by 
Dancing in Sedona. Gary Every | Crier
Iwas preparing to go full moon hiking with my friend Dale and we had parked the car at the trailhead parking lot just as the last wisps of a colorful sunset faded away. As we walked from the car to the edge of the forest we discussed the things we were frequently talking about as we hiked – football and poetry – discussing both with an equal passion. As the last of the daylight faded, a small group of people approached from the opposite direction, heading towards the trailhead parking lot. They were wearing orange robes, carrying drums, had feathers in their hair, and they were wearing war paint on their faces. Quite frankly when one lives in beautiful Sedona, Ariz. such gatherings of furry freaky people are not unusual. Dale and I did not give the robe wearing, face painted, drum carrying Sedonuts another thought. We continued right on discussing football and poetry as we stomped on into the forest, the glorious moon already rising high in the sky and giving us plenty of light to stroll with. The Sedonuts however were fascinated by our presence and began to chatter among themselves.
“Did you see that?” one of the Sedonuts whispered. “They are just starting their hike… now… at sunset.”
“Won’t they get lost in the dark?” wailed another.
One of the Sedonuts, who was bigger than the rest, carrying a bigger drum, and with more feathers in his hair than the others (I suspect he was the head Sedonut), commented. “They must be hiking under the moon.”
“How magical!” said the first.
“I wish I could do that,” cried the wailer.
Just as Dale and I were about to enter the forest it was Dale who noticed. “You know those people were beating on drums, wearing robes, feathers, and face paint but they thought we were the crazy ones.”
I laughed, “You mean in their eyes – we are the Sedonuts?!”
Dale sighed, “Perhaps we have been living here a little too long.”
I was thinking about this incident recently when I became a part of an anthology project titled The Heart and Soul of Sedona, a collection of prose and poetry with locals describing their spiritual connections to the area. Naturally my connection was with the land and the beautiful hiking. I love living in Sedona where wages are low, rent is high, but the hiking is incredible. Other essays and poems were a little more esoteric involving references to karma, reincarnation, time travel, and space aliens. In Sedona one learns to avoid speaking about UFOs unless absolutely necessary, like one learns to avoid talking about religion or politics at the office Christmas party. In Sedona, once the conversation turns to space aliens a heated argument is sure to follow and stating that you don’t believe in UFOs is considered the equivalent of attacking someone’s religion.
There was this one little old lady, she must have been 70 years old, who had written only three poems in her entire life and two of them ended up in this anthology. She was quite pleased but refused take any credit for writing good verse.
“They were channeled,” she explained. “I have only written three poems in my entire life. They were written decades apart and they only took moments to write the words poured through me – as if I were channeling.”
An awkward silence filled the conversation.
She asked me, “Don’t you find that when you are writing, the words aren’t really your words but instead are just channeling through you as a conduit?”
I smiled, pleased for the opportunity to explain my writing process.
“Why yes I do,” I began. “I discover my best writings to be channeled. I start by building a small altar over my computer. Then I go into the backyard and begin to gather twigs and small sticks to use as kindling. I return to the computer and build a small fire atop the altar. While the tiny fire blazes, I drum and chant, drumming and chanting until the demons appear. As the tiny imps leap and frolic about the fire, I drum faster and faster until the demons begin to dance. As the demons dance twisting and contorting in the most grotesque ways I continue to drum faster and faster, forcing the demons to dance even faster. Until at last the fire consumes itself into ash and the demons collapse into an exhausted pile. Once the demons have recovered their breath they arise and hold hands. Then to show their gratitude, voices rising in an unholy choir, the demons sing to me. Whatever the demons sing to me, I write it down word for word and that is where my best stories and poems come from.”
The little old lady looked at me, her face having gone pale, her hands trembling and she said, “Perhaps I have been living in Sedona a little too long.”
I shouted gleefully and began to cackle maniacally, rubbing my hands together gleefully. “Perhaps you have my dear, perhaps you have.”
Gary Every is an award winning author who has won consecutive Arizona Newspaper Awards for best lifestyle feature for pieces “The Apache Naichee Ceremony” and “Losing Geronimo’s Language”. The best of the first decade of his newspaper columns for The Oracle newspaper were compiled by Ellie Mattausch into a book titled Shadow of the OhshaD. Mr. Every has also been a four time finalist for the Rhysling Award for years best science fiction poetry. Mr. Every is the author of ten books and his books such as Shadow of the Ohshad or the steampunk thriller The Saint and The Robot are available either through Amazon or www.garyevery.com.
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