Tenacious Magic ~ Chapter 18
A metamorphosis * Spiritual Richness * I am the Universe * Prison of the body * Dance floor realizations * Psychic readings $5 * A difficult conversation * Small love
This is the use of memory:
For liberation - not less of love but expanding
Of love beyond desire, and so liberation
From the future as well as the past.
– T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding
Dear Friends,
Welcome back to Tenacious Magic. If you’re new to my Substack, or you missed previous installments, this is a serial novel following the lives of two women, living 100 years apart, and their relationships with their spiritual teachers. Here is the introduction to the project.
From the start, this project has been unusual. There are ways I’ve played with perspective and time that have not been premeditated, but have arisen naturally as I seek the best vantage points. I am weaving together threads of Reality that are timeless, actually…themes and archetypes that live outside of ‘time,’ so it makes sense that time and perspective would be slippery here.
Transtemporal (adj.)
Transcending time; relating to time travel or to the influence or communication between one time and another.
This week, something interesting happened to my perspective. I returned to the first person narrator. I am back to “I.” If you’ve been reading from the beginning, then you may remember the original narrator was first person/past tense. This is how I was holding the story—like a memory. Then, around Chapter 6, at the recommendation of a reader, I shifted into third person/present tense. I began to call myself “S” and we were witnesses to S’s experience in the present tense. This gave me some objective distance from what was happening and began to bring the story back to life—not as a memory, but alive, as it felt then. It allowed me to loosen my grip and tell the story as a story, rather than a reportage.
Katherine’s story has been third person/present tense throughout. My story has shifted:
1st person/past: I met H at a café on Broadway.
3rd person/present: S meets H at a café on Broadway.
1st person/present: I meet H at a café on Broadway.
What this return to “I” signals is something significant to the story and in the work of Gurdjieff. There’s a big difference between the two “I”s: the first one is a multiplicity of sleeping “I”s/unconscious parts with different perspectives and desires all wrapped up in the false label, “I.” This narrator is not trustworthy and also conventional. Jung might call it a small-s-self. Gurdjieff called it the sleeping man or “man number one, two or three.”
This week, as I read through my journals, I saw the emergence of a coherent and self-reflective “I.” The earliest inkling of the “I” I am now. I could hear a new voice with a confidence that wasn’t there before. In 2011, I was still in the middle of the metamorphosis, but there was an emergent I, Jung’s big-s Self. Possibly, Gurdjieff’s Man Number Four. This allows me to introduce a more reliable narrator into the story.
Not only reliable, but a tender narrator.
I borrow the term from the Polish writer, Olga Tokarczuk’s, 2018 Nobel Laureate speech:
And so a young woman who was never religious—my mother—gave me something once known as a soul, thereby furnishing me with the world’s greatest tender narrator.
The soul. Yes, that’s what is descending. That’s the “I” that is showing up now in the story. It’s not fully in command of the ship, yet. Not yet crystallized. It peeks in and out…It’s still learning to walk. It’s there, sometimes wobbly, but oh so important at this point in the action. We will soon be confronted by the big question of agency that lies at the center of this entire project and I want to be speaking as “I” when it arrives.
Olga Tokarczuk’s 2018 Nobel Laureate speech came to me by chance and I’m glad it did. I was talking to a new friend, Linda, in the aisles of the grocery store one morning a few weeks ago and I told her about this story, about Tenacious Magic. As I described the way it moves through time and perspective, her eyes lit up and she mentioned this speech. She sent me a PDF later that day. Synchronistically, I only just opened it this week as I was writing. The timing was—of course—perfect. I feel Olga speaking to me or in communication with whatever is speaking through me now. She writes:
Could there be a story that would go beyond the uncommunicative prison of one’s own self, revealing a greater range of reality and showing the mutual connections? That would be able to keep its distance from the well-trodden, obvious and unoriginal center point of commonly shared opinions, and manage to look at things ex-centrically, away from the center?
I am pleased that literature has miraculously preserved its right to all sorts of eccentricities, phantasmagoria, provocation, parody and lunacy. I dream of high viewing points and wide perspectives, where the context goes far beyond what we might have expected. I dream of a language that is capable of expressing the vaguest intuition, I dream of a metaphor that surpasses cultural differences, and finally of a genre that is capacious and transgressive, but that at the same time the readers will love.
I also dream of a new kind of narrator―a “fourth-person” one, who is not merely a grammatical construct of course, but who manages to encompass the perspective of each of the characters, as well as having the capacity to step beyond the horizon of each of them, who sees more and has a wider view, and who is able to ignore time. Oh yes, I think this narrator’s existence is possible.
And…
Leaving aside all theological doubts, we can regard this figure of a mysterious, tender narrator as miraculous and significant. This is a point of view, a perspective from where everything can be seen. Seeing everything means recognizing the ultimate fact that all things that exist are mutually connected into a single whole, even if the connections between them are not yet known to us. Seeing everything also means a completely different kind of responsibility for the world, because it becomes obvious that every gesture “here” is connected to a gesture “there,” that a decision taken in one part of the world will have an effect in another part of it, and that differentiating between “mine” and “yours” starts to be debatable.
