Spirit Tapestries

Berneice Falling Leaves is a storm walker. That's how she spells her name--"Berneice." She was born during a thunder storm, and if you're a medicine woman that makes you a storm walker, and that means you take on dangerous and difficult assignments. She's tall, wears ankle-high moccasins, hair in a Native American bob, died black, white at the part. She's half Sioux and half Danish.

We talk about her work as we cross paths with one of her several peacocks that roam free on the property around her old adobe home outside Phoenix, Arizona. Another peacock is sounding its blood-curdling screech from behind the chicken coop. I know it's a peacock calling, because my mother used to take us to the San Diego Zoo and there you can hear the peacocks all the way from the bear grotto.

Strolling along with Berneice and me is William the trance medium, middle-aged, with large balding head, and a tumbling baritone laugh. As we squeeze into single file to make our way past a cholla cactus, Berneice says, "So, anyway, Moon has invited me to Korea again if I'll bring two other ministers along with me." Berneice is referring to the Reverend Sun Myung Moon, who was spreading his mission far and wide during the 1980's.

William and I don't say anything.

"I'm not done with him and his Moonies," says Berneice, as she bends over to un-hitch her purple squaw dress from the cholla cactus. "It's a free round-trip," she says, "all expenses paid at five-star hotels. And you both qualify as ministers--I'll vouch for it. We've got work to do in Seoul and the cards say you're coming." She's referring to the Tarot cards.

We pause under the sparse shade of a mesquite tree. William looks at me, blue eyes round and ready for fun. "Come on, Savitri, Let's do it."


For some reason, I'm booked on an earlier flight arriving in Seoul in the afternoon, time enough to poke around and scope out the neighborhood. At about midnight, Berneice lugs her suitcase into the room. She's laughing. "William," she says, "is furious because he had no idea the bottle of wine he ordered downstairs was going to cost him $100, all his spending money for the trip."

Meanwhile, Berneice pulls out her cards and spreads them out on her bed. "He," meaning Moon, "is going to lie low. There's a plan to assassinate him," she says pointing to the Tower card and the Ten of Swords. "We're not going to see him on this trip. Anyway, we'll work on the other planes so it doesn't matter."

I still have no idea what "work" we're going to be doing, but figure she'll let me know. "I found out there's a Buddhist service down the street at four in the morning," I say.

"Good, we'll go to it."

I've never traveled with Berneice before and feel excited that she responds to my desire for adventure, and I also suspect her reasons for wanting to go to the Buddhist temple is somehow related to "our work."

The Moon program begins at 9:00 AM sharp. William is jealous that we didn't tell him about the Buddhist service. I look around the hall at the two hundred or so ministers, half of them Afro-Americans. I find out later that nearly all people on the Moon trip are from the South, mostly Baptists and Methodists. I supposed that a free trip would be tempting to just about anyone, except Episcopalians, Presbyterians, and Catholics, who are conspicuously absent.

For several hours we watch videos on a huge screen, about Moon and his mission complete with testimonials and shots of his mass weddings. Moon arranges marriages, pairing all colors and races in his attempt to create a utopia of one color, one race. That evening after a Korean banquet, we are bussed to Moon's opera house, a monumental building reminiscent of the architectural grandiosity of the Nazi era. And, like Hitler, Moon is a connoisseur and patron of the arts. We are dazzled with song and dance for three hours, a Korean ballet folklorico.


I've mentioned that William is a trance medium. He channels Dr. Peebles, a Scotsman, though I've never been clear as to why Dr. Peebles would be found to have any more wisdom than the rest of us. I remember one day when I'd invited William to channel at my yoga center in Tucson, Arizona William sat in a chair while the thirty of us in the "audience" sat on the floor in my temple room, on my European Oriental rug. My temple cat Bok Choy, a large white tiger point Siamese with Egyptian profile, sauntered in and sat in front of William, looking up at him, obviously waiting for the show to begin. William, when he took notice of Bok Choy's profound attention, burst into his loud baritone laughter. Bok Choy stood, flipped his tail a few times, and walked out of the room, head high. William, covering his smile with his hand, said, "O Lord...I think I insulted your cat." When William recovered his calm, he brought on Dr. Peebles.

