For Matt W.

 

 

 

            In the summer of1996, I flew to Reikjavik, Iceland, on a mission related to our World Peace 2000 movement.  We'd had a remarkable meeting in Costa Rica early in the spring of that year, at the University for Peace, known as UPAZ, twenty-three representatives of peace groups from five or six different countries, all sharing the desire to usher in the New Millennium on a note for world peace.  The ominous drumbeats of the Y2K fear--rumors that all computer driven systems, electrical, telephonic, airport control systems, might, 'might,' all fail at the same time, at the stroke of 12.01 a.m. on 01-01-00.  (For those of you who might have missed the Millennium Moment, the Y2K Fear began building around 1995, and by 1996 was in full flower: and the media hyped the rumors something awful, increasing the fear vibe exponentially across the land, and around the world.)

            Our meeting at the UPAZ, chaired by both Dr. Robert Muller, director emeritus of the university and a former Assistant Secretary General of the United Nations, and Rodrigo Carazo, a former president of Costa Rica and chairman of the UN's 50th Anniversary Celebration Committee, and currently the director of the University for Peace itself.  The small, bucolic campus in the Costa Rican town of Ciudad Colon normally hosted graduate level students from the countries of Latin America, but since they were on hiatus, we had the campus to ourselves.

We were a motley crew of men and women from various walks of life and political, psychic and cultural persuasions, as well as nationalities,  English, French, American, Costa Rican, Icelandic and others.  What we had in common was the sense of the Millennium's moment-ous-ness, all of us wanting to usher in the New Era on a note of World Peace, instead of one of chaos--which, if the media was to be believed, was definitely in the offing, brought on by Y2K.  Although each of us came under a different banner, representing a particular organization or group, our goals were melded into one common allegiance--adding the word 'peace' to the word 'millennium.'

On the second day of our four-day session, a fellow named Thor and his girlfriend flew in from Iceland, and proceeded to try and take over the meeting, sort of gross and curious at one and the same time.  Thor had been operating a small group called Peace 2000 from his law offices in Iceland, had a jumping website, and yet there was something slightly 'off' about him and his efforts.  In his move to hijack the conference, he was offering his offices in Iceland as a potential permanent office for our World Peace 2000 coalition.  Several of the participants felt slightly uneasy about his offer, and to make a long story shorter, the group decided to send a volunteer to "suss it out," as the young people in California like to say--and since I was more or less the only volunteer, I was selected to go. 

            So it was that in the summer of 1996, I flew to Reikjavik from Los Angeles on Northwest Airlines.  Thor, my host, who I was kind of spying on at the same time, met me at the airport and took me to a small guesthouse down near the center of Reikjavik.  Another crazy mission for CIA (Cannabis Intelligence Agency) agent Diamond, fearless doofus of God, a Panamanian-Jewish-Buddhist, a junior Nasruddin, just another fool on the path--and to add to it all, Thor was, at the moment I arrived in Iceland, running for president of the country, a checkered character running on a mythical Peace Platform, and running dead fifth in a five-person election.

(By way of weirdness, there was the moment when Thor invited me to join him on the campaign trail, going to visit a senior center, a Christian-based one, and had me sit right up on the stage with him, then, to my surprise, introduced me as "my guru from India who is going to lead us in the Sacred OM chant."  With my graying beard and wild look in my eye, I suppose I could have passed.  But the looks on the faces of these Icelandic senior citizens, Christians at that, was worth the price of admission!  And when a few of them made an effort to OM, I must confess, it was a priceless moment.)

But when he first announced me as a guru from India, I gulped mightily, and also felt some anger.  Still it came off okay, but politically speaking, as far as Thor was concerned, it was definitely a non-starter.

The next day, I had an appointment with Mr. Steingrimmur Hermmansson, director of the Icelandic National Bank, and a former prime minister of the country, a tall, red-haired Icelander in his early sixties; he'd attended USC in the 1950s, and married an American woman he'd met there.  A friend from Santa Barbara had connected us and I also thought perhaps Mr. Hermannsson might have some thoughts about whether we should establish the World Peace 2000 offices under Thor's aegis.  This former prime minister was himself possessed of a strong social conscience and more than a little environmental awareness.

Perhaps because we had Southern California in common, Mr. Hermannsson and I connected easily, and at the end of our one-hour meeting, he said, "I'm going out of Reikjavik tomorrow, north to an area called the Thingevellir.  It's the site of the ancient parliament of the Vikings, would you like to see it?"  I told him I would, and he agreed to pick me up at the small guesthouse where I was staying right in the center of town.  "I'll be there at 6 a.m. sharp," he told me, and I replied, "I'll be ready."

The next morning, Mr. Hermannsson picked me up in his gunmetal gray Land Rover, a youngish aide, perhaps a bodyguard, sitting next to him as I clambered in the back. 

