EXIT THE SYSTEM:
GATHERING IN THE CORNER

There are still wise old sages in the forests, but there are not many left.

 

In another time, the old ones were regarded with such high respect, but with the shift of technology, any man can claim they wield wisdom, and ignore their neighborhood scholar.

Depart from evil, and do good - and dwell for evermore.

​Psalm (Tehillim) 37:27

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One very wise old man that I knew, and learned from was named Harley Davison. 

With being raised in the dust bowl, and serving in the second world war, Mr. Davison had been at the precipice of many historic moments, such as even the Battle of the Bulge. In the military he served as a medic and saw everything from syphilis infections to basic battle wounds and was forced to carry a short piece of railroad iron because he objected to carrying a firearm. 

 

Later in life, his path led him to the forests of the Ozarks where he tended his garden and taught from the bible to the end of his days. His simple education his parents had given him, was the clear pure vessel he filled with spiritual knowledge. Compared to modern humans that are so covered with notions of every thought, older generations could fully devote their minds and lifestyles to the scripture.

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Long ago, old timers like Mr. Davison noticed a constant stream of folks exiting the system and leaving the cities. And from the abundance of the world, the Ozarks remained as the last vestige of pure land for Torah observant homesteaders, and continues to be. 

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These forests have many likeminded folks that work their gardens and worship together in the same land, but still remain individual in their identities. Like spiritual settlers in a gold rush of Torah, its high time to leave the system and spiritually "get on the wagon train". 

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The name of the Lord is a tower of strength,

the righteous runs into it and is strengthened.

Proverbs (Mishlei) 18:10

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There even used to be a newsletter called "Corner Gathering" where folks would write about "undeniable miracles" and religious testimonials about how they were lead to the Ozarks. 

 

Tucked away in North Arkansas, South Missouri, Eastern Oklahoma, and a little sliver of South East Kansas is the Ozarks. Multiple mountain ranges and plateau's roll together across the land making a glorious playground for the mountain man / mountain woman. 

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Where the common theme of the city is disposability, the everlasting label of the hillside is responsibility. Returning to the land, seeing where the food grows, and growing it yourself.

And from the farm-work, it reminds those who have forgotten the blessing of hot summers and cool waters. Braiding the hillside together with fencerows, barns, and hayfields, a man can relax feeling his arms in the natural space and motion of work. 

 

The wise ones in the Ozarks have grown old in the scripture, contemplating its meaning and practice. They seem to all have large collections of books and enjoy knowledge on virtually any subject. These mystics of the hillside are farmers, herders, and scholars of literature, math, and science.

 

Always learning, even in supreme old age searching the pages of all the books of scripture again and again, the educated ones are found tending the earth. The ability to have concern for the soil, and return to shepherd its surface, outweighs all power known to man.

 

 

 

EXPLORING THE OZARKS: 
DISCOVER THE NATIONAL FORESTS OF THE OZARKS

Long reaching limbs on the cedar trees sway in the wind and frame the entrance to a small trail. Some paths are wider than others, well worn by the hemlock rangers and occasional coyote. While the remainder of the underbrush network is held tight by a spiderweb of rabbit tracks. 

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"See, I give you every seed-bearing plant that is upon all the earth, and every tree.."

-Genesis (Bereshis) 1:29

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Following the wild trails, it’s easy to happen upon a large thicket of berries, or a hidden pool of crisp mountain water. With the forest being their home, and you being their guest, often you will find yourself in the very middle of their very busy forest life. 

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With the Ozark National Forest covering 1.2 million acres, everywhere you look, there's always plenty of adventure to be found. And in northern Arkansas, there is one National Forest that always keeps a special place in my heart, the St. Francis. 

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According to the USDA, "The St. Francis National Forest covers 22,600 acres in Arkansas, and is one of the smallest and most diverse forests in the country." 

 

Rummaging through the hollers of the St. Francis, it’s easy to get covered in ticks and mosquitos, but with the valley bottoms lined with ferns, and gilded with huckleberry bushes, it makes up readily for its rough cast edges. With the woodland being so thick, you will have plenty of space to stretch your legs off the main trail, or take time to explore the well-maintained recreation areas. Without the need to pitch a tent to explore all day, the river access areas in the region have nice swimming holes (When the water is up), and homey picnic sites to hang out at the creek all day.  Another spot I highly recommend is the Richland Creek Wilderness, it’s a great spot to walk the dog and talk to the locals camped on the creek. I've enjoyed many days down there viewing wildlife, fishing, and even floated the Richland Creek once when it was high water and chocolate brown!

