The White Room

I awaken. Something is different. I blink the sleep from my eyes. Scan my body. Catch my breath. The pain. It’s gone. My eyes flicker to the window. The pine trees are blanketed with fresh snow. A gust of wind seizes the branches and the world is obscured in white. A long, smooth exhale. It is over. 

The lessons I’ve learned over the past year: 

— The difference between signs and wishful thinking. 

— For every demon inside of us there’s an angel. Sometimes they’re the same presence. I’ve identified mine and given them names. We work together now.

— You can pass the test, but feel defeated rather than victorious. 

I’m a profoundly different person than I was a year ago. Am I a better person? I really don’t know. 

I’ve entered a vast, white space. It is utter emptiness, a vacuum of cosmos magnitude, but not desolation. Eerie, but intriguing rather than terrifying. I stand still and listen with innocent curiosity. I have absolutely no idea of what is to come.

There is a recognized form of torture called “white torture”. It’s used by certain organizations and governments, including my own. A prisoner is entombed in a soundproof white cell. Her clothes and even the food she is served is white. All communication with guards must be written down. The only sound is the prisoner’s slippered feet shuffling across the white floor. And her thoughts. Eventually, the prisoner completely loses her personal identity. She will never return to normal.

Is it really amnesia? We are more than just beings who process the sensations of our environment. When the external is stripped away, we are confronted with the blank canvas of the psyche. Out of the white void, something else arises. If we let it. 

I have a new profession. One so alien to me and yet so necessary. I work in a temple of value and worth. Rigid compliance and conformity. The soft rasp of currency gliding through my fingertips. The tinkle of coins. When you touch too much of something it loses its power. It becomes silly.

I close my eyes at night and I’m there again. People have given me money for my work. Stacks and loose bills. Ones, fives, hundreds. Two-thousand and ten-thousand dollar bills. Dreamland denominations. I’m humbled by the generosity. It’s much more than I expected and I wonder if I’ll get into trouble for taking it. I look over at my coworkers, those above me. “Can I take all of this?”

Their smiles are amused and slightly sad. “Of course you can take it. It’s yours. You deserve it.”

I sort through the bills. Some are faded, torn, blood-stained. There is a small stack of twenties with a singed hole through the center, like a gunshot wound. This is all they had to give, but it doesn’t mean it’s all that you’re worth. You are not obligated to accept it. You never have been. I set the soiled bills aside. Mutilated currency is sent back to its origin and it is taken out of circulation. Forever.

The things that I’ve let go. Fundamental facets of my identity and purpose in this life. Who was I? A world traveler. One who will most likely not be welcome in a brave new normal. I refuse to betray my convictions. Even for the road. The vessel that carries my soul is more sacred than an airplane. I have my wilderness, now. I drift amid my trees, gloved hands caressing bark. Eyes lifted to the sky, following a raven’s trajectory. The crunch of my boots in ankle-deep snow. New adventures begin to sprout in my imagination. Whispers fill my mind: permaculture, agroforestry, foraging, herbal medicine. A wonderland surrounds me. 

Who did I wish to be? An author published by a recognized house. Alas, my story is not one that’s sought by the masses. It was not bitterness, but momentary resignation that blossomed into sweet liberation. I never truly wanted to be part of traditional publishing. I am too wild for that world. I have lost the last of my respect for it. Now, only my energy will be within the pages. It won’t be sanitized by outside influences to make it more marketable. I won’t be molded into a Brand®. I have enough faith in my ability as a writer. Those who are destined to read the book will find it. 

What seems like rejection is redirection into new frontiers. I wait and watch and listen. Try to identify this incredible feeling inside. Indifference, effervescence, wonder. Purity. I have passed the test. There are things I will never again allow into my life. If it means that I finish my existence alone, so be it.

Recede. Come home. No one can hurt you here. 

A mischievious smile creeps across my face. I was never really there, anyway.

Years ago, back when I wrote fiction, I wanted to write a story about a woman who believed she was a ghost among the living. There have been so many stories written about phantoms who believe they are still alive, and the story ends when they’ve discovered that they’ve passed on and couldn’t let go of life. The character I envisioned wanders the corridors of her workplace and the various haunts of her daily routine. She no longer bothers to communicate, because no one has ever acknowledged her. Then, one day, a man speaks to her. He peers deep inside of her and smiles. And she realizes she’s alive. She always has been. The others were incapable of seeing her. 

