I tell him, please don’t lie, whatever you do, don’t lie. He defends the lie. I defend the truth. He defends himself. The sound of the diver’s sweet voice mixes with his lie. The diver mixes with the jaguar man, and I feel myself winding up for a fall. I hang up the phone, drop on my bed, and stare at the light on the ceiling as if it were the moon. I’m spinning, staring at the light, spinning and spinning on a slippery surface, a spinning top making wide uncontrollable sideways loops.
I want the diver to love me, to see that I need to be hugged, to recognize that underneath my strength is fear and under the fear is darkness or emptiness or both. I want him to tell the truth. I want him to get a travel visa, do whatever it takes to come to me. I think a hug, the circumference of embrace, would fix things but I’m alone in my house. There’s no one to steady me around the parts that are crashing, and I’m skidding out. I don’t even try to hold myself together, tears come, sobs, uncontrollable. I’m perfectly still on the bed but I’m out of control, crashing, falling, crashing, falling, as the bed splits in two, the floor divides, and I fall into a pit, the darkness of grief.
As I’m falling the jaguar man tells me, Sit up straight with your hands visible on your knees.
She stirs.
I don’t move. My rational mind knows he’s not here.
Sit up . . . Sit up.
No.
The first time I’ve said no. Who says no? Me or her?
Once I say it, I can’t stop. NO. I inwardly scream. NO. I silently scream and keep screaming. All the screams I’ve been holding in, I release them now without sound. He’s there, to the right. NO. His touch. GET AWAY. He surrounds me, thick and mean. NO. He’s behind me, on my back, at the spot where he held her waistband. NO. He lays a hand on my hair. NO. Emotion bites her with sharp teeth, spits me out in different directions. He seeps out from my pores. He’s everywhere I am, she is, the three of us unbearably connected.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be her. I want to claw out of this hole, creep up a tree, take a bite of the sky, morph like clouds into a hundred forms: an ancient elder with legs of a gazelle, a fish head on a plate, or a woodpecker with sharp hooks on its tongue. I want to reach out and grab a wind stream or a dying star. I don’t care where it takes me, anywhere out of here.
It’s her fault. I want her dead.
I want her dead.
I press her further down into the pit. She can’t breathe, her lungs compress. She’s in too deep and she gags on the sad mud of the earth.
EIGHTEEN
After work I drive in stop-and-go traffic all the way across town to get to my appointment with the reverend. His office is masculine with dark wood, intelligent tones, statues, carvings, and books. The air, furniture, and rug are saturated with incense. I immediately feel calmer as I sit in one of the two leather chairs. The reverend sits next to me, looks at me intently, and says hello. The way he says hello makes me cry. His hello sounds like, “I’m glad you’re here.” Sounds like, “I want to help. You’re going to be okay.” Hello, I say back, embarrassed that I’m already crying. I’ve been crying a lot lately, tears that seem to belong to someone else. The reverend says he wants to meet with me today, but then he’ll recommend one of his best practitioners to counsel me. I thank him.
I feel unfocused, my mind a sheet blowing on a clothesline. The reverend tells me he’s counseled people on both sides of this issue. He looks me in the eye. The wind calms, and my mind settles. I know I’m in good hands. He’s not afraid. I like him for this. I accept the tissue he offers and thank him for telling me that. He asks if I’m ready to pray in. I don’t know what that means, but I say yes. I’m ready for whatever comes next.
He takes a deep breath, and so do I. He closes his eyes, and so I do. He prays a long prayer, calls forth the joy, peace, and safety of my life, announces this and that, says God and love and God. My mind doesn’t follow the prayer, but it feels good in my heart, and the blood running through my veins starts to energize me, my lungs breathe more deeply, the tight clamps binding my muscles turn a notch toward release.
The reverend wants to hear my story but first he tells me there’s part of me that can never be hurt or harmed. I’m as whole now as I was before X. I rummage in my purse for paper and pen and write, “There’s part of me that can’t be harmed.” I tell the reverend about the jaguar man, how I don’t think my life can be the same as it was before. He says good. It’s time for a new life. I write, “It’s time for a new life.” He says it’s like being a chicken in an egg, praying for a little more room in the egg. No, no, no, no, no. The chicken doesn’t realize there’s a whole new world outside the egg. I’m like the chicken, he tells me. There’s a new way of seeing the world available to me.
