by Alice Walker
When I reach for a cigarette, or anything that would harm a child, I see my own finger, said Yolo.
Kate thought Yolo was of the bear spirit. The bear, according to ancient people who had known bears well, was of a loyal, generous, and young-loving nature. Bear mothers were the most dedicated parents imaginable. The most fierce in protecting their young; but also the most peaceful creatures when left unmolested. People with bear spirit had a certain feel about them: they often seemed large and strong, even if they weren’t particularly. They gave off a vibe that made you want to sit near them. Not to talk, necessarily, but to feel. Yolo was like that. Kate had always loved this about him. Sometimes, as she’d sat on his lap, inhaling his bear-ness, she’d regretted the curl of cigarette smoke that cluttered her enjoyment of his fur.
Who am I without my smokes? Yolo asked.
Maybe someone who chews gum? said Kate.
Maybe someone who eats Hershey bars and gets fat, said Yolo.
Maybe someone who drinks a lot of coffee, said Kate.
Nope, said Yolo. That’s going too.
No, said Kate. You love it so much.
I do, he said, but maybe it isn’t love, maybe it’s a chain.
Yep, she said.
Oh, said Yolo, the brothers got down.
You sure did, she said. What else are you giving up?
We said we’d try to think of sex as something really, really special, said Yolo.
That night Kate dreamed she was back in the Grand Canyon, right at the place where the Hopi claimed to have come up into the fourth world. She saw the little handprint, just as she’d seen it the day she was hiking with Sue. In fact, the person she saw standing near the little handprint looked like Sue, but when she looked hard she saw it wasn’t. It was a Hopi man with a piece of rag around his head. The rag was dark; indigo, as she looked at it; wonderful against his bronze skin. He was wearing a long white cotton shirt, some kind of homemade sandals, and that was all. He said to her: You have been puzzled about how we could live so long underground.
Why would I be puzzled about that? asked Kate. Everybody lives longer underground than above it. She was thinking of dead people in graves.
The man was old but he didn’t look particularly old. He looked like he’d been the same age all his life. When he was a small boy, she felt, he’d been a miniature of himself. He’d probably always worn the exact same clothes too.
You have wondered how we sustained ourselves, he said. And how we grew crops without sun.
Now she noticed there were people standing in back of him. A woman of his own age and demeanor came to stand beside him.
We are never separate, he said, turning to the woman, who smiled.
We could never leave each other, she said.
A young man stepped forward. In the night, he said, we came up into the fourth world to plant. We have never gone anywhere without our seeds. He produced a tiny, colorfully decorated pot with a teeny hole in its top. We carried our food, to last a thousand years, in a pot of this size.
We made it, said the women, nodding at the little pot and standing behind the couple and the young man; above or below, the earth is always abundant. To know the mind of clay, that is to know everything about survival.
And when we came up, finally, to stay, we chose a place that looked like where we had been, said the older man. That is why we have lived on top of mesas and had our fields far below. Where we live aboveground looks like where we lived so long underground. While underground we climbed up to plant, aboveground we climb down.
You cannot get a grain of corn in this hole, said Kate, fussily. You can’t get sunflower seeds in here either. On the other hand, she seemed to be saying this from inside the tiny pot.
All around her, as if in an echo chamber, she heard the people laughing.
She is very funny, one of them said.
And so tall, said another. We must save her to plant another year.
What was this thing about her and corn, Kate wondered. For now she seemed to be a very tall cornstalk. With big heavy ears of corn hanging off her like tits.
Corn used to be small, the older man said.
Really? said Kate.
Even so, we did not carry it in the little pot. It was always carried in a leather pouch, close to the heart.
Why was that? asked Kate, now back to herself, or whoever she was in this dream.
Because it is as dear as one’s child.
Why is it as dear as one’s child?
The world may lose corn, said the woman standing with the older man.
But perhaps its children are no longer dear, said the younger man, who had been joined by a woman his own age.
