Jumping Page 21

  If you're ready, it feels like becoming whole, reclaiming every piece of yourself ever given up to damage. And I find I'm ready because I've looked at it, as completely as I could. I went back and looked at it as the adult I am, putting it on the playing field of adults. So it has become integrated into who I am, a permanent part of myself.

  Being here, in the Void, has allowed me to then move it into the realm of the spiritual, where such acts usually originate, for the deepest understanding of it—of why anyone would do it, how they could, and what they would achieve through the doing of it. I didn't know it at the time, but engaging in therapy, entering the world of counseling, as I had done in self-defense for a number of years, was a spiritual act that put me on the path to a spiritual understanding. These things are not separate. Each works to make you whole, through an understanding of yourself. Each works to give you yourself back.

  I look at them both as they stand facing me, my mother and my father. Almost immediately I know I can do this. Not only am I ready; I am able. In fact, none of this would have happened if everyone here hadn't known I was ready. They knew it before I did. I shake my head in awe at it all. We are all equals now. We have come full circle and can thank each other for the partnership. We have been able to accomplish our healing. I had been the only piece holding it back.

  Now we hold hands, looking into each other's faces. I feel that we are finished. We have done what we needed to do. We will part now, with much love and respect for each other, and we will probably not have any more lives together. They will move on to other challenges, able to do that because of the help we have provided each other. I hold their hands tightly now, feeling the largeness of the moment, thanking them. My father says, “It's a wonderful thing we have done. Harder to do than most things, but with a greater reward, too. I thank you, always.” Tears come to my eyes. “I thank you,” I say, having difficulty speaking.

  My mother says, “You always were my favorite!” And we both laugh. “You kept me going through it, Babe. It was so hard for all of us. I am so glad not to have to do that again.”

  “Me, too,” I say and I kiss their hands in gratitude. We part, my parents walking off to the east, away from the water. I stand there crying, feeling the warmth of their hands lingering on mine.

  Philip takes my hand and asks me how I'm doing. I give him a reflective smile. “Never better.” I wipe the tears on my sleeve. “I guess I'm healing from the inside out.” He puts his arm around me. “Some lives run deeper than others.” I lean into him, and we continue up the beach. Though emotionally depleted, I feel capable of anything. Which is a good thing, since I know we're not done yet.

  We go up the beach to the town we see in the distance, with high adobe-like walls, huge windowless expanses of them beneath a blue, blue cloudless sky. I know there has just been the call to morning prayer and some part of someone within these walls is present to me, someone who has opened to prayer. I suddenly realize he might be thinking of me as God! I mean Mohammad, peace be upon him, because this man is Muslim. We're going to visit him.

  I turn to Philip. “This experience tells me that the veil that separates all our worlds is rapidly shredding. We can have access to each other, through conscious contact, such as I'm getting ready to have with this man. It's not something invasive or intrusive, but presence, as if I was sitting there next to or across from him, quietly, respectfully waiting for him to join me with his attention, extending my positive regard to him. Is this right?”

  Philip nods. “Yes, access, to see each other as gods. Because that's what we are. It's important that we see that now, for the well-being of the world.”

  I look at him with a sudden realization of the significance of what I'm doing.

  I ruminate as we walk. I'll be a god to a guy in town, because we all are gods. But this concept of gods shifts from dimension to dimension, and can get tied into worship and dogma. Activities normal to us in one dimension can appear supernatural to those in another dimension—it can freak out anyone who is confused, lost, lonely. Take a few of those people in a hard place, looking to be rescued or led rather than lead themselves, and boom, religions are born.

  I'm somehow being filled with knowledge as I walk with Phillip and the group to this town. It's like being in their presence is information. I know that all of this is about being able to see myself as one, with my team and my cohort and everyone and everything else. A tall order, because to do that you have to see yourself as large as you see them, not as small as the world has made you believe you are. There's a real equality, of spirit and self, that requires some stepping up from where I've been living. This is the real key to the thinning of the veil—to see who you are in all of your expansiveness, across all time and space, all Universes.

  We get to the town, Philip leading us through the gates in the wall, down a crooked trail of dirt roads, directly to the man's house. It's a narrow house on a narrow winding dirt road. The front door, which is unlocked, opens onto a long narrow hallway. At the back of the hallway is a small room, its floor layered with rugs, its large wooden back door open onto a small green courtyard, to receive the morning sun. A goat grazes peacefully. The man is prostrate on the floor of the room, saying his prayers towards the rising sun. I go to sit on the floor in front of him, wondering what I'll do. He knows I'm there—I can tell by the change in his awareness, the tension in his demeanor. He sits up and we look at each other.

  I know immediately that he is of my cohort. Tears begin to course down his face, and I have tears in my eyes. I don't know what he sees, but I imagine he is seeing something greater than me sitting there in my matching outdoor wear, with my hair pulled back in a ponytail. True, I do have everything covered but face and hands, like any good Muslim woman, but I have pants on, which wouldn't be good. I can't imagine he'd be having such a reaction to seeing a woman, period, given his beliefs. True, Mohammad, peace be upon him, was guided by significant relationships with women all his life and even said men and women are equal before God, and things like “Heaven lies at the feet of mothers,” but much of that ideology can be lost in patriarchal or tribal law, as is evidenced by the continuing restrictions on women and their activities in Muslim countries—something else I have reported on for the paper.

