Call me Shoshoni. Or Ishmael or Peggy Sue or whatever you choose. There is little meaning in my name since even in the flesh, I am but a pliable energy field that observers shape with their opinions of how I look, act, and feel to them. Those who have danced in my feminine field have called me everything from saint to slut, and I cannot argue with their views. Are we not all like the elephant probed by five blind men who swear to five different perspectives of our true nature?
After touching me through this book, perhaps you will call me the author’s muse or his murderess or maybe just another piece of his scattered mind. For the moment, it is best to simply consider me your tour guide from the future. Arriving from five weeks hence, I have come back to join you in tale in late December to expedite your journey through The Now or Never, a trip that encompasses the Kumba Mehla festival plus a fortnight more of sunrises and words.
Shri Shri Cy Bubha’s foreword to this book has already hinted at our protagonist’s presence at the Kumba Mehla along with a Sedona souvenir tile and a dubious guardian angel that are destined to cross his path there. In the three weeks between now and that time we shall endeavor to pick up salient breadcrumbs along the trail that give context and clues to adventures to come. Thieving monkeys, mysterious notes, a turquoise umbrella, fetish studs, and other strange accoutrements shall pepper our upcoming path as the Kumba Mehla draws near.
But not to get ahead of the tale, we turn to one such clue that was already encountered last evening in Guruji’s office, the Foreign Guest Registry. Picking up the story this late afternoon, our forgetful character has returned to the office where he now scrutinizes more information found in the registry—a book providing both valuable links to the past and hints of upcoming events.
DECEMBER 29 – afternoon
Name, Steven Joseph Shupe; place of birth, Manhattan, Kansas; age 49; arrival at Phool Chatti Ashram on 14th December from New Delhi; no current home address. You copy down your passport and visa numbers then thumb back through the pages of the Foreign Guest Registry 2000 looking for your previous visits. From a summary of facts left for yourself to read this morning in the hut, you expect to find a September entry as well. There it is, your arrival at Phool Chatti from New Delhi on 13th September, departing two months later for McLeodganj, with the final column registering your parting written comment: Perfect place for writing by day, for dreaming by night. Thank you.
As you review earlier pages of the registry in Guruji’s office, you see how the number of foreign visitors to the ashram reflects the local climate. Almost none arrived during the sweltering summer monsoon, then the numbers picked up in October and November, slackening off as winter cool sent tourists migrating further south. You are the only overnight guest to have registered since early December. The peak visiting season, however, is clearly in March and April with dozens of entries. There is your name again, indicating you arrived last April 3rd, departing eight days later with the written comment: A surprise treat to discover this gem! Thank you for welcoming us.
Us? You eagerly look for the other component of an us and quickly deduce that there she is immediately below your name: Alberta Theisen, Calgary, Canada, age 31, dates and the departing destination the same as yours. Her written comment is more succinct: Helluva heavenly place!
You rescan the pages from April onward looking for additional signs of your sacrilegious companion. Bingo, another hit: Alberta Theisen arriving on 5th November from Poona, leaving 13th November for McLeodganj, the same day as your departure. Her comment, with a quite active verb scratched out with only partial success, reads Perfect place for writing by day, for fu----g by night. Thank you. You can only guess what her profane appearance in November might have done to your writing and dream work—and to the ashram in general.
SHOSHONI: Indeed, Ms. Theisen’s large and vocal presence rarely goes unnoticed wherever she spends her nights—and we will encounter her up close and personal before the drama ends. But for the present, when Steven returns to his garden hut from the office, he encounters the next clue, a typed page commanding, “Refrane from…
TRAIL BOSS: Whoa there! A feller takes a catnap and the next thing you know some little missy has taken over the reins to drive the wagon.
SHOSHONI: My apologies, master of the trail. I harbor no intention of usurping your position. I have arrived simply to bring some perspective to your host’s story in order to enlighten those experiencing it through written word.
TRAIL BOSS: And who might you be sticking your nose into our business? And why in blazes can’t I see you?
SHOSHONI: We share not the same dimension of vision, since I am a visitor from the future. But rest assured, we have the same goal of efficient progress along the protagonist’s trail through amnesia. Call me Shoshoni.
TRAIL BOSS: Well, Miss Shoshoni, I can’t complain if a gal from the future rides shotgun on this stage of forgetfulness. Care to give an old trail boss some suggestions about what I can do to get my host out of our amnesia predicament?
SHOSHONI: I am sorry, dear one, but you and the rest of the pieces of Steven’s scattered mind must find your own way along the misty trail. When you desire, however, we can observe together from shoulder perch as events unfold, and hold discourse that may inform the reader and be of use to you as well.
TRAIL BOSS: Sounds good. So let’s get started with your explaining about that piece of paper he just now found in his hut, with the message: “Refrane from mixed gender nude bathing for the sake of the ashram’s raputation!” Anything you can say to enlighten us time-bound folks about this message?
SHOSHONI: As you can see, the note is faintly typed on a manual machine in obvious need of a new ribbon.
TRAIL BOSS: Yep, and being a part of the protagonist’s mind, I can also sense he mistakenly believes such a note is routinely given to all ashram guests.
SHOSHONI: True, plus he does not realize that this poorly spelled missive had been composed in response to reports of his naked intimacy riverside with Prema yesterday—and that the note was placed in the hut during his absence while at morning meditation.
TRAIL BOSS: Who the heck snuck into his hut to put it there, missy? Or would answering that contravene your prime directive of non-interference with the host mind?
SHOSHONI: Yes, we shall leave that answer for further conjecture and unveiling. For now, let us hasten the tale forward by reporting that underneath the note, Steven finds the flyer announcing the opportunity for serious seekers and the gullible wealthy to meet with the magnificent Shri Shri Cy Bubha on December 30, tomorrow, at the Shakti Café in Laxman Jhula. Amused by the invitation and after noticing the need to purchase more candles, he plans a shopping trip to include listening to the self-realized master.
TRAIL BOSS: Then let’s shake a leg, missy.
SHOSHONI: As you wish. Tomorrow’s afternoon bus trip into town goes smoothly and, upon arrival at the Shakti Cafe, Steven ends up sitting silently at a table adjacent to where the questionable guru is holding an animated discussion with three young British men. Shall we not eavesdrop as well?
DECEMBER 30 – afternoon
“You gotta be kidding, guys!” Shri Shri Cy Bubha huffs, leaning back in his chair with arms folded in disgust. “How can I talk to a trio of dummies who still think they’re defined by their body and brain?”
The middle British man tries to explain, “I know that I’m really just consciousness, but its home is in my body. That’s what I have been saying all along and you keep changing my words.”
“Well even that’s crapola,” the guru responds in Western vernacular but with Hindi accent. “If you think that you live in a house, you’re still attached to it. And this attachment to your human embodiment—a trap that every toddler falls into—begins your lifetime of suffering.”
“Oh bloody hell, that’s why so much of this Eastern religion stuff stinks,” declares the man on the left. “You blokes try to convince us that earthly existence is all suffering and misery. I’m quite happy with m
y life,” he asserts forcefully.
“Me, too,” interjects the middle man in support of his friend.
“Oh, get real guys. Happy just means that you’re distracted from feeling your pain at the moment.” Cy yBubha holds up a hand to silence their objections, and quickly adds, “But for the sake of harmony and for potential mega-donations of your rupees to me, I’ll concede that nothing is wrong with being happy. Happy is like a decent table wine, so go ahead and indulge in a glass or two each day to relax and even improve circulation.
“But when a person or a whole culture makes the pursuit of happiness a primary goal, it’s like chugging cheap wine all day, fogging reality and losing clarity, creativity, and the ability to embrace all the experiences that make up the human condition. Life just becomes a frantic quest for more, more, more money, sex, comfort, thrills, possessions, gods, relationships, and other external stimuli which are never enough to find lasting happiness because the real source of bliss lies within ourselves.” Cy Bubha abruptly shifts focus to your table and asks, “Comprende, amigo?”
Startled, you point to your lapel button and reply in serious tone, “I am in silence.”
