by Sara Arnell
Why, when I finally decided to step up and call for an appointment with Dr. O. Carl Simonton, one of the authors of Getting Well Again—the book I’d been clinging to—was I not surprised that this wasn’t possible? I learned he had choked to death years prior while eating a meal at home.
Chapter 33
Into the Light
I moved from standing in front of my sink to sit down on the edge of my tub. From there, I slid to the floor. Muscle memory had taken over. Then something happened. This familiar scenario, my body stretched out, my cheek on the tile, reminded me of that New Year’s morning when I disappointed my family and myself, and it created an overwhelming feeling to get up—to rise. My eyes opened wide. My palms were flat on the floor, ready to push me up. I was breathing hard. It didn’t feel right to be on the ground, for once. I was given a choice, or rather, something inside me finally made me aware that I had a choice, and in that moment, I decided that the parable of the man on the roof was not going to be my story too. I didn’t want to drown. What I’d been looking for in the world around me—an invisible touch, a rippling curtain, an angelic intervention—happened inside me and lifted me to my feet. For the first time in over two years, I felt like I could walk upright again, head up, shoulders back, eyes open. There was a lightness that made me feel like my feet were barely touching the ground. My smile was real.
I wanted to revel in this new feeling of invincibility. I wanted to smell the air and dirt and the leaves and the grass. I wanted to feel the wind on my cheek and not the tingling that came and went with my anxiety. I walked outside. No, I floated outside. The dust from the road was illuminated in God rays that seemed to beckon me. “Walk to the light,” they said. I followed the road toward the God rays shining down.
I remembered the inscription in my book from the medium. Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine. Someone had come through to me, I joyfully realized. I wasn’t alone after all. I wanted to see what was at the end of the rays. I wanted to find a warm spot of perfect green grass filled with flowers and bunny rabbits and other little creatures that would soothe me and tuck me in for a nap while the sun warmed and held me. I imagined my lymphocytes traveling up the rays and disappearing into the universe. I walked and walked but I couldn’t find their end. That’s OK, I thought. It’s part of the journey. Maybe someday. The air and the walk confirmed my feeling of peace. I saw myself as well again. The pit in my stomach was gone. The need to collapse on myself was gone. I was calm, serene. I was six feet tall again. I hated that I had been fluctuating between two states of existence. One minute I was weak and dying and on the floor. The next minute I was strong and resolute and fighting to live. I turned around to walk back home. When I finish construction and move into my new house, I thought, I will never let myself collapse on the bathroom floor. I won’t let sadness bring me down again. I can cure myself, not of the disease, perhaps, but of my self-pity and my indulgence of symptoms that don’t really exist. Or maybe they did exist, but I would cure myself of giving them power over me. I would tell them to take a hike. Get lost. Split. I would fight the hold they had over me.
I once again recalled my conversation with the former Buddhist monk. I asked him about leaving his monastic life. I asked him how he did it. I wanted to know what it took to leave the monkhood and seek a new life, the life that he wanted.
“One day I took off my robe and walked away,” he said.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“It’s that easy?”
“Yes.”
It was almost too obvious to believe. The monk stopped being a monk when he took off his robe. I never thought that it could be this simple to define change in oneself. To forge a new path. To instigate a new way of being. I finally realized that I’d had the opportunity and power all along to take off my robe, to lose the trappings of what I thought defined me. To let go. My failures, my sadness, my disease could all be removed as the vestments I wore, in order to reset my place in the world. I could alter my outward expression by just finding myself again. I knew from the monk that I could finally remove what dragged me down and freely walk away from the fear and anxiety that were running my life.
“I’m stripping,” I told my daughter. “I’m taking it all off.”
She looked at me with a half smile and a raised eyebrow, not sure what I meant. Not sure what she was about to see.
“But first, I have something to do,” I said. “I’m going to the store to buy lobster. We’re going to celebrate the right way this time.” I imagined pulling the tender, plump meat from the red shell and dipping it in hot, glistening butter. A communion of past and present. A new covenant with myself. The circle felt complete. I could taste salvation.
Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the friends and family who encouraged me to keep writing whenever I broke down in tears at the telling of this story. You lifted me up when I faced self-doubt, time and time again. I kept writing because of you.
Thank you to the writer I met at a book fair and emailed hoping for advice, who kindly wrote back and told me it sounded like I was still on my journey and that I should keep going. I did just what you advised.
Michael Norton. You helped me see myself in a more loving light. I am grateful for your generosity and care.
David Hollander. You see structure, form, and style where others dare not tread. Thank you for keeping me focused on craft, voice, and the important emotional takeaways I wanted readers to understand.
Many, many thanks to Dupree Miller, Jan Miller, and Nena Madonia for putting up with me sending proposal after proposal and finally suggesting that I write a different book. And here we are, thanks to your kindness and unending faith that I had a story to share…albeit, not the one I was trying to sell you on. Thank you to Austin Miller and Ali Kominsky for taking on this book.
Thank you to Post Hill Press. You’ve put me in the expert hands of Michael Wilson, Debra Englander, and Heather King. I feel safe, cared for, and completely understood. This is what a true collaborative partnership feels like.
Thank you to my doctors and healers who keep me healthy and hopeful, and to the online health, wellness, and spirituality communities that I stalk, absorb, and take inspiration from every day. Don’t stop sharing and posting. You are a lifeline. You are teaching me so much.
My heart swells with love for the Vedic teachers and meditators who have counseled, educated, and helped me realize that we are not powerless to our circumstances. Thom Knoles, Susan Chen, and Peter Spoerri: My gratitude is everlasting.
Most of all, I want to thank my three children for allowing me to share their story, which is inextricably intertwined with mine. Thank you for your openness in letting me expose myself as a mother, woman, fallible human, and searching soul. I know it wasn’t easy for you to read certain sections of this book. You are generous and gracious.
