Sedona Vortex

I awoke on a beach, shivering. My head was pounding—painful enough to make me wince. I pushed myself up, and a wave of vertigo hit me hard. Instinctively, I reached out to steady myself, narrowly avoiding a face-first plunge into the sand. I rolled onto my back, the world still spinning in wild circles.

Through my blurred vision, I spotted a bell on the beach. What the fuck? I thought, too dazed to process the absurdity. The bell was upside down from my perspective, just sitting there on a cool, breezy beach that felt like it was somewhere north of nowhere.

Suddenly, bile surged up my throat, burning like acid. I rolled over again, this time inadvertently smearing my cheek in vomit as I struggled to get to my knees. Between a chorus of acid reflux, dry heaves, and coughing fits, I forced myself to raise my head and take in my surroundings.

I was at the center of what looked like a spiritual site. It reminded me of Stonehenge, but it wasn’t stones that encircled me. Instead, there were five evenly spaced objects: an hourglass, an igloo, the Olympic Rings, a vase, and the bell.

The hourglass had a ladder leading up about 13 feet to its top. I climbed it, and as I looked through the glass, the scene transformed: an endless desert stretched out before me. It felt as if this desert spanned all continents, with sands blowing across all time. I was overcome by a profound sense of humility.

As I began my descent, vertigo hit hard, and I felt consciousness slipping away… When I came to, my memory was intact, but my shin throbbed painfully. I remembered falling but must have blacked out.

I glanced through the bottom chamber of the hourglass. My reflection stared back at me, distorted by a glare. I cupped my hands against the glass, pressing my face closer for a clearer view. The golden sand sparkled as it funneled through the narrow neck. Tiny quartz crystals within the grains refracted the light into a microscopic dance of prismatic energy—almost imperceptible to the eye, yet somehow essential to my soul.

The sand formed a mound in the center of the chamber, fine and viscous, flowing freely across its surface. It transitioned seamlessly into an ever-expanding desert floor within the hourglass. As the sand drifted outward, the desert floor cracked into crevasses, expanding into rifts. Within these rifts, layers of rock became visible, each one a silent testament to the era it represented.

As fascinating as it was, I turned my attention to the igloo.

I crawled into the igloo. Inside, it was like stepping into a planetarium that displayed the entire universe. I let out a scream, and an echo answered back, “I am the avatar of humanity; to ignite a torch, your spirit must burn.”

The colors and constellations swirling within this igloo planetarium were mesmerizing. Wherever I fixed my gaze, that part of the universe would zoom in, making me feel like I was traveling through space itself. My eyes wandered through nebulas, galaxies, and bursts of energy that defied description—colors I couldn’t even name, as if they were beyond a spectrum I’d ever seen before.

What does it mean, I wondered, “to ignite a torch, your spirit must burn”?

I crawled out of the igloo, my mind still spinning with the echoes of the cosmic message. My next destination was the Olympic Rings.

Each ring was a stained-glass window, crafted from the melted sands of time and dyed with spiritual essences. As I peered into one, I saw a black-and-white reflection of myself. Beyond that reflection, beautiful colors flowed across a desert, swirling in the wind. Glittering sands danced across the horizon like a prismatic aurora, lighting up the sky. It was like gazing into a magical desert landscape within a snow globe—except for the distracting grayscale image of my face staring back at me.

A section of the window had a latch with a keyhole labeled, “Hope for Humanity.” I searched for the key but only caught glimpse of a small bipedal lizard scurrying across the Pangean desert, leaving fleeting imprints in the shifting sands—sands that morphed into a rheoscopic fluid and then into Ancient Athens.

The city stood resplendent in the golden dawn—a realm of marble and intellect, where gods and philosophers mingled with artisans and laborers. The sun, like a benevolent patron, bathed the Acropolis in soft light, casting long shadows over the bustling agora.

In the heart of the city, citizens draped in flowing robes moved purposefully among the market stalls. A potter showcased vases adorned with intricate tales of gods and heroes. Nearby, a scribe haggled over a scroll, ink-stained fingers tracing ancient script.

On the steps of the Stoa Poikile, philosophers debated existence and virtue. Socrates, with his unruly beard, questioned the nature of knowledge. Plato listened, weaving metaphysical ideas, while Aristotle observed with keen interest.

