“What you see is my shadow. My body is my shadow,” Sacha offered, but his tone carried misgivings.
“I thought you said that I am to paint light reflected from you. How can you be a shadow if you reflect light?” Alicia was probing, perhaps not taking Sacha’s words very seriously.
“I don’t know. But both things I said are right, Grandma,” Sacha affirmed, nodding his head as if to add weight to his words. “I am a shadow cast by my thoughts.”
Alicia had no idea where Sacha found such ideas. It couldn’t have been Alec. Her son was a physicist, through and through. She’d also noticed that from the time Sacha was born, Suzy had refused to get involved in any discussions, which were not “down to earth”. Which were not firmly anchored in the here-and-now.
“I will not be a party to my son missing his boyhood,” Suzy told her.
She was right, of course, but...
Alicia knew that Sacha read an awful lot. He had the ability to read at an incredible speed. There were courses on speed-reading, she knew, but to Sacha the ability was innate. On occasion she would leave a book on the table, and a short while later Sacha expressed his opinion about it. She recalled one such occasion. Sacha must have been about eleven at the time. Alicia found him replacing a book on the shelf. She was just in time to see the jacket sliding into its designated position.
“He was wrong, Grandma.”
“Who might that be, my dear?” Alicia wondered what was coming. Sacha had just replaced the complete works of Shakespeare. Obviously he couldn’t have read the whole tome in one session. He must have just opened it at random.
“Hamlet.”
“And why was Hamlet wrong?”
“He thought that he must die to dream.” Sacha threw over his shoulder already busy reaching for a different volume. It was about the time when his parents withdrew Sacha from school. The teachers said, quite simply, that they had nothing to teach him. Suzy suspected that the teachers had been repeatedly embarrassed by Sacha’s knowledge. At home, in LA, Sacha read three or four books every day. Here, in Solana Beach, in bad weather he kept up the average. They made biweekly trips to the library in San Diego just to satisfy his juvenile hunger.
“He means a different kind of dream, darling.”
“Then why did he say ‘To die, to sleep; perchance to dream’?” Sacha quoted from memory. If Sacha had a weakness it was that all too often he’d taken the written word literally.
Alicia wasn’t a Shakespearean buff. She was not in a position to argue. Even after being forced by an eleven-year-old to voice her opinion on the most famous soliloquy in English literature, which, to her later embarrassment, she hasn’t recognized. Alicia preferred to read novels.
“And anyway, he was wrong to start with,” Sacha added as an afterthought. “You cannot stop being. You are.”
This time Alicia connected. Sacha must have been referring to the famous ‘To be, or not to be,’ quandary. But she still had no idea what Sacha meant. It sounded ‘adult’, but it could have been just a precocious child’s patter. Altogether, that ‘dreaming’ and ‘being’ business was a bit over her head. Alicia took life as it came, and any notion of existential philosophy filled her with dread. She preferred a good, strong cup of tea. She loved life too much to dissect it and risk injury. Alicia was born, and for most of her life managed to remain, carefree. Like the fowl of the air, she thought smiling. She could relate to Sacha’s opinion about the stupid seagulls fighting over more than they could eat, but this...?
If Sacha made sense, then it sounded a little too good to be true. Alicia had the same problem with her grandson earlier, when he encouraged her to paint reflected light. That’s what the impressionists had claimed they were doing. And impressionists were her favourite artists. But to her knowledge, Sacha had never seen an impressionist’s painting. There may have been some books in LA, but most of them belonged to Suzy’s earlier studies. By now Suzy had moved on. By now her adopted daughter was more into expressionism. Suzy was too definitive, too precise in her opinions to develop the gentle impressionistic touch.
At Solana Beach, Alicia’s favourite time was early morning. The fog didn’t bother her. In fact, in a strange way it took her to her youth. She’d met Alec’s father in England. And in those early days, morning fog was to be expected; especially, during the winter months. It was the substance of which Dickens and Conan Doyle were made of. Now, on those misty Pacific mornings, she’d sit alone on the terrace and wait for Sacha.