The softest hiss of a paintbrush gliding across bare wood planks. The walls of my little shelter. Just enough white to brighten, but not enough to erase the character. I lift my eyes and brush my hair out of my face with the back of my whitewash-splattered hand. The iridescent glow of snow light through the shiny new window. Snowflakes dance against the pristine window pane. I’ve been writing that story all along. How it ends remains a mystery.

This Sacred Space

I have become an artist of farewells. Of letting go and moving on. I can sense their arrival when they are still far on the horizon. The preparation for separation begins. This is the result of a lifetime of leaving places, people, jobs, virtual communities. Outgrowing toxic mindsets. Shedding the masks hiding my true identity. All of these are losses and worthy of grief.

Over the years, I’ve encountered many kindred souls in the virtual realm. We traveled the road together for a while and then our paths diverged. Our shared journey was finished. We had learned as much as we could from each other. This is growth. This is life. It has always been this way, but in recent years, and especially months, it has accelerated. We are being forced away from certain souls and drawn towards others. The more we resist, the more painful it is. Many of us are discovering our real tribes and our core truths. It is excruciating, but necessary.

No, I’m not deleting this blog. This sacred space will remain. I have left Instagram, the only social network I used. Definitely not an earth-shattering event. I simply felt as though my wilderness photos and little mystical musings didn’t belong there anymore, amid the ever-darkening cacophony.  The posts I saw in my feed confirmed this.

Silence is complicity. You are just as guilty as the perpetrators.

I have been far from silent. They are simply unable to comprehend what I have to say.

And this is my message:

Wish you were here. (June 10, 2020) #sacredspace

It has become an incredible act of courage to remain a sovereign, peaceful presence amid the turmoil.

We each have the right to process our unique realities in the way our souls guide us. To protect our precious energy in any way we can. To share that which we feel compelled to share. I am not a bad person.

World weary. Road weary. Here I lay my self down to rest. One day I will sleep here forever, my ashes seeping into the Earth with the rain. (August 8, 2019) #sacredspace

My work there was finished. And that’s okay. I felt a twinge of sadness as, one by one, I deleted almost four years of posts – the images and thoughts I had so carefully crafted. The travels, both past and present. The wildflowers. The eagle.

The butterflies. The night sky’s dazzling illumination.

The random roadside messages.

And my selfies.

What a peaceful existence I cultivate. What a gentle soul I am. What a shame to delete this beauty.

But as I clicked that final red button – permanently delete my Instagram account – it was not regret that I felt, but relief. I am free, once again.

I left without saying goodbye.

1974

I have always been a wildflower. (August 12, 2019) #indestructible #sacredspace

This is Not a Test

My life is not much different now, except that I’m not working. I’ve always spent most of my free time in solitude. In Nature. The only true authority over me. The poison broadcasted over the airwaves has no power here. Messages are carried in the wind, in birdsong, in the river’s defiant flow.

The wind. A presence in a perpetual state of wandering. The most faithful messenger, it delivers dispatches from the Otherworld. People are losing their minds. The veil of illusion is dissipating. Collectively and individually. The usual habits of avoidance have been ripped away. Tough love from the Universe. It is time to be still and examine the life one has chosen to create.

I had plans for a voyage to a river, the Mother of all rivers. A date with a shaman and a magic plant. I had prepared myself physically and mentally for months. I was not about to cancel. Half-empty planes! A Machu Picchu without the selfie stick hoards! Let everyone else stay home.

The past few months have been filled with betrayals, violations, disappointments. Utter discouragement consumed me. I’d done everything I was supposed to do. Kept my eyes open for opportunities, followed the signs, let go of attachment to outcomes. The beautiful connection I had to the Divine was brutally unplugged. The sparkle in my eyes vanished. This trip was to be my light in the darkness.

I stagger around my wilderness, overcome with grief. The cold Earth beckons. I fall to my knees. Be still now. Just stop. Let me hold you. The turmoil transforms into dawning light. Suddenly, I understand: no one escapes this. No more running away for me, either.

Even in silent solitude, my mind was always at work. Formulating, organizing, analyzing. Gotta figure it all out! Now, in this enforced inertia, I give myself permission to do nothing at all. I sleep. I stare out the window at the falling rain. Thoughts disintegrate when you pay no attention to them. The peace left behind is exquisite. Why didn’t I do this before? In the stillness, ancient emotions arise like toxic bubbles in a stagnant pond. Sluggish and murky. So old, I can’t even determine their origin. I embrace these lost children of my soul, allow them to speak, and witness their transmutation into love.

