by Dan Millman
“It’s different,” I said.
“No,” she replied. “You are.”
“You mean I’ve cleared fear from my life once and for all?”
“Fear will still arise—but you’ve changed your relationship to it. You’ll know how to deal with it.”
“If I weren’t afraid of anything, wouldn’t that be dangerous?”
“Yes. Fear is a natural response of the body, but you can release the tension; you can breathe through it, and act or remain still—whatever is needed. Fear is no longer your master; now it is your servant. You will see a different world through the windows of the second floor.
“But the first floor isn’t only about fear and survival; it’s about ‘self against the universe,’ about the self-protective hoarding of energy for oneself. Now, open and vulnerable, you’re ready to bring that energy fully into life, to share it in relationship.”
“You mean I’m ready to find door number two?”
“You already found it. Here, in my arms, when you cried.” As she said this, Mama Chia began to shimmer, and she dissolved into the air, right in front of my startled eyes. Then, everything around me vanished. I saw a fleeting image of the tower, and found myself standing in a sylvan glade, on the second floor. I was certain of it.
BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN? I asked myself as I surveyed the rich meadow, bathed in soft sunlight and cool breezes. This could have been an idyllic forest in lusty old England. “Strange,” I caught myself saying out loud. “Why did I think of the word ‘lusty’?”
Then, gradually, I became increasingly aware of energy, building up in my whole body—more energy than I had felt in years. I felt so awake and alive! I had to move, to let the energy fly. Sprinting through the forest, I felt as if I could run miles and miles. I leaped, I turned handsprings, and then I ran some more.
Finally, I rested in the warm sunshine. Somehow, the seasons had changed. Spring was, as they say, in the air, when a young man’s fancy turns to … .
The energy started building up again as a familiar, uncomfortable pressure in my loins. Mama Chia had said the second floor dealt with “energy in relationship.” That meant creative energy, sexual energy. But what was I going to do with it?
Out of nowhere, I could hear the words of Socrates, from years before. “Every human capacity,” he said, “is amplified by energy. The mind becomes brighter, healing accelerates, strength increases, imagination intensifies, emotional power and charisma expand. So energy can be a blessing …”
Yes, I said to myself. I felt all those things.
“But energy must flow somewhere,” his voice continued. “Where energy meets obstructions, it burns—and if energy builds up beyond what a given individual can tolerate, it demands release. Anger grows into rage, sorrow turns to despair, concern becomes obsession, and physical aches become agony. So energy can also be a curse. Like a river, it can bring life, but untamed it can unleash a raging flood of destruction.”
“What can I do now?” I asked, talking to the air.
Memories of Socrates’ voice echoed from the past: “The body will do whatever it has to in order to bleed off excess energy. If it isn’t spent consciously, in creative endeavors and physical activity, the urge for release will take the form of angry outbursts, or cruelty, or nightmares, or crime, or illness, or abuse of alcohol, tobacco, other drugs, food, or sex. Blocked energy—and the desire to feel release—is the source of all addictions. Don’t try to manage the addictions; instead, clear the obstructions.”
I was so distracted by the building pressure that I could barely concentrate. The energy continued to grow, demanding release. I could run some more, or I could make something—yes, something creative. That’s it, I decided. I’ll make up a song. But all I could come up with was “There once was a beaut from Killervy, whose body was nubile and curvy; a man found her there, in her lace underwear, and …”
I couldn’t think of a damn ending; I couldn’t think at all. I just wanted a woman. Any woman.
I was about to take care of this surging desire myself when I remembered that this level of the tower was about bringing energy into relationship. Damn! How was I going to manage that?
The next instant, I found myself in a cave—not a gloomy, foreboding cave, but what appeared to be a luxurious bedroom. Thick rugs overlapped on the floor; rays of sunlight bathed the room through a natural skylight. The entrance, concealed by a thick growth of small trees and bushes, rendered the place completely invisible to outsiders.
In the center of the cave stood a sleeping platform, covered by a thick bed of soft leaves, a few feet off the cave floor. I heard the comforting trickle of a lovely waterfall pouring into a miniature pond and smelled the sweet fragrance of wildflowers.
Then I gasped with surprise and excitement as a soft breeze blew over my entire body; a sensual wind, a beautiful ghost, caressed me with invisible hands. I felt a oneness with the earth and with all my physical senses, now amplified. I was so happy to have this body, to feel the body, to be the body completely.
All I needed was a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and—I could forgo the bread and wine, but …
What was that? Was that voices I heard? Female voices?
I peered out through the leafy door and saw a picture of an artist’s dream. The picture would be titled Maidens of Spring. Three young women, all voluptuous, were laughing, running under some apple trees, their rosy cheeks reflecting the reddish glow of the fruit above. They wore dark, flowing skirts and lowcut, frilly blouses that highlighted their feminine charms. I felt like a hormone-crazed teenage voyeur as I spied on these women.