A baby materialized near Kate’s feet and looked up at her. One of its legs was planted in the ground. A small cloud appeared right over its head and released a shower of rain to water it.
She awoke to the sound of moths. They were flying around the reading light she had left on near her bed. Not as large as the ones in the Amazon, they were still sizeable; white and silver and feathery gray. She studied them for a moment before turning out the light and going back to sleep.
I had a very Alice-in-Wonderland dream last night! she said to Yolo next morning. I was visited by the Hopi community that used to live in the Grand Canyon.
He was on his way to the gym. Cool, he said, flying out the door.
Yolo discovered that if he did laps, if he used the treadmill, if he took long walks and long naps, he could keep his mind off smoking, some of the time.
I am so nervous, he said at dinner, sitting on his hands as Kate ladled a bowl of soup.
Your knees are going up and down, yes, said Kate.
I feel jumpy, like I could jump right out of my skin.
Maybe there’s a smoker’s anonymous you could join?
No, he said, I want to do it a different way.
One night when Kate walked outside to see the new moon, she surprised Yolo, standing beside the hedge smoking a cigarette. When she came closer, she saw he was weeping.
I feel like such a failure, he said to Kate, not to mention a slave, as he bent to press the cigarette against a stone.
Kate stopped his hand. Then reached up and gently wiped his eyes.
Smoke it, she said, lifting his elbow so that the cigarette was near his mouth. Smoke it and enjoy every puff.
Taking his hand she led him toward a bench in the yard. As they sat, she said: I’ve always loved what Oscar Wilde said about temptation. That the only way to deal with temptation is to yield to it.
Yolo sighed.
What is it that you’re smoking? she asked.
It’s called American Spirit, he said. It’s supposed to be natural tobacco, without toxic chemicals.
It smells okay, she said. I even like it. She breathed in some of the smoke. My grandfather smoked a pipe, she said; I liked to watch the white puffs come out of the pipe, mingle with the air, and disappear. When Indians smoked the peace pipe they didn’t inhale. They pulled in the air, puffed out the smoke; air and smoke mingled, and this symbolized oneness. Being of one mind. That is peace. The material and the spiritual come together in smoke, and the connection becomes invisible again almost immediately. Peace is as fragile as that.
You don’t have to aim your mouth at the heavens, she said. And you don’t have to hide outside to smoke, either. I think we should make a place for you to smoke beside the fireplace; that way, most of the smoke will go up the chimney.
I still intend to stop, said Yolo.
Yes, well, until you do, said Kate, and reached for his hand.
They sat in silence, gazing at the moon and the slow arrival of pale, barely perceptible stars.
After a while Yolo said: I feel safe with you.
And I with you, said Kate.
There was more silence.
I thought it was over between us, said Yolo. When you left, I thought it was over. I was sad, but it felt final.
I thought the same, said Kate
. I felt we were on different journeys and that mine was so different from yours you’d never understand it.
As soon as you left, I began to dream, said Yolo. I think I started because as soon as you left I really missed you. The whole other side of life had vanished, he said.
Yolo, said Kate, do you think we should continue journeying together for a while longer?
Yes, he said promptly, squeezing her hand.
In the old days, Kate said to Yolo next morning, kissing his eyes before they got out of bed, at this point in the story there’d have to be a wedding.
Well, said Yolo, we can have one.
But what would it look like? asked Kate.
There was silence. Every wedding image that came to mind seemed absurd. All those long gowns you couldn’t run in and the veil that was a reminder of woman’s captivity; still used in places in the world where the veil was made of fabric too dense to see through.
I’m never going to dress peculiarly to marry anyone ever again, offered Kate.
Oh, said Yolo, we’ve outgrown actual marriage. When I think of a wedding I think mostly of the feast.
The feast! said Kate, excited. Yes. And the circle, and the stories and the dance. And the three bears who are always invited in the end!
Yolo began to laugh. He was thinking of Aunty Alma, Aunty Pearlua, and Alma junior.
Kate was thinking of Lalika, Hugh, Missy, and Rick.
