by Dan Millman
Moments later, I was captured by the Conscious Self again. Trapped within its steel mind, I heard its droning voice, slow at first, then more rapidly playing again and again: “I—am—all—there—is. The—Higher—Self—is—an—illusion.”
My awareness snapped back into the childlike Basic Self once again. Now all I wanted to do was play, and feel good, and powerful, and secure.
Again, I snapped back into the Conscious Self and saw one reality—then rebounded back into the Basic Self and felt another. Faster and faster, I bounced back and forth between Conscious Self and Basic Self, mind and body, robot and child, thinking and feeling, logic and impulse. Faster and faster.
I SAT UP, STARING INTO SPACE—terrified, sweating, crying out softly. Then, gradually, I became aware of my surroundings: the sheltered ocean cove, the warm beach, a sky turning pink and purple above a calm sea. And nearby sat Mama Chia, unmoving, gazing at me.
Shaking off the remnants of this vision, I tried to slow my breathing and relax. I managed to explain, “I—I had a bad dream.”
She spoke slowly and deliberately: “Was it a bad dream, or a mirror of your life?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said. But I was lying; I knew this as soon as the words were out of my mouth. With my new-found awareness of the three selves, I could no longer maintain the pretense of being “together.” I was a self divided, wavering between the self-centered, childlike needs of the Basic Self, and the cold detachment of the Conscious Self—out of touch with my Higher Self.
These past years, my mind had constantly smothered my feelings; it had ignored and devalued them. Rather than acknowledge the pain and passion I felt, my Conscious Self had maintained control and swept my feelings, and my relationships, under the rug.
I now understood that the physical symptoms I had experienced back home—the infections, the aches, and the pains—had been my Basic Self, crying for attention like a young child; it wanted me to express all the feelings inside. Suddenly I understood the aphorism “The organs weep the tears the eyes refuse to shed.” And something Wilhelm Reich had once said came into my mind: “Unexpressed emotion is stored in the muscles of the body.” These troubling revelations depressed and disheartened me. I saw how far I still had to go.
“Are you all right?” Mama Chia asked.
“Sure, I’m okay,” I started to answer, then stopped myself. “No, I don’t feel all right. I feel drained and depressed.”
“Good,” she said, beaming. “You’ve learned something. Now you’re back on the right track.”
Nodding, I asked, “In the dream, I only experienced two of the selves. My Higher Self vanished. Why did it leave me?”
“It didn’t leave you, Dan—it was there all the time—but you were so preoccupied with your Basic Self and your Conscious Self that you couldn’t see it, or feel its love and support.”
“Well, how can I feel it? Where do I go from here?”
“A good question—a very good question,” she said, laughing to herself as she stood. Then she slipped her pack over her shoulders, and started slowly up the rocky trail. Still full of unanswered questions, I followed.
The sand turned to stones and earth as we climbed up a steep path along the cliff face. I turned and looked back at the cove, slightly below us. The tide was coming in. Twenty yards away, a wave rushed up close to the figure Mama Chia had drawn in the sand. I blinked and looked again. Where the figure and circle had been, I thought I saw three figures—a small body, like that of a child; a square, boxlike figure; and a large oval—just before a wave rushed past, washing the sand clean.
The climb up was more difficult than the hike down. Mama Chia seemed in high spirits, but my mood was glum. Neither of us spoke. An array of images from the vision passed through my mind as I followed her up the path into the darkening forest.
By the time we entered the clearing, the half-moon had neared its zenith. Mama Chia bade me good night and continued up the path.
I stood outside the cabin for a few moments, listening to the crickets’ song. The warm night breeze seemed to pass right through me. I didn’t realize how fatigued I felt until I entered the cabin. I vaguely remember visiting the bathroom, then falling onto the bed. I heard the crickets a moment more, then silence. That night, in a dream, I searched for my Higher Self, but found only emptiness.
CHAPTER 8
Eyes of the Shaman
A great teacher never strives to explain her vision;
she simply invites you to stand beside her and see for yourself.
—The Rev. R. Inman
NOT YET FULLY AWAKE—in more ways than one, I concluded—I opened my eyes and saw Mama Chia standing by my bedside. At first I thought I was still dreaming, but I came back to earth quickly when she yelled, “Out of bed!” I jumped up so fast I nearly fell over.
“I’ll—I’ll be ready in a minute,” I slurred, still groggy, vowing to get up before she arrived next time. I stumbled into the bathroom, slipped into my shorts, and stepped outside into a rainsquall for my morning shower.
Dripping wet, I stepped back inside and grabbed a towel. “It must be nearly noon.”
“Just after eleven,” she said.
“Whoa, I—”
“On Thursday,” she interrupted, “you’ve been out cold for thirty-six hours.”
I nearly dropped the towel. “Almost two days?” I sat down heavily on the bed.
“You look upset. Did you miss an appointment?” she asked.
“No, I guess not.” I looked up at her. “Did I?”
