We did not notice at first how the rash grew, since, as it grew, so did the dog. And so did the quantity of blood. And we took no account of the disappearance of the dog of one of our neighbors. Nothing was left of him but a bloody spinal cord.
One day, seeing Constantine’s shadow, I thought he had at least doubled in size. Checking the rash, I found that it had changed in texture: ragged scales, sharp and repellent, had extended themselves beneath his fur. And that was not all. Constantine’s snout was now elongated, and there were two long swellings on his back. And something else that I could not explain. I mean my fear.
I explained all this to my boyfriend. I asked him to leave, and to take Constantine with him. To demonstrate that nothing was wrong, he called his dog, who came obediently to him, and they sat together on the couch and nuzzled each other. It was a picture of animate bliss. They even kissed each other.
Many people can recount how time slows during a horrible accident. The car that crushed their legs seemed to approach with infinite slowness; the punch that put out an eye came round as though dreaming of damage; the knife that severed a hand descended in an arc with the grace of ritual dance. So it was over the next weeks.
The four-year-old boy who lived next door was cooked before he was eaten. To be more accurate, he was blackened in a burst of fire.
It happened the same day when I got home to find, in our living room, a demon of classical power with a remarkable resemblance to the nightmares of just such children. A moist snout, scales pulsing and filthy, two ferocious wings held above his heaving body, lava in his mouth. By the side of this marauding carnivore, gazing at him with the adoration of a lover, stood my boyfriend. He was naked to the waist, so that I could see his lovely, muscular form. I could also see the bleeding rash on his chest. He seemed to have grown taller.
I had not watched all this fun without preparing everything. I had, in fact, filled the basement of my house with explosives. The detonator was out in the backyard, near the peach tree. I turned and walked out. They both looked longingly at me.
The grotesque, blooming explosion that killed them was so hot, almost nothing was left of them.
But my love is left. I was meant to love them in just the way I did. What would they have done without me? What would you have done?
Do you understand? We are in danger, right now, of losing everything. All the cut-loose beauties, every wild chance at cherishing, the music in morning light, the passage of heavens through our flesh, the working of minds in concord with one another, the goodness at midmost of the world, our birthright, homeland, hearts; our hope.
Everything. Do you understand?
At an exhibition of pre-Columbian art in Santa Fe, New Mexico, I fell into conversation with a woman who told me of the discovery of the ancient Nag Hammadi texts in the sands of Egypt, where one can see the beginning of a change in our idea of the life of Jesus, and of the movement of learning in the mind. These extraordinary texts, pre-doctrinal and indispensable, have among them important writings by women. She directed me especially to one called “Thunder: Perfect Mind,” a piece of riddling, transcendent poetry.
I asked her to tell me about the most extraordinary person she had ever met; but I was hardly prepared for the account here that was her answer.
THUNDER: PERFECT MIND
To watch a lighting storm over wild country is to be inspirited by cut loose beauty and irresistible good times. It is as though the earth and the sky take upon themselves the task to form the lines of light that bring them together urgently and irresistibly. Often we wonder what happens at the site of so many hot electric strikes. Who knows? But for one strike, in the deserts of New Mexico, on the sandstone rimrock of a canyon, I know what happened. The storm cleared, and where the bolt had struck, there stood a woman.
You may be skeptical about this; but it is no more unlikely than, say, brain surgery.
I was camped well away from the canyon where the woman stood, but I thought it hospitable to go and welcome her to the wilderness I knew so well and loved so much. As I approached her, I could see that she was plain, and as I neared her she said:
“Could you take me into town for some toast and honey? And maybe later a warm whiskey?”
Now, I was not about to deny a woman born out of a lightning bolt. I led her to my pickup truck, we rode into town to a little café, and she sat quietly, watching everyone. All this while, we did not talk; although I could not take my eyes from her. I had never seen such fantastical tranquility.
Finally I had to ask:
“What are you doing here?”
“I need to deliver some paint,” she replied immediately.
“Paint?” I said skeptically. I told her it sounded a bit pedestrian. I got a rambunctious laugh from her.
And then she said, as if it were an explanation:
“Every now and then, because it is necessary, a woman—even, now and then, a man—changes herself so essentially that the lucent, humble, learned part of us comes to saturate all the tissues of the body. Someone changed in this way shines, though the light is not visible to everyone. But to those who can see, she shines like a—well, it’s obvious.”
“Yes?”
“—like a lightning bolt.”
“And how are you going to find her?”
“How do you become aware of the presence of lightning, when you cannot see it?”
“You mean . . .”
“I mean we listen. When she comes suddenly into her place of work, then if she is a bolt of pure light, you will recognize her by the rolling of thunder through the room.”
I TRAVELED AROUND with my newfound friend—let’s call her Bolt. We listened to talk in bars, to local gossip, to tall tales. Finally we heard a rumor about a delightful and amusing show for children.
So it was that we found her, in a little town far out in the backcountry of the American West. She was an elementary school teacher. When she walked into class in the morning, an almost florescent thunder careened through the schoolroom, making the children cry out in joy and wonderment.
