Cayuga

Like its mythical namesake, Ithaca, New York is home to many natural wonders of the elements. The road into town from the south is a two-lane highway that winds through the ancestral homeland of the Haudenosaunee (people of the longhouse) also known as the Iroquois Confederacy, an alliance of nations including Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga and Seneca. 

In an unmarked spot on the side of the road, there is a natural spring fed by an underground aquifer where locals go to fill bottles with water on the way into and out of town. The pure water is naturally alkaline and clear as a crystal with the essence of a cavern. No need for a filter or even a sink. The locals claim that the water has healing properties — the herbalist recommends it for making tea. Don’t pass an opportunity for immortality — or spring water — stop to fill a bottle or three. The road winds through towns named after Greek gods and goddesses until it reaches a farmland plateau of apple orchards, pumpkin patches and blueberry fields. The road climbs at a low grade past farms and fields to an overlook with a view of Ithaca rising in the valley below — a mosaic of stone buildings, painted houses, steep streets and a long narrow lake pointing to the north in the path of a glacier. The lake is known as Cayuga. 

The story of Ithaca is best told by the geologic record. According to the rocks, the land now known as Ithaca was a gentle river valley before the last ice age with small streams flowing east to west.* Over a great span a time, slow moving glaciers descended on the valley from the north, carving steep canyons into bedrock of sandstone, limestone and shale. After an unknowable stretch of time, the glaciers retreated leaving cavernous gorges, soaring waterfalls and long narrow lakes. It has been said that these lakes resemble the fingers of an outstretched hand. Some say, they look like the handprint of the creator. 

* NOTE: The last glacial period was more than ten thousand years ago. The number 10,000 is used here to represent a number that is too large to be known. Buddhist and Hindu cosmology, for example, describe a kalpa as the amount of time it takes to erode a mountain by dropping one feather on it every ten thousand years. Even geology is only a theory. The rocks also contain fossils of sea creatures from an ancient ocean floor. 

In the past-present moment of the last millennium, small streams still flow into the gentle river valley from east to west — joining forces, gathering strength, following a path through vertical rock walls, crashing down waterfalls, spilling into deep stone pools and flowing with gravity to the lake. The water element in perpetual motion — ever changing, always rearranging — every moment completely new.

In the winter, waterfalls freeze midair — a temporary installation of cascading ice, an act of purification, a slowing down, space between sounds, a reminder that everything happens in cycles. After nine months, the sun breaks through heavy clouds, buds sprout on branches, ice melts one drop at a time, waterfalls crash through gorges, animals emerge from hibernation, birds return to nests, frozen soil thaws and apple trees blossom. People look up from the place where they battled the wind chill and make eye contact with other humans again. Spring in Ithaca is a revelation — a time to let go of the old and welcome the new — the beginning of the world (again). 

On the still-cool morning of the spring equinox, I was in a class about the literature of the Romantic Era. We discussed a book that began with the words: 

IT IS A TRUTH UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED  

The romantic professor, who lived in the modern era only by necessity, challenged us to finish the phrase.

“We are bound by the perceptions of the age in which we live,” he said, “go ahead give it a try.”

One of the students said, “right now?”

“There is no other time than the present,” the professor said, “who can complete the sentence?” 

The assignment was deceptively easy. A student said, “everything is part of the universe?” 

“The universe is part of everything?” The professor turned it around, “yes, we believe that to be true, but is it a truth universally acknowledged?”

Another student said, “now is always the present.” 

“Maybe so, maybe not,” the professor said, “Physicists and philosophers say, the past, present and future are all happening simultaneously.” He took out a pocket watch from his vest to illustrate the point.

One student pointed out the window, “today is a perfect day.” 

“I agree, as would anyone who has lived through a winter in Ithaca, but that is still an opinion. What is a truth universally acknowledged? Can it be expressed in words?” 

“Take this idea home with you, take it out for a walk, let it bounce around your head and see what arises. Write down whatever comes up and bring it to class next week when we will continue our search for absolute truth — good luck!” 

The romantics professor shuffled papers into an old-fashioned messenger bag. Students closed books, gathered belongings and walked out into the equinox light. I wrote a note to myself in slanting script:

IT IS A TRUTH UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED 

EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE*

*NOTE: See “The Rainbow” (Akashic Records, 2020)

Later, at the exact time of the equinox, Moon and I walked to the library slope to smoke a joint and watch the sunset over the ridge. We sat on blanket in the grass at the top of the hill and gazed at the sun as it dropped down on the horizon. We watched the shimmering sphere of golden light balance on the ridgeline forming a bridge between earth and sky. We witnessed the equinox miracle. The sun shapeshifted into an illuminated dome, sank behind the ridge and reflected off the underside of clouds. Moon held a book about herbal healing in one hand and a joint of cannabis sativa in the other. She read out loud from the book.

