|
7. IN THE ABSENCE OF TIME
Nothing had changed at home and the changes in me were hardly noticeable to others. I did what was expected of me, did not complain or ask for anything and so appeared to be at peace with the world and myself. But that was not how I felt.
Strange things were happening at every turn. In school the other day I was so taken by what the math teacher was writing on the board that my mind leaped ahead and raced toward an answer which, to my astonishment, was correct. A few days later listening to a CD I started rapping, rhymed lines gushing to the beat of music as if the floodgates had opened.
In both instances I surrendered to the moment at hand, and like a fountain turned on full, the mind gushed until the gushing spent itself and stopped. There was no volition, the spill had possessed me. In this fissure time stood still and I was but an instrument to energy that was rushing through me instead of acting on me. The jetting mind left footprints: what I touched was changed. In this state I was an agent of change. In the changes I made I received gifts I did not ask for, the gifts brought forth by the sap that splits the seed pushes up the bloom and keeps the planets in orbit.
A postcard from Uncle Jack bore a picture of a domed building surrounded by massive ruins. In one of the crumbling walls was a door framed by shadows. I opened the door, descended the steps and entered a chamber of echoes. It was a homecoming to a place long familiar and long forgotten.
"What am I doing here..." I wondered.
"You are now an instrument to energy-in-passing. Nothing more—nothing more—" an echo replied.
"Where am I now?"
"Your voice—your energy fills—fills this void."
"I mean the self..."
"There is no self. There is only energy in motion—motion plunging and swelling as it meanders—gathers—rises and leaps and falls within you. Motion inside you is what makes you feel alive—alive—alive. When a bird in flight, a sound a word, hunger or pain animates and moves you, it's the sensation of motion within that creates the illusion that there is—is a self at the helm."
"Then why this merry-go-round of experiences?"
"Experience carves the stream-beds that direct—direct— the flow of energy. How you use the energy that flows through you—is—is what matters." The deep-voiced echoes were making me drowsy.
"Am I responsible for the changes I make...?" I said trying to rouse myself.
"The rush that moves your hands your voice your mind is innocent—innocent—of intent. It is blind—blind as is the sap that splits the seed and moves the planets. You are not—not responsible for that. Your responsibility lies in what you choose to keep—or to leave out—when you look—look at— the changes you made." The echoes were hardly audible now.
In the deep silence, in a sudden foreshortening of vision the world spaced out to infinity funneled to a single point. There stood I —holding—in my own hands holding—my own mind—malleable—like clay."
Suddenly hungry for the simple pleasures of home I turned and saw the bird bath in our front lawn. I walked over and put my face into the floating reflection of sky. Cooled, refreshed I looked up and saw Mother and Father on the porch, waving. Welcoming me back and saying good-by.
|
|
|