The Visual8

The wagon shifts side to side. It’s canopy shielding heat from the sun.

Your eyes open and your head splits open. “Is this a migraine or a hangover,” you wonder.

Last night remains foggy. You recall strong ale, stale bread, and a straw bed. The bar keep spoke reasonable English. The merchant did not.

But it was enough to raise your confidence that his wagon would head towards home.

You close your eyes again. Your attention now trains on the clops of the horses and the conversation between the merchant and his son.

Your eyes shoot open the moment your abdominal muscles contract. Your body feels aflame. You remove outer garments and call to the merchant.

With enough hand gestures and elevated voice, he recognizes your distress.

The horses halt.

You leap from the wagon with one hand on your belt. You race to the nearest tree 50 feet away.

Your mind rehearses unbuckling and squatting.

The tree is broad and gray-brown. The leaves are the color of Autumn.

Behind the tree, you find relief.

Slowly your muscles relax. You clean up, then stand up.

Coming around the tree, the ochre-yellow plain stretches wide. Your eyes scan for the merchant’s wagon.

Further down the road, a small dust cloud whisps.

You realize that all of your things went with the merchant.

You return to the road. The sun squeezes sweat out of you.

Hours pass as you shuffle in the same direction as the wagon.

…

The wind picks up. You feel the change in barometric pressure.

Charcoal clouds form overhead. Lightning cracks far away. Thunder rolls seconds after.

A deep, hollow sound of “hooo” comes from behind. The hair on your arms stand up.

“An owl,” you say aloud to make it more convincing.

Your step quickens.

“Hoooo” sounds from behind once more. This time louder. Your hands cool. Your vision narrows.

The sky darkens deeper than twilight. Luminous light grey peeks all around the horizon.

You turn to see how close the predator might be. Nothing is there. The wind gusts stronger.

“Hoooooo” claps once more. You heart races. Your mouth dries. The inside voice says “run!”

With no clear plan, you dash from the road towards a cluster of trees. Your breath is jagged.

Your eye spots a large, black tree with no leaves. It stand four stories tall. It’s branches forming a perfect dome. It appears to be burned.

Without thought, you move closer looking for a fallen branch.

Two glowing almonds appear on the trunk.

Your legs freeze.

“Who?!” rings out.

She emerges from the tree as if stepping from a dark closet.

Those almonds blink once.

Her skin is weathered and colored espresso.

Her face confesses old age.

She stands less than five feet tall in a simple black cloak.

“Who are YOU to approach THIS tree?” says the Mystic.

You share your name. Your throat feels as if you wear a woolen turtleneck.

“That is NOT who you are. That is the name of the mask you wear,” she says. Her voice round and low.

“Then I don’t know what you mean?” you say.

“Who MADE you?” says the The Mystic.

You offer your parents names unsure if this what she meant.

“Enough!” she booms.

She opens her robe. No light can penetrate the inky black of the interior.

Slowly a constellation appears at her chest.

“In the beginning, was there not a big bang? Did not the Materialist speak of this when he pointed to the heavens?” says the Mystic.

“What comes from explosions… order or chaos?”

“Chaos,” you say.

“Yeeesss,” she says. “Then explain this Earth. Explain the reoccurring pattern of Fibonacci’s sequence. It is the spiral of snail, the wrapping of petals around a stem, and the majesty of galaxies above.”

“Who designed these things?” she says.

The top of your head tingles.

You prepare to speak. She interrupts.

“Open your third eye! See the fingerprints of Intelligent Love. She creates all that it is. That which is mundane. That which is sublime. All brush strokes on the canvas of existence.”

You feel these things to be true. You are not sure why.

“Now that you are conscious of the Loving Intelligence, ask yourself why a force this pure would not design YOU to be more than you claim.”

“Close your eyes, my little one,” she says. Her voice more soothing.

“Notice the thoughts and the feelings. From where do they originate? The Witness called for you to pay attention to your own nature. How comfort and discomfort arise and dissipate. But did she not ask to find the One who sends these gifts?”

“Do not wish this One to come forth. It arrived before you did.”

“Descend below the waterline of what your senses tell you. Relax into the nothingness to find the One.”

A moment passes. You open your eyes. Her cloak now closed.

“This is awareness of a different plane of existence,” she says. “It is a tier below the ego and even below the soul.”

Your chest warms as if coals were stoked.

“Let us talk of your journey. Why did the merchant leave you behind? With no possessions, no whereabouts, and no means to help yourself.”

You remember the bitterness. The ache in your feet return.

“Why are men at war with the world? Why do they dominate all living things? Why do they treat Nature as their possession and their fellow men as adversaries?” says the Mystic.

“Why do they see themselves as separate from the rest of the universe?”

“When the subject and the object are no longer different, then subjugation cannot exist. A healthy body does not attack itself. It seeks to heal itself.”

“The Dreamer felt it in mirrored emotions.”

“Non-duality names this type of consciousness. It is the wave that realizes that it belongs to the ocean. It is the player who knows she is a part of the team. Both an individual and a collective simultaneously.”

“Plants create seeds that cannot be digested. Birds transport those sparks of life in their bellies to another place. The bird and the plant are one system.”

You feel gravity lessen its grip.

“May I ask,” you say. “Why is that you are speaking to me about these things? How is it that you know my questions before I know them?

A gust of wind rushes from behind you. The pattern of fallen leaves radiate from the Mystic.

She takes a long, audible inhale as if to capture the moment.

“I have been speaking to you your entire life,” says the Mystic. “You have not been paying attention.”

“I was the phone call from a person you were just thinking about. I was the green light after green light on the way home from Christmas shopping. I was the 50 dollar bill you found in your sweater pocket. I was the stranger who filled your tank at midnight on the dark highway when you ran out of gas.”

“I have been winking at you this entire time,” says the Mystic. “Next time, you may take notice.”

“Now go home,” says the Mystic.

“It was never the ruby slippers that brought Dorothy home. Go home.”

You close your eyes once more. Silence folds on itself.

…

You open your eyes. The white stucco ceiling of your place stares back.

You rise from the sofa. Out of the window, the landscape is now bathed with dusk. The clouds are painted pink and purple-gray.

You wonder how long you’ve been napping.

You go to the bathroom to splash water on your face.

Your chin lifts. You blot the water and stare into the person on the other side of the mirror.

Face lines seem deeper. Skin not as vibrant.

Your eye catches a piece of paper in your shirt pocket.

You pull out the parchment. Your name written on the folded page.

Opening it you see a tender greeting. Words of gratitude follow. You walk into the letter as if just coming in from the cold.

The letters come from a shaky hand. But they are unmistakably yours.