A governess? We'd had some good, affectionate ones, but there had been two who weren't.
One was a tight-lipped German woman who resented us - we felt it, we knew it. Boy and I -
but she hadn't stayed long. We weren't told until much later that she was an admirer of a very bad man called Hitler.
Was she with us long enough to cause this? A sour Nazi woman, taking care of the children of a few?
My mother and I had come to be at peace with each other, during the past decade; I loved her and knew that she loved me, but I had always believed that she hadn't really loved me when I was a child. She wasn't happy with my father in those days, and I heard the same feelings in her voice when she talked to me that I heard when she spoke to him: impatience, annoyance, and exasperation. I knew, from looking at old photographs, that she had held and cuddled me when I was a baby, but I could not remember her touching me with affection, or hugging me, at any time during the later years, while Boy and I were growing up in Italy.
My brother had been the favorite, and knew it. Incredibly, he took no advantage of his position; instead, he became my ally. I could remember one time when he actually took the blame for something I had done wrong. He knew as well as I did that she never got really angry with him. My poor mother! Did I absorb her occasional feelings of impatience and disappointment and create a monster out of them ? Did the German governess just add to what was already shaping itself in my unconscious as a self-image of something wrong-smelling and awful?
The hatred, I thought. Where did I get that from?
If you suspected you were a disgusting piece of filth in your soul, what would you want to do with yourself? Negate, of course. Kill, wipe out. The part of you that identified with the powerful grownups, and what you perceived as their negative feelings toward you, would become a hanging judge, an executioner.
My father had always shown love, warmth and caring. And my brother. Why, I wondered, hadn't I modeled my self-image on their feelings toward me?
Another part of you did, or you would have destroyed yourself long ago.
I opened my eyes and got up. In the kitchen, I made myself a cup of hot tea.
Enough. I've done enough for today. No more, right now. Time for a break.
A sharp stabbing pain hit me on the surface of my left shoulder-blade, and vanished. I held my breath. It meant: you must continue. No break. Not yet. The stab was also a symbolic illustration of what can happen in the body when the needs of the psyche are ignored.
Okay, I get it. But I want to have an intermission. I really am getting tired. Sufficient unto the day, for Pete's sake!
The needle stab came again, this time in my upper arm. And I understood, with a sense of astonishment, why those particular physical locations had been chosen. Neither the shoulder blade nor the upper arm were places where a quick pain-strike would cause me to suspect injury or illness.
All right, all right. Back to work.
I returned to the couch and took two long sips of tea, then folded my legs under me again and closed my eyes.
What am I supposed to do with my maggot-self? How do I heal this sick little piece of shit?
Love it, came the answer.
I gazed down at the cringing thing in the well and suddenly knew what had to come next. I could see, now, that the maggot was contained in an old, worn basket, and that the basket was connected to a rope which came up the length of the well and wound around some kind of crank with a handle which was within reach. I began winding the rope, very slowly, so that nothing would break or fall.
As the smudged pink shape came closer, I saw that it was not a maggot after all; it was a baby. It was emaciated, with skin more grey than pink, lying in its own mess. The baby was dying.
When I lifted it out of the basket, my first thought was that it needed cleaning up, and all I had handy was a bunch of leaves.
Not an It; a She. Of course. And there's no time to worry about dirt. She's failing. What do I do now?
As I stood by the well, the tiny shivering child in my hands, a door opened in my stomach.
Ah, I see. All right. Inside me she goes. Door is shutting. I am to be its mother, its nurturer, until it can make it on its own. Until it - she - is healthy andfull of life again. When she's ready to emergefrom my body, she'll be beautiful and strong and proud of herself. That's what has to happen.
I opened my eyes and drank the rest of the tea, then went inside again.
What about the other thing, the hanging judge, I thought? What was I supposed to do with that implacable, searing hatred?
Inform it that it's no longer welcome. It has no home here. It will have to transform into tolerance and compassion, because I will harbor it no more as Destroyer.
I sighed. This time, when I looked around the room, the blue shadows had gone, and I knew my work - at least, this particular piece of it - was done.
An idea came to me, of a possible way out of this whole business. I deserved to have a breather, I thought. If not an end, at least a breather!
I held my breath for a moment, waiting for another stab, but none came.
At the back of the house, I measured out a hundred and twenty milligrams of MDMA, the amount known among therapists as the customary therapeutic dose. This was the drug that always restored my balance, my sense of humor and objectivity. It was an old, beloved friend.
Maybe it'll get me back to normal - out of all this. If it doesn't work, it certainly won't do me harm. The worst it can do is intensify what's already going on. If that happens, I'll just grit my teeth for an hour and a half, until the effect begins to drop off. I'll be okay. It's worth a try, anyway.
An hour later, my cheeks were wet again, but this time with tears of relief. The world, inside and outside, was settling into a relaxed, friendly, even humorous normalcy. I could still feel the remnants of what I'd been dealing with, but they were subsiding now, fading from awareness. For the first time in three very long days, I could stand at the window and look out at the mountain, watch its top being folded into rain clouds, and feel my soul at peace.