“The spring equinox is the moment when the sun crosses the celestial equator running north to south. Day and night are equally balanced with twelve hours of light and twelve hours of darkness. The equinox marks the first day of spring and it is associated with Ostara, goddess of the dawn. On the equinox, it is traditional to build an altar and make an offering of seeds, herbs and wine.” 

Moon stopped reading to smoke the joint. “Here is an herbal offering,” she exhaled in the direction of the sun, “the equinox is a time to release everything that no longer serves you. A time of new beginnings and fresh starts. The equinox initiates planting season.” Moon set down the book. She brought her palms together in prayer.

“It is helpful to say your intention out loud.” 

Moon unearthed a forgotten lineage as a witch. She remembered things she had never known. She kept track of the moon cycles and observed the holy days of the earth – equinoxes, solstices and midpoints — she wildcrafted herbs and made medicinal tinctures using grain alcohol — she skipped class to read books about plant identification, herbal remedies, medicinal mushrooms and witchcraft. “Look!” Moon pointed to a woman walking up the slope with a small child on her shoulders.

“Doesn’t she look familiar?”

“Where do we know her from?”

The woman wore a forest green sweatshirt with a hood. Her hair stuck out like tree branches. She was a woman who looked like a tree. I said, “I think we have always known her.” 

Moon called out, “happy equinox!”

The woman who looked like a tree said, “hello spring!” She took the child down from her shoulders, placed him on the path and held his hand as they walked over. She asked, “where is the library?” 

Moon and I pointed to the stone building with the clocktower that sat on the top of the slope like a crown. As if on cue, the bell tolled on the half-hour. 

The woman who looked like a tree laughed and said, “voluminous”. 

“My name is Hella and this is Birdie.” 

Birdie was the color of autumn and had a constellation of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He wore train engineer overalls and a striped wool hat knitted by Hella. He looked more elf than human. “Hey Birdie!”

Hella said, “you’re smoking!” 

She pointed to the still-smoldering joint in Moon’s hand. Hella was always one step ahead of everyone — a superpower of mothers.

“Tompkins County kind?” Moon offered Hella the joint.

I smiled at Birdie and said, “how old are you?”

Birdie said, “tweet,” in a small voice.

So I said, “tweet, tweet, tweet.”

He said, “how old are you?”

“I’m as old as the moon and as young as the stars and everything in between.”

Birdie nodded like he knew what I meant.

Moon said, “let’s roll and roll one more.” 

“Hey Birdie do you want to climb that tree?” 

Hella pointed to an ancient oak tree on the far bottom corner of the slope. The tree grew more wide than tall with a canopy shaped like an umbrella and branches reaching out like spokes. The crown of the tree formed the domed shape of a temple in perfect asymmetry and balance. 

“The oak tree also known as the Tree of Life serves as a doorway between worlds,” Moon told us.

Of course, Birdie wanted to climb the tree. He was two years old and Hella was eighteen — a mother who still remembered how to play. Birdie suggested, “let’s roll down the hill.”

I wore the blanket around my shoulders. Moon made sure the joint was out. We formed a spontaneous parade down to the 350-year-old white oak tree that was a portal between worlds. Birdie led the way. We gathered under the ancient oak (again) for the first time. Hella lifted Birdie onto a low branch and told us the story of his birth. 

When she found out that she was pregnant, Hella said, she didn’t tell anyone for six months. Her mother discovered the secret when it was too late to hide. The other tenth graders passed notes about her unexpected state. Hella planned to give the baby up for adoption but when she held him for the first time, she knew she could not let him go. She brought Birdie home to her parent’s house on Long Island where he slept in a dresser drawer because no one had planned for a baby. Hella’s mother was an immigrant from Finland who lived in a traditional way built on family, which in this case included a grandchild. Hella’s age did not stop her from being a great mother. The embodiment of mother earth.

Hella took Birdie with her everywhere and taught him about the world. She lived by example and remembered how to play. Hella helped Birdie hang upside-down from a tree branch. Birdie said, “I want to live in a tree.”

Hella said, “how about a treehouse?”

Moon suggested we go on a road trip.

Hella and Birdie said, “let’s roll!”

We asked ourselves, “where should we go?”

“To the promised land,” Moon said.

“But where can we find it?”

“Time will tell.”*

*NOTE: Time used here as a name. On the mythical island of Ithaca, Horae are the goddesses of the seasons and the cycles of time.

by Lea Lion