            We drove more or less in silence and within about ten minutes we were outside Reikjavik and into the stark interior of Iceland.  The road ran past long, empty stretches of a kind of Northern no-man's land, craggy black rocks, winding roads, stone bridges--but virtually no houses, farms or people. Eventually we pulled into a solitary gas station, outpost of civilization, where we filled the tank and got coffee and sandwiches. 

            "This place where we're going," Mr. Hermannsson told me, "The Thingevellir, it used to be the Viking's version of Switzerland, you might say, a neutral zone where they would meet, hold councils, and work out their differences.  Oh, there was a court there, also, you'll see.  Should be there in a half an hour."

Now the Land Rover started to climb, going up a winding road until it reached a kind of plateau surrounded by mountains.  Suddenly, a huge lake came into view, perhaps thirty miles across, barren and foreboding. 

            "Look down there," Mr. Hermannsson said, pointing to a stone amphitheatre, sort of like a flattened version of Stonehenge, with the lake spread out below it. 

            He stopped the vehicle and we got out and walked down a path to the stone circle with its descending layers of circular benches also made of the long, flat, black stones which looked like they'd been there forever.  Each was perfectly cut to meet the next one. 

            "That is where the advocats would argue their cases," he told me, pointing to the center of the stone in the bowl-like amphitheatre.  "They had the drowning pools over there," Mr. Hermannsson continued, pointing to three large, bathtub like stone foundations, now empty of their lethal waters.  "I'm sure many Vikings died right there, justice was swift."

            I started to walk around the perimeter of the stone amphitheatre, picturing these ancient peoples and their tribunals, then stared out at the lake below.  On my shoulder, I carried a pack with the wand in its soft leather case.

            "That's quite a lake," I shouted back to Mr. Hermannsson.

            "Yes, no one has ever measured how deep it is," he shouted back. 

            Although I don't know anything much about geology or earth sciences, my intuition told me that the lake was probably half a million years old, a natural chasm formed by mountains settling, and water, rains and rivers, filling it up over time. 

            The smooth, flat table-top of the lake barely moved in the cool stillness: and it certainly felt like you were on top of the world up there--the silence was almost eerie, and everything seemed frozen.  Every so often, a very slight, cool breeze would float on by, barely perceptible.  The landscape was colored a kind of dark rust brown, and the surrounding mountains had a dark, almost black tinge. 

            I stood on one of the stone Viking benches, staring out at the vastness of this totally still body of water, and suddenly, in my head, I heard a voice saying: "Throw the wand in the lake...throw the wand in the lake..." Then silence.    

            Had I imagined it, I wondered?  Then it came again, "Throw the wand in the lake..."  And this time came an image, an image of myself reaching into my backpack and pulling out the wand and flinging it far out into the center of the giant, unfathomable lake.  In this momentary, mental picture, I flung it in a high arc way out into the middle of this vast, watery field, spinning as it went, end over end, crystal over crystal, until it plunged into the icy blue water with a perfect splash, then disappeared without a trace. 

            "Throw the wand in the lake...," again I heard these words in my head, but now there was a slight, but obvious echo, "Throw the wand in the lake..."

Then I thought about it and wondered, was this what it was all about with the wand that had come to me three years earlier in Santa Barbara, that somehow I was 'supposed' to bring it up here to the roof of the planet and fling it into this mysterious yet powerful body of water?  Was this my mission with it?

            And was it really the lake itself calling for me to do this?  Or was it coming from somewhere else, a lurking spirit, perhaps, or group of them? 

            I clambered over to another set of stones, still staring out at the cold lake.  Was it a simple test for me, of non-attachment to such a precious and mystical material object?  God knew I certainly loved the wand, was taken with its mystery and the unraveling of its story.

            "Throw the wand in the lake," said the voice in my head, one more time.

            I turned away from the body of water, looked up toward where Mr. Hermannsson and his aide were standing, and said, "Let's go back.  I think I'm ready to go back," and I started climbing back up toward where the Land Rover was parked.  Dark clouds started rolling in quickly as the three of us climbed into the vehicle. 

            "Sometimes, people think they hear voices when they're up here," Mr. Hermannsson said, to no one in particular.

            "Yes," I mused from the back seat.  "I can see why."

            We rode the rest of the way back to Reikjavik in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts and memories.

 

Postscript:

 

            In the seven years' time since that trip to the Thingevellir (1997-2004), I have 'shown' the wand to a number of different people, each with their own individual responses, but universally there is a kind of joy, as if seeing this mystical artifact, simply seeing it, affirms that "magic is still alive in this world."  In part, I have come to believe that my simply showing it to certain people (and not showing it to certain others) has been a part of my 'assignment' as steward of this magical item.  (I always tell people that, "I don't own it, I'm just the steward of the wand...")

Certainly, I'm thankful the lake didn't get it on that spooky day in Iceland on the roof of the world.  There were times when I have wondered about it, but in the end, I know I did the right thing. 

Bottom line of this story:  trust your own intuition, in all things, visible and invisible.

 

 

Santa Barbara, CA

3-21-05        

 

The Wand and The Lake      By Steve Diamond    c. 2005