by Ron Savarese
I’m still crying. “That thing in the cave. That shadow thing,” I sob.
Mother looks at my father. “No Joey. No. That’s not what happened.” She gestures for my father to join us. “Tell him, Jack.” My mother reaches for my father’s hand as he kneels beside me.
“No, Joe. The shadow lied to you,” he says. “I put out the flame in the lantern. I walked downstairs after you left for Albert’s party and saw it and I turned it out. That’s not what caused the fire.
“Faulty wiring caused the fire. If anyone is to be blamed for the fire it’s me. I helped build our house. I helped install the wiring. I thought I smelled smoke that night before I got in bed. But I dismissed it. I didn’t go check on it.”
My father hugs me. “The shadow lied to you,” he says, “It will lie to you and try to deceive you. But it doesn’t have to be that way. The shadow just wants to be seen, to be acknowledged, to be accepted. And then, when you can look at the dark places inside and see them for what they really are, you might find that there’s a gift for you. And in that way, your shadow will serve you. And help you know what is true.”
I hear the joyous laughter in the room again.
A woman emerges from the crowd. She looks like the woman I used to call the angel: the woman from my dreams. It’s the woman who greeted me when I arrived here, when I climbed out of the snow cave.
And I know it’s Ava.
She walks toward me and stands next to me and holds up a bottle just like Maria said she would. And everything stops. She looks into my eyes. The light—oh, the light is blinding! I try to look away but I cannot. I am drawn into the center of her eyes.
Inside her eyes I see numbers, letters, symbols, and alphabets, memories of every spoken language in the history of the universe. I see planets, moons, and stars: in a synchronized dance of rhythm and movement. Galaxies turn in an ever expanding flow of creation. New stars are born and old ones die, and as each star dies, dozens more burst into existence.
The planet Earth, a blue-green orb, floats in space, and men and women live on it. People sicken and die. I see mushroom clouds from nuclear explosions, I see birthday celebrations, I see fireworks on the Fourth of July. I see men going to war, and women giving birth.
I see the first morning of creation, chaotic, yet ordered and systematic. I see the landscapes of planets beyond Earth: lush and bountiful, teaming with new life. And I see death.
Ava offers me the bottle.
I know, rather than see, that a thousand eyes rest on me.
If I stay here, if I drink, I can be with my mother and father and my brothers again.
But what about Jessica? What about our children? And what about Albert?
I take the bottle from Ava’s hand. I see my life on Earth.
The snowstorm is over. It’s morning. The sun is shining. The snow is brilliant white. Paul and Caryn and John and Thomas and a group of men trudge through the railroad yard field where I fell into the snow cave. An ambulance and an emergency medical vehicle are in the nearby street, their lights flashing. I see myself unconscious in the snow cave.
Caryn sees something in the snow—a little mound that looks out of place. She digs at it. “His gloves!” she yells. “His hat, too! He must be close.”
I lift the bottle. I think about Jessica and my children and I feel the pain and the cold. I pull the cork. Oh, the fragrance!
I think in this moment if I drink from the bottle I will leave my body in the snow and the pain and suffering will end. For a moment I don’t want to go back to my life on Earth. I don’t want to try anymore. I don’t want to struggle with my shadow self, my sadness, my compulsions, my loss. I want the freedom and peace and love of this place. I want to be with my mother and father and my brothers again.
I look at all the faces in the room. I am truly home. And then I see Albert. And I know what I must do.
I raise the bottle to my lips.
“Over here,” someone yells. “He’s over here.” It’s Paul. Two men run through the snow with a stretcher.
Love, acceptance, and forgiveness are written on the faces in the room. My mother and father and my brothers look at me. I tilt my head back and lift the bottle. A drop of its nectar touches my lips and flows over my tongue.
Oh, the light!
And in this moment I understand the meaning of all existence and of my own. I understand the interconnectivity of everyone and everything. I sense the limitlessness and wonder of life. I know that I am a powerful, creative being. And yet, I also know that I am helpless and powerless. Ecstasy and awe engulf me and I have no comprehension of space or time.
I know now what Walt meant when he spoke of living with an open heart. I see my own life spread out before me, reordered and reprioritized. I see what it would be like to live with my new understanding and awareness. I see what it would be like to live from a place of inspiration and meaning. I see the positive impact I could have on my family, and all the lives I could inspire.