The guru takes a breath to respond to your familiar and paradoxical pronouncement of imposed silence, but then simply stares at you for a moment before turning back to continue with the three Brits. “So, ultimately the ego’s addiction to happy robs you, your true consciousness, of finding the inner connection with something more real, more deep. It’s a poor tradeoff that most of you Western winos don’t even know you’re choosing, unless you are one of the brave, the few, to be willing to die to your earthly ego.”
The man on the left looks befuddled. “You mean we have to wait until death to return to a state of oneness and bliss?”
Boredom and discouragement are reflected in the guru’s voice as he answers sarcastically, “Yeah, right. But if you can first give away what you have accumulated in life—say, for instance, giving your hundred-rupee notes to me—then the ability to release your grasping ego and to achieve bliss is greatly accelerated. Shall we try a demonstration, gentlemen?” Cy Bubha concludes while shifting a wicker donation basket from his lap to the table.
“It’s always the same with you greedy holy guys,” grumbles the middle man as he tosses a ten-rupee note into the basket. He and his friends quickly depart.
Looking at the money and shaking his head Bubha reverts to Texas drawl, “About two-bits worth of rupees, not even enough to buy a cuppa joe at the Flying J, is it buddy boy?” He looks at you with a grin. “Let’s truck on over to the German Bakery where you can buy me a cinnamon roll and tea. Those guys were getting on my nerves.”
You have enjoyed this man’s theatrics with the Brits and see no harm in continuing to watch his performance, so long as you keep your amnesia to yourself. You also have to admit that the idea of connecting with a fellow human being feels comforting. But for now you remain silent, as does your companion, while leaving the cafe and walking toward the footbridge where monkeys line the rails.
“Better hold that daypack against your chest, pal. Even a hairless ape like myself can catch a whiff of papaya in it,” warns Cy Bubha.
“Thanks,” you say slipping off your in-silence button. “So what’s a nice Texas drawl doing with a guy like you anyway?” you ask, trying to show him that you are no dummy in word and wit.
“Born and bred in Austin and when I see a homeboy like yourself, I enjoy reverting to my verbal roots. With that remnant of Midwestern twang of yours, I figure us to be neighbors. You from somewhere over the rainbow or thereabouts?”
“Not a bad guess, but the answer is simply that my home is Phool Chatti Ashram.” You add with a smile, “I’m a ‘present’ kind of guy who left my old personality back on the farm with Auntie Em and am currently swimming in that proverbial ocean of bliss.”
“Looks more like a dog paddle in a muddy pond,” Bubha laughs. “But don’t let me rob you of your delusions, our best defense against the harsh winds of reality, eh pal?”
“Works for me,” you agree while falling into single file on the narrow bridge to make way for passing pilgrims, bringing a temporary end to the banter. You are happy to interact with another human being, although you feel a sense of unease from the incongruity of this man: Texas accent coming from a Hindu swami; long, sinewy arms on a short, round body; wit and wisdom pouring from a face that looks to give nothing away. You cross the bridge, walk up concrete stairs to the German Bakery, and take a seat at a table with perfect Ganga view.
“So what do people call you?” you ask. “Mr. Bubha? Shri?”
“No, Shri is just a title like, The Honorable mister so and so. And there are some pompous gurus like myself who think we warrant at least two Shri’s before our good names.” He puts his feet up and continues, “But a homeboy like yourself can call me Bubha. Actually, it’s Cyrus ‘Bubha’ Rajnish. My parents were New Delhi transplants, two Indian college kids in Austin when I was born. The name Cyrus comes from Cyrus Wilkinson, my father’s mentor at Texas. Bubha was the nickname designed to help me fit into the local culture, while the chocolate nigger became my schoolyard moniker which demonstrates how poorly I succeeded.”
Bubha seems to be warming to the talk and, underneath the flippancy, you suspect that he shares your need to communicate on a personal level. “Compared to the USA, do you feel at home and accepted in India?” you ask, hoping to learn more about this enigmatic man.
“Not really. As a child, I spoke Hindi with my parents which helped me to assimilate when I came to India a few years back. But basically I’m still a strange duck in a stranger land. Usually, though, I let my spiritual flock assume I’m a local Rishikesh swami educated in the States. Somehow, rupees flow more readily to an Indian mystic than to an American expatriate with Texas drawl.”
A waiter arrives and is directed by your hungry tablemate to bring two cinnamon rolls and two teas. As the server retreats, Bubha tells him to halt and asks you, “Aren’t you going to have anything, homeboy?”
You put in a half order for yourself and turn back to the grinning guru with a question. “So, how did your path lead you to India?”
Your query provides an opening that Bubha quickly fills. “Well, first I had to waste a few years at an ivy covered med school before figuring out that the idealistic doctor is subservient to his malpractice lawyer who’s beholden to his insurance agent who is in bed with his pharmaceutical rep. My lobbying for a holistic approach to healing the human energy body did little to endear me to the academic powers-that-be who still treat patients as pieces of meat rather than as dynamic energy fields that the quantum physicists have known for decades—and my Asian ancestors have understood for millennia.
“Ultimately, my premature release from the institution was hastened when I informed the Dean that the only major change in modern medicine since George Washington’s time was that the blood-sucking leeches began wearing suits. So I worked in auto sales until eventually getting back into the healing arts, dabbling in various alternative techniques. From there my true calling arose and I became a professional psychic in the early 1990’s, moving to the West Coast.”
The waiter interrupts with your food as Bubha and you take pause to nibble and sip without talking. You then ask, “Were you for real as a psychic reader?”
Your tablemate gives you an irritated look. “Of course I was for real since we are all basically psychic; and I was a phony because that’s part of our basic nature, too. Never ask a trickster a yes or no question because hiding behind all answers is a paradox. Don’t you remember our little conversation along the Ganga shore the other day?”
“That’s a yes or no question,” you parry and innocently sip your tea. But your heart rate increases as you realize how thin a line you are walking to keep your amnesia a secret.
Bubha licks his fingers clean then asks, “So what’s your story, your sorry excuse for hiding out in Phool Chatti Ashram like some fugitive from reality?”
<
br /> “Actually, there’s not much to tell,” you reply truthfully and leave it at that.
“Just as I thought,” Bubha responds while nodding knowingly. “Ah, but cross my psychic palm with a doughnut and Cyrus the Wise will fill in the blanks.”
He waves to the waiter, ordering a doughnut for each of his palms and one for you. In your head and with the help of the menu posted on the wall you calculate that your bill has just reached the century mark in rupees. Right around two dollars. Not bad, but with only about 800 known rupees left to your name, the tab rekindles your insecurity about your uncertain future clouded by amnesia.
You wish you could overcome your fear of exposing your forgetful condition and then confide in your new friend to get his help. After a moment’s hesitation, you lean forward and ask Bubha in a tentative whisper, “Can I trust you?”
Instead of giving tender solace, your prospective confidante rears back while striking his fists on the table as all eyes turn to see what the commotion is about. All ears get to hear as Bubha grabs your shirt collar and shouts. “Damn it, man, either you’re in an internal state of trust or you’re not. Don’t pretend to give your power of trust away to me or to any of those jerks watching us out there!” he concludes while sweeping an arm at the startled diners. But his demeanor shifts immediately to delight as the waiter enters the scene with doughnuts.
You are shaken. Is this a trickster technique or is this man mad—or both?
“Your notion of trusting someone, pal, is ultimately about mindfucking people with guilt and disappointment when they don’t live up to your controlling expectations—and it all explodes,” he continues with his mouth full. “Did you like my little demonstration?”
You refuse to answer, feeling manipulated and still a little shaky. A half doughnut later, however, you concede a quiet, “Go on.”
Your companion gives you a thumbs up sign and states, “Now true trust, the internal kind, comes from knowing that everything—the good, the bad, and the spaghetti Western—is bringing you exactly what you need to transcend earthly madness and return to heavenly bliss. So the real question, homeboy, is not whether you can trust me, but rather, are you in a state of internal trust to accept that both Cyrus ‘Bubha’ Rajnish as well as your amnesia are serving perfectly on the journey through life?”
You sit there dumbfounded. How could he have known about your loss of memory?
“Oh, don’t look so surprised. When you’re sharing the stage with a master magician don’t try using cheap parlor tricks to fool him.” Bubha takes a final sip of tea. “Anyway, what is it you wanted to ask me about your handicapped brain?”
