Dear Readers,

One of the best gifts at this age is having the awareness that there are moments in life named: Pivotal. Turning points. Mystical Openings. Call them what you will just be sure to call them. Usher them in. Make space for the opportunity to never be the same. Be willing to feel better.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for witnessing this turn in the nineteen-year-olds journey. Thank you for your heart, for your comments, for your witnessing.

 

This is my wish for you: comfort on difficult days, smiles when sadness intrudes, rainbows to follow the clouds, laughter to kiss your lips, sunset to warm your heart, hugs when spirits sag, beauty for your eyes to see, friendships to brighten your being, faith so that you can believe.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

L’s friend pulls the car up to the curb in front of the bus station. The form is of a multitiered ship-of-a-building in land-lock. I flit-fly on fast trails made by moths under lighting near large glass doors. The lobby floats checkerboard floors flashing undulating square-shaped fish.  I float back to water-me.

L. buys 2 tickets sponsoring my first official trip. She takes from her woven backpack a small glass jar, shakes the contents to distribute the ingredients. My eyes expand watching the shake-up light show. She pours a handful of “my homemade granola” into my palm … pieces of cereal, nuts, and seeds squiggle, wriggle, writhe, and jump about in the cellular dance of my cupped hand. I lift the mix into my mouth. POW! Immediately a shock! Crunching bursts and crackles explosion of scary-cool surprise! The water offered finds every way to stream through my transparent body creating root system sensations. I am drinking rain becoming a delta rushing toward the ocean.

Act normal.

My hands dissolve softly melting into my thighs. Curious to find where they have gone, I move my butterfly arms to grasp the edge of the contour bench, hands melt-falling through the surface, pitching my body forward-carnival ride style surprise. I laugh and glitter falls into my lap. Beauty everywhere.

The curving stairway with spiraling banister fingers beckons, “Come here. Come here.” L invites me to climb the winding stairs. We ascend together finding the restrooms and my body’s ecstatic rush of waterfall relief.

L puts me on notice that posted at the ticket counter: shirt and shoes required. She reaches into her backpack, loans me bright pink flip flops. I know that these somehow belong to my feet. It takes a few tries. I laugh more glitter, as I make sense of the space between my toes not knowing how to explain that there is not any way to wear these while my feet are acting as though they have no skin. No containment. No grip on reality. Next, she pulls out a pale blue cotton flannel shirt. She hands me this piece of the sky-water. I feel instantly immersed on the smooth back of the walrus. Color creating time-travel. She is attempting to get my attention, saying, “This is for you. Put it on. You will need to cover up before you can board the bus.” I painstakingly manage to find one of my arms. It is wing-like darting about in a moth-dance under the lights. I need to fold the wing and contain one, then the other appendage. This takes me on a journey that has each of my limbs wending sensuously down and down into the long soft tube sleeves. I vibrate and radiate outside of the casing even as it tries to keep me bound, wrapped, contained.

I am molecules bouncing blasting through the towering round concrete columns. I am spinning surging upward through the columns holding the massive building over our heads.

As the announcement is made that our bus is arriving, we step outdoors into the fresh night air electric with zinging, zipping throbbing wings in the light pools forming around the cold yellow-white glowing twisting turning streetlights. Expanding-contracting, growing-shrinking wildly the loop driveway turns into an undulating lasso. A gray whale advances. And stops.

Act normal.

I enter the cavernous creature. I hand the man the pass. I follow L to a bench deep in the belly. Muted sparks of rainbow shimmers come aboard peacefully swallowed whole and meld into the dim interior. 

L. takes her seat and begins to bubble over with excitement words. Words leave her mouth tumbling over one another, a waterfall of glyphs, tangle with bright red candy wrapper flowing sweetly riding night air out of her hands.

Gone.

L singsongs a love poem, it flows away, heading out. A journey. The lasso opens wide mammoth whale-bus rolls onto the road. Her poem-words destination stamped on tickets I cannot read gibberish. Word-poem forms road, cartoon musical notes, map the path for whale-bus. Follow. The whale taking L, so excited, to where? 

Whale closed mouth moves, gentle sway rocks side to side, silent lullaby. We sail away. Hypnotized. Asleep inside the giant. Shimmering-shards in person shapes rise-leave, one by one, going through the blowhole.

I lift to a higher view. I rise. Eager. I watch the whale ride its song-line down the long winding night-empty road. I float sky-high. I see exquisite curving earth. Mesmerized: my point of view.

Breathe.

Inhale: Magnetized light streams, carry me into dim enclosed massive whale space.

Exhale: Magic-carpet free. Spiraling, spiraling high overhead.

Cascading rainbow shards.

Airwaves.

Breathe in/out.

What seems like another life later the whale pulls in at a station. We rise and walk out of the belly. L walks directly toward a beetle waiting at the shore/curb. Gently L guides me into the back of the curving world spinning.

We enter a surround-sound of night-light country colors a glitter of ROYGBIV. Most beautiful color-light-show fireworks. Ever. The beetle moves through the countryside. It rises dips over and around this bend and that as L sings love poems to the driver. Happiness circulates and ventilates the inside of the snug bug.

