Foundation of House, Kings River


   One day not long ago as I drove on a single lane road along the Kings River, I glanced down and for a second glimpsed the concrete foundation of a large building below in the flood plain of the river. I experienced at that moment a twinge of remembrance but did not realize the significance of the foundation until I was falling asleep that evening, suddenly recalling a trip to the Kings River with my family when I was eleven or twelve, not long after we had moved to Fresno from Los Angeles. My brother and I had slept on the back seat as the car slowly wound its way up the hills, both of us waking as the car glided into a grassy area next to the road, “In the Ghetto” by Elvis Presley coming in clear on the radio, our Dad, before turning off the car, uncharacteristically allowing the song to reach its conclusion.
   As Dad fished from a sandy bank, I gazed transfixed at a huge spider web in the foliage near the road until I located a bulbous spider in the corner of the web and jumped back, horrified. My brother called me from a dirt road next to the river, excitedly yelling that he had found something, then dashing off down the road and vanishing in bushes behind a tall tree. I sprinted after him but couldn’t find him.
   Feeling suddenly very alone, I tip-toed between the bushes, expecting an ambush, until I noticed my brother off in the distance in a clearing.
   “What took you so long?” he sneered.
   I saw several large slabs of concrete. Looking closer, I recognized that the concrete formed the foundation of a large building, a fact which had initially escaped me because several trees were growing inside what used to be a house. I jumped up on the foundation and walked around on a low concrete wall until I reached a point where the concrete was broken up by the roots of the trees.
   Confused, afraid and fascinated all at once, suddenly unable to move, I stared at the uncountable leaves inside what was left of the house.
   “Let’s go,” my brother shouted.
   “No,” I responded, uncharacteristically.
   My brother squinted at me. “C’mon, let’s go! What’s your damn problem?”
   I just stared at the tumbled concrete of the foundation. My brother took off, leaving me alone again. I looked around carefully, disappointed, on one hand, by my inability to comprehend the feelings inspired by the foundation, and, on the other, by the fact that I would never be able to inch all the way around the house on the low, concrete wall, as if on a tight rope.
   Finally, I got down from the concrete, suddenly hearing a loud voice in my head, “You will be back in thirty-five years….” Scared out of my wits, I raced back through the bushes to the dirt road, wanting to tell everyone about that voice, which I had never heard before. But when I crept up to my father, who was silently reeling in his line, suddenly the voice didn‘t seem real anymore.
   Thirty five years later, I noticed the foundation of the house as I was driving by, never before glancing down at the river bottom at exactly the right moment on any of the other trips I had taken to the Kings River.
   The next day, during the meditation portion of my daily ritual, I envisioned the God Horus standing on a concrete stage at one end of the foundation. That didn’t make sense to me because I only remembered the concrete where the walls of the different rooms had been, so I drove back to the Kings River the next week to investigate the foundation and discovered that the house did indeed have two concrete patios resembling stages at both ends--my waking vision truer than my memory of the place. When I stood next to the concrete, everything seemed to be as it had that day thirty-five years before, as if I had been gone only a few minutes, the river flowing serenely beyond a small beach of white sand, the dirt road still heading back beyond huge sycamores and oaks, the spider web gone, my father dead of a heart attack a few years after that fishing trip thirty-five years ago, my family members almost losing touch.
   During the period that I rediscovered the foundation, I had become an occultist, communing with Isis, Thoth, and Osiris during my personal rituals. In the process, I had experienced symbolic death several times in meditation as well as a great sense of cosmic harmony, and I recognized that the Christ is not a man but a cosmic force that the symbolic forms of savior figures such as Osiris, Dionysus, and Jesus personify, enabling the worshipper to channel the force into the heart and mind. Thoth, the heart and tongue of Ra, embodies the mighty Logos, the Word that channels the primal forces into manifestation, and Isis looms as the Mighty Mother, the root of all form in the manifested universe. Horus shines as the symbol of the higher self, the expression of Divine Will on the physical plane, conceived after Isis put Osiris back together.
   When I returned thirty-five years later to the foundation of the house, I imagined Horus standing on the concrete slab, which was more like an altar than a patio or a stage, and my inner voice whispered that I should not give my spiritual power away to anything or anyone on the physical plane. I consciously became at that moment what I had tried to avoid, as if I had suddenly grown into a set of clothes that had always been waiting for me: A renegade who would go his own way no matter what.

Return to the path.
Meet the Emperor.
Sing as you go.