Thank God-whoever and whatever You are, Thankyou. Thankyou.
When Shura came home, I told him what the MDMA had done. I didn't tell him about the maggot at the bottom of the well and the Judge-Executioner. That could wait for another time.
He ate the simple dinner I had prepared for him, listening to me and reaching for my hand between forkfuls, while I apologized again for having been so self-centered during the past few days.
"1 know you understand, and it's not the kind of thing I usually do - all that self-involvement/
to the exclusion of everything else - but I wasn't able to stop it. I feel better if I can apologize and thank you for being so good and so patient."
"Sure," Shura said, "As I said before, it doesn't seem to me you had much choice, but I know you're a guilt-addict, so apologize all you want! Whatever makes you happy!"
He shifted his ankle out of range just in time. We went to bed early.
A brief experiment established the fact that my body hadn't yet returned to its normal responsiveness, but we both knew that the apparent anesthesia might be attributable to the MDMA. It was widely recognized as a material which, while enabling one to feel empathy and love, was - for most people - not an aphrodisiac.
That night, I had my first experience of lucid dreaming. I was conscious, my ego intact, aware that I was asleep and dreaming, aware also that I was meant to learn something of importance. 1 knew I would remember what I was being shown, and what its meaning was, when I woke up.
In front of me was the upper portion of a great stained glass window. Its simple, petal-shaped design was divided into an upper section and a lower one. There were two colors of glass, blue and green. At first, the green was on the top and, across the dark line of leading, the lower petals glowed blue.
As I watched, the blue and green quietly seeped through the leading until, finally, they had changed places. I remained there
, observing, while the exchange happened again, slowly, silently, each color diffusing through the dividing line until it had taken the other's place.
I knew what it meant. The blue and green represented the dual nature of the living universe/
and of the human soul. Plus and minus, male and female, Yin and Yang. The colors had been chosen deliberately to avoid any possible inclination to ascribe positive or negative qualities to either. The ancient symbol of Yin and Yang is traditionally portrayed in black and red, colors which would have tempted me to say yes to one and no to the other. Blue and green were morally and spiritually neutral.
The lesson was clear: each is equal to the other and each, in time, transforms into the other.
Accept the two aspects, do not reject or shut out either one; let both the blue and the green teach you. Prefer one, ally yourself with one if you must, but live at peace with both.
It was a simple statement of truth about all existence, conscious and unconscious, inside the soul and outside it, and the necessity of learning acceptance. I said it was going to be difficult for me, but I would try to find a way to do it. I added that I would appreciate any help I could get, from anywhere.
I remained conscious, watching the beautiful green and blue and their continuous, gentle exchange, until it was time to wake up.
I opened my eyes, for the first time in four days, with a feeling of pleasure. I told Shura that I had just had my first lucid dream, and that it had been an extraordinary experience, which I would explain over breakfast.
I was really quite proud of myself.
WEDNESDAY
Except for an energy level somewhat higher than usual, I felt entirely normal. I got into my car and decided I wasn't really baseline, but close enough to it so that I could risk driving, at least as far as the shopping center a few blocks down the road.
There were no problems that day. I was delighted with my freedom, and with my body's sense of well-being.
At night, Shura and I made love. It was reassuring to both of us. I begged off trying for my own climax because I was too tired to bother, and insisted that his own had given me all the pleasure I needed, thank you. I didn't see any point in telling him that I was still feeling nothing in my genitals. I persuaded myself that I had detected a faint response, the beginning of recovery, and left it at that.
THURSDAY
I woke up with the sunlight streaming through curtains which were completely inadequate for room-darkening purposes, and my first thought was that I would have to replace them with honest-to-God drapes, and soon. I sat up and searched for the electric blanket on/off switch with my left big toe. As I pulled on my robe, I remembered that there had been something happy, and much laughter, going on in my dreams, although I couldn't recall any details.
I had reached the bedroom door before it dawned on me that the almost-normalcy of the day before had disappeared and that I was, in fact, right back at a plus-two.
Yesterday was just a day off. A 24-hour vacation. What was it I asked for - a breather? That's exactly what I got. Shit-SHIT!
I dressed and brushed my teeth and washed my face in hot water. Comb in hand, I turned to the mirror and saw in it a woman with thick, wavy hair whose face was a study in dull resentment. I decided not to complain to Shura, at least for a while. While cutting a grapefruit in half for breakfast, I glanced over at him as he sat, sipping coffee and reading the paper, and realized I was open to his state of mind and feelings. I was picking up very clearly a level of intense thinking (he always read the paper quickly, with absolute concentration) and an underlying current of something else I couldn't immediately identify. It took me a minute to realize what it was: a quiet, steady flow of impatience.
I wondered why he was feeling impatient, then understood that this was his normal state in the morning; I had simply become aware of it, for the first time.
I took the grapefruit to the table and waited until we had finished eating before I told him, casually, "By the way, I seem to be a wee bit telepathic, this morning, and if I describe what I've been picking up, would you please tell me whether or not it's an accurate reading?"