The beetle turns off the narrow side road onto a thin moonlight ribbon path in the night green field. Cornstalks point an arsenal of arrow leaves aimed at the star sky. On and on the beetle snakes the thin lane stopping in a large open space. There is a moon gleaming orchard, grandpa’s farm, a two-story wood-frame vintage farmhouse glowing in the nightlight. I climb out of the beetle and continue traveling.

I stand inside the planetarium dome arching high anchored by a ring of trees in all directions. L dissolves into the house to make love come alive with the subject of her song-poems.

Where am I?

What is this wonderland?

I stand alone beneath the night star dome.

From the dark woods the intermittent sound of night bird calls. The large open moonlit space gently rolls green-black waving grasses lapping against faraway trees. Land clouds cluster way over there.

I pull the atmosphere into my vibrating chest breathing aliveness.

Whale and beetle carried me through the dark to stand in this new moon glowing world.

Where am I?

My feet guide me to a low branched tree not far from the dark quiet house. My hands explore the rough craters of bark making handholds for my climb. I reach a wide limb and the tree hammocks me. I feel the air sway my tree body. I settle. Gentle. I hear. I listen to a love-song-poem from the deepest reaches of the tree’s roots rising to enter my labyrinth ear. A soft tear slips along my cheek waters the branch. I breathe rhythm.

The earth-and-I-are-one.

Whale and beetle deliver me to the night birds call. A large land cloud slides imperceptibly across the surface of the moon-glow meadow. Distant tall tree line undulates. Rounded treetops breathe setting the meadow and the cloud cluster into a smooth coming to and flowing away wave that I ride with ease.

I come and go. The hammock of the tree cradles my translucent limbs. I am distance. I am swept off into the forest. I am earth, leaves, seedpods, blossoms of yellow glowing moonlight tendrils winding up the trunks of countless trees holding sleeping squirrels, nesting birds. I return, my funnel ears open to insects sandpapering a night journey over, under around and through the branches and lattice of leaves. The branches weave themselves in all directions as fireflies blink a chorus of entwining love poems from the grasses far below.

I doze.

I dream of here and now. Whale-beetle ride to land of wonder-beauty.

My eyes flutter open slowly. Am I still here? I gaze softly at the distant tree line. There is something there. There is a vision expanding over-above the dark line of the forest.

I sit perfectly still. The chill air, I wrap my arms around my knees. I feel my body. I sense into the being-here. Here I am tree-me. I am not dreaming. The large land cloud shifts and moves. Coming nearer.

Beyond. Something lifts my eye. Beyond. A distinct and detailed vision appears. Clear as these lacework branches. Clear as the curve of the earth where forest meets sky. Clear as this moonlight.

Some years ago, I went seeking. Was it before the razor blade? Was it after the red marks made along my wrist, a practice session for maybe next time?  I went looking for Jesus. The priest told me where he lived. I had not found him home, not for me. For days, maybe weeks, I stop at St. Francis De Sales Church, on my way back from school. The same church I rebelled and refused when I was twelve.  Now, at fifteen, I light a candle a day. I dip my fingers into the cold gray stone holy water bowl. My right fingers touch my forehead, my breastbone, the left then the right shoulder. I genuflect and bow.

I breathe in the exotic aroma of lingering incense mixed with the hot wax of the small flames shining through the wrought iron tiered display of red glass votives. The church is empty. Mid-afternoon. I kneel in the front pew. I gaze at the large bouquets of fresh flowers at the feet of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I ask each of them to help me.

Help me to not hurt myself. Help me to be loving. I ask to know love and to be loving. I ask to learn, to be capable, of loving. I bend forward to hide inside my open palms.

Now. Above the meadow, without my asking. Radiant above the trees.

Jesus.

Naturally.

Here.

At seven I make my solemn promise. I will be kind. I will follow Jesus. 

Jesus of the arms outstretched.

Jesus of compassion looking at me.

Jesus of gentle fingers softly brushing the tops of the trees.

Jesus of my believing prayers.

Jesus of my trust in goodness.

Jesus of the loving miracle.

Jesus risen. Above the forest-meadow land-cloud.

Jesus radiant as ‘all is well.’

Clear as the night birds Jesus calls to me, ‘All is well’. 

Patient Jesus. All is well.

For me.

I breathe the rhythm of Jesus-and-I-as-one.

Jesus is smiling.

At me.

I rest. I am soothed, softly held in the arms of the tree, surrounded by the hum of cicadas held in the sparkle-net of the drifting fireflies glow. I am resting in the night-dazzle of time out of time. Night bird calls. My wings unfold.

The sky begins to dawn a soft pale moon-set sun-rise.

All is well.

I feel ready to gather my limbs to make the journey down to the earth. I turn to move out of the hammock-tree.

I am stopped by the view below.

As Jesus has been making his presence known the giant land cloud has been slowly migrating across the meadow. Now, gathered beneath the apple tree-hammock in a radiating circle are dozens upon dozens of white sheep. Their backs touch one another creating a white breathing sea as they quietly graze. To leave the tree I will need to walk upon their backs as if they too are walrus-stones.

Beauty surrounds.

I settle back in the hammock tree. I lean over the wide limb, my face resting content on my arm looking down at a sea of white land cloud swirls. I listen. So natural. The percussive rhythm: the music of grass pulled, plucked, torn,  flat teeth scraping, juicing plump summer blades.

The sky watercolor washed the soft morning light merging with my borrowed shirt.