Are you willing? he asks.
Maybe, I tell him.
He says it won’t always feel good, but it will begin to feel spectacular. I write, “I won’t always feel bad.”
I tell him about the lights from the bus, lights with no noise coming from the sea, shining on me the instant the jaguar man turned the edge of his knife against my throat. I tell him my prayer: God. One word that filled every cell of my body. God.
He says that’s powerful. I ask him what they were, the lights. A bus can’t come from the sea. Even if it wasn’t a bus, the timing was perfect. The lights appeared, and the moment the jaguar man lowered the knife the lights disappeared.
What do you think they are? he asks me.
I’m shy to say it, in case I’m wrong, but there’s an energy of total truth in this office so I look at him and hesitantly tell him what I suspect.
The lights were a miracle?
I want him to say yes or no, it was a miracle or it wasn’t. He says a miracle is an instant demonstration of truth, an instant revelation of something that’s always going on, though we often can’t see it. God is always being God. Love is always being love. Energy is always being energy. Love has no limits. When love is being love sometimes it can blow our minds, especially if we’re in the habit of thinking small. The lame walk. The blind see. Lights of a bus emerge from the sea. Some people say a miracle is God doing something out of the ordinary. In reality life is always being life, the difference is we get in tune with what is always happening, we get plugged in, we get aligned with the unlimited power and energy of the universe, and in that moment we know things we didn’t know before. We experience a demonstration of healing that in fact was always possible.
So it was a miracle? I wonder.
The reverend says I experienced a sudden loss, something unexpected happened. I was in the jungle and what I thought I knew was torn away. The rules shifted, my old rules didn’t apply. That sudden loss moved me to a deep state of emptiness. In that emptiness, I held my attention on God. I allowed the emptiness to be a place for love to fill. There was nothing for the universe to do but respond. I call it a miracle because the response was beyond my wildest imagination. The miracle, he tells me, was the instant I came into alignment. At that moment, I was available for a demonstration of truth. I write, “The lights were a demonstration of truth.”
The reverend talks with me for two hours. He never checks a clock. His full attention is on me. I tell him how I prayed over the jaguar man, how I felt genuine compassion. He says that was my true nature at work. I saw beyond my circumstances, I saw the goodness, however small, I saw a glimmer of goodness in the man, and wanting him to heal was an incredible act of love.
I explain how I survived without a mark. The branches and thorns didn’t scratch; the mosquitoes and sand flies didn’t bite. He says what I give away is what I get back. I gave love, and nature wrapped around me like a barrier, a shield.
I tell him how suddenly things with the diver are falling apart, things at work are falling apart. Everything feels like it’s falling apart. He tells me that since a new aspect of my nature has been activated, things I used to attract in my life might not be able to stick. I write, “I’m different, and some things won’t st
ick.” My relationships, job, and other things may come undone. Let them, he tells me. Don’t fight. Don’t try to fix anything. Sit in the silence of my soul. I’m going somewhere I’ve never been before. Hold on. I write, “Hold on.” Trust that this is happening for me, not against me. I write, “This is for me not against me.”
Think about the butterfly, he tells me. How can the caterpillar imagine the butterfly? It can’t but it’s compelled to change. It wraps a cocoon around itself and emits a toxin that burns itself into a new shape. I write, “The caterpillar poisons itself.” There’s pain involved. Part of the caterpillar has to die. I write, “Part of me is dying.” It can’t stop the process because the force of nature is too great; nature wants the caterpillar to change.
How do I do that? I ask.
Are you willing? he wants to know.
Yes, I say, but it really hurts.
Yes, it hurts. Are you willing?
Yes.
Then that’s all you need to know, he explains. You don’t have to know how, only what. Healing, that’s where you’re going. The universe will show you how.
