Hot Damn Springs!

11/5/12-11/7/12

Representing the chaos of the car, this pic is upside down!

We awoke in Arkansas.  I’d driven until 2 am and we tried out our makeshift car bed, shifting the boxes and bags I’d privately condensed in the hostel parking lot, hoping by the time Veronika realized I’d dumped out three tote bags of clothes and laid them flat beneath the blankets, she would understand what I meant by the suggestion she casually declined while packing in Orlando.  If I could be open to dumpster diving, I figured she could get used to this.  It opened up plenty of precious sleeping space.  The car bed had a few dips and glitches, but we were laying flat with pillows and blankets, sarongs and scarves covering the window, and Veronika’s painting in progress blocking the windshield.   This piece would become an ice breaker, an eye catcher, heart stopper that draws curiousity.  I am amazed she keeps improving it, each time I am sure she’s done.  She creates healing pieces and intends for people to be lifted by experiencing the images, I can vouch for their power!

Theater dinner: quinoa and beans, mini cukes and almond
butter on rice cakes. YUM!

Hot Springs is a neat little town, definitely mellow and relaxed but a sneaking suspcioun of tourist trappery.  This boyhood home of Bill Clinton is a magnet for people seeking healing in the seven chakra tubs. They aren’t named this of course, but there are seven springs, each with an elaborate monstrosity of formal elegance built over it, so the “healing waters can be preserved and enjoyed,” otherwise known as “capitalism.”  The answering machine disappointed us, “We are always closed on Tuesdays.”  A stroll behind the stretch of exclusion led us to an open spring in which we attempted to soak our feet, but at 140 degrees we opted to absorb the rising steam instead.  Veronika’s heart was set upon spending time in a thermal bath so we aquiecesed to remain

Dipping, or rather trying to dip in a hot spring.

another night. We spend the rest of the day hiking and calibrating to the soft energies of the Arkansas mountains. Everything there is soft, the people, the air, even the gentle slopes of the hills gentley delivered us to the safety of their hills.  We rebelliously ate dinner on a stage in the national park’s camping ground meant only for the use of patrons. Later, we would sneak back into the park to sleep under the cover of trees as opposed to the walmart parking lot and at 12:30 AM a disgruntled police officer roused us.  His flashlight and demeanor were obtrusive as I fumbled around for the keys.  He asked us condescending questions about our being blind to the “register for a campsite” sign.  My explaination was that we weren’t in a campsite, only in a parking space and there was no sign for that.  Nevertheless we relocated to a side street down town and slept until 8 am, where we jumped at every passing truck fearing the approach of the morning meter maid. 

With perfect timing we arrived at Quapaw, the building with four large pools set at different temperatures and soaked for hours.  We gave ourselves healings, sent distance healings to others, did yoga while old saggy men watched shamelessly nearby.  We both felt release, clarity and a rise in vibration.  While dressing a bath attendant expressed her appreciation for our proper use of the healing waters.  We loaded up all our water jugs in the town centers thermal water fountain where residents and travelers are encouraged to supply.  I left a message for my parents letting them know where I was and that I was ok. I still haven’t heard back from them. I called my sister’s kids who excitedly pinpointed our location on a map and asked dozens of questions about our trip.  Riley told me I am lucky, I said “or crazy,” to which she responded “But crazy is fun!”  Love love love!

The road out of town was peppered with crystal shops and mining centers where quartz, crystal quartz and a plethora of other stones are dug right from the Arkansas hills. Judy’s crystals in Mt Ida stopped us in our tracks.  Twenty tables in the front yard were crowded with natural glasses and healing stones.  Veronika chose a piece of raw Rose Quartz that had been excavated nearby and spent only $4.  A man inside approached me.  “Are you… healy feely?”  I laughed and affirmed, at which point he released a stream of consciousness regarding his path of 70 years and commented on our very diverse energies that complimented one another.  It was like hearing what we’ve felt all along, but having it validated by a kind stranger was comforting.  He took our information and absolutely insisted we heal his ailing daughter in Arizona.

Im a huge fan and a geek! But we
definitely rocked out to "I ain't in
Checotah anymore!"

We stopped in Oklahoma City for dinner, a treat we spontaneously allowed ourselves, even if just a cup of rice and beans somewhere. La Luna authentic Mexican resteraunt wisked us to a table and immediately fed us chips and salsa so by the time we realized this place was out of our price range we’d been forced into commitment.  At the moment I considered the possibility of splitting a meal my attention was drawn to the fine print at the bottom of the menu stating “if you intend to share a meal a 4.95 surcharge and 18% gratuity will be added automatically to your bill.  The feeling of this place was grumpy, rushed and defensive.  We ate quietly while a table of high maintenance young women primped themselves with cell phones in hand and gave their waitress a hard time. 

On the street outside I decided if I saw a homeless person I would hand them my left overs.  Immediately I spotted a man sitting beside his trashbag of clothes and I approached him asking where he was staying that night. “I’m not,” He said sadly, with a growing hope.  “Would you like a meal?”  I left him my box and darted back to the car where Veronika told me she and I could share her left overs for breakfast.  It occurred to me… I’d just shared my meal without a surcharge! Take that La Luna! I saved 4.95 and 18% extra on top of that. 

Gratefully, it was late night and pitch dark when we drove through Texas.  Suddenly I was overwhelmed with the stench of farm.   Minutes passed when the source was revealed to me, and my somewhat justified dislike of Texas became disgust and dispair.  Thousands of cows stood behind chainlink fences, crowded against one another in a foot of their own waste and filth.  Some were able to lay down to rest their nearly immobile bodies and I am sure a few of them had passed, I was also sure, and sickened, that many of them were dead.   Our windows were up but were completely choked by the intoxicating odor for many miles past.  I wept for them and affirmed that one day I would have a cow.  Not for milk, cheese, meat or manure but for love, to give back in my very small way, to apologize on behalf of mankind.  I sent thanks to the imprisoned beings for serving human kind even in our cruelty.  Like why I feel having pitbulls eases the collective sadness of abuse toward the breed and all other pets treated inhumanely.  Perhaps these agreements I’ve made serve only to lessen my own guilt, but my intentions remain benevolent and that is a choice I can be proud of.