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2. IN THE HERE AND NOW
On
the other side of purple Dad was mowing the lawn by the lilac bushes, the swing
on the porch was swaying in the breeze, curtains in my bedroom window billowing
in and out. Everything in its proper place, yet different: the silence
ocean-deep, the whole scene swaying as things do underwater. When the curtains
in the bay window moved aside, the face in the window looked familiar, but when
I approached it I was startled—it was my own face, eyes wide open, skinny me
wearing the off white sleeveless dress, the small buttons at the neckline
unbuttoned.
Spooked
by the image, I quickly averted my eyes, my gaze landing on the potted
geraniums on the front steps. A sensation of falling into red, into rivers of
red meandering lazily through the mysteries of color, made me blink. And next I
was gazing into a morning glory cup, sampling the delights of blues as insects
do. Riding blue thermals, I was soaring deliriously when a passing fly buzzed a
piercing alarm. At once iron-heavy I started falling, sinking through ever
denser and darker layers of blue, landing on a twig gently swaying in a purple
shadow. In the elbow of a leaf a drop of dew quivered, and as the drop swelled
I swelled, and as the drop rolled under I rolled with it, and hanging upside
down I learned what every drop of water knows already: the pull of gravity is
stronger than any grip. Seeing the drop stretch to a break-off point, I shut my
eyes.
And
so it was throughout: whatever I looked at, I became. Thus when a cat stalking
a pigeon caught my eye, I could not help but be the cat, and as the cat froze I
became the pigeon—straining to rise as it strained, rising as it rose into the
air, learning how it feels to fly. A neighbor called, "Kitty-kitty here!
Kitty here!" and the voice struck me like a drum, the swirl of sensations
making me gasp for air.
Smothered
by the onslaught of impressions, I leaned against a tree and my skin turned to
bark, my arms flailing like branches fingers exploded in clusters of leaves.
When under the weight of green I slumped onto a stone, I turned to stone, and
when the scent of lilacs invaded my petrified body, the aroma fingered the
deepest recesses of my being. With a shudder I realized that though trapped in
my personal human disguise, I was no different from the rest of creation. In the
here-and-now I was taking measure of myself—I a mirror to the world, and the
world a mirror held up to me.
The
sound of a voice made me start.
"Didn't
I say that familiar things may look the same but hold much more than meets the
eye?"
Alighting
on my shoulder and hopping from foot to foot with excitement, the white sparrow
asked, "Did anything strike you as peculiar when you were changing
identities, turning into something other than yourself?"
I had
difficulty remembering. "Peculiar? Not really. It felt as if the curtains
of time had parted to let me in, then closed behind me. There was a 'before,'
like before falling asleep, and an 'after,' like after awakening in the
morning. What happened in between happened as if in a dream." Looking
straight at the bird, I asked, "Am I still dreaming?"
"Yes,
in a way you are. But this is a waking dream."
As if
in confirmation, the entire home scene burst into a spectacle of colors. Unable
to take it in, yet eager to remember, I picked up the whole scene by the corners
like a sheet of cloth, and tying the corners together, clutched the bundle to
my chest. With eyes firmly shut, placing one foot in front of the other, I
started walking, the bundle of sensations humming softly, leading me on. I
dared open my eyes again only when the vibrant bundle fell silent.
I
stood at the edge of a birch forest.
"Shall
we enter?" I asked the white sparrow on my shoulder.
"Remember
the dragon you saw in your mind and it came to be? You outsmarted the beast
without a sword in hand. When you switched identities with things, you escaped
the onslaught of sensations by shutting your eyes. What happens to you next
also depends on what you make of what you see."
Feeling
good about myself I looked at the forest again. The canopy of whispering leaves
offered shelter, the pungent green scent was invigorating, and the luster
bouncing off the thicket of pearly trunks made shadows transparent.
"Let's
go," I said.
The
bird shook its head. "I prefer to stay out of forests," it said.
"But you go on, for this part of the journey you'll want to be
alone."
Leaving
my shoulder, the bird circled my head once and flew off. I picked my way
through the first line of trees, and the further I walked into the forest the
safer I felt. When I came to a clearing and saw suspended in a shadow green
specks swaying, I decided this was the place to take stock of what was
happening to me. With a stone in hand I split the sturdy shadows into planks,
and with them I built a hut, a table, a bench, and a bed. In the sunniest spot
of the clearing I dug up a patch of earth and planted rows of wild onions,
leafy greens, and barley for the winter months.
I was
not alone. Every morning the sun rolled over the treetops shaking loose
rainbows of dew, and as the sun stayed for a while, we chatted, exchanging
news.
"Good
morning," the sun would say breathless after climbing the trees.
"Good
morning," I would reply. "How is the weather outside the
forest?"
"It
is cloudy in Nevada, still raining in New Jersey, and sunny in your
hometown."
"Any
news back home?"
"Nothing
in particular. Your mother has the sniffles, your father is wearing new
shoes."
"Do
they miss me?"
"Nobody
misses you because everyone lives in a dream world of their own. Your
adventures do not interfere with theirs." And after a sneeze, "That
is, as long as you, Alya, are feeling alright, not homesick or desperate. If
you are, I urge you to go home."
"I'm
fine," I would say, wondering why the sun keeps talking about me going
home.
Then
together we would tend the garden, I weeding the patch, the sun painting green
every budding leaf.
"Are
you sure you're fine?" the sun might inquire before leaving.
"I
wouldn't exchange this for anything in the world. The peace and quiet here are
truly enjoyable and solitude brings me great comfort."
The
other day the sun asked me, "Don't you ever feel lonely?"