On weekends, men preferred late mornings. Alec—to catch up on sleep, Des—just to catch up. Her husband wasn’t getting any younger. He was still active but at a different pace. Suzy also liked to linger in bed a little longer, even during the summer months. Perhaps knowing that Alicia would look after Sacha gave her an excuse. Or perhaps she just waited for the sun to win its diurnal battle with the moisture suspended in the air.
For Alicia it was just the opposite.
Not working in LA, and her own youngster having weaned from her embrace some twenty-five years ago, she was well rested even before they got to the oceanfront. She and Sacha spent the mornings sipping fresh orange juice on the terrace, going for walks along the beach, and occasionally taking a pre-breakfast swim. She didn’t like the last option mostly because Sacha, in spite of all his talents, was quite unable to comprehend the concept of danger. He would venture into the oncoming waves, dive underneath them, and then ride them back using his body as a surfboard. Alicia could hardly look when he did that. What if the wave broke on him just as he dove under? What if he was thrown onto the coarse sand? He could be skinned alive. No. She had to play her cards in such a way that on days when the waves looked dangerous she would convince Sacha to stay on the terrace and play or just talk.
Sacha didn’t seem to mind. In fact, with the exception of being told to eat certain foods “because they are good for you,” he was a very easygoing child. And Sacha definitely liked to talk. Not prattle, not go on nineteen-to-a-dozen, but actually discuss whatever subject she raised. If he didn’t know anything on the particular theme he would say so and nothing would induce him to say a single word about the matter. He remained mum until Alicia gave up and changed the subject herself. Otherwise, his opinions were always fresh, not to say unique.
During summer months, Alicia had organized an Art School for the local children. Not exactly a school, but a place where local children could express themselves, without resorting to pastimes that, all too often, landed them in the local jail. Until then, the children had no playground, literally no place to play, let alone get exited by the very idea of fine arts.
She was not an art teacher, but she’s painted for a number of years. And she loved children. Soon she provided them with an environment in which those who wanted could find the means and opportunity to develop their talents. Originally the classes were held on the beach, or, if raining, on the terrace of her house. But within a couple of years, the number of children had increased so as to risk her terrace collapsing under their weight. Maria, the dear, dear Maria, originally a maid, a reliable housekeeper, and later Alicia’s most trusted companion, arranged for Alicia to have access to the local school, to conduct her classes. Initially, no one imagined that children would want to go to school during holidays. That’s not what holidays are for, they’d said. No one will come, they’d said.
“Da lady from LA don’t know what she’a doing…”
The doubters hadn’t met Alicia.
First of all, all children were welcome. But only those who really showed interest in art could remain. The nucleus of students has already created a cadre, who acted as the spearhead to spread the gospel of St. Alicia.
“Art,” she said, “is only for the few. It is a gift. A privilege.”
Alicia believed that everyone could paint. Perhaps badly, at first, but everyone had some sort of ability to create. The children poured onto the paper, or canvas, their desires, their dreams, their innermost secrets.
Th
ey were true artists.
Since turning six, Sacha accompanied Alicia to her school. For some strange reason he didn’t want to paint himself. But he was there, he looked, he absorbed. What interested him were not the paintings, but the painters. Being tutored at home, he was learning how to relate to other children. In time he became a ‘confessor’ to most of them. He had a great affinity for making everyone feel important. It wasn’t a put-on front. He hated what some called “people skills”. He really loved those kids. And it showed.
And then Sacha met Benita.
She was a peculiar girl: as shy and reticent—as she was pretty. She regarded Sacha with enormous dark-brown eyes, in which wonder seemed suspended in some peculiar time-warp. For the last few weeks, she drew with pencil and charcoal at a level well above her age. She exhibited a wonderful sense of proportion, a great sensitivity of line and a mature understanding of light and shade. But for the life of her, Alicia couldn’t teach her how to use colours. Once Benita touched a brush, with a few strokes she was apt to destroy the base sketch, which she’d created with such facility.
