A spiritual quest to the Illinois River Valley. TLDR; My past-life theory is substantiated and I learn about discerning sacred places.
** Edit // Relevant Posts ***
This is the 4th post in a series about Past Lives, Senachwine, Lake Thunderbird and Magical Places.
1. On Magical Places (pt. one)
2. On Magical Places (pt. two)
3. On Past Lives
I drove south on I-180 in search of Broccoli Trees. These trees were the last landmark before I reached my destination. The sight did not disappoint. The road opens at the intersection of Rt. 26, just north of Rt. 29 near Tiskilwa, IL, in a breathtaking display of lush green foliage before and on either side, nourished by the rivers, creeks and lakes that make up the Illinois River Valley.
It was literally a breath of fresh air.
I turned to follow the signs pointing the way to Lake Thunderbird at Putnam. I came for a few reasons: to see if my childhood home was indeed a magical place (or if the sadness of my youth was to blame for my lingering pangs to return), and to hopefully find a sense of clarity in regards to my blossoming spirituality, especially regarding past-lives and my ties to the area.
I travelled the familiar blacktop roads, winding through deep cut ravines and wilderness, and tried to absorb the vibe. To my surprise, all of Lake Thunderbird felt empty. A bit sad. Lifeless.
Vacationers, tourists and half-timers were gathered at the beach and boat launches in throngs. I was not surprised; it is a private members-only lake and I’m sure the remoteness of it made those people feel like Covid-19 was just a bad dream. At the Lake, they are safe. Untouchable. I drove by slowly and inspected the cabins that were built up, fixed, or brand new all along the main drag. The roads and the buildings looked tired. As I took the final dip before Valley Rd, I took a breath to prepare for what was ahead: my childhood cabin. I knew it wouldn’t look the same. I was wondering if it would still feel the same.
The house, once quaint, with pea-green paneling and a strapping redwood covered porch and back deck, now resembles an actual, literal cardboard box. It is brown and uninspired. Nothing about it seemed familiar. Two small windows stood at the front of the house where an addition closed in the deck. There was no door; it must have been relocated or perhaps they were only using the backdoor. A carport was thrown up in haste and 2 equally boring sheds stood on the side of the house. There was a boat under a tarp and several pick up trucks. It resembled a junk yard.
I made a U-turn at the end of the street and circled back to examine it further. I wanted to see how the landscape itself changed: were the natural tiger lilies still there? The shagbark? The reliable black eyed Susans?
Sort of. Just the red cast iron pitcher pump and some of the larger trees (including the shagbark hickory) remained. I was a bit disheartened; it felt like someone (excuse me, but I must say it) took a giant shit on a glittering gem of a cabin. The land itself seemed depressed. I couldn’t feel the Heartbeat.
The same depressive atmosphere that I felt when entering the area carried on as I circled around the lake. Even the Chair Tree, a beautiful white oak used as a Native American trail marker, had died. It was over 200 years old when it finally gave up. It was a sun-bleached amputee, it’s once outstretched arms were sawed off completely and crude animal totems carved into it “to honor Senachwine and his people.” … Okay, then.
At this point I circled back to Princeton to stretch my legs, grab some coffee, and check my maps for a place near Senachwine Creek to meditate. I decided to go to Miller-Anderson Woods, even though it was not clear if there was place to park or trails to roam.
To my delight, there was a tiny gravel parking lot with room for 3 cars at most. I pulled in and positioned my car so I could drive straight back out onto the road easily and also so I was not in clear view of passersby. There were no trails that I could see, nor any maps or signs other than one that read “NO MUSHROOM HUNTING.”
I turned off the car and rolled down all my windows. I brought a journal with me and an assortment of items of power: obsidian, rainbow moonstone, bloodstone, selenite and a tiny vial of holy dirt from Santuario de Chimayo, NM. I placed the obsidian chunk before me on the dashboard and closed my eyes to still myself and just listen.
Birds. Bugs. The rustling of ground critters. The sounds were quiet but they were everywhere.
