From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe 7: On the road to the Medicine Wheel
- Lorraine
- Oct 22
- 8 min read
This article is part of a series dedicated to the encounter with the Sacred Pipe. You can find the previous articles here: From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe: My Journey with Tobacco 1; From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe 2: In the Hands of the Invisible; From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe 3: A Door Slowly Opens; From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe 4: When Tobacco Whispers in the Ear; From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe 5: The Journey of the Sacred Pipe Begins; From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe 6: The Journey in Hopi Land and the Meeting with the Kachinas
Leaving the Mesa, Carrying the Silence
Leaving Hopi lands is like leaving a waking dream.
Their wisdom, their songs, their Kachina dances still resonate within Martha and me.
The light in the faces we met,
The laughter shared around village tables.
Leaving this land is not easy.
This land I had called to in my dreams,
Seen emerge countless times in my visions.
Today, my feet have finally walked it.
I can still hear, deep inside me,
The call of the elders' songs.
I feel the sovereignty of this red, ochre land,
Like the primordial clay of Spider Woman’s song,
Mother of creation and of the sacred threads that weave the world.
A twinge passes through me,
But it is wrapped in gratitude.
I am full.
Full to have answered this ancient call,
Full to have been there,
Where my visions guided me,
Where my heart knew I had to go.
As we move away,I whisper a “thank you.”
The Road as a Bond
On the road to Wyoming, everything feels suspended.
Nearly 1,800 kilometers stretch out before us,
Like a long passage between two worlds.
This journey is part of my path From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe,
Where each kilometer brings body, soul, and breath closer to the sacred.
The hours glide by, long and silent.
It’s been ten days already that we’ve been traveling together.
Ten days side by side, sharing each sunrise, each meal, each fatigue.
Gradually, a subtle thread weaves between us.
Our silences become companions,
Our gestures echo in the simplicity of things.
We learn to know each other differently,
At the slow rhythm of kilometers and shared time.
The road passes through vast arid plateaus,
Red mesas, canyons opening like wounds of light.
Sometimes, green stretches appear,
Meandering rivers lined with silver poplars.
Then stone again, raw, sculpted by the wind,
A landscape of silence and eternity.
The sun slowly declines behind the hills of Utah.
The light becomes soft, almost golden.
We keep driving,
Suspended between the fatigue of the body and the impulse of the soul.
We cross the state of Colorado.
The Camp
At nightfall, we find a small campsite by the water.
A simple place, almost secret.
The air smells of fresh herbs, the gentle breath of resting water.
We set up the tent in this benevolent silence.
I didn’t know we would sleep so close to the water.
It feels like an unexpected gift, a blessing at the end of this long day.
I feel at home.
When Martha tells me we can swim, I feel full.
It’s the most beautiful gift she could have given me.
Water, my element.
My happiness.
Diving into this lake, under the darkening sky,
My body calms, my heart expands.
The reflection of the mountains in the water reminds me of the road traveled,
And of the subtle thread weaving between us.
This bond, which slowly, day by day, takes root between Martha and me.
The next morning, at sunrise, the sky is still tinged with pink and pale gold.
We pack the tent at dawn.
I take a moment to bathe in the lake.
The water caresses my skin, awakens me, and immense gratitude fills me.
Nothing simpler, nothing more perfect to begin a day.
The mountains' reflection dances on the surface, and I feel my breath merge with the breath of the world.
Martha waits patiently, and we set off again, light, hearts clear, ready to follow the road to new landscapes.
The Long Hours on the Road
The engine awakens at early morning.
The sky is clear, immense, and the daylight reveals the first undulations of distant mountains.We leave behind the quiet lakes and moist Colorado prairies, entering the vast expanses of Wyoming.
The road stretches out, straight, almost infinite.
Through the windows, I see golden hills where the grass dances in the wind, and rivers glinting like liquid ribbons.The light changes constantly, shifting from bright white to the soft blue of afternoon.
Martha plays music, her voice like a lyrical singer resonates through the car.
Old country songs rise, like echoes from the past traveling with us.
I laugh quietly at her improvisations, and our silences are no longer mere pauses, but shared breaths.
There is something in this mix of wild landscapes and music that makes time both long and light.
We drive for hours, the road rising and plunging through valleys and plateaus.The fresh wind coming through the window, the scent of dry herbs, the dust of red earth: everything becomes a rhythm, a travel melody.
Misogi at the Waterfall
Finally, we find a small isolated campsite.
An incredible place, where we were alone, and where the water’s song seemed to welcome us.The reinforced trash bins remind us that we are in bear territory.
I dream of its appearance, majestic, a silent guardian of the place.
Exploring, we discover a hidden waterfall between the rocks.
It falls with power, like a liquid column connecting heaven and earth.
I know I must enter.
I strip and step under the icy flow.
It is a misogi, the ancient Shinto purification ritual.
The water strikes my head, shoulders, back.
It passes through my resistances, my fears, my fatigue.
Each drop becomes a prayer,
Each flow washes away a little more of what no longer belongs.
I feel the raw force of nature merging with mine.
A gift.
A passage.
Under the Milky Way
Night falls and the camp sleeps.
But in the middle of darkness, I feel a calling.I step out of the tent.
Above me, the Milky Way spreads like a river of light.
It flows in the sky like the waterfall on the mountain.
