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EPILOGUE
Some
twenty years have passed. I shall not attempt to catch up with the changes in
my life. Let it suffice to say that after high school, I entered college and
graduated after majoring in English. Then I got a job in a publishing house,
and in my early twenties married David, a teacher, and we had two children, a
daughter Cara, who is now eleven, and
a son Andrew, seven. We live in an old sprawling house, which we bought
a few years ago. It is on the fringes of a large city, and in need of much
repair. David works in the city. With both children in school, I work at home,
editing books for a publishing company. I'm also writing a book of my own.
My
dream adventures ended when I finished high school, college life too consuming
to think about the past. Since we settled into the new house, I've started
thinking about those early wanderings and their effect on my life. Were they
useful? Did I learn something, or were those dreams merely one other youthful flight
grounded for good by actual experience?
The
other day I was looking for some papers and came across an old folder in which
I found an outline of those dream-like episodes, intended for some college
assignment but never used. While leafing through the pages, I had the uncanny
feeling that fragments of the dream experiences were popping up in my life to
this day.
I had
never spoken about them to anyone and, curious as to whether the hunch was
grounded, I decided to watch for them during the course of a day. Getting up
one morning too early to wake the kids, I thought this was as good a day as any
to track my activities and observe their effect on my inner states.
The
morning started as usual: I poured myself a glass of juice, then lifted the
kitchen window shades to check the weather. Noises from the upper floor
signaled that Cara was in the shower, and I went upstairs to help Andrew find
socks that would match his shirt, as he insisted. Back in the kitchen to start
breakfast, I found David there, already dressed. We exchanged a few words, and
as soon as the kids came down, the family fell into its usual breakfast
routine. Each had an assigned task, and to avoid bumping into each other we
traced well rehearsed patterns on the kitchen floor; me at the range making
coffee and scrambling eggs, David making toast and fetching things from the
refrigerator; Cara setting the dishes, flatware, and cereals on the table, and
Andrew, after putting the napkins and glasses in their place, sitting in his
chair, waiting for us to join him. During breakfast we shared what each of us
expected to do that day. Breakfast over, David left the table first to catch
his bus for downtown. I helped the kids with their jackets and books, and off
they went walking to school.
Though
brief, this quiet ritual of synchronized movements put us all at ease. Time was
not intrusive because we set our own pace: if we got up later we moved faster,
and if earlier than usual we moved more slowly. The order of activities firmly
established, suspended our individualities, and though fully aware of each
other's movements, each of us was also alone, wrapped in a world of their own.
When we sat down to breakfast together, a sense of accomplishment made it easy
to share what we expected to happen during the course of the day, at which
point we became individuals again.
Now
alone in the house I cleared the table, poured myself another cup of coffee,
and sat down by the window in the kitchen alcove. This was the time when I
reviewed what I planned to accomplish during the day and I cherished those
minutes. This morning, however, I didn't linger long, the prospect of working
on my book making me eager to start the day.
I
made the beds, took a shower, and dressed. I then sat down at my desk, hoping
to spend the morning hours working on the book I was writing. After rereading
what I had written yesterday, I was ready to continue.
Hardly
an hour into writing, I glanced over what I had just written. Changed one word,
then another, which prompted me to rewrite the last three paragraphs, which
shifted the direction the plot was to take. Suddenly charged by a clarity of
mind and trusting the moment at hand, I started writing furiously. Words were
gushing forth at such a speed that the shift in plot was now running like a red
thread through page after page. I slowed down and stopped only when a slack
wave of exhaustion washed over my mind. The rush had lasted for an hour, yet it
seemed that only minutes had passed. When I looked at the results, I found many surprizes—gifts I neither asked
for nor dreamt of.
Somewhat
disoriented by the experience, to steady my mind I made a list of groceries to
be bought before the kids came home. Then called the plumber to check on
whether he was coming this afternoon as scheduled. Ready to move on, I picked
up the book I was editing, and had barely started when a friend called to tell
me about the spat she had had with her husband that morning. Though aggravated
by the interruption I listened politely. What upset me most about her calls was
the commiseration I was drawn into merely out of friendship. Flashes of the
meadow pit made me cut the call short.