This guy is starting to get scary but you feel he might be able to help with a quandary that is inhibiting your ability to overcome your forgetfulness. You briefly explain to Bubha the predicament of being somehow locked into a daily routine of morning exercises, meditation, and afternoon bathing that prevents you from having sufficient time to read all the dream journals, diary entries, The ReMinder, and other informative material at your hut in one sitting. You wish to spend an entire day scrutinizing and analyzing all the writings with hope of discovering the cause and perhaps even a cure for forgetfulness—or failing that, to at least write a summary of your investigation to build upon.
“And of course, every night I forget the stuff I do have time to read and it seems I have to start over again the next day and the next and the next,” you state in frustration.
Bubha thinks briefly and suggests, “Try sleeping outside your hut for a night and awaken away from the stimuli that trigger your addiction to this daily routine. It’s unlikely to bring back your memory but it might keep you from doing a cheap imitation of Bill Murray on February Second. And don’t tell me you can’t remember seeing Groundhog Day. That flick outshines Buddha’s teachings as the greatest story ever told of reincarnation and the path to liberation.”
“Not a bad idea,” you think aloud pondering his suggestion to sleep outside in order to free up a full day for research. “And yes, I know of Bill Murray and his Groundhog Day movie. But it’s like I can’t actually remember seeing the film, I just remember about it. There’s lots of info in the computer banks of my brain but no sense of experience or aliveness to it; sort of like looking at a postcard.”
“Everything is flat except this magic moment, the naked now that you happen to be in,” Bubha posits.
“That about sums it up.”
Bubha slides his chair away from the table. “Not to change the subject, but you’re going to give Guruji a fit of worry if you don’t catch a jeep back to Phool Chatti soon, particularly if he knew ya’ll was hanging out with the likes of me.”
Your watch indicates that dinnertime at the ashram is only a half hour away. “Doesn’t Guruji like you?” you ask while standing to leave and dropping a 100-rupee note on the table.
Bubha follows and answers, “He doesn’t seem to approve of my innovative approach to swamiology. And he certainly would be upset if he knew I was corrupting you with it.”
“Why?” you ask proceeding down the stairs towards the bridge. “Why should Guruji care what I do?”
Bubha stops in mid-step and pauses to look squarely at you. “Aw, fiddlesticks,” he finally says. “Look, Guruji minds his own business and I mind mine. Let’s just say he has a special interest in you and leave it at that, okay?”
You have no time to prod him further on this topic as the bakery cashier bounds down the steps indicating that you forgot to pay the bill—and, “No sir, there was no money left on your table.”
“Those local waiters, you just can’t trust ‘em,” Bubha smirks as you reluctantly hand another hundred rupees to the cashier.
“Trust, an interesting topic about which I was recently tested,” you reply caustically while giving your trickster companion an accusatory stare. “First, I trust that my disappearing hundred-rupee note found its way to precisely the right person who needed it. Second, I trust that this incident gives me the opportunity to learn, grow, and get closer to my destiny of heavenly bliss. And third, I trust you’d give me back the stolen money if I asked.”
“Good, buddy boy. Two out of three right answers ain’t bad for a zombie without memory,” he laughs as you both stride across the bridge towards the jeep stand. Upon arrival, Bubha haggles briefly in Hindi with a driver, then you and your travel mate hop into a rickety jeep that kicks into gear. Driving up the narrow road, your progress is slowed by the daily return of pilgrims in numerous vehicles from Neelkanth Ashram. Nonetheless, you pull up to Phool Chatti in plenty of time for dinner.
“It’s a hundred rupees for the ride here and another 150 up to my home at Neelkanth,” Bubha states with his hand out to you, palm up. You hesitate and he quickly adds with a shrug, “Hey, I’m just a poor sadhu.”
As you count your remaining rupees in your money belt you respond, “Well, I’m just a fellow with seven hundred rupees to his name and no idea of how to get more.”
“Don’t worry about it, pal,” Bubha cheerfully suggests. “As Pastor Jake used to say back in Austin: Worry is a mild form of atheism. Control is a bit more severe a case. Just surrender and trust.” Reluctantly, you surrender over the money and trust that he and the driver will have a good laugh as they drive off towards Neelkanth village.
What a guy. What a day. But it was an afternoon well spent, you feel, as you walk to the ashram dining hall thinking of Bubha’s suggestion about how to break free—at least for a day—from your regular cycle. Yes, it is a good idea to sleep one night away from the familiar hut, an idea that you will start planning after dinner.
TRAIL BOSS: Hot damn, the plan actually works, doesn’t it?
SHOSHONI: Yes, Steven sleeps out the next night at a lovely riverside spot near the ashram and awakens without feeling the compelling, unconscious need to go through exercises, meditation, and the rest of his daily routine.
TRAIL BOSS: Ah, heck, but it doesn’t cure the amnesia, at least as far as I can see
to the next horizon.
SHOSHONI: No, my dear, I’m afraid that you and your host’s mind will remain in forgetfulness for some time to come. But as you see in the short term, he does follow the instructional notes to spend the free day reading all the papers in the hut. And in the evening he is able to compose useful summaries of the dream notebooks, daily journal entries, and other written material to help his future incarnations quickly understand important background and insights gleaned from the day’s research.
TRAIL BOSS: Hey, lookie there. He’s just found something we hadn’t discovered before.
SHONONI: Correct again, my alert friend. As bedtime approaches, after opening a large envelope from Ravi’s Place he uncovers—tucked beneath some photocopied chapters by an Indian writer with unpronounceable name—Section Two of The ReMinder composed two months earlier. Having already studied Section One in the afternoon, he eagerly climbs into bed to read this manuscript which picks up where his personal history enters the mind-bending decade of the 1990’s.
The ReMinder: Chapter 6
We teeter on the brink of watching new love blossom in the southern Colorado Rockies in November 1991. Bedside in Alamosa hospital, nurse Ann administers care, patient Sandra reclines with lingering infection, and this infatuated visitor stands ready to fall head over heels into the great unknown. But chronology in our story and more cross-cultural education demand a temporal leap backwards for a second stop at the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. Another journey calls, circa 1988, a winding drive with Sam Moves Camp in my trusty van to nudge me back on the path to deconstruct my conventional reality.
For splintered stick and fiery stone, karmic lessons from a prior visit with Moves Camp to the mystical realm, quickly recede into the category of coincidence in a logical mind that had grown comfortable with a more controllable—and lucrative—existence. Yes, self-employment (i.e., combining my legal and engineering skills as a water resource consultant) had indeed created a clear, focused, and rich world for my self-satisfied Identity in the late 1980’s.
But such clarity was entering a twilight stage where reality shatters to expose a dimension of existence beyond the controllable. Mysterious events are soon to be witnessed firsthand with medicine man Sam that can no longer be conveniently called coincidence. So I turn this tale over to the master of the metaphysical, the prime time purveyor of the paranormal, the narrator of note from The Twilight Zone itself, Mr. Rod Serling! Take it away, Rod.
“The comfort of our journeyer is about to end, his grip of control slipping away like the sands of time. A lawyer drives to court his judgment day, an engineer prepares to hurtle off the known track. For our next stop is the Twilight Zone, the twilight of logic’s despotic reign, where at the end of a long, lonesome highway in South Dakota, our journeyer comes face to face with the paranormal. As a disembodied ‘hee-hee-hee’ arises from an empty passenger seat, ghostly laughter that echoes—”
CUT! Damn it, cut! No, Mr. Serling, the passenger seat is not empty. There is a short medicine man sitting there hee-hee-ing at his jokes. You just can’t see him over the dashboard. But come to think of it (gulp), this diminutive guy’s power to hurl mighty karmagrams at his overgrown teasers probably extends to India. So, er uh, I’ll take over from here, Rod. Thanks.
Dr. Sam Moves Camp, the medicine man extraordinaire, (who has grown ever more handsome and wise over the past three years—and whom I promise never to taunt as being short again) and I were driving away from the South Dakota Penitentiary, an aging fortress in the spring of 1988 in which the need for free legal advice was acute. One of the most poignant moments of my thirty-something years had just occurred upon saying good-bye to Sam’s younger brother after a long interview in the prison. Strolling together from the visitation room, I turned left towards an exit of springtime greenery while the incarcerated brother pivoted right into an unknown number of unrelenting gray years in confinement.