He said, "Sure! Let's hear it."
When I'd told him what I'd been getting over the airwaves, he thought for a moment, then said, "Yes, that sounds pretty much like what's going on while I'm reading the paper: focused thinking and a chronic impatience underlying it. I'd have to say you're right on the button!"
I asked, "What are you chronically impatient about?"
There was another brief silence, then he replied, "Myself, mostly. All the things I want to get done and am not getting done." He shrugged, "You know, the usual."
I smiled, thinking perhaps it was just as well I wasn't that good a receiver, under normal conditions.
Shura's expression told me he was waiting for an explanation.
I said only, "Seems I'm back on again. Yesterday was a little intermission, I guess. I'm beginning to feel like an old hand at this, by now."
Today, so far, there were no tears flowing, to my relief. I also noted that my earlier feelings of betrayal had gone, and in their place was a dry kind of almost-humor.
Thursday was another teaching day for Shura, and he had the Owl Club in the evening. He played viola in the club orchestra, and I approved of the weekly ritual, if for no other reason than that it kept his skill with one musical instrument reasonably well-honed; his piano playing had gradually come to a stop over the years, to my regret, because - as he always said, when I asked him about it - there were so many other things to do. However, while he remained a member of the Owl Club, his viola playing would not be allowed to get rusty.
When it came time for him to leave, he asked, "Are you going to be okay, or would you be more comfortable if I skipped the club and came home right after work?"
I repeated that I was getting used to it, and it would be fine for him to go to the club. We agreed that he would phone after his class, before he left for San Francisco, just to make sure I didn't need him.
After he had gone, class papers in one hand and the viola case in the other, I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and sat down on the couch with my cigarettes.
The phone rang. It was Ruth, and I said I was having a very bad sinus attack and would she forgive me for not talking at all today. I promised I would get back to her soon, maybe tomorrow, when the worst of the pain was gone. She was immediately sympathetic; I could feel her concern, her empathy over the wires and knew it was completely genuine, an intrinsic part of her nature. I hung up the phone with a feeling of intense love for her, and gratitude for her ability to accept me, even when - as sometimes happened - she found me not entirely understandable.
The streams of thought were back, but I could keep track of them more easily than before; they seemed to have slowed down a bit.
Somebody said that the function of the conscious mind - or one of its major functions - is to suppress the barrage, the noise, of everything that's continually going on in the unconscious; that what we call consciousness functions as a filter, in order to avoid exactly what I'm experiencing: an overwhelming flood of activity in mind and soul. It certainly makes it hard to go about your daily life, when the input to the conscious mind is this overwhelming.
I wondered if it would be possible for me to drive to Berkeley.
I phoned Adam and, when he said he was free after noon, I said, "I'm going to try to get to your place. If I don't feel safe on the road, I'll come back here and phone, to let you know."
He said, "Take care."
Driving slowly down Borodin Road, on my way to the highway, I kept watch for anything that might make driving my little Volkswagon car difficult or dangerous. The actions necessary to shift gears, engage the clutch or use the brakes were still automatic; there seemed to be no interference with that kind of function. But my mind continued to pour thoughts, and the change of scenery served to stimulate yet more observations, more images, all moving through me with extraordinary rapidit
y.
Halfway down the road, I looked at the hill across the highway where rows of beehives were sitting beneath our neighbors' fruit trees, and found myself thinking of the ancient mythical relationship of bees to the archetypal Earth Goddess. I saw the figures of men and women, throughout the millennia, making their pacts with the bees - thus with the Goddess - setting out homes for the swarms, moving the hives as necessary to keep the bees comfortable as the seasons changed, and harvesting, in return, the golden treasure, whose name defined sweetness.
Then I was picturing the open spaces between the wooden beams that supported our dining room floor, spaces where generations of 'possums (which I loved) were born and sometimes died. There were images of the small rooms under the house, called Basements One, Two, and Three, respectively, where our two independent cats held their territory against curious raccoons. I was seeing the hollow wooden supports extending outside from Basement One which swarms of honeybees, year after year, returned to claim as their home. They built their honeycombs inside the sturdy walls and, after a couple of futile attempts involving friends, protective clothing and smoke - together with a lot of nervous laughter - we'd given up trying to discourage them. I remembered the day when our bees had swarmed; they rose in a cloud over the roof, and I sang the single note they were humming and ran into the house to find the note on the piano. It was A. So bees swarm in the key of A, I told Shura that night. At least, I amended, our bees did.
As I came in sight of the mailbox at the end of our road, I was busy with the realization that Shura and I stayed in harmony with the Earth Goddess, by allowing the downstairs animals and insects to go about their business without interference. And with the necessary acceptance of occasional deaths among these creatures, we kept in touch with - and came to accept - the destruction and death aspect of the Great Mother, whether we realized it consciously or not.
And there's no mistaking, in our house, when a death has occurred downstairs, especially in summer! The awful smell stays around for weeks. Shura says, "Well, look at it this way; it's a reminder not to get all romantic and sentimental about Nature, right?
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