I cuddle up in bed under a pile of blankets. An alert on my phone pierces the ear-ringing silence. As of midnight, we are forbidden to leave our homes except for essential reasons. Childhood memories resurface: noon sirens blasting through the streets of my tiny hometown. Sudden static on the radio. The rainbow spectrum on the television. That aloof dystopian voice. This is a test of the emergency broadcast system. This is only a test. Back then, it was a mere annoyance. The sirens made the dogs howl. Entertainment was momentarily interrupted. I always felt a faint undercurrent of apprehension. Someday something was going to happen. I needed to be prepared.

This is not a test. This is it. Maybe not The, but an apocalypse, surely the first of many. It is not fear, but curiosity that fills me. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. And I’m exactly where I need to be.

I am staying in the cottage that Grandpa built, which is next door to my parents and three cottages down from my brother Billy. My own little cabin will be built this summer, just across the street. Maybe. Nothing is sure anymore. My youngest brother Grant owns a hundred acres just a few minutes’ drive away. We all feel as though we were summoned here.

Every day, I go next door to see my parents. They give me the briefest of updates on the virus. Michigan is in bad shape, but it’s centered way down south, in Detroit. My mother wonders if I get lonely. My smile is tinged with sadness. I’ve never been lonely or bored in my life, except when I’m around most other people. There’s no one I’d rather spend time with than myself.

I can feel, in the distance, the invisible radiance that hovers over the cities. A corona of terror. Energetic pollution that spreads over the countryside. A tremor overtakes me. The first panic attack I’ve had in years. I take deep breaths and allow it safe passage. It does not belong to me. Anymore.

I stroll down the dirt road, singing to myself. A Duran Duran song from the eighties. Billy emerges from his place, trailing behind River, his Australian shepherd. I smile at the synchronicity. We meet up at his trail, which cuts through his property. He stops and backs away, his face pinched with irritation.

“Are you afraid that I’m going to infect you?” I snicker. “It’s not like I ever see anyone.”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m afraid I’ll infect you. I’ve had a sore throat for a couple of days. Nancy and I ate at a restaurant where one of the workers was ill with the virus.”

His trail ends at what used to be the railroad tracks. It’s been converted to a bike and snowmobile trail. We walk on opposite sides. I don’t tell him that my body aches to the core. No matter what I do, I am chilled to the bone. I am not sick, however. I am being rearranged.

Instead, I say, “I think I saw wolf poop, yesterday, on the trail just up ahead.”

He perks up and nods. “I saw tracks after the last snowfall. You can tell it’s a wolf by the size of the tracks and the gait.”

We fall silent. I hop off the trail, into the meadow. “See you later.”

His shoulders finally relax. He lifts his skinny hand in farewell and heads for home.

This time of year is the most nostalgic for me. The smell of thawing soil and thickening moss and mushrooms. Earthy, mysterious aromas. My grandparents brought us here every spring break. Billy and I would explore the awakening forest for hours, in almost total silence. This has always been my true home. My own backyard in my hometown downstate became exotic lands in my imagination. But here was always here. Nowhere on the planet do I feel safer.

The ghosts of the Otherworld ask, “How are you going to spend your day?” As if time were currency. Which it is. I’ve always considered my free time as wealth.

The borderland between defeat and surrender is obscure. Twinges of guilt linger. I can at least write something. A leaden weariness fills me. I think I will let that go, too. Does it even matter if I write anything, anymore? I sink into the Earth and stare Heavenward. I am so tired. The clouds part and converge. The spring sun has stage fright. It is not yet ready to shine.

To the ghosts of the dying world, I whisper in reply, “Falling through the sky.”

At the edge of the woods, near the river, I come upon a deer skeleton. It has been savagely ripped apart. Fur carpets the ground below it. Not a shred of flesh remains. The wolf, again. A flicker in my heart. Instead of revulsion, I am overcome with awe. Nature is life, but also death, resurrection, and light. All of it is beauty.

A wave of despair washes over me. Death throes of a life that no longer exists. If only I could vanish, forever, into the embrace of this wilderness. Let my body be consumed by creatures and my bones bleached white by the sun.

I have done almost everything that I set out to do. I did not take the easy route. I did not harden my heart or let the darkness I’ve known poison my soul. Whatever happens in this new Earth, I’ve been as true to myself as a human can be. I have truly lived.

At the riverbank, I come to rest. Sunlight shimmers on the currents, forming ever-changing constellations. Infinity illuminated.  A soft, golden glow infuses my atoms. I merge with the flow and let it carry me onward.