Everyone, of course, thought that the teacher had a recording hidden somewhere; and so no one inquired further. Thus was her protection assured.
We waited until the last child had left the classroom to go home. The teacher was correcting some papers when we walked into the room. Bolt waved her arm and thunder rocked the schoolroom, spilling books from the shelves.
The teacher—call her Ella—came forward immediately to meet us. She scrutinized Bolt. I watched them both, as they shimmered together. I knew I could see only a part of their radiance.
“I’ve found you!” exclaimed Bolt mischievously. And she took from her overalls a small can of paint.
Ella looked at the can carefully, turning it over in her hands, gently, as though she hardly touched it.
“Can we try it?” she said immediately.
“We must!” replied Bolt.
They walked over to the mirror in the room, which was placed opposite another. Ella had a habit of showing the children the variety of infinite reflections they could set up when they stood between the mirrors. Their images reproduced and went off into the depths of the silver surfaces like laughter into a pool.
Now Ella went over to one of the mirrors and, using a child’s brush, daubed a thin coating of the paint upon it. Then she did the same with the other.
The two women stood in the middle between the two mirrors. I went to look, and I was nearly blinded by the image of them, two torches of light that passed into the clouds, ragged garlands of light that hung from heaven to earth, riptides of light that surged from the floor into the sky.
I could see myself, a little gleam. I was ashamed. Ella came over to me immediately. I wanted to hide.
“The paint allows the mirrors to show the full picture of a person, rather than the poor sketch we are accustomed to see. What you see there is what I can see all the time, when I look at other people.”
“Why do you ne
ed it then?” I asked, a bit intemperately.
“So that she can show other people to themselves,” answered Bolt.
“And why do that?” I shot back, out of my shame.
“So that they might find the kindling within them and begin their learning of the responsible luminosity and power that binds together earth and heaven,” answered Ella gently.
So it was that I became Ella’s student, as if I were a child. Ella, with her paint, was able to persuade some others to join our clandestine and unusual class, which she held in the elementary school just after the children had gone home.
Bolt comes to see us. I must say, sometimes the classroom is a bit thunderous. Rather like a playground. Their teaching has such a bright current of playfulness that if you were not fully prepared, it would kill you.
All I can tell you is that there is a sensibility in light, a raucous surety in such teaching, a way to burnish the body back to its once and future state.
All I can tell you is to pay more attention to the weather report.
This story was offered to me by a woman who was convinced that there exists another domain of law, unwritten but potent, of which our common law is a crude but useful expression. This, I think, is a variant of the Sufi idea that underlying our five senses are five more potent capacities of mind that allow us to integrate our minds, and know a homecoming of soul.
This woman held that these laws could be learned, and that, in any case, we are governed by them. She practices law in Philadelphia. She is a plain, able woman; that is, irresistible. I had asked her how her twin sister met the artist she married.
IN ORDER TO OBEY THE LAW
Once there was a painter who wanted to see things as they really are. He wanted to set himself aside, to paint everything for itself, in the most lucid and comprehensive detail. The problem, he decided, with wanting to see anything finally, truly, clearly, is that when we try to do so, we have to stand someplace, at some time. And, standing there, we see what is around and behind the object of our contemplation, we see it from a certain angle, at a certain moment of the day, in a certain light, in relation to whatever else is going on at the time. So do our perceptions become selective, reduced, personal.
His method, by contrast, was to give to his watching the richest possible variety, to watch at all hours and in all circumstances, so as to gather the widest, most numerous, most contemplative views of one thing; and then to unify those views as he painted. By such means, he hoped, the things of the world might come forth with their own substance, reality, and harmony.
He once painted a peach tree; and painted himself, unbeknownst to him, right into this little story.
He first found the peach tree in early spring seen against snowy mountains. He noted then the coruscations of rain along the branches, the adolescent suppleness of its form, the lovely buds. In the next several weeks he walked slowly around and around the tree, and stayed close to see how the color of the blossoms changed with the angle of the light. Then in midsummer, just as the fruit was getting heavy, he visited the tree again, sketching the way the branches bowed slowly with the weight of the fruit. When the peaches were ripe, he was ready to commence his painting. And, weeks later, just as he was finishing work in the warm green meadow, he saw the woman, walking easily, come close to the tree, touching a peach with her fingertips. He saw the way her hair and the leaves glistened together. And in the midmost of that late summer day, in front of him, she picked and ate a peach, the juice of the fruit shining on her mouth. She looked at him with independence, understanding, hopefulness, surety.
Our painter was brought to consider a new question: what is the best way to taste peach juice?
He is meant to love her. He has always been meant to love her. But he had given up hope of having such joys on this earth, because he had not understood what she already knew. She knew that every springtime the light looks upon each of us, to see if, at last, free of the bitterness and cynicism in ourselves and of our times, we can be trusted.
Later, she was able to teach him: if you omit yourself, and by the way you work bring all the spectrum of what you see together into beauty, the world will bring a beauty together with you.
