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8. IN THE ABSENCE OF TIME
At
home nothing had changed and the changes in me were hardly noticeable to people
around me. Once in a while Mom would ask why I valued silence so much, but I
assured her that I was alright. I did what was expected of me, did not complain
or ask for anything, and appeared to be at peace with the world and myself. But
that was not how I felt.
Strange
things were happening to me at every turn. The other day in class I was so
taken by what the math teacher was explaining that at a certain point my mind
took off; blazing white it ran ahead of what he was saying, racing toward an
answer, which, to my astonishment, was the correct one. A few days later, I was
listening to my favorite tape when I started rapping, rhymed lines gushing to
the beat of music as if floodgates inside me had opened. Surrendering to the
moment at hand, like a fountain turned on full, I let the words come. There was
no sense of duration, no waiting, no holding back, no volition. In this fissure
of time I was an instrument to energy that was rushing through me instead of
acting on me. Though fleeting, this leap of a jetting mind left footprints:
whatever I touched was changed, as if I were the agent of change—myself
untouched, unchanged by what rushed through me. At once exhilarated and
frightened, I didn't know what to do with this energy spilling forth so
effortlessly, so abundantly.
A
postcard we received from Uncle Jack bore a picture of a round ancient building
surrounded by a stone wall. On the side of the abandoned structure was an
entrance framed by shadows, and daydreaming, I opened the door, descended the
steps, and entered a world forgotten.
The
vaulted ceiling of this ancient chamber rested on sturdy shadows, the floor
covered knee-deep with white flour. On my right was an immense brick oven, the
light of blazing flames licking the chamber's ceiling. On my left stood an old
plank table with utensils for baking bread, their sheen reflecting centuries of
handling. There was a horn of plenty, big enough for me to crawl in, and next
to it a chalice of embossed silver, the measure for salt filled with dried
tears of four generations. In a large cauldron the yeast was already bubbling,
and on a bench beside the table stood a bottomless silver pail of spring water.
Next to it lay a rosewood scoop, its lip covered with hammered silver showing
signs of repair. The tub for kneading dough was big enough to hold a season's
harvest of grapes.
It
was clear what I had to do. Picking up the rosewood scoop, I filled the horn of
plenty with flour scooped off the floor. When it could hold no more, the horn
swiveled and tipped toward the tub by itself. And so did the measure of salt,
the cauldron of yeast, and pails of spring water, all replenishing themselves
instantly.
With
the tub half-full, I climbed in, and while holding on to the rim, used my knees
and heels to knead the dough, and made dough enough for a hundred loaves. Then
I swept the oven clean of embers, shoved in the loaves, rolled a huge flat
stone over the opening, and in darkness sat down against the wall to rest.
"Is
baking bread my destiny?" I wondered silently, disappointed.
"It
only looks simple—looks simple," a voice from the depths of earth
answered.
"Did
I come this far to bake bread?" I asked.
"You
were given gifts—gifts—you did not ask for, and baking bread is a way of giving
back—back—to the world what you reaped in the wind on the run." On the
run—the run—the voice echoed. "But it is you who has to till the soil, sow
the seeds, tend to their growing. It is you—you—you who has to reap the
harvest, separate the grain from the chaff, and grind the grains into
flour"—grind the grains—the grains—" And it is you who has to collect
and dry the tears—dry the tears—tears of generations, grow the hops to excite
the dough, and dig the bottomless well. Once you have the ingredients on hand,
you have—have to find the door behind which the transformation occurs—look and
find—find—and build the fire and wait—wait—and wait for the embers to cool."
Echoes sparkling in darkness, the voice continued, "What you see here is
the most intimate gift of life—life's energy replenishing itself in everything
you touch—touch."
"Is
there a place for me in this?" I wondered out loud.
"You
are an instrument to energy-in-passing. Nothing more—nothing—nothing
more."
"I
mean me, the person sitting here." I insisted. "I already know how to bake
bread..."
"What
you just said is but energy—energy animating certain parts of your brain."
"But
the self..."