Two of them waved good-bye, and the third, a flaxen-haired angel whose green eyes flashed in the sunlight, stopped, looked left and right, then, smiling, ran straight for my hiding place. “Oh, damn!” I said to myself, half afraid she was going to find me here, half afraid she wasn’t.
She slipped into the cave and saw me standing there like a love-starved lunatic. Her eyes met mine, and grew larger.
I started to speak but my voice was stilled as she fell into my arms.
My mind was empty, except for three words: Thank you, God.
Then passion overtook me completely. We laughed, we cried, we were lost in each other. I don’t know what happened to our clothing; whatever got in the way of our union was cast aside. Time passed; I don’t know how long. We lay there, cradling each other, completely spent, asleep in each other’s arms. But not for long.
When I awoke, she stood over me, draped in a robe made of flowers. Her angelic face, surrounded by silken hair, shone in the soft light. She let the robe slip off her shoulders; her luminous skin shone like a baby’s.
For a moment, questions arose—Who was she? Should I be doing this?—but only for a moment.
She knelt down and kissed me on the forehead, then on my cheeks, then lips and chest and worked her way down from there. Sexual energy coursed through me as Bacchanalian images appeared in my mind—rites of fertility, earthy, sensual—and deep within me I heard and felt the pulsating beat of drums. She kissed my body until it hummed and throbbed to the beat of the drums, and my questions fell away like leaves on a windy day.
I drew her to me, we cradled each other, and I returned, in kind, what she had given until there was no her, and no me. Only us, then one, and wild, mindless sexual play I had experienced in rare moments when my mind was free and my heart open. But now it intensified manyfold—not just because she was a desirable woman, but because I was so … open. Having just faced the blackest death, I was now fully capable of celebrating life and all that it entailed. The monk inside had succumbed to Zorba the Greek. Nothing stood between me and life.
The feeling intensified many times over, as waves of pleasure pulsated, not just in my loins, but in every cell in my body. But I was taken slightly aback, just for a moment, when I noticed that I was making love with a man. And the man was me—Dan Millman!
I sat up with a shock. I looked down at my hands, my leg
s, my breasts: I was a woman! I was her! I felt her insides, her emotions, her energy—soft, but strong. The energy flow was different than I was accustomed to, and in my state I could sense a larger, more sensitive emotional aura. It felt so good—like a completion.
Then we embraced again, and I lost all sense of separation. I was her, I was him, I was her and him.
I stayed with the body. I trusted it. Undulating in ecstasy—naked, free of any assumed limits, I was skin; I was nerves and muscle and blood—tingling, pulsing, delighting in the realm of the senses. Shapes, touching, moistness, sucking, stroking, feeling, throbbing, smooth, warm—I entered the moment completely.
We were locked in a passionate embrace building like a wave, racing toward the shore, when she vanished. No! my body cried out, frantic with wanting. Overcome by both desire and sorrow, I felt the snares of the second floor.
I sat up, panting, ready to explode, the energy churned inside me like a caged panther, pacing madly, seeking escape. I reached out to pleasure myself when again something stopped me—an understanding that I had to use the energy, circulate it. I didn’t fight my body; I didn’t deny it—instead, I breathed, deeply and slowly, until the force of desire spread from my genitals upward, up my spine, up my torso, to the tips of my fingers and toes and the center of my brain.
My mind became light. A gateway had opened; energy rose up from the earth itself, through my spine. Energy that had been trapped below now flowed upward. I tasted the purity of being, the body electric, singing.
But I wasn’t fully prepared for this, or practiced, and despite the good intentions of my Conscious Self, my Basic Self apparently had other ideas. The waves continued, growing stronger, until I could stop it no longer. Images passed through my mind like nocturnal fantasies, body parts, moaning sweetness, and suddenly, inevitably, though not of my own accord, the tidal wave, the pulsing wave, crashed into the shore, and subsided.
After a time, I stood up. I felt a gentle, unaccountable sorrow, a sense of loss—not in my mind, but in my body. Perhaps it mourned the loss of that brightness, that energy. She was gone; the object of my desire had vanished, as all objects do. Now, there was only the wind blowing through the trees. Until Mama Chia appeared, snapping me back to whatever reality I could hold on to in my present state.
I stood naked before her; she could see my body and my mind. She knew everything about me, and all that I had just experienced. And she accepted me completely, as I was. Any traces of embarrassment dissolved. I stood before her, naked and unconcerned, like an infant. There was no shame in being seen, no disgrace in being human.
On the first floor, I had broken the thread of fear; now, I broke the thread of shame. For the remainder of my days, however long that might be, I would allow life energy to flow freely through me. I would learn how to use it wisely, choosing where to channel it, celebrating life, but not exploiting it. I was not a master of energy, by any means, but I was a willing apprentice.
Two things happened in quick succession: I saw that I was now fully clothed, and then my surroundings, the cave and glade beyond, flickered and vanished. Neither of these things surprised me.