“Not with me, you didn’t; besides, appointments are not native to Hawaii.” She explained, “Mainlanders tried to import them, but it’s like trying to sell beef to vegetarians. You feeling better?”
“Much better,” I answered, toweling off my hair. “But I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to be doing here or what you’re supposed to help me with. Are you going to help me see my Higher Self?
“That remains to be seen,” she answered, smiling at her play on words, and handing me my shirt.
“Mama Chia,” I said, putting on the shirt, “those things I saw—that vision on the beach—did you hypnotize me?”
“Not exactly. What you saw came from the Inner Records.”
“What are they?”
“That’s not easy to describe. You can call it the ‘universal unconscious,’ or the ‘journal of Spirit.’ Everything is written there.”
“Everything?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Everything.”
“Can you … read these records?”
“Sometimes—it depends.”
“Well, how did I read them?”
“Let’s just say I turned the pages for you.”
“Like a mother reading to her child?”
“Something like that.”
The rain stopped, so she stepped outside. I followed her to a log near the shed and sat down. “Mama Chia,” I said, “I need to talk with you about something that’s really starting to bother me. It seems like the more I learn, the worse it gets. You see—”
She interrupted me. “Just handle what’s in front of you now, and the future will take care of itself. Otherwise, you’ll spend most of your life wondering which foot you’ll use to step off the curb when you’re still only halfway to the corner.”
“What about planning ahead, and preparing for the future?”
“Plans are useful, but don’t get attached to them; life has too many surprises. Preparation, on the other hand, has value, even if the future you planned never comes.”
“How’s that?”
She paused before answering. “An old friend of mine here on the island, Sei Fujimoto—you haven’t met him yet—has worked as a gardener and handyman most of his life. But photography was his first love. I never saw a man so passionate about images on paper. Years ago, he would spend most of his days searching for the perfect shot. Fuji especially loved landscapes: the shapes of trees, waves breaking with the sun
shining through them, and clouds by the light of the moon, or the morning sun. When he wasn’t taking pictures, he was developing them in his own darkroom at home.
“Fuji practiced photography for nearly thirty years, accumulating in that time a treasury of inspired photographs. He kept the negatives in a locked file in his office. He sold some photos, and gave others to friends.
“Then, about six years ago, a fire destroyed all the photographs he had taken over those thirty years, and all the negatives, as well as most of his equipment. He had no fire insurance—all the evidence and fruits of a generation of creative work—a total and irreplaceable loss.
“Fuji mourned this as he might mourn the loss of a child. Three years before, he had lost a child, and he understood very well that suffering was a relative thing, and that if he could make it through his child’s death, he could make it through anything.
“But more than that, he understood the bigger picture, and came to a growing realization that something of great value remained that was never touched by the fire: Fuji had learned to see life in a different way. Every day, when he got up, he saw a world of light and shadow, shapes and textures—a world of beauty and harmony and balance.
“When he shared this insight with me, Dan, he was so happy! His realization mirrors that of the Zen masters who share with their students that all paths, all activities—professions, sports, arts, crafts—serve as a means of internal development, merely a boat to get across the river. Once you get across, you no longer need the boat.” Mama Chia took a deep breath and smiled serenely at me.
“I’d like to meet Sei Fujimoto.”
“And you will,” she assured me.
“I just remembered something Socrates once told me: ‘It’s not the way to the peaceful warrior; it’s the way of the peaceful warrior. The journey itself creates the warrior.’”
“Socrates always had a way with words,” she said. Then she sighed wistfully. “You know … he and I were once lovers.”
“What? When? How? What happened?”
“Everything … and nothing happened,” she said. “We were together for a time. I believe it was healing for him, after … we won’t speak of that—you’ll have to ask him. In any case, he was called elsewhere. And so was I. So we never—well, that was a long time ago. Years later, I married my late husband, Bradford Johnson. He was a special man, too—but more conventional—not like Socrates … .”
“Will you tell me more,” I said, “about when you met Socrates, and about his life? What was his real name? Surely not everyone called him ‘Socrates.’”
A wistful smile appeared on Mama Chia’s face. “I may tell a few stories about my life some other time. But it’s for … Socrates to share the rest. I expect that he’ll let you know in his own way, in his own time. But right now, I have other business, and you need more time to consider what you’ve learned, before—” she stopped herself. “Before what will come.”
“I’m ready anytime.”
Mama Chia stared at me a moment but said nothing. She reached into her pack and tossed me a small package of macadamia nuts. “See you tomorrow.” With that, she left.
I DID FEEL STRONGER, but despite my bravado, I wasn’t really ready for anything rigorous. I spent the rest of the morning in a restful reverie—sitting and gazing at the trees surrounding my home here on Molokai. A troubling feeling was growing inside me, but I didn’t have words for it yet. Preoccupied, I hardly tasted the small chunks of bread, the macadamia nuts, or the fruit I consumed.