I felt weepy but not because I was sad. I felt … touched. Pleasant. At peace. I asked the Universe, god, the Great Spirit for wisdom. Why this place? Why do I feel called to return here, year after year? What am I supposed to be doing?
A thought occurred – “You can’t do this here.” Here, in the car. I needed to venture deeper into the woods. I needed to abandon the road and get away from the areas disturbed by humans. Without a trail or a path, I was worried about getting lost or that the woods may be impassable. So I asked again and listened.
Suddenly I heard a great gust of wind approaching. I could actually see the breeze coming as it moved the tree tops in the distance. I heard it and I saw it before I could feel it. Incredible. This is it, I thought. My message is coming on the wind. I closed my eyes and turned my face into the breeze, as big, grateful tears spilled down my cheeks. Before I could even finish tasting the moment, I became aware of an approaching car. It was slowing down. Someone was coming. A Jeep carrying two white men pulled haphazardly into the lot beside me. They smiled and nodded over at me and proceeded to exit their vehicle… to urinate. Both of these men walked into the preserve and peed on the ground in full view.
I immediately turned my engine and rolled the windows up and locked the door. I drove straight out into the street and left.
… What just happened? I was about to receive some divine message and it was ruined by these random dudes! What the hell! I was upset. Angry. Here I was, in a beautiful sacred space trying to commune with nature and these guys come in and defile it shamelessly.
Wait a second… was that the message?
I thought of my last post on past lives:
In a past life (and I think probably my only past life) I was a guardian spirit. An old Sentinel of the land. Custodian of the sacred woodlands, I kept the land wild and healthy and in balance. I blanketed the forest in love and light. I respected the indigenous peoples who respected me. I was likely fascinated by them. I brought the rain that replenished the earth. I fed the worms, the birds, the bats, the flowering trees and the deer who marked their antlers against them. I was the Heartbeat, the invisible Divine force charged with ensuring balance of the lush ecosystem. I watched. (Echoing the prophecy of my husband, “You saw it.“) I felt proud of it’s perfect purity.
…
I wonder if I gave up my duties because, as time went on, protecting the land and the innocent creatures within it became futile. Man encroaches, destroys, manipulates, abuses the land and its resources. We litter, pollute, without a second thought. I wonder if, after so many years of watching, I said — Fuck it. I wonder if I failed. Perhaps this is why I grieve needlessly for little chipmunks or get weepy and incensed by the sight of roadkill. Perhaps this is why I pause to admire and praise the old, fat trees whose roots disrupt the foundation of my own home. Perhaps this is why I am driven to research Senachwine and the forested Illinois Valley. Perhaps I abandoned my post and am now living a life of a destructive human. Maybe I wanted to understand the other side.
It seems impossible to argue anything other than that this whole situation reinforces my pondering of last week. What could be more obvious than 2 bros actually peeing on protected land?
Perhaps I failed and gave up, I said.
Perhaps I abandoned by post and am being punished to live as a human. No, no… too dramatic.
Perhaps I wanted to understand the other side – perhaps, indeed.
Perhaps this is all in my head and it was all random coincidence.
Perhaps I am being blocked from truly connecting and understanding by some other force.
When I got home today, I pulled out some PDFs and historical maps. Not even a mile away from where I meditated today at Miller-Anderson Woods lies the L. Thompson Mounds – a Native burial site of at least 6 mounds dating back to the Woodland era.
Sacred land. Untouched, preserved land. Proof that the Heartbeat exists – and maybe this is my tiny superpower.
Lessons learned:
- The soul of Lake Thunderbird has been diminished.
- My attachment belongs to the area in general, not solely our former property at the lake.
- I have a gift for places. I can tell what land is special and should be respected. I can feel what the land is feeling. I now have a boundary map for that area of where the Heartbeat lives on in the land.
- White men are still the worst.
- I should probably bring someone with me next time I want to explore the woods.
Until next time,
MV
Margot Velvet 