Citizens ascended the marble steps toward the Parthenon, dedicated to Athena, goddess of wisdom. Priests tended sacred fires, while devotees left offerings—olive branches, honey, and prayers.

Amidst the grandeur, ordinary life continued with purpose. A baker kneaded dough, his labor sustaining families. Suddenly, he dropped a loaf. It felt so real that I forgot I was looking through a window. Instinctively, I knelt down, picked it up, and held it out for him—but the baker was gone.

Suddenly, I was no longer in Athens. I found myself on a cobblestone street in Paris, the air thick with the scent of revolution. A shawl clung to my shoulders, and my spirit bore the weight of countless hardships. The government’s insatiable demands had left me destitute, my family’s livelihood slipping away. I looked down at my calloused hands.

I joined the throngs of discontented citizens, their voices rising like a tempest. We marched toward Versailles, driven by hunger and indignation. Our footsteps echoed the rhythm of shared suffering.

When Versailles came into view, it stood as a gilded behemoth on the horizon. The gardens sprawled like paradise, but inside, opulence whispered secrets of excess—intricate stucco, gilded moldings, and lavish furnishings.

I caught sight of Queen Marie Antoinette, draped in silk and lace, sipping from a porcelain cup in the Hall of Mirrors. The aristocracy reveled in decadence, mocking the hunger of the masses. “Here you sip, while my children starve,” I thought, my hands trembling.

Suddenly, I noticed a slip of paper in my hand. Where did that come from? The once-roaring mob was now a subdued line, waiting at the gates. I joined it, paper in hand—my hand, I realized, was no longer rough but small and elegant, adorned with a green gemstone ring. The box read: “From oppression to expression, we the people celebrate liberty.”

My eyes blurred with tears as I cast my vote and fell to my knees.

But when I looked again, it wasn’t a vote—it was a map. A map of the 2024 Paris Marathon. I recognized the route; I had just walked it in defiance of an enlightened despot monarchy.

Suddenly, I was in a stadium, surrounded by cheers in countless languages. The Olympic Games were in full swing—a mosaic of cultures, dreams, and shared aspirations.

Pheidippides sprinted into the coliseum as a united crowd rose—a chorus of humanity. He crossed the finish line, the ribbon tearing free. Woven with threads from every nation, it waved in the air: “May the unwavering spirit of humanity prevail.” The crowd roared as Pheidippides collapsed, his heart faltering—a drumbeat of history—but his legacy soared, a testament to courage, unity, and the unyielding human spirit. In that moment, the Olympic Games transcended sport. They became a hymn—a celebration of our shared journey from oppression to expression.

Teary-eyed, I approached the waist-high bronze bell. It was heavy. Rocking it back and forth took effort, but eventually, I managed to make it ring. The ringing pierces heart with conviction its echoes form a vision in my mind: figures in blizzard-like conditions scaling ledges, navigating treacherous trenches—depths beyond perception into chasms unknown. They traversed beneath colossal, shattered spires of ice and stone, etched by the eternal winds of time. From the echoes’ vantage point, every path seems like a labyrinth with no end.

Yet the echoes reveal a mystical sanctuary hidden in the shadow of an enormous mountain, beyond any path. Crowned by an archipelago of jagged peaks, the valley of Shangri-La stands, nameless and eternal, since before the first human gaze met the sky. Its peak pierces the heavens, guarded by swirling mists that thwarted every ascent, as if concealing secrets too profound for mortal eyes. A silent pact echoed from within: “To enter, you must surrender—your ego, your desires, your illusions.”

Drawn by the irresistible ringing echo, I was suddenly pulled through a porthole into Shangri-La. The air was cool, fragrant with pine and blooming flowers. Apprehensive, I quickly left the main path, moving cautiously along a lakeside trail and then up to a stone wall. I followed the wall until I found a side entrance and slipped inside, unseen. There were no guards.

Staying close to the wall, I made my way into an apple grove on a hill, hoping to observe from a distance before making my presence known. I knew even the best beliefs were built on embellished half-truths, and that even ideals like serenity came with a cost.

I picked an apple and examined it keenly. It looked delicious, with a kind of perfection that only something exempt from perfect could have—it even had a wormhole. I took a bite. It was very average—crunchy, with a slight surface bruise.