Exercising our blessed freedom of movement, Sam and I headed westward through open vistas towards Pine Ridge to visit an elderly medicine man in whom Moves Camp had much faith. Such trust he did not have in me, however, since Sam felt that something shadowy lurked beneath the surface that I would not admit, or perhaps did not even know about myself. Consequently, the ceremony being prepared by the elder for our arrival was designed, among other purposes, to ferret out the truth that hid behind my seemingly transparent and well-meaning exterior—a ceremony called Yuwipi.
Ouch. Sorry folks, but another break in the narrative here, this one for real. Something just happened in my heart to stop me. (I meant to write ‘in my hut’, but in my heart came out on the paper instead.) The inner Guiding Hand is indeed nudging me firmly. Up until this moment, I had intended to fully share the details of the Yuwipi ceremony and describe how it did a shake-and-bake number on my rational mind. But a compelling feeling arises inside me not to do so. Perhaps some sacred traditions are not to be exposed, ancient mysteries are not to be poured forth and diluted by an author’s desire for titillation, a few laughs, or to make a dramatic impression. Oh well.
Suffice it to say that at the Yuwipi ceremony deep prayers were invoked by five Lakota people and a few words of good intention were awkwardly mumbled by this non-Indian guest who tried unsuccessfully to enter the flow of prayer while objects and lights defied the laws of nature as I understood them at the time. (No, no hallucinogens involved.) At ceremony’s end, the old medicine man related in Lakota language the messages the spirit guides had brought him, as the other participants listened intently and, at one point, laughed heartily at his debriefing.
Moves Camp later translated salient parts of the elder’s talk for me, saying that a powerful spirit guide was watching over me so that my work with Native peoples would go well. When I questioned Sam about the cause of the laughter, he replied with a shrug, “The spirit reassured us that you were an okay person, even though you pray like a White guy.”
Oh. Thus, I received my first personal message from the twilight world of the spirits. The second such inter-dimensional communication, significantly more uplifting than a critique of my sorry prayer technique, arrived via Lorraine during the mystical, magical week preceding beloved Ann’s betrayal on March 15, 1992. Beware the Ides of March.
The ReMinder: Chapter 7
The recent reminder of the power of word creates in me a twinge of guilt since there is nothing more despicable in literature than a snobbish author applying games of intellectual one-upmanship against the reader, n’est-ce pas? Tools of this loathsome trade include obtuse references to cultural nuances; perhaps a foreign quotation left untranslated; or an in-joke of the intelligentsia lost on the more common readers, leaving you feeling small and toad-like in your cultural depravity. So forgive me for forgetting that you may be of dissimilar age or upbringing than moi—and for blindly assuming that you tuned to the same TV networks that warped my young mind and sculpted my current intellectual profile.
In remedy of this thoughtless oversight, the ‘Kemosabe’ mentioned in Section One of The ReMinder refers to the masked Lone Ranger; ‘Toto’ implies the proximity of Dorothy of Wizard of Oz fame (seen annually at Halloween on Channel 13 from Topeka); and the previous “Jeepers…” quote arises from a cub reporter directed to the defender of truth, justice, and the American way himself, Superman. In addition, to ensure that all readers feel intellectually empowered, we take a station break to share a few words about the lives of these cultural icons as they relate to topics at hand.
The Lone Ranger began a nondescript career as one of many rangers, then received a Rushdie-esque boost of good fortune along the spiritual path: Having his entire contingent of close friends and ranger colleagues wiped out in massacre. Definitely this was an effective aid in losing Identity and being born anew; but kids, don’t try this at home. Seizing the golden opportunity, the Lone Ranger surrendered his name and donned a nifty mask in furtherance of Identity’s dismemberment. An excellent step but unfortunately he fell victim to Survivor�
��s Guilt Syndrome and felt compelled to constantly help the rural oppressed and needy, thereby rekindling ego to such a degree he ended up compulsively distributing silver bullets to claim full and lasting credit for his heroic deeds.
Likewise, Superman received a Rushdie-esque boost of good fortune along the spiritual path: Being orphaned at a young age and shuttled to an entirely different planet. Definitely this was an effective aid in losing Identity and being born anew; but kids, don’t try this one at home either. Seizing this golden opportunity, Superman donned colorful costume and covered it with mild-mannered disguise in furtherance of Identity’s dismemberment. An excellent step but he fell prey to delusions of grandeur and felt compelled, after leaping tall buildings, to constantly help the urban oppressed and needy, thereby rekindling ego to such a degree he became a journalist to ensure that his heroic deeds received proper credit and column space.
Our Dorothy also received a Rushdie-esque stroke of good luck along the spiritual path: Being sucked up by major cyclone and deposited into an entirely new dimension of reality somewhere over the rainbow. Definitely this was an effective aid in losing Identity and being born anew. And kids, if you can manage to pull this one off, go for it! Although squashing an Eastern bystander in the process, Dorothy suffered no lasting remorse. Au contraire, she proceeded with Midwestern practicality to loot the dead body of its valuable slippers. Upon discovering her ability to freely roam the space-time continuum with a mere click of the heels, Dorothy stood on the brink of full liberation. Unfortunately, her old persona misinterpreted the cosmic message regarding the infinite variety and unique opportunities now available to her in the universe—i.e., There’s no place like home—thereby sending our heroine tumbling back to familiar farm and dusty plain, sans slippers and enlightenment.
So none of these cultural icons provided much of a role model for awakening the spirits of us youthful boomers who eagerly watched the tube. Although Rod Serling, after frying his brain as creator, writer, and host of The Twilight Zone, reportedly achieved liberation and is now the Ascended Master Kuthumi available for telepathic channeling. Other rumors, however, indicate he changed his name to Michael Landon in order to reestablish his roots to the earth. For there is nothing so grounding as being called Pa in prairie setting, unless it is responding to John Boy in another little house—but we mustn’t mix metaphors or networks. Shows a lack of culture, mais oui!
WHEW, THIS CATHARSIS business can be hard work, particularly when tackling the knee-deep garbage in the TV closet, including pails of advertising propaganda. Unfortunately, a full housecleaning of my childhood’s electronic brainwashing would likely cause even the most loyal of readers to jump ship. For who among you now or ever cared about Moola Coola, the soft drink that comes from a cow-wow? Although perhaps a few of you early boomers could sing along with our love for Bosco, the instant chocolate drink. Then we could gyrate together while styling our hair with Dippity-Doo and whitening our teeth with hexa, hexa, hexacholorophene!
No, this is enough benediction for the TV-addled brain of my Identity (although grant me dispensation for an occasional jingle to emerge from the depths). Also, you may need to shield delicate sensibilities against a few more bodily fluids and sophomoric references that are likely needed to purge my repressed adolescent. And, for those who have suffered through the pain of lost love, keep emotional prophylactics handy as we come to have full knowledge of nurse Ann—the anatomically correct version demanded by truth and catharsis.
For now, however, a pair of more pressing topics stand in the immediate path of cathartic tale: Money and career. The discerning reader has likely detected a certain pride in my offhand mention of successfully melding my intellect and virtue to save the planet’s waters while making, ahem, quite a bit of coola moola. Yes, money and career were evil twins that flexed their claws in the go-go Eighties to snatch the unwary from the brink of new realities and spiritual opportunity.
So in 1988, while driving southward from the Yuwipi ceremony with my new Costner-esque power name, Prays-Like-a-White-Guy had a problem. My recent enthusiastic thrusts of self-employment had evolved into the presidency and ownership of a small but thriving water consulting corporation in Santa Fe, a situation sorely needing remedy in order to free up time for the wild and wacky events of the 90’s.
How bad an ego trap were money and career at the time? My Identity eagerly jumps in with a quote: “Steering a delicate course aimed at finding common, fair solutions among competing water users, Shupe is one of the prominent forces for peaceful evolution in Western water policies.” (Los Angeles Times, September 10, 1989) Ah, national prominence and newsprint, chuckles Ego, with quotes in Newsweek, The Wall Street Journal, and Business Week to boot. Albeit short ones, it adds, feigning humility.