"Is
energy in motion—in motion—plunging and swelling as it meanders and gathers,
and rises and leaps and falls, motion stirring sensations which make you feel
alive—alive—alive. Whether a bird in flight or a rolling ocean wave, a thought,
a book, or hunger or pain moves you, it's the sensation, which makes you aware
of yourself and creates the illusion—illusion—that a self is there. There is no
self, only the illusion of it."
"Then
why this merry-go-round of experiences?"
"Experience
carves the stream-beds that collect your humanness. Experience informs—informs
and directs the flow. You are unique only—only—in what you make of an
impression, how you choose to respond to it—" The echoes were making me
drowsy.
"But
impressions are so... unpredictable..." I muttered, to keep the deep voice
flowing.
"You
have no objective, nothing to channel—channel your energy into. When it starts
flowing into something you can lay your hands on, energy draining into it
shapes—shapes the material at hand."
"Am
I responsible for what happens during this rush of energy or for the changes it
brings?" I tried to rouse myself.
"The
rush is innocent—innocent—of intent. It is blind—blind as the sap that splits
the seed, unfolds the leaves, and pushes a bud to bloom; blind as the force that
keeps the planets in orbit. You look—and look—and you look at the results and
see what you have produced, and then choose—you choose what to keep and what to
reject. In the choices you make lies the responsibility—" The echoes
hardly audible now.
In a
strange foreshortening of vision, the wide world funneled to a single point.
There I stood, my mind in my hands, the mind as malleable as clay: the
responsibility for the direction my life was to take was mine
alone—alone—alone.
The
aroma of freshly baked bread woke me up, the inner clock ticking loudly.
Suddenly hungry for home—for the simple pleasures I'd learned to cherish—I
unloaded the oven in a hurry, and racing up the flight of stairs, brought the
loaves outside to cool. Running back and forth, I stacked them in the yard in
rows three loaves high, and was returning for more when the stillness around me
whipped into rushes of wind. I turned in time to see the white bird descending
like a cloud of shimmer, the wings spanning a field. Landing outside the yard
it reached for the loaves, and from the shadows of the doorway I watched it
gorge itself on the bread. Having its fill, the bird took off.
Oh,
how glad I was that I'd baked bread enough to last the bird for years!
It
was time to go home. To return to where I belonged. Taking two loaves for the
road, I started walking toward a grove of trees in the distance. In their
shadow, sitting around a table were men and women from many countries. Offered
a seat on a bench, I placed the loaves on the table and sat down.
The
people wanted to know where I'd been, what I had seen. Inhaling deeply as if
for the first time, each spoke in a different tongue, and the deep rush of
words was understood by all, the singsong of different tongues bubbling likes a
brook.
A
young man asked me in Chinese, "Where did you come from?"
"From
back there," I answered in Lithuanian, my mother's native tongue, and was
understood by everyone present.
"And
where is bread to be found in these regions?" asked a woman in Serbian.
I turned
to point and said, "I baked it myself in that domed building over there.
Have some," I said, breaking a loaf and passing one half to the woman and
the other to a young man beside her.
"Thank
you," he said in Swahili. After breaking off a piece and passing the rest
to others, he asked, "And where are you going now?"
"Home.
I want to go home," I said
hastily.
In
celebration a white linen cloth was spread on the table, and as we broke the
bread, wine was brought out, goblets were filled, and each time around the wine
was older and stronger, poured from a jug more ornate, the hand pouring the
wine more generous.
"Does
anyone know the way home?" I asked.
"I
just came from there," said a young woman in Portuguese, and a man added
in Polish, "See the bushes behind the hillock? There you will find a flat
stone, and under the stone the exit."
Ready
to leave, I stood up. "You should not go home empty handed," said an
old man in Nepalese, "Take the unbroken loaf with you."
I
wished them all well, and after exchanging farewells, headed for the hillock. I
found the stone under a bush, and when I moved it aside, a mirror-smooth pool
the color of a forget-me-not stared up at me. Reflected in it was my face and
the loaf of bread under my arm.
Ready to break bread with one and all, I jumped in.
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