Rick said right away that he couldn’t come, but Hugh, Lalika, and Missy said they would.
It’s going to last three days, said Kate, over the phone. It will be near a river—we’re trying to find one now. We will do ceremony and paint our faces with yagé and each of you must bring a story as your gift.
Can it be a real one? asked Lalika.
That’s the only kind allowed, said Kate.
I’ve got a boyfriend, said Missy. I’d kinda like to have you look him over. Not necessarily look inside him. Can I bring him?
Sure, said Kate. And your mother too, if you want.
Nah, said Missy. We’re not talking to each other. Maybe some other time.
I’m still sick, said Hugh, and I don’t weigh much more than a straw. But I’m on these new drugs and I’ve come out to my family. I’ve even got a beau. Can I bring him?
Of course, said Kate.
Lalika asked if she could bring “someone.” Kate said “someone” is just the person I want to see!
She and Yolo drove up and down the state looking for the right place.
Have you called all your people? asked Kate.
He had.
Alma said she could come, along with her namesake! Yolo could hardly imagine seeing them together. And hearing the story of how that had happened.
Aunty Pearlua said she’d come, if she could bring the two brothers from Australia, who, she said, were studying with her.
Hula? Yolo wondered.
Jerry was coming, and Marshall’s brother Poi.
And at last, after searching many days, Yolo and Kate found the perfect place, the perfect river. They found a campground north of where they lived, not far away at all, with small bungalows and an indoor cooking and eating area. In case of rain. There was a large firepit, circled by springy grass that would be great for sleeping and storytelling around the fire at night. And most marvelous of all, there was, visible from every place on the land, the most amazing, pure, deep, languidly flowing river. Its water so clear they could stand on the rocks above and watch rust-red salmon glide by. It was paradise.
You don’t understand about Buddha, said Grandmother. He would not mock those who take up arms against their own enslavement. Sometimes there is no way, except through violence, to freedom. Living in violence is not the best use of life, however. And he was interested in teaching that. How precious it is to have a human life to live! How sad to waste it in something so grim and blurry. A thought can be like a gun; it can slay the enemy. Music can be like a sword; it can pierce the heart of the enemy. Dance can kill. What needs killing is not the person; what needs killing is his or her idea that torturing another person will create happiness. When Buddha sat under the bodhi tree, he was sitting under Me. He was sitting under Me, she repeated, as tree. And he was sitting on Me as grass.
When you drink yagé, you complain about how bad it tastes. It tastes bad because you have killed it in order to have it. This is not necessary. For the Buddha, it was not necessary. Sitting under Me and on Me, he received the medicina. He did not have to groan and shudder and screw up his face, Grandmother said with a rustling laugh, before drinking something made of my dismembered body, and boiled over a slow fire. This is possible, receiving the medicina this way, if you open your heart.
That is why people take the time to learn how to do that; open the heart. That is why they go on retreat. That is why they learn to meditate. The very poor, as you have noticed, rarely have this option. The moment they try to open their hearts, after slaving all week for someone who drains them of hope, the powers that be rush to implant a religion, generally foreign to their natures, into them. That is why I am happy to offer my dead body for them to eat or drink, and why my material essence, though not living, remains pure and good for them to use. That is also why my ceremonies take place in the jungle, far from so-called civilization, whose primary intent is to rid the world of the Wild. Which is another word for Me.
What are you writing? Yolo asked in the middle of the night. Actually it was close to dawn. Kate glanced at the little serpent clock at the side of her bed and noticed it was almost five o’clock. The serpent was an anaconda that carried the world, with the face of a clock, on its back. She’d spotted it among a collection of curiosidads in a gift shop at the airport, after leaving the Amazon.
Did I wake you? she said. They did not always sleep together. Yolo had his own room, sometimes referred to as “the lover’s room,” across the hall.
I felt the bed shaking, he said.
Kate had been writing on her laptop, something she’d never done before in bed. She’d resisted the feeling of being in bed with a machine.