And now, with a sigh, the time arrives to take my first vacation in years. With a trusty trio of employees holding down the Santa Fe fort in 1989, I cast my gaze to southern horizons where virgin beauty arises upon volcanic isles, ready to follow in Darwin’s legacy of upturned tortoises, filched finches, and incapacitated iguanas that aptly demonstrate Man’s fitness (or at least fervor) to survive.
But no, the Reagan era has recently given way to the papa Bush blip, and the travel brochure offers a kinder, gentler approach to the Galapagos Islands this autumn. Sailing softly by night between magical islands and sea kayaking by day to visit these gems abounding with wildlife—a promise to provide peaceful currents for recharging the batteries and prominent force of this overworking control freak.
The long and the short of the attempted Galapagos vacation, beginning with the short: Beautiful place, lots of swell creatures. The long: Long nights listening to a noisy diesel engine (silly me, thinking that sailing involved sails) and long days spent hiking as part of a tour group while our single inflatable kayak remained tied to the deck (oh, that’s see kayak, not sea kayak). This hardly provided the nourishment needed for maintaining body, soul, and chi; but could it be reason alone to derail a fulfilling career that nourished one’s ego and bank account?
No, that justification arose upon my reentry into the Santa Fe office, lagging jets and all, to discover that my business manager had just taken off on a spontaneous, romantic interlude to Paris with a client. Next, I checked in with a newly hired research assistant who turned out to suffer from environmental allergies—which was fine so long as research involved no contact with equipment or supplies invented after 1850. Then, the trusty employee whom I was training to take over our publishing efforts said she was awaiting a phone call from the local adoption agency that would lead to roughly thirty seconds of notice before she quit to become a full-time parent.
I was left, therefore, with a nose that still yearned to smell the roses but that promised to be pressed squarely to the grindstone for indefinite spin. After some soul searching (and discovering it was hard to find) I announced what Christmas gifts would greet our remaining troupe at year’s end. Santa would give me a shiny, new one-year sabbatical retreat, while the others would receive personalized pink slips—and no, Virginia, not the kind you wear on romantic Paris rendezvous.
The ReMinder: Chapter 8
A powerful dream lingers in my mind from last night, an awe-inspiring experience as it gave me a glimpse into the Library of all-knowing. I arrive at this colossal turquoise and tan edifice dominated by lofty columns carved in intricate Oriental motif, a structure of grandeur and beauty exceeding any ever before seen in my awake or dreamtime worlds. Entering the Library’s vast interior, I peer around a huge wooden door into a hall full of monks of both genders who move steadily with focus and purpose.
I feel small, uncertain, ignorant. Must I take off my shoes to enter? Where is everyone going; what should I do? I quickly retreat outside where an inscription on the Library wall declares that all the encyclopedias of the realm lie within this building and, As far as we know, this is the largest library in the world. I feel impressed by the honesty of this message, then awaken in my little hut
.
I relive this dream now, writing its summary and thinking I am no longer asleep. But maybe I am still a slumbering spirit who will someday awaken into the next colorful dimension of awareness that makes my rooftop reality of garden splendor and Ganga roar seem like a gray dream. But I am not yet that free or even able to enter the grand Library of my current dreams, still lost without my dark-haired, clear-eyed dream escort. A female guide remains frozen, a door stays closed, while a Mind awaits full restoration.
So I return now to pen and paper as the refuge of the ignorant, retracing my steps through reality as I have known it, seeing myself in late 1989 laying my corporation to rest; a consultant fulfilling final promises to old clients and readying my weary self for a sabbatical year in which to ruminate and rejuvenate, to keep abreast of the water resources field, maybe do a bit of writing. Then at year’s end, I expect to reemerge into the profession as a lean, mean consulting machine, unburdened of corporate trappings and with prominent forces revitalized.
I should clarify that my current rooftop self is entering the second decade of my one-year sabbatical, which sounds ever-so-much more respectable than ten years of unemployment. The break began in early 1990 with various reading, writing, and rambling from rocky Maine shore to Southwestern canyons. My aging van carried me from one scenic wonder to another that proved invigorating as well as stimulating to creative juices which began to flow in mind as a plot for a novel heralding a devastating planetary shift that would wreak havoc upon a complacent society ignorantly out of balance with its natural heritage. Annihilation? Wait, or maybe salvation!
Enter Marla, an extraordinary woman working to fight the greedy ruling Elites of the wobbling planet through the collective power of the virtuous Planters, the native Guardians, and the rugged, tree-hugging Advocates. Aided by mighty Mingo, the interstellar hunk (not to be confused with Mingo, the intellectual Mohawk seen weekly with Daniel Boone on Channel 5) who materializes in the nick of time to join the fray. “Glory be, finally a man to match my mountains,” gasps Marla
As autumn colors deepened on my sabbatical journey, just one more stop was required—in Crestone, Colorado to inspect this sacred valley’s landscape as the model for the book’s finale. As tremors shake their world, the marvelous Mingo and magnificent Marla blaze an arduous trail towards the interior, inexorably pulled to the sacred peak, Crestonia. Is the deep, low hum of the mountain a sign that it is time for cataclysm? Would the Guardian spirits allow a planetary shift to occur? Can Marla and Mingo help shift the collective consciousness instead? Will love survive?!!!
Hell if I know. My van died—right in the shadow of Crestone Peak.
PERHAPS IT IS NOT INTUITIVELY obvious why a dead vehicle in the autumn of 1990 would deter me from writing the story of Marla and Mingo upon which I had obsessed for several months. Or worse yet, your intuition may be saying that the author is a quitter, a lout with a glass jaw who goes down with the first punch of adversity. Give the guy a bad vacation in the Galapagos and he throws away his career. Then a little engine trouble and he tosses in the towel on his first novel.
No, there is more to the story than meets the eye, and I will endeavor to clear up any misconceptions about my character that past comments might have created…
Oh crap, if that isn’t a transparent and pathetic cry from a defensive self-image, I don’t know what is. Looks like trouble is brewing with a capital ‘I’ in this supposed benediction to bury one’s obsolete Identity. Let’s just give this resurrecting ego a quick shove back into the abyss and get on with the sabbatical story in Crestone—as well as leave Marla and Mingo to their own devices. [Ed. Note: For those readers interesting in following the duo’s escapades amid planetary upheaval, see The Nyxall Chronicles—The ‘I’ of the Storm, finally written in 2010.]
So with a dead van and being two miles distance from the nearest house, I surrendered to circumstance and slept that night under an October sky that would make John Denver croon. I awoke with a Rocky Mountain high, complete with the urge to buy this small piece of the vast valley that embraced me that morn. Fortuitously, the van now started without glitch and carried me to a local real estate agent in Crestone town who, after a couple days of phone calls and paperwork, sold me the land upon which I had slept and which I anticipated might someday harbor a little getaway cabin for future retreat.
As I then drove off to complete my sabbatical journey and return to the professional fold, the van had the final word. The engine gave out in mid-stroke not five miles from town. This time its death met with no magical resurrection, no pistons springing back to life. I simply caught a ride back to Crestone, once more surrendering to the nudges of destiny.
So instead of donning a consultant’s hat at year’s end, I endeavored to build a log cabin on the newly purchased home site, an act that threw a life-changing curve into long-range expectations hurled in large part by Crestone neighbor Lorraine, by meeting beloved nurse Ann, and through the surprise appearance of non-corporeal company in new dimensions of reality.
The ReMinder: Chapter 9
Ah, the fickle finger of fate wags its warning of how quickly things change. Assumptions blasted, plans smithereened, the comfort of control lost to the quirks of fate and a broken down engine. In recalling this teaching from a prior decade, tremors of insecurity ripple today through my rooftop perch in India in this auspicious year 2000. What surprises, I wonder, lurk in the dense growth surrounding my hut? What creatures of change are creeping up the garden path to taunt me as I desperately hold to the belief that I can finish writing The ReMinder—this farewell to an antiquated Identity—and move ever forward into discoveries of pure Mind and joy?
I clutch notebook close to chest, eyes darting into flowered garden, wishing I had four fortress walls to protect me from the onslaught of the unknown, a log bastion to hold my expectations in safety and comfort. But, heck, I know the falseness of this security since even log walls disappear in one’s life, becoming only memories along with the bygone Crestone days spent constructing them.
