A Flatlander in King Arthur’s Court

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Guest Post by Al Coffman

I was born in Wisconsin, in the heart of the flatlands, and never tired of the mountains’ majesties of the American west. We were winding up our vacation, enjoying the drive through the spacious plateaus of southern Oregon. After a number of high desert adventures we were ready to put it on cruise control. Little did we suspect that we were about to fall through the proverbial looking glass. 

My wife and I have a long tradition of winding down the day and preparing for the dream worlds with a bedtime book. Typically we choose a spiritual, uplifting story, and I would read aloud until she fell asleep. When we packed for a late summer desert vacation I stashed our current story in my sleeping bag. 

Our evening tale followed the author’s exploration of the spiritual side of relationships under the guidance of two spiritual masters, one male and one female.  The method of teaching was intriguing. The spiritual traveler would pose a question which served as a launching point for physical, contemplative, and/or dream experiences. Over a stretch of several years, the author explored a rich range of related topics. The personal journal she kept served as the basis for her book.  

Early in our trip we read a chapter that explored the love triangle between King Arthur, Guinevere, and Sir Lancelot. One interesting wrinkle was an observation of how the purity and spiritual quality of relationships deteriorated over the grand cycle of spiritual ages, or yugas. 

Such a gradual dissipation of positive energies was reflected in the perfidy of Guinevere and Lancelot. The couple’s infidelity to Arthur was eventually discovered, and Lancelot was called to account by the Knights of the Round Table.  

On this, our last night on the road, dusk was quickly approaching. The sky was threatening, and wind was whipping through the gullies in ever stronger gusts. Something unseen was stirring up the world around us. We were itching to set up camp and hunker down before full dark, but we wanted to fill up on gas first to get an early morning start.  

We pulled up at an island of ancient gas pumps in front of a country diner.  After a few minutes nobody had come to help us. For a long span of Oregon history pumping your own gas wasn’t allowed, so my wife stayed in the car with our dog Jasmine while I ventured inside looking for a hand.  

I walked in expecting a friendly welcome and an offer of assistance, but not a soul looked my way. The tableau before me was striking. A woman stood motionless behind a long mahogany bar while a circle of silent cowboys sat in a long oval in the dining room. On one end of this circle was a young, yet imposing, man speaking in a stern and commanding voice. He was taking a compatriot to task, another young cowboy who sat at the other end of the room. He addressed the man respectfully, yet without giving any quarter.    

In a few timeless minutes I gathered what was going on. The cowboy at the center of the group’s attention was having an affair with another man’s wife. Many in the small community knew about it, but this cowhand had not been found out by the husband—yet. The young buck had been warned before, but had not mended his ways. The speaker had enlisted the support of this silent circle to convince the wayward man to straighten up and fly right—before the fabric of the community was torn apart.    

I was invisible to the assembled group, so I discretely backed out and made my way to the car, whence we resumed our quest for gasoline. As I recounted the scene to my wife, I realized that I had wandered in on a round table of modern-day knights, wills bent to the task of enforcing their moral code.  

After refueling, we did our best to find a spot sheltered from the growing winds. All night long the van rocked and swayed. Jasmine never truly settled, and our sleep was fitful. By morning a quiet calm had returned to the desert, and I wondered if that reflected a peaceful resolution of the confrontation in the bar.  

As we drove west I casually said to my wife, “You know, I’ve never seen a wild horse. I sure would like to.” Five miles further down the highway, which followed the crest of a mountain, a glorious black mustang stood erect a mere 50 yards from the road. It seemed to be posing for me, set against a backdrop of rolling foothills and a deep blue sky.  

Later I contemplated on our desert adventures, and my awareness was drawn to the creative power of Soul. When my attention dwelled on something with thoughtful feeling, spirit responded by bringing it to life in the physical world. My outer world was mirroring my inner life. More than a parlor trick, this was an opportunity to mine the underlying spiritual principles reflected in such sacred moments.  

Al Coffman has a long-time interest in researching the spiritual teachings of the world and discovering how they are related on the family tree of the Holy Spirit. How can they make our lives better and increase our capacity for love?  

His current passion is capturing the events of daily life in writing and uncovering the insights they have to offer. Al is an aspiring author, avid reader, and international event coordinator. He loves to travel when given half a chance.