So it could be best to tell stories honestly in a way that activates a sense of the whole in the reader’s mind, that sets off the reader’s capacity to unite fragments into a single design, and to discover entire constellations in the small particles of events. To tell a story that makes it clear that everyone and everything is steeped in one common notion, which we painstakingly produce in our minds with every turn of the planet.
This gave me courage, dear reader. Yes! I believe I’m doing just what she says: “uniting fragments into a single design” and “discovering entire constellations in the small particles of events.” If the chapter feels fragmented, it’s intentional. You can trust that the fragments are coming together and they do exist within a complete whole…this is the wholeness I am trying to write my way into…the wholeness that this story exists within if we can only find it.
This chapter is also full of dreams. The dreams were my main teacher during this time. I was walking in two worlds—one that captured my attention during the day and one that captured my imagination at night. I think of the quote from which the title of this novel/story is born. It’s from the poem, Mémorables, by René Daumal, who was also a student of Gurdjieff (though later than Katherine):
Remember the tenacious magic and poisons and dreams — you wanted to see,
you bound your two eyes shut so as to see, without knowing how to open the other.
We’ve already seen some of the tenacious magic and some of the dreams—more this week. I wonder about the poison…I know it’s here and it will show itself. Of course, poison in the right dose can also be a remedy, an antidote.
So, back to the story. I hope you enjoy these fragments as we move towards a greater wholeness—eventually, eternally. Before we dive back in I just want to mention one other thing that hit me as I was writing. It’s something said by my NOW teacher, John Churchill. He said it during our retreat a couple of weeks ago and it helped me find compassion—tenderness—for the way I projected onto H during this time:
“Idealization is a really important phase on the path. Idealization allows you to project your own qualities onto the other and then activate them.” - John Churchill
So, be patient with me, reader. I am aware now that I was idealizing H and projecting a lot onto him. It took some time before I saw that and activated those qualities within myself—that might be outside the bounds of this story. It’s just worth saying that even that—even the projection—is part of the process and for that reason…it is good. Though of course, there are better and worse ways to handle it—as we shall see.
Note: If you are new to my Substack, Tenacious Magic is an emergent, serial novel about the teacher/student relationship, the masculine and feminine, Katherine Mansfield and Gurdjieff, power, sexuality, and time. I publish a chapter every Friday. Here is an introduction to the project. Here is Chapter 1. The chapters are free up to Chapter 7, at which point I took it behind the paywall. If you enjoy it, please subscribe and join the discussion. I incorporate reader comments and invite opinions and insights from readers to influence and inform where the story goes.
Now, back to the story….
Brooklyn, May 2011
The dreams and visions keep coming through the spring and summer. It is a wild ride. I seem to be caught in a web of lifetimes unfolding. It hardly matters anymore if they are mine or not. I am collecting the pieces of a puzzle, but cannot yet see the big picture.
On a trip home to Kentucky, I visit Gethsemane, the Trappist monastery of the great Christian mystic, Thomas Merton. On a plaque in the small visitor’s center I read one of his quotes:
“Although men have a common destiny, each individual also has to work out his own personal salvation for himself in fear and trembling.”
Such relief to hear it from the mouth of a sage.
There is a lot of fear and trembling, shaking, writhing as my body releases long-held tension. There are dreams that show me my fear, repulsion, and shame as I am approached by temptations, phantoms, bulls, ghouls, witches, lizards, magicians, and a great crocodile-like beast called a Typhon. After two years, I still tremble when the elevator doors open on the eighth floor of the building on Madison Avenue where H has his office.
The whole world seems to be communicating with me: my newborn baby, the trees in the park, the sun, the moon, the animals of the city, strangers, architecture, numbers, sacred geometry, art. There is a message in absolutely everything. The whole world is speaking, telling me its secrets, everything must be known. All of my channels are open or opening. The experience can be destabilizing at times. I’m sleeping only a few hours a night, but don’t feel tired.
My pattern recognition is in overdrive. Some mornings I pull a book off the shelf because it calls to me and I end up reading a chapter that leads me to another book that leads me to a piece of art I must go see at the Met that leads me to a conversation in the gift shop that answers one of my most pressing questions.
These bread crumbs are impossible not to follow, but I have to do it while maintaining some semblance of normalcy—not just for my own sanity, but for the wellbeing of my family. Taking care of my baby girl is the anchor that keeps me from floating away. She’s not yet speaking, but I sense she is the only person aside from H who can understand what I am going through. Her wise eyes and smile convey a great and tender love and encouragement—Go, Mama, go
For some reason, I have the idea that I’m not to talk about what’s happening. It’s not something H suggests explicitly. It’s something I feel inwardly…and it’s confirmed in the spiritual memoirs I read. It’s an esoteric path, I am on.
Books and writers keep me company. I want to put myself on a map, to locate myself in the process…whatever the process is. I determine that I am experiencing a kundalini rising, but the literature I find is antiquated and bogged down with eastern mysticism seen through a western lens. I don’t fully trust it. But, it does make me feel connected to a natural process, a spiritual awakening and unfolding, that has been happening for millennia…maybe always. I bow to the saints and sages whose footsteps I walk in. H is an unshakeable guide.