Lovely memories, actually, of a cold Colorado autumn of 1990 that gave way to frigid winter mornings in which I lifted and sawed and hammered those logs into place, building a small dream home, a cozy cabin with the majesty of snow-capped peaks looming to the east while an enormous valley expanse led to distant mountains in the other directions. A time of excruciating cold and beauty, of warming fires, of a steady day-to-day rhythm of laying logs into form under an endless sky. Chop wood, carry water—the Zen of losing self in menial tasks. Carry wood, chop water, as the frigid temperatures turned water to ice in a short minute, demonstrating the dominion that nature holds over its small creatures attempting to control their environment.
I must confess that tears of memory seep this moment from India rooftop. The freedom and splendor of my initial Crestone days were major blessings in life that tug now on my heartstrings. But the deeper source of tears feels much older than memories of a decade past, more like an ageless wrenching of the soul.
Or perhaps I simply want to believe that soulful melancholy is ancient in order to shield myself time-wise from what lies so close: The recent pain of home lost to aloneness, of love turned to emptiness, of lawyer turned nomad in this crazy world of duality where we swing helplessly from one pole to the other. Nothing constant, nothing secure, just owning the present moment in whatever beauty or beast we find ourselves while clinging to fading memories and dreams.
Now I am clear what creature creeps up the garden path this morning to threaten me—nostalgia. Nostalgia, another tendril of Identity’s desperate grasp to remain alive in an ever-changing world. An emotion that sweeps me back to the smell of fresh timber, to sipping tea in new Crestone cabin, to gazing at vistas out spacious windows in four directions where pathless ways lead to endless open space filled with meandering streams, bugling elk, rolling dunes, wary coyotes, hawks above, hutches in the earth below. Myself at one with nature like never before, for there is nothing else and no
one else. Alone in silence except for the voices that call and hoot and howl. At times a voice thunders the advent of driving rain or, in a gentle morning mood, it whispers the arrival of glistening dew. My ears learn to listen, my eyes yearn to see, to know, to understand.
Over the months of 1991, books fill the longing for knowledge where nature hikes end, leading me into theories and mysteries that transcend the simple logic of inquiring minds: True tales of gigantic black holes that suck up all that is near, including the laws of physics; light beams that exist as both waves and particles, shifting in response to the observer’s expectations; time that runs at different speeds, perhaps even backwards in some dimensions of the universe; dimensions that number not the three of our simple spatial understanding, but up to at least eleven according to the latest scientific theories. I eagerly read all that I can find about our mysterious world of energy, where matter, time, and space are merely our perceptions, creations of the human mind to make sense of a unified energy field filling an infinite void—a holographic universe, perhaps, where reflections of the entire world are stored in each infinitesimal point.
…But wait! A cosmic interruption intrudes upon my India rooftop perch, a curious clicking that reverberates across the space-time continuum of my imagination. Is that the sound of Dorothy desperately clicking her heels again after seeing the error of her ways in returning to dusty farm? Or, glory be, maybe it is a clicking key opening the door to the Library of all-knowing! My invitation finally arrives to enter the next realm, welcoming a son who cast aside his career and cabin in faith that distant horizons will part to expose wondrous dimensions of a benevolent universe.
But no, the sound is too frantic and growing louder in my mind. My god, what is that emerging through the misty curtain of time? Guilt wracks me as I spy Sandra channel surfing from her Alamosa hospital bed in November 1991, frantically clicking the TV remote button in attempt to keep her sanity. She glares up at me from wrinkled sheets and growls, “Shupe, if I came all this way to visit your new home in Crestone and suffered through an exploding appendix just so you could fall for some floozy nurse at the hospital...”
Begging your pardon, and without further adieu, it is time to rescue Sandra from her condition which by the end of November was rather serious. A ruptured appendix was long since removed, but a hospital infection lingers in defiance of antibiotics. So we deposit Sandra safely with Lorraine in Crestone where these two Native American soul sisters use their considerable healing skills to pull Sandra back from the brink in the waning weeks of 1991.
With Sandra now able to ride happily back into the sunset of the Black Hills, we focus on another medical condition in those weeks—that being nurse Ann’s romantic involvement with hospital doctor. The medical union was in a tenuous state from which life-support might soon be removed, but it still sparked with enough vigor to frustrate this lawyer’s attempt to court said nurse. A birthday dinner date with Ann on December 9th only increased my enthusiasm for more diverse and copious contact. Yet I was instructed by the nurse to be patient, to let her sort her feelings out through that Christmas of 1991 then see what opportunities lay ahead for the new year. So I tucked tail and headed for warmer climes—specifically, to the southern New Mexico desert—where my reality again launched from its familiar pad and shuttled off into a mind-bending new world. Roger that, Houston.
The ReMinder: Chapter 10
Sitting again amidst garden splendor along the roaring Ganga, I find it difficult to believe that the song of birds, the colorful plants, the rich scents—the plethora of energy signals that trigger my senses—are but a tiny fraction of the actual stimuli in which I repose. Yet the scientists say this is true, that our human receptors pick up only a minuscule portion of the energy waves flying around us. If we had the eyes to see and ears to hear, we would be besieged with a symphony of amazing sensations, new wavelengths, images, and tones that vibrate, glow, and hum beyond what most of us can experience or even imagine.
Then there is Roger, a veritable satellite-dish of a man who daily processes input far beyond the normal human spectrum. Roger, a being who cannot journey to the grocery store because of the jumble of auras, waves, lights, sounds, visions, and vibrations, that create a dizzying swirl in his receptors, an overload to his system. Yet he is a man who can sit contentedly alone in the desert for hours, feeling attuned to the subtle universe made accessible by his unique capacities.
‘Unique’ is misleading since a number of other individuals possess these gifts of heightened perception, many of whom are revered as shaman, spirit talker, medicine guide, and dream walker in their native cultures. And in Western society, they are typically called patients, inmates, loonies, and Bongo Bananas who hallucinate and cannot cope with the ‘real’ world. So Roger wisely kept a low profile and lived a reclusive existence in southwestern New Mexico when I met him in mid-December 1991.
Walking into his home for the first time was like entering the lair of a modern-day wizard. Pungent odors arose from boiling pots of homeopathic remedies, strange electronic instruments hummed forth healing energy to distant clients, intricate geometric patterns graced the walls, and a sixty-year old man with small, intense eyes looked sharply into mine. No smile came to Roger’s face, no meaningless phrases greeted me, just an open door and a gesture to enter.
Roger never wasted words although he sometimes used them in profusion. The afternoon we met turned into an evening that ended in the wee hours as he spoke and spoke guided by a mind that stretched into dimensions beyond my ken. I listened with fascination to his intricate view of the universe; was intrigued on frequent occasion when he got accurate psychic flashes of my past or of my thoughts at the moment; and I felt interested and entertained as he paused to determine what energy had just entered the room. The intrusion was sometimes a broadcast of disturbingly low frequency from a military base, or maybe just a friendly buddha spirit dropping by, or perhaps a spacecraft was hovering in the fifth dimension to check us out. Never were moments dull with Roger as his mind translated energy perceptions into a consistent, if innovative, reality.
As I sprinkled occasional grains of salt onto the food-for-thought he provided, Roger described how we inhabit a planet hurtling to its destiny, inexorably pulled towards a quantum leap into higher vibrations. Having suffered many thousands of years of involution (the opposite of evolution in which both Earth and its inhabitants have grown denser and more distressed) human beings have lost our natural state of abundant, freely-flowing thought and energy—last experienced in Atlantis and by its Egyptian descendants. Our ancestors grew more imprisoned in a material world, as density increased with the copper age then the heavier bronze period followed by the ponderous iron age that has led to our current epoch which is fast reaching the lowest point possible of density and disharmony.
Roger reports optimistically that interplanetary help has arrived, plus many evolved souls are incarnating at this time to help midwife planet Earth through its rejuvenating leap into a new evolutionary cycle. Roger is, of course, a leading player in this drama who has traveled lifetimes through the galaxy to gather needed energies and teammates for the task. His next door neighbor is one of these gathered Starseeds, a friend I had mistakenly thought to be only a hydrologist with whom I had often worked prior to sabbatical and who gave me a base from which to enjoy the desert away from both Crestone’s harsh December and nurse Ann’s cold shoulder.