That’s a bad answer, I think. That doesn’t make sense. But he speaks with such conviction it seems impolite to disagree. I want a formula to follow, homework, step-by-step instructions. As if the reverend can read my mind, he suggests the title of two books to read. I write them on my paper and buy them the next day. He encourages me to take a class at the church and learn how to meditate, so I register for the upcoming class. He tells me to visualize myself from the end result. Visualize anything I want to bring into my life so vividly I not only see myself in the new situations, but I feel the emotions of joy, peace, harmony, bliss, safety, health, and prosperity. I think that is a lot to ask for. That is an impossible dream. He says don’t limit my sense of what’s possible. Don’t go to the ocean with a teaspoon. Go with the biggest bucket I can handle. There’s plenty to go around. I write, “Imagine the life I really want to live, bucket not spoon.”
He goes to his desk, writes his office, home, and cell phone numbers on a piece of paper and offers it to me. His small paper has weight; it grounds me. I fold it and put it in my wallet where I will keep it for two years until I have enough weight of my own that I can transfer the paper to a drawer. I never call his personal numbers but I have them. They’re the net below my tightrope walk, the extra oxygen for my dive.
We both sit quietly, a natural pause. It’s dark outside. California summer nights are cool, and through the walls I can feel the evening temperature drop. The reverend asks if I’m ready to pray out, do I feel complete? I don’t feel complete. I wish I could stay with him but I say I’m ready. I stuff the paper and pen back in my purse. The reverend reminds me his plan was to meet with me today, then recommend one of his best practitioners to counsel me. I say yes and thank him for this session; he’s been an enormous help. He tells me that was his plan but he’s changed his mind. He wants to continue counseling me personally. I look at him with such pure gratitude I feel my eyes will melt. I want to change. I want to retrain my thoughts. I want to be a butterfly. I want to understand these strange concepts he’s introducing to me.
Thank you, I whisper.
I sit up taller in the chair. Now that I know I’m coming back, I feel that I can leave. He smiles.
I like you, I tell him.
The words slip out. I feel silly saying them. They’re too simple, I should say something more intelligent, something about his wisdom and generosity, his insights or spirituality.
I like you too, he says.
I smile back. We both take a deep breath, close our eyes. He claims my wholeness. He claims that all my needs are met. Everything to support my transformation is at hand. It’s already done. God and I and love are one. Amen. Amen.
NINETEEN
I decide to use the guest bedroom in my house as a meditation room. I paint the walls light lavender but I’m not making much progress with the floor. I’m too tired to pull out the remaining nails. I want the bounty of home renovations to dry up forever. I consider carpet or a big rug, but I’m finding it difficult to make clear decisions. What do I want? What do I want? If I can’t make a decision about the floor how am I going to heal my life?
My friend and I go to the fabric district downtown. Los Angeles has one of the largest fabric districts in the country, hundreds of wholesale and retail shops. I’m shopping for fabric I can send to my mother who has offered to sew curtains for the living room. We park at the edge of skid row and walk down the blocks of fabric stores to one we’ve been to before. It’s overwhelming, countless bolts of fabric stacked floor to ceiling, rack after rack, and circular displays of fabrics in patterns, stripes, and solids. Cotton, linen, silk, upholstery fabric, Lycra, pleather, wool, oilcloth, burlap, canvas, felt, flannel, suede, ribbons, thread, buttons, rhinestones, glitter, lace, on and on and on.
And then I see it: the faux fur. I can practically hear the cheesy music of my soundtrack as I’m magnetized across the crowded store. I wind my way between bolts of lesser fabrics until the faux fur and I are only inches apart, breath to breath, nose to nose, eye to eye. I reach out my hand for the first soft touch, walk around the circular rack, trailing my hand over the many furs in white, purple, green, blue, brown, black, animal prints, orange, yellow, and screaming electric fuchsia. I remove the fuchsia bolt from the display and hold it to my chest. I can’t stop hugging it. By now my friend has caught up.
Get it, she tells me.
But what will I do with it?
I rub the fur against my cheek and close my eyes. And then an idea, as electric as the fuchsia, hits me. The floor! My friend thinks this is brilliant. I think this is brilliant. I hug the bolt tighter and make my way to the counter where the lady with scissors does the cutting.