I feel estranged from Paul. I don’t know how much of it is my own projection and how much is his wounding, but he is resentful of this period for me. He’s working hard and I know the work is soul-crushing. I tell him to leave his job. I tell him I will go back to the agency work, but some part of me knows that’s already not possible. I am too far gone. I can’t go back…there’s no “back” to go to.
I start sleeping with the baby on a bed in the nursery and he sleeps in our bedroom. This gives me the space I need in the night to dream, record my dreams, and meditate. I worry about the marriage. I worry about Paul. I want to fix it, but I can barely keep myself together and my priority is the baby.
I am ecstatic and then despondent, high and low, processing massive emotions and even physical changes in my body. I am undergoing a metamorphosis.
H introduces me to his best friend, Ilan, the CEO of a moving company who hires me on a monthly retainer to manage an advertising campaign. He is a Zen Master in disguise as a businessman—a Zen Master who smokes cigarettes and drinks espresso all day. He never seems anxious or stressed, moves with the grace of a leopard, never loses his temper, is always smiling, gentle, and kind.
I’m the only woman present in every meeting. I know he needs me to bring the feminine; to provide a feeling of warmth and wisdom that’s lacking—He knows he needs a priestess. We never say this aloud. It seems to be understood. He pays me well and asks very little from me; just wants my presence and opinions.
Ilan and I have talks about Tantra and Zen. He asks me one day if I know Gurdjieff and when I say, “Yes,” he says…”Of course, you do.” He is a guardian angel and we both know it. I live on this income through the most intense months of my spiritual dissolution. I’ve never had such a holy client relationship. It seems to augur something new in my work and I begin to imagine a different future—the one H keeps hinting at.
One afternoon in the middle of a long and loud meeting with many men talking and urgently working to get something “right,” I feel my body begin to generate the heat and energy it is now producing regularly—the Shakti. I feel my pores opening, my subtle body dilating. In the midst of this business meeting, I am experiencing great bliss. Ilan looks at me with an amused smile on his face. He seems to know.
Under the hubbub of the arguments and debates, he says in a voice barely audible and just for me, “Happy times, right?”
And I look at him; bliss pouring from my eyes into his, “The happiest.”
Spiritual Richness
I’m walking—naked—through the depths of a great temple, a great pyramid…perhaps, The Great Pyramid. I have a sense of being at the very center of something of incredible mass.
The corridors are dark, lit only here and there by very dim lanterns or lamps. My nakedness should make me feel vulnerable, but it doesn’t. I feel more awake, more alive. I feel more sensitive to the unfamiliar (or is it familiar) environment. Every nerve ending is working with me to navigate. I’m walking confidently, striding regally, towards the center…deeper, deeper in. I am “me” only extremely calm, subdued, and anticipating some kind of “completion.”
There are shadowy figures behind me…they seem to be attendants.
I enter a chamber and take my position behind a small altar. It is one in a triangular formation of ten: four at the back, three in front of those, then two and then one large, grand throne at the pinnacle. My position is in the row of two, I understand this to mean I am ‘on deck’ or close to taking the throne.
There are others in the room–no one I recognize. I can barely see their faces. They are figures without a real identity for me. Some of the other altars are occupied. I get the sense we are waiting for all the places to be filled…for the triangle to be completed.
H asks, “What are you waiting for? What happens when you are all in place?”
I respond from my core: “Some kind of activation.”
H says…”You’re describing the initiate’s journey…the labyrinth, the triangle…”
I feel my heart begin to race. This has happened to me before in his presence and usually signals the release of some information or fear. It’s uncontrollable, happening without my conscious understanding. Nothing in the dream feels frightening, but suddenly I am terrified.
“Sit still,” he advises. “Don’t get swept away in what’s happening. No emotion.” He walks across the room and grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator. I sit there searching for an explanation for the panic.
“Something scared you in the dream?” It wasn’t until he said the words out loud that I remembered an undercurrent, the feeling that we were waiting not just for the activation, but there was something lurking, something that must be dealt with…some kind of beast that must be slain. My fear is incredible and it has to do with the anticipation of this battle.
I go on…
In the next ‘scene’ I am in the same chamber or maybe a smaller antechamber. I am kneeling in front of a large assortment of gemstones. There is a blanket on the floor covered in the most magnificent stones…the way vendors on Canal Street display their wares…the blanket can be snatched up and whisked away if necessary.
There are dubious characters–almost ghoulish–hovering and wandering about. I recognize them as tricksters and they are trying to convince me that the gems are not real. But, I feel that all of them belong to me. Their lies only serve to strengthen my conviction. “No,” I feel, they are real and they are mine.”
I choose a large, smooth, pink stone and hold it in my hand, feeling its weight and coolness. I bring the stone to my heart to integrate this belief in the gemstones into my heart of hearts.