I’m writing what I can remember of what Grandmother Yagé taught me, she said.
How’s it going?
Rough, she said, her fingers limp on the keyboard, her eyes fixed on the screen.
So much happened in those seven hours. I felt I learned more than I had in my whole life up to then. But it is such a different way of learning, of being taught. After we were brought out of Grandmother’s presence by Anunu and sat having tea and a slice of toast to settle our stomachs, I sat there stunned speechless by what I had experienced. I thought I’d never forget a single thing. But by the time we finished our tea it had started to fade. I asked Anunu about this. She said it was the same for her, and that in the beginning she’d felt bereft, to have been shown so much and to have been patiently taught so much, and then to feel it evaporate. But she’d realized the teachings simply became a part of her. They became hers.
And do you feel that way? asked Yolo.
Yes, said Kate. To some extent I do. But I’m a writer; I want to manifest the experience; I want to see what it would look like as art.
She sounded unusually passionate for five o’clock in the morning.
Yolo laughed. Okay, he said.
Kate looked at him. The truth is that I miss her. Grandmother. I miss her terribly.
What was she like? asked Yolo. Though Kate had described her many times before. He liked being told about Grandmother the way a small child likes to be told about angels. He sank farther under the comforter and wriggled his toes a bit.
She was so loving, said Kate. And patient. But brisk too. No nonsense about her. And she didn’t focus much on what was wrong. It really was like sitting in the lap of a gigantic tree, breathing together, and accessing a knowing that would never happen in a high-rise apartment building.
She’s more like: This is like this because that was like that. He did this because earlier he’d done that. She acts like
that because where she’s from nobody understood this. And the main thing is that she makes you see that the magic of the mystery we’re in just goes on and on. After all, you realize you’re sitting there, enthralled, being taught by a plant. There is no end to wonder! Yolo, imagine. Even if we live forever, we’ll never get to a place where we can honestly say: There’s nothing happening here; I’m bored. Or, you can be bored, I guess, but you can never say it’s because nothing is happening. Something is always happening. In fact, everything is always happening. It’s amazing, she said, closing her eyes.
Gosh, said Yolo, you really make me want to try it.
It tastes like shit, said Kate. You’d hate it.
How ironic, said Yolo. Something so good tasting so bad. But life is like that too, sometimes, he added.
She decided to tell him about the last part of her time with Grandmother, which she remembered clearly in every detail. But first she had to admit something to him:
Yolo, she said, I think I went searching for Grandmother because I am afraid of growing old.
I’ve always thought you very brave, owning up to your age as it comes, said Yolo. I also think it’s natural to feel apprehensive. We live in a culture that is afraid of old age.
I know, said Kate. What I didn’t know was that I too had this fear. I thought I had escaped it somehow.
Yolo chuckled. How can you escape when every commercial you see advises you to hate the gray, hide it away.
I almost couldn’t see a point to living beyond middle age, said Kate. I mean, what is there to do, after that? Had anyone told us?
We could “retire,” said Yolo.
Yes, said Kate, and enjoy “hobbies.”
I can’t imagine having a hobby, said Yolo.
I can’t either, said Kate. Everything I do I want to be essential.
After seven hours with Grandmother, said Kate, I finally got right down to it. I was in this huge jungle, not unlike the Amazon. I was going all over the place desperately calling for Grandmother. My voice was as weak and desperate as a child’s. I was beginning to sniffle a lot and I think my nose was probably snotty. Grandmother! I called. Grandmother! There was a deafening silence. The trees all around me were enormous. It was an ancient forest, with old trails hacked through it and trod by human beings, perhaps for millions of years. But where was everybody now? Absent. And in this primeval landscape I was calling for Grandmother until I was hoarse and on the point of tears. Because it was coming to me with a horrible certainty that I was by myself in this frightening place and SHE WAS NOT THERE! My heart sank. I had never felt more alone in my life. And then, just when I was on the point of dying of loneliness and lack of direction, I wailed: Oh, Grandmother, you are not here! And she said: But you are.