"Why
should I? You visit me every day, birds stop to look in, things grow, and
rotating shadows keep time. There is much to do and much to think about and no
time for feeling sad or lonely. I am happy here."
The
sun smiled, "I know... See you tomorrow!" And climbing up steps of
shadows, the sun would continue on her way.
Left
alone I would inhale the hour and sing to a cloud passing overhead, a leaf
swaying in the breeze. In that intimate space of being, every thing I sang to
listened, and I heard each in turn. In song I gave something away and received
something in return, the exchange stitching the world and me together.
All
was cozy and well until the morning when I noticed that someone was eating the
shoots in my garden. The place was safe no more. To keep the nibblers away, I
felled a great number of trees and built a sturdy birch trunk stockade to
protect my domain.
Several
nights later I was awakened by the thundering noise of wild creatures running
around the stockade, thumping noises signaling attempted break-ins. To prevent
a surprise stampede, the next morning I started spinning grasses and cobwebs
together, making cords that stretched from points in the stockade to the four
corners of my pillow, the softly humming memory bundle comforting my head at
night. Next I hung on the lines dry seed pods as rattles to give me ample
warning in case the wild creatures broke in.
After
weeks of spinning cord it was almost impossible to move about inside my
enclave. I had entrapped myself in such a dense tangle of warnings so sensitive
to touch that ever so often I'd set off an alarm, scaring myself silly. And
still night after night the wild creatures thundered circling the place.
One
night I was up late watching moonlight and shadow changing places, my thoughts
folding and unfolding, ascending a moonbeam then plunging to the abysmal depths
of a shadow, then grooving ahead or burrowing deeper; thoughts crossing each
other in darkness, thoughts meandering in circles, turning on themselves again
and again. My mind was a tangle like the unbroken path of a bird, for ever
since the sun had asked me whether I was lonely, I'd been thinking about it.
Lost
in thought, I did not notice the moon leaning out of the sky and watching me.
When I looked up, he was spreading his star-studded kingly robes on the
treetops and reclining, head propped on an elbow.
"Amazing,
isn't it, how night thoughts differ from day thoughts?" he said, his deep
voice rolling softly in the darkness. "Even thoughts have another side to
them. Would you agree?"
My
line of thought broken, I asked, "Why must everything be so complicated?
Why can't my thoughts stay on track, but twist and run in circles? Nothing is
predictable anymore. I have no idea what to expect tomorrow, what's going to
happen next... It really frightens me to think that nothing can be relied on or
trusted." I paused, then proceeded cautiously, "When you make your
rounds at night, do you see the creatures that make those horrible noises
outside the stockade and keep me awake night after night?"
"Noises?
I hear no noises when I look in on you at night, I see no creatures running
around the stockade or threatening you in any way."
Seeing
that I was not convinced, the moon asked, "Is that what you think?"
"I
hear them, and I know that I am in danger! Am I not to believe my own
ears?" Then, somewhat hesitant, I asked, "Are thoughts unreliable
too?"
"Of
course they are unreliable. In the here-and-now, thoughts follow what goes on
around you. You see water, you think of water. You catch a whiff of smell and
wonder what is there. You hear a fly and you think of flying or buzzing or the
insect's nasty bite. Your thoughts try to make sense of what you see and hear
and touch and smell. But since thoughts are impressions translated into words,
in the translation many unexpected things happen. Verbal interpretation is the
trickiest part of your mind." Ready to leave, the moon stood up.
"Do
you mean thoughts can be just as overwhelming and misleading as
sensations?"
"Yes,
that's what I'm saying. Danger has many disguises! Stay well!"
With
a nod, the moon gathered up the spray of moonbeams and rolled out of sight.
Alone in the dark, I called out to the beasts—
"Stop
ruining my life! There are plenty of wild onions and greens out there for you
to feast on. Why do you have to eat mine?" The night soaked up the sound
of my voice and I felt better.
The
following night the thunder of hooves was dimmer than the night before. I got
up, stepped outside, and called out again.
"I
mean no harm, I have taken nothing from you and I ask nothing of you in
return." My words dissolved in the velvety darkness.
"Why
can't you leave me alone?" Not a leaf stirred.
"Let's
live in peace!" I shouted. Now silence reigned supreme.
Satisfied,
I went back to bed. But now the word 'peace' was ringing bells in my head,
keeping me awake late into the night.
Next
morning I woke up to a world where every leaf and streak of light, even my
bundle of memories was staring back at me. Was I the culprit? Had I imagined
the ferocious beasts, heard noises in my head? Had I built defenses against
nonexistent offenders and raised the whole ruckus myself? Imagine—I've built a
stockade to last a hundred years, the network of alarms intricate enough to
spot a passing fly!
Had
fear gotten the better of me?
Then
and there I knew that defenses do not make you stronger. By shutting out the
world I had just invented another. Runaway thoughts had taken over my life,
just as sensory impressions had done it before.
Curious
as to what lay outside the stockade, I climbed it, and could hardly believe
what I saw: there was no forest, only stumps of the trees I'd felled to build
the stockade. Among the up-shoots of grass a white steed grazed, the
sun-drenched scene so serene that I jumped to its side.
The
magnificent white steed stood there trembling, hide bristling, as if it was
ordained to stand still.
Thunderous forebodings shattered the air as I approached it teasing,
"Come now, come..." The air rip-roaring no! no! when I reached to
stroke its silken belly murmuring, "Hush, hush now..." And when I
touched the steed it stood shock-static. Leaning forward I whispered into its
velvety ear, "Teach me how not to think—"
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