Behind me stands the small girl who has begun to join me on these spiritual dream trips. It’s my daughter. She was in the temple with me and now she stands behind me patiently, encouragingly as I claim my treasure.
“You have great wealth inside you,” H says. “As soon as it ‘clicks’ and you integrate what’s already inside into your belief about yourself, nothing will stand in the way of your getting it. Only your–pardon my language–stupidity can stop it.”
In the middle of the night I wake up and feel wonderful—blissful. The thought associated with the feeling is: “Something so beautiful is growing inside me.”
Joseph Campbell in The Power of Myth (p. 18):
Campbell: “If you undergo a spiritual transformation and have not had preparation for it, you do not know how to evaluate what has happened to you, and you get the terrible experience of a bad trip, as they used to call it with LSD. If you know where you are going, you won’t have a bad trip.”
Moyers: “So, this is why it is a psychological crisis if you are drowning in the water where—
Campbell: “…where you ought to be able to swim, but you weren’t prepared. That is true of the spiritual life, anyhow. It is a terrifying experience to have your consciousness transformed.”
H is sitting awkwardly in his seat; shifting position as pain flits across his face. It is unusual for him to look uncomfortable. I ask with concern, “Are you ok? Are you hurt?”
“Oh, it’s just my back. I’ve been sleeping on the floor…problems with the wife.”
It’s jarring for him to offer such a personal detail. I want to know more, to listen to him, but I sense that’s not available and we continue talking about our work. After a while, we sit in the light together in silence. Eventually, he says: “What is it that you like about gazing at me this way?”
“I don’t know…I feel free…open.”
“Why do you surrender to me, but not to the Universe? This is how you need to surrender to the Universe. You have to learn to be gentle. In here you are gentle, but out there you are fighting. Surrender…” he says the last word as a command.
“I want to, but…”
“But, what?”
I feel myself let go completely for a second—falling backwards and down as if through space into a void. It’s a delirious release. Quickly, I catch myself and we are sitting again as two.
“You surrender to me in here…I am the Universe.”
A few days later, I am out for a walk in the country by myself. Walking along, I am repeating the phrase, “I am the Universe,” and trying to feel what it would be like to believe it.
Something draws my attention upwards into the sky—there in the clouds is a giant eye. It is enormous and peering into me. I stop and stare, wondering if it is actually H’s eye. I stand there next to a field of wildflowers, staring at the eye of the Universe; feeling the enormity of the being that eye belongs to. That eye must belong to a body encompassing me, encompassing the whole sky, the landscape…There is a familiarity to it, but not an identity. It is the eye of God.
I stand there with the rare and beautiful opportunity to do as the Sufi, Ansari of Herat, counseled: Worship God as though you see him.
Shiva: He whose body fills the entire universe. Lord of Passions.
If he is Shiva…am I Shakti?
The Prison of the Body
“I’m with several friends and we are dropped off at a prison. Only we don't know it’s a prison, at first. We’re oblivious, passive, and asleep and being led around by a guide—the warden—who is showing us the facility. It slowly dawns on me that this is not just a visit, this prison is intended to be our new home. The realization starts to make me edgy and uncomfortable...everyone else seems to still be asleep...
As panic sets in, I go to the bathroom and in the privacy of the stall realize in a matter of minutes I will be locked in my tiny new cell/home and won’t be free again...until death. I am struck with dread. The thought of the door closing and the warden walking away makes me frantic. I realize my friends and I will be separated...so close, but each in our own cell; unable to really BE together as ONE. We will be able to shout to each other only—communicating through the bars. I am wild with fear, but trying to maintain composure. I think, "My God, how am I going to tolerate this?" And the only answer I can think of is to meditate—to sit and release myself from the prison via my mind.
I walk out of the stall and look in the mirror in front of me. In the reflection, I can see that a woman is in the stall next to me. She left the door open and is standing there changing her clothes. We looked at each other through the mirror and she seems very calm and content. She explains she’s "only visiting" the prison. I realize the difference between us is that she can come and go as she pleases. Her will is her own. She isn't afraid of the prison because she is only visiting.”
H listens closely and asks, “What do you make of it?”
“Well, the prison is this body, this incarnation. And the woman visiting is…awake? She can come and go at will. And the feeling of panic…is how I’ve felt most of my life.”
“The only difference between you and the woman visiting is perspective. You must rise above your fears so you can see that you have choices. Once you have overcome fear—once you have this feeling—you won’t want any other. You can do what you please because fear does not affect you…”
“There are only two things that make me feel free in this life, in this prison of the body…dancing and sex…interestingly these are also the two ways I feel most connected.”
“That’s a good start. And in the dream you also know to meditate. Why meditate? To master the body. To master emotions. To not feel is to be free.”
“Most of the time, I just want out.”
“Don’t tell the body. Don’t let it know you are trying to get out of it or it will fight you. Don’t initiate a struggle. Be gentle, make friends. When the time comes, it will let you leave…What the visiting woman knows is that our souls come from a different dimension. They are not created on earth. That’s why so many people feel lonely and lost.”