I lift my arms, and my body becomes an antenna.
I breathe infinity.
Each star pulses in my veins like a drum.
I am tiny and immense at once.
At dawn, I return to the river.
The cold seizes me, cuts through my skin, makes every cell explode with light.
I merge with the current.
It carries me, regenerates me, anchors me.
On the shore, Martha calls me.
The smell of pancakes mingles with the scent of pine sap.
I laugh, soaked, my heart beating.
Nature gives me its strength, its tenderness, its breath.
It awakens the wild woman in me.
Free.
And in this gift, I find my place.
At the heart of the world and myself.
Toward the Sacred Summit
Our campsite is about thirty minutes from the Medicine Wheel.After the delicious breakfast prepared by Martha, she takes the wheel again.Before our arrival, she advises:“You should read the link I sent you about the Big Horn Medicine Wheel.”So I begin to read, and between the lines, a mystery unfolds that I could never have imagined.
The Medicine Wheel is not just a circle of stones.It breathes, it vibrates, it lives.Tribes still come to leave offerings, to fast, to seek visions.It is a vortex, a doorway, an anchor at the heart of the cosmos.
I learn it stands at nearly 3,000 meters altitude, exposed to the winds, under the immense skies of the Big Horn Mountains.Its stone circle measures about twenty-five meters in diameter.From the central cairn, twenty-eight rays extend toward the perimeter, like threads of a web connecting sky and earth.Archaeologists speak of an ancient observatory, aligned with the solstice and stars, a kind of celestial clock.But beyond science and measurement, ancient stories say it is the Sun Lodge.A place of healing, of transformation.Here, chiefs like Plenty Coups or Washakie would fast and pray.Here, generations have walked to enter the mystery and let their souls converse with the invisible.
As we approach the summit, the road straightens.The final hairpins rise toward a bare, stripped mountain, where a wind seems to have traveled through time.The sky opens, immense, and I already feel something calling me.We park the car.A trail of about two kilometers unfolds before us, leading to the Wheel.We pass people coming down. We greet them.I walk in prayer.Each step becomes an offering, each breath an invisible word entrusted to the wind.Then, around a bend, it finally appears.
The Circle of Ancestors
I sit on a stone fragment, at the edge of the Wheel.
I close my eyes.
A inhabited silence envelops me.
I feel time dissolve.
Each stone vibrates with a memory nothing can erase.
Memory of songs, offerings, visions.
The spirits of the place move with the wind.
I think of the countless steps that came before me,
Of the voices that here asked for rain, healing, vision.
And suddenly, I am no longer alone.
I am connected to the long chain of praying souls,
To ancestors who knew that earth and sky meet in this place.
I open myself in a state of listening,
Receptive
To the energies flowing between the rays,
To the songs of the sky watching over the circle.
The wind resonates like an invisible drum.
I remain still, heart open.
And in this silence, the Wheel acts.
The invisible alignment of sky and earth,
The ancient memories brushing against me,
The murmur of creation that continues to live here.
The Offering of the Pipes
I finally join Martha.
She is sitting, facing the offerings from vision quests.
We take out our Sacred Pipes.
This gesture, so simple and sacred, immediately connects us to the universal prayer that flows through this place.
I close my eyes.
I offer my prayer to link the Big Horn Medicine Wheel to the one I will one day build on our Caroux land.The answer is clear, soft as the wind caressing the stones: yes.
Yes, I will be able to connect them.
Then I feel united to a larger web,
An invisible web woven between these two wheels, so that healing, transformation, and wisdom may continue to circulate.I am filled with gratitude.
I whisper a “Thank you.”
We stay a moment longer, in this vibrant silence.
Then, slowly, we descend to the car.
We return to the campsite.
The light is bright, but everything suddenly feels denser, more charged.
The silence between us speaks, carrying change.
I feel that the Medicine Wheel has opened a door.
A door that resonates in the four chambers of my heart.
As Grandmother Medicine Song said,
A new space beats within me,
As if the heartbeat of the Wheel now vibrates in unison with mine.
I do not yet know it,but that night, under the waterfall, this door will open even more…
From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe
This journey, from cigarette to sacred pipe, has led me to ancient lands and millennia-old practices. Each step has taught me to listen differently, to feel the breath of the earth and the force of the spirits around us. In the landscapes of the Hopi or atop the Wyoming mountains, transformation happens gently, through silence, offerings, and rituals. The cigarette, a symbol of my past life, fades before the power of the sacred pipe, which becomes a link between me, the Hopi, the Kachinas, the Medicine Wheel, and the wisdom of the ancestors.
TO BE CONTINUED…
I invite you to read the previous articles in this series and to share your experience, your feelings, and your own path in the comments. Together, we weave the sacred web of connection, transformation, and the Medicine Wheel.
Previous articles:
From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe: My Journey with Tobacco 1; From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe 2: In the Hands of the Invisible; From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe 3: A Door Slowly Opens; From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe 4: When Tobacco Whispers in the Ear; From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe 5: The Journey of the Sacred Pipe Begins; From Cigarette to Sacred Pipe 6: The Journey in Hopi Land and the Meeting with the Kachinas
To go further
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May this path be a prayer,and may every step, every breath, every offering bring you closer to the Medicine Wheel and to the sacred within you.
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