I have a general sense of how big the meditation room is so I buy that much in yardage plus some more, figuring I’m probably wrong. I get the fuchsia fur home, unroll it, smooth it out as best I can, and staple gun it to the floor. I have massive amounts of fur left over so when I drag the futon back into the room I cover that with fur, too. I even have a piece that I throw over the back of the futon to use as a blanket. I add a white floor lamp and a low white table. It’s ridiculous. It’s uterine, a shocking womb. Defiant femininity on pink overdrive. I’m well aware that this is a decision I will one day regret, but it’s reversible, and for now I lie in the middle of the room as if on a surrealist beach gazing at the popcorn ceiling stars and stretch my arms over my head like I’m a happy kid making angels in the fuchsia sand.
TWENTY
I buy a ticket to Belize. My counselor is shocked I want to return to Belize after only a couple of months. My family is worried for my safety. My friends don’t trust the diver can handle the intensity of everything that’s happened. The reverend recommends I get still and quiet and ask myself if this is the best time. The diver says he’ll understand if I don’t come; he’ll keep loving me even if he has to wait. I ignore all of them and in a flurry buy a ticket. I’m adamant about not allowing the jaguar man to ruin my joy of traveling. And I’m determined to wind the clock backward to restake my claim on a vacation in paradise and falling in love beside the Caribbean Sea.
Adults tend to be fearful of getting hurt while diving, the diver says. It comes with growing up. When kids move underwater, they’re not thinking of sharks or barracudas.
I fill my thoughts with sand, waves, sun, and romance. My mind refuses to explore the jungle. My memories shut down at the moment the jaguar man reveals the knife in the van. My mind allows only a few flashes of driving fast down that long road, the vaguest image of turning off the road into the depth of night; it clamps down past the log barricade, where the small road leads to the edge of the sea. I can see the forsaken notch of jungle in broad strokes from a far distance, but from my vantage point it appears innocent and peaceful, a place where the wind stirs leaves, where grasshoppers play notes, and lizards and snakes carve paths the way I run my fingers ove
r sand.
I imagine she has finally learned to hide in disguise, become what’s around her. She probably swims in the water—a fish, a wave, a moving tide. She burrows beneath vines like a miniscule bug. She leans her head against a tree as if she were moss. Yes, she must have adapted by now. She couldn’t still need me. She probably swore me off in my betrayal. If I can forget her and ignore the horrible knocking on the inside of me, I’ll be fine.
MYTH. My silk cocoon splits and a misshapen butterfly pushes her way out. (There’s no way she’d be whole.) She flies in confused circles on one exhausted wing.
I arrive at the Belize international airport, step off the plane into the humid day, the sun, and the welcoming heat. I walk across the tarmac, stand in the customs line.
Purpose of your trip? asks the customs official.
Pleasure.
The customs official notices I was recently here. You must like our country.
Yes.
At this airport I board the twelve-passenger plane that will take me to the tiny village. There are five men with me on the plane. I’m suddenly nervous, heart beating, sticky palms, as I imagine what these men can do to me. Their hands become the jaguar man’s hands, their chatter his voice. I put my head against the small window and clutch my backpack on my lap, the same backpack I had with me in the jungle. I force myself to breathe more slowly, visualize myself landing safely and safely arriving at my cabana, safely walking down the narrow main road, safely playing on the beach, swimming safely in the sea, returning safely at the end of my trip.
I land, collect my bag from the cart. The diver is diving with a group of tourists, so he arranged for a taxi to meet me. I say hello to the taxi driver, double check he’s the diver’s friend, and force myself to sit in front so I don’t appear rude. He’s a nice man but he wants to stop somewhere along the road to pick something up or drop something off; I don’t know which, but I don’t like this at all. I notice he has a knife resting on the console. He actually has a knife resting on the console! He pulls off the road down a path where three men and a woman wait in front of a house. His musky odor becomes the jaguar man’s scent. I’m practically blind from fear. I silently repeat I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay until the taxi driver returns to the van, thanks me for waiting, and drives me to the cabana. The first thing I do is put on a bikini and dive into the sea. Its warmth cools my fear, and I float.
The Jaguar Man Page 10