I hand the woman at the door a twenty and takes off my shoes. I can hear the music from behind the studio’s closed door. It’s gentle, which tells me the class is still in the first rhythm—flowing—I’m not so late.
It’s Tuesday night, the main event of the week for 5 Rhythms practitioners. The dance studio is packed when I walk in. It will still be light in the studio for an hour as the sun sets over the West Village. People are stretching and moving fluidly throughout the room. The teacher, Jonathan, sits behind a folding table with a microphone.
I begin to stretch in the corner and then slowly stand and move through the space. I smile at a few familiar faces—feeling confident, languid, grounded…like an adult. I see that some of my favorite dancers are already here, already in their practice. Their presence is reassuring to me. I feel at home.
Jonathan’s voice rings through the space, “Dance is the deepest form of meditation. Meditate with your whole body. Feeling free to express everything that comes up in the body…That’s power. That’s freedom. No fear of what others might say or think. Just moving spontaneously and authentically. Be the dance. Be free…Let the body lead.” He puts the microphone down and moves into the crowd. He awakens all the corners of the room—gliding, moving the energy, awakening the space. This is flowing.
The music picks up as we enter the rhythm of staccato. Everyone is standing now, pulsing. I begin to enjoy myself; to feel sensual. I think about what H said about leaving the body, but in this moment, I don’t want to. I feel grateful that the body is what dances me through space, meeting others, relating with them for a few minutes, and then moving on. I do as Jonathan says and take a partner, then another. I feel I know each dancer. I feel like I love them. We dance everything that comes up. It is awkward at first, then interesting, then elegant, then ecstatic.
As the sun sets, the room becomes orange and we descend into chaos, the rhythm of letting go. As the music escalates and becomes wild, I feel the whole crowd lose their minds. People are writhing on the ground, crying, screaming, leaping, thrusting. Everyone is taken away by the music, in a state of abandon. No one cares how anyone looks or what they are doing. I think again of the prison and see us all as inmates; each of us in our cell doing our own dance of liberation. We’re together apart…that’s how it is in a prison and in the body. I realize I am free as long as I can move, as long as my will is my own. In the body I can be free. In a tiny cell I can be free. I can find freedom through the most subtle movement. Here we are prisoners…and yet, celebrating—living! We choose to move, dance, and rise above our situation. We always have that choice. Anyone can access this sheer joy, this ecstasy, at any time through the body.
Lyrical, the rhythm of light, playfulness and creativity. We have broken through. Around the room, people are blissful alone and in small groups—dancing dances that have never been danced before; dancing as communication, love. The sun has set. I dance, looking at my reflection in the window, overlaid on the lights of the city beyond.
Stillness—the end and a new beginning. Jonathan says, “Let yourself get quiet enough to hear what comes up inside you…” And I do. I feel grace descend over the entire prison; every inmate. I feel great compassion and I want to spread the word: We’re free. We’re always free, never stuck or trapped as long as we can dance and move our bodies…even if we can’t, we can move our thoughts and spirit. We’re just visiting. I feel the medicine of movement as water, a river flowing through the room, bathing and soothing everyone. The room is still, peaceful. I am still, peaceful.
On the floor, with my arms and hands in the air above my face. I make beautiful mudras, gestures to express praise, prayer, gratitude. I caress the invisible. I recognize that I am totally at home in my body in this moment, with these people. Everything feels new, fascinating, wonderful—like I am experiencing myself for the first time, like an infant. Suddenly, I realize this is it: to come and go as you please. THIS is the key to embodiment. This is literally, the key to unlocking the door to the prison cell. We have choices. We have perspective. And we have practices. I know now…there IS freedom within this body. I weep.
For the first time, I wonder if H has it wrong when he says, “To not feel is to be free.” But, my heart says: Why would you want to escape this? Why would you want to not feel? I want to feel everything.
Psychic Readings $5
I walk past a large, beautiful apartment building in NYC with a sign in the front window that says “Psychic Readings $5.” I have walked past this building many times and never stopped, but this time I go in.
I knock on the door and it opens. There is a woman—a gypsy—at the end of the long hallway. She approaches and I feel cold. Her eyes are wide open. She’s staring into my soul, trying to figure out who I am, sizing me up…maybe even, trying to scare me away. I don’t budge. As she gets closer, I am struck by how she looks ugly not because she is ugly, but because of the way she is staring at me. I asked her about the psychic readings. She looked at me suspiciously and then gestures for me to follow her.
“Have a look around first,” she says as she leads me deeper into the building, down hallways, through the maze-like structure. I have an awareness that I am risking my life, but I also sense possibility. My curiosity wins.
She leads me into an apartment on the left. Inside there are a lot of people doing yoga, hanging out, drinking tea, smoking. She calls it a “hippie hangout.” We walk through a group of people doing a rebirthing exercise. One woman is in fetal position and crying like a baby; others are learning to feel their bodies; discovering their corporality as a baby might. As I watch, I see that what’s happening here is good. I begin to open and relax. I understand I am in a realm of great spiritual power and insight: a sacred place.