“Hey, mister.” Damn, I’d been spotted. I spun around, but there was no one. I darted forward and checked behind the tree, following the direction of the voice. Then, a foot caught me on the top of my arm. I looked up to find the culprit still swinging from a branch.

“You’re new, right? You got a name? I’m Aiden. How do you like the apples? Hey, mister, you want me to show you around?” His rapid-fire questions left me unsure of which to answer first or if it was safe to answer at all! His youthful, eager eyes, full of charm, made it impossible to refuse.

“I’m Jon,” I replied. “J-O-N, no H.”

Aiden introduced me to the villagers, who welcomed me with warm smiles and gentle bows. The Dalai Lama, serene and wise, approached. “Welcome,” he said, his voice a soothing balm to my still-apprehensive soul. “You carry a heavy burden. Here, you may find the strength to let it go.”

Days turned into weeks. I worked alongside the villagers, tilling fields, building shelters, and caring for the animals. The physical labor brought me a sense of belonging, creating space for an emotional journey I hadn’t expected. The Dalai Lama often spoke to me about the essence of peace and the nature of suffering.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the valley, the Dalai Lama called me to the temple. “To truly be free, you must confront your inner demons,” he said. “Bitterness, despair, pride—they chain your soul. You must let them go.”

His words cut deep. I realized how much these emotions had shaped me. I clung to the losses I had suffered, finding solace in the suffering and justifying my resentment. I replayed past wrongs in my mind, an endless record of betrayal. I acknowledged my part in the events but held fast to the belief that I had been wronged by scheming assailants. My anger felt justified, yet no retribution had come.

In my grief and powerlessness, I had lashed out, blaming many who didn’t deserve my scorn. I caused innocent people, whom I cared for deeply, to suffer. Riddled with guilt, my anger raged on. In moments of quiet meditation, a tightness pressed behind my eyes, clouding my thoughts. Still, anger and pride cried for justice—something my mind found impossible to release.

The villagers’ support was heartfelt and therapeutic. Lo-Tsen, a Manchu woman, had loved two men but lost them both, each consumed by jealousy and desire. Her indecision created a rift that separated all three. Now she lived in guilt, haunted by the pain she had unknowingly caused.

Walter’s story was even more tragic. He had lost his son in a car accident after finally reuniting with him following years of separation caused by a biased custody battle. Their reunion had been a dream come true—long hikes, star-filled nights, bitter coffee, and heartfelt conversations. But on the way home, Walter fell asleep at the wheel. Overwhelmed by grief, he had torn the IVs from his arms and awoke in Shangri-La. His sorrow ran deeper than mine. I didn’t know why that comforted me, but it did. I felt grateful to work side by side with the villagers, each of their stories offering lessons that words alone couldn’t convey.

One night, during an intense meditation session, a vision came to me. I saw my loved ones—not as they were, but as they could be if I let go of my burdens.

Their faces were filled with joy and peace, free from the shadows that had clouded my relationships.

Determined, I confronted my deepest fears. It was a battle fought in the heart, filled with tears and silent screams, until finally, I felt a weight lift from my soul. When I opened my eyes, the Dalai Lama greeted me with a gentle smile. “You are ready,” he said.

But just as I began to feel the peace of Shangri-La, the bell rang. The porthole shimmered, and I was pulled back to the present. Regret washed over me, but I knew I had changed. The lessons of Shangri-La were etched into my soul.

Leaving the bell I crossed the site to the vase. The vase looked old, simple, and rudimentary. Pottery was an innovation that catapulted human society, culture, and creativity. My nose wrinkled as I picked it up. It had a particularly unpleasant aroma, not easily distinguished but very distinct from the fresh pine sea breeze aroma of the beach. If I had to guess, I would say it had a strong moldy earth smell with a hint of hickory smoke. I would patent it as swamp stench, or rugby in the rain—a vision of having my face rubbed through the muck, which formed the vessel crossed my mind and forced a smile at the stench.

