Interlude
by Jonathan Quince
Wednesday, May 18, 2005 19:53:03
Stop.
Let me scoop you up in my arms, and take you away, and show you something wonderful. Worry not: I’ll bring you back, even if you beg me not to, and we’ll continue the previous discussion where we left off.
Close your eyes.
You are in the clouds, little duckling—outside yourself, above yourself, in some celestial haven. You are lost, disoriented. But even as you float somewhere unknown, your being suddenly surreal and aphysical, you somehow feel suddenly the reassuring squeeze of my hand. For my hand is upon you—upon your sight—upon your spirit, guiding you, holding you, bringing you to a special place.
This looks familiar…
As I gently raise you up so you can see where you are, your spirit-self gasps in shock. Out of an ethereal blur, as the physical world emerges into your sight, you recognize something, but you resist: It cannot be, it cannot be, but it is.
It is you.
That is an object of beauty.
Your spirit-eyes sweep over every line, every curve. In this state of higher consciousness, you are amazed at your own appearance. That self you take for granted in the mirror every day—that body you thought you owned and knew every moment from the twilight of pre-birth—it is all so wonderful, so magnificent, so alive. You cannot believe, but you must: For you see a living, breathing work of art, pulsing with life and potential for life and liveliness.
Say your name.
Your name: The sound rings in your spirit-ears, and rebounds off the vision you are seeing, and you realize that you are seeing a whole person. Repeat it. Memories and hopes and dreams and thoughts are all rolled together into that one little symbol on your lips, mirroring the body you see. Memorize it. It sounds so strange to your ears, this simple and familiar string of phonemes; and the body you see, and the mind you hold, and the name all come together in some sacred pattern you are at a loss to understand.
That is you.
And the confusion overtakes you. I never told you whether you are looking at your body or your spirit—it is too beautiful to be real, but too real to deny—you are suddenly unsure as to whether you are on Earth at all—I merely whisper to your spirit-ear that it is you, this wonderful being you see living and sleeping before you, and that now you have seen enough for one moment.
Come back.
You feel me bearing you down, down, back down into reality. You may scream and curse and beg; or if you are a bit wiser, you may come wilfully, come with joy. But come you shall, one way or another: You have a life to live in that beautiful being you just saw, and I mustn’t let you stray. So presently, you feel your heart thump in your chest, you hear my voice droning in your ears, you feel every inch of your body tingling and brimming with some unknown sensation.
It was a dream.
As you settle back into your body, you hear me calling to you—wake up—wake up, for you have been sleeping. You are eager to tell me of these wonders you have seen; but you feel my finger on your lips, stilling you, biding you awaken and enjoy, but oh, do not disturb the peace of what you have just seen by speaking of it. I didn’t do anything—I couldn’t have; nobody could have—it was a trick, I tell you, an illusion; I spoke in your ear as you slept, and you dreamt upon my words—I am just an ordinary man, yes, and you have a vivid imagination—don’t be foolish; I am a scientific man, and I will not abide any nonsense—you had a pleasant dream, a beautiful dream, and now you are awake and I am gathering you into my arms.
No argument, now.
I will not allow it. You had a dream, a pleasant dream, nothing more; and you will now come back to reality.
Yes.
You are back, now. You are physical once again. The currents of air in your lungs; the gentle, steady rhythm of your heart; the fabric of bed-sheets beneath your skin; my touch upon your face—everything reminds you that you are in your body, and your body is you, and you are very, very real. And somehow, you cannot help but notice how you feel so alive.
Open your eyes.