As the afternoon sun touched the tips of the trees at the edge of the clearing, I realized I was lonely. Strange, I reflected, I used to like being alone. I had chosen solitude for most of my college years. But after floating out on that surfboard—when I thought I might never see another human being again—something changed. And now—
My thoughts were interrupted by a bright “Hi!” off to my left. Sachi hopped, skipped, and danced toward me. Her jet black hair, cut short like Mama Chia’s, bounced and swirled with each movement. Jumping from a stone to a log, she skipped over and set down a small package. “I brought some more bread—made it myself.”
“Thank you, Sachi. That was very thoughtful.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she replied. “I didn’t think much at all. How’re you feeling?”
“Much better, now that you’ve dropped in. I’ve been alone so much I was starting to talk to myself.”
“I do that sometimes,” she said.
“Well, then, now that you’re here, we can sit and both talk to ourselves—no, wait,” I teased. “I have an idea: Why don’t we sit here and talk to each other?”
She smiled at my corny attempt at humor. “Sounds okay. Want to see the frog pond?”
“Sure.”
“It’s not far. Follow me,” she said, scampering into the forest.
Doing my best to keep up, I saw her up ahead, appearing and disappearing about ten yards away, dodging around trees. By the time I caught up with her, she was sitting on a large rock, pointing to a couple of frogs. One graced us with a loud croak.
“You weren’t kidding, girl; these are some great frogs.”
“That’s the queen over there,” she said. “And I call this one here ‘Grumpy’ because he always hops away when I pet him.” Sachi reached slowly down and stroked one of the frogs. “My brother likes to feed ’em, but I don’t like squishy bugs—used to, but not anymore.” Then, like a little woods sprite, she bounded off, back toward the cabin. I said a silent good-bye to Grumpy, and walked after her. As I left, I heard a loud “Grrrumph.” I turned to see the water splash as the frog dove under.
Back in the clearing, Sachi was practicing some dance steps. “Mama Chia showed me this,” she said. “She teaches me a lot of things.”
“I bet she does,” I replied. Then I had an idea. “Maybe I could teach you something, too. Can you do a cartwheel?”
“Sort of,” she replied, throwing her arms down and legs up. “I bet I look like one of those frogs,” she giggled. “Can you show me one?”
“I guess so—I used to be pretty good at it,” I said, doing a one-arm cartwheel over the log.
“Wow!” she said, impressed. “That was smooth.” Inspired, she tried again, improving slightly.
“Here, Sachi, let me show you again,” I said.
The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. And Sachi learned a graceful cartwheel.
I spotted a bright red flower growing nearby, and on impulse I picked it and placed it in her hair. “You know, I have a daughter named Holly—younger than you—I miss her. I’m glad you came by to visit.”
“Me, too,” she replied. Touching the flower, Sachi graced me with the sweetest smile. “Well, I gotta go. Thanks for showing me a cartwheel.” She ran up the trail, then turned and called back to me, “Don’t forget your bread!”
Her smile made my day.
When Mama Chia arrived the next morning, I was ready and waiting, tossing pebbles at a tree. “Want some fresh bread?” I said. “I already ate, but if you’re hungry—”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Let’s get moving. We have miles to cover by sundown.”
“Where are we going?” I asked as we left the cabin and headed up the path.
“That way.” She pointed up to the central range of ridges formed of black lava rock, several thousand feet above us. Handing me her backpack, she said, simply, “You’re strong enough now to carry this.”
We hiked slowly upward along an ever-steepening trail, with many turns and switchbacks. Mama Chia walked steadily upward. The forest was silent, except for the cry of an occasional bird, and my rhythmic tread, beating a countertempo to her swinging cane and limping gait.
She stopped every now and then to admire a colorful bird or to point out an unusual tree or small waterfall.
By late morning, my concerns began rising to the surface, and I called to her. “Mama Chia, Socrates once told me I haven’t really learned something until I could do it.”
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br /> She stopped, turned to me, and nodded, saying, “There’s a proverb: ‘I hear and I forget, I see and I remember, I do and I understand.’”
“That’s just it,” I confessed. “I’ve heard about and seen a lot of things, but I haven’t really done anything. I’ve learned a little about healing, but can I heal? I know about the Higher Self, but I can’t feel it.”
My words finally spilled out in sudden frustration. “I was a world champion gymnast; I graduated from the University of California; I have a beautiful daughter. I take care of myself, eat right, do the right thing. I’m a college professor for God’s sake—so why do I feel like I’ve done nothing? I have this sense that there’s something else I’m supposed to be doing. It drives me crazy. And even after my training with Socrates, my life feels like it’s falling apart. I used to believe that if I learned enough, if I made all the right moves, that life was going to get easier, more under control, but now it only feels worse—like something slipping away and I don’t know how to stop it. It’s like I got lost along the way. I know there are people a lot worse off than I am. I’m not being victimized by anyone; I’m not living in poverty or hunger or oppression. I guess it sounds like I’m whining or complaining, but I’m not feeling sorry for myself—I just want it to stop.”
