Finding the Sacred Spot--Marcia

I wake up this morning and Christy is talking in my dreams, she is saying that parking lots are built over sacred energy spots. There is some parking lot in Ashland where (in this dream) she gets together with a certain group of friends once a year. It is surrounded by tall trees with large dark-green leaves that flutter in the soft breeze. In my sleep state, this, like everything Mme. Raedeke says, makes perfect sense.

Even after slurping down an entire French press of caffeine it makes sense. There are definitely parking lots that get more action than others. You drive into Target and you can barely find a spot, everybody loves Target. (The Target symbol is a vortex in itself, happily sucking my money down its depths.). Yesterday we passed the Molly Murphy’s on Barnett all boarded up and depressing. No matter its name, and it alters almost yearly, it can’t seduce a single car into its parking lot. What’s that about? They change the roofline, they change the sign, but not a single restaurant has made it since the Sandpiper closed thirteen years ago.

I can’t even think of the names ye old Molly Murphy’s has had. The only reason I remember the Sandpiper, is because it was legend while my husband and his housemates lived at the “Bat Cave.” This was back when the new housing development behind the Sandpiper was a meadow my husband and his party friends used to cross after closing time. But like the Keg-a-rator in the Bat Cave’s fridge, the meadow, and the bar . . . our twenties are gone. And the parking lot at Molly Murphy’s is not a sacred spot of energy.

It’s been an action packed week—excursions with mom, my son’s first concert on a big stage, his first solo (a chicken sneeze for “Polly Wolly Doodle”), and his first trip to the emergency room—his baby brother laid him open with a Hot Wheels scooter painted in flames. So, you know, a parking lot in Ashland surrounded by ancient trees, the creek babbling stage left, and perhaps me, in a camp chair plunked down a few spots from a Subaru Outback, tapping away on a lap top doesn’t sound half bad right now. Maybe I’ll call Christy and get directions to that Zen lot where she and her pals meet every year.