  What I see is a man, small in stature, looking at me with such genuine love and devotion that I am moved. I take his hands in mine, in that singular gesture of love and acceptance, and begin to talk.

  “Rise and be of service to your people, especially the women and children and those of limited physical or economic means. You are to lead the way for the men of this village in that regard. Your existence will be a constant reminder of the Prophet's highest values, of the highest expression of all five pillars of Islam—faith, prayer, charity, the fast, and the pilgrimage. Mohammad, peace be upon him, noted the importance of even a smile, and you are to live your life with a smile for all, those like you as well as those different, whether in faith or appearance or means. Your job is to love all.”

  I have to smile at these lofty words coming from my own mouth and watch the effect they have on him. The man touches his forehead to our joined hands, and I hear him, in a choked voice, hardly coherent, pledge his allegiance to my words. I guess I've been his burning bush, and I'm astonished at the whole thing. The man continues to sob and profess his belief in it all. He offers every evidence that the experience has been transformative for him. I look up at Philip, our witness, and he nods at me. It's time to go. I bend my head and kiss the top of the man's still-bent head, removing my hands from his. He stays in the same position, quietly sobbing.

  I rise, and Philip and I leave the house. The others wait outside. Morning prayer is over and people are moving into their daily routines. Our group heads back to the beach. As we move through the growing crowds of people on the streets, I am aware that the people don't seem able to see us. Some people do have a limited awareness, moving slightly out of our way without actually looking at us. As we walk, I
ask Philip why the meeting was necessary for the man.

  “Because he was in need of such a meeting. He has lost his wife, and with her has gone much of his interest for life. He couldn't see his way, his purpose, what he could contribute that had any value. You're his cohort—you had been his wife. He would respond to your words, as he always had in this life. You were the bridge.”

  Hardly anything surprises me anymore, I think, shaking my head and laughing. “Why not just have me appear as her?”

  “His purpose is greater than that of a husband. We wanted to remind him of that and not have him just think he needed to replace you. This man can do much good in the life he has left, positively directing many others away from greed and meanness and self-service. He can save the lives of others suffering from hunger and ill health. He can become a force for the good in his village. In past lives, he has not stepped up to such a role, leaving it instead for others. In fact, he has often engaged in the reverse.”

  Okay, I get the picture. “So you believe things will be different for him now?”

  “What do you think?” Philip glances at me sideways.

  “I think yes,” I say, remembering the man's tears.

  “I, too. This is what we do for each other, and when your cohort does it for you, you can hardly remain unchanged by it. After all . . . “

  “Yes, I know. A bond stronger than life.”

  As we walk, I try to sort what I'm learning here. I can feel that my time is coming to a close, and I really want to consciously capture what I can of its meaning while I'm in this place of heightened energy. What's been the purpose in meeting them all? Further enlightenment about our situation, our greater spiritual situation? Sure. This experience in the Void is what spiritual people refer to as an activation—it activates something in you that was dormant before, brings it to life, and then this thing brought to life serves you and your purpose. This bond that is stronger than life is an activation.

  The end of my jump unfolds at night, on the beach, with the stars, the wind, a warm fire. Philip and I sit, talking, a small distance from the others, who are around other small fires on the beach. He wants to make sure I know my purpose, because isn't that what I've come here for? He surprises me by talking of two primary things: first, books. He tells me I have my books to write. And second, he talks about my relationship with Miles, and going wherever that leads me. He shares that it signifies my openness, my willingness to engage with life, which leads to progress for all, not only for me. All of this will help my cohort, because I'll be engaged in being my best self—having courage, to share with them; health, to share with them; happiness, to share with them. All are in hard situations from time to time.

  “Your help is necessary,” he tells me. “All of us are starting to do that now—not just help when we're between lives, but help consciously now, within lives,” he tells me. “Seek contact with each other.”

  Philip's words hit me deep in my core. I've spent my life avoiding my real purpose—dancing around its edges, skirting it, out of fear, taking small sips of it only. I've been led by my editor, directing my writing topic-by-topic, rather than pursuing my own interests and intuitions. But no more. My purpose is greater than that and won't be denied, Philip tells me. This is what I have felt knocking at my door, shaking me awake at night, leaving me sleepless. I have work to do! I'm to write a book about what has interested me since childhood—the Void—a whole book. Not just an article. I'm to commit to something bigger, with my name on it. I need to take this risk. We all do; we can't be afraid of our own success forever, which I know I have been. So I'm just going to do it.

  I realize, too, that part of my job in writing is to keep magic in the world—the same kind of magic that's here on this beach now. Magic has held the truth for the world a long time, Philip tells me. We read magical books to our children, but then we stop. Then our interest in it moves underground, into adolescent fiction. Adults keep a fringe interest going in fantasy and science fiction, interest in astrology, and having their fortunes read. On some level, their deeper truth seeks an outlet in this way. My book, my books, will be part of that tradition. They will reinforce the existence of magic in the world. They'll be categorized as fantasy or fiction, but I'll know them as truth. I'll give them this widest latitude of being.

