A Fall to Grace Page 5

  When I open my eyes, I see that my friends have built a small, quietly warming fire in the center of the cave. I am surrounded by great power—from the crystals, the fire, the tiger, the tree man, and the earth beneath me. Yet this power is gentle, unlike the abusive, controlling, dominating, and dangerous forms of power I am accustomed to. The softness of this power is delightful.

  The tiger stretches out on the ground, resting his head on his huge forelegs. The tree man sits staring into the flames. I am cross-legged, gazing back and forth at my friends, the crystals, and the fire.

  The little man is the first to speak. "Are you aware of the great disappointment you feel in life?"

  "I am aware of many disappointments," I respond.

  "Do you believe that the people around you see you for who you are?"

  "Oh, that disappointment. No, I have never felt seen by the people around me. One of my goals is to find people who can see me for who I truly am. And now, thanks to your help, I know who I truly am. Maybe with the change in my awareness I will be able to find individuals who will see me."

  "You might be disappointed in your endeavors. Because the humans of your time perceive themselves as separate from the rest of life, they tend to project their thoughts and feelings onto others. This way they can see aspects of themselves mirrored back to them.

  "Different people mirror back different qualities. One might reflect anger, giving the impression that the person himself is angry. Another might reflect sadness. Still others will sit before a great spiritual master and have mirrored back to them their own light or the loving heart that dwells within them.

  "The problem occurs when one is unaware of the dynamics of projection and attributes the mirrored qualities to individuals in the environment. A woman repulsed by her partner's anger, for example, may not see that it is her anger she is repulsed by. She may consequently judge her partner in lieu of owning the projection. This dangerous state of mind is prevalent in your time.

  "Here's another example. A man who studies with a wise, loving teacher may ascribe to his mentor a love that in fact lives within him. False dependencies of this sort lead to unfortunate illusions.

  "Serious misunderstandings arise when one casts onto another what one likes or dislikes about oneself. There is no way to be in right relationship with oneself or another while attached to these projections."

  "Are you saying that no one will ever see me for who I am?" I ask.

  "Anyone looking through the eyes of ego and personality will be seeing qualities of himself in you."

  "How absolutely depressing."

  "It doesn't have to be. Knowing who you are is really all that matters."

  "But for me there is loneliness in that."

  "As you begin to acknowledge your projections and claim your own light, you will not feel this loneliness."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "Because you told me with your inner wisdom."

  After a pause, he continues. "All humans want their beauty to be seen. All humans want to be loved. The first step is to love yourself. And the way to do that is by remembering your light. Whenever you feel separate from others, remember that the separation is an illusion of the mind."

  "While practicing this awareness you speak of, how am I supposed to live my life? I have to get up and go to work. I have to be able to function in traffic, at the supermarket, at the bank. If I start to envision myself as a floating light, how will I get anything done? How will I keep myself out of a mental institution?"

  "Your point is well taken. The body is a container for the spirit. The more your spiritual awareness grows, the stronger your container will need to be. As you bring this new awareness of yourself into your ordinary life, it is essential to take care of your body, because it is your body that holds you."

  "Do I have to gain weight and become a bigger container?" I ask in horror.

  "No," he giggles, "you have to become strong. You won't want to fry any fuses on the inside."

  With that, we both break into laughter.

  All this time the tiger has been gazing into the fire, seemingly uninterested in our philosophical discussion. "I don't suppose the tiger has something to teach me about becoming strong in my body." I laugh out the words.

  "You have a great laugh," says the little man. "You should laugh more often."

  The three of us leave the cave together. Once outside, the tree man and I mount the tiger, who takes us back to the meadow.

  I feel lighthearted as we slide off the animal's back. Right away, he roars and begins chasing us. We all run in circles through the tall grass, chasing one another. The tiger dashes up to me and sticks his head nearly in my face, baring his teeth; then he roars. I take my own cat stance, baring my teeth, hissing, and pawing at his face. He paws at mine in return, whereupon we roll on the ground together, playfully growling and hissing at each other.

  There is a message in this play, I realize, for I am learning to stand in my own power. I then flash on the words of the tree man: What matters is the journey, not the end of the story. I stop myself from drawing conclusions, aware that the tiger will be in my life for quite a while.

  Tired out, I lie in the soft grasses, trying to catch my breath. I am a bit out of shape, I admit to myself. And it's been a long time since I have played. My life has become so serious with work, survival, and politics.

  Romping with the tiger has relieved me of one more layer of tension, reminding me of the need to change my priorities. I have forgotten who I am, how healing nature can be, even how to laugh. These cornerstones of existence lie buried beneath mounds of paperwork. Thinking of the duties that await me, I become overwhelmed by the prospect of returning to my ordinary life.

  "Don't distract yourself from the experience at hand," cautions the tree man, having heard my thoughts once again. "Stay with your experience. As one of your previous teachers says, Worry takes you into the past or the future, and never lets you deal with the present. Bring your attention back to the present each time you catch yourself wandering off."

  "Does this mean I don't have to look at my past?" I inquire.