It’s the law.
A selection, a rather modest selection, from two hours’ conversation with a woman who seems to talk, every other minute, in proverbs. I was in her kitchen, in the uncanny city of Fez, in Morocco, and she talked as she cooked an exotic meal, including a dish with pomegranate sauce. Of course, I had known that she conceived of cooking as a metaphysical enterprise; hence her love of proverbs, their words like so many ingredients to be combined in our understanding.
FROM ONE DAY’S CHAT WITH A BELOVED WOMAN
The soft peach holds a hard stone.
We walk before we run, but refuse to think that running is a prelude to movement along the song-lines of sunlight.
Centuries have been wasted trying to set fire to the light of our fire.
A heart within your heart will seek your amnesty.
Honey in the cupboard still is sweet.
That man, you think, is gazing prayerfully at the magnificent old oak; but in truth he is only thinking how best to cut it up in order to make floorboards, for his dirty feet.
Any step can take you into a neighboring galaxy; but only if you know what you might usefully do there.
Such rancid sorrows, caused by thinking that our daily hunger may be satisfied by any food we like.
Many people are in such a state of wonder that birds can fly, they think the little creatures do not need to eat.
What you pay for with money, you buy with your life.
I heard this after the death of the woman in the story, and it explained many things about her, especially the graceful movement of her understanding. She lived in an adobe house in southern Utah, not far from the rim of the Grand Canyon. It is a landscape charged with power and mystery.
THE COMFORT
Once upon a time a woman was walking through the forest and came upon a long, amiable, phosphorescent snake—a snake of elegance and suavity. Our friend was not well acquainted with snakes, but her attitude toward them was an extraordinary mix of fear, confusion, and ignorance: in short, that attitude so often reserved for things of rare beauty. This snake, however, was not about to be held in contempt just because he was not simple to appreciate and understand. So the snake said:
“Good afternoon. I’ll bet you are terrified of me.”
“I am indeed,” said our terrified friend. “And don’t stick your tongue out so far when you talk to me.”
“You’ll get used to it,” said the snake.
“And why is that?” asked our friend haughtily.
“Because you are taking me home,” said the snake calmly.
“I’ll do no such thing,” said our friend.
“Of course you will,” said the snake.
And, at that, the snake floated with its satin grace over the dirt and spiraled his way up the leg of our transfixed companion. He then slipped in between two buttons of our friend’s shirt, coiled slowly around her waist, above the belt, and nestled there close to the skin. In just such a superb position he fell peacefully asleep.
An hour later, when our friend’s heart had left off its frenzy of pounding, she decided she had no choice but to return home. She found, on the way, how unexpectedly pleasant was the dry and delicate brush against her of the scales of the sleeping snake. And she was intrigued, even a little moved, that the snake trusted her enough to fall asleep. It would be simple to seize the snake and dash his head against a rock. But she did not do so.
So began an unruly transformation. Our friend lived continually and comfortably with the snake, who hid in clothes and in briefcases among the papers and computers and photographs. Sometimes he would lie along the woman’s arm as she sat at her desk and wrote letters. Sometimes, when she was on her feet talking to her colleagues or waiting for a subway, the snake would stretch out along the length of her sp
ine and lay his scaly head at the base of her skull. Other times, the snake would resume his favorite place—curled around our friend’s waist, from where he might occasionally put his head out between two shirt buttons, to gaze about. No one save our friend ever noticed the trick; and, if they did, they denied the reality of their perception, since no woman would carry around inside her shirt a sightseeing reptile.
Later on, the snake, as it happened, saved the woman’s life. She had suffered a terrible gash in an accident, the wound became infected with a rare and virulent bacteria, and the infection had spread through her body. As she was beginning her final decline, the snake moved across her skin—and entered the unhealed gash. The infection, which had resisted the most potent medicines, was vanquished by the snake’s clear venom. The snake moved on, deep within the woman, among the tissues and organs, rooting out her sickness, clearing away rank pain, working a restoration. So sick was the woman that even her bones had been infected. One can imagine the effect on our friend’s ideas and dreams as the snake, bringing life, moved slowly through the center passages of bone after bone.
Our friend, restored to bountiful good health, lived her life to the wild and secret benefit of the world. When death came, she did not regard it with the usual mixture of fear, confusion, and ignorance so often reserved for encounters of rare beauty. And so, while her apparent death was desperately mourned, the truth was that she did the natural and obvious things: her spirit curled round the waists of tornadoes, lay along the arms of tropical winds, moved through passages within the body of earth.
No one noticed the den of snakes that thrived near her grave.
Told to me by a hitchhiker I picked up in Paradox, Colorado. When I asked her where she was going, she replied: “I’m not sure. Where are you going?” Her question delighted me, and she rode with me all the way to Chicago. We swapped tales all those many hours. She was full of speculations. At one point she said, in her offhand way, “Sometimes I can’t help but wonder whether tragedy is a durable literary form only because men never tire of trying to ennoble their violence and imbecility.”
The Hot Climate of Promises and Grace Page 3
