Georgia, on the other hand, convinced her husband, Robert, to move into “the country”, to a property north of L.A., in 1949, twenty years before the “back to nature” movement became so popular in the‘60’s. This move was to get away from the restrictive, materialist, status-predicated attitudes of sub- and urban neighborhood populations exploding after World War II in L.A. But something else happened out there as well—amidst the sage, lupine and golden poppies. Best as I can figure, years of exposure to nature and the clean, clear skies now rare in the area, developed inner sensitivities, spiritual clarities, a kind of unprotected innocence. She became the expression of the spirit of that place.” I don’t know how else to say it. This was acknowledged, and proven to me, by the remarkable, paranormal, reaction to her from the ‘seraphim’ at Eagle Rock. (I.e., we were translocated from one point on that dusty, gravel, desert road to a point several miles distant without passing through the distance in-between. See Introductory section of NEPSIS, Section I, under the title, “Eagle Rock”.) –And by Georgia’s immediate recognition, on a previous visit there, of the sacred and pure nature of the Spirit that dwells there. She was prepared, I believe, by years of much solitude and the high intentions of mid-20th Century American ideals of the time. (See the novel, Desert Solitaire, for a similar, more accessible example of such ideals.)
This move to “the country,” left her children altered as well. I was born there. Spent my first twenty years there. Left us (me) curiously unprepared for the dominant middle class values of the society we moved into. Georgia still reminds me of the solitary rose on that small planet in the book, The Little Prince. A beautiful blossom, but only one thorn to defend herself. She doesn’t like that book and might yet mount a deeper defense…negotiating as she does with webs that trap and webs for traveling…
I had a dream once in which people used to come out to visit us on our little rancho when it was way out, a wilderness it seemed to city people. They would come out to participate in our sport. This consisted of swinging out on a pulley attached to a long cable that stretched from the hill where our house was, to another hill, half mile across our largest pasture. The cable was many hundreds of feet above the pasture land below. The sport was to swing out on the cable via the pulley as far as one could, then drop, hopefully, into the glacial river below. In reality, the “river” was a usually dry arroyo about a mile to the west. Yet, somehow one could make the drop successfully. One wore heavily padded leather garb because of the cold of the heights, and because of the water. That was our sport. That was our reason for being. Georgia was the best at it.
Anyway, her transformation out there indicates a preparation, a practice—NEPSIS; that added to a gift perhaps. But what was that practice, and a preparation for what? This is much of the modern dilemma…
Endnote: To further flesh out this portrait of Georgia, see some of her own work below.
1. An early edit and dramatization she did of “The Company” from the NEPSIS Narratives, Including:
2. Georgia’s stories for children.
Chapter One: I Can Think
Chapter Two: Something Brand New
Chapter Three: Will You Trust Me
Chapter Four: Finding Something To Eat
(Copyright © by S. Frost 1997)
Also consider this S. Frost poem from 09.2013, in her regard.
Its hard to explain!
Its hard to explain about frogs, where
it was usually dry, judge grey
sage green weeds, blond and grey tumble, salmon weeds
but for seldom big Nino* years when
two inches of clear water would sit Zen
above the little rocks, sand AND
thousands of frogs
appeared in the big cottonwood hole singing all night seems
below a turn in the road -they had to spread out
cars had to smash ‘em
one car had to miss and aim for the pool
in the hole
But a cottonwood caught it for the longest time.
Its hard to explain about Georgia.** how
that last year was
when the veil between worlds was so thin
It was payment in full, ‘a blast of pure white light
glancing from a spread of black raven’s wing’
it was better than any-thing, how
on the plane back from that oasis in Egypt
seeping its vast aquifer
in deep cold oracular pools, how
if the plane crashed on its way back, then it would have been ok
with me and her
-maybe not the other folks on the plane, stern to bow-
But now John, ur right, there’s still to do
I’ll follow the streams I always have, to their source. You will too.
You can give charity if you receive it, Steve
for the love of God, Bill!***
*I was a boy child as well as it being a wet El Nino year.
**Georgia was my mother who came to live with me when I was Newman Chalplain at SSU in N. California. After 5 year there, I got sick, retired. She, at 80, and I took care of each other for another 5 years. The ‘last year’ mentioned in the poem was 2005.
***John, Steve and Bill are priest friends in Fr. Frost’s home Diocese.
Steve Frost September 3, 2013