  "No, your past can provide a helpful perspective. From this vantage point you can see how your earlier life experiences influence your current decisions and patterns. This is very important work. One who can see clearly what has been running her life has the capacity to make new choices. To dwell on the past without raising your awareness, on the other hand, may cause you to recreate old painful situations over and over again. You have the power to change your life, remember?"

  He doesn't wait for my response. "There are times for contemplating the past and times for staying in the moment. When delving into the past or future to escape the present, try to find your way back so that you can observe the feelings arising in the here and now."

  "I wonder why I avoid the present so much."

  "Being in the present brings up feelings you may prefer to ignore. Being in the present also requires you to be fully alive in the moment, and you are not always willing to be alive. You seem to be avoiding life."

  "Life is often difficult for me. I don't feel comfortable in my body. I'm unsure of myself around other people. In fact, you are the only individual I have been truly comfortable around. I admit I have not always appreciated my life. I have considered suicide many times."

  The tree man looks at me with a serious expression I have not seen before, and the twinkle fades from his big brown eyes. "You must decide whether or not you want to be in this life. You cannot continue to live with one foot in the world of death—not with all you are learning here. The effects will be devastating. Life will only become worse for you if you cannot step fully into the knowledge you are acquiring. You will become no more than another of the walking dead in your world.

  "Let us not go any further in this journey until you decide whether you want to live or die."

  Suddenly everything goes black. I am floating in the void again, but it is not the void I
visited previously. The void I was in before was filled with life; now I am between life and death. The energy here is flat.

  I am being pulled backward through some mysterious veil between the worlds. I hear a loud popping in my ears. Opening my eyes, I see I am in the operating room.

  Confusion abounds. Gloves, scalpels, and IV tubes lay helter-skelter about the room. The fluorescent lights are blinking on and off in response to surges of electricity. The doctors' and nurses' eyes freeze with terror. The surgeon and attendants realize what has happened.

  I watch from the ceiling as they reassemble around my body. What will happen to me? I ask silently. Can they save my life? Do I want to live?

  Shock and fear drive me back into the void. "Help me decide to live," I call out. "Help me know how to do this!"

  I am floating in the void, convinced that I am having a heart attack. I can't breathe. My chest is constricted. The life force is being sucked out of my body. "Help me!" I cry.

  "I am here," says someone softly. I open my eyes and see a woman kneeling beside my body.

  "Who are you?"

  "In your world I am known as the Virgin of Guadalupe. Here I am your mother who is willing to help you. Please close your eyes."

  Our Lady of Guadalupe puts her hands on my heart. "I have heard your call many times. The energy I contain lives within you. Let me help you remember."

  Feeling her hands over my heart, I begin to breathe more easily. The calm and peace that has left me returns.

  "When I place my hands on a person in a healing way," she explains, "I am not channeling healing energy in from the outside; I am helping the person remember the source of all healing, which resides within. I am helping you heal from the inside out. That is what you need right now. Remember the source of life that is in you."

  Her hands remain in place a while longer, then she quietly departs, leaving the imprint of her love on me. I feel grace—something I've often prayed for without knowing what it was. Now I know what grace is.

  Returning to the hospital room, I observe the confusion. The surgeon appears uncertain about how to resume the operation; he is in shock. The anesthesiologist takes a seat behind the operating table and attempts to regain his composure. He asks a nurse to wipe the sweat from his forehead, as already it is dripping into his eyes.

  This time I am watching from a corner of the room. I am not in a state of fear; in fact, I feel relatively calm as I survey the activity taking place around my body. The surgeon lifts his hands, then stops. I am hemorrhaging. He cannot find where the blood is coming from. The events surrounding the earthquake have seriously shaken his ability to concentrate.

  A form appears behind him. It is Our Lady of Guadalupe. No one except me seems to be aware of her presence. She gently merges her hands with the surgeon's, guiding his fingers to the damage that has caused the bleeding. The terror in his eyes begins to fade. Reading his thoughts, I can see that he attributes his renewed concentration to the adrenaline pumping through his body.

  At this point Our Lady of Guadalupe steps over to the assisting nurse and places a hand on each of her shoulders. The nurse's face relaxes as she searches for the proper installments to hand to the doctor. Our Lady then works her way around to the anesthesiologist and places her hands on his forehead. A smile begins to form on his lips.

  The operating table, the doctors, and the nurses turn fuzzy as I once again drift from the room. My consciousness shifts to a light-filled tunnel. The light here seems warm and welcoming, in sharp contrast to the cold fluorescent lamps in the room. I allow myself to be pulled forward by it. Floating through the tunnel, I feel at peace. I know that my body is in good hands and that I will have a physical container to reenter. Although I am grateful to have been traveling through many wonderful worlds, I know that when the time is right I will want to return to my body.

  The tunnel ends, leaving me in a new landscape. I am standing on soil that feels less powerful than that of other lands I have visited. Facing me is a gray, murky lake. The sky is dark with clouds, and the air so wet and clammy that I feel as if bugs are crawling on my skin.