  We cover a lot in this talk. All of my usual faults and foibles are things of the past, he tells me. I have claimed them as my humanness, my lack of perfection, but he tells me that this so-called lack of perfection has no effect whatsoever on the size and scope of my spiritual being, which is as immense as anyone's. Yes, as immense as his, he says, reading my mind. Accepting that puts us in our full energy. Then we're no longer buffeted by the things, events, and people of our lives.

  “You'll know when the phone's going to ring and who's on it,” he says with a smile. “You'll remember your dreams more often. You'll trust more. You'll be more open to everything.”

  I smile back, thinking, “Okay! I'll be psychic.”

  Philip laughs, saying, “Yes, you will.”

  Then he's telling me good bye. We embrace by the fire, and again I feel so enveloped by a complete love that I'm lost and renewed at the same time. We start walking toward the tunnel I came in by, just up the beach, in the rocks. The wind refreshes me as we walk, and I see the phosphorescence of the waves as they ripple onto the beach. Countless stars twinkle in the moonless sky. It's a perfect evening. The others leave their fires to walk with us, and I am happy in their companionship.

  I know I am coming out of the Void and will wait for Miles. I go back into the tunnel, from the beach, turning around once to raise my arm to the group who's stopped to stand at the tunnel's opening. Tears are streaming down my face again, and I let them. The old ways don't fit me anymore. I'm not the same Babe I was.

  Universal energies have been at work.

  I go to the edge of the Void, ruminating as I sit, leaning against the rock wall, feeling the murmur of the winds from above and below. I relax into the sound and the Void's constant twilight, lulled into sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Miles's Jump

  WE'RE HOLDING HANDS, then we're not. I feel myself falling past her, falling below her. I feel a catch in my throat, an urge to grab her. It doesn't seem right. I should be there to help her, not leave her on her own. But there's nothing I can do. It's like with Duncan Robert. I didn't know how much I cared about him until he wasn't there anymore. It's a while before I get hold of myself again and take note of my own fall.

  The light is dim, but I see the walls of the Void around me, rocky, unchanging. Every now and then there is a cave-like opening in one side of the wall. I see into it for a moment. Sometimes I look into a cave and it opens onto another space that feels like another Void. Sometimes I see something fall past quickly in that other Void, so fast I can't be sure what it was. Sometimes the shape suggests a person, sometimes an animal.

  Once—and I'm sure no one would ever believe this—I fall past a crevice, an opening in the wall that provides me a narrow view of another void-like space for the length of a few hundred feet. Before I know what I'm seeing, there are objects falling past over there—horses! A herd of horses! I hear them snorting, I see their legs flash by, their tails streaming. They're falling head first, as if they're running down the middle of the Void, manes blown back, legs flashing, tails stretched behind them.

  It's a magnificent sight in the twilight of the Void.

  A whole herd, for god's sake. Why? Where are they going? What could be the reason? I sensed no fear or panic from them—they were just falling. Like me, but not like me. They were hurtling down, as if they had taken the fall on, not just surrendered to it. As if they had charged into it. I could feel their absolute empowerment, intact through the fall, almost as if they weren't falling and were just running, full out, for the joy of running.

  The fall, in a crazy way, does give you time to think of things like this. It's as if I've stepped outside myself and a
m watching this thing I'm doing. I can't think of another time in my life when I have surrendered to anything the way I have surrendered to this fall. Everything is out of my management, control, direction, planning, and organization. I don't know where I'm going or what the outcome will be. My life has been all about knowing those things. I hadn't realized how much—again, until it was gone.

  That seems to be a pattern for me. I seem to pledge allegiance to the pattern, not the people. When you teach, as I do, you have to be prepared, have your semester planned, be on top of your grading, and have the administrative side under control. You're the one they all look to if something's not in order. I've spent my life holding firm—the opposite of surrendering. I hadn't known I could surrender, that I was capable of it. I'm not like the horses.

  All of a sudden, I feel the wind in the Void shift, and I'm literally pushed by it, quickly, into an opening in the wall. I land on my feet with sort of a double jump, pushed abruptly into a side cave, as Duncan Robert had been. There are five robed figures standing in the center who seem to be waiting for me. At first, I'm taken aback. All I can do is stand and stare. They stand, watching me land and collect myself, and then they move forward to take my hands. They surround me, and I think every one of them is touching me, on my hands, my arms, my shoulders. I'm overwhelmed with the warmth of their reception, their kindness, their openness.

  “Welcome, welcome, Miles,” they say. “We've waited so long!” I'm immediately comforted. They introduce themselves, shaking hands with me one by one, but I don't get all their names—they're foreign sounding to me. I find it hard to distinguish among them in the dim light. They look alike. They seem older than I am, with long hair and beards.

  I ask where we are, and one of them says, “Come with us. We'll show you.”