Margot Velvet

Tag: senachwine

  • Pilgrimage

    Pilgrimage

    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

  • On Past Lives

    On Past Lives

    ** Edit // Relevant Posts ***
    This is the 3rd 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)
    4. Pilgrimage

    Today I cried in my car twice. First because I crossed paths with a little one-eyed chipmunk. He sat still as I approached my car and I noticed right away he seemed odd. Not so much because he was acting funny or looked unusual – he looked like any ordinary chipmunk at first glance. I felt that he was different and stopped to examine him while he was vibing me out, assessing my level of threat. His right eye was missing, scarred over in light gray fur. He scampered away and seemed to be quite fine and I briefly marveled at the resiliency of animals before I was filled with anger and grief.

    Who did this to you, little baby?! Who can I punish? Fiery anger subsided to grief and I was sorrowful for him. Such a sweet, innocent and harmless creature… Surely he endured great pain and I was mournful on his behalf.

    Moments later, as I turned the engine of my car, I watched a Mama duck and her 5 babies toddle through the parking lot on the way to the lake. It’s June 26th – much too late for ducklings. I worried that they wouldn’t grow up strong and healthy. I worried that there wasn’t enough time for them to fatten up and become wise before the first wave of winter. But what could I do?

    I sniffled and wiped the tears from my cheeks, thinking that I was so emotional and being dramatic because my menstrual cycle started today. I shrugged off the heaviness like rolling a boulder from my conscience and then I remembered a “quarantine conversation” between my husband and I.

    We wondered if it could be possible to be a ~something else~ in a past life.
    Not human, not an animal, but a spirit. It’s something we’ve pondered together, and it’s an idea that strikes a chord rooted somewhere within my chest, resonating deeply like a far-away thunder. It sits in my stomach like the shadow of an ache, a dark and empty feeling that speaks of a truth that is too old and ancient, sunken under ages of earth, a living fossil too tired and forgotten to come to light. It’s a feeling most abstract and hard to fathom.

    Can you be a guardian angel in a past life? Would that qualify as a “life”? Could you have lived, died, and roamed the earth as a lost soul for so long that that very afterlife became a memory of another lifetime of its own? What about mythical spirits – could someone have a past life as a god or some other deity or totem?

    While I was wiping my silly tears away, the thought stirred my belly and I said aloud, “A protector… I want to protect them. And I will never be able to do enough.”

    In this human life, we replicate experiences that bring us joy. For me, it is being in the woods. Being quiet in the forest. Seeing the happy critters. I have formative memories involving The Forest, especially the trees in particular. I have written about my fondness of birds. I find direction in land formations – not street signs. I am connected to the earth and the plants and the animals. Grounded. Rooted. Green and yellow and blue.

    Perhaps I was a Protector.

    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.

    In real life, I am a 5 year old girl, galloping around the yard pretending to be a fawn. I am an 8 year old watching Pocahontas, excited by Grandmother Willow and the spirits moving on the wind. I am a 10 year old, running through the brambles and labeling animal paw prints in the clay dirt. I am a 12 year old, writing fantasy about growing up alone in the woods. I am a 16 year old, driving, driving, as far out as I could until finally there were no buildings and the Broccoli Trees were all I could see in the distance, welcoming me in a warm-fuzzy sigh of relief. I am an 18 year old, sitting in an idle car, trying to be cool with my friends at a local decrepit “haunted house” or abandoned hospital, instead secretly admiring the way that nature inevitably reclaims the earth through vines and tree branches – slow natural destruction. A take-back of power. I am a 20-something, lost in thought wondering why I love the forest so much when everyone else wants to vacation at the beach. I am a 30-something, finally putting the pieces together with an open mind.

    ***

    I watch The Dead Files pretty religiously. It features Amy Allan, a proclaimed medium who can see and speak to the Dead. She investigates property that is supposedly haunted. I tend to think she is honest and has a gift. In many episodes, she tells home-owners that the land is “sick” or “gone bad.” She speaks of old, ancient beings – not ghosts – who inhabit the land and have been there since the earth was formed. They are described as huge, black masses, as tall and as thick as trees that often lurk on the edge of the property lines. She frequently attributes these spirits to the Native peoples who lived there before the White Man came. Native Americans blessed the land, and the land blessed them. Now the land is “bad”, the land is angry, the Protectors are actively working to restore nature’s balance (hence, the hauntings, they say). I wonder… is this me? Was that me? If so, will I get to be that again?

    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.

    Maybe.

  • On Magical Places (pt. two)

    On Magical Places (pt. two)

  • On Magical Places (pt. one)

    On Magical Places (pt. one)