  I glance around and see people approaching. Looking more closely, I discover that they are not ordinary people but rather an army of skeletons carrying metal shields. Skeletons! I tell myself, aghast. I must find a place to hide. But not a tree is in sight. 1 notice rocks in the distance, though I'd never get to them in time. If I wish hard enough, I tell myself, perhaps I can disappear from this place.

  The clanking of armor over bones jolts me to my senses. I will have to stand and face them, I realize. Besides, maybe they are just passing through. Suddenly I feel at a loss, for I don't know the rules here. There is something recognizable about tigers that play with humans, tree men who hold all the wisdom of the universe, trapdoors in classrooms, even beautiful women leading me on; but nothing about this place is familiar to me. I don't know how to behave.

  By the time my mind stops chattering, the skeleton troops have halted—in formation, with their shields before them. The head skeleton, carrying a shield decorated with a two-headed phoenix, walks up to me. He puts his hand on my shoulder. His bony fingers are cold, but I know by his touch that I am safe.

  He has no words for me. He simply turns around and with a bony index finger points across the lake. He then points to a long rowboat on the shore. I know I am supposed to accompany him to the boat. He leads; I follow; the army marches behind me in perfect formation.

  A sadness wells up in my heart, though I'm not sure why. Perhaps because there's no play in this world, no twinkle in the skeleton's eyes to comfort me, no sun overhead? There is no joy here. That's it, I tell myself, I'm sad because there is no joy in my midst.

  Here I have no choice but to stay in the present. I cannot return to the past, and I have no idea where I am going. All I can do is experience the heaviness in my heart and take my place in the boat.

  One of the skeletons pushes the craft into the lake and holds it for the rest of us to board. The head skeleton goes in first and stands while I step in. Feeling the boat move beneath me, I stumble. If ever I need to stay in my center, it will be on this journey, I say silently, steadying myself.

  The skeleton points to a seat draped with a burgundy cloak, and I make my way toward it. He walks behind me, picks up the cloak, wraps it around me, and gently pushes me onto the seat. The rest of the skeletons pile in and set their shields at their feet.

  With the head skeleton standing up front, holding his phoenix high against his chest, the army of skeletons begins to row. We inch our way through the fog. This is not going to be a fast journey, I mutter to myself, noticing the effort that is required to propel the craft through the thick, murky water. In places it seems as though the boat wants to circle around and return to shore.

  The skeletons row on, pulling us through the heavy tide. The "lake," it turns out, is an immense body of water. The sky, still a dreary gray-black, is bare of birds. Not a sign of life appears below us either, although the water is too polluted for me to know for sure. I wonder if by not deciding to live fully I am doomed to ride out my existence on this lifeless sea.

  On the horizon I spot an island. The crew rows toward it. As we draw nearer, one of the skeletons hops into the water, grabs a rope tied to the front of the boat, and begins pulling us to shore. Then several more skeletons jump out and join in the effort, pushing from the rear.

  The head skeleton, still carrying his phoenix shield, leaps out and wades through the water to the island. I remain seated until the boat is securely on land. While disembarking, I notice that the air here smells stale. To avoid taking it in too deeply, I limit myself to shallow breaths, which slows the energy flow in my body. I am tired from the trip. I am tired from the heavy mustiness of the air. I am just plain tired.

  The army of skeletons stays with the boat while the head skeleton points in front of us and begins to walk. I know from his index finger that I am supposed to follow. We proceed to a huge gate. To
my horror, bones and skulls are hanging from its wrought-iron lattices. Facing the gate, he points again. I wait for him to lead, but he doesn't budge—he just looks at me and points at the gate. He seems to want me to continue on my own.

  "There is no way I am going through that gate alone," I announce, speaking aloud for the first time since my meeting with the skeletons. The words boomerang off the surrounding rocks, for there is no life here to absorb them.

  The skeleton continues to point at the gate. I quickly consider my options. No way could I swim back to our starting point; the distance is too great, and the water too disgusting to set foot in. I could scream, but then I'd yell for an eternity without being rescued. If I were truly in danger, I reason, someone would come. Or is this another initiation experience—one that I may not live through?

  The skeleton, unshakable in his mission, continues to point. Finally I realize from a place of hopelessness and despair that I have no choice but to walk through the gate and face my fear.

  I pull the burgundy cloak over my shoulders. Heavy with moisture from the air, it imparts comfort, like the blanket I once wrapped around my body at night. Then leaving the skeletons behind, I begin my death march through the gate. My head is down, my gait slow and heavy. Even though I am hardly breathing, my heart is beating rapidly with fear.

  I open the gate, letting it swing shut behind me. Here the land, like the sky, is gray. Canyons of gray rocks cut steeply through the gray, lifeless soil. The ashen sky is forbidding.

  While walking along, I come upon thousands of people moving very slowly in a circle. They, too, are gray and are dressed in gray cloaks. Aware that there is no light here to mirror back my essence, I assume that they are the walking dead. With their heads down, they shuffle in formation, never lifting their feet from the ground. I am riddled with questions: How long have they been here? How long will they be here? What is this place? I can only conclude that it is a living hell, for these shuffling beings are neither alive nor dead.