 

 

Goats and Narrow Gates
In every direction, bright sunlight and blazing hot rocks issued forth in unlimited amounts. Slowly weaving between large boulders and dry limbs from trees that had withered long ago, the small spotted goat and the large black goat had reached a fairly high rise in the mountains.

 

Behind them the path up the slope was easily seen and laid like a long tan snake in the desert wilderness.

 

Every step through the old brittle limbs made a loud crunch as the dry twigs splintered into dust. The path was reaching near to the face of a large cliff that skirted the mountain ahead in an unbroken line. Each step toward the mountain, it became much larger than it was in the distance, until it stood towering over them like a storm-cloud of stone.

 

“Up this way.” Said the old goat to the young one.
Gusts of wind were pushing around in the maze of boulders where they stood, sand and grit could be heard coursing through the cracks in the stone with the smell of hot dry air.

 

Pushing his hoof onto the stone wall, the old goat leaned and shifted his weight backwards.

There was no path up this wall visible to the young spotted goat. Its surface was sheer, and went directly up. He wondered at the big black goat and looked around for where the narrow path possibly lead, when suddenly-

 

The old black goat heaved himself forward and quickly danced up a secret path in the stone.

Looking back down the hot vertical rock, the old black goat seemed to levitate on the slope, as he calmly swished his tail then continued on.

 

Amazed and bewildered, the young spotted goat followed where the old one had lead. Stepping to the spot where the old goat had placed his hoof, the young goat could see that there was a thin narrow path up the mountain. A secret road that could only be seen, by those who had been shown.

 

Walking up the cliff like a tightrope, the two goats ascended the mountain to places that could only be reached by hoof. In heights where an eagle may pass by on the warm wind, but a wolf is nothing but a distant howl.

 

Ledges on high became a perch to the world, where the two goats could survey the kingdom of the wilderness and its never-ending sprawl.

 

Evening came and went, and it was another hot day the two of them walked in the seclusion of the mountain.  The sound of wind and rocks were a constant murmur in the mountain, but as they neared an outcrop of flat rocks they found a small grotto of moss and cold spring water collecting in a pool.

Here the narrow path was seen again, the pool was well worn on its bank, the herbs growing in its mossy rocks were nibbled and broken.

 

Beyond the pool leading up the mountain, a path was visible with well worn rocks shining in the sun like polished gems.

“Where are we?” Asked the young spotted goat.

“Are there others here!?” He continued.

 “Let us go up and see.” Said the old black goat as he raised himself and walked the bank of the pool.

 

The air was different here, it was cool and smelled like the plants growing lush in the shade. Here the wilderness was kept at bay with the occasional whistle of a bird or the song from a frog under the cold wet leaves.

 

Slowly the sand and rock faded from under their hooves as they found themselves walking through grass and pasture. The mountain opened up to a great immense field, ahead of them the draw of the valley went on for miles and stopped at even a larger mountain, behind them the way up from the wilderness laid like desolate desert steps leading to a barn full of the finest hay.

 

Ahead of the two, the bright green grass in the field had been blazed with a direct path to an old crooked tree that shaded a small herd from the afternoon sun.

The tree was rough and gnarled, and had weathered many storms and seasons. The infinite twists and bends spread out in its structure above them had sheltered many in its lifetime.  

 

The group under the tree were of every type of hoof and horn. A few resembled a deer, with their horn branched and their coats brown. While others were more like a sheep with a thick wool like charcoal and less of a horn.

 

Some had won battles against wolves, and had blood on their horns, while others showed scars from battles they lost.

 

Here under this old tree, they all gathered from different paths in the narrow. Laying in pasture, chewing the cud, and finding their individual way up the mountain and through the wilderness. 

Seeing the old goat lay in the grass among the herd, the young spotted goat soon followed the pattern and laid at his feet.

 

The days rolled on and seemed to last forever as they rested in the shade of the old tree, eating sweet tufts of grass from the field.

 

 

The Nazir Order of 

The Purple Veil

With the heavy thump of bass in the distance, people flood in and out of the main stage area as random glow sticks and dome tents litter the campground.