Anyway, the day after the dance gala, the Moonies bus us to a parking lot not far from the Moon headquarters. To get there we walk down a quaint street with up-scale oriental-style homes. Berneice says, "His house is one of these. I know it." And William agrees. At the surprisingly modest headquarters, a young American woman shows us around, and I take note of the surprisingly ordinary-looking office workers, mostly Koreans.

At the tour's end, while everyone in our group files out, William signals for me to linger, and whispers, "Let's walk back." Though I'm not sure how far the walk will be, I follow his lead. Berneice doesn't want to stay. With our group gone, I notice that nobody in the office seems to find our presence strange. William strikes up friendly conversation with a Korean woman in her forties. After a bit he says, "I'm a spiritualist."

The woman smiles, nodding.

"Are you familiar with spiritualism?" he asks as if it were the most normal question in the world.

"Oh, yes," she says, "In fact we have several among us who are learning to channel. When he dies, that's how he'll communicate with us."

I try really hard not to look at William and I'm pretty sure he's trying really hard not to look at me.

Later the next day, Berneice and William and I huddle in the hotel lobby during a break in the program. Berneice says, "I just found out that about 70 of those ministers from the South have been persuaded to push the Moonies from their church pulpits. And, I want you to know that they have Moonies assigned to us, to pick our brains. At that means their using powers to enter your mind." She punches her fist into her palm and says, "Just send them away whenever you feel them probing around in your brain."

Now I know why I've been feeling irritable and out of sorts. "One of them came up to me, the tall American who introduces the program every day, and told me that we'd get sent back home if we didn't attend every program. I understand, now, how he knew I was planning to play hookie. And he said to stop going to the Buddhist temples."

"Creepy," says William.

"You better believe," says Berneice. "Anyway, we've got an afternoon break today, so let's go to the folk art museum you saw advertised, Savitri. And just remember...our mere presence is throwing off their energy."

I feel I'm just along for the ride, but am glad our storm walker thinks we might be making a dent in Moon progress.


On our seventh and last day, we three hike up a hill near our hotel, the sight of a bloody battle during the Korean War. We'd been up there earlier in the week and had decided to do a ceremony to help release what William referred to as "trapped souls," souls who hadn't realized they were dead, were deep into the war trauma, unable to move on. Additionally, we found out that a lot of Moon's desire for creating utopia is fueled by his bitterness over that war.

It is a windless afternoon when we settle in a shady spot at the top of the hill. Berneice pulls out her eagle feather and a braid of sweetgrass which she lights while she's saying her prayers; William calls on his spirit guides, Dr. Peebles included; and I light some incense and say a Sanskrit chant. When we finish, a gentle breeze brushes across our faces and flutters the leaves on trees.


A couple of weeks later, at my yoga and meditation center in Tucson, about thirty people gather to hear Berneice and William and me tell our stories about our Korean adventure. First off we let everyone know that we'd developed a taste for Kimchi, the sour cabbage dish served with every Korean meal. In most neighborhoods in Seoul, we saw Kimchi "brewing" in large clay pots on roof-tops.

Then Berneice told about the assassination expectation, and says she wasn't the only person to know about that possibility. "And he knew about it, too," she adds. "He's no dummy." Then Berneice punches her fist into her palm and lets us know that her last Tarot card spread, with the Sun and Moon cards prominent, and the Joker in the middle, indicated that our work in Seoul had met her measure of success, though she didn't say how.

To round out the evening, William offers a short channeling session with Dr. Peebles. William slips away from the world as we know it, and Dr. Peebles, in Scottish accent, answers the unasked question: "Mr. Moon may aspire to build a trans-Pacific bridge, but a Scotsman, such as myself--embodied, of course--is more likely to find a pot of gold at the end of an Irishman's rainbow."