Darlene and I became close friends from the night I visited a ministerial ordination class, when, as I was entering, she turned to look, and her face suddenly showed recognition. With animated eyes and a smile verging on laughter, Darlene, whom I was seeing for the first time, reached out and said, “We were together in Atlantis.”*
Her home was on a country road ten miles from where I lived, with a broad, grassy front yard and to the side, at a distance from the entrance, an eagle statue of such powerful energy that on my first visit, walking nearer, admiring it, I was warned to stop and go no closer (not knowing if the message came from the eagle or my inner voice). Behind the small, ranch-style home, back to one side was a stand of old trees, where when I stood in the middle, I could feel their presence, as if each were an elder capable of giving spiritual knowledge and healing. Beside it, in the expanse of field, Darlene had made a sacred circle that extended almost the full breadth of her yard. Using her riding mower, she had cut a swath through the tall grass. As she watched, I felt calm walking around the wide widths of the pattern. When I finished, she wanted to know how it was. For the entire time she had been beaming with pleasure.
I visited Darlene often. One time she told me that she had thirty-five American Indian guides whose names she knew, and I believed her. When we drummed in her living room, I might see visions, and we’d talk of these or of spiritual and healing practices. When the outside door would open, and we saw no one was there, she’d turn back to me, radiant, naming her main Indian guide who had just entered.
Once, on a group walk through the woods, where the trees to our left parted to reveal water and an island on the other side, Darlene, in the lead, stopped and asked, “Prema, what do you see?” Looking, I saw another time period with three American Indians on the bank, one lying close to the water, wounded or dead, and the other two bent over him. As Darlene continued questioning me, I spoke not in my voice but in that of an old man. I could see him standing ahead and higher up on my right. He was small, his shoulders slightly forward. His words were of an uneducated man who lived in the woods by subsistence. He had been a witness, and was recounting what had happened as if the truth had not been told. When he finished, I sent the souls of the Indians to the light, and the island became only its trees and sandy bank.
Now, a cavalryman rode up, rapidly advancing toward Darlene, a vision galloping through her then through our group. As he raced by, inches from me, I saw his powerful horse breathing heavily, the rider’s legs and boots, and that he was young and wearing a blue uniform. When my voice returned, Darlene explained that her questioning was to keep me attached to the present so I would return. Without any comment from the others, we continued walking; the experience was for Darlene and me.
When I told her that my American Indian name was Windhorse, without a pause, she answered that hers was Windwalker—our names reflecting different body types, further unveiling our connected journey.
At the beginning of my third year of Intuitive Counseling, Reverend Darlene told me to watch for something small—saying no more—and I knew to pay attention. Returning from a five-week absence from my practice, a new client I had met the day before I left returned. The book she brought, Lucia Capacchione’s Recovery of Your Inner Child, The Highly Acclaimed Method for Liberating Your Inner Self, had her interest, but she said there were no workshops in Florida. Borrowing it for a night’s perusal, I knew from my experience of both writing and drawing in my journal that, using the book, I could offer this. For two years I led groups that benefited me as well as the members, for doing the exercises together as equals, we recovered our inner children in healing relationships. The message of no workshops in Florida had been the “something small.”
One day, at the beginning of her ministry, Darlene, walking on a beach, had a girl run up to her and hand her a white morning glory. Darlene, by her nature, knew that it was a gift greater than a mere flower, and she then changed her name to Reverend Darlene White Morning Glory.
During our last year together, before we both moved, she told me of being called from her bed at night to lie on the ground and receive information. That year I stood in her office, listening, while she explained sacred geometry to me, not comprehending her source, but able to follow her information as she pointed out the pins and lines on a large wall map and what they meant, patient and smiling as always.
My realization is, “To value a small opening in our life is to have faith in the right action being brought to us.”
* How the Light Gets In, Writing as a Spiritual Practice by Pat Schneider
*Atlantis, an ancient city in the writings of the Greek philosopher Plato, is considered to be a myth, but many feel that the legend is based in reality since volcanic eruptions and cataclysmic floods have occurred throughout history