 

It was Friday night at the Byrd's Fest music and art festival, and just as the sun was beginning to set, I noticed a short purple school bus in the distance. 

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"Continue to remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison,

and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering."

-Hebrews 13:3

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Nearing the purple bus and the purple pavilion next to it, I see that the vendors were closing their shop and they were all dressed in purple. Typically vendors at music festivals stay open 24 hours a day if they can, weather permitting. However, seeing them close down their shop on a Friday night left me wondering if they kept the Sabbath. 

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Being a painter and silversmith myself, I had ventured to many music festivals around the state, and had already seen the purple people at various Rainbow Gathering's and Wakarusa's but I had yet to approach them and step inside their camp.  

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Entering the purple pavilion, I saw that they had a vast array of incense and various aromatic resins from exotic places. Copper jewelry and some woven bracelets covered a small table near a picture of a dark haired man with a serious gaze. After buying some resins and sticks of incense, I ask the lady tending the booth if they keep the Sabbath. 

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"Yes, Yes!" She replied, immediately referencing the picture of the man. 

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"You should talk to him." She said with a quick smile.

 

The framed picture, looking ominously back our direction, gave me the impression of an average garden variety, cult leader. Being familiar with the forest and its secluded valleys and back roads, I knew from a young age that folks secretly could and would bend the will of others using mental and sometimes physical abuse. 

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Back in the 80's there was a cult near the same area that worshiped a man called Fou. A local by the name of Emory Lamb, was the center of the cult, then in 1982 cult member "Baby Fou" Keith and his wife Kate Haigler, hijacked a bus in Jasper Arkansas and were shot by police before ending their own lives on the Jasper bridge.

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Always known for their purple clothes, the purple people have a very secluded 100 acre compound near Yellville Arkansas. Also known as the Nahziryah Monastic Community or Nazir Order of the Purple Veil, it was founded in the early 1970's and was re-located to the Ozarks near the year 2000.

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The Arkansas Times reported in 2019 that their leader Kedem was "...Black Hebrew Israelite, a name given to various small African-American religious groups who believe themselves to be the descendants of a lost tribe of Israel. Black Hebrew Israelite beliefs and practices vary widely, but some adopt Hebrew names, practice polygamy, reject birth control and keep strict vegan diets. Kedem, however, forged his own spiritual path. He preached an asceticism derived from the Essenes, an ancient Jewish sect. Later, he mixed in an amalgam of Eastern contemplative mysticism."

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Mentioning the purple people in the Ozarks tends to raise some eyebrows, because many people have escaped their compound and told harrowing tales of mental and physical abuse. Speaking directly to a person who escaped this slavery, they described it to me simply as a prison with a farm. 

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Mostly in the Ozarks, you can see the purple people at local music and art shows selling incense and copper jewelry.

 

 

 

The Helman Family Homestead

Turning down a long gravel road, the sun was beginning to set as I noticed a little cabin perched on the top of a hill.

 

I had been planning on heading down to the Helman family homestead for a while, but finally the weather and schedule had aligned, so off I went down the holler to try and find this elusive cabin.

With directions to go down one gravel road and turn onto another, then cross a bridge. In the rural paths of the mountains, landmarks like old barns and bridges have always been good road signs for the traveler with a keen eye.

 

Rolling down my window and hearing the gravel grind under my tires, I glance to the side and notice the numbers I had been looking for next to a steep driveway.

 

The cadence of mountain dogs barking and children hollering “Someone’s here!” was a familiar orchestra of the forest as I slowly drove my little car up the steep pass.

 

Where others may have blind eyes to the settler and his trappings, I was enamored by the cabin perched on the tip of the hill. It reminded me of my great grandfather’s cabin, pushed in against the tree line, I can always recall that black and white picture of hand-hewn beams and them lined out up front like outlaws. Somewhere to be dry in the summer rain and warm in the winter frost.  

 

Getting up to the house, we all gathered in for an evening study and discussion.

 

Young men and old men all sat and floated ideas back and forth until we finally saw the sky get dark.

 

The home of the shepherd and farmer is a sacred one.

 

Where the hound-dogs get a spot to lay and his flock finds safety.

 

A divine lodge to huddle together and study scripture, like the fluffy baby chicks grouped together under the warm light in the back room of the Helman family homestead.