Then Sacha spoke to her.
The two youngsters sat opposite each other, mostly just looking into each other’s eyes. The girl’s expression hardly changed, though her irises seemed to dart here and there, as if she was in some daydream, looking at things invisible to others. It made Alicia think of REM sleep, only Benita’s eyes were wide open.
Nothing happened that day, but a week later, the girl produced the most wonderful painting. Some time later Alicia asked Sacha what was it that they’ve been taking about.
“We weren’t taking, Grandma,” he replied defensively.
That was true. They weren’t taking. Not as such. But in some way or another they were communicating. Alicia said as much. She’d also told him how, since Benita ‘didn’t speak to him’, she couldn’t use colour.
“Oh, that?” Sacha smiled in total innocence. “It’s just the way she was looking before, Grandma,” he told her.
Alicia half expected Sacha to assure her that there was nothing organically wrong with the girl’s eyesight. But Sacha said something quite different.
“I showed her how the birds look at things. And the bees. Then the fish. And then she understood.”
Which was more than Grandma ‘Licia did.
Chapter 3
Alexander Baldwin Ph.D.
Alec did not merely love his son. Sacha embodied the world, the reality, to which Alec had aspired all his life. From the time he was a little boy himself, Alec dreamed of being able to do what Sacha did. Only Sacha did it with such facility as to deny the need for any effort. His son seemed to oscillate between the earthly and the inner realities as though they were all co-existent, as though he could change from one to another at the push of a button. At having control over his dreams, his son, Sacha, was an accomplished Master.
Alec didn’t merely love his son. He was in awe of him.
And he admired him, also.
Most parents admire their children to a degree. Most parents dream that their children might accomplish what they themselves have failed to accomplish. They want their children to embody the traits, which they wished they could exhibit themselves. Most parents ended up disappointed. Either that, or they diluted their expectations to reconcile their need for success and for their peace of mind.
Alec did neither.
Sacha was so much more than Alec could possibly have imagined. Before he’d learned to walk, he could fly. Before he’d learned to manipulate his imagination, or his mind, he had taken him and Suzy a step further, to a reality that neither of them knew even existed. He raised them both to the realm of the Undiscovered Country, which seemed accessible only to the truly innocent, truly unspoiled, unpolluted by the exigencies of earthly survival. It belonged to those who never succumbed to a dualistic state of consciousness. When Alec and Sandra had reunited, they became aware of the futility of attempting to treat life as a battleground for the survival of the fittest. Alec became aware of his immortality, not here, not on Earth, but in realms that most people didn’t know existed. Some saints, lamas, yogis of the Far East, and poets, spoke of them. But they spoke in parables, in symbols indecipherable to him or other earthly mortals.
It was through Sacha that Alec had learned that as long as you regard the Earth as your true home, you remain a mortal. Everything, which you regard as you, as your personality––your possessions, your talents, aspirations, desires––all that is transient. None of it is important. Living is important. The process of becoming. Nothing is important until you discover your purpose and take up the reins towards its fulfillment. No mater how simple, how seemingly prosaic. It could be a single deed, a single act of kindness towards someone towards whom you carried a debt. It could be advancing the level of consciousness of someone near you just that much, that little. But no one in the whole universe could do it for you. You and you alone had the necessary vibrations, the necessary state of consciousness, which enabled you to change that particular discord into a harmony of angelic joy.
And all this Alec had learned from Sacha.
Sometimes on their walks along the beach, their chats in LA after a heavy day of lectures, and sometimes just by observing him. Sacha was quite incapable of not acting according to his beliefs. He didn’t practice his philosophy as one practices one’s job or plays a piano. Sacha was the embodiment of his philosophy. He was what he said, and he said what he was. If there were a limitation in Sacha’s make up, it was his inability to understand how could others do otherwise.