We walk by two men talking on a couch. One says, “We just read an article by Orage and Mansfield.” I can see the man wants me to overhear him. I look at him directly.
He asks, “Do you know that article?”
“Not that article, but I know Orage and Mansfield,” I say with confidence.
He smiles because I’ve passed the test. He says, “I don’t know who you were, but I know you were there.” We embrace like brother and sister.
I ask the woman again, “What about the psychic reading?” She turns slowly to face me and time seems to melt. She takes my shoulders and brings me face-to-face. She looks deep into my eyes and then the features of her face become indistinct, blurry. When she reappears, she looks beautiful, angelic, radiant. Rainbow-colored energy swirls around her head and a deep indigo appears around her eyes and forehead. She wants me to receive this energy—a transmission.
Something is blocking me from receiving. When I look, I find doubt. Although the energy is wonderful and warm, my mind begins to sew seeds of doubt: Is it the right color? Who is she? What do these people want from me? I pull away and the dream ends.
H says, “This is a strong dream. Good insight. It’s ok to question…you are still forming your ‘I’ and haven’t yet learned to trust your own instinct about what’s happening. It will come.
In this dream your book learning is the problem. You questioned what was happening based on what you thought ‘should’ be happening, based on what you’ve read in books. It didn’t work. Don’t try to figure everything out. When magic descends, let it happen. In this limited state, do not question the experiences offered to you by beings of a higher consciousness. You don’t know. Next time, just say, ‘I don’t know…teach me.’”
Paul and I are sitting in the living room. It’s late in the evening and the baby is asleep. I’ve had to request this time to talk. We’ve been spending our evenings in separate rooms, watching different shows, spending time apart. I need to try to bridge the gulf, but as soon as we take our seats I feel how far away he’s drifted. We sit in the two chairs most distant from each other in the room…he is in one corner and I am in the other—like boxers. Round One.
Paul looks tired, exhausted. I hesitate to even put him through what I know will be an uncomfortable conversation, but I must.
“So, what’s this about?”
“Well, I have…what I consider good news…” I start slowly, looking for the right words. I can feel that the margin for error is slim. I am walking a tight rope. This is not something I am good at, yet. I am not standing in my truth; I am standing in my uncertainty. Paul is not a big fan of uncertainty.
“Just say it…” he prompts.
“I’m going through a spiritual awakening.”
He rolls his eyes and starts to rise from his chair, as if the conversation is done, “What does one say on such an occasion?” His tone is bitter, “Congratulations?”
This is not how I imagined this going. I try to save it, “I really think this is a good thing…for us both…for all of us…for our daughter. I am going through a kundalini rising process. It’s wild and it’s been overwhelming, but I think it’s starting to settle.”
“Okay…what do you think this mean for us?”
“I think it means we're receiving a blessing. This is something I’ve been looking for my whole life. I feel like I am finally finding myself. Ultimately, it will make everything more clear…that’s my sense.”
He’s still skeptical, but I sense that he is listening. He can feel that what I am saying is true. He continues with more presence, “I can see how this is good for you. I don’t quite get what it means for me. He thinks for a minute, “This explains all the books that have been coming to the house.”
I smile and nod. I’ve been ordering spiritual memoirs and books daily on Amazon. For a brief moment we sit in silence and I feel him touching the edge of the grace that is descending right here in our household. I am reminded of the Paul I married—Paul who is also a seeker and an old soul. I open more to that Paul…
“Right now, I am still in the middle of it. I don’t know what happens next. It’s been a trip—visions, dreams, insights…It’s changing everything for me…how I see the world, how I experience motherhood…I am guessing it will change our marriage, too.”
He nods, but I can see that this irritates him. Our marriage has been a sore spot since the baby arrived.
“Honestly, I don’t see how this has anything to do with me. I’m not having an awakening. I’m still a working stiff. Will this bring you more clients? Will this make us more money? Will we start having sex again?”
“I don’t know,” I am honest. The atmosphere is charged and Paul looks at me like he’s done with the conversation.
“I wish you could be happy for me,” I say sadly.
“You’ve got what you want. Isn’t that enough?” He stands and leaves the room.
Typhon
I am standing up to my waist in a dark lake in a moonlit forest glade. The water is cool and clear, spotted on top by fallen blossoms and pollen. I am surrounded by extraordinary beauty, magical beauty and yet, my mind is busily processing in a linear fashion—thinking, trying to understand. I feel my right side clenched. I am thinking about work, my clients, how I can use this experience to improve my work. The calculating mind is keeping me from really connecting with the beauty around me—which seems to be beckoning and growing more vivid, trying to release me from its grip.
A magnificent tree on the shore starts to glow white, illuminated from within. Every branch is a miracle. Deep within me, some long lost knowing stirs, some connection to a truth beyond time…I know this tree. The words, “Tree of Life,” arise from this place of knowing and I am struck dumb. Then, the thinking mind begins to doubt, to question it…
“That can’t be THE tree of life. Oh no. I know about the tree of life, and this can’t be it because in the books it says it is a different variety of tree…”
Even in the dream I remember the way my mind prevented me from receiving the woman’s blue transmission in the psychic hotel—doubt. The mind is trying to manage my experience again.
