Some places you are told they are sacred, either lore about the spot, or it is made plain by the arching cathedral space or ornate building around it. Other places you just know. You can feel it in your bones or deep in your dan tien or your gut. One such place was some sacred springs in Red Rock Canyon, Nevada. There was nothing to mark the spot, but I could just feel it; how the air held the silence, and the peace filled me.
As I thought about it, it made sense. The Willow Spring was a common stopping place for migrating Native Americans. There was a small cave there for shelter and fresh water. No surprise that nearby were some petroglyphs, handprints and symbols, their meaning now lost in time. But whatever the meaning, it was clear to me that this was a place of gratitude for the water that made it possible to survive in the Mojave desert.
The second unnamed spring was the same way. Surrounded by boulders and shaded from the heat of the sun, it provided a still oasis in the desert heat. It was an answer to a prayer for me, since the day had grown unbearably hot. I refreshed myself in the cold water. A baptism of sorts, I felt renewed. The desert is a place of marvels. It is a harsh, pitiless place but beautiful right down to its bones. So I added my gratitude to the energy of the spring and traveled on.
– Robin Rumi