After
lunch, I returned to editing the book. With pencil in hand, I curled up in my
favorite chair and, expecting to work for the next two hours, plunged into the
verbal constructs of another mind. This kind of work challenged my ability to
detect the hidden causes and effects by which the author had constructed the
plot, something I was interested in as a writer myself.
I was
deeply immersed in the work when the plumber arrived. When he came up from the
basement, he said he was not going to touch the pipes under the kitchen sink
for fear that the main pipe rising from the basement might collapse. Refusing
to do a patch-up job, he promised to have an estimate in a couple of days.
The
news hit me hard, for we had just completed repairs on the roof, and the loan
we'd taken to pay for it was already stretching our budget. Making ends meet
was our most pressing concern, and an added expense could complicate matters
considerably.
After
the plumber left I called another company for a second opinion, then left a
message for David. He called me back, and after hearing what the plumber had
said, suggested I contact a third company for a complete picture of the
situation. He then asked me whether I could manage to live with it for a while,
put a larger bucket under the sink, or something. This upset me even more, for
an unfixed leak can get only worse, increasing the expense.
As I
hung up, I was disgusted with the whole situation to such an extent that I was
ready to drop everything and stop coping with such petty demands that sapped so
much of my energy. Well aware that this would not solve the problem, I asked
myself, should I stop writing my book and look for a job? Maybe the publishing
house could give me more freelance work?
To
find out what my chances were, I called a friend at the publisher's office and
learned that things were slow this season. That tightened the screw, but a
glance at the clock reminded me that I had to go shopping before the children
got home. While driving I thought of the direction my life had taken.
Family
was the anchor that gave me comfort, purpose, and steadied the mind. But my
so-called writing career, was another matter. Though daunting, writing gave me
a respite from the world and forced me to think through many puzzling issues.
In other words, writing helped me to live. Why, then, was I unsure of whether I
was on the right track? I remembered Gloria, another freelancer I'd met at the
office who was also working on a book, and decided to call her later that
afternoon.
Finished
with shopping sooner than I had expected, on my way home I stopped at the bank
and found there a line long enough to discourage anyone. Deciding to stay and
see how fast the line moved, I was soon thinking, who has the time for this?
A
woman turned and said, "I have a small child in the car..." "The
inefficiency of clerks these days..." added another. "Is insulting,"
the man behind me finished the sentence. Most of us were irritated, many
fidgeting, some leaving the line already. Soon I too was thinking that I had
more important things to do, but realizing that I had ten extra minutes to
spare, I decided to take it in stride. I did make it to the teller and in a
cheerful frame of mind made it home just before the children walked in.
I
called Gloria. A lot was on the burner in her life, and everyone in her circle
was actively engaged in something or other. Excited to hear from me, she asked
if I could come on Thursday evening to a reading her writing group was giving
at her place, and invited me to join the group. I promised to think it over and
call her back, but then and there decided that a change in routine would do me
good.
And
suddenly, in spite of the plumbing, I was in a festive mood, ready to cook a
special dinner and cheer up my husband as well. Eager to indulge in the
delights cooking offered, I called Cara, and while we peeled and washed the
potatoes, carrots, onions, parsnips, and celery stalks, we got to talking about
what it means to live fully; about the so-called art of living, a headline
she'd seen in a magazine at the dentist's office. Was there such a thing or was
it mere talk? "If people are talking about it, there must be something to
it," Cara said.
"Let's
see," I mused. "Any kind of achievement requires practice and skill.
Art also calls for total immersion in the moment at hand, for letting go of
everything else in your mind and concentrating on the work alone. To reach that
level of concentration takes effort, and to keep one's attention focused on one
thing for a prolonged period of time calls for discipline."
"Discipline?"
asked Cara.
"Yes,
discipline. Discipline acts like the banks of a river that keep water running
in a certain direction, instead of it spilling all over the place. Discipline
concentrates attention on what is going on this very minute, and prevents you from wasting your time
and energy."
"Aren't
we doing this now?"
"Yes,
we are," I smiled.
"That's
not so difficult," observed Cara.
By
then the vegetables were cut into cubes and disks and wedges, ready for the
pot. Cooked and pureed, they would make David's favorite soup that was served
with garlic bread, which Cara was to butter herself. The sauce we were making
of dried mushrooms we picked in Canada last summer, was to go with the broiled
beef and mashed potatoes. Enticing aromas brought Andrew downstairs, and my
attention was so focused on tasting and seasoning the sauce that I was startled
when David walked into the kitchen.
