns of her life, the tensions, and conflicts of the day, breathing in a pulse that rose effortlessly through her bare feet, up her spine, into her heart. “Hello, hello,” she said out loud. “Here we are.”  In answer a responsive current flowed into her hands.

Susan paused, close to the summit, and leaned against a granite boulder, slightly dizzy.  “Not so fast” she said to herself. Closing her eyes for a moment, she felt Martin’s hand on her back. He was feeling it as well. She almost heard his “Are you alright?”,  but he hadn’t really spoken, and the warmth of his hand on her back steadied her.

 A little further up the trailhead was an arbor woven with branches and grapevines. Tanya and James stood on either side of it, holding sage smudge sticks they used as each person entered the Circle.  A raucous crow flew suddenly across the path, squawking, as if to say “Well, hurry up!” as it flew off. Martin laughed; they had, as far as he was concerned, been welcomed.

The top of Spirit Mountain was flat granite shelf. It was a splendid view; to the east the spire of an old church rose from an ocean of trees, and the Connecticut River was visible, winding like a snake through the landscape. Before her, ten boulders formed an imperfect circle. Perhaps they had once been more regular, but erosion or earthquake had, over time, worked them out of alignment. At the circle’s center stood a huge boulder, shot with veins of quartz; crystalline intrusions flashed here and there on its surface as it reflected the setting sun. Susan wondered, as always, how long-ago people who once came here had managed to move rocks weighing several tons into these placements.

Whoever the ancient people who made this stone circle millennia ago were remains a New England mystery. There are those who believe that Phoenician or Celtic colonists once settled along the Connecticut river, fishing, sailing, and marking places that were sacred to them with standing stones and cairns very similar to prehistoric sites in Ireland and Europe. Perhaps this was “Tír na nÓg” – the “blessed land to the West” of Irish legend. The controversy surrounding these cairns, usually aligned with the Solstices, and the “calendar sites” has never been settled. The vanished people who moved great stones to mark this as a place of power could also have been native Americans.

It didn’t matter to Susan. What Spirit Mountain shared in common with other such sites was geomantic intensity. A divining rod held over the central quartz boulder turned like the blades of a helicopter. It took no theory to experience the presence of this place. These sites were places of communion. One did not build condos on them.

In the deepening twilight, people passed through the woven entranceway, seating themselves around the circle. Some brought blankets to wrap themselves in, and some of the older folks had folding chairs. Beneath the central stone was a basket of seed as offerings to nature spirits who lived here. And a few small personal shrines had been set up as well. Susan saw Margo’s little Goddess statue resting on red silk cloth. Nearby was a brass Buddha with a photo of the late Dalai Lama. Candles in colored votive holders flickered like a shimmering rainbow.

Four drummers sat at each of the four directions, already synchronized. Each represented an element – air, fire, water, and earth. Their rhythms flowed into the azure twilight as Martin joined them, his doumbek drum between his knees. Susan walked the circle, bowed to the center, and picked up matches to light citronella torches mounted around the periphery.

At last, she sank down to join chanting that had begun. She realized she was a little nervous and tried to shake it out of her body. She was one of the “focalizers”; tonight, and although she had served in that way before, she never knew exactly what she would do until the moment arose. Despite years as a public speaker, it was still difficult for her to completely relax in a wholly intuitive way of working within a group. She took another deep breath and remembered it didn’t really matter.

“It doesn’t matter in the least whether I’m nervous or not” she said to herself out loud. “It’s not about me, and it never is.”  In the gathering darkness, she saw light that seemed to emanate from cracks in the ancient boulders. Her unease was gone, unimportant.

Tonight, they would offer thanks for the food grown and harvested throughout the summer. Not just for them, but for all those who eat. In a ritual of reciprocity, they would offer their prayers, gratitude and sustaining love back, sending it into the Earth to nurture the One who sustained and nurtured them. Susan was one of those who would become a kind of filament for the ritual. She would open herself to communion with the spirit of place, with Gaia in all of Her manifestations; and what visions she received she would share with the group.

Sometimes what came to her was empathic, a feeling of sadness or disharmony that needed to be witnessed by the group. Sometimes a tremendous love radiated between all present. Sometimes she received images that were far from grandiose and very specific – once she saw a piece of baked liver on a plate before one of the women present. It seemed that she was both pregnant and anemic.

Later in the evening there would be feasting, baskets of pumpkin bread, cheese and fruit, wine, and cider. The drummers would continue to drum until the sun rose, letting rhythms flow through them in waves, moving beyond exhaustion into ecstasy. Susan could see three tents discreetly set up at the far periphery of the circle. These were mated pairs who wanted to conceive and had chosen this auspicious place and time to invite a child to join them. It was doubtful, Susan thought, that anyone who stayed the night would sleep.

Before closing her eyes to chant, Susan looked around. It was a big gathering. South of her, at the Temenos center,  her friend Jewell would be facilitating a gathering as well. She visualized Jewell’s strong, lined face, her famous rattle in her hand, and a momentary flash of affection or support flooded her; she knew Jewell was aware of her, and very busy.