Then I hear Jessica’s voice:
“Find the opening in heaven Joe—please come back to us.”
And then Ava says to me:
“You have fulfilled your destiny here. Go back. It’s not your time.”
I choke. The bottle slips from my hand. It hits the ground and shatters.
Then each person in the room becomes a crystal snowflake: each one a unique, perfected, geometric design. The crystals spin into the shape of a funnel. Wind blows and voices sing. And then I’m pulled into the undulating funnel and I blend with the crystals into a kaleidoscope of color.
The crystalline funnel folds into itself and becomes a ball of violet-white. Every one of us, souls together, encapsulated in that light. And the ball becomes a beacon. And the beacon collapses, and launches us into boundless space, leaving a trail of sparkling adornment. Each soul, a brilliant white star.
I feel a hard tug then a gentle pull. I see a silver cord extending from the furthest reaches of heaven.
Flashing red lights.
Caryn screams, “Over here. Over here! Quick, he’s over here!”
The rescue team pulls me from the snow cave. They lay me on a stretcher. My body is cold. So cold.
And all I see is white.
WITH THE ANGELS
The soft pink glow of dusk descends and the child is getting sleepy. His little head rests on my lap and he looks up at me with emerald eyes.
Is that the end of the story? He asks.
Yes, we’ve come to the end and now it’s time for us to go to sleep. And when we awaken our new journey will begin.
Did the man in the story find the fourth symbol?
I believe he did. What do you think?
Yes, and I think Albert has it too.
You might be right.
What about the people of Earth? Will enough of them wake-up?
I don’t know. What do you think?
I think they will.
I hope so. Time will tell.
And what happened to the little boy with the golden hair?
Well, he talked about rebirth.
Do you think that will happen?
Yes, I think it will.
What do you think he will do with the symbol?
I don’t know Albert. It’s up to you. Let’s go to sleep now.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my wife Mary, and my sons Joe and Jack, whose boundless love, laughter, and friendship, inspire me and light my way.
I would also like to thank Benjie Nelson for her creativity and design; John and Barbara Hale for bringing clarity to the title; and Joseph Dispenza for his wise counsel—introducing me to “my inner voice” many years ago—and encouraging me to write this book.
For their support, encouragement, and generosity, I would like to thank my Aunt Anna and my Aunt Loretta, Bill and Kathy Savarise; Dave and Mary Jo Savarese; Al and Jan Guerini; Olympia Valentic, Lorenzo and Toni Carlisle—especially for the Eskimo proverb; Michael Herbert, Beverly Nelson
, Laura Lowell, Jill Drinkwater, Stephanie Breslin, Skye Wentworth, Ray Arata, Gary Rosenberg, Stephan McLaughlin, Dan Dwyer, Scott Corbett, Al Boutin, Les Falke, Wendell Johnson, Bobby Pogue, Hill Roberts, Al Stewart, Russ Still, Howard Hong, Robert Heisterberg, Bruce Bickley, and Sharon Hart and my friends at The Balancing Program.
And finally, I would like to thank the many friends and relatives who have been a part of my life and my journey—I cannot possibly list them all, and the lovers and seekers of wisdom, and the teachers, too numerous to mention, whom I’ve encountered along the path.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ron Savarese studied journalism at Kent State University. He lives in Atlanta with his wife and their two dogs. They have two sons. This is his first novel.
Visit Ron at www.findtheopening.com
BOOK CLUBS
If you are a member of a book club, or would like to start a book club with a group reading and discussion of this book, reading and study guides are available to help the group gain a deeper understanding of the subject matter. You can also arrange with Ron to make an interactive audio or video-call appearance to your group to speak and answer questions.
Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
WITH THE ANGELS
THE APPOINTMENT
THE CONVERSATION
THE BLIZZARD
THE PUB
THE VOICE
THE LIGHT PLACE
ALBERT
THE LIGHT PLACE
1954
THE LIGHT PLACE
1955
MEETING AVA
THE SNOW CAVE
1960
WITH THE ANGELS
ALBERT
THE LIGHT PLACE
THE SNOW CAVE
THE LIGHT PLACE
ALBERT
1995
1996
THE LIGHT PLACE
ALBERT
THE LIGHT PLACE
THE CELEBRATION
THE CHOICE
WITH THE ANGELS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