"Smells
good! What are we celebrating tonight?" he asked.
"Oh,
nothing in particular. We felt like having something special to cheer us
up."
At
the table the mood was festive, and we chatted about the events of the day at
school and at work. The plumber was not mentioned until the children were
upstairs doing their homework.
"I
don't think we should take out another loan," said David.
"Agreed.
We shouldn't," I answered. "Why don't we wait for the estimates and
then see what must be done? I'd rather not talk about it tonight."
"Agreed,"
said David, and turned to leave the kitchen.
But
before leaving, he came over to me at the sink, and standing behind me, put his
arms around my waist and kissed my cheek. "Thank you for the supper,"
he whispered.
My
hands in soapy water, I leaned against his chest. Holding me tight, David said,
"See you later."
We
watched the news on TV in silence. Assignments completed, the kids joined us,
and we cuddled up on the sofa for the evening. There was nothing good on TV, so
David put on a CD of medieval chants. A voice clear and pure filled the room
with majestic, distant spaces, transporting each of us into our own intimate
musings. I was besieged by images of that huge and glowing sphere of water
bobbing on top of the water wall.
Andrew
was soon asleep, and Cara followed us upstairs to watch me put her brother to
bed. While Cara washed and slipped into her pajamas, I turned down her bed,
picked up the clothing from her chair, kissed both children goodnight, and
joined David in the living room. He was already immersed in the plot of a
movie, and so the day came to an end.
Lying
awake in bed that night, I wondered, what made me shift gears, change frames of
mind that often?
Every
shift was triggered by a change in the surroundings. The shift had nothing to
do with my past or the people around, but related directly to the
surroundings—how I saw myself then and there, and what the situation did to me.
That notion of self, however, did not carry over when the situation changed,
for regardless of whether I felt in control of it or was thrown off balance by
it, every time the surroundings changed, I had to adjust to what was there—I
had to accept the setting and behave accordingly, or feel awkwardly out of
place. That shift in outlook gave me a grip on the situation—it placed the
situation in a perspective that in turn adjusted my frame of mind, and changed
my behavior. One thing was certain, whether I related to things near or far set
the pace of my activities: the near clamoring for immediate attention, the far
relaxing the urgency. And in turn, pace evoked the experience of time.
Since
no one else could possibly know how at any given moment I related to a
situation, when sensing time I was facing the world alone. Thus as soon as I'd
notice that something had changed outside of or inside me, I was compelled to
switch time concepts like gears. But when I failed to notice a change and held
on to a prevailing mind-set, habit took over. And then I would tackle events
with unfit rigging, unsuitable sensors, and unmatched faculties frustrating the
effort. As a means to personal orientation, nothing surpassed the seven
perceptions of time.
Events
of the day started rolling through my mind. Getting ready for school and work slipped by hardly noticed. I had
no doubt that during our breakfast we were firmly in Circular Time, enjoying
the activities that enabled us to have breakfast together. It never failed to
amaze me how the synchronization of movements not only eased the task but also
united us in spirit; how working as a group we suspended our personal concerns,
if only for a while. Alone in the house after breakfast, I was ready to plunge
into Personal Time, reconnect with that nebulous core of my being known to me
alone.
At my
desk, I recalled making revisions, pushing words through the belabored tunnels
of thought, a slowly twisting discomfort suddenly leaping into clarity of mind.
As if something inside me, something that existed in me long before but lay
dormant, had reawakened and propelled my mind and my hand into action at a
speed that blocked out all thought. There was no volition, no sense of duration or of time
passing; speed the indication that I was merely an instrument, a conduit to
energy passing through me. Action took place in the Absence of Time, and the
results were a total surprise to the observing mind. Maybe this activity
shouldn't be called work, but some kind of a coming together of parts already
there but unconnected before.
When
the gush was over, to steady my mind I'd made a list of groceries. Now poised
in Clock Time, the mind was rummaging through memory, selecting the items and
ingredients I had to pick up at the supermarket.
That
mind-set was broken by the neighbor eager to talk about the spat with her
husband. She'd found a friendly ear, and on this morning commiseration, a
weakness of mine, disturbed me immensely. Visions of the pit in the meadow with
Auntie's face leaning into mine, made my stomach churn. I got up, had a glass
of water, and feeling better went back to bed.