Sacha has still not lost his innocence.
Alexander Baldwin, Ph.D. was also known as the Mop. Hardly surprising if you witnessed the haystack he cultivated atop his pate. It may not have been as exuberant as in his younger days, but it was still voluminous enough to spot him from a distance. Although quite muscular, Alec’s height and innate slimness made him look lankier and thus younger than he was. With the exception of a bout with an undiagnosed syndrome, which for a short time left Alec paralyzed from the waist down, he’d always enjoyed quite exceptional health.
In his late thirties, he could easily hold his own with men ten years younger. Especially on the tennis court. And even more so in his willingness and ability to dive, head first, into new scientific theories, which would be looked upon with caution and mistrust by his older colleagues. Except for Desmond, of course.
But Des always was something else.
Until recently, Alec had been looking forward to the day when he and Sacha would face each other across the net, or together face others in doubles. It did not appear that Sacha shared his father’s dream. While perfectly fit, an excellent swimmer and an accomplished jogger, Sacha did not seem to show any predisposition towards sports for their own sake. When Sacha swam, he seemed to be examining the behaviour of his body in the water. When jogging, it was mostly to keep his dad company. Even on the tennis court Sacha was reasonably proficient, but his heart wasn’t in it. He did it for dad.
And so it was.
Physical activity for its own sake seemed strange to Sacha, as though redundant, certainly not requiring his special attention. When Sacha’s age, Alec had already won the school doubles championship. Of course, Sacha didn’t go to school. Yet, in spite of all this, there was a great deal more Alec shared with his son than with any other person in the world. Except for Suzy, of course. But even then with Sacha, Alec crossed new borders; he expanded his horizons.
“Come on, Dad, let’s swing.”
‘Swinging’, in Sacha’s vernacular, was to oscillate between two nebulas and observe the differences between their expanding gasses. That, obviously, was in the Far Country. An inner realm, which Sacha much favored over the Home Planet. Sacha adopted his father’s names for those two inner realities, although he thought the name for Undiscovered Country was vastly inadequate. He preferred to refer to it as a Plane, or even a Zone, something that did not limit this state of consciousness in any way. Sometim
es Sacha called it the Undiscovered Kingdom, or Realm.
The Home Planet was a reality where your dreams ruled supreme. It was a place where your emotions found satisfaction, where you rested from the vicissitudes of earthly life. You could call it the realm of imagination. Like the physical reality, the Home Planet was also replete with changes. It seemed to subsist in a constant state of flux. Only on the Home Planet you controlled them faster and to a much greater degree. For ordinary mortals, such as Alec regarded himself, Home Planet was a haven as well as heaven. It was also a place where, on occasion, he and Suzy and Sacha met to impregnate themselves with tangible beauty. It was their Real Home away from home.
Sacha preferred the Far Country.
For Alec, the Far Country was a reality to be admired, to astound one, to fill one with wonder. For Sacha it was an altogether different realm.
The ever-expanding universe was his true playground. It was as wide, and as deep, and as great, and as young, or as old, as he cared to make it.
It was a realm of pure mind.
Here Sacha flexed his creative muscles. Here he could breathe life into a pattern, into a mathematical formula, a concept that was untried, as yet, by anyone.
“Here I create,” he told his father. “Here I’m the Creator.”
This was his true playground.
Here Sacha brought the universes into being, and dissolved them with a wave of his mental arm. He felt good here. He felt that he belonged. At least, whenever he left the Undiscovered Plane. On the rare occasions when they traveled together, Alec could do little more then to keep up. Out here his son had already outgrown his father by the time he was six years old. Later, there was little point traveling to the Far Country with Sacha. Alec’s mind could no longer accept concepts that appeared to stand in direct opposition to his knowledge anchored in the lower realms.
Sacha—The Way Back (Alexander Trilogy Book III) Page 3