This hydrologist friend had been the one who introduced me to Roger as well as to another southern New Mexico resident, Betsy, a spiritual teacher and counselor whose focus is a bit more terrestrial than Roger’s, but whose multidimensional perceptual skills are also well honed. In late 1991, she was looking for legal assistance in founding an innovative seminary—whose invisible faculty dwells in another dimension—for people wishing to minister to the spiritual health of flocks of their choosing.
I provided a bit of legalese to Betsy but could not stay to help. It was time to flee this land of e
nchantment and retreat to a normal existence, to where pragmatic nurse Ann had just dumped her physician-lover on the trust that she and I would find true love and happiness in a stable, three-dimensional world. Before my departure, Betsy invited me to join her first seminary workshop scheduled for the upcoming summer, while Roger left me with the comment that in my Crestone cabin photographs, he detected a strong negative energy field east of the garage created by multiple slayings there.
I gave little importance to these farewell remarks at the time, my mind being focused instead on a more tangible, down-to-earth future with a new sweetheart as 1992 approached. I arrived back in Colorado to a ready-made family that holiday season, embraced by a vibrant woman a decade my junior, a nurturing, practical nurse who laughed easily and loved well. I gladly settled for smelling the bacon instead of the cosmic roses, and pondering Christmas toy assemblage for her young children rather than contemplating my role as a Starseed in Earth’s evolutionary leap. Lured by a promise of normalcy, I returned happily to the basic values one gleans from simple Kansas childhoods and television stations, to a reality far less intriguing than Roger’s but one that set well with a Steven who had just turned forty.
Wanting to make a real commitment to a relationship for the first time in my life, I did my best to adapt to Ann’s propensities and preferences in those early days of courtship. Upon my late December arrival at her Alamosa trailer park, I quickly learned that one of her primary aversions involved anything to do with off-beat religions and mysticism. My presenting Ann with the gift of a special stone found in the New Mexico desert elicited a face that looked as if she had bitten a lemon, as she queried, What is this, a stupid Crestone energy rock or something?
Fortunately, her reaction to my gift two weeks later of air tickets to Hawaii was more enthusiastic. Her ex-hubby would take care of the youngsters, and my parents in Hawaii would, after a warm greeting of aloha and leis, provide us with their Honolulu condo while they flew off for a Maui golf retreat. All was perfection as Ann and I winged our way to paradise—and it remained so for barely twenty-four hours. An afternoon phone call from my distressed father on Maui informed that Mom had suffered a heart attack on the 14th green. Mother had taken an ambulance to the hospital, Dad took a double bogey, while Ann and I took the next flight to Maui.
‘M’ IS FOR THE MILLION things she gave me. ‘O’ means only that she’s growing old. ‘T’ is for the tears she shed to save me. ‘H’ is for her heart…etc., etc. Just a little song I hum this morning as me dear mum takes center stage briefly in our tale unfolding. There she lies in a Maui hospital bed, similar to the one in which she lay while cradling my newborn body to her bosom lo’ those many winters ago. We forged a bond that cold December night of my birth which penetrates deeply into the psyche and emotions—a connection wrenched from the birthing process, an experience of such profundity and pain that the two most involved parties cannot help but emerge with an ambiguous relationship of affection and aversion.
It was the loving side of the mother-son bond, however, that was most often expressed in my ensuing childhood. For the babe had quickly grasped that goodness was rewarded and disobedience shunned in the Shupe homeworld. My young self had learned this lesson so well that when Ann conspiratorially asked Mom in Maui hospital as to what Steven was really like as a child, she responded without a whit of hesitation: “P-E-R-F-E-C-T.” I winced then because Mother truly meant it, and sigh now at the standard it set for a child of this household where integrity and righteousness were the unfailing guideposts—and with no expressions of vengeance, lust, selfishness, or gas allowed.
Now you see why it took a recovering-nice-boy a whole bloody decade to dismantle an Identity which had p-e-r-f-e-c-t-e-d how to get strokes from parents, lovers, journalists, clients, and friends; leaving me in rooftop isolation in search for pieces of my total Mind, for a deeper level of honesty where a seeker of truth can welcome the dark shadow of self, to coax it forth from hidden closets with acceptance instead of judgment, with humor instead of denial in order to find some balance in a crazy world of duality. Such harmonizing of light and shadow is perhaps an impossible dream, but it is one that gives me solace in my solitude, a meaning to my madness.
I chew on this concept as well as on the last of a chapati breakfast this India morn, enjoying the pleasure of simple food. My taste buds had not been spoiled in youth by an overabundance of cuisine, with Mother simply turning to the three basic food groups of her kitchen: 1) fruit and vegetables, 2) bread and dairy, 3) Vienna wieners and Spam.
Whoops, we find another lame dig directed at mummy dearest coming out in the form of humor, a technique well developed in the Shupe household to allow repressed aggression to express surreptitiously. In fairness to this fine woman, I shall restrain my urge to magnify, behind the veil of humor, the extent of maternal cling—such as to rename my elder brothers, Oedipus and Rex. So, to be honest, there were no signs of parental incest in our household, just the occasional Vienna wiener.
But come on, Ma, did you really have to get a heart attack the day after meeting my sweetheart?
Okay, with that cathartic lament of a spoiled child spoken aloud, we can now move quickly on with the story—which includes Mother’s steady recovery and Ann’s and my return to Colorado where March 1992 finds my sweetie happily wearing a shiny new ring. Admittedly, the band fell short of a being an official engagement ring, both in monetary and symbolic value, but I presented it in anticipation that it would eventually lead to a ceremonial trip down the altar. And yes, the ring eventually did undergo a rite of passage—that of hurtling airborne across the empty lot adjacent to Ann’s trailer in a great heave-ho ceremony to come.
The ReMinder: Chapter 11
As the Ides of March 1992 fast approaches in Colorado-based history, I take a short detour into the present India autumn of 2000 to ponder a dream last night where my dark-haired, female Guide emerges in fully thawed form to chauffeur me over a 14,000-foot pass. I somehow ditch her, however, and then drive alone through flatlands past a schoolyard on the outskirts of a Hopi village. I try stopping at the school but am going too fast and the brakes won’t catch. Next, entering the town and pulling off onto Trailer Park Road, I come to a dead end at a fast food joint where I quickly stuff my face. End of dream.
Granted, I am pleased that this dream indicates that my inner female Guide appears to have thawed to guide me over lofty heights. But my Identity seems to still grasp for control, missing an opportunity for additional schooling then careening off to fulfill desires for cheap sustenance and normalcy in trailer parks once known. Oh well. Two steps forward, one back, then a couple sideways, several in a circle and coming back to who the hell knows where?
Perhaps it is significant that last night’s dream guide took the visual form of an actual tall, dark-haired woman named Alberta, a frequent travel companion the past year in India who has provided valuable guidance to a recovering-nice-boy in various settings that have included doing theater together in the city of Poona, exploring intensely in bed, and giving each other permission to fight on our feet. Great therapy, usually fun, and often devastating to my old self-image of love, light, and tenderness.
Alberta is scheduled to arrive at Phool Chatti any day now which will likely disrupt my writing rhythm and distract me from penning the story at hand in which nurse Ann, not Alberta, is the woman of my dreams. So quickly, we turn the clock back to March 1992, as one domino falls after another to push me to the brink of altered realities from which only Ann and her deeply ingrained skepticism can save me.
One important domino that early March was a paperback given me by Crestone neighbor Lorraine that reads like science fiction but is touted as true by its author, a professor from New Mexico who jeopardized her academic career with its publication. Her, We the Arcturians, is filled with messages telepathically received by the professor from her new star-friends to assist we lesser beings on Earth to move into a higher plane of existence in which the Arcturians alre
ady reside. Although Lorraine is cautious about New Age philosophies, the book was of interest to her and to many in our little town, since the professor had telepathically received detailed instructions for erecting a gigantic, pink pyramid at the soon-to-be epicenter of the new and improved version of Earth—at the base of Crestone Peak.