Just as I am grappling with this, I notice a ripple in the water. I turn around and about eight feet away is a giant eye on the surface of the water—yellow and reptilian, it’s coming for me. A huge body is barely visible behind it, gliding under the surface. It’s a crocodile or a dragon moving slowly, but steadily, towards me. I panic. I try to move through the water towards the shore, but I am much slower and clumsier. I duck under water and try to swim away. This wakes me up.
I lay there in the bed marveling at the beauty of the scene and then damning my calculating mind. I feel it as a wound…a byproduct of the culture and time I’ve come up in: a malady of modernity, a disenchantment, a doubt. I feel it through the right side of my body. And I regret that I am still subject to fear—still dodging the dragons in the waters of my subconscious mind.
I share the dream with H. Later, as we sit in meditation, in the light, he asks me the usual question: “What is it that you want?”
I contemplate. I feel what is arising in my body. I see myself with my mind’s eye diving into a big pool of water.
“I want to swim,” I say.
“First you want to fly…now you want to swim?”
I look for a better explanation, “It’s like there’s a pool here and I just want to dive in.”
“What’s stopping you?”
I feel resistance in my body as I look for an answer. I am editing my experience and choosing my words carefully. I feel a little out-of-control…or like being out-of-control is very close, perilously close.
“I don’t know…” I say this because I don’t want to look any deeper.
“You know water, a pool, is a metaphor for sexuality…for sex?”
I know he’s right.
“Jump in. Swim.” It’s a command…or a challenge.
“Now?” I feel heat rising from deep within me.
“Why not now?”
The reasons why not flood my brain. I am stuck in that place…wondering, totally unsure, what to do. What do I do when following my body might lead to danger?
“The visions are all saying the same thing. They’re showing you your potential. You have enormous potential—everyone does, really. But, only a very, very select few have the awareness to know it and refine it. For you—the work is inside with your moods. Your moods are the only thing stopping you from getting everything you want.
Think about it—your mood comes and ruins your conviction. Your mood that tells you you’re not good enough? It’s a lack of self worth. I don’t know where it came from and I don’t care. Just get rid of it. Leave it behind. You must be clear. The next couple of years we have work to do. You will have to make decisions and you must be clear for that. I cannot have a partner who is always changing their position, not sure about what to do, overly emotional…”
I tell him I am moody today because Paul and I are drifting apart—the marriage will soon be beyond repair. I tell him about our conversation.
“You have to resolve the situation at home or its going to keep coming up every couple of weeks.”
“I know. We’ve started working with a couples therapist. He really likes the guy. That he agreed to go is a big deal. We’re trying.”
“You have to understand…you cannot change another person without their desire to be changed. It’s impossible. Take it from me. I made that mistake many times. He’s not going to go on a journey and find himself on his own. He can’t. He doesn’t have the means. The only way he can do that is if you make a lot of money. So, let’s make the money.”
“Money isn’t going to solve this.”
“In this world, money solves a lot. How are you going to solve it without money? Look, I never advise people to separate, but if you do…you better make sure you have money.”
He gets still in his chair, “Let’s sit.”
We sit. I feel my body relaxing slowly. I feel myself surrender. Suddenly, I am overcome with such a rush of a rising energy. I need to move. I want to receive this energy through my fingertips, from the sky. He seems to notice and nods. I lift my arms and he says, “Rise.” I rise from my chair and stand on my toes. I feel like I could fly. I feel ten feet tall. My heart feels like it might burst.
“Turn around,” he says. I feel his eyes on me as a revolve slowly like a dancer. When I’ve made two revolutions I stop and look him in the eye. I am standing between our chairs, just a few feet from him. The look in his eyes is pure love.
The energy erupts from my heart and throat. I bend over laughing. The spell is broken but now we are both laughing.
We laugh some more and collect ourselves. He is looking deeply into my eyes, “You’re going to do great things. Do you hear me?”
Exactly seven months from her birth, the baby is restless. She is crying out every hour. There is no sleep for her or for me. Just when I start to doze she cries out again. I keep going to her, looking for possible explanations. She is inconsolable. She seems to just want to be held. Finally, I fall asleep with her on the bed in the nursery.
In my half sleep, I see her in front of me. She is lying on her right side, levitating about four feet off the ground and floating from right to left across my awareness. She is peaceful. Though my baby in her waking state is far from speaking, in this dream I hear her voice say distinctly, “I begin to see myself as two people.”
I wake with the words ringing through me. Immediately, I understand why she has been upset and crying. She is beginning to understand separation. She is coming into the awareness that she and I are separate and she can be left alone. I feel a rush of compassion. I go and pick her up and hold her closely to me. I whisper into her ear, “I know, I know.” I recognize that she is mine to steward. This is the most important work I can do.
She is going through her own metamorphosis. This…is life.
I go with my nanny and the baby to see my mother-in-law at her studio. We look through the beautiful clothes while Marianne plays with the baby. I try on a few pieces and look in the mirror. The two older women are complimentary and encouraging. I am still a little self-conscious about my post-baby body. It feels wonderful to be in the company of confident older women.