I think pottery and agriculture developed around the same time. They fit nicely together in my mind. The thought forms a frame-by-frame video in my head, like one of those “rise of civilization” app ads. My avatar makes the pottery, then uses it to fill a bowl with seeds. Directed by a swiveling arrow, I walk to the field and spread the seeds. Crops grow, I harvest them, and use the pottery to cook stew over a fire, then eat from the bowl, replenishing my heart icon. I gather clay, build adobe huts, and eventually create my empire. I conquer the neighboring civilization. After the turbulence of war and conquest, my avatar must sit and carve intricate designs into the pottery; otherwise, I lose morale points and my civilization falters. The ensuing peace gives rise to the development of ceramics, dyes, and standardized bricks. Every time I open my tools window, I have a new tool icon to utilize. I grow and conquer. This sequence—clay to pottery to agriculture to growth and progress, to conquest—illustrates the cyclical progression of human development. That’s what comes to mind as I look upon this vase.

I tipped the vase, and white chalk poured onto the beach sand. The fine particles suspended in the air were caught in a vortex around the stream of chalk. The swirling chalk formed an image within the wisping winds across dunes. The scene transitioned like the turning of a page in a book, each page revealing a new layer of rock. The stone layers transformed before my eyes, creating a visual history. The particles depicted the first reptilian bipeds running across the desert floor, their imprints forming the earliest chapters of this geological tome. As the next page turned, the ebbing ocean covered the desert, like a rising tide at the beach. The entire page was submerged, and the ocean grew deeper and deeper. The image formed a 3-D cross-section, where I could see the layers laid out

like thick pages beneath the ocean floor as layers of sediment from shells and sands were added to it. Beneath the waves of a tropical ocean, a new layer formed. Time was vastly accelerated in the chalky light show display. As the next page turned, the layers were pushed up to great heights, creating mountains and large plateaus, changing the entire landscape. Streams trickled down mountainsides, coalescing into creeks flowing across the plateau, carving canyons into the landscape and revealing the layers in the wake of their meander.

Winds blew and swirled in the chalk cloud timelapse, carrying layers away in the breeze. I sat there, mesmerized, staring into a cloud of chalk on a beach somewhere north of nowhere. Behind me, the bells of Shangri-La rang. I turned, but the ringing in my head blinded and disoriented me. I closed my eyes; an epicenter of waves was ringing somewhere deep in my mind. Spun in the web of a spinning world, the shadows of my mind closed to a singular point of light before disappearing altogether.

I awoke back on the vortex outcrop on the south side of Bell Rock. The bell had called me to awaken, forcing me to confront the disorientation and confusion within myself. Aware of my voyage, I was reminded of time’s methodical nature and the humility found in acknowledging my small part in the vast expanse of history.

Beneath a starry sky of endless possibilities, I find myself lost in the cold, taking refuge in the protective isolation of my inner igloo. It is incredibly hard to find myself even in my little igloo. I feel vulnerable and alone; inside the quiet solitude of introspection. Will find my calling? Maybe though it feels so daunting. I scream into the night, but my cries go unheard, mere echoes in the chambers of my inner self. Yet to be among the stars, I must find, light, and carry my own torch.

My journey to the Olympic Rings—a fitting place for the lighting of a torch, where, I discovered the unity and diversity of our shared human experience. This leads me to the utopian valley of Shangi-la, where I learned that utopia has nothing to do with perfection. Contrastingly, it seems imperfect apples are not just acceptable but perhaps necessary for surrendering my ego and finding inner peace. Perhaps they are a necessity in finding my own torch to carry as well? Unsure, I visit the vase, a testament to human progress, which reminds me of the continuity of cultural and spiritual growth.

Through these artifacts, I understand that our lives are interwoven with the threads of history and the sands of time. We are part of a grand tapestry that stretches across continents and centuries. By paying attention to the details and recognizing the layers of history that shape us, can we find our place within this vast narrative? This realization is profound, but I’m still no closer to finding my torch.

As I centered myself in a lotus position, the spirit of the valley oasis—the humble home of Sedona—filled me with a profound sense of peace. The celebrated movements, honoring diversity and equality, beckoned me towards a summitless mountain. The shifting sands beneath my feet reminded me of the ever-changing nature of life, urging me to ignite my torch and carry our message across the finish line of unity and diversity.

Sitting quietly, mesmerized by the cloud of chalk somewhere north of nowhere, I opened my eyes and felt the tingling of the vortex. This, I realized, is what the tingling of a vortex feels like—a profound awakening to the interconnectedness of all things and the enduring spirit of humanity. Somewhere inside the igloo within me is my torch, to light, carry, and shine among the stars.