A second, less dramatic domino involved a bit of spring cleaning, not of my cabin so much as of remnants of my Identity in a wooden footlocker filled with photo albums, love letters, childhood scrapbooks, basketball awards, and other such memorabilia that my ego had used to define itself as a success. And I had gotten the itch to burn it all. The itch, however, fell just shy of being scratched, for although a pile of scrap lumber lay in the driveway to serve as an effective funeral pyre, the footlocker did not go up in flames that week. This was one of many internal conflicts where preservation of the known world weighed against my urge to clean out the mess to make way for new models of reality.
The balance, however, was to be tipped the next day over dinner with Lorraine—and significantly so—in favor of shifting realities.
--- End of Section Two of The ReMinder ---
You toss the manuscript bedside on the hut floor and probe the recesses of your mind in attempt to jog loose stray memories that can penetrate the barrier of amnesia. What could have happened in Crestone with Lorraine that created a reality shift in your life? And is it somehow related to your current dilemma of forgetfulness?
You close your eyes tightly, continuing without success to detect clues hiding within your foggy memory bank. Oh well, at least you can take satisfaction from completing your mission on this appointed day of research and writing. With fatigue setting in, you quickly grab pen and paper to write a final message for tomorrow’s awakening self, hopeful that your hard work today, of reading then writing summaries, was not in vain.
JANUARY 5 – afternoon
Incoming clouds and the threat of rain prompt you to cut short your afternoon bath and gather your gear. You walk back along the Ganga pondering the similarity of form between swirling eddies in water, whirling hurricanes in air, spiraling DNA in your earthly vessel, and spinning galaxies of fiery stars. But upon approaching the hut, these elemental thoughts are rudely interrupted by a voice from above.
“Repent and confess thy sins!”
You look up to see the smiling face and orange garments of a Hindu holy man bending over the edge of the hut’s roof. “Ya’ll come up now to do thy penance,” he adds gesturing with a long arm extending from his short, round frame.
“You must be Shri Shri Cy Bubha,” you state as you warily ascend the stone steps.
“The one and only; a legend in my own mind.” He greets you at the top step with a hearty slap on the back. “I’m glad my reputation precedes me through your misty moors of memory.”
“Actually, the infamous Cy Bubha was red-flagged on this morning’s short-sheet of warnings and information to prepare me for the day. Something about keeping one hand on my wallet.”
“Ah, exaggerated slander expressed, no doubt, by a part of your schizoid personality far less secure than yourself. You look finely bathed, well relaxed, clear of mind, and able to handle even the cleverest machinations of an orange-clad charlatan. And from the looks of things, you may soon encounter many of them at the Kumba Mehla.”
“What’s a Kumba Mehla?” you ask, not having yet completed your perusal of the large stack of written materials left in your hut.
“The Kumba Mehla, my forgetful friend, is a spiritual revival of biblical proportion but of Hindu origin down by the riverside. The river being the Ganga, the side encompassing the city of Allahabad, and you, buddy boy, got a bee in your bonnet to attend it. Your motive has something to do with that note on your windowsill from a chickadee telling you to meet her at the Allahabad Riverview Inn for dinner in two weeks. Or so your diary implied,” he adds while pointing to your spiral notebooks and other writings stacked on the rooftop nightstand.
“What the hell are you doing reading my personal papers?” you respond with a scowl. “And who gave you permission to go into my hut to get them?”
“Now-now, you are the one who requested my help last week with your mental handicap and I figured a true friend should gather more information. Actually, it’s quite an interesting process you’ve documented, although you’ve got some pretty deep doo-doo buried in that psyche of yours,” he posits while holding up your recently composed summary of dream work, “including one truly pissed off kamikaze pilot roaming your dreamscape.”
“Give me that.” You grab the sheets from his hand and retrieve your other papers from the table that include Sections One and Two of The ReMinder. “Damn, you’ve gone through all my stuff.”
“Yes, I am thorough and my bill will reflect it.”
You do not know if he is joking as you glare at the intruder who brings the topic back to the Kumba Mehla festival. “Now, if you had a proper tour guide perhaps the Kumba Mehla would be just the thing to fire up your memory banks and brew a few recollections to the surface. I would offer to assist your journey with my capable guiding hand but it currently comes up empty regarding travel funds.”
You catch Bubha’s hint that’s as wide as the Ganga. “Even if I wished to retain your escort service to the Kumba Mehla, I’m down to my last few hundred rupees—assuming they are still safely in my hut and not in your pocket.”
“I assure you, sir, I am not a common thief,” declares Bubha with feigned indignation. “As a humble purveyor of paradox I suffer an honest hand to mouth existence—with the occasional big score from a grateful or inebriated patron. Moreover, from you today I am looking not for donation but for investment, some hard currency to kick off a flashy new tee-shirt line sporting the Kumba Mehla logo above the message: My Parents Got Enlightened and All I Got was This Lousy T-Shirt. A cinch to double your money overnight.”
You just roll your eyes and query, “Can’t holy men and renunciants like yourself get free transport and food for the Kumba Mehla? This is India after all.”
“Indeed, rupee-less sadhus are able to travel a third class rail car to Allahabad without proper ticket, but I wouldn’t wish that experience on my worst enemy or his dog. No, a man of my pure pedigree requires proper grooming and care to comfortably alight in the green pastures of the Kumba Mehla to sheer the Western sheep grazing at the spiritual smorgasbord. Seeing as you are neither solvent nor sympathetic to my cause, I shall take my business elsewhere.”
He abruptly walks down the stairs and out the garden. You watch him disappear as you hurry from the roof with an armload of papers to see if your valuables are still intact in the hut. Taped on a shelf ledge is a previously drafted inventory sheet listing your few items of value, plus it indicates a running tally of the remaining money, currently down to 480 rupees—about ten dollars. After quickly scanning the hut, you are relieved to find that the money and items deemed valuable on the list are present and accounted for: a high-quality trekker’s flashlight, a cassette player, backpack, and sleeping bag. You nonetheless worry about future intrusions since the hut’s simple door lacks lock and key for security while you are absent.
In reaction to these concerns, you write a quick message to augment the instructions left by your previous incarnations, telling of Cy Bubha’s intrusion into the hut and suggesting toting the rupees and valuables on future outings. You then settle in to read the stack of materials, eventually coming to the dream journal summary that a previous incarnation recently composed after sleeping outside the hut:
Dream Journal Synopsis – January 1, 2001
Here I am writing to you about some guy and his dreams, and each of us is me, or you, or him, or whatever. Kind of weird, but here goes. Steven (that appears to be our name) began with the intention to use dreams as a means to connect the different parts of what he calls the total Mind. The process started well on the very first night of dream work (three and a half months ago in mid-September) when we had that dream where a beaut
iful child in Tibetan garb tossed to our character the one red bead, with four other beads still in the kid’s hand. (I’ll assume that you, like me, remember all the dreams in vivid detail.)
Steven initially interpreted this four-and-one theme as representing four abstract pieces of our total consciousness (the waker, sleeper, subconscious, and overseer) that make up the total mind. But after more dreams he soon came to think of the ‘four’ as distinct characters in our psyche, like archetypes who recur in the dreams and who ultimately appeared as two sets of twins representing opposing sides of duality—primarily male and female, moral and amoral, light and shadowy twins. The big theory was that the great One mind or some such grand spiritual epiphany will emerge when these four polarity twins reconcile their differences and merge into harmony in our psyche.
But then we had that dream in early December where an old kamikaze pilot dumped the recording equipment out the window and machine gun blasted the British officer taking movies of him. Immediately, the number and richness of the dreams each night took a nosedive. In addition to this Kamikaze, other aspects of the psyche seem reluctant to join the grand union of our One mind, particular those parts that I call the Beast and the Specter.
For me, the Beast dreams are like black and white horror flicks where the camera is hand-held at eye level of the psycho homing in on its victim. Pretty unsettling, and I'm grateful that we never see the Beast but only through its eyes. Correction, maybe there was a quick glimpse of its furry arms reaching out imploringly just before awakening that one time.
‘Specter’ dreams, on the other hand, are those in which our dream character enters some place and people don’t really see him—but they get very uncomfortable with his invisible presence, turning silent and scared as if waiting for some unseen evil to leave. Steven wrote in November that the specter dreams remind him of a childhood fear—being afraid of walking in front of a mirror and not seeing any reflection of himself there…
The Nyxall Chronicles: The Now or Never Page 7
