When I say I know where bodies are, it’s not a figure of speech. I know where bodies are. The bones tell me, their prayers carried on the wind, through the waters. It’s a shame no one will listen.
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“Here’s how this place was discovered: One night in August, I had a dream that I was in Montana at a Christian outdoor adventure camp for kids. In the dream, a young woman I know walked out of a particular spot from the woods onto the dirt road. She walked directly to my car sat on the hood and put her feet, that were wearing red, sequined Chuck Taylors, onto my windshield: “I want to go home”. (Since I landed in Phoenix in 2017, red shoes play the role that they did for Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz: “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” Each time they come forward wearing red shoes, it’s time for them to come home.)
Now, for those aware of my stint at Standing Rock and the illness there and afterwards, you might imagine that I’m not doing any outdoor adventure camp. I’ve had enough of that kind of adventuring, thanks. However, I ‘just happened’ to know someone who was doing just that. Several weeks beforehand, a young man navigating the throes of the transformation into another iteration of the embodied christed one, stayed with me for several days. We walked around crazy-town together and dove into places that he could not go on his own. Later, the only place he could find to stay that could somehow meet his needs, was a Christian summer camp, an outdoor adventure camp for kids in southern Montana.
I called him and before I could give details he said, “Ingrid, I was on that road yesterday. And I felt all sorts of weird and uncomfortable.” She had walked out to the road or reached out to it (him on it?) hours before she entered my dreamscape.”