MY NEXT MOMENT OF AWARENESS found me standing somewhere high in the mountains. The wind whistled loudly past rocky crags and granite crevices, almost drowning out Mama Chia’s voice behind me.
“Come,” she said. “Time to move on.”
“I was alone before; why are you with me now?” I asked, my voice echoing strangely from the cliffs facing over a deep gorge.
“You had to be alone before; now you’re in relationship with the world. Besides, we’re in dream time, and I wasn’t doing anything. Welcome to the third floor.”
As we hiked upward, I gathered strength from the ground beneath me, from the stones, the trees, the wind—flesh of my flesh. No longer at war with my body, accepting my physical imperfections, trusting my own human nature, I felt a closer connection to the earth.
We found a small lake, and swam through the cool waters, then lay on warm rocks to dry. My body opened to the natural world; I felt the lake’s serenity, the river’s power, the stability of the mountain and the lightness of the breeze.
Mama Chia looked over at me. “In this place, I feel what you feel, I am what you are,” she said. “You just shape-shifted—at least the beginning stages.”
“I did?”
“You did. Shape-shifting begins with a gesture of imagination—a sense of curiosity and wonder: What would it feel like to be a mountain, a lake, a bird, a stone? Later, you learn to resonate with the different frequencies of these elements or beings. We humans have the power to do this because, after all, we’re made of the same spirit.
“And speaking of shape-shifting, I think you know I was attuned to you in that cave on the second floor. Quite an adventure!” she said. “Made me feel young again.”
“You’ll always be young,” I said.
“You’re right about that,” she said with a smile. “Until the day I die …”
“You’ll probably outlive me at this rate.”
She looked deep into my eyes. Her gaze made me sad, though I didn’t know why. I saw the love in her eyes, but also something else—a concern, an intuition—but I couldn’t fathom what it meant.
Mama Chia quelled my preoccupations as she led me forward, reminding me of the lessons of the second floor: “You created your own experience, Dan, just as you did on the first floor; you experienced exactly what you needed. The energies are the same for everyone; the experience is different. Each of us chooses how to respond to and channel our energy. Some hoard it; others squander it. The warrior channels the flow of life energy like a farmer irrigating his crops.
“On the first floor, alone and fighting for survival, you fearfully hoard the energies of life like a lonely miser with his money; because the energies are blocked, they cause pain.
“On the second floor, you are in a relationship with life, with other people; both the male and female principles are active and in balance.
“The second floor is not just about sex; it’s about celebrating the energy of life. Energy is Spirit; energy is sacred. You have a choice before you each day, whether you will master the energy of your life, or squander it. The myth of Pandora’s box is not about letting mischievous imps or demons out of a container; it is about ways of dealing with life energy. When energy is thrown away without purpose or wisdom, you feel an instinctive loss of life, a sense of sorrow.”
“Why sorrow?” I asked.
“Fear is the shadow side of the first level,” she answered. “Sorrow is the shadow side of the second.”
“And the third?” I said. “What do you have planned for me now?”
Mama Chia only smiled.
CHAPTER 14
Flying on Wings of Stone
Nothing real can be threatened. Nothing unreal exists.
Therein lies the peace of God.
—A Course in Miracles
MAMA CHIA LED ME through a rocky canyon, through a short tunnel of stone, then up onto a narrow trail along the spine of a razorback ridge. “First, let’s sit here a while.”
She closed her eyes. Not wanting to disturb her with questions, I did likewise. There wasn’t much else to do up here, or so I thought.
When I opened my eyes again, I could see the sun setting over the far western edge of wherever-we-were. Then Mama Chia opened her eyes and handed me some corn and nuts from her never-empty backpack. “Eat this; you’ll need it.”
“Why do I have to eat? This is a dream, isn’t it? Come to think of it,” I noticed, “this floor feels more real than the others. This is some kind of vision, isn’t it?”
Ignoring me, she said, “The third level is about power, not power over others—that is the negative side—but personal power over the impulses of the Basic Self and the desires of the ego. Here you find the challenges of self-discipline, clear intention, duty, responsibility, focus, commitment, will—those things that most apprentice humans fin
d so difficult.
“Now that you’ve cleared the second level and have a sense of connection to others, your attention is freed for higher impulses. It will be easier for you to take others’ needs into account as well, though true altruism doesn’t exist on the third floor. Your Basic Self is still in control, but better disciplined. What you do for others, you do out of duty and responsibility. Love still eludes you.”
“Are you saying I can’t really love?” I asked, disturbed by her statement.
“There are many kinds of love,” she said. “Just as there are many kinds of music or films or food or drink. There is first-floor love, limited to the most primitive, even abusive, sexual encounters. Second-floor love is vital and pleasure-oriented, and the partner is also taken into account. Third-floor love is an artful, conscientious practice.”