When we get home later that afternoon, Mina, the nanny is preparing to leave. She takes my Modigliani book off the shelf, “I noticed today when you were trying on clothes that you have a figure just like his models…especially this one…” She opens the small book and flips a few pages to the picture I identified once as Katherine. I am stunned. She looks at me like it’s obvious.
Katherine, are you still with me?
We sit in silence for full minutes. H is waiting…
“There’s a battle going on inside you. What are you afraid of? Why do you come here and not talk?”
I can’t speak. I literally can’t open my mouth…even if I could, there are no words coming. I am frightened; envisioning him as Thor-like, ready with his thunderbolts to annihilate me. I am attuned to a latent destructive force that terrifies me.
“I feel like you’re going to shatter me…or jump on me.”
He seems amused, “So far, I haven’t jumped on anyone…but, maybe you’ll be the first because you’re willing it to be…Maybe you’re afraid you’ll jump on me.”
I continue to sit in scared silence, “I can’t talk.”
“Talk! Talk! If it’s so uncomfortable, don’t come here. Maybe we should stop this work if you feel afraid. I’m not here to scare you and I don’t know what you mean by ‘shatter.’ If it’s so unpleasant…” He is shaking his head now, frustrated.
“NO. I want to be here. I want to talk…I just can’t. And…I don’t know why.” I search for an answer, frantically seeking something to offer him, “I’m just experiencing everything as very…mystical…right now and I don’t want you to tell me it’s ordinary or normal. I want you to be in the magic with me…I am afraid you’ll diminish what I’m experiencing.”
He is still frustrated, “You want me to get carried away with you? What good will that do either of us?”
I am nearly shaking. He softens, “Look. You’re walking between worlds. It’s like you’re walking on land and then you meet…a SCUBA instructor. This SCUBA instructor shows you a whole new world, a whole dimension you didn’t know before. He didn’t make the ocean, it was there…but, he knows it and you didn’t. When you go to bed at night, when you have these dreams and visions, you enter another dimension like the ocean—you’re learning it—but when you wake, you have to walk on land. You cannot swim on land and you cannot walk there.”
I nod.
“It’s ok that things are confusing. Let yourself be confused. Things are mystical? Let’s keep it simple. It’s just intuition.” He stresses the word, “A message is given and then you must act on it. All this praying to gods, reading too much into it, this is nonsense. Get the vision and act. Some are more meaningful than others, that’s all.”
He stands to dismiss me, “Your job between now and next time you come here is to figure out why you can’t talk. Like this…we can’t continue.”
I leave his office feeling disappointed in myself and confused. His words about allowing myself to be confused are reassuring. I sit in utter confusion all the way downtown.
At Prince Street, I exit the subway and go to Hampton Chutney for a dosa before heading back to work. As I sit at the small counter against the wall, Indian chants playing in the background, I read a small laminated quote on the wall:
Summon forth the power of your inner courage and live the life of your dreams.” —Gurumayi Chidvilasananda
I summon forth the power of my inner courage and ask myself why I can no longer speak to H; why I have been stuck and nervous with him. Suddenly it hits me:
I am in love with him. I am completely in love with H.
How could I have been so blind?
It was wrapped up in devotion. It was camouflaged by our collaboration. It was classified as a safe friendship, within bounds, professional. I was deluded. I suddenly see how it crept up on me. How I’d been behaving like a schoolgirl, even dressing to please him, wanting to say things to please him. Suddenly, I understand that this is my temptation of love. I will have to find a way to get over this. I will have to transmute this.
In feeling the depth of my love for him, I am suddenly confronted with how dead my heart has been. Romantic love hasn’t been a part of my marriage for years. H has been filling a void.
I know intuitively that I must move on. I know that my fear of being shattered was real. But, I now see my heart must shatter—this is how it must be. Completely…I need the courage to let it be so.
I text H: “I know now why I couldn’t speak. I am in love with you. I have been for a while and didn’t know it.”
I hit send and feel absolutely raw. Within a minute, a get a response,
“Good. Now, move on.”
Arjuna says to Krishna:
“Thinking you a friend, I boldly said,
’Welcome, Krishna! Welcome cousin, friend!’
From negligence, or through love,
I failed to know your greatness.”
I am numb, heartbroken. I feel small and ashamed—blinded by a small love. I’ve failed to see the greatness, the opportunity that has been right in front of me. I’ve loved him like a man—a mistake that will keep me from finding Love with the Whole Universe.
~~~~~~
Hello Schuyler, I'm circling back to these chapters late. This one feels like it's really shaking with energy.
I want to note on the "right side clench" aspect of the dream you had. There's been a long-term issue I've had, it seems to be so deep in nature as to be shamanic, where my right side is clenched up. I'm just wondering if you have had any more thoughts on that aspect since the dream. For me, the clenching is extremely closely related to the power of the mind and I have not been able to do abstract reasoning to my full potential for some years now because of how thinking exacerbates this mind-and-body clench going on.