As I
snuggled under the covers, I returned to reliving the events of my day. After
lunch I'd worked on the book assigned by the office. Now squarely in Clock
Time, I'd analyzed the manuscript paragraph by paragraph, with reason an
irreplaceable tool. And then the plumber arrived, and as I was listening to him
in a rational frame of mind, the bad news pulled the floor out from under my
feet. Stopped cold, I tried to adjust. Besieged on all fronts by threatening
demands, I suddenly realized why in the River of Time you are in a war zone.
When survival is at stake, you
forget the future for there is no time for dreams and there is no time for
scruples when your existence is threatened: one grabs what is at hand hoping to
relieve the immediate pressure.
I
must admit that at this point Listless Time and the comfort withdrawal from the
world offered, loomed over me like an attractive solution. While savoring the
allure of isolation, I shuddered at how ready I was to drop the world and spin
a cocoon around me.
I'd
been saved from these gloomy thoughts by the idea that getting a job would
help, and the switch from Time Stilled back to Clock Time had brought relief.
But while driving to the supermarket, thoughts of my future made me slip into
Personal Time, In that frame of mind I was in an ancient sanctuary, the quick
of my being under the oculus, listening for those elusive echoes that
enlarge or diminish my stature, make more or less of me. This contact with the
most intimate and responsive core of my being never fails to restore a sense of
security quite apart from the security a fulltime job would offer. It made
clear what would make me grow instead of shrivel.
Shopping
went fast. Feeling welcome in the market, familiar with the layout of the
store, I'd pace myself and run
through the list as fast or as slowly as I wanted. But when with my mind set in
Clock Time I'd stepped into the bank and saw the line, it felt as if the world
itself had conspired against me. The bank was not accommodating its clients,
and the setup was forcing me to accept the inadequate service which clashed
with the rhythm of my inner state; the aggravation pressing me to decide
whether to resign to the situation
or leave the bank. Any other
action would be ineffective, and that made me feel helpless and insignificant.
My
refusal to change gears made standing in line frustrating. But when I realized
that I had some time to spare, and instead of watching the clock, instead of
resisting to accept the set up, I chose to flow with the situation, suddenly
both the frustration and the aggravation lifted. It hadn't been a matter of
patience, resignation, or submissiveness: by changing my outlook, I switched
time concepts, and by using those ten minutes to review my personal concerns,
I spent the waiting time personally meaningfully. I took control of the situation
by putting myself outside of the bank's regulations.
The
experience boiled down to a simple fact—when I'm on the run or my mind is
racing, the world appears to be standing still, and when the mind disconnects
from the surroundings, the world rushes by unnoticed: change your focus, and
the world "adjusts." What a difference a mental flip can make!
Talking
to Gloria had raised glimmers of hope, mainly of change, which uplifted my
spirit. And then Cara and I cooked and talked and had a jolly time in the
kitchen. The handling of colorful roots, the shapes cool and plump in my hand,
the sharp knife cutting them into neat slices and cubes, and the crunchy
textures, the earthy smells and tastes, the singsong of our voices—all the
little things that held us captive in the here-and-now were richly rewarding.
As lines of separation between mother and daughter faded, a tide of friendship
washed over Cara and me, and the afternoon passed swiftly. The festive mood was
not accidental.
Then
Andrew and David joined us in the kitchen, and when we sat down to supper, the
flow of affection was not disrupted. Throughout the afternoon and at dinner
each of us was responding and responsive to the other, the family firmly
grounded in the absolute Here and Now.
I
clearly remember how after supper I'd avoided changing gears—talk of plumbing
would switch the mind to Clock Time and cut short the mood of the evening.
Though there was no avoiding the subject, David and I were glad to drop it. Why
disturb to flow of a good feeling?
Why not let it run its course? Didn't this all embracing gut feeling underlie
most human yearnings?
How
to describe what goes on in the head when time changes faces?
The
five senses are windows through which the towering head receives impressions
of what goes on in the surroundings. In the Here and Now
the senses pull the strings, and the world comes in like a blast of wind.
