The Visual8

The sound of a small animal lifts your head. Orange light glows behind a small dog with pointed ears. It’s small enough to be a cat. You are not sure.

It’s two black feet plant on a fallen tree to look down on you. It’s stare questions your presence. Curiosity keeps it in place.

In an instant, it turns to run. A large, puffy white tail whips goodbye. Your eye catches the copper orange fur before it disappears through the thicket of trees.

The wind sings a morning song through the leaves. Birds chirp a counter melody.

The ache in your back propels you onto your feet. A stomach growl compels you forward.

The density of the trees give way. On top of the hill, past the valley, stands a tower made of gray stone.

Your feet mindlessly take you towards it. An hour passes.

As you near the door, a woman’s voice breaks the silence. The lift and fall of notes put you oddly at ease. You cannot make out the words.

Your hand gently raps the door. The singing stops. The door opens.

She wears a welcoming face. Her hair is bright red. Her skin, Irish white. Faint forehead lines betray her age. She is dressed in natural fibers. A heavy leather apron yokes her neck.

Hand tools peak from the pockets to catch glimpse of you.

“Hello. You must be lost,” says the Witness.

“I. I. I. Must be,” you say with a rasp in your voice. As if your vocal cords are still waking up.

“Please come in,” she says. “You look hungry.”

“Yes. Yes. Over there. Find a seat at the table.”

You trundle to the chair. The air is still. The room gently lit through the pebbled glass of the windows.

In the center of table is a platter with red sausages, chalk-colored cheese, and the remainders of a round loaf of bread.

She slides a terracotta plate in front of a you. A small knife and cloth napkin join it.

“This mead is made from honey of wild bees nearby.” A cup lands softly.

“When I sip it, fields, flowers and forests fill my thoughts”, she says. “I hope that you enjoy it.”

“What brings you to my door?”

You explain your journey, as if recalling a distant memory. About the long conversation with the Materialist.

Food lifts your energy. Your gaze takes in more of the room. There are taxidermy mounts all around. Each animal frozen in expressive action.

The walls are lined with beetles, butterflies, and bugs pinned to white mats in black frames.

“Are you a hunter?” you ask.

“No. My craft is to capture the life of creatures when they no longer have it,” says the Witness.

“Hunters like trophies, because it fuels their ego. And there is good money to be made in feeding identities.”

“It has been my experience that men look in the wrong place for so many things,” she says.

“Take the Materialist. Each of his examples of consciousness require the rigor of measurement. Consciousness cannot be calculated.”

You lean forward.

“These animals are preserved at a very particular moment. Many at the peak of hostility.”

You notice the emerald in her eyes.

“What precedes a fight?” she says. “Fear.”

“How are we to know the nature of that fear? How are we to know, if we do not face predators much larger than ourselves?”

“How are we to know the nature of a thing if we are not that thing?”

“This is fundamental nature of consciousness. It is a matter of experience.”

You nod slowly.

She continues, “The only thing we can prove is our own subjective experience.”

“Stand in the middle of a clearing. You feel the heat of the sun on your face. You feel the cooling wind. Your ears hear animals rustling in the brush. Slow your heart. Open the aperture of you mind. There is a lot to witness.”

“The second nature of consciousness is that when we practice, we can sense our own discomfort appear from nowhere,” she says.

“The Buddha speaks of mastering desire to end suffering. That when we do not hold onto craving, we are free. This is about becoming aware of the emotions that follow thought. Or thoughts that follow emotion.”

“Come with me,” the Witness says.

You follow her up a circular staircase. Windows reveal how high you climb.

Many minutes pass.

She lifts an iron latch with a piercing sound. The door moans its age.

The light is bright on the top of this tower.

She pads towards the edge. You follow.

Hills roll on all sides. You take in the sight of the dense forest you traversed. How dark it appears now.

“From here we can see for miles,” says the Witness. “But none of what we see is out there. It is in here.” Her finger reaches her forehead.

“The colors and shapes are concepts that our brains assemble from light waves that hit our eyes.”

“Now close your eyes.”

You comply.

“Describe what you just saw.”

Words tumble out. About the hills, the tower, the forest, the pale sky whitening as it kisses the horizon.

Her voice is softer now and just behind you.

“Men spend their lives thinking about the traumas of the past. Or cast fishing lines into the future. Hoping to real-in something that would make them happy.”

“Few, if ever, are aware this exact moment. Where the past and the future don’t exist. This is awareness of the now.”

“Would that they would treat every moment as the last moment, they might not miss the joy of their children growing. They might not set their attention on what is NOT in their pocket. But realize that the strength of their bodies is wealth enough. That each inhale is a victory.”

“This is the third aspect of the consciousness, that escapes the mind of a Materialist.”

“And isn’t it enough to inspire joy?”

Her words fade in to the wind. Your eyes open.

“I never consider those options before,” you say. “It’s a lot to think through.”

She moves to the door. You follow her down the steps. Your head spins faster than the stairs.

A new thought emerges. How to get home.

“Excuse me. I really must be off. The hour is getting late,” you say.

“Of course,” she says. “Let me suggest that you follow the road to town.”

“You can catch a ride with merchants that come to trade goods. With hurried step you will be there just after the market closes. Find the Crown and Serpent. It’s a popular pub. You will find someone with enough space in their carriage for a traveler such as yourself.”

She presses several coins in your hand.

“For safe passage,” she says. “There is enough there for a meal and bed for the night. And for a ride in the morning back to wherever you come from.”

“But, I can’t. Sorry. Wait. My manners. That’s generous offer, but how will I repay you?” you say.

“Pay it forward,” she says. “Karma keeps the balance sheet. Not me.” She winks.

You begin walk with determination.

“One more thing,” she calls.

You turn your head.

“Consciousness has one more bloom. When you are aware of being aware, that is another form. Some call this meta-consciousness.”

You smile.

The afternoon sun paints the landscape with golden hues.

You whisper those four notions of consciousness to keep them alive in your memory.

Awareness as …a matter of experience. …a witness to thoughts and feelings. …awareness of the present moment. …and meta-consciousness.

The wind picks up as dusk approaches. You turn up your collar.

Another hour passes. The sky ripens to a deeper blue. You catch glimpse of a cluster of buildings in the distance. Your step quickens.