Bridges of Understanding

It is believed that Moses and the Israelites saw the land of Canaan for the first time from the top of Mt. Nebo. Jesus was baptized at the River Jordan. The Prophet Muhammad belonged to the Hashemite tribe from which King Abdullah of Jordan is descended. The land of Jordan was a crossroad for three great religions. And it still evokes a strange and haunting spirituality. Perhaps that is why we found ourselves transformed in Jordan, transported into another world, for one night beneath the ruins of Petra, a once great empire. On this night, April 18, 2007, eighteen American women might have been goddesses from Mt. Olympus or spirits of the Nabataeans. There beneath the stars, enclosed by towering boulders, we reached our own crossroad.

Silently we moved forward into the darkness, gliding single file down a carpeted pathway lined with candles. I followed the pathway my senses led me. The scent of spices and dust in the air. The touch of velvet over rippling sand beneath my feet. The soaring notes of a lone flute in the distance. My thoughts turned to my daughters with hopes that they, too, could experience magic in their lives. For the first time I wished my husband Ronnie could be there with me. Much later others in our group shared similar feelings. Some of us were taken by surprise, moved to tears.

At the end of the path we found ourselves in a clearing, surrounded by giant rock towers. Suddenly we heard a crack, like thunder, and spotlights flashed. The temple carved in stone came into sharp focus. Out from an opening, once an ancient burial site, marched a column of exotic Arabian Knights, Bedouin soldiers in full dress blowing horns, beating a drum in syncopated rhythms. It may have been their smiles or the pulsating music, or a sudden feeling of abandon but it took only minutes before some of us joined them, prancing to their footsteps on the sand. "We were in a place hidden from eyes of the earth, but open to the heavens," one of us wrote.

Soon Luma Kawar, our enchanting, elegant hostess, beckoned us to follow her. We came upon a voluminous white tent, an amazing three-sided canopy patterned in swirling shapes and colors. Inside round tables were laden with a mezze of hummus, tabbouleh, olives, baba ghanuge, and fresh pita bread.

Waiters poured wines from vineyards of Jordan and served platters of lamb and chicken, stewed vegetables and potatoes. Conversations went from our group's shared goals to more personal stories. Luma's lovely mother Siham Halazon and I spoke of our families. We spoke of what we had in common and touched upon our differences. "It was a time of bonding," someone said. "And much laughter."

We faced a rock platform, the rust-colored cliffs rising behind, where musicians with sitar and violin began to play. When tapes of American rock music reverberated off the canyon walls, the real dancing began. "Soon 20 plus pairs of bare feet pranced and danced, with increasing throes and thrusts to near frenzy, as propriety relented to Petran pleasure and the heat of genuine joy." Our stalwart guide Zuhair and the waiters joined in, as our photographer Jan Kassay recorded the moment. Some words and phrases from our group: "Infectious." "A letting go." "Milan Kundera's lightness of being." "A celebration." Someone wrote that, "It felt like an initiation blessed by the Milky Way, as Orion's Belt and the Seven Sisters looked on." Another said, "It was the realization of a beautiful dream." In that "valley of the senses," we felt a connection and a sense of mission. We made a promise to continue the conversation.