Besieged by impressions my mind identifies with whatever takes it for a ride,
runaway thoughts having a similar effect. In the River of Time the going gets
tough and the drive to survive kicks in. Helpless to change the surroundings or
the situation, I focus attention on whatever threatens my survival, and then
defensive and aggressive actions are the norm. There is, however, also the
tendency to retreat into the safety of pit holes and complain about the human
condition. In Clock Time the outlook is tainted by belief, conviction,
experience, or learning which, like stained glass windows of colorful
interpretations, filter or obscure sensory impressions and so cushion the
impact of the surroundings. On the road well traveled the rational mind pulls
the strings. In Listless Time the windows are bolted from the inside to shut
out all sensory activities. Disengaged, I become unresponsive to the world and
to others as well. In Personal Time the barriers between the inner and outer
worlds are removed. Ready to take off in any direction, I am on the lookout for
cues that might advance a personal cause, aim, or dream. Since the road is
unmapped and the chances are erratic, I have to make decisions on the spot. In
Circular Time the inner and outer worlds interlock. Their dynamic interaction
and the interdependence between the two realities nurture them both. And in the
Absence of Time my mind is overwhelmed by forces that well up to bursting
within. As internal forces pull the strings, the mind, stripped of will, is
merely a conduit for the energy flowing toward whatever is at hand. The mind
regains will power when the gush is over. In all situations choice, that tricky
flip of mind, makes my behavior and my actions either constructive or
destructive.
Though
drowsy, I still could see how sips of morning coffee make me savor the flavors
of the Here and Now. Or that I slip into Personal Time for a navigational
overlook as to where I am in relation to some projected dream or goal; to learn
whether I'm getting closer to or drifting away from it. When problems arise I
am squarely in the River of Time as I tackle them, and in the pits when
debating which approach to take; but switch to Clock Time when planning ahead.
When I'm overwhelmed or sapped by a situation, I stagnate in Listless Time,
withdrawing from the world either to recollect myself or to gain a detached
overview. I tend to experience the Absence of Time in the heat of work, and I
relax in Circular Time on the cushions of civilization—listening to music,
reading a book, or watching a movie or a ballgame.
What
had I learned? That time is not fixed but elastic, its plasticity due to the
mind's ability to focus on and adjust to internal and external changes—see the
same situation from a different angle. And though a shift of view eliminates
all other views, in the act of adjusting I merely shift the focus of my
attention to give me a better grip on what has changed, and then tailor an
approach most suitable to the situation. Only now did I realize that this
shifting from one viewpoint to another is an ongoing exercise in personal
survival, physical as well as mental. Every successful resolution is a fresh
beginning—life's continuity merely changing direction or form.
And
then I had one other foreshortening of vision: the rift between the two
realities—the intangible world of sensations, feelings, and dreams, and the
tangible reality of the waking hours—was fused like the two sides of a coin,
some alchemy welding them into an interdependent, indivisible whole. Is that
all there is to it?
And
what would this answered question answer? It would merely remove the question
mark and affix a temporary label to what the question was about. Aren't most
answers merely one of many possible answers, with none writ in stone and
changing in time and culture?
In
the stillness of the night I wondered how would Cara and Andrew fare in a world
that marches to the same clock to the exclusion of others; in a world where
inner clocks were ignored and even shunned. Would they be mesmerized by cyber
space and virtual reality, would they glorify technology, artificial
intelligence, and genetic engineering? Be besieged by ever more perplexing
questions? And who will answer them, when investigations supersede each other
nonstop, overwhelming us with information that merely boggles imagination? In
this age of information every twitch of a thought filters through someone
else's opinion—aren't we forgetting how to think for ourselves? How to simply
be human?
That
night I dreamt that I was back in the house of Mary, my high school friend.
Though I was in my teens, my children stood beside me. Together we were looking
at the small white skulls aligned across the front of the black tee shirt Linda
had spread on Mary's bed. Andrew was counting them aloud, "One, two,
three, four," and then he stopped. Every time he said a number out loud,
the word erased the skull he'd counted.
"Why
did you stop?" asked Cara, "Go on," she insisted, pointing to
the remaining skulls.
"I
can't," said Andrew, staring at them. "There is no life where there
is no death."
Startled,
I woke up. How come Andrew's answer sounded like a profound confirmation of
life? It was change—change the redeeming force, change which secured
continuity, change the constant that made things new and kindled hope!
With
a sigh of relief, I turned in bed. Good night—
Sleep
well—dream—
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