Valleys of Vortexes
Have you ever been caught in a moment of déjà vu so convincing, so utterly unexplainable, that you are briefly certain you have occupied that exact second of existence before, as though time and your own life have folded in on themselves, and you are now standing inside of a memory rather than the present?
Or when you see a shooting star move across a dark night sky, or a lightning bolt fork in the distance, your mind drifts to the impossible-to-answer question of: Where does so much energy come from and where does it disappear to once the sky goes dark again?
Or the sacred feeling of submerging yourself in a body of crystal-clear water, especially the kind that arrives from the mouth of a glacier, where the cold is so bitterly sharp and immediate it feels less like swimming and more like a brief, startling rebirth?
And then there are these other questions I have, the ones that become seriously absurd to consider: how many leaves cling to the trees on the slope of a mountain in the distance, how many singular pebbles could exist in a single scoop of sand, or how many people, across the history of the world, have paused to wonder about their place at the center of it all?
Sometimes I find myself wondering if in the instant before death, everything suddenly makes sense. If the structure of this existence will reveal itself all at once and we’ll finally understand how our small, wandering lives fit into the enormous architecture of this universe.
But until that moment arrives, what fascinates me most in this particular iteration of being alive are the places on Earth that seem to be so alive with something slightly more concentrated than the rest. I cannot place what that something is, but I will tell you what I enjoy calling them:
Vortexes.
Stay with me.
I’m not talking about future galaxies, or black holes, or space time portals.
I’m talking about valleys; the deepest folds in the Earth where mountains gather around you like the highest cathedral walls, and in the hour of alpenglow the brilliance of sunlight spills down their faces like passing through pieces of perfectly placed stained glass. Water flows from glaciers high above, meeting the riverbeds reflecting like diamonds just cleaned by the angels themselves.
An undeniable rush of energy meets your heart with great force; so great, you often turn around to double check where you are, if you’re still standing on your own two feet.
The energy of the landscape feels so concentrated that the veil between your ordinary waking life and your spiritual imagination, which we all inherent from birth but sometimes lose along the way, becomes thinner.
The environment itself becomes a kind of amplifier for whatever emotions or questions you carry within and just by turning around to take it all in do you feel the answer: presence.
The word vortex derives from the Latin word vertere: to turn, or to rotate.
But how often are we just moving, plowing forward in-motion, rather than turning on a single axis to find ourselves in alignment with these ever-rotating planets.
In Mexico, they have a name for places that hold this kind of mystique: Pueblo Mágicos, Magical Towns, which my friend Emily reminded me of last week in her piece about travel in the time of war, as she moves through Mexico. These towns are recognized for the way their history, geography, and culture seem to produce a kind of magic that lingers in the air.
And lately I’ve been wondering about creating my own category: Valleys of Vortexes.
And here are my very simple qualifications.
A river that begins not far away, ideally glacier-fed, carrying water that still feels close to its origin.
A history that nudges the modern mind toward deeper contemplation about time and presence.
And a surrounding landscape that gathers people who are, consciously or not, searching for something.
These valleys are slivers in a busy world that act as undeniable mirrors, projecting our own feelings and longings back at us, making us stop and turn around a few times.
For some of you reading you may be skeptical. You may be thinking, a valley is not a vortex, it’s just a valley. You may think, God, people really do stitch together meaning to places or experiences because they want them to hold meaning.
Because meaning is comforting.
We notice 11:11 on a clock and call it a sign.
We watch a feather drift through the air and imagine an ancestor passing through.
But then there are places where the coincidence and alignment feel so persistent that you begin to question your skepticism.
Revelstoke, my home, is one of those places. A mountain town that feels like such a small and improbable slice of heaven on earth it almost demands my suspicion.
So is Rishikesh, here in India, where I am currently writing from the edge of the Ganga River, commonly referred to as Mother Ganga.
And then my favourite vortex of all, if I’m being honest, is anywhere my twin sister happens to be standing.
Because really, who wouldn’t want to believe that on this spinning planet there are points where the energy of all the trillions of universes gathers and funnels downward, nudging the people who arrive there toward a slightly deeper more contemplative version of themselves.
And if that sounds insane, I would invite you to dip your body into a glacier-fed river in one of these valleys, where the cold is so electric that for at least a few seconds you will feel unmistakably zapped awake. Alive.
And only then if you still want to know what’s underneath the magic, what’s beneath the surface of the places that feel almost too perfect to be real; I’ll offer a more practical definition.
Maybe, stripped of spirituality, a vortex is simply this: a valley where mountains concentrate all weather, where glaciers concentrate the water, and rivers carry that restless energy down through the town and out into the big wide world again.
And in their meeting with your human experience, you step into a feeling of arrival.
These are vortexes, where histories stack on top of one another, where people have arrived for centuries carrying questions just like the ones we ask today.
And then there are the other, smaller vortexes, that don’t make my list of recommended valleys to visit; because I hope these ones live in you for a lifetime:
The vortex that is the feeling of falling in love.
The vortex that is reconciliation.
The vortex that is forgiveness.
The vortex that is confronting your own mortality and being met with peace.
The vortex that is reading the last page of the best book you’ve ever read.
The vortex that is holding your Mom’s hand.
The vortex that is hearing the sound of a gong at the end of a meditation.
The vortex that is birdsong in the morning.
The vortex that is knowing everyone you love is safe and happy.
And with these in mind, I feel that though I do really hope my labeling of Valleys of Vortexes does take off, the vortexes were never just limited to geographical places.
These valleys, the deepest folds into the Earth, are so simply the places where the world gathers around you.
Where enough beauty, memory, and coincidence settle in the air like gold dust so that you feel, if only briefly, like you